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or at least be deep enough in water that he could push her off the sand. And then he’d take her out to sea. He’d commandeered greater vessels in his time, like Satan’s Revenge , once the pride of the French East India Company. But no vessel except Satan’s Revenge ever gave him the satisfaction this small sailing boat did. She was a beauty, a ship you’d take out on a balmy spring day, with a bottle of wine and a willing lady.
    For one moment he forgot about the boat and looked toward his stronghold. A woman and child rested there, a woman and child who’d be stranded if he took their vessel. He planned to send someone back for them, but his conscience stabbed at him, making him think of the fear they’d feel when they found their boat had disappeared.
    He might be a pirate who consorted with some of the meanest scum God had inflicted upon the earth, but he still considered himself a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t leave helpless, defenseless women and children all alone.
    He swept his fingers through his hair, turning back to look at the sea, at the water rapidly inching up his boots.
    Bloody hell! He was a pirate, not a gentleman.He had to get off the island, he had to find his ship, and he had to capture Thomas Low.
    The blasted wound to his head, the woman’s sensual body, not to mention her heaven-sent voice and a curly-haired child, had come too damn close to turning him soft. He couldn’t do a thing about his injury—it would have to heal on its own. But he could get away from the two people digging at his hardened heart, the two people who could cause him more trouble than an entire fleet of Her Majesty’s ships.
    The woman and child were not his concern, and they were bloody well fortunate that he was going to send someone back for them.
    Â 
    Night droned on, the longest, fear-filled night Kate had ever lived through. No, that wasn’t true; there’d been that night she’d been awakened by a knock downstairs. The old grandfather clock had chimed one when she’d opened the etched glass door. Nikki had stood there, her face stricken, her police uniform streaked with blood. “Joe’s been shot,” she’d said. “Get Casey. We need to hurry.”
    There’d been no time for sentiment, for Nikki to ease out the words. There’d been time only for Kate to imagine the worst as the siren roared and Nikki drove like hell to the hospital. She remembered the lieutenant and sergeant standing somber-faced outside the swinging doors that led to the operating room, and their words of encouragement: “He’ll be all right, Kate.”
    She’d smiled faintly and pulled Casey close intoher arms as she paced the stark white hospital hall that smelled of alcohol and pine cleaner.
    Even now she could see the gurney being wheeled out of the room, could see the gray color of her husband’s face and the vast assortment of tubes in his nose and leading down his throat. She remembered the tear falling from her eye to his cheek, and someone pulling her away. She remembered the way Nikki’s lips quivered as she lightly touched Joe’s fingers with hands still covered with his blood.
    And she remembered clutching Casey as they stood next to Joe in intensive care. “Don’t go away, Daddy,” she’d cried. “Please. Don’t leave me, Daddy.”
    She’d been only four, much too young to lose the father she loved so dearly. But in spite of her pleas, Joe had left them. He’d said goodbye after dinner the night before. He’d kissed his daughter, swung her up in the air, and hugged her for the longest time before sending her off to her room to play. He’d grabbed the thermos of coffee Kate had made, brushed a quick kiss across her cheek, and rushed out the door. They’d argued that night. He’d wanted to go to the island the next day. For the first time—and the last—she’d told