She thought she might be sick all over the Captain. That would impress him. ‘Please don’t kill me,’ she blurted, tears spilling at last from her depthless brown eyes. ‘Watering my tablecloth will not deter me from finding out your true story, Miss Smith,’ said the Captain severely. ‘Dry those tears and tell me the truth. I do not intend to kill you, though you may wish I had by the time I’m finished here tonight.’ Kitty choked down the sobs. What an unfeeling bastard! Did he expect her to be happy that she was facing an infamous rogue with no clothes on? ‘I’m…a poor….Bristol…street girl,’ she juddered obstinately. The Captain sighed, flung down his napkin and raised himself to his full six feet and one inch. ‘Very well, Kitty, you insist you are no lady, and therefore I will not treat you as such.’ He could capitalise on this foolish wench’s pigheadedness, and he planned to make the most of his unexpected female company. ‘Come here.’ Kitty covered her mouth with her hands. They raced up the stairs to their room and hastily undressed. They showered separately and changed into warm clothes. Robert dropped their dirty and wet clothes back down to the proprietor and ordered a bottle of Cognac for them. He got two glasses and thanked the man profusely before rushing back upstairs to find Juliana shuffling a deck of cards. “I have found a box of matchsticks and I thought we might play for them, darling,” she suggested. She was sitting at one end of the bed, cross legged, dressed in a pair of jeans and an Irish-knit Aran sweater. Robert poured two very large Cognacs and sat opposite her. “Strip?” he inquired. Juliana grinned and nodded her assent. The first hand went to Robert who beat Juliana with a pair of fives compared to her twos. She slowly took off her sweater revealing a white blouse. He also won the second hand with a full house, seven over twos to Juliana’s two pairs. This time her jeans came off, revealing her creamy thighs, red socks and black.
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