She was the essence of every male fantasy – angel, Valkyrie, goddess, sea siren. She was golden temptation and primal torment. He wanted to draw her down to him and drink of her lips. Yet she held back, just out of reach -

"You there!"

He awoke with a start, memory and pain flooding him with brutal intensity. Woozily Nicholas lifted a hand to his aching head and felt the bandage there. He was lying on a bare cot, no longer bound by chains. The musket butt prodding his sore ribs, however, was regrettably familiar, as was the burly guard hovering over him.

"You there, bestir yerself!"

His blurred vision steadied. He'd been taken prisoner, he remembered, and brought to the fortress on St. Kitts, where he would probably hang for piracy and murder. At first he'd paced his cell like a wounded animal, his frantic thoughts on his half sister and the debacle he'd made of his promise to protect her. But exhaustion and pain had finally forced him to lie down. He'd fallen into a tortured slumber, only to begin dreaming of the golden-haired beauty who had defended him so valiantly on the quay.

What the devil was he doing? Nick swore at himself. Lusting after a strange woman, no matter how beautiful or courageous, was completely mad under the circumstances. Instead he should be focusing on his sister and ward, trying to think of a way to ensure her safety once he was dead…

"I said bestir yerself! There's a lady to see you."

Nicholas slowly raised himself up on his elbows. Beyond the guard, the cell door was partway open…His gaze shifted and his heartbeat seemed to stop.

She stood there just inside the dim chamber, tall, slender, regal as a princess. Even with the hood of her black cloak casting her exquisite features in shadows, he knew her. Yet unlike the avenging angel he remembered from the quay, she appeared hesitant, uncertain. Wary.

"I'll leave the door ajar, milady. If ‘e gives you a 'int of trouble, you just call out."

"Thank you."

Her voice was low and melodious, but she said nothing else, even when the guard had left the cell.

Wondering if his vision was an illusion, Nicholas slowly sat up. The watery beam of sunlight filtering through the tiny barred window highlighted dust motes dancing around her dark skirts, but did little to illuminate her features.

Then she pushed back the hood of her cloak, uncovering her bright hair, which was coiled in a smooth chignon, giving Nick a jolt of sexual awareness. Her uncommon beauty seemed to light up the dark stone cell.

She was quite real, the living fantasy of his dreams… unless he had died and this was his version of heaven. Followers of the Muslim faith believed a blessed man would be surrounded by beautiful maidens upon reaching Paradise. The pain from his injuries, however, made Nicholas suspect he was still in temporal form.

She was gazing at him in surprise, studying his face. Then, as if she realized she was staring, she flushed a little and shifted her gaze to the bandage that wrapped his head.

"I see they at least summoned a doctor. I was afraid they wouldn't. No, please don't get up on my account," she added when he tried to rise. "You are in no condition to stand on formality."

"What…" His voice came out too hoarsely, so he cleared his throat and began again. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to make certain you were all right."

Nicholas frowned, trying to sort out the confusion in his aching head. Perhaps the blows had indeed rattled his brain.

No lady would risk her reputation to enter the bowels of a prison on behalf of a stranger. And she was every inch a lady, he knew – blue-blooded to the core. In fact, hadn't she claimed to be a duke's daughter when she'd dressed down that seaman this morning?

Nicholas stared at her, wondering if he'd missed some vital clue to the enigma she presented. Then a sudden thought struck him.

Was it possible she was here to deceive him? Was that bastard Gerrod up to some sort of trickery, using her to ferret out information?

Nick's eyes narrowed in suspicion. His ship was still at large in the Caribbean, for he'd gone alone to Montserrat to fetch his sister – aboard a Dutch fishing ketcli – not wanting to risk the lives of his crew on his own personal mission. But Captain Gerrod was fiercely set on determining the American schooner's whereabouts.

It could greatly advance the captain's naval career to capture an enemy ship – which was a likely reason, Nick suspected, that he'd been spared immediate hanging. That, and the fact that Gerrod hadn't wanted to make any political missteps by offending his prisoner's illustrious connections.

