My Wicked Pirate

by Rona Sharon

Genres: Historical Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

First He Gave Her A Wicked Kiss . . . Azure-eyed Alanis was by far the most exquisite treasure ever claimed by the black pirate known as the Viper, but his motives went deeper than his silken promise to ravish the feisty Yorkshire heiress. Commanding the waters of the Caribbean was his means to an end: reclaiming his birthright--and his blood debt against those who had betrayed him. Then He Gave Her Nights Of Wicked Pleasure . . . Comfortably betrothed to a nobleman, Alanis never imagined the heady emotions involved in the true games of seduction--games this blackguard seemed to thoroughly enjoy playing with her. Swept up into an adventure that soon revealed a gentleman and kindred spirit beneath the ruthless veneer of a privateer, Alanis began to soften towards her enigmatic captor, as her pride and her heart fell under his erotic spell... "A rich, sweeping, passionate read. Rona Sharon instantly takes her place among the romance greats!" —New York Times bestselling author Rosemary Rogers

Release date: November 1, 2006

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 433

Sample

Tingoccio replied, “Lost? If a thing is lost, it can’t be found; so what on earth would I be doing here if I were lost?”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Meuccio. “What I want to know is whether you’re among the souls of the damned, in the scourging fires of Hell.”

—Boccaccio: Il Decamerone

West Indies, September 1705

Alanis opened her eyes in response to the loud banging on her cabin door. She sat up, intoxicated by the smell of salt and sea blowing in through the ports and by the sweet fragments of her dream. She was running barefoot on a white, sandy beach dotted with palm trees. She remembered an azure ocean and roaring waves breaking into white foam. She was free.

“My lady, may I come in? It’s urgent!” John Hopkins, the chief mate of the Pink Beryl, insisted beyond the door, his voice strained with concern.

Alanis heaved a sigh, letting her dream fade away. “Yes, Mr. Hopkins. Do come in.”

The door opened. Hopkins’s lamp pierced the darkness. His face looked grim. “I apologize for disturbing you at such an ungodly hour, my lady, but—” His voice caught at the sight of her.

Blinking lazy cat eyes, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and swept back tangled locks, which appeared more silvery than golden in the moonlight. “Yes, Hopkins, what it is?”

“Pirates! We are under attack—”

Cannons roared on the horizon, discharging an ear-splitting broadside, and a terrible blast hit their ship. Walls shattered. The ship tilted sharply. Mayhem ensued outside her door. Thrown against her pillows, Alanis heard officers bellowing, sailors scurrying on deck, guns firing.

“Bloody hell!” Hopkins dropped to his knees beside her bed. “My lady, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Alanis gasped, shaken but still in one piece. “And you?”

“Fine.” Hopkins stood up, yanking his navy jacket back in place. “We must get you off this ship, my lady. Pardon my cheek, but you ought to dress and make haste about it, for they will be upon us in minutes. We can only hold head to a warship for so long, and theirs is a seventy-gun frigate. I must ensure you are safe and away by the time they come.”

“Safe and away? Where?” She stared out the open ports. Water and night surrounded them on all sides, and not too far off a giant vessel loomed, cutting fast through the waves, its cannons’ mouths breathing smoke. Silhouettes moved across its decks, working the guns, preparing to board Alanis’s ship. Where the devil could she possibly go? She threw the sheet aside and pulled on her cut boots. A pirate attack was no time to be miss-ish. “Hoist the white flag, Lieutenant. I won’t have us all murdered for my jewels.”

Hopkins averted his gaze. He cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon, my lady, but jewels aren’t the only prizes these villains are after.”

She glanced at her nightgown. A warm flush pinched her cheeks. She wasn’t a young chit fresh out of the schoolroom, yet in that area she was as green as a pea. “I…must get Betsy.” She threw a cape around her shoulders and was about to leave when her maid burst into the cabin.

“Disaster upon us, my lady!” Betsy wailed, and a second broadside hit the ship. They fell to the floor. Hopkins’s lamp crashed and lost its light. Betsy screamed. Alanis grabbed a bedpost and hauled herself up. Hopkins lent Betsy a supportive hand and ushered them out the door.

They ran up the narrow companionways, swaying with the sharp tilts of the ship. Someone collided into them.

“Sir,” Matthews, the navigator, exclaimed. “Captain McGee has surrendered. The Viper is boarding us. Make haste! We can’t hold them off.”

Alanis started. “The Viper? The Italian they call Eros?” A byword for infamy and vice, Eros meant cruelty, bloodlust, and destruction. He sailed the seas, seizing one prize after another by valor, trickery, or the sheer terror of his name; his legend hung over him like a thundercloud.

