believe me."
Dante's gaze roved down the slender length of her body at the same leisurely speed his thumb followed a bead of wine that dribbled down the outside of his goblet. "In due time, perhaps. Do you know who shot you? Or why?"
Her nod was supplemented by a whispered, "Yes I know who, and yes, I think I know why. Or at least... I'm fairly certain I know why."
~~
Every room in the house was a shambles. Furniture was broken, the cushions cut and torn apart. Books were pulled off the shelves, the bindings ripped and the pages scattered. Her bedroom had been completely destroyed, feathers laying about like snow from the mattress and pillows. Curtains had been torn from the windows, her writing desk smashed to bits, even the heels had been broken off her shoes. It was not a simple robbery, nor had the intruder taken the trouble to make it look like one. The small box that held her jewels had been upended, the contents thrown on the floor and left there, crushed under heavy boots.
At first she could think of no reason why anyone would ransack the house top to bottom. But then a feeling came over her, an icy hand that scraped down her spine and pushed her toward the fireplace in her bedchamber. Trembling fingers touched the loose stone cherub. It scraped open, revealing the secret compartment inside, the one she had found as a child and still used to hold her most precious belongings. The letters from her father were there, along with a small brass box containing several dozen wax disks.
She removed the letters and the box and clutched them to her breast. Her relief in finding them was short-lived, however, for a moment later she became aware of the soft tread of a boot behind her. Her back was to the door and she did not see him as he came into the room. But she felt him. She felt the quality of the air change, become thicker, blacker somehow. The mad rushing in her ears, the pounding of her heart almost took her to her knees as she heard the distinct snick of a flintlock pistol being cocked into the firing position.
~~
"Mistress Chandler?"
She looked up and realized that Gabriel Dante was waiting for her to expand on her answer. The question was: how much should she tell him? How much could she trust him?
The ability to trust or be trusted is in the eyes, always in the eyes. Her father’s words, but they were hardly comforting now. Dante's eyes were rather daunting and completely inscrutable. The color was not quite brown, not quite green, but an unusual blending of both, like tarnished gold. They were always watchful, always alert, belonging to a man who had lived too long with danger to ever completely drop his guard.
At the same time, they were clear and direct, they did not flick away or cut slyly side to side as if he was calculating the next lie to tell. Moreover, he had risked his life to bring her on board, and he had risked the wrath of a potentially mutinous crew to lock himself away with her in his cabin. He was still a pirate and she could not afford to forget that, regardless how civilized he appeared to be. But if she wanted his help to find her father...?
"Mistress Chandler? As I said before, we are going to be together for some time. You can either tell me what has you all tied up in knots... or not. The choice is yours. But it has been a very long day and I've not had the luxury of a twelve hour nap."
Hoping she would not live to regret her decision, Eva reached up and unfastened the chain from around her neck. She let the silver links spill between her fingers and pool in her palm before settling the locket on top and reaching over to offer it to Dante.
He looked at the locket, then back up into her face.
"Take it," she said softly. “Open it.”
The chair protested as he leaned forward and took the locket out of her hand. He tilted it toward the lamplight and turned it over his fingers, noting the scrolled initial, E, that he had seen before. Locating the tiny indent on the side, he
Dante's gaze roved down the slender length of her body at the same leisurely speed his thumb followed a bead of wine that dribbled down the outside of his goblet. "In due time, perhaps. Do you know who shot you? Or why?"
Her nod was supplemented by a whispered, "Yes I know who, and yes, I think I know why. Or at least... I'm fairly certain I know why."
~~
Every room in the house was a shambles. Furniture was broken, the cushions cut and torn apart. Books were pulled off the shelves, the bindings ripped and the pages scattered. Her bedroom had been completely destroyed, feathers laying about like snow from the mattress and pillows. Curtains had been torn from the windows, her writing desk smashed to bits, even the heels had been broken off her shoes. It was not a simple robbery, nor had the intruder taken the trouble to make it look like one. The small box that held her jewels had been upended, the contents thrown on the floor and left there, crushed under heavy boots.
At first she could think of no reason why anyone would ransack the house top to bottom. But then a feeling came over her, an icy hand that scraped down her spine and pushed her toward the fireplace in her bedchamber. Trembling fingers touched the loose stone cherub. It scraped open, revealing the secret compartment inside, the one she had found as a child and still used to hold her most precious belongings. The letters from her father were there, along with a small brass box containing several dozen wax disks.
She removed the letters and the box and clutched them to her breast. Her relief in finding them was short-lived, however, for a moment later she became aware of the soft tread of a boot behind her. Her back was to the door and she did not see him as he came into the room. But she felt him. She felt the quality of the air change, become thicker, blacker somehow. The mad rushing in her ears, the pounding of her heart almost took her to her knees as she heard the distinct snick of a flintlock pistol being cocked into the firing position.
~~
"Mistress Chandler?"
She looked up and realized that Gabriel Dante was waiting for her to expand on her answer. The question was: how much should she tell him? How much could she trust him?
The ability to trust or be trusted is in the eyes, always in the eyes. Her father’s words, but they were hardly comforting now. Dante's eyes were rather daunting and completely inscrutable. The color was not quite brown, not quite green, but an unusual blending of both, like tarnished gold. They were always watchful, always alert, belonging to a man who had lived too long with danger to ever completely drop his guard.
At the same time, they were clear and direct, they did not flick away or cut slyly side to side as if he was calculating the next lie to tell. Moreover, he had risked his life to bring her on board, and he had risked the wrath of a potentially mutinous crew to lock himself away with her in his cabin. He was still a pirate and she could not afford to forget that, regardless how civilized he appeared to be. But if she wanted his help to find her father...?
"Mistress Chandler? As I said before, we are going to be together for some time. You can either tell me what has you all tied up in knots... or not. The choice is yours. But it has been a very long day and I've not had the luxury of a twelve hour nap."
Hoping she would not live to regret her decision, Eva reached up and unfastened the chain from around her neck. She let the silver links spill between her fingers and pool in her palm before settling the locket on top and reaching over to offer it to Dante.
He looked at the locket, then back up into her face.
"Take it," she said softly. “Open it.”
The chair protested as he leaned forward and took the locket out of her hand. He tilted it toward the lamplight and turned it over his fingers, noting the scrolled initial, E, that he had seen before. Locating the tiny indent on the side, he
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