Chapter 8

Her darkening eyes were like pistols at five paces. But that was all right, because his own could be just as dangerous, when he chose to make them so. He chose now.

"I know it's maybe not what you agreed with them, all that leaving-within-the-hour stuff and that. But you want me to do that, don't you? Show the gentlemen around while you're busy? Then, while I'm about it, have a chat about old times in Jamaica."

"Old times? In Jamaica?" The lucky one hiccupped, lowering the handkerchief from his mouth. "I say, Fury, what is he on about? Hic. You was never in Jamaica, was you?"

She parted her lips, as if he'd said something ghastly. "He he means that he knows me. That is what this is about, unfortunately."

This time, because she didn't look at him, he had the opportunity to study her. But then she did look at him, and he wished she hadn't. He didn't want any pang about those pretty little emerald eyes of hers, or the straight way she stood, just like the day he'd flung that trunk at her on the quay, nipping his hell, if he'd had a heart, that trunk would still be on the Calypso.

Which was more than he was right now.

He tilted his jaw, offering his best glare.

"He knows you?" Malmesbury demanded.

"Yes. From from Jamaica, where I I must have lived for a while."

"Must have?" Malmesbury cocked an eyebrow. "Fury, this is most unusual, not to mention outright ridiculous. Either you did or you didn't."

She tensed her hands in her flowing skirt. "I did."

"Before you met Thom "

"Yes. Amazing, isn't it?" She didn't sound as though she thought so. In fact, Flint wasn't too sure how she sounded. She narrowed her eyes. "We were friends."

Malmesbury dropped his jaw open. Dropped it so far, Flint expected to be told to retrieve it from the floor. Vellagio's too. A miracle they thought she'd have any friends? Or that she did and it was Flint?

"Nothing more. Although he is, of course, most keen and eager to continue the association. And I I well I " She looked as if she stared down a viper on the staircase.

"What?"

Pray Christ that exclamation had come from Malmesbury, not him. So long as she was nice about it, he wouldn't see her stuck. Right now, he hadn't decided. Because what she'd just said about him being keen to continue the association, keen was an overstatement, given the fact her husband lay in a box in the cellar.

How could any man possibly be keen? Certainly not one in his right mind. Anyway, the damned baggage hadn't exactly said yes, yet, had she? And her look wasn't encouraging. Would she really rather swallow poison?

The old Fury would have leaped into bed with him in an instant. But this one just stood like a horrified statue beneath his gaze.

"Continue? An association? With him?" Malmesbury's elegant chuckle echoed through the hall.

Fury's eyes darkened in a way Flint had never seen before. Uneasy laughter or not, Flint seethed with a fury that was almost forlorn. Just his luck she'd chosen to call here tonight the very types to make him look ridiculous. And it was ridiculous. What they were and what he was.

He didn't need telling. And her silence gave consent to making him feel all the things he'd felt since he was captured. Why had he thought he could do this?

"Oh, don't be so silly. Next you'll be telling us you're picking him. My damn valet, for God's sake. Now stop it. You've not called us all here to do that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Granted."

"You think?"

"Of course I do, Fury, whatever nonsense this is "

"Because actually actually this man, this man you talk so freely of beating, sir, is not a valet, by nature or inclination."

And now, now she was going to blab he was Captain Flint, master of the Calypso the very last thing he needed. So then they could cackle their fat heads off. And send him back to Jamaica in chains, if they let him live that long.

Well, she'd been on that boat too. Go back alone? Over his dead body.

"Not a valet?" Malmesbury sneered before Flint could open his mouth to defend himself. "You two could have fooled me, when I've had him polishing my shoe buckles and fitting on my clothes, pressing them too, since I bought him in Jamaica. At a slave auction, for God's sake."

"Really? Well, that's as may be, but Captain "

"Let it go, Fury." Flint gritted his teeth. "Now."

Furious color bloomed along her cheekbones. "No, James, I shan't let it go." She turned to Malmesbury. "Indeed, you must think yourself very clever, sir. But if he has been doing these things, then it will stop."

"Stop? I beg your pardon? Stop? Why the hell should it stop?" Malmesbury strode forward, the better to glare down at her."You give orders very lightly, madam, with a disdain for my position and my person I do not deserve. I have come here tonight as an obligement to you. Not for you to order me about in the matter of my servants."

"Well, then, allow me to put it another way, sir. You will release him from these duties, so I can make use of him here."

Malmesbury glanced about him. No one laughed now. She'd emptied the hall of all humor. The cool, taut way she said the word here stole the breath from more than Malmesbury.

Flint raised his chin. Although, was it so astonishing really? Even someone as recalcitrant and as troublesome as this creature was bound to see Flint was preferable to a yard arm, eventually.

"I will do no such thing," Malmesbury snarled. "Are you mad?"

"Not at all." She spoke as if the idea were inconceivable in connection with herself. But the words still carried weight in the stunned silence. "I think we can agree that with what I have on you, you will do it now or face the opening of my little book."

Astonishment rippled.

Fury's behavior in the last few seconds was very different from several moments ago. As if there were still, after all, something between them. Something that only raised its head when they were being circled by sharks. Her taking his side? Unexpected after the way she'd fought him.

All the same, he wasn't going to argue when she glided up the marble stairs in a cool swish of indigo skirts. Even if his heart had begun to thud with dread at the awful prospect of what was probably coming next. It couldn't be worse than a yard arm, could it?

"Now, come, James."