“I’m afraid so, my lady,” Matthews confirmed. “We have neither the men nor the metal to oppose him. The blackguard hasn’t raided private vessels in ages. He preys on fleets. We didn’t expect him to attack us. Nor did His Grace.”

“May God help us…” Alanis murmured, recalling her grandfather’s words of warning. The Duke of Dellamore had predicted a catastrophe. He was decisively against her sailing to Jamaica, to join her fiancé, Viscount Silverlake. She could still hear his harangues in her head. “Wartime is no time for a young lady to be scampering about the world. I am needed at Her Majesty’s Court, and you cannot travel alone. If Denton’s boy wishes to make a name for himself, hunting down pirates in Her Majesty’s service, he shall have to do so without you!” Sadly, Lucas Hunter, the distinguished Silverlake, was doing it without her while she pastured her days away at home. She tried to reason with the duke, reminding him that she was betrothed to Lucas since infancy, but he would hear none of it. The solution to the discord came in the form of trickery: Alanis exercised tears—so many tears the duke had no choice but surrender. If her grandfather had known her true motive for sailing away, nothing would have broken his resolve.

“Get the boat ready, Matthews,” Hopkins ordered, and to Alanis he said, “Fear not. San Juan is but a day away.” Before the terror of being cast adrift upon the sea registered in her head, he took her elbow and prompted her and Betsy toward the stairway.

The scene on deck was hellish. The mizzenmast was on fire. Pirates jumped off swinging ropes. Metal clanged. Guns blasted. Carefully paving a way amidst the fighting zones, Hopkins led them to starboard. Beyond the rail a tiny boat swayed precariously over black waves.

“Merciful Father in Heaven!” Betsy cried as she glimpsed at the boat.

“And the others? And Captain McGee?” Alanis inquired anxiously as Lieutenant Hopkins helped her onto the side step. Her gaze swept the battle-blazing deck. Acrid smoke burned her nostrils. Frozen to the spot, she watched the flames licking away at the masts and riggings. Twelve years ago, her parents died in a fire on her father’s exploration journey to the East. Only twelve years old at the time, she was left at Dellamore Hall with her younger brother, Tom. Now, as her father before her, her dream of sunshine and freedom was turning into a nightmare.

“Descend, my lady!” Hopkins urged. “Now!” He supported her arms as she took the first step downward. He cast her a reassuring nod before five pirates rounded on him from behind.

Alanis shrieked. One of the villains grabbed Betsy. Another yanked Alanis back on deck. Flailing wildly, she craned her neck to see Hopkins vigorously fighting his attackers, but they were hauled away toward the area where the triumphant cutthroats, now in command of the helm, surrounded the Pink Beryl’s crewmen.

Squeezed together with Betsy, Alanis felt her maid’s cold hands on her nape, twisting her long mane into a chignon and stuffing it inside the cape’s hood. Alanis pulled the hood low over her eyes. “Cover yourself as well, Betsy.”

Acute tension seized the smoky air. They were expecting the one man who could put a period to their existence—the Viper himself.

The pirates stirred and let him pass through their ranks. Containing her curiosity, Alanis huddled in the velvet folds of her hood and listened to his men greeting him in rapid Italian. The Viper stepped closer to survey his captives. A hum of dread passed among them. The confident pounding of his boot heels on the plank floor reverberated in everyone’s heart. He halted. Alanis sucked in her breath, sensing him standing directly in front of her.

“Giovanni, portami quella nel cappoto nero. Bring me the one in the black cape,” his deep voice commanded, and a giant of a man with a black patch on one eye materialized before her.

Hopkins and Matthews bolted forward and were immediately blocked by sharp dirks.

“Leave her alone, you vile monster!” Betsy screamed fearlessly. “She is the Duke of Dellamore’s granddaughter! He’ll hound you for the rest of your days!”

The Viper assessed the maid, then instructed one of his men, “Rocca, tu prendi la piccola serva. Rocca, you get the little maid.” He turned and walked away.

All Alanis saw was a tall, dark, ominous shadow disappearing in thick swirls of smoke.

 

Dimly lit, the Viper’s cabin boasted ample space and quiet luxury. Giovanni nudged her inside and locked the door. Alone, Alanis raised her head and looked around. It wasn’t the sort of cabin one would expect a savage to reside in. Gilded, black lacquered cabinets lined the walls—a trademark of Venetian artisans. Elegant fauteuils and sofas upholstered in purple satin formed a sitting area. An ebony desk occupied the far end, heaped with papers and maps, and to her left loomed a four-poster bed, draped with rich purple silk. The large shadowed bed shot a tremor up her spine. She recalled Hopkins’s warning how jewelry was not the only booty pirates were after. Was her fate to be ravished by the Viper tonight? Was this the reason she was brought here?

