pick up the book. “Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.”
“Yes. An interesting literary choice for a pirate, I must say,” she ventured sarcastically.
“I appreciate irony,” he replied almost off hand. “You read?” he asked, somewhat incredulously and belatedly.
“Yes, Sir.”
As if he didn’t quite believe her, he opened the book and handed it to her. “Read that.”
She read the passage that he had pointed to, flawlessly, although allowing a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Cassie continued to look into his eyes after she passed the book back to him. He was in a strange, unpredictable mood, questioning her about her ability to read for no apparent reason, as if he were suddenly more suspicious of her than he had been since he’d brought her on board.
And, it turned out, with good reason.
She hadn’t simply awakened the second day of her captivity here and settled into reading like a lump. At first, she had spent every second that he wasn’t with her scouring the place for a way out – any way out – a secret passage or a porthole – anything. She did find several portholes along the top of the cabin just below the room that let in light, but they were all several feet taller than she was and she had no hope of opening them even once she’d exhausted herself dragging his huge chair over beneath it to boost her up so that she could reach them. She simply didn’t have the strength. They seemed to be sealed shut, and there was no moving them without assistance, which she heartily doubted anyone aboard would grant her. There was no other means of escape apparently. Just him and his blasted key, with which he locked her in each time he left the room.
Now she was stuck on the idea that she needed to find some way to relieve him of that key – once they were in a port somewhere, of course, and the ship had presumably become largely emptied by the crew who were off on shore leave, or whatever the correct nautical term was for going into town and getting stinking drunk. That had been the entirety of her experience with sailors in the short time that she had spent on San Miguel.
But she had decided, during the course of the past few days, that she wanted to tell him as little about herself as possible, especially since the person she had been when she set foot on this ship was no longer who she was at all. Cassandra Solange Constance Mary Winthrop–Sutton, the daughter of the ninth Earl of Sutton, had been long since buried under the weight of her own mortification. There was virtually no way for her to go back to the life she had led – even on the Duque’s remote island.
Once she stepped off this ship again – and she was bound and determined to do that – she would become, out of necessity, someone else. She wasn’t exactly sure yet just who, but she’d work that out when the opportunity presented itself.
“How did you learn to read?”
“I was taught, Sir.”
“By whom?”
Although she was doing her best to maintain her anonymity, she also tried to stick to the truth as much as possible, so as to have fewer lies to deal with. “Tutors, Sir.”
Anjel grunted in reply as he ousted her from his seat, only to haul her back onto his lap. She was an enigma, this one, and he hated puzzles. Although she answered the questions he asked her about herself without hesitation, he had a strong sense that she was holding a lot back, and that, in and of itself, was very contrary to his own experience of women. Most of the females he’d had any kind of knowledge of were more likely to the ears off him and anyone else within shouting range, but not Cassie.
She was almost eerily quiet and surprisingly self contained.
And she read for pleasure. How interesting. He knew more highborn ladies than not who detested reading. Oh they had been educated, but they used only what they needed to get by. Their lives were filled with fashion, food, and flowers, it seemed, and not much else.
“What did you
“Yes. An interesting literary choice for a pirate, I must say,” she ventured sarcastically.
“I appreciate irony,” he replied almost off hand. “You read?” he asked, somewhat incredulously and belatedly.
“Yes, Sir.”
As if he didn’t quite believe her, he opened the book and handed it to her. “Read that.”
She read the passage that he had pointed to, flawlessly, although allowing a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Cassie continued to look into his eyes after she passed the book back to him. He was in a strange, unpredictable mood, questioning her about her ability to read for no apparent reason, as if he were suddenly more suspicious of her than he had been since he’d brought her on board.
And, it turned out, with good reason.
She hadn’t simply awakened the second day of her captivity here and settled into reading like a lump. At first, she had spent every second that he wasn’t with her scouring the place for a way out – any way out – a secret passage or a porthole – anything. She did find several portholes along the top of the cabin just below the room that let in light, but they were all several feet taller than she was and she had no hope of opening them even once she’d exhausted herself dragging his huge chair over beneath it to boost her up so that she could reach them. She simply didn’t have the strength. They seemed to be sealed shut, and there was no moving them without assistance, which she heartily doubted anyone aboard would grant her. There was no other means of escape apparently. Just him and his blasted key, with which he locked her in each time he left the room.
Now she was stuck on the idea that she needed to find some way to relieve him of that key – once they were in a port somewhere, of course, and the ship had presumably become largely emptied by the crew who were off on shore leave, or whatever the correct nautical term was for going into town and getting stinking drunk. That had been the entirety of her experience with sailors in the short time that she had spent on San Miguel.
But she had decided, during the course of the past few days, that she wanted to tell him as little about herself as possible, especially since the person she had been when she set foot on this ship was no longer who she was at all. Cassandra Solange Constance Mary Winthrop–Sutton, the daughter of the ninth Earl of Sutton, had been long since buried under the weight of her own mortification. There was virtually no way for her to go back to the life she had led – even on the Duque’s remote island.
Once she stepped off this ship again – and she was bound and determined to do that – she would become, out of necessity, someone else. She wasn’t exactly sure yet just who, but she’d work that out when the opportunity presented itself.
“How did you learn to read?”
“I was taught, Sir.”
“By whom?”
Although she was doing her best to maintain her anonymity, she also tried to stick to the truth as much as possible, so as to have fewer lies to deal with. “Tutors, Sir.”
Anjel grunted in reply as he ousted her from his seat, only to haul her back onto his lap. She was an enigma, this one, and he hated puzzles. Although she answered the questions he asked her about herself without hesitation, he had a strong sense that she was holding a lot back, and that, in and of itself, was very contrary to his own experience of women. Most of the females he’d had any kind of knowledge of were more likely to the ears off him and anyone else within shouting range, but not Cassie.
She was almost eerily quiet and surprisingly self contained.
And she read for pleasure. How interesting. He knew more highborn ladies than not who detested reading. Oh they had been educated, but they used only what they needed to get by. Their lives were filled with fashion, food, and flowers, it seemed, and not much else.
“What did you
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