the ship. He got the gist. He was an idiot and he would die.
‘We’ll winch her up.’ It struck him as a simpler solution than coaxing her up the rope ladder. The fact that it served to send her into an outraged rant after she had made a fool of him was a bonus that went some way to making Flint feel better. If she had been a man, he would have punched her back there in the water and dragged her sorry, unconscious carcass back. Because she was a woman, and he couldn’t seem to get over that inconvenient yet ultimately minor detail no matter how hard he tried, he had suffered every blow—and there had been rather a lot of them. The saltwater was stinging the numerous scratches her nails had gouged in his hands and arms, his throat was raw, his eyes rawer and his ribs hurt like the devil. He would add feral to the growing list of adjectives he already had to describe her, alongside traitorous, beautiful and infuriating.
Flint sat back in the rocking boat to steady it and happily allowed the others to wrestle the rope around her middle, then saluted her as she was lifted kicking and screaming out of the boat.
She was going to be a handful.
Typical, really. He spent his life trying to avoid feminine histrionics and manipulations, yet fate kept throwing them at him regardless. At least he would be shot of this one within the week. He was stuck with his exasperating family for life.
The cheer from the deck signalled her safe arrival and was closely followed by another tirade of insults, this time all in French. Despite the fruity tone, Flint preferred the French. Her voice was seductive. Breathy and earthy. If he let it, the sultry sound made the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms stand to attention in a wholly pleasant way. Something he was determined to quash indignantly. He didn’t deal well with difficult and emotional females. Aside from the obvious obstacle of her impending date with the hangman, he preferred his women sedate and calm. Like a mill pond. If he were to compare her to water, Lady Jessamine Fane was akin to the crashing waves on the rocky Cornish coastline near his home in winter. Unpredictable, noisy and very, very dangerous.
The men were now jeering above him. The whistles and inappropriate comments were getting out of hand. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Until he was shot of her, she was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her abused—verbally or otherwise. With a weary sigh he climbed the ladder. The crew had circled around her, baying like wolves tempted with the scent of fresh blood. The rope they had hoisted her with was still wrapped around her body and held firmly by the belligerent toothless sailor who had been appointed her guard. The malicious glint in the fellow’s eye sickened Flint. To be a bully was bad enough. To bully a helpless woman was deplorable.
‘Stop.’
He didn’t shout or snarl. The icy stare he had perfected in his youth when his womenfolk had pushed him too far always served him well. He shoved himself past the wall of men to stand in the circle. ‘Does this make you all feel better? Does humiliating a shackled woman make you feel proud?’
Flint allowed his gaze to slowly meet every pair of eyes. Most dipped in shame. He turned and purposely glared at the Captain who had been lounging against the rail with his arms crossed, a laughing spectator who should know better. ‘Deal with your crew. They are a disgrace, Captain.’ He let his expression convey the fact that he also lumped the officers in with that criticism.
Couldn’t they see that beneath all the shouting she was terrified and cold? Her slim body was quaking with the force of her shivers. ‘Might I remind you all that we serve the Crown and we do so with honour. A crown that prides itself on its adherence to the doctrine of habeas corpus. The prisoner is presumed innocent until she stands trial and all the evidence has been heard. Until such a time as that happens, she will be afforded the same respect as any other human being on board this ship. It is not your place to be judge and jury, nor is it ever appropriate to treat a woman like an animal.’
He snatched the line of rope from the toothless sailor’s hand and untied it, then gently led her by the elbow through the parting line of subdued men as the embarrassed Captain began issuing a litany of orders. For once, she came quietly and waited patiently for him to open the cabin door before quickly rushing through it to sanctuary.
‘Thank you...for that.’
So, there were manners beneath all that pithy hostility? Oddly, he would have preferred there weren’t. Manners made her likeable and likeable was dangerous. He nodded curtly and made a show of locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Only then did he go to the bonds still on her wrists and untie them. It wasn’t an easy task. In the struggle, the men had caught the over-long sleeves of the linen shirt she wore in with the rope and both materials were now hopelessly knotted together. As soon as they were free she instinctively lifted her arms to rub the area. One of the sleeves dropped to her elbow, revealing a band of scarred red skin encircling her wrist. It had been irritated by the rope, but not caused by it. She saw him stare at it and hastily covered it before standing proudly to meet his eye.
‘You are not the first man to imprison me, Monsieur Flint, but you will be the last.’
Probably true. Once Flint delivered her to Newgate she wouldn’t have long left. The charges were drawn. They had witnesses, albeit dubious ones. Conclusive evidence. The trial, at this stage, only a formality. Still, he hated seeing the signs of mistreatment on her body. A body that was still shivering violently. ‘If it is any consolation, my lady, I am as reluctant to be your gaoler as you are to be my prisoner. Let’s try to make the best of it.’
‘By that, you mean you want me to comply and not try to escape again? I can’t promise that.’
‘Nor would I in your position. Unfortunately, as I am in charge, I have no intention of allowing you to do so.’
‘C’est la vie. Then I suspect the next few days will be interesting—non?’ As she spoke she unconsciously reached up to gather her sopping hair to one side, wringing it out like wet washing matter of factly. The thin wet linen stretched taut over her body, almost transparent and leaving little to his imagination. Dark pebbled nipples shifted slightly as she moved. His instant physical reaction angered him. That she had done it on purpose angered him more.
‘I won’t be seduced as easily as those sailors.’ But damn him, he was. Just as with that prisoner all those years ago, her blatant femininity affected him. She was like a siren. That voice. That body. That fiery spirit.
‘Seduced?’ She appeared genuinely baffled until he gestured to her full breasts with his eyes. Like the consummate actress she was, Lady Jessamine did an excellent job of being mortified and instantly clamped her arms tightly over her chest.
More shaken by his reaction than he cared to admit, Flint stalked to the washstand and grabbed a towel. He tossed it to her unceremoniously and then rummaged in his own bag for dry clothes. He’d scarce packed enough for his own use, but figured the more he covered that delectable, ripe body with the better. Breeches, another shirt and a waistcoat were a good start. A large sack and a thick eiderdown might be better, although he already knew the image of those dusky nipples would be seared on his brain for ever. An image a man who had to put duty before all else, who knew only too well the dire consequences, had to ignore. ‘Put these on!’
For good measure, he took himself to the other side of the cabin and, because he had no idea how to behave without appearing riddled with unfathomable need, stood with his hands planted on his hips, hoping he looked unimpressed and in control rather than suddenly consumed with unwanted lust.
‘Do you intend to watch me?’ Her eyes were wide and that sultry, accented voice a little high-pitched. When he didn’t move, those dark eyes became darker and convincingly sad to purposely manipulate him. ‘Ah.
