Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
‘DeLaine’s dynamic debut is a high-seas adventure/lovers’ banquet with all the drama of a pirate voyage and the passion of a battle-of-wills romance. Not only is the cast of characters superb—with an unconventional heroine, wounded hero and little Alice—but the adventures are exciting, the action non-stop and the love story intriguing. DeLaine’s powerful storytelling will keep romance readers enthralled. Watch for more from this newcomer!’
—Romantic Times (Top Pick)
‘DeLaine’s feisty, give-as-good-as-she-gets heroine shares an explosive sexual chemistry with a hero who could give Tyrone Power a run for the money.’
—Booklist
‘An unusual and engaging debut … DeLaine keeps the pages turning.’
—Publishers Weekly
‘A fearless debut! Alison DeLaine pens a stand-out romance.’
—New York Times bestselling author Julia London
ALISON DELAINE lives in rural Arizona, where she can often be found driving a dented old pickup truck out to her mining claim in the desert. When she’s not busy striking it rich, waiting on spoiled pets, or keeping her husband in line, she is happily putting characters through the wringer. Visit her online at her website, www.AlisonDeLaine.com.
For my husband, Tom.
I love you.
East of the Strait of Gibraltar
April 1767
A WAVE SWELLED and broke over his head, and for a moment Captain James Warre couldn’t breathe. His fingers dug into the wet wood beneath him, but there was nothing to grasp. The churning water choked him, nudged him, smothered him.
With a massive effort he shifted to his side, then let his head fall in a fit of coughing. The seawater left his mouth brackish and dry. Closing his eyes, he let himself slip away.
“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green.” Nap time, young Master Warre, and I’ll hear no more of your sorry excuses.
Nap time. The sun shone warm on his back as he pitched and bobbed with the chop.
Then suddenly, a shadow.
There was a bump, a scrape. Wood met wood, jarring him. His eyes flew open as he braced for a cannon’s roar. Fluttered closed again when it didn’t come.
A female voice drifted to his ears. “...alive, do you think?”
The soft, lilting sound wrapped around him like a melody.
Bump, bump, bump.
“...bloody well dead, or close enough.” A male voice now.
Bump, bump, scrape.
“...haul him up?” Female again.
Bump, bump— He opened his eyes and stared straight at the wet hull of a ship. Another wave engulfed him and left him gasping, straining to see the deck in a moment of clarity. He hadn’t the strength. His gaze swept the ragged length of the raft keeping him afloat— No, not raft. Broken decking. A memory threatened to pull him under, but he fought for lucidity and kept his gaze moving, turning, sweeping upward. She was a brig.
“...any manner of disease. We cannot afford the risk.” Through a haze he recognized the words as English. But then a string of shouted words, this time unintelligible—but not unrecognizable.
English and Moorish together, on a Mediterranean brig.
Renegades. They would not look kindly on the captain of a British ship of the line.
The muffled snap of cloth in the breeze kept him fighting to see the stern. If he could just see her colors... The curving hull blocked his view of all but a bright red corner wafting in the wind.
He fixed his eye on that corner, waiting, clawing against an invisible undertow.
Nap time, young Master Warre—
No! He had to see that flag.
A wave broke over him. His mouth filled with seawater and he gagged, choking and sputtering again as he re-fixed his gaze. Finally, a gust whipped the greater part of the flag into view.
A slender, yellow arm stretched out against the red background, its fist curled around a black cutlass.
Bloody living hell.
He didn’t need to see the rest of the flag to know that shapely arm was attached to a woman’s shoulder and breast. He let his head drop against the wet wood.
“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly...”
Bump, bump, bump.
The next wave swept him from consciousness.
IT WAS A pathetic sight—every bit as pathetic as the day they’d fished Mr. Bogles out of the harbor at Malta, but Mr. Bogles was a cat. A man offered none of the same benefits, yet presented dozens of dangerous possibilities. Captain Katherine Kinloch forced herself away from the railing.
“He could have any manner of disease,” she said flatly. “We cannot afford the risk.”
“Aye, Captain.” Her Algerian boatswain headed toward the fore, shouting a reprimand to three deckhands gawking over the side. Even bathed in the Mediterranean sunshine, she shivered.
Lower the net! The order strained on her tongue, but she clenched her teeth and lifted her spyglass toward the strait. Nobody aboard would have survived if she’d let herself succumb to emotion each time the winds blew contrary.
“Terrible way to die,” her first mate commented, looking down at the water from where he lounged against the railing. His tone delivered reproof the way syrup carried a tincture.
“Every way to die is terrible, William.” The words were cold. Awful. She felt a little sick. “I doubt we could do anything but make his last moments an agony by dragging him up.”
“Suppose