My Lady Pirate (21 page)

He didn’t hear her. She wasn’t even sure she heard the words herself or just merely thought them. She tried to move her tongue. It was thick, swollen and dry, filling her mouth. She didn’t even have enough saliva to moisten her lips. Then the sofa moved as Gray stood up. The button soared heavenward, out of her sight, followed by another, another, another, all gold, all glittering, all with that same anchor on them. Her head rolled on the pillow and through the slit of her eye she saw his immaculate white breeches, the fine, snowy stockings that hugged his calves, a sheathed sword at his hip, peeping out from beneath long, navy blue coattails.

Behind him, the room. No, not a room. A ship’s cabin. A very
grand
ship’s cabin, with a huge cannon snugged into place, rich furniture arranged in a pleasing fashion, and on the bulkheads, woodcuts and giltframed portraits of fierce men dressed in clothes that had gone out of fashion long ago, men with savagery in their eyes, men wielding pistols, cutlasses, swords, men who were— Pirates?

Her head hurt. It was all too much to absorb.

She felt his hand against her cheek, and something hard and slippery touching her lips. A glass. Water. But she couldn’t move her mouth. She tried to turn her head on the pillow, but didn’t have the strength. Her eyes slitted open again, and she felt her breath whispering against his fingers, smelled his clean, male scent, saw the dark hairs springing up on the back of his hand.

He was sitting with her again. He touched her mouth, then dipped his finger into the glass, spreading moisture over her parched lips with the gentle caress of a lover.

If she was dead, then she had gone to Paradise.

The water was soothing, his movements slow and infinitely tender. She heard his voice

above her head, then close to her brow.

Felt his lips, touching her forehead.

“You’re not going to die, Maeve. You’re not going to die, because I am not going to
let
you die. Do you hear me? And if you give up and abandon
me,
so help me God, I shall never forgive you.”

Some of the water trickled into her mouth. Her tongue moved, absorbing it with the thirst of a sponge. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, in her heart, and wished he would put his arms around her and tell her she was going to be all right.

I am not going to
let
you die.

He touched her jaw, his fingers warm and strong as he tilted her head up. She felt the rim of the glass against her lips, and water, no more than a teaspoonful, seeped into her mouth. His thumb brushed her throat.

“Swallow.”

“I can’t,” she croaked.

“Swallow!”

She tried to turn away but he held her firmly. Water trickled down her throat and she

swallowed, coughed, greedily tried to take more of it—but he held it back, cruelly, not allowing her any more.

A wrenching sob broke from her.

She heard the thud of the glass hitting a table, and then he was embracing her, unabashedly, wholeheartedly, murmuring gentle words of love and encouragement into her hair. Something cracked inside her; her own tears came flooding out in force, tumbling down her cheeks, soaking his fine clothes. She cried because she lacked the strength to hug him back. She cried because she was dead and so was he. She cried because he cared so much for her whereas she had abandoned
him,
turned him over to Nelson for execution, and she cried because one of those glittering gold buttons was pressing into her cheek and it hurt.

He rocked her, back and forth, back and forth, for a long time, just holding her, just stroking her hair until she quieted. Then he set her back, and she managed to open her eyes. He was looking at her, and never, in anyone’s face, had she seen such raw anguish, such all-consuming love.

Not since she had been a little girl and the apple of her father’s eye, had anyone gazed at her with such tender adoration—and Maeve did not know how to react to it.

“Maeve, my love . . . I’m sorry. Everything will be all right . . . You’re safe now. I promise.

I’ll not let anything happen to you . . . Ever . . .

He laid his palm against her cheek, cupping it lovingly, tracing its curve, its shape, through the wetness of her tears. His eyes were dark blue, the exact shade of his coat.

“But you’re . . . dead . . .
I'm
dead!” And indeed, she must be, because here she was, dreaming, certainly, with the man she’d sent to his death sitting on the bed with her and looking for all the world like someone straight out of the Royal Navy, not just
any
someone but an
important
someone; complete with rich, tasseled epaulets and stars atop each shoulder; complete with a medal, not just any medal but the medal of the Nile, hanging from a ribbon around his neck and against that white waistcoat; complete with— Earring?

