Midnight Mistress by Ruth Owen Read Free Book Online

attacker promised. “Such an
imbécile
does not deserve to live. He does not search his quarters. He does not check to see if his door has been tampered with. He does not even fight a candle! Even for an English he is a fool.”
    “Perhaps,” Connor said slowly. “Then again, perhaps I’m not so much a fool as you think.”
    “Ha!” His assailant’s mustache bristled with irritation. “Brave words, English, but
I
am the one who holds the knife. Give me one reason why I should not slit your throat right no—”
    The Frenchman’s words died as he felt the nose of a pistol pressed into his gut.
“Merde.”
He rolled back on his haunches and glared fiercely at Connor as he stuck his knife back in its sheath. “This time you are lucky, English.”
    Connor sat up and rubbed the bruise on his backside where he’d hit the floor, feeling far from lucky. “Honestly, Raoul, couldn’t you have just reminded me to check my cabin in the future instead of attacking me?”
    Raoul St. Juste, vicomte d’Aubigny-sur-mer rose to his feet with all the grace of his aristocratic ancestors, then gave a shrug with all their indifference. “Ah, but where is the sport in that? Besides, now you shall think twice when entering seemingly deserted quarters, even if they are your own.
N’est-ce pas?
”
    Connor grimaced. He hated it when Raoul was right, and in the three years he’d known him, the Frenchman had rarely been wrong. St. Juste was only a few years older than Connor’s twenty-five, but he had been at this game for almost half his life, and it showed. He was a clever strategist, a courageous soldier, a poet, a cook, and a thief, as the situation demanded. There was no one Connor would rather trust his back to in a fight. But St. Juste was also one of the most egotistical men he’d ever met, and there were times Connor would have dearly loved to plant his fist squarely in the middle of his partner’s smug face.
    Now was one of those times. But before he had the chance to even consider acting on his impulse, the door to his cabin was thrust open, and a dark-haired boy of about eight barreled in. “Captain!”
    Connor crossed the cabin and set his hand reassuringly on the child’s shoulder. “What are you doing up at this hour, Jamie? All hands should be in bed.”
    The child answered in a gruff voice, as if unused to speaking. “Heard noises. Thought maybe watch had let someone by … maybe a thief or the like.” He lifted his chin and looked at Connor with a courage that would have been hard to find in a man three times his age. “Nothin’s gonna happen to you while I’m here. That’s a promise.”
    “I am pleased to see that
someone
on this ship has his witsabout him,” Raoul commented, giving Connor a pointed look. “Now off with you, boy. The captain and I have business to discuss.”
    Jamie made no move to leave until Connor gave him a nod. “ ’Tis all right. Besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on Barnacle to make sure he doesn’t wreak havoc on the breakfast.” He stood looking down at the boy, every inch the stern captain, until his mouth edged up in the barest smile. “That will be all, mister. See to your post.”
    Jamie grinned from ear to ear at the formal dismissal, then gave a sharp salute and scooted out of the room without another word.
    “That boy worships you,” St. Juste said as he walked over to the map table and lit the lantern standing on it. “But it is a precarious life for one who is so young.”
    “ ’Tis better than living like a rat on that godforsaken wharf in Cairo. If we’d left him there he’d have died of hunger—or worse.”
    “Yes, but we are not in Egypt now. You should look for a home for the boy.
Pourquois pas
with the mademoiselle Rose?”
    “Jamie is no farm boy. He’d run away before the week was out.”
    “Well, perhaps you are right in that. But there are many good people in this country.”
    “And more bad ones,” Connor countered as he stalked