An old royal crest hung over the canopy, its black, silver, and purple matching the furniture. The insignia, although foreign to her, portrayed its family’s prestige in partaking in the Holy Crusades—a serpent eating a Saracen. Apparently, the villain had no qualms decorating his cabin with any pillage, even if it displayed someone else’s valor and magnificence.

The door opened behind her. Alanis’s heart leaped with a start. The door slammed against its frame. She holed inside her hood, sensing a large body coming to stand behind her.

“Buonasera, Madonna,” a low voice drawled over her shoulder. She remained silent and followed the sound of boot heels circling her. Tall sinewy legs in black leather boots stopped before her. “Remove your cape,” he said. “Let’s see the face you’re so determined to conceal.”

He was a large one, she realized, feeling very small and vulnerable. Thinking of the brave crewmen of the Pink Beryl who fought that night helped her muster her courage.

“Well?” The voice grew closer and huskier. “You’ve already piqued my curiosity on deck, hiding instead of gawking as the rest did.” He smirked. “I assure you, I’m quite intrigued.”

Alanis didn’t stir. He sounded civil enough. His Italian-accented English was fit to be spoken in the queen’s presence. Nonetheless, her heart thudded; her warm breath filled the hood.

“I don’t intend to harm you, simply to have some conversation,” he whispered to the hood. When she still refused to remove it, he cajoled, “I understand why you feel reluctant to reveal yourself, but speaking to a black cloak is somewhat tedious.” He waited, his long legs braced apart, until suddenly, without warning, her hood was yanked back.

Alanis gasped. Her head shot up, causing the loose bun at her nape to spill glamorously to her waist, shiny and golden. Startled, she finally came face to face with Eros the Pirate.

Shock and confusion clashed in their gazes. The pirate’s dark, glittering eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though he recognized her and was flicking through his memory to associate the face with a place. The disturbing awareness was dulled by her private reaction to him, though. Alanis rarely paid attention to men since she was contentedly betrothed, but the tall, dark Italian standing before her had such staggering looks he could make a nun reconsider her vows.

A slow smile curved his handsome lips. “Piacere.” He graciously inclined his raven head in a formal greeting. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Again she was plagued with the feeling he recognized her, but how could he? Surely she would have recalled seeing him before. His eyes alone were unforgettable: Intensely expressive, they gleamed in his deeply tanned face. Thick, glossy jet hair slicked back in a queue framed a tall brow, high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong square jaw—a warrior’s face sculpted in bronze. A crescent-shaped scar curved from his left temple to his cheek, but she found it did not mar his handsomeness one bit. It added character to his countenance, which made him look even more intriguing. A pair of earrings pierced his left earlobe—a diamond stud and a golden loop. His shape was another attraction—that great height, a head taller than Lucas, and strapping physique radiated pure male power. His code of dress was reserved yet painfully smart, a trick of fashion Italians mastered long before the French assumed superiority in the field. His broad shoulders tapered to a wasp waist in a close-fitting black coat trimmed in silver. A snowy cravat frothed at his tanned neck. He was utterly compelling, and he was utterly dangerous.

Grinning, he looped one of her golden locks around his forefinger. “Allora? Well then? Have you nothing to say? Cat got your tongue?”

Alanis snatched her lock back. “What do you intend to do with my ship and crew? If you hurt my maid, or if a single Englishman dies tonight—”

A taunting spark lit his eyes. “Aren’t you anxious to know what I intend to do with you, Lady Avon?”

“I do not give a whit what you do with me,” she said through clenched teeth while her cold hands curled into fists at her sides. “As long as my personal companion is untouched.”

“I see.” His bold finger shifted aside one of her cape wings, exposing muslin frills. “So I may do whatever pleases me with you?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Certainly not!” She gripped back the cape wing to conceal her nightgown.

A knock rattled the door. “Entra!” he commanded, sustaining her apprehensive gaze. Four men came in, carrying her heavy chests. They set them down and departed, shutting the door.

“As you see,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “all ship spoils go to the captain.”

“I was under the impression you have long ceased to harass small vessels,” she drawled scathingly. “Have you fallen on hard times?”

He laughed. “Fortunately, no, but you, my lady, are no doubt the most valuable prize I’ve ever acquired. The best of spoils.”

Dismayed yet at the same time curious, her gaze followed his tall frame as he sauntered to the wine cabinet. His snug black breeches emphasized every corded muscle on his lean thighs. A curved, silver-handled dagger was strapped to his hip over a silk purple sash. It was an Oriental dagger—a shabariya. Her grandfather had one in his library. She recalled hearing once that Eros had been raised in the Kasbah of Algiers and was notorious for his mastery of blades. She also noticed in spite of her fear of him that the fiend dressed in the same colors of his cabin.

