First Comes Desire. Tina Donahue
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manner or him claiming innocence, he was still a pirate, Welsh in the bargain, and strangely enough, liked to read. His book lay forgotten on the sand, its title embossed in gold on the cover. Homer’s Iliad, a classic far above what common folks would enjoy.
Her confusion grew. He was more than he should be, as tall and athletic as a young noble, clean too, hair and face washed, his crimson waistcoat, dark breeches, and white shirt well cared for. Moist wind separated the linen to bare his muscular chest. Perspiration glistened within those crisp curls. They begged for a woman’s touch, and later him pleasuring and protecting her in his strong embrace.
Something stirred within Diana. She pushed her foolish reaction away and met him eye-to-eye, wanting to see the devil.
He waited patiently for her next move, searching her gaze, puzzling her further.
He was an undeniably handsome man. Blond hair fell in thick waves over his forehead, and curled around his ears and on his neck. Firelight turned his bronze skin a deeper gold. Only his eyebrows were dark, same as the stubble on his upper lip, chin, and cheeks.
He smiled softly.
Her belly clenched. She needed him to be afraid, not playful or aroused, to know the suffering he’d caused. When he’d taken the merchant ship Peter served on, he’d nearly ruined her brother’s life and surely destroyed hers. It was heartache enough to have Peter foolishly run away to sea as if it were a game. Tristan’s actions had forced Peter into piracy and put the child at even greater risk. Boys younger than him had gone to the gallows for crimes that were serious or not.
Helpless with outrage, she lifted her hand to strike Tristan.
He didn’t curse or try to defend himself from her coming blow.
Unsettled, she lowered her hand. “Go on. I know you want to strike me, so why haven’t you? Are you afraid what my men will do?”
“As they’re armed and I’m not, taking caution merely shows good sense. But might I also remind you, Miss Fletcher, I wasn’t the one with the raised hand.”
Her cheeks burned. “A necessary defense against the likes of you.”
He sighed loudly. “Yes, the likes of me. I’m nothing in your eyes. You’ve made yourself quite clear. However, before you take to insulting other men in this part of the world, ones who are far less understanding than I, and those who wouldn’t hesitate to treat you quite brutally, it’s best you remember words have power. They should be used with great care.”
She opened her mouth but found no acceptable retort, the same as when her father had been alive. To him, she’d always been wrong and expected to apologize, beg his forgiveness. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d do so with Tristan. She hardly forgot what he’d done to Peter and who waited for her at her journey’s end.
Benedict Bishop made her physically ill. He was twice her age, her father’s friend. In return for Bishop’s ship and crew, she’d pledged her flesh to him. Once she arrived in Mozambique, she’d share his bed without marriage or the decency any woman deserved. A living hell she’d endure when they arrived in England. One made possible by Tristan.
Her outrage flared. “What’s the real problem, Captain? Not man enough to stand the truth?”
He bowed his head slightly. “Your truth is flawed, which compels me to prefer your hand. Go on. Do your worst.”
Her skin stung, but she wouldn’t back down. “Very well.” She brought her hand to his cheek to strike him, but couldn’t, and delivered a gentle caress instead.
Her men mumbled to each other.
Tristan looked at her questioningly.
He above all should have known seduction was a woman’s greatest weapon, forcing men to their knees, even one as alluring and confident as him. His skin was warmer than she’d expected, his stubble oddly exciting in how it bit her palm. She enjoyed touching him, until she recalled he was no more than a murderous pirate.
Tristan parted his lips.
Before he could speak and surely lie, she stroked his bottom lip, heated and achingly soft, the same as how he treated her. For now. And only because her men offered protection. If she and Tristan had been alone, Diana sensed he would have demanded her mouth and used her as he pleased. Just as he’d abducted Peter without giving the boy a voice in the matter. No more.
She raked Tristan’s cheek, wanting him to feel the pain he’d caused her, relishing his coming shout and oaths.
He kept his tongue.
Furious, she dug deeper.
He didn’t even blink.
“Damn you.” She ached to pummel him, to make him bellow. “I want you to hurt.”
“As you do.” Blood trickled down his cheek.
She lowered her face, frustrated tears welling in her eyes. “I hate you.”
“You’ve yet to know me.”
“I’ve no desire to know you.”
“In time you will.” Longing radiated from him, rather than insolence.
She should have backed away. His presence held Diana, baffling and intriguing her.
“I did not abduct Peter.” He glanced past. “If you refuse to believe me, ask him.”
“Diana?”
She turned so quickly her cap slipped off, releasing her braid. The fire silhouetted a man. “Peter?”
He stepped into the light. The boy she recalled was no more, a stranger facing her.
Sun had lightened Peter’s dark hair and baked his once pale skin as bronze as Tristan’s. He was nearly as tall too.
Her chest cramped at changes she hadn’t expected. The last time she’d seen Peter he was twelve years old, smaller than she, and far too thin.
Even with his new height, he was still more boy than man, all arms and legs, no fat. Only marks from work he’d done or beatings he’d endured.
She winced at the cruel bruises, the horrible cuts on her brother’s bare chest and arms. “Turn around.”
Peter looked at Tristan.
He nodded. “Go on. Show her your back.”
She pressed her hand to her throat. Scar after scar crisscrossed Peter’s skin. She whirled on Tristan. “Liar. You claimed no one had harmed him. You did that.”
“I never touched the boy.”
Then his foul crew had, and he hadn’t stopped the assault. “You’ll pay for this.” She sheathed her rapier and spoke to her men. “Restrain Kent and his crew.”
Peter gaped. “What?”
Diana struggled over the sand to reach him, ready to hug.
He sidestepped her and marched toward Tristan.
Her other men arrived to help their mates fetter the prisoners.
Peter stopped and growled. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He shoved Reeves away from a pirate. To the man, they were drunk and swearing at having their slumber interrupted, but offered little fight.
“Stop it.” Peter grabbed another man, who easily pushed him aside.
“Peter.” She gripped his wrist to keep him from drawing his pistol, snatched it instead, and flung it into the sea.
He gasped. “What are you doing?”
She clasped his upper arms and forced him to face her. “I’m saving you from being hanged. This isn’t a game. If you’d been captured with these animals, you would have faced the gallows as surely as they.”
“You