Page 11 of A Dance with the Wayward Duke
“You,” she said, trembling. “I have no more jewels. And this is my own hair. Please do not throw it into the ocean.”
He laughed, and the sound brushed against her back, while her own ribs still fluttered like something trapped in a chimney.
“Do not laugh, I am about to die,” she said lamely.
His hand tightened on her waist. “No. I’ve got you now, little Moon.”
The words should not have helped. They were absurdly confident, delivered by a criminal on a rope ladder in the middle of the sea. And yet his hand did not shake. His breath did not hurry. He was solid as a mutual guarantee, countersigned by all the powers, with penalties so precise that even a Habsburg lawyer could not misplace them.
The warmth of his palm spread through her gown’s damp fabric. She became aware, against her will, of the line of his armabove hers, the leather of his glove dark with spray, his salt-and-smoke scent. Wind shoved his loose hair across her face—over her cheek, into her mouth, catching at her lashes. She flinched, then hated herself for noticing how soft it was.
“Put your right hand one knot higher.”
“I am afraid.”
“I noticed.”
“That was not an invitation to be rude.”
“No. It was an invitation to obey. Right hand,” he said. “Now.”
Her hand moved. The rope rasped beneath her fingers. Her palm burned where the fibers dragged over skin. Her stomach gave a sickening plunge as the ladder shifted, but his body shifted with it, absorbing the motion.
“Good. Left foot. One rung.”
“If I fall—”
“You won’t.”
“If I do—”
“I will catch you.”
“That is an arrogant promise.”
“I am an arrogant man.”
She laughed then, a thin, broken sound. It startled her so badly she nearly lost the breath she had fought to find. He brushed his thumb against her waist, and why such a pirate gesture could have steadied her, she could not tell.
His boot nudged the rope steady beneath them, his knee braced near hers, and the next rung found her foot.
“Again,” he said, and his breath touched the side of her neck, warm against the salt-cold air.
Because his voice left no room for the ocean, she climbed. The top of the ladder appeared with the miraculous suddenness of land after exile. A square opening cut through the frigate’s side, and beyond it waited a strip of pale deck.
“One more,” the pirate said.
“You said that three rungs ago.”
Marguerite placed one shaking slipper on the final rung, then somehow, through a feat of will, terror, and masculine interference, found herself lifted through the entry port and onto the deck of the frigate.
Panting, she clung to the pirate, one hand fisted in his coat, her cheek pressed hard against the gold-fringed epaulet at his shoulder, too shaken to care that the braid scratched her skin. She should have stepped away. She meant to step away. Unfortunately, her body had entered into private negotiations with gravity and appeared to have accepted his terms.
Then his head lifted. She followed his gaze.
The marine stared ahead with heroic blindness. The young officer stared at the sky as if seeking divine instruction. Two sailors stared at a coil of rope with the solemn devotion of monks before a saint’s femur.
“Back to your duties,” the pirate barked.