Crystal clinked as he filled a snifter with a bright amber fluid. “May I offer you a drop of cognac, my lady?” he suggested pleasantly. “Surely tonight’s events have taken a toll on your nerves. A stiff drink should settle them down.”

“You presume much if you think I will drink such spirits,” she bit out caustically, “in the company of a bloody pirate, no less. Salute yourself!”

His eyes glided over her cloaked figure, making her feel extremely self-conscious. “The lady has a sharp tongue. I fear we must blunt it some with acid.” When her temper flared visibly, an elegant jet eyebrow cocked with amusement. “Va bene. Suit yourself.” He downed his drink, briefly shutting his eyes, as the acid charred his throat. He set the glass aside and continued perusing her with open appreciation. “Silverlake deserves to be shot for letting a woman like you sail alone when men like me roam the high seas.”

“Silverlake?” How could he possibly know Lucas, she wondered.

“Yes, Silverlake.” He started in her direction. “The blond pup you are engaged to, Lady Avon. The same one we shall pay a visit to in four days. The two of us.”

Hope lit her heart. “You intend to hold me for ransom, then?”

“So eager to join the dashing knight in Kingston? How romantic.” He smirked. “Yes, I do have it in mind to offer you back to Silverlake. For a certain price.”

“His lordship will readily pay your price, Viper, whatever it is.”

“Ah, now I remember.” He came up in front of her, his supremely tall head forcing her to look up. “We haven’t been properly introduced. So, allow me.” He gallantly took her hand.

Alanis snatched it back, shooting him a look full of poison. “I know who you are.”

Irritation flickered in his eyes, but he quelled it. He lowered his head closer to hers and whispered, “My name is not Viper.”

“Your name is Eros.”

He straightened up, saying nothing.

“So what is the price?” she asked. With the king’s ransom of jewels stashed in one of her chests he should be able to procure half of Jamaica. How insatiable can a man be?

“I’m a reasonable man.” He pensively rubbed his strong, clean-shaven jaw. “I only intend to ask for what is mine, something that is not measured in coin.” The infuriating eyebrow rose inquiringly. “Are you measured in coin, Lady Avon? Gold doubloons perhaps?”

Her aquamarine eyes slanted wrathfully, granting her the look of a cat. “Beast,” she hissed.

The black-hearted villain had the gall to tip his head back and laugh. “I’m certain you hope I am not, my lady, although…” His hand touched her face, causing her to flinch. Yet all he did was gently run his knuckles along the cream of her cheek, sending a suspicious shudder through her. “I shall be more than happy to live up to your expectations.” He glimpsed at his bed, then recaptured her gaze. Humor and challenge twinkled in his dark eyes. “What exactly did you have in mind—rough ravishing or prolonged pleasure? I’m game for both diversions.”

Alanis edged back. He followed, moving with an arrogant fluid swagger. A black leopard, she thought fretfully, graceful and deadly. When he caged her between his powerful arms and the wall, she barely managed to murmur, “Silverlake will kill you if you lay one finger on me.”

“A serious detriment, to be sure.”

Heart hammering, Alanis stared deep into his spellbinding eyes. Everything else faded into obscurity. His handsome face and the muscular breadth of his shoulders filled her view. Tension crackled between them, and for a brief moment she nearly forgot what he was.

He was thoroughly scrutinizing her face, admiring her naturally slanted blue-green eyes, the pert tilt of her nose, the soft roundness of her cheeks. His gaze settled on her lips—full, pink, and slightly quivering. Lust etched his irises. “You are beautiful,” he breathed, fanning her lips with rich, titillating cognac fumes. “I think Silverlake’s wrath is small punishment for a night spent with you, my lady.”

Lud. No man has ever looked at her this way. No man! Not even Lucas, her betrothed, has ever told her that she was beautiful. When her brother was killed in a duel five years ago, she was nineteen and preparing for her coming-out. So her first debut into society took place two years later when her grandfather presented her at the French Court in Versailles while in France on diplomatic affairs. This man—this pirate—with his midnight eyes and granite face stared at her as though she were the most desirable woman in the world!

Noting her discomfiture, he smiled, and what a sinful smile it was. White teeth flashed in wicked contrast to dark skin, and Alanis experienced a deep feeling of sympathy for the women who fell into this rogue’s net. This man was well aware of the power of his masculine allure.

“He is an idiot, your precious Silverlake,” Eros drawled. “I think I shall be well deserving of sainthood when I return you to him unscathed.”

Alanis swallowed hard. “You truly do not intend to harm me?”

Eros stood close enough for her to see the lines life had tilled into his skin. He was not as young as she had initially assumed. There was a hard, ruthless edge to him, yet something else as well, unexpected, which she hoped she was not imagining: a private code of honor.