“No,” he murmured, gently, thumbing her cheek and wiping the tears away. “Not dead.” He

bent his head, his glossy black hair caught at his nape and trailing down his back—no wonder she could see the earring, but important people in the Royal Navy didn’t wear earrings, pirates weren’t important, traitors were executed, Gray was
dead
— He must have seen the question in her eyes. He must have read her confusion, for he smiled gently, folded her hand in his, and raised it to his lips.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly, looking at her from over the top of her

knuckles, “but you see, Maeve—I
am
you Gallant Knight after all. I fulfill every blasted one of your criteria.”

There had been only one that he hadn’t fulfilled, one miserable, wretched one.

For the first time she realized just what that uniform—that gilt-laced uniform, the burst of white lace at his throat, the stiff, high coat collar framing his neck, his jaw—his
clean-shaven
jaw—meant.

“This must be my eternal punishment,” she managed to say as she struggled to raise herself.

“To see you as the man I always dreamed of having and to not be alive to enjoy it.”

He eased her back down and then turned her palm up, pressing his lips there, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Sweetheart, you are alive. I am alive. And since I cannot be the pirate I always dreamed of being, I fell in love with one instead. I am not a traitor, I am not a deserter, and in time I will explain it all to you. For now, just trust that I
am
your Gallant Knight.” He smiled. “Your officer.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“My friends call me Gray. My men address me as Sir Graham. And the rest of the world

knows me as”—he smiled a sheepish, charming grin that pushed a dimple into his chin—”Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath and Commander of the Leeward Islands

squadron of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station. My flag is hoisted on His Majesty’s Ship
Triton,
and we're on our way to Barbados to pick up a convoy of merchant ships to escort back to England, where I shall enjoy a long-deserved leave with you as my wife, if you’ll have me, before duty returns me to my post. Maeve?”

Her eyes were slipping shut.

“Maeve?”

But the shock was too much for her.

The Pirate Queen had fainted.

Admiral Falconer lea ned down, slid his arms behind her shoulders, and cupping her lolling head in the palm of his hand, pulled her gently, tenderly, up against his chest. Her hair was soft against his newly shaven jaw and she felt fragile in his arms, vulnerable. Resting his cheek atop her hair, he took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and cursed himself roundly for his impatience in confessing the truth about who he really was.

It was brutally hot in the cabin, and her body was a damp, sweat-drenched furnace that made the folds of her nightshirt cling to her every curve. The feel of her molded so intimately against himself did nothing to cool his blood. But, wrapped in his cottony nightshirt with her hair caught in a long braid, she looked more like a little girl than a hardened sea-queen, and Sir Graham felt only a fierce sense of protectiveness as he held her so tenderly in his arms.

God, how he had missed her.

But it was no excuse for being impatient. He could have stripped down to shirt and breeches, if only to lessen the shock when she awoke. But no. Instead, he'd been so desperate to prove to her that he did indeed fulfill that final requirement of hers—that of being a heroic officer—that he'd been thoughtless. He'd been so eager to show her that he was indeed no deserter, no pirate, but an actual knight, indeed, that he'd sat here sweating in his finest dress uniform waiting for her to regain her senses.

He had wanted to impress her.

Surprise her.

Instead, he had shocked her into oblivion.

Such behavior was highly uncharacteristic of him. He was an admiral, a man who was

supposed to display patience, forethought, intuition, discipline, and purpose. To think he’d neglected all that in his boyish eagerness to prove himself worthy of her affection and ideals.

He felt like a wretch.

Well, he would make it up to her. Somehow, some way. He held her close, smoothing the

long braid that hung down her back and letting his fingers drift to her side, where he could feel the bandage beneath the thin, damp nightshirt. Although the ball had only nicked a rib and exited without damaging anything vital, the wound had bled with shocking intensity, and he shuddered at the memory of her still body as he’d carried her off
Victory
and onto his own flagship.

