Page 83 of The Captain Claims His Temptress

“The lady?” Nathan asked, with a southern American accent.

“Oui. Are you animbécile?” Pierre asked.

Nathan scratched his chin. “I ain’t never killed a lady.”

It was worth a try. “Are you from Virginia?” she asked.

He smiled. “I am, Miss.”

Pierre growled at Nathan. “Do not talk to her. She is”—he waved his hand—“a whore, a tart, a slut.La putain.” He drew out his final word, making it last forever. If he meant to offend her, he’d need to try harder. She’d been called worse.

Nathan reached for her and pulled away, but two other men grabbed her. She wasn’t ready to die. She wanted to kiss Aunt Henrietta on her pink cheek… Write a letter to her mother… Tell Stephen that she loved him…

Wriggling, kicking, and throwing her bound arms about, she fought with all her might. “Wait. Wait!” she called frantically.

Pierre held up a hand. “What?” He tapped his foot and yawned.

Whatindeed? But the men’s hesitation gave her a minute to think. She cleared her throat. “I think you dislike Stephen Eaton because he is brave, and you are a yellow-bellied coward.”

“Yellow-bellied?” Pierre glared at her through tiny slits and then swished a dismissive wrist. “Americans have such strange sayings. Burn the witch.”

The men lifted her off her feet. One held her hands, one her feet, and the third kept his hands beneath her shoulders. She swung between them like a flimsy bridge in a windstorm.

She twisted about so that she could see Pierre as she called, “You are turning your men into murderers because you are too much of a coward to take care of me yourself. Murdering an innocent woman, nonetheless.”

Her handlers halted and set her on her feet. Her plan seemed to be working.

Wearing a twisted grin, Pierre stalked toward her.

While staring into Pierre’s eyes, she addressed his men. “Look what he did to poor Leo. And he”—she imitated Pierre’s accent—“adored Leo.And all because Leo dared to give a helpless woman a bite of bread. What type of man wouldn’t help a terrified woman?”

“Do not listen to her,” Pierre said. “She weaves webs to trap men. Then she bites off their heads, injecting them with venom, like a whorish spider.” He chuckled and pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket. He aimed it between her eyes. “Do you still believe I am too cowardly to kill you?”

What now, Madalene, you fool?

Run!

But then he will shoot you in the back.

She would die bravely. She stepped toward him and stared into his soul. “Why?”

“Because he loves you,” Dupont said. “And as I have said numerous times, I do not like to be spat on.”

“No. I mean, why are you such a turncoat? To everyone. British, French, American. Even your own men.” She glanced at the still-moaning Leo before meeting Pierre’s gaze. “He may die if you don’t get him help.”

Perhaps that was an exaggeration, but hopefully, it reminded Pierre’s men that he was a no-good scoundrel. Then she waited, but no hero stepped forward.

Pierre set her in his sights and steadied his pistol.

This was the end of her life, and her last thoughts were of the man she loved. “Stephen,” she whispered like a prayer.

“Madalene,” he answered back.

It couldn’t be him. But it sounded like his voice. Was she losing her mind?

And then—bang!

Maddie jumped and braced for pain that never came. Instead, Pierre cried out and stumbled forward. His weapon fell from his hand and blood gushed from his ankle.