“Harm you?” A strange look surfaced in his eyes. In an act of risqué, his thumb caressed the soft swells of her lips, its faint roughness startlingly seductive. His voice dropped to a gruff whisper. “A beautiful creature such as you was made for pleasure, Alanis. Not pain.”

Stunned, she merely stared after him as he turned on his heel, strode to the door, and left the cabin, locking her inside.

The pirates of the Alastor perked up when Rocca escorted Alanis to the foredeck the next day. They abandoned their chores and gawked as she traversed the sun-drenched deck in an ice pink gown with bolstered hips and far too deep a cleavage to remain calm in a sea of lecherous stares. She took shelter beneath her wide-brimmed hat, squinting against the radiant light, and reminded herself anything was preferable to dreary Yorkshire.

Eros sat on the foredeck railing, his long mane catching the breeze, as he wielded a dagger on an orange and spoke to Giovanni. He wore a white lawn shirt and black breeches with a purple stripe along the side seam. Black and purple, she smiled mockingly; the man certainly advertised his colors. She swept her gown’s silk train off the plank floor and took the steps.

Giovanni noticed her first. He smiled broadly. “Capitano, sono innamorato! I’m in love!”

Eros ordered Giovanni to make himself scarce and greeted her with a gleaming white smile complemented with a disarming pair of dimples. “Buongiorno, bellissima.”

A strong flutter rippled in her belly. Not only was the blasted villain annoyingly handsome, but also the eyes glittering like gems in his suntanned face were the clearest, most unusual ocean blue eyes. Sapphires, she mused, somewhat dazed—a stone once believed to be the core of the earth and reflected by the sky. How could she have mistaken his eyes to be black?

His keen gaze raked her from head to toe, not missing an inch of face, bare ivory skin, or tastefully exhibited figure. And to her deepest chagrin, Alanis discovered she felt no less affected now than she had last night. She tingled, knowing this godless pirate, for whom the world was an oyster, found her—beautiful.

He grinned, munching a juicy slice of orange. “I trust you slept well…in my bed?”

So he couldn’t resist asking. She leveled a glare straight into those confounding, ultrablue eyes. “I most certainly did not sleep in your bed, villain! Perhaps I will tonight, though,” she riposted tartly, “and take pleasure in knowing I am depriving you of it.”

“Touché!” His dagger sliced the air as he tipped his head. “My bed is at your disposal.”

She eyed him hostilely, finding the suggestive gleam in his eyes contradictive to his gallant gesture. “You merit no thanks from me. Honorable men do not kidnap innocent ladies.”

“Indeed they do not.” He popped another slice of orange into his mouth. “The fools.”

A tall wave broke on the bow. She skidded back, but Eros got soaked through and through. She laughed and licked salty drops of seawater off her lips. His boots landed hard on the plank floor. “Mannaggia!” he growled, wrenching water from his dripping mane. He glared at her, his eyes sparkling. “I’m amusing you?” Not waiting for a reply, he peeled his wet shirt off.

She gaped. He had a stupendously beautiful body. Tanned, smooth of hair, and shaped in male perfection, it displayed supple strength obtained through years of a strict athletic régime. A golden medallion, large and lustrous in contrast to his burnished skin, dangled over his chest.

He threw her a cocky smile, setting her cheeks on fire, and sauntered to a table laid out for two. Crystal goblets, silver cutlery, and porcelain plates shimmered over a snowy tablecloth.

“Join me for lunch?” he offered and pulled out a gilded chaise caré.

She dithered. Verbal sparring was one thing, but consorting with a pirate? “I am not hungry,” she lied, striving to keep her eyes off his powerfully wrought torso. It wasn’t easy.

“You haven’t had a bite to eat since yesterday, and it would be a shame if even a dram of beauty were to be lost. E dai,” he said sweetly, “I’m certain you’ve built up some appetite.”

“I lost my appetite when I was captured by a rude pirate.”

The indulgent smile disappeared. “You shall join the rude pirate regardless and keep him company while he eats.”

“I will not,” she articulated boldly. She hadn’t escaped England to wind up dancing to a pirate’s whims. Pivoting on her heel, she headed for the flight of steps. She managed two strides before a steely, tanned arm swept around her waist, pinning her back to a naked granite chest.

“Don’t make me chase you,” Eros whispered softly in her ear. “I’m endeavoring to behave like the perfect gentleman. Do not tempt the beast in me.”

Her breath caught at the feel of his warm mouth moving in her ear. Realizing she liked it charged her with greater antagonism. She twisted around and gave his chest a hard nudge. “I will never sit at your table, not unless you strap me to a chair!” Yet the instant her hands touched his velvety, suntanned skin they jerked free as if singed by fire. She had felt his heart drumming, strong and steady, beneath cords of warm muscle.

