Page 2 of Immortal Pirates

And he knew that day would never come.

Raine pushed away the spark of misery that thought always produced, ignoring the vengeful throb of the Mark on his shoulder. He lifted his face just slightly so as to put some space between his nostrils and her uncommonly titillating scent. It helped to clear his brain a bit.

“Trick?” he replied smoothly, letting his eyes take on a bit of alluring glow once more. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He caught her gaze, and felt the shock as their eyes met. It was probably because she was so outraged, but when they connected visually, he almost jolted.

For a moment, he felt like…like prey.

That was the word that came to mind, and it was ludicrous. He was twice her size, and a Dracule to boot.

He turned up his eye-glow a bit more, like one does to a kerosene lamp, and tugged with his gaze.Come now, lovely one. Ease your fury and give me what I?—

“Stop that.” Her flat command was accompanied by a sudden sharp poke: right in his chest, right over his black heart.

Raine managed to hide his shock and surprise, but barely. He looked down at the sword—no, dammit all to Hell, it wasn’t a sword. It was a wooden pike, half the length of a man’s walking stick.

His gaze flashed to hers once more, this time with surprise and—well, hell, he might as well admit it—admiration. She was a feisty one.

Now he stepped back. Just a bit. “Well, now, that’s not very polite, madame?—”

“Captain.” She allowed her pike-holding hand to drop away from the vicinity of his heart.

His suspicions were confirmed. “Captain Arial Bonny, is it? How convenient—as you’re just the person I came to see.” He stepped back a little more so he could bow properly. Not that the captain of a pirate ship would appreciate the flourish of a societal nicety, but he did have his name and reputation to uphold. “Raine St. Albans, Lord Norringford, at your service.”

She snorted. “At my service, myarse. I know who you are. And you are most definitely not at my service—as you’ve already demonstrated.”

His eyes must have widened more than he realized, for she continued, “Surprised you, then, have I, Mr. St. Albans?”

“Er…it’s Lord Norringford,” he said, almost hating himself for correcting her.

“How about I just call you St. Albans?” she said, cocking a hip as she placed her hand back on it. “We don’t stand on formality on theBlack Lass.”

“If you knew who I was, why did you ask who I?—”

“I believe my exact words were ‘who do youthinkyou are’.” Those sharp, dark eyes were flashing again—but this time with a trace of humor. “A subtlety that was, apparently, lost on you,Lord Norringford.”

She glanced up at the sun, which, during their repartee, had moved just enough past the shading sail that it would soon become uncomfortable for him, and sighed with disgust. “I suppose I’d best let you aboard, then. Follow me.”

She turned and walked past the crew member Raine had tried to enthrall, giving him a brief nod. Bladsoe’s gaze settled on Raine as he walked through the cloud of onion and ale smells that surrounded the sailor.

“Don’t underestimate her,” the mate growled as Raine passed by. “She didn’t get here by being foolish or slow.”

“Right then, mate,” Raine said, declining to ask precisely where “here” was—this ship, the Caribbean, or some other locale he hadn’t yet placed.

He breathed easier once he was past the pungent smell of the burly mate.

Of course, that pungent smell was replaced by a myriad of other aromas that always accompanied a ship: algae, salt, fish, sweat, damp lumber, mildewed sails, and the general scent of staleness. As he passed by various members of the crew (more onions, some garlic, and definitely more ale) who were busy preparing to pull anchor, he felt the weight of their curious gazes on him. Raine grimaced, trying not to think about how he still wore that wide-brimmed hat. And that it was becoming increasingly warm beneath the greatcoat.

But as they rounded the base of the mizzenmast, some dark instinct caused him to stop in his tracks and turn slowly to look. No one was there—at least anymore. But the hair at the back of his neck was still prickling.

“Are you bloody coming or are you going to wait till the sun fully fries you?”

“I’m right on your heels, captain.”

She led him around to the stern of the ship and up onto the quarterdeck, to a chamber that was clearly the captain’s quarters—for not only was it comfortably furnished, it was permeated by her scent. He drew in a subtle breath of it.

Inside, there were four windows: two in the front, and one each on either side of the walls flanking it. The rear of the chamber was, fortunately, untouched by sunlight, partly because it was shielded from the rest of the space by a curtain that hung from the ceiling—presumably to give its occupant some privacy from the windows that faced her crew. The shielded area also contained a bed, a cabinet, a washing stand, and—what surprised him the most—a large metal tub. Immediately, he hadan image of her smooth white body, sprawled in the tub, all wet and sleek and warm, smelling of spice and sex and woman.