The aroma of freshly roasted pork lingered near the glowing coals of the bonfire, and out in the bay, moonlight glazed Kestrel's dark hull and glinted off her spars and sharply raked masts. Maeve had not sent her pirate back into the “dungeon” to spend the night. Her every instinct told her to keep her distance, to not let herself be seduced by the idea that he was different from Renaud or anyone else she'd ever given her heart to, but she was having a hard time listening to the wisdom of her head. You don't even know him, her head warned. You know nothing about him. I know that I enjoy his company, retorted her heart. I know that he makes me laugh. I know that he makes me feel safe. Secure. Happy in a way that I haven't known for a very long time. But he was a deserter. Being a pirate was one thing, but a deserter? Where was the honor in that? A deserter—someone who had abandoned his career. There was that terrible word again. Abandoned. And if he could abandon his career, he could abandon her.