Eros twisted his lips. “Strapped to a chair, eh? Don’t put ideas in my head, Alanis. I’m half tempted to strap you to my lap and feed you myself. I shall make it very clear to you. If you wish to keep enjoying my gracious hospitality, you shall have lunches and dinners in my company until I return you to your viscount. Now, will you sit at my table like a good girl?”

He released her and she staggered back, nodding obediently. He seated her and dropped into the opposite chair. “Vino?” He gestured at the green bottle gracing the edge of the table.

Giovanni appeared out of nowhere and seized the bottle. As he filled her glass with rich red wine, despite his black eye patch, he seemed more human to her than the dark Lucifer sitting across the table, his one brown eye lacking the diabolical fire of Eros’s blues.

“I thank you,” she said warily, and raised the glass to her lips.

Giovanni beamed. Unable to peel his one good eye off her, he let vast quantities spill into Eros’s glass. Red wine gushed on the pristine white tablecloth. Eros caught Giovanni’s wrist and pried the bottle from his fingers, snapping, “Ma cosa fai, idiota? What the devil are you doing, idiot? Have you nothing better to do than to make a pest of yourself?”

Giovanni grinned sheepishly. “No. Nothing.”

Eros slammed his fist on the table and got up, radiating supreme annoyance. “away!”

“Va bene. I got it.” Giovanni chuckled. He sent Alanis another shy smile and walked off the foredeck, snickering loud enough for every sailor to hear.

“Are you always ill tempered with your subordinates?” Alanis inquired as Eros regained his seat. “If you keep this up, next thing you know, they’ll be caballing behind your back, knocking you on the head, and making off with your ship.” She smiled prettily.

“Isn’t it impolite to wear one’s hat at the table?” he inquired with a hint of a smile.

Arrant mutiny tilted her cat eyes. “Not when one is coerced to dine in poor company.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but taking silly maidens and irksome maids hostage is not my idea of first-rate entertainment.”

“Then, what is?” She winced, flaming obscenely red. “I meant…why did you abduct me?”

He cast her a brain-muddling smile. “My idea of first-rate entertainment is abducting silly maidens without their irksome maids.” He chuckled when she averted her gaze. “Ma dai, come now. Don’t sulk. You’ll have your revenge on me yet. Besides, I’m famished. Remove your hat so we may finally eat.”

Reluctantly, Alanis complied. A manservant dressed in a long white tunic approached the table. He set down silver platters heaped with fresh bread, colorful antipasti, and a covered bowl.

“Ayiz haga tanya, ya bey? Would there be anything else, master?” he inquired respectfully.

“Lah, shukran, Raed. No, thank you, Raed.” Eros dismissed him.

“Was that Arabic?” she asked, failing to hide her admiration. Upon his nod she added with grudging respect, “You speak many languages.”

“Grazie.” He inclined his handsome head. “Kind of you to notice.”

“It was an observation, not a compliment,” she muttered, riled by his vainglorious grin.

“I choose to be flattered.” He popped an oil-dripping olive into his mouth, making her own mouth water. She never tasted olives before. “Allora,” he pointed at the opulent fare and began naming the dishes, “zucchine e melanzane, pro-sciutto crudo…” He whipped the bowl’s top off, uncovering beef and spring vegetables cooked in wine. A waft of aromatic mist drifted her way. “Feel free to change your mind.” He selected a slice of crusty bread, dipped it in green olive oil, scattered a pint of salt on it, and tore a bite. “Salute!” He raised his wineglass and drank deeply.

Wretchedly, Alanis stared at the appetizing food and stoically ignored the churning protests of her stomach. She was prepared to starve to death rather than dine with a man of his sort.

He smiled perceptively. “Dinner is hours away, and your maid is lunching in my cabin.”

“I’m not hungry,” Alanis clipped stringently.

“I see. Allora, I give you permission to enjoy watching me eat.”

She did watch him, thinking his table manners were as polished as a nobleman’s. Yet he seemed determined to taunt her, savoring every bite, rolling his eyes, groaning with pleasure. Their gazes met over a sauce-dripping zucchini speared on a fork. Eros grinned. “Pity you’ve lost your appetite, Princess. There’s so much to be shared. Ship’s cook is a gifted Milanese. Worked for a royal family once. Are you certain you’re not remotely peckish?”

She threw him a belligerent smile. “I prefer French cuisine.” When a jet eyebrow rose at the deliberate provocation, she lifted her glass and prepared to do battle. Three years ago, she engaged in a similar debate with a French baroness, defending her true opinion, which was pro Italian, of course. So she had ample arguments up her sleeve. Today she was in the mood to play devil’s advocate. Anything to annoy her host. “Italians have a lot to learn from the French.”

