Pirates. And Alex had been gone since daybreak. Distracted by the amused expression on their captain’s face, Lydia tightened her grasp on the pistol to prevent her hands shaking. The brute wasn’t afraid of her.
“I think you men should return to where you came from. There’s nothing here for you.”
Her pulse beat hard in her ears. There was no mistaking who they were. Three of the men wore loose short coats with large buttons, fitted striped breeches, and kerchiefs beneath their caps, a brace of pistols slung from silk around at their necks. Two carried muskets.
Their captain cast her a lazy glance, unnerving her further. “I’m afraid I can’t obey that request, madam.”
Short of breath, she backed into the room as he stepped through the door. A black devil. The white shirt lay open to the waist displaying a tanned hard-muscled chest, breeches clung to powerful thighs, and he wore black boots. His hair long and straight against his neck was a deep ebony-black. Her terrified gaze took in his brace of pistols and a blade tucked into his breeches. She didn’t fool herself into believing he couldn’t kill her before she managed to aim and fire her small pistol. He was a man who wouldn’t bat an eyelid at striking a person down, while she, employed in healing the sick, could never kill.
A long silence stretched between them as they eyed each other. His straight dark brows lifted as he took her in from head to foot. Affronted, she did the same. With a quick indrawn breath, she took note of the fierce-looking cutlass hanging at his side. She firmed her hands on the gun despairing of her trembling fingers. Was there a hint of lust in his gaze? Aware of how vulnerable she was; she hated to feel so completely at his mercy.
“I do hope you don’t intend to shoot me with that, madam.” His firm lips smiled a little revealing white teeth and transforming his face. He ran a hand over his upper lip and sharp jaw sporting a small goatee. “That muff pistol is unlikely to kill me, but it will make me annoyed.”
He pulled off his broad-brimmed hat which sported a curling ostrich feather. “Jack Stirling, Captain of the Golden Orion at your service.” Showing how unconcerned he was, he ambled closer. Her nervous gaze took in his lean, olive-toned face, and cut-glass cheekbones. There was a half-circle scar on his temple like some kind of branding, and a gold ring in his ear. Despite his courteous manner, there was an unmistakable air of danger about him; like a panther after a kill.
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