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his men. But though he worked on deck, his thoughts remained firmly in his cabin. Hegarty’s voice had made it clear he didn’t want Rourke going near her. The question was, why?
    His curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed to his cabin and slipped inside. He found it silent and still except for the wooden birds swaying at the ceiling. His gaze went to his bunk and the lass lying still as death. A strange blue glow emanated from the hollow at her throat. He narrowed his eyes and moved closer.
    The glow came from the stone that hung from the chain about her neck. His scalp tingled, the hair rising on his arms. He took a step back, chilled to the marrow of his bones.
    Hegarty’s doing.
    He’d avoided the prophecy for a score of years. Now it stalked him again, the evil mist washing over his ship ready to choke the life out of him.
    She had to go. As soon as they reached port, he was putting her ashore.
    He needed air. But as he turned toward the door, the lass began to thrash in her sleep, her head tossing one way, then the other. Rourke hesitated, then moved toward her, drawn against his will.
    She appeared fragile, ethereal. How could this be the wildcat who had taken down three of his crew? Yet she was. He’d seen her attack Cutter himself. His admiration grew, thick and unwelcome, as his gaze drank of her strange beauty.
    The words Hard Rock Cafe and Washington, D.C., were emblazoned across her chest, woven into the soft fabric of her bodice—a bodice that clung to gentle curves, revealing every tip and swell of what lay beneath. He forced his eyes to move past those enticing peaks, to the outline of long legs beneath the plaid blanket Hegarty had left half covering her.
    Her breeks, made of queer fabric, peeked above the blanket. Small, cheerful monkeys smiled at him, at odds with the gash that might, even now, steal her life. His gaze returned, moving upward past the glowing sapphire to the paleness of her finely boned face framed by shiny red brown hair. Her features were regular and pleasing enough, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. Ripe and full, it was a mouth made for a man’s kisses.
    He swore at his body’s unwanted stir of interest, but found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. It was like being mesmerized by a pistol aimed at one’s face. Until he set her ashore, he would do well to stay away from her—as far as possible. She was trouble, this one. And he’d already seen enough trouble to last a lifetime.
    Her lids fluttered, opening slowly to reveal green eyes clouded with confusion. She blinked, tilting her head toward him. Their gazes met and she bolted upright.
    Belatedly, he realized the sapphire’s glow had winked out.
    She scooted to the back of the bunk, her eyes at once sharp with fear, yet hard as steel, like those of a feral animal trapped and ready to fight for its life.
    He backed away. “Be calm, lass. I’ll not harm ye.” He’d thought her bonnie in sleep, but awake, her eyes snapping with intelligence and life, she stole his breath.
    With her gaze fixed on his face, she kicked off the blanket. In one fluid move she slipped off the bunk and lunged for the door, but Rourke was quicker. He blocked her attempted escape, forcing her back toward the bunk. Her gaze darted from him to scour his cabin, then back again, and he knew she searched for a weapon.
    “Easy, Wildcat. You’re safe enough.”
    She eyed him with disbelief. “Right. You’re just an eccentric cruise director.” She spoke strangely, with words he didn’t recognize and an accent he couldn’t place but found disturbingly pleasing to his ears. “And . . . what? . . . Your friend cut off my leg to welcome me to the ship?”
    She froze, her startled gaze locking with his even as realization punched him in the stomach.
    “My leg,” she breathed.
    As one, their gazes dropped to the ragged edge of her breeks where Hegarty had completed the rending of fabric that Cutter’s knife had