Eros subsided onto his chair’s satin upholstery and calmly sipped his wine. “Enlighten me about something. The English despise the French, yet they emulate and embrace everything that is French—French brandy, French food, French fashion. Why is that?”

“For the same reason the rest of the world does—it’s the best! I imagine Italians may have had something to commend them once, but they lost the touch ages ago. I daresay the French outshine you in every quarter now. Even in art.”

His blue eyes blazed. He was also smiling rapaciously, eager to crush the opposition. “You are aware that to settle the debate you will have to sample the food. By the bye,” he studied the scarlet fluid swaying in his wineglass, “is the Bar-bacarlo to your liking? I personally feel it goes down very smoothly. What do you think, Princess?”

Her wine-glossed lips curled daringly. “If you are issuing an experimental challenge, you ought to provide French wine and food for comparison.”

“That will not be possible since the only French object around you is the ship.”

Intrigued, she glanced around. The Alastor was by every standard a formidable vessel, a floating fortress carried by vast, sun-bleached sails. “How did you acquire this French frigate? Unmistakably, ’tis a navy warship.”

He looked impressed. “Very perceptive of you. The Alastor is indeed a French Navy girl. Used to be one of Louis’s finest.”

“I see,” she said frostily, finding his allusion to the King of France as if he were one of his closest acquaintances daft. “Louis’s docks were overcrowded, so he let you have one.”

“Actually, I took it. A small matter of a private bet I had going with Monsieur le Roi.” He flashed her the infuriating grin again. “He lost.”

“That’s ridiculous. You run bets with the King of France as surely as I am on my way to the gaming hells in Tortuga!”

He was still grinning. The cad. “I pity the soon-to-be-impoverished pirates.”

Ignoring him, Alanis concentrated on the scenery. How many sad winters had she longed for this breathtaking view? If she were doomed to go through life missing her parents and her brother to the depth of her soul, at least she would do so under a warm sun and as a free spirit.

“Have you visited this side of the globe before?” Eros summoned her attention.

“No, I haven’t.” Her tone turned sarcastic. “Have you?”

“I’ve been to many places, Princess, places that would fascinate you.”

“Silverlake and I have grand plans to travel the world once we’re married,” she lied again, peeved by his cool superiority.

“Davvero? Would that be after or during the war? I regret having to put a damper on your plans, Princess, but it seems to me that your honorable Silverlake is more interested in fighting pirates than he is in fulfilling his duty to his lovely fiancée. It was very careless of him to let you travel alone in these waters when one is liable to run into French or Spanish warships.”

“What would you know of honor or duty?” Alanis hissed.

“Very little, I imagine. Still, aren’t you past the usual marital age of fine young ladies?” He studied her at length, then inquired quietly, “How long have you been engaged to him?”

“It hardly concerns you,” she replied icily, rattled by the twist their conversation had taken. Though their engagement was settled ages ago, Lucas seemed determined to put it off, not giving thought to his restive fiancée sitting in wait at home. Sailing to Jamaica presented the perfect solution. She would finally have her taste of sunshine and freedom, experience the world she had read and dreamed so much about, and encourage Lucas to set a final wedding date.

“How long has he been stationed in Jamaica?” Eros dogged.

“Three years.”

“Three years is a long time to be apart from the woman one loves.” He held her gaze in laden silence, then leaned closer. “I know your opinion of me, Alanis. I have a rotten black soul, whereas he is a saint deserving of a pair of pretty white wings. But assuming Silverlake is the man you claim he is, why has this idiot left you behind? Does he prefer little boys or is he simply blind? If you were mine, bella donna, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight for three days, let alone three long years. I’d keep you right where you belong—with me, at all times, and for the most part in my bed. And I would teach you better ways to use your quick tongue, Amore.”

Her tongue went dry. Gradually, coherency returned. “Why did you attack the Pink Beryl?”

“I was looking for you.” Noting the terror in her eyes, his hard face softened with a smile. “Nothing like that. Finding you was pure luck. I stopped every ship en route to Kingston.”

The tension eased from her shoulders. “Despicable wretch! Little wonder you’re loathed by every man in the world. What were you hoping to catch? A poor victim to keep you company at meals while you feasted on your Milanese cook’s treats? One who’d give you no trouble?”

“You call this ‘no trouble’?” He chuckled and took a sip of wine. “If you must know, my sharp-tongued beauty, I was hunting for something of value to Silverlake.”

