My Lady Pirate (13 page)

She touched the anchor tattooed on his big shoulder, her gaze moving over his chest, the flat slabs of his ribs, the taut indentation of his belly, the trail of dark hair leading to his cock, now lying in repose within its bed of soft, black hair. The sight of it, and thoughts of the pleasure it had brought her, caused her to flush and squeeze her legs together against the sudden ache there.

God, he was a handsome devil. Perfect. Bold, charming, and
magnificent.
He was all she had ever dreamed about, all she had ever prayed for, and despite the fact he wasn’t a decorated hero, he was, perhaps, her Gallant Knight.

Yet who was he? What did she know about him, except that he was a skilled, imaginative,

and attentive lover, that he’d once been in the Royal Navy—and that Lord Nelson would pay anything to get him back?

He had said it was love at first sight for him. Yet, it was ridiculous to think he could love someone like herself. She was hard-bitten, hard-used, the antithesis of femininity, softness, and charm. She fought with swords, stole from ships, commanded a crew of women plucked from slavery, indenture, prostitution, and the tyranny of abusive mates. She didn't know much about him, but it was equally true that he didn't know much about her, either.

Would he, too, desert her, as her long-ago lover had, as the world had—as her
family
had?

The brief joy fled her heart like sunlight behind a cloud, turning chill and cold and damp.

Perhaps Mama, spirited and fun, might have found her roguish lover charming
,
but her fine, upstanding father would never have approved of this piratical spy who had ravished her so relentlessly. But then, he hadn’t approved of his errant daughter herself, nor her wicked, wanton ways, either.

He’d sure as hell proved
that
when he never even bothered to come looking for her after she’d run away from home seven years past.

Sudden tears stung her eyes.
But I was only sixteen years old,
she thought.
Young and silly
and foolish. I thought I knew best. I thought I knew everything. Don't all of us at that age?
Her throat tightened.
Why didn't you come looking for me, Daddy?
Is forgiveness so hard for you?

For you, Daddy, of all people?

Maeve’s chin came up and a sob caught in her throat. She slammed her palm over her

mouth to stifle it, feeling the hateful tears running warmly over her fingers, down her arm.

Grown women didn’t cry; tough, hardened,
pirate queens
didn’t cry. Damn her eyes, what the hell was
wrong
with her?

Her lover stirred—and Maeve froze.

Dark azure eyes opened, and he looked lazily up at her through his lashes.

“There now, what’s this? Did I do something wrong?” He sat up, and tried to reach for her.

“Say something wrong?”

But she only leapt up and off the bed, putting distance between them.

Gray swung his legs off the bed and watched her in some confusion. Her color was high, her eyes wild, and her feet were planted in a warrior’s stance. She looked frightened. Angry.

Beautiful.

“It’s not you,” she said sharply, then turned and faced the window, her hair streaming in rampant glory down her back. He saw the scar of a knife high on her hip, the tautness of hard muscle beneath her golden skin. He saw pain and anger and betrayal in her stance, and everything about that stance warned him to back off.

Everything about that stance invited him to challenge it.

“If not me, then,” he asked, gently, “then what has brought you to tears, Maeve?”

“Tears? Bah, I'm not crying. Pirate Queens don't cry.”

“Of course they don't.”

Silence. It went on for several moments.

“Of course, if you were, indeed, crying, it would concern me deeply.”

“Why?”

“Because I care.”

“Care? Why should you? I mean nothing to you.”

“If you meant nothing to me, we would not be having this conversation.”

“You just want to get me back in bed with you.”

“Trust me, madam, I could get you back in bed with me very easily. But I want more than

just your body—I'm beginning to realize I may want your heart.”

“What to conquer?” she said, lifting a scornful brow.

“No, to love.”

“
Love
,” she spat. “The most absurd and empty word in the entire English language. There's nothing bothering me. Nothing that needs concern you, in any case.”

“Well, if you don't want to tell me, I understand.” He would, of course, find out one way or another just what was bothering her; if not from the Pirate Queen herself, then from one of her pack of she-wolves. After all, his position in life required that he be a master at extracting information. Obviously, there was more here than this formidable young woman was willing to admit, and by God and the devil, he would get to the bottom of it before his business on this island was up.

She turned and looked at him for a long moment, absently chewing her bottom lip, her eyes calculating. “I don't make it a habit to talk about my past with people I don't know,” she said.

“But I confess, there's something about you, pirate, that makes me want to trust you. I
don't
trust you, of course. I don't trust anyone.”

“I give you my word, that your heart is safe with me.”

“My heart is a castle, and there's a deep moat around it with no way across.”

“I'll bet a determined and
gallant knight
could cross that moat,” he said, with a little grin.

“I can't let the drawbridge down. It's not in my nature. Besides, you're no knight. You're a
pirate.”

No knight? He grinned, secretively, to himself.
How wrong you are, madam.

“Oh, blast it,” she said, finally. “What difference does it make whether or not you know?

It's certainly not going to change anything.” She turned away, looking suddenly vulnerable and young, despite her air of forced insouciance. “Aye, I was crying. And you're thinking it's another man, aren't you?”

“Well . . . was it?”

“No.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “It’s my parents.”

He raised a brow.

“Surprised you, didn't I?” She made a scoffing sound. “Not a man. My parents. I miss

them.”

“I'm sorry . . . how long have they been dead?”

“Dead?” She laughed, just a little too loudly. “They're not dead. To me, maybe, but not the world. At least, I hope they're not.”

