Read The Wayward One (The De Montforte Brothers Book 5) for Free Online Page A

a chance and took it, I did.”
    “A chance for what?”
    “A chance to obtain something I’ve come a long ways to get.”
    “It didn’t occur to you that I might need a doctor?”
    “Surgeon’s come and gone.”
    “What?”
    “Several times, in fact.”
    She stared at him, wondering if she was in the middle of a dream. Or a novel in which she was a mere character, infused with thoughts and visuals written by someone else. This was not real. It couldn’t be. Confusion tangled with alarm, and then indignation.
    She swung her legs out of bed—and he was suddenly beside her, one hand firmly gripping her arm.
    His hand.
    His strong, masculine, hand.
    On her person.
    How dare you.
    She glared at him, then pointedly at his hand before meeting his calm, slightly amused gaze once more.
    “Remove your hand from my person this instant.”
    “Promise to stay put?”
    “I’m not promising anything until you give me some answers.”
    He removed the offending fingers from her arm but with a certain mocking reluctance, a faint brush of her sleeve that infuriated her, and pulled up a stout ladderbacked chair. “Answers, eh? Right. Well then, first things first. Ye’re on the Continental brig Tigershark out of Boston.”
    “Continental brig?”
    “American Navy.”
    “America doesn’t have a navy.”
    “Aye, it does, and I’m part of it. Ever hear of John Adams? Sent me here himself, he did. Oh, we have a navy all right.”
    “What you have is men in ships who are pirates. Men who are committing treason against their king. You are British, and as such any ‘navy’ you think you belong to should be the Royal one.”
    “No, ma’m. I’m Irish .” The teasing light had gone out of his eyes and his voice hardened, aligning with the ruthless, dangerous part of him she had sensed but so far in her limited interactions with him, had not yet seen. He leaned close, close enough to see that his eyes, which she’d thought were blue, were actually a striking shade of amethyst beneath their heavy black fringe of lashes. “Don’t ever make the mistake of calling me British.”
    She glared at him, hating him. The uncouth, ill-bred, savage lout. Oh, when my brothers catch up to you ….
    He pinned her with that cold stare. “Are we clear on that?”
    “Trust me, I would never make that mistake.”
    It was an insult, aristocratically delivered. It was an insult letting him know that no Irishman could ever measure up to an Englishman in class, quality, and manners, and he wasn’t so dull that he didn’t register it immediately. Getting to his feet, he planted his hands on either side of her body and leaned down and close, right up into her face. “You, Sunshine, are a hostage on my ship. Do as ye’re told and your stay here will be short, much to the benefit and relief of us both.”
    That close, she could smell him. Salt water. Fresh wind. The lye soap that his shirt had been laundered in.
    His point made, he straightened up, shot her a dark glare over his shoulder, and reached for a bottle with which to refill his mug.
    Nerissa swung her legs out of the bed. “I am leaving.”
    “And going where?” He nodded toward the windows behind him, one of which was open to admit a heady balm of salty night air. “There’s a whole ocean out there. Unless you can walk on water, Sunshine, you aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
    “How dare you speak to me that way! I am Lady Nerissa de—”
    “I don’t give a tinker’s damn who you are. Now, get up and move around if ye’ve a mind to, but we’re at sea and unless you plan to throw yourself overboard with all the drama of a Shakespearean heroine, ye’re stuck here as a guest of America in general and myself in particular. Get used to it.”
    Nerissa stared at him, mouth agape, too shocked, too flabbergasted, to even muster a response. Nobody had ever spoken to her in such a way or treated her—the daughter and sister of a duke—with such a staggering level of rudeness and