Dear God, he'd come so close to losing her. Too close. The very thought of how near she'd come to death was enough to take years off his life. Well, no more. He vowed that once he married her, all piratical activity on her part would come to an abrupt end. She could play the Pirate Queen in bed, but beyond that, she would be Lady Falconer, pampered, cherished, adored, and living the life that he, as the most senior officer in the Caribbean, could well afford to give her.

He buried his face against her hair, overcome by the depth of his feelings for her. “I am sorry for deceiving you, Maeve, and I know you'll hate me for it. 'Twill be a tough road, teaching you to trust again after what I have done, and if there had been another way, I'd have taken it.

But there was not. I love you, dearest. I will endeavor to be all that you ever desired . . . and God strike me dead if ever I allow a single hair of your head to be harmed.”

Just then, the marine sentry outside the door thumped his musket on the deck. “Flag-captain to see you, sir!”

Gray sighed and stared up at the deckhead, which danced with refracted sunlight. “Come in, Colin.”

The door opened and Captain Lord entered, the ship’s cat trailing in his wake and rubbing herself affectionately against his ankles. But then, all animals seemed to gravitate toward Colin, a peculiarity Sir Graham had noted and often wondered about. The flag-captain, more sensible than himself in this wretched heat, was stripped down to shirt and breeches, and his hat was tucked smartly under his arm. Despite the fact that the fair hair at his temples was dark with sweat, his manner lacked none of its usual aplomb and only his eyes revealed his concern.

“How fares my cousin, sir?”

Gray gave a snort of self-disgust. “She'd have fared far better had I kept my damned mouth shut.”

“Sir?”

“I told her the truth and it shocked her insensible,” he admitted, sheepishly.

“I see.”

“Perhaps I should not have told her
which
admiral I am; the knowledge probably did much to upset her, given my er . . . uh—”

“Reputation, sir?”

“Uh, yes, Colin, that is a good word for it, is it not? But oh, no matter,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal of the idea, “my pillaging and plundering days with regard to the fair sex are over. I have found my treasure, at last.”

Colin hid a grin. His stare, keen despite the deceptive softness of his lavender-gray eyes, settled on his admiral as he held the girl so tenderly in his arms. Sir Graham loved women, yes, but never had Colin seen him treat one with the sort of obsessive, worshipful devotion he’d bestowed upon Maeve Merrick from the moment he'd brought her aboard. He’d made a bed for her on the sofa tucked beside the starboard bulkhead, bathed her damp skin, and braided her hair to get the hot, heavy mass off her neck. He’d flung open all the stern windows and gone into a rare fit of temper when the tropical breezes had dimmed and the air grew sultry, hot and still. His demands had sent the harassed Dr. Ryder running for the escape of a rum bottle, a midshipman into tears, and the company into hushed and strained eagerness to obey every order relayed through the lieutenants’ speaking trumpets. And to top it all off, Sir Graham had had a blazing argument with Maeve’s formidable lieutenant, Enolia, over who would get custody of the convalescing Pirate Queen.

Despite the fact the warrior-woman had pulled a gun on him, there was, of course, no

arguing with an admiral.

Sir Graham had gotten his way.

Was his philandering superior finally and truly in love? Well, given Sir Graham’s obsession with pirates, Colin was not surprised. It would only stand to reason that he would fall in love with his very own Anne Bonney; God only knew what had happened on that island of hers!

Picking up the worshipful cat, Colin turned to go.

“Did you want something, Colin?”

The flag-captain paused. He looked at Sir Graham, sitting on the sofa with the girl held

protectively in his arms, and wished that he, too, had someone to love and cherish. But Colin was a private person, and accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself. “Aye, sir. The masthead has just raised Barbados.”

“And?”

“We should close with it by nightfall, sir. The convoy is assembled there and waiting for us to escort it home.”

“Very well then, Colin. The sooner we’re out of the Indies, the better. Escorting a damned convoy of merchant ships back to England is a duty I'd sooner not have to undertake. We shan’t dally, though, and will make quick work of getting underway tomorrow. After that . . .