the seas. Virginia hesitated. Why the hell wasn’t anyone shooting at him?
If she had a musket, he’d now be dead.
Her fingers itched, her palms grew clammy. She didn’t know what range the pistol she held carried, but she did know it wasn’t much. Still, he was getting closer and closer and why wasn’t Horatio firing upon him?
Virginia could not stand it. She rushed to the rail and very carefully, very deliberately, took aim.
With some finely honed instinct, perhaps, he turned his head and looked right at her.
Good, she thought savagely, and she fired.
The shot fell short, plopping into the sea directly before the rowboat’s hull. And she realized had she waited another minute or two for him to travel closer, she would have got him after all.
He stared at her.
Virginia turned and ran around the first hatch to the one that the seamen used. She scrambled down the ladder, realized she was in the sailors’ cramped, malodorous quarters—she was briefly appalled at how horrid they were—when she saw another hatch at the far end of the space. She lifted that and found herself descending even lower below the sea.
She didn’t like being below the ocean. Virginia couldn’t breathe and panic began, but she fought it and she fought for air. Not far from the bottom of this ladder was an open doorway, through which was utter darkness. Virginia wished she’d had the wit to bring a candle. She went cautiously forward and found herself in a small hold filled with crates and barrels. Virginia crouched down at the far end and realized she still held her pistol, now useless, because in the midst of battle she hadn’t thought to grab any powder and shot.
She didn’t toss it aside. Her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she reversed it, holding the barrel now in her right hand.
Then her knees gave way. He had seen her take a shot at him.
She felt certain of it. She felt certain that the expression on his face had been one of utter surprise.
Of course, she hadn’t been able to make out his features, so she was guessing as to his reaction to her sniper attempt, and if she were very lucky, he hadn’t seen that miserable shot.
What would happen now?
Just as Virginia realized that the puddle of water she had been standing in was slightly higher—and she prayed it was her imagination—she heard shots begin: musket fire. Swords also clashed and rang. Her gut churned. The pirates had clearly boarded. Were they now murdering the crew?
And what was her fate to be?
She was seized with fear. Her first thought was that she might be raped.
She knew what the act entailed. She’d seen horses bred, she’d seen slaves naked as children, and she could imagine the gruesome act. She shivered and realized the water was ankle deep.
Then she stiffened. The gunfire and sound of swords had stopped. The decks above were eerily silent now. Good God, could the battle already be over? Could his men so quickly subdue the American ship? Virginia estimated the Americana held about a hundred sailors. The deathly silence continued.
If he hadn’t seen her, maybe he would loot the ship and sail straight back to the hellish place he had come from.
But what would he do if he had seen her attempt to shoot him?
Virginia realized she was trembling, but she told herself it was from the frigidly cold water, which was almost calf deep.
Would he kill her?
She told herself that murdering an innocent eighteen-year-old woman made no sense, although if one were a ruthless, mercenary pirate, she supposed that attacking a trading ship that was carrying cotton, rice and other merchandise was rational, indeed. So maybe there was hope.
For once, Virginia gloried in the fact that she was so skinny she was often mistaken for someone about fourteen, and that her face was too small, too pale, her hair utterly unruly. Thank God she did not look like Sarah Lewis.
Virginia froze.
Footsteps sounded directly above and to the right of her head. Virginia began to shake. Someone was traversing the hold where the sailors slept, just as she had in order to find her hiding place. Trembling again, unable to stop it, she glanced at the hatch she had come through. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but still there was nothing she could see on the other side where the ladder from the upper deck was.
Wood creaked.
Virginia closed her eyes. After all the days she had been at sea, Virginia had become accustomed to the sounds of the ship—its moans and groans, the soft sigh and slap of the sea. She did not have to debate to know that this sound was not a natural one and that someone was coming down that ladder.
Sweat trickled between her breasts.
She gripped the pistol more tightly, holding it in the folds of her skirts.
He was coming down that ladder, she simply knew it.
On the other side of the hatch, light flickered from a candle.
Virginia blinked, sweat now blurring her vision, and made out a white form on the other side of the hatch, holding up the candle, turning slowly and thoroughly assessing the space there. She couldn’t breathe and she feared suffocation.
He stepped through the hatch.
Virginia didn’t move because she could not. He held up the candle, saw her instantly and their gazes locked.
Virginia could not look away. This man was the ruthless monster responsible for numerous deaths; she was not prepared for the sight of him. He had the face of a Greek god come down from Mount Olympus—dangerously, disturbingly handsome—high planes, hard angles, piercing silver eyes. But that face—the face of an angel—was carved in granite—and it was the face of a sea devil instead.
He was also far taller than she had assumed—she knew her head would just reach his chest—and broad-shouldered, his hips lean. His legs, while impossibly muscular from the days he spent riding the sea, were encased in bloody britches. Blood covered his white linen shirt as well. He wore a sheathed sword, a dagger was in his belt, but otherwise, she saw no other weapon.
Virginia bit her lip, finally breathing, the sound loud and harsh in the small space they now shared. She did not have to know anything else about this man to know that he was cruel and ruthless and incapable of kindness or mercy.
He broke the tense silence. “Come here.”
She remained standing beside a number of piled-up crates. She wasn’t sure she could obey even if she wished to—she wasn’t sure that she could move. Virginia finally understood Mrs. Davis’s paralyzing fear.
“I am not going to hurt you. Come out.”
His tone was one of authority—she sensed he was never disobeyed. Virginia continued to stare into his cold eyes—she was incapable of looking away—as if hypnotized. He looked angry. She saw it now, because he was glancing at all of her—her mouth, her hair, her small waist, her sodden skirts—and his eyes were turning
