Duke by Day, Rogue by Night Read Free

forward against the tanned man’s weight. Strutting into the room, the burly man kicked debris out of his way and entered the cabin. He crouched low, searching the darkness, prepared for resistance. Sensing this was her only chance, Constance wielded the bed warmer high in the darkness and slammed it over the man’s skull. He crashed to the floor in a heap.
    Desperately, she lifted the copper monstrosity to strike again. But just as she swung to hit the second man, a meaty fist swatted it away. This man immediately focused his gaze upon her. A patch covered his eye and his scowl provided him a rebellious, angry countenance. Caught in the man’s spiteful stare, Constance recognized the lustful turn of his thoughts as if succumbing to a descending flood with no apparent foothold. She stood her ground as the man’s eye swooped up and down her body.
    Behind him, pirates moved in to pillage the room, laughing riotously, desiring a go at the “appetizing wenches.” But the man before her extended his hand into the air, bringing them to a halt.
    Constance fixed vulnerable eyes upon her enemies. Large men with heaving chests and torn clothing, spattered with blood. Captain Collins and his crew must have proven their worth, given the appearance of these men. That thought alone brought her some amount of hope that members of Collins’s crew might still be alive and yet able to help her.
    Suddenly aware the men were undressing her with their eyes, Constance peered downward at her state of undress and righted her torn shift across her breasts.
    Clearing his throat, the broad-shouldered man she’d tried to flummox motioned to his mates. “The way this cabin had been fortified, I expected to find the Queen.” Laughter erupted. “You handle that weapon expertly, lass. What else can you do?”
    She frowned. “Come forward and I’ll show you.”
    â€œThis one’s a fighter,” he announced absurdly. His voice was intense, commanding. The pirate’s lip curled, as if he challenged her to rebuke him.
    Constance refused to cower beneath the man’s impossible stare. She tossed her head back, firmly intent on surviving whatever these pirates forced upon her. Quirking her brow, she raised the bed warmer. She wasn’t afraid to fight. Dying would end ten years of misery and guilt. It was the minutes and hours before death that frightened her.
    Finding her voice, Mrs. Mortimer screeched into the void, “Leave us be!”
    â€œNever fear,” the demon said. “We’ve never misused a wench who didn’t welcome the attention.” A buoyant cheer rose, forcing a heart-wrenching sob from the fearful woman. “You may be common,” the blackguard stated, looking Constance up and down, “but we aren’t particular, are we men?”
    She did not miss his emphasis on “we.” Immediately, she wondered if they were to be passed from one man to another like common doxies. Constance lifted her chin another notch. Common, indeed!
    â€œYour desire to fight is natural,” he assured. “But I promise you, the temptation will pass.”
    The leader paused, wanting her to digest the futility of the situation. And the glint in his eye promised he’d enjoy reaping his reward. But then he did something completely unexpected. He tilted his head sideways and stepped forward, his hand held up to suggest he wouldn’t hurt her. In disbelief, she positioned the bed warmer between them.
    â€œDon’t come any closer,” she warned.
    His eye narrowed. He took another step closer, slapped the bed warmer aside, ignoring her threat, and scrutinized her, head to foot.
    â€œI stand corrected,” he said, placing surprisingly warm fingers underneath her chin, tilting her head left, then right, as if searching her features for something — familiar. “You, my little blossom, are anything but common.”
    A frown creased his brow.