Duke by Day, Rogue by Night Excerpt
It's Giving Tuesday! I'm celebrating a wonderful compliment today. I was told my writing style reminded a reader of Georgette Heyer. Can it get any better than that? So while I do a moon walk, I thought I'd share an excerpt from Duke by Day, Rogue by Night. Enjoy! ;)
“Where are my clothes?”
“You’ll not be needing them,” he said.
She struggled to breathe. “What do you mean I’ll not be needing my clothes?”
Even before the question came out of her mouth, his meaning was clear. An abysmal vulnerability unlike any she’d ever experienced forced a heated blush into her cheeks. He stepped closer, looming above her like a hawk stalking prey. She shrank back, scurrying on her hands and feet until her back braced against the wall, intent on putting as much space between herself and the deplorable scoundrel as possible.
“Nothing can come between us, Constance, including clothes.”
His alarming grin proved he meant to ensure every word. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow as her mind labored for a response. Something wicked churned in her stomach as her mind labored over a memory, the sensation of the two of them without clothes, their bodies scandalously intertwined, his warm fingers, comforting touch, and his heart pounding underneath her ear.
“How do you know my name?” she squeaked, trying desperately to block out the condemning images.
“Did you honestly expect me to believe your lies about being Admiral Duncan’s daughter? The man died quite seasoned. His daughters most assuredly wed and bedded before you were born.” His penetrating gaze darted over her body. “How old are you?” he asked. “I wager nineteen — at most.”
He moved closer, his knee resting on the edge of the bunk. Reaching out to grab a lock of her hair, he added, “Too young to be Duncan’s daughter,” he continued, “and far prettier.”
Unsettled, she snatched back her hair. Indignantly, she spat, “You irritating simpleton! My age is of no consequence to you.”
“Yet you claim to be one of Admiral Duncan’s daughters. Who is the simpleton?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“If I must,” he said with a wave of his hand, acting as if the effort drained him. But it was the look in his eye that warned her not to insult him again.
She quivered. He stood and crossed the room until he was positioned by the door again. He leaned against it and crossed his arms over his chest, once again causing her eyes to feast on his toned, lean body. The black shirt he wore accentuated his weathered skin. His dark hair, mustache, beard, and eye patch emphasized the reticent set of his jaw. His hair flowed loosely about his shoulders. The red scarf around his forehead stood out like the blush of a cardinal attracting a mate. For the first time, she noticed a gold hoop in his left ear as he dropped his head to the side to observe her with disdain.
“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. She hated being vulnerable, hated herself for thinking the man slightly handsome.
His mustached lip curled upward as if he’d been waiting for such a cue. He stepped away from the door.
“You’re aboard the Striker. Don’t you remember?”
She turned away from him and gazed out the spacious window to replay the previous night’s events in her mind. Her heart raced as bone-chilling images proved she had much to be grateful for where he was concerned. She averted his gaze, hoping to hide the fear listing her heart. Indeed, she remembered all too well that pirates had stormed through her cabin door. She recalled the first time she’d set eyes upon him. She remembered Captain Collins and that heartless brigand, Frink, tearing at her clothes. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. Light and moist, it tickled her skin, reminding her of being weighted down by water. She remembered nearly drowning. She remembered hearing her mother’s voice. She remembered him.
“I remember … ,” she admitted, “you saved me from drowning.”
“And I brought you to my cabin,” he finished for her.
“Where’s Captain Frink? Is this his ship?”
“Do not worry your pretty little head about him. He’ll do you no more harm.”
“And Mrs. Mortimer?” Fear took hold when he did not answer. She only vaguely remembered her dearest governess being carried out of the cabin. What had happened to her? Had she been passed from one man to the next like a communal jug of rum?
He approached her slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned closer, making her heart flutter. “Mrs. Mortimer?”
“Yes,” she replied. “My traveling companion. Is she all right? Is she alive?”
“That crafty old witch is fine. She’s in another cabin.” He held up his hand when she began to ask another question. “Rest assured she is well.” He placed his finger on her lips to silence her when she tried to speak.
