Once a Pirate Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the world, he poured a drink from a crystal decanter and sat at his desk to read a book.
    The gale continued to howl as the sea thundered against the sides of the ship. Daylight trickled through the curtains and a small dirty window opposite the bed.
    Weak from fatigue, Carly crept back to the brazier, her arms heavy, her eyes throbbing. Gingerly, sheunzipped her jacket and flight suit, peeling off the protective rubber suit she wore underneath. She had no choice. If she didn’t strip to her underwear, the seawater would rub her skin, giving her sores.
    She dragged the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her, scooting close to the dying coals in the brazier.
    A clock ticked softly, steadily.
    A heartbeat.
    Her throat tightened. The sorrow always caught up to her when she was tired, and today was no exception. Tenderly, she smoothed one palm over her stomach as she curled onto her side, knees drawn to her chin. Oddly, she no longer felt frightened, only alone, very much alone.
    “All hands ahoy!”
    Shouts and bells woke her. Her eyes flew open. For a moment, her cheek pressed to the cold wood floor, she had no idea where she was. She stood too quickly. Her vision narrowed, and she nearly passed out. “Oh,” she moaned. Her throat was raw, her jaw and neck bruised from the ejection.
    More shouts coaxed her to the cloudy, salt-crusted window. The sun was directly overhead. She must have slept for hours.
    She spied Andrew, and her pulse quickened. Broad shoulders squared, back straight, he had the air of someone comfortable with command. The crew snapped to his every order as though they wanted to please him. A natural leader. She’d been around long enough to know that men like him were rare. For that, she grudgingly respected him.
    A chill draft washed over her bare skin, dousing herwith reality: She was dressed in lace underwear on an antique sailboat crewed by biker guys somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
    “Oh, shoot.” Hastily, she donned her flight suit, still damp and caked with salt. Her boots were worse. Cold and wet, the leather abraded her blistered toes. She tried the door. Locked.
    She perched on the edge of the bed until Gibbons lumbered in a short while later. One green eye was clouded over. Cataracts? The other twinkled with good humor. “Good day, Lady Amanda,” he cheerfully sang out. “Would you be hungry?”
    Her stomach growled at the very suggestion. “Yes, I am. I’d like something to eat.”
    “I haven’t decided whether I shall feed you or not.”
    She jerked her attention to the doorway. Andrew’s imposing frame loomed there, blocking the outside light. Dressed in a blue cutaway coat worn over a vest and shirt with a stand-up collar, he was the image of a regal nineteenth-century sea captain. Though his face was impassive, his eyes glittered like blue ice.
    Clasping his hands behind his back, he stepped into the cabin. “Do not feed her, Mr. Gibbons,” Andrew said quietly. “I want her to learn what hunger feels like.”
    Incredulous, Carly glanced at Gibbons, desperate to gain some insight into this latest game. The man’s attention was riveted on his captain, something akin to fatherly disappointment on his face.
    Andrew circled her in a silent, unnerving inspection, his powerful thigh muscles flexing beneath pants tucked into knee-high boots. The leather creaked with each step he took. “You haven’t known a day ofhunger in your short, privileged life. And never will, I fear. Thus, I have taken it upon myself to treat you to the experience.”
    The old resentment roared to the surface. The last thing she needed were hunger lessons. Andrew, on the other hand, could use a few. She’d bet he’d never worried whether his school lunch would be his one meal of the day, a meal donated by his classmates’ parents, choked down to the tune of their taunting chants.
    She sucked in a steadying breath. “The international laws governing prisoners of war dictate that