He might have even laughed if he hadn’t feared it would hurt the boy’s pride.
It would have been outright funny if he wasn’t already so dreadfully frustrated by his failed attempts to capture the pirate at the center of this new gang. Even though he and his men had intercepted this latest shipment of stolen goods, they’d failed to get to the heart of the mystery. The men had fled the scene before they could be captured and forced to talk.
Marcus just barely held back a sigh as he waved aside another blow.
He was definitely getting too old for this lifestyle.
One last arrest and then he was done. That was what he’d told his brother when last they’d met. He’d put Alistair and his family in harm’s way long enough. It would be foolish as well as selfish to continue when he was losing the edge that had kept him alive this long.
And then there was the other secret. The one of his birth.
No, he’d had too many close calls this past year since his injury. Too many times he’d nearly been captured. If he were to be seriously injured.
If he were to die...
Well, the wrong person discovering him would put an end not just to his legacy, it would destroy his family. True, such had been the case all along. But back when he was a young man, the risk had been worth it. Alistair had agreed. The day Marcus had plotted to stage his death, to give up his right to the title, to hand it over to Alistair, the bastard son.
They’d both known what they were doing. The danger, the stakes, the consequences if anyone found out that Marcus was alive, or worse, that Alistair had been illegitimate.
But that was before Alistair had married, before he’d had children. Before his sister Lizzie’s first husband had passed away and she’d finally found a happy marriage and a family of her own.
No, these days everything was different. Including him.
The boy’s hood covered his ducked head as he struggled upright, never ceasing with the jabs and the punches. They were weak but effective. At least the child had been taught where to strike.
In time, he might actually make a good smuggler. With a little more height and far more muscle, the child might even make a formidable foe.
Marcus hoped instead that after this encounter, the boy’s life of crime would be over. One run-in with a true enemy would hopefully scare him away from such a seedy, dangerous path. He swatted the fists away again and leaned down, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck. “This will go a lot easier if you just tell me who sent you.”
Then finally the boy lifted his head, eyes full of fire, and Marcus gasped in shock. The boy was no boy at all. He was a she.
A grown she. And a pretty she, at that.
And then the pretty woman in question punched him in the nose.
He groaned and bent at the waist as he clapped a hand over his nose. Not broken, so at least he had that.
What he didn’t have was pride.
How on earth had a woman gotten the best of him? She’d had the element of surprise, he supposed. She took advantage of his stunned stupor to slug him again, but this time he moved quickly enough to catch her fist.
Her expression was strained as she pushed her fist against his hand. For the second time in a matter of minutes he felt the urge to laugh at the absurdity of his situation, but his pride was wounded and his nose was smarting, so he growled instead. “Who are you working for?”
She snarled. “Who are you waiting for?”
Understanding dawned in a heartbeat.
He dropped his hand and her fist connected with his chest, thanks to the momentum with which she’d been pushing against him. He barely felt the blow as he was too busy staring at this wild-eyed little fury.
“You were not sent by the smuggler,” he said, more to himself than to her.
But she still responded, her tone filled with self-righteous outrage. “Of course not.”
“So why are you here?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were narrowed as she backed away, partially crouched like she was ready to spring for him again.
“Be at ease, miss,” he said wearily as he realized just how badly he’d blundered tonight. “I almost never attack ladies.”
He’d meant it in jest. Of course he never attacked ladies. This lady, however, was clearly not in a mood to laugh.
She raised her fists as she backed toward the edge of the cave again, no doubt getting ready to flee. “Well, sir, you will excuse me if I do not trust the word of a pirate.”
He let out a huff of amusement. Yes. Pirate. Of course, that was what he was. Even now, more than a decade after feigning his death and recreating a new life for himself at sea, there were still moments when he forgot who he was.
What a young lady like this would see when she saw him. Disheveled hair, a scruffy beard, and the weathered visage of a man who’d spent too much time in the sunshine and sea air.
He was staring, he realized. But then, so was she. For countless seconds they stood there in a sort of standoff in the flickering light of the fire. He couldn’t quite bring himself to stop it because the sight of her was...
Well, she was a sight for sore eyes. Trite but true. Her hair was braided like a crown, but wisps escaped and framed her face. He had a sudden and striking image of what she’d look like at the bow of his ship, those curls waving wildly as a smile spread across those dainty, feminine, utterly perfect features.
Not perfect. His gaze narrowed on her face. No, not perfect at all. Her eyes were a bit too