“Something to barter with for that thing which is not measured in coin.” Then she got it. She smiled triumphantly. “That thing isn’t a thing! It’s a person! Someone more important to you than gold, whom Lucas has captured and is holding prisoner, and given his honor won’t allow Lucas to sell this man to you, you sought something to force his hand. Who is this unfortunate soul you are so desperate to set free? One of your cronies? A fellow picaroon?” she mocked.

“Now who would have guessed a blonde should have so much sense in her lovely head?” Eros remarked with genuine fascination. “I already regret having to forfeit you, Amore. Perhaps I should try to entice Silverlake with gold. One never knows until one tries.”

Fear etched her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He smiled, his eyes daring her to challenge him. “With all this meat on the table, I’d still relish latching my teeth onto a choice area of flesh on your delectable body.”

She stood up. “Insufferable beast! Find someone else to put up with your pitiful manners. I’ve had enough.” With a scathing glare she left the table.

Eros bounded after her. He caught her wrist, and with a tug she pirouetted straight into his arms. She instantly recoiled. “Let go! You’ve had your lunch. Now let me return to the cabin.”

He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. “You are more beautiful than I remembered, Alanis, and although I promised myself I’d leave you be, I find it…almost beyond my control. Three more days of this will turn me into a softheaded imbecile.”

It took her mind several seconds to resume working. “You remember me? It’s impossible! I don’t know you. We’ve only met last night, for heaven’s sake!”

“We have crossed paths, Alanis,” Eros whispered, “and I can prove it. Dine with me during these three days we have together and I promise to tell you everything before we part company.”

Alanis stewed in a mental caldron of curiosity and enmity for a long moment, enfeebled bit by bit by the potent plea in his bedeviling blue eyes. “Fine. Now release me. I…I am starving.”

Chuckling, Eros did as asked and invited her to take her seat once again.

It was not a good night to be an Italian prince. Cesare Sforza sank into a torn wingchair and scanned the cold, austere walls of Castello Sforzesco. Its splendor had been sacked. Efficiently. Brutally. Completely. Looted by his blood-sucking debt collectors. He had nothing. Worse. His days in his family palazzo were numbered.

A weak flame leaped on the hearth. Cesare’s gaze fell on a shattered mirror leaning against a wall. Well built, raven-haired, clad in black from head to toe, his reflection sadly complemented his surroundings. Though in his prime, he looked finished: His white features were as cold as a statue’s; his dark blue eyes held the glare his enemies labeled “the look of a savage beast at bay.” Cesare smiled viciously. That which had earned him contempt and vituperation would win him glory and dominion in the end. One day soon he would find the scar-faced dog who had stolen the Sforza medallion. He would kill him and become the next Duke of Milan.

In the meantime, Cesare had to survive by his wits and cunning alone while the Spaniards looted Milan’s taxes. He swore and downed a shot of cognac. It was the last bottle. The cellars’ old treasure of wines and spirits had followed the sad path of the art and furniture. And now that the Imperial Armies were at the gates of Milan he had to flee as well, except where could he go? Every country with the Grand Alliance was a cul-de-sac for him because he openly sided with France. He did so after the emperor and the pope denied his diritto de imperio, his rightful claim to the Duchy of Milan. Should he go to Paris? He wondered. There were worse places to spend the coming winter, but what good was Paris for an impoverished Milanese prince? Also, one had to consider the unfortunate incident with the French heiress. Two years ago, Louis chased him off in disgrace, vowing that if Cesare ever neared a French woman again, he’d install him in the Bastille and lose the key. So he was married. It wasn’t his fault that the bullnecked, pop-eyed pope refused granting him dispensation for annulment. If a man beat his wife, was it not a clear sign he had enough of her? Pity he hadn’t poisoned Camilla after squandering her fortune. He was stuck with her, but the stupid cow had fled to Rome to cry to her uncle—who inconveniently was Pope Clement himself—what a wicked husband she had. Hence, he could definitely not go to Rome. He could go to Spain. Find a rich heiress in Madrid. Charm her, poison her, take her money…The idea appealed to him, but Spain didn’t. He hated the sharp-bearded Spaniards.

Fast approaching steps echoed off the Great Hall’s stark walls. Cesare drew his dagger, his lustrous, lethal old friend. “Who goes there?” he barked, squinting against the gloom.

Wrapped in a black cape, a diminutive man materialized in the feeble firelight. His voice was a raspy whisper. “I bring good tidings, Monsignore. Excellent tidings.”

Cesare snorted and sheathed his dagger. Already bored, he muttered with the enthusiasm of a dead goat, “Tell me what you’ve learned, Roberto.”

“I found him, Monsignore.” Roberto snickered. He put the tip of his finger to his left temple and carved an imaginary crescent scar.

Cesare shot out of his chair. “Are you certain?”

“Si, Monsignore. He flies the biscione. ‘The viper that leads the Mil. . .