Grimly Nicholas contemplated his beautiful, unexpected visitor. Was she somehow in league with Gerrod? Her compassion had seemed entirely genuine this morning, and so had her animosity toward the captain. But perhaps she'd somehow been persuaded to work with Gerrod against him.

Had she been sent here to torment him? To tempt a condemned man as if holding out the promise of water to a man dying of thirst in a desert? The stark possibility that such beauty and kindness could be a ruse stabbed Nick with anger.

His jaw tightened. He would do well to remember their nations were at war. As an Englishwoman, she was his enemy, and he had to be on his guard.

She seemed uncomfortable with the way he was watching her, and when he deliberately dropped his gaze lower to linger on her breasts, he thought he saw her flush in the dim light.

"I don't believe we were properly introduced, madam," he prodded.

"No. There wasn't time. I am Aurora Demming."

An appropriate name, he thought irrelevantly. Aurora was Latin for dawn. "Lady Aurora. I remember. You made mention of it on the quay."

"I wasn't certain how conscious you were of your surroundings."

At the reminder of the assault, Nicholas raised his hand to feel his bandage. "You find me at a disadvantage, I fear."

An awkward silence stretched between them.

"I brought some items you might need," she said finally.

When she took a tentative step toward him, he focused on the bundle she held in her arms. She seemed oddly nervous as she set her offering down on the cot and glanced around the dim, spartan cell. "I should have brought candles. I didn't think of it. But here is a blanket… some food."

Her gaze met his briefly and then slid away. "I also borrowed a shirt and jacket from Percy's overseer. You seemed larger than my cousin…"

It was his state of undress that was tying her tongue, Nicholas realized. If she was like other gently bred ladies of her station, she would hardly be accustomed to visiting a half-nude man or estimating the size of his physique.

"How did you get past the guards?" he asked cautiously.

She seemed grateful for the change in subject. "I prevailed upon the garrison commander, Mr. Sabine." Her smile was fleeting. "Actually I resorted to a slight deception. I implied that my cousin Percy sent me."

"And did he?"

"Not exactly."

"I thought Gerrod would have forbidden me any visitors."

"Captain Gerrod has no authority over the fortress garrison, nor is he much liked here on the island."

"Then he didn't send you to question me?"

A look of puzzlement drew her fine brows together. "No. Why would you think so?"

Nicholas shrugged. If she was dissembling, he would be much surprised. But if she had an ulterior purpose for coming here, he couldn't fathom what it was. Did she want something from him?

When he reached for the bundle she had brought him, she retreated a step, as if fearing his proximity. He withdrew the shirt and carefully pulled it on, wincing at his aching muscles.

"Forgive me, my lady," he mused aloud, "but I fail to understand your reason for championing me, a stranger, and a condemned prisoner, at that."

"I didn't care to see a man murdered before my eyes. It seemed the captain was far too eager to find an excuse to kill you. At the very least his men would have beaten you senseless."

"That still is no reason for you to play Lady Bountiful, bent upon kindness and good deeds."

The cynicism in his tone made her chin lift a degree. "I wasn't satisfied that you would be cared for."

"And you wish to make my final days more comfortable? Why?"

Why indeed? Aurora wondered. It was impossible to explain the affinity she felt for him. Even harder to deny. He was a privateer at the very least. A violent man. One with blood on his hands.

And now that he was no longer defenseless, his effect on her was even more forceful. He'd been given a chance to wash off the blood, and his handsomeness was astonishing, even with the stubble on his jaw. That rough growth along with the strip of muslin wrapping his head gave him a rakish appearance, making him look very much the lawless pirate.

She could well see why her cousin called him dangerous with the ladies. He had the sinful allure of a fallen angel, with hair the color of amber, and a face whose planes and angles were beautifully sculpted. The brazen sight of his bronzed shoulders and hard-muscled arms, too, had stirred an odd fluttering in her stomach.

Yet his face could have been carved in stone now, and the cold insolence of his stare took her aback. He seemed highly mistrustful of her motives – which was not so surprising, since she wasn't certain of them herself.

Her reaction to his beating this morning had been purely instinctive, perhaps because intervening in violent disputes had become an ingrained habit with her. More times than she cared to count she had stepped in to shield defenseless servants in her father's household from his irrational fury.