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue. She turned her back on him and went to the window, where she placed her hands on the sill and looked out over the bay. A little breeze came up, pushing at her hair.

“My father was a famous privateer during the American War of Independence,” she said at

last. “My mother was the best gunner on his ship.” She looked down, and began to kick at the rug with her bare toe. “And I was the apple of my daddy's eye.”

Even from this distance, he could see her fingers tightening upon the sill.

“We lived in a small New England seaport, a close community that neither welcomed, liked, nor trusted strangers. So when Renaud sailed into town—he was a boatswain on a French

merchantman—my parents were instantly disapproving of him, and, the interest he took in me.

Not . . . that I didn't encourage him. He was a handsome rake, charming, had been all over the world. He used to tell me stories about exotic places, and promise to take me anyplace I wanted to go if only I'd run away with him. . . “

“Sounds like a typical sailor,” Gray said, already guessing where this tale was headed.

“Of course, I fell in love with him. Mama and Daddy knew Renaud for what he was the

moment they met him, but oh, not me. The more their disapproval grew, the stronger my feelings for him became. Oh, how blind I was, how stubborn, how
stupid
. I spent too much time damning them for being hard and unfair, and not enough time trying to see Renaud for what he really was —a deceitful, lying vagrant, who saw in me enough innocence and naivety to get him just what he wanted.”

“Which was, I imagine, getting you into bed with him.”

“Aye, that and more. So convinced was I of his feelings for me, so cow-eyed was I over his promises, that one day, when he invited me to run away with him to a tropical isle, I went.”

“And probably broke your parents' hearts,” he murmured, softly.

“Broke their hearts? Ha! They were well rid of me, I'm sure. Not only did I steal my father's schooner to make our getaway—he designed and sailed her himself, you know, made her famous during the war—but I also took my maid, Orla, and the money that Mama used to keep hidden in a big jar in the kitchen. I left in the middle of the night, and without so much as a good-bye. And they've never forgiven me for it.”

“Never?”

She turned and glared at him, her eyes strangely moist and hard with challenge. “Well, they never came looking for me! Never made the slightest attempt to find me! Oh, no, pirate. They deserted me, left me to die in this God-forsaken hellhole of a place, never forgave me for my mistake in judgment. And I damn well wasn't going to go running back to them. I was too ashamed, because they were right about Renaud all along.”

“Let me guess. He left you high and dry. . .”

“He did indeed, after we got all the way down here and he realized it wasn't so easy to make off with my schooner in the dead of night.”

Gray set his jaw, feeling an inexplicable urge to find this Renaud and run him through with his sword. “Now I know why you dislike the French so much,” he said wryly.

“Aye. But what was done was done. I was too ashamed to go home, so I stayed here. I had

my schooner, and my maid, Orla. I was young and clever and could fight my way out of any

scuffle—my father had taught me fencing, and my brothers, how to use my fists. I learned early in life how to take care of myself, and those skills stood me well in those first years here; they stand me well now. I built a crew for myself, and now,
they
are my family.”

Very calmly, Gray let out his breath. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and comfort her in the best way he knew, but something warned him against it. Hugging her would be like embracing a thorn bush.

“And when did this all happen?” he asked.

“Seven years ago.”

“Seven years is a long time,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you could write to your parents,

explain the folly of your youth, ask for forgiveness—”

“Write them? Why should I?” She drew herself up, her eyes blazing defiance. “They don’t

give a damn about me. Why the hell should I make the first effort?”

“Well, someone has to, otherwise, things will not change.”

Her eyes were unnaturally bright, glassy, and gold. “Well, it's not going to be me. If they care, they'll come looking for me.”

She turned back to the window, stiff and angry once more.

Gray sat there, studying her. Finally, he got up, padded across the room, and joined her at the window. Out in the distance, he could see a squall building, hanging black over the darkening bay. Carefully, he reached out, and took her hand.

Surprisingly, she allowed it.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You've suffered much pain in your young life.”

He glanced over at her, but she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she remained staring out the window, and he saw that her eyes had grown luminous beneath a fresh welling of emotion.

Something tore at his heart as he considered this courageous little pirate queen who wasn’t quite brave enough to allow herself to be vulnerable to more hurt by taking the first step in repairing her past—and he felt a rush of warmth for her. It was more than lust; it was more than admiration for a woman who was proving to be the embodiment of his every fantasy; it was affection and concern, protectiveness and caring for another person, and Gray—raised in a gentle, loving, family—was not afraid to allow himself such feelings.

For he, unlike the formidable woman at the window, was not afraid to let go of his heart, or, his pride.

“I will not desert you,” he vowed, and meant it, even if it meant coming straight back here after she returned him to Nelson.

“No, of course you won't,” she said sarcastically, but he saw her throat move, and her eyes seemed to float in a pool of building moisture.

Without saying a word, Gray pulled his hand from hers, and gently slid his arm around her waist. She said nothing, and just stood stiffly against him while they both watched the storm clouds moving rapidly closer; she stood like that for a long moment, then, the tears spilled over and began to drip quietly down her cheeks.

Without a word, he pulled her close, rubbing her back as she buried her face against his

chest and quiet sobs shook her. Then he lifted his gaze and looked out to sea—where the wind raced, where the horizon stretched empty, and where somewhere, a grieving father was surely missing his capricious daughter.

The night was hot with the sultry kiss of the trades, the breezes scented by bougainvillea, vegetation, and the heady tang of the sea. 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.