Constance brushed his finger away. “Why are we separated? Why aren’t you keeping us together?”
“What joy would there be in that for me?”
“Where are my clothes?”
“You’ll not be needing them,” he said.
She struggled to breathe. “What do you mean I’ll not be needing my clothes?”
Even before the question came out of her mouth, his meaning was clear. An abysmal vulnerability unlike any she’d ever experienced forced a heated blush into her cheeks. He stepped closer, looming above her like a hawk stalking prey. She shrank back, scurrying on her hands and feet until her back braced against the wall, intent on putting as much space between herself and the deplorable scoundrel as possible.
“Nothing can come between us, Constance, including clothes.”
His alarming grin proved he meant to ensure every word. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow as her mind labored for a response. Something wicked churned in her stomach as her mind labored over a memory, the sensation of the two of them without clothes, their bodies scandalously intertwined, his warm fingers, comforting touch, and his heart pounding underneath her ear.
“How do you know my name?” she squeaked, trying desperately to block out the condemning images.
“Did you honestly expect me to believe your lies about being Admiral Duncan’s daughter? The man died quite seasoned. His daughters most assuredly wed and bedded before you were born.” His penetrating gaze darted over her body. “How old are you?” he asked. “I wager nineteen — at most.”
He moved closer, his knee resting on the edge of the bunk. Reaching out to grab a lock of her hair, he added, “Too young to be Duncan’s daughter,” he continued, “and far prettier.”
Unsettled, she snatched back her hair. Indignantly, she spat, “You irritating simpleton! My age is of no consequence to you.”
“Yet you claim to be one of Admiral Duncan’s daughters. Who is the simpleton?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“If I must,” he said with a wave of his hand, acting as if the effort drained him. But it was the look in his eye that warned her not to insult him again.
She quivered. He stood and crossed the room until he was positioned by the door again. He leaned against it and crossed his arms over his chest, once again causing her eyes to feast on his toned, lean body. The black shirt he wore accentuated his weathered skin. His dark hair, mustache, beard, and eye patch emphasized the reticent set of his jaw. His hair flowed loosely about his shoulders. The red scarf around his forehead stood out like the blush of a cardinal attracting a mate. For the first time, she noticed a gold hoop in his left ear as he dropped his head to the side to observe her with disdain.
“Where am I?” Her voice cracked. She hated being vulnerable, hated herself for thinking the man slightly handsome.
His mustached lip curled upward as if he’d been waiting for such a cue. He stepped away from the door.
“You’re aboard the Striker. Don’t you remember?”
She turned away from him and gazed out the spacious window to replay the previous night’s events in her mind. Her heart raced as bone-chilling images proved she had much to be grateful for where he was concerned. She averted his gaze, hoping to hide the fear listing her heart. Indeed, she remembered all too well that pirates had stormed through her cabin door. She recalled the first time she’d set eyes upon him. She remembered Captain Collins and that heartless brigand, Frink, tearing at her clothes. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. Light and moist, it tickled her skin, reminding her of being weighted down by water. She remembered nearly drowning. She remembered hearing her mother’s voice. She remembered him.
“I remember … ,” she admitted, “you saved me from drowning.”
“And I brought you to my cabin,” he finished for her.
“Where’s Captain Frink? Is this his ship?”
“Do not worry your pretty little head about him. He’ll do you no more harm.”
“And Mrs. Mortimer?” Fear took hold when he did not answer. She only vaguely remembered her dearest governess being carried out of the cabin. What had happened to her? Had she been passed from one man to the next like a communal jug of rum?
He approached her slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned closer, making her heart flutter. “Mrs. Mortimer?”
“Yes,” she replied. “My traveling companion. Is she all right? Is she alive?”
“That crafty old witch is fine. She’s in another cabin.” He held up his hand when she began to ask another question. “Rest assured she is well.” He placed his finger on her lips to silence her when she tried to speak.
Constance brushed his finger away. “Why are we separated? Why aren’t you keeping us together?”
“What joy would there be in that for me?”
No comments have been added yet.
