My Wicked Pirate. Rona Sharon
He popped an oil-dripping olive into his mouth, making her own mouth water. She never tasted olives before. “Allora,” he pointed at the opulent fare and began naming the dishes, “zucchine e melanzane, pro-sciutto crudo…” He whipped the bowl’s top off, uncovering beef and spring vegetables cooked in wine. A waft of aromatic mist drifted her way. “Feel free to change your mind.” He selected a slice of crusty bread, dipped it in green olive oil, scattered a pint of salt on it, and tore a bite. “Salute!” He raised his wineglass and drank deeply.
Wretchedly, Alanis stared at the appetizing food and stoically ignored the churning protests of her stomach. She was prepared to starve to death rather than dine with a man of his sort.
He smiled perceptively. “Dinner is hours away, and your maid is lunching in my cabin.”
“I’m not hungry,” Alanis clipped stringently.
“I see. Allora, I give you permission to enjoy watching me eat.”
She did watch him, thinking his table manners were as polished as a nobleman’s. Yet he seemed determined to taunt her, savoring every bite, rolling his eyes, groaning with pleasure. Their gazes met over a sauce-dripping zucchini speared on a fork. Eros grinned. “Pity you’ve lost your appetite, Princess. There’s so much to be shared. Ship’s cook is a gifted Milanese. Worked for a royal family once. Are you certain you’re not remotely peckish?”
She threw him a belligerent smile. “I prefer French cuisine.” When a jet eyebrow rose at the deliberate provocation, she lifted her glass and prepared to do battle. Three years ago, she engaged in a similar debate with a French baroness, defending her true opinion, which was pro Italian, of course. So she had ample arguments up her sleeve. Today she was in the mood to play devil’s advocate. Anything to annoy her host. “Italians have a lot to learn from the French.”
Eros subsided onto his chair’s satin upholstery and calmly sipped his wine. “Enlighten me about something. The English despise the French, yet they emulate and embrace everything that is French—French brandy, French food, French fashion. Why is that?”
“For the same reason the rest of the world does—it’s the best! I imagine Italians may have had something to commend them once, but they lost the touch ages ago. I daresay the French outshine you in every quarter now. Even in art.”
His blue eyes blazed. He was also smiling rapaciously, eager to crush the opposition. “You are aware that to settle the debate you will have to sample the food. By the bye,” he studied the scarlet fluid swaying in his wineglass, “is the Bar-bacarlo to your liking? I personally feel it goes down very smoothly. What do you think, Princess?”
Her wine-glossed lips curled daringly. “If you are issuing an experimental challenge, you ought to provide French wine and food for comparison.”
“That will not be possible since the only French object around you is the ship.”
Intrigued, she glanced around. The Alastor was by every standard a formidable vessel, a floating fortress carried by vast, sun-bleached sails. “How did you acquire this French frigate? Unmistakably, ’tis a navy warship.”
He looked impressed. “Very perceptive of you. The Alastor is indeed a French Navy girl. Used to be one of Louis’s finest.”
“I see,” she said frostily, finding his allusion to the King of France as if he were one of his closest acquaintances daft. “Louis’s docks were overcrowded, so he let you have one.”
“Actually, I took it. A small matter of a private bet I had going with Monsieur le Roi.” He flashed her the infuriating grin again. “He lost.”
“That’s ridiculous. You run bets with the King of France as surely as I am on my way to the gaming hells in Tortuga!”
He was still grinning. The cad. “I pity the soon-to-be-impoverished pirates.”
Ignoring him, Alanis concentrated on the scenery. How many sad winters had she longed for this breathtaking view? If she were doomed to go through life missing her parents and her brother to the depth of her soul, at least she would do so under a warm sun and as a free spirit.
“Have you visited this side of the globe before?” Eros summoned her attention.
“No, I haven’t.” Her tone turned sarcastic. “Have you?”
“I’ve been to many places, Princess, places that would fascinate you.”
“Silverlake and I have grand plans to travel the world once we’re married,” she lied again, peeved by his cool superiority.
“Davvero? Would that be after or during the war? I regret having to put a damper on your plans, Princess, but it seems to me that your honorable Silverlake is more interested in fighting pirates than he is in fulfilling his duty to his lovely fiancée. It was very careless of him to let you travel alone in these waters when one is liable to run into French or Spanish warships.”
“What would you know of honor or duty?” Alanis hissed.
“Very little, I imagine. Still, aren’t you past the usual marital age of fine young ladies?” He studied her at length, then inquired quietly, “How long have you been engaged to him?”
“It hardly concerns you,” she replied icily, rattled by the twist their conversation had taken. Though their engagement was settled ages ago, Lucas seemed determined to put it off, not giving thought to his restive fiancée sitting in wait at home. Sailing to Jamaica presented the perfect solution. She would finally have her taste of sunshine and freedom, experience the world she had read and dreamed so much about, and encourage Lucas to set a final wedding date.
“How long has he been stationed in Jamaica?” Eros dogged.
“Three years.”
“Three years is a long time to be apart from the woman one loves.” He held her gaze in laden silence, then leaned closer. “I know your opinion of me, Alanis. I have a rotten black soul, whereas he is a saint deserving of a pair of pretty white wings. But assuming Silverlake is the man you claim he is, why has this idiot left you behind? Does he prefer little boys or is he simply blind? If you were mine, bella donna, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight for three days, let alone three long years. I’d keep you right where you belong—with me, at all times, and for the most part in my bed. And I would teach you better ways to use your quick tongue, Amore.”
Her tongue went dry. Gradually, coherency returned. “Why did you attack the Pink Beryl?”
“I was looking for you.” Noting the terror in her eyes, his hard face softened with a smile. “Nothing like that. Finding you was pure luck. I stopped every ship en route to Kingston.”
The tension eased from her shoulders. “Despicable wretch! Little wonder you’re loathed by every man in the world. What were you hoping to catch? A poor victim to keep you company at meals while you feasted on your Milanese cook’s treats? One who’d give you no trouble?”
“You call this ‘no trouble’?” He chuckled and took a sip of wine. “If you must know, my sharp-tongued beauty, I was hunting for something of value to Silverlake.”
“Something to barter with for that thing which is not measured in coin.” Then she got it. She smiled triumphantly. “That thing isn’t a thing! It’s a person! Someone more important to you than gold, whom Lucas has captured and is holding prisoner, and given his honor won’t allow Lucas to sell this man to you, you sought something to force his hand. Who is this unfortunate soul you are so desperate to set free? One of your cronies? A fellow picaroon?” she mocked.
“Now who would have guessed a blonde should have so much sense in her lovely head?” Eros remarked with genuine fascination. “I already regret having to forfeit you, Amore. Perhaps I should try to entice Silverlake with gold. One never knows until one tries.”
Fear etched her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” He smiled, his eyes daring her to