The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(36)

She’d already wasted hours curled up on the counterpane for a sleepless, stormy night in a trembling heap contemplating all her captor had revealed. Which wasn’t much, all told.

Ash. A pirate. The pirate. The Rook. A name more notorious and fearsome than those of piratical glory days of a century past such as Barbosa, Sir Francis Drake, Blackbeard, and Henry Morgan.

Combined.

Twenty years. He’d come for her after twenty years.

How? Why? And … how? The British Royal Navy was the most powerful in the world, and he’d managed to elude them like no other.

Was his continued presence in Britain known to the powers that be? Surely one of the Royal Fleet patrolling the Channel would spot him. He didn’t fly a pirate flag, like they did in the stories. But even so. Remaining here seemed like an immense risk to take, even for someone so intrepid as he.

He’d claimed to have been observing her for several months …

Little butterflies erupted in her stomach at the thought. Several months could mean a year at least, if he was to be believed. She’d released the otter he’d spoken of, William Wallace, back into the wild the prior summer. The Rook had said he’d been there. Had spied upon her while she’d taught little Wallace how to swim. How to fish.

Hadn’t she read in the papers somewhere the Rook had been recently captured in Scotland, had sent to Newgate Prison, and subsequently escaped?

She should have paid closer attention. But how could she have known?

Curled upon his cavernous bed, she’d filled a few agonizing hours wallowing in her memories of the past, in her anxiety for what came next. Eventually, her frayed nerves had tired of that. She had to do something, or she’d never be able to live with herself.

First order of business, she’d decided, was to find something to keep herself warm.

Unsurprisingly, the Rook’s neatly kept wardrobe and dressers held as many weapons as garments.

She unsheathed a thin but dangerously sharp dagger by a handle encrusted with gems. It looked like something an Arabian prince would wield.

Lorelai set the dagger close by, and renewed her search for a garment to cover her nakedness. Her fingers grazed a shirt thick as wool but soft rather than coarse. She lifted the plush fabric and tested its almost velveteen texture against her cheek. A briny scent combined with bay rum and frankincense enveloped her, evoking images of tropical climes and sun-sparkling seas.

Of places she’d never been, explored by a man she’d never thought to see again.

Glancing back at the door to confirm that she remained alone, Lorelai discarded her ruined wedding bodice, corset, and chemise, and donned the shirt. It fell past her thighs, and she had to struggle with foreign, intricate toggles rather than buttons to fasten it. The neckline was strange and wide, but the garment warmed her, instantly.

Upon searching further, she found a long cream sash and belted it about her waist, obscuring the dagger into the folds should she need to use it. Not that she knew how to correctly wield the thing, but one needed a weapon on a pirate ship, didn’t one?

Lord, there was a thought she never imagined she’d have to consider.

She stumbled upon a pistol, as well, and a frantic search uncovered the bullets in another drawer. Having never shot a revolver, it took her a few precious moments to figure out how to correctly load it, but she managed.

She must look ridiculous in her ruffled ivory wedding skirts and a strange, masculine top, but that was the least of her worries.

Her sweet Ash had been transformed into the ruthless Rook. He’d made it clear to her that he intended to thoroughly consummate that laughable farce of a marriage just as soon as he recovered from the blow she’d dealt him. Whether she consented or not. And she could only guess the fate that awaited poor Veronica.

Limping to the door, Lorelai considered her very slim options.

If she stayed in the captain’s quarters, her fate was obvious. She’d be at his mercy.

And mercy seemed to be something the Rook had forsaken some twenty years hence.

With stealth, the mist, and a great deal of luck, she could find Veronica, and her clever sister-in-law might know where a vessel like this stored its lifeboats.

Veronica’s father had been a wealthy shipping magnate, after all. She knew more about boats, navigation, and the sea than most men did.

Creeping to the door, Lorelai realized it wasn’t the kind that could be locked from the outside. Which made sense. Why would the captain of a pirate ship ever hazard being locked in his own quarters?

Her fingers rested on the latch, and she paused.

What if he’d placed a guard at the door? The unscrupulous Moncrieff, perhaps. Or the Rook might have stood vigil, himself.

Shivering at the thought, Lorelai opened the little brass peephole in the door and pressed her eye to it. The short hall was full of shadows, but empty of pirates so far as she could tell.

Stepping back, she eased open the door and let the pistol precede her into the predawn gloom. She peeled her shoulders away from her ears when she found herself alone. Releasing a shaky breath as quietly as she could, she lifted her skirts and leaned on the rail, careful not to trip down the three wide steps into the narrow hall.

She’d been too terrified yesterday to marvel that the Devil’s Dirge boasted the accommodations of a luxurious steamship, but with decidedly rougher occupants. She’d stared at the glowing sconces all night, and had idly wondered how on earth electricity could be found on a ship. She’d never before heard of such extravagant possibilities.