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had been working. He’d been distracted and had even released her hands. A moment more and she could have kneed him between the legs, incapacitated him, then slit his throat.
    And she would have done it too.
    She could have done it. For Timothy.
    She clenched her hands. It was ridiculous to feel any qualms about killing the pirate. After all, had he paused even a moment before murdering Timothy? Most decidedly not.
    But then again, he didn’t know Timothy. He’d ordered his cannons to fire, and Timothy had died after one of the explosions. It hadn’t been a personal thing, like between her and the pirate. Now she’d stood eye to eye with the man. She’d liked the idea of killing him more before she’d been so… intimately acquainted with him.
    She took the much-discussed chamber pot, opened the lid, and noted it was empty. Too bad. She would have emptied it on his berth. She set it there anyway and went to the pirate’s desk. He had paper and quill, which meant he was literate, and that shouldn’t have surprised her.
    But he did surprise her. She looked about his cabin and had to admit she was impressed. She’d seen many great cabins, and while this one was small, it was well appointed. The furniture was mahogany and polished until it gleamed. The berth was large and adorned with a plush coverlet. The desk was solid and practical, but the legs had a decorative arch, and the feet were fashioned as lion’s paws. The wardrobe was tall and stately, and his trunk looked as though it were new.
    On the floor, on top of the gleaming wood, was a thick Turkey rug in blues and greens, the green of which matched the coverlet on the berth. On the walls hung pictures of landscapes and countrysides. She was no judge of art, but she thought they were well done.
    The entire cabin was quietly tasteful and surprisingly neat and tidy. The man did not need a cabin boy.
    It seemed everything about the man was different from what she had imagined. He wasn’t ugly or stupid. Loathe as she was to admit it, he was actually quite handsome and intelligent.
    And, if she was honest—and she was always honest with herself—Raeven had to admit he’d mastered the art of kissing. She had not enjoyed the kiss, but if she hadn’t hated him so much, she might have.
    As it was, she could only lie there and think of poor Timothy and what he would have said had he seen her in such an embrace with a man who was not only a pirate but his murderer.
    She wouldn’t think of that. Instead, she put quill to paper and scrawled out a note to the murdering pirate bastard. Satisfied, she placed it delicately in his chamber pot and tugged a hairpin from the nest of curls around her shoulders. She didn’t have to imagine that she looked a fright. Cutlass had a mirror nailed to the wall next to the large wardrobe she supposed housed his expensive clothing. She’d caught a glimpse of her reflection earlier and had no desire to look again. She looked like a banshee.
    She twisted the hairpin and knelt in front of the cabin door. With a smile, she saw the keyhole was similar to those on the Regal . She was in luck—not that she needed it. She could pick any lock, a talent she had learned at age thirteen from a young pickpocket her father pressed into service. She’d had six years to practice the skill. Mostly she picked locks for fun, but found it a useful skill when her father ordered her locked in her cabin and she would rather be enjoying a sunny day, high in the rigging.
    She went to work quickly now, unsure how much time she had before Cutlass returned. The Shadow was most likely sailing with the tide, and that would be out soon. She had no desire to be stranded on a ship with a band of rogues. She had to be off the pirate ship before it sailed, or the only way back to the Regal was a long swim, and the sharks would get her if the currents didn’t.
    She heard a snick as the lock gave way, and she twisted the hairpin again, ever so gently, until the door