With ordinary people, exhaustion sagged the eyes. Anger carved between the brows. Triumph etched around the mouth. But Lord Cutler showed none of that. No emotions. No wrinkles or lines. No expressions. He bore the straightest, smoothest, most polished mien of indifference I’d ever seen.
I wanted a closer inspection.
Soldiers quivered and stiffened down the line, but no one stopped me as I ambled aft, arrowing toward their commodore.
His passionless blue eyes didn’t waver from mine. Unnerving.
Stacks of corded, well-honed brawn composed his tall frame. Intimidating.
Sinews neither flexed nor bounced. Not the muscles in his jaw. Not the tendons in his thick neck. Not even when I stood toe to toe with him, half-dressed, nipples protruding, with my finger poking at one of his jeweled buttons. Unnatural.
Was he even human?
I feigned a toothy grin. His mouth didn’t move. I wriggled my fingers in a taunting wave. He didn’t flinch. Not a tarnal twitch.
No sense of humor, this one. Not that I was feeling amorous or droll by any means. In fact, dread was rising faster than I could push it down.
As a titled nobleman, he’d been bred to hide his true feelings and intentions beneath an air of pomp and pageantry. But this level of impassibility couldn’t have been learned. He was heartlessly detached by nature.
I had no evidence to back up my conclusion. It was a gut feeling. But my instincts rarely steered me wrong. Case in point… Priest Farrell. When I’d met the king of libertines, my gut had known he would ruin me. My heart just hadn’t cared.
Other than Priest, I’d outmaneuvered most of my adversaries because I was a woman and considered the weaker sex by default. On a ship, at a tavern, astride a horse, in a bed, it didn’t matter. Men always misjudged me and paid for that mistake.
Lord Cutler, however, didn’t fit the molds of my foes. Nothing shone in his demeanor, features, or stature that betrayed his thoughts. I positively couldn’t read him.
For the first time since waking on HMS Blitz, I felt real fear. It scraped icy fingers up my spine and flapped leathery wings in my stomach. But I didn’t let it surface as I met the commodore stare for stare.
He was, quite unfortunately, a handsome son of a bitch. Inarguably handsome, but in a rigid, chillingly regal manner. His hair was trimmed close to his scalp on the sides, leaving a short length of inky etiquette on top. His blunt jawline, with all its right angles, was so porcelain-like and hairless I wondered if he could even grow whiskers on that rock-hard face.
But the longer I gazed into those menacing blue eyes, the more I realized his youthful features were deceiving. He held himself with the confident, hardened stance of a man who had more experience than me on the sea. If I had to guess, he was in his early thirties. At least ten years my senior.
He reminded me of my father with that jaded look in his stare. The one that confessed he could inflict suffering without being affected by it. Only my father hadn’t been able to retain that vicious air around me.
I wondered if anything or anyone could rattle Lord Cutler’s insensibility.
My blood thrilled at the challenge.
Tense silence measured the passing seconds until I realized his reticence was a weapon he used to terrorize his enemies. I wished I could apply the same tactic, but his stillness made my skin itch.
I raised my chin and held his gaze. “If saving drowning women is your way of soliciting female companionship for dinner, you’re trying too hard.”
“Bennett Sharp, you’ve been taken into custody for piracy and murder. I shall transport you to England, a month’s journey thereabouts, where you will stand trial for your crimes.”
His deep aristocratic voice pronounced every syllable with perfect English inflection. But his arrogance made him complacent. He hadn’t considered the possibility that I’d arranged Jade’s escape, set up my own rescue, and had a backup plan or two in the event that Priest failed.
By the time I ran this warship off course, the commodore wouldn’t know what hit him.
I studied him a moment, trying to glean his true self beneath the polished veneer.
Who are you, Ashley Cutler?
I recognized the surname but couldn’t place it. “Your father resides among the Peerage of England?”
“Lord John Cutler is the first Viscount Warshire and serves as the Secretary of State for the Northern Department.”
A lower rank than my grandfather but a prominent peer of the realm, nonetheless. Yet, at the mention of his father, there’d been no pride in his tone. No attachment. He’d sounded as if he were reading the title off a visiting card.
Oh, how I longed to know what inspired this man. Was he deeper than his career aspirations? Weaker or mentally slower than he appeared? Was he married or betrothed? Loved by some or despised by all?
Everyone had a vulnerability. I just needed to find his.
His strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and noble nose supplied a blank canvas for the brilliant blue of his eyes. But I found myself focusing instead on his shapely chiseled mouth. The pinkish lips added an alluring contrast to his impeccable English complexion.
And when those lips moved, every man on the ship stopped breathing to listen.
“Put the pirate in the hold.” He flicked a finger against the front of his coat, giving an invisible speck more attention than he gave his captive.
Multiple hands fell upon me, restraining my arms behind my back. No sense in fighting. I was outnumbered four-hundred men to one. Besides, when I’d designed this plan, I expected to spend weeks, if not months, in irons.
As Lord Cutler strode toward the gangway ladder, the lieutenants pulled me along behind him. With my arms shackled by immovable fists, my attention narrowed on the snug coat that draped the commodore’s impressive shoulders and hinted at a hard, tight arse. Long legs flexed in tailored white breeches. Defined calves stretched the wool of his pristine stockings.
The man was immaculately dressed, accentuating all his best assets. But he had dreadful taste in footwear. The buckles on his square-toed shoes were made of pure gold with embedded jewels. I didn’t care how fashionable they were. If he did any sort of work on this ship, they wouldn’t last a day.
I focused on those ridiculous shoes because the rest of him was just too compelling. His physical beauty defied the laws of nature, and I wanted nothing to do with that. My opinion of him needed to ferment in the back of my throat until all I tasted was repulsion.
Down the companionway and along the windowless passages, he stopped at the door to his private quarters. The lieutenants kept moving, shoving me onward to the ladder beyond.
“What do I call you?” I twisted my neck, finding his ice-blue eyes over my shoulder. “Commodore Prick? Lord Sweet Lips? My favorite arsehole?”
His expression remained empty, his carriage rigid.
“You’re clenching it, aren’t you?” I glanced at the vicinity of his arse and cocked a brow.
He didn’t respond.
Stoic to a fault.
Nerves of steel.
I pursed my lips and blew him a kiss. “I’ll see you soon, darling.”
He’d just captured the notorious daughter of Edric Sharp. Curiosity and arrogance would bring him slithering into my lap before nightfall.
Just so, he didn’t acknowledge any of this as he vanished into his cabin.
Several hatchways later, my escorts dragged me through the lowest level of the warship. Weaving around coils of cables, live chickens and geese, and water stores, we had to stoop beneath the low rafters. Near the center of the ship, the crawlspace opened into a large area with more headroom.