Teresa Medeiros Read Free Page B

the head.”
    “The cabin was listed in the ship’s log just as you said it would be—L-U-C-period-S-N-O-W.”
    Doom had never before been so tempted to curse his mate’s gift of being both literate and literal. Steering his way through the shadowy hold, he shook his head in disgust. “If she’s of any importance, we’ll have the whole Channel Fleet down on our heads by dawn. Couldn’t you even get a name out of her?”
    “Sorry, sir. The iron maiden was occupied. Kevin was sleeping in it. Besides, you’re the one with the reputation for terrorizing innocent maidens.”
    Doom shot him a dark look as they halted before a door bolted from the outside. “She’s probably mute with terror already. You’re enough to give any proper young English virgin nightmares.”
    As if in full agreement, his mate flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile, emphasizing the raven purity of his skin. His bald head had been polished to a sheen so bright the captain caught a glimpse of his own scowling reflection. There was no man Doom would rather have at his side during battle, but his composure in the face of such disaster made Doom want to choke him.
    The Captain turned toward the door. With a gesture from another lifetime, long gone and best forgotten, he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair and smoothed his cambric shirt.
    “Are you going to interrogate her or court her?” his companion rumbled.
    “I haven’t decided. Maybe neither. Maybe both.” All traces of humor fled his face. The grim twist of his lips would have given even those most skeptical of his legend pause for reflection. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find out why the morally upstanding Admiral Snow had a woman sequestered in his cabin.”
    With that vow, Doom lifted the makeshift bolt, unlocked the door, and slipped into the sumptuous confines of his own quarters.

    A child
, was Doom’s first horrified thought. His mate had stolen a little girl.
    A rapid blink proved his perception flawed. Oddly enough, it wasn’t his captive’s size, but her stern demeanor that made her look no more than twelve years of age. She sat rigidly straight in the spartan chair as if having her ankles bound to its legs and her hands tied behind her were mere inconveniences to be tolerated like a pair of too-tight boots.
    He had been dreading her hysteria, but the pale cheeks below the sable silk of the blindfold were free of tearstains. Her lips were pursed in a faintly bored expression as if she wished someone would happen by and offer her tea. Her transparent determination to ignore his presence both irritated and amused him.
    His gaze raked her in blunt appraisal. His mate had taken no chances. The only thing unbound about her was her hair. It streamed down her back in a fall of ash-blond silk, unmarred by a single frivolous curl.
    Doom scowled. The silly garment she wore troubled him. Had his mate dragged her out of her bunk? Surely fashions hadn’t changed
that
much in six years. He remembered only too well when he’d been intimatelyacquainted with every lace, hook, and button of a woman’s elaborate toilette.
    His captive’s high-waisted gown was shamelessly devoid of such restraints. The skirt of the gossamer sheath clung to her parted legs, the sheer petticoat beneath more enticement than hindrance. Silk stockings, the delicate blue of a robin’s egg, enveloped her slender feet. The angle of her bound arms thrust her small breasts upward to strain against the thin fabric of her bodice. Doom’s gaze lingered there of its own volition. His mate had been wrong. Her softness was not that of rotten peaches, but of fresh peaches. Ripe, tender peaches.
    His too-long-deprived body surged at the image with a violence that made him ache. His captive might have the deceptive appearance of a child, but his response to her was definitely that of a man. Alarmed by the rapacious slant of his thoughts, Doom strode to the teakwood sideboard bolted to the cabin wall and attempted to