My Lady Pirate (3 page)

“Your every wish,” he drawled, coming up and making an elaborate, all-encompassing

gesture with his arm, “is my command.” And then, mockingly:
“Majesty.”

She was still not amused. Her cohorts were not amused. Even the parrot that swung on a

perch near the window did not seem amused. The Pirate Queen’s mouth went white with fury

and the cutlass kissed his chest, drawing a bead of blood.

“Kneel,” she commanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said
kneel,
damn you!”

Deliberately, Gray let his gaze travel the length of that heavy sword and the arm that held it, until it once again met her angry gold eyes. He gave a faint smile. She posed him no particular threat. He could disarm her in a moment, of course; she was only a woman, and a young one at that. But mercifully, he decided to spare her dignity in front of this malevolent pack of she-wolves. Pushing the sword away with casual nonchalance he said, “Dear lady, I kneel to no one.”

He then turned on his bare heel to leave.

A knife hissed past his ear and impaled itself in the mahogany frame of the door, two inches away from his nose. And in that moment, he realized that the situation called for a definite—and immediate—reassessment.

His amusement faded abruptly and he reached toward the dagger.

“Don't,”
came the Pirate Queen’s voice. “Unless you place no value on your life.”

Yes, a most definite reassessment of the situation.

The room grew deathly quiet. Somewhere, someplace, he heard his own thundering

heartbeat and, in that moment, became desperately aware of everything: the greenery, shiny with rain and thrashing in the storm just outside; the angry bay with its cruising whitecaps beyond; the warm breath of wind and rain; the sudden sweat on his brow; the chill of the floor beneath his feet. Then someone jabbed a pistol against his skull, another into his back, and he was acutely aware of
her,
coming up behind him.

Slow, measured, footsteps. The soft rustle of her clothing. The hot force of her anger as
she

—the woman whose existence he now wished he
hadn’t
discounted, the woman who, if the tales were to be believed, was as likely to slice off an errant manroot as cut out a tongue that wagged too much for her liking—came up behind him.

“Imperious
dog,”
she seethed, standing on tiptoe to better hiss into his ear. And then that hiss changed to the roar of an angry lioness:
“How dare you come here and insult me!”

It seemed that even the wind hushed, not daring to intrude upon the Pirate Queen’s fury.

“Gallant Knight, my
arse,”
she snarled. “So much,
ladies,
for your stupid spell! I told you the Sight foresaw what manner of man I’d have, and it has proved true!”

“ ’Twas the gull shit that ruined the spell, Majesty,” someone murmured.

“Silence!”

The pistol thrust against the back of his skull. “Shall I kill him now, Captain?”

“Nay, Enolia, that honor will be
mine,”
the Pirate Queen spat, her breath blasting Gray’s neck like the hot wind of a close broadside. He could feel her stare burning a hole between his shoulders, the heat of her lissome body blazing through his damp and clinging shirt. “Lucia! Jan!

Tell me where you found this . . . this
dog
.”

“Turlough brought him, Majesty.”

“Turlough. I shall have to speak to that damned dolphin! This time, his penchant for

rescuing people has gone too far.”

Speak to a dolphin?
This woman was not only bloodthirsty, but crazy as well. But Gray’s snort of derision ended in an abrupt grunt of pain as the pistol was again thrust against his skull with force enough to make him see stars.

“No one laughs at Her Royal Highness!”

“Nay, let him be,” the Pirate Queen commanded on a haughty note of disdain. “He’ll learn

soon enough. Lower your weapons, ladies. I’ve no wish to address this
vermin
by the back of his head! Let him turn and face me as a man, and prove to me he can
die
as one, too!”

The pistols were withdrawn with obvious reluctance, but not before the one pressed to

Gray’s spine was driven hard against his vertebrae for good measure. He set his teeth and bit back a curse.

The cutlass slammed against the doorjamb, two inches from his face. “I said turn around,

damn you!”

Slowly, he turned to face his tormenter. The cutlass was clenched in her fist as she stared up at him, bare feet spread in the stance of a warrior, her mouth hard, and her complexion hot with anger. Fire flashed in her eyes
—tiger eyes,
he thought—and he saw her gaze dip, as though she could not help herself, to take in the expanse of his chest, and follow the spearhead of dark hair that disappeared beneath his breeches. He didn’t say a word, only letting a little smile play about his mouth in recognition of and response to her obvious interest.

“Damn you,
kneel!”
she raged, and lashing out, drove her hand savagely against his shoulder.

Her action did nothing to budge a man who had some eighty pounds of solid muscle and

sinew on this spitting cat of a woman. But it shook the Pirate Queen to the very core. She staggered, dropped the cutlass, and fell back against the wall, her face paling, her lips parting and going white. Instantly, two of her evil consorts—one a dark-haired sprite with a Celtic look about her, the other wheaten-haired and garbed in canvas trousers and a shirt of bright paisley, rushed to her aid.

“Captain!”

“The Sight . . .” she murmured, staring at him with dawning horror and yes, fear.

They were mad, the whole damned lot of them, as mad as a compass with the needle

pointing south! Shaking his head, Gray thought of leaving, but something stopped him. It was not the threat of pistol, cutlass, nor knife. It was not the imperious command of a woman he could have disarmed in the beat of a moment, nor the horde of female savages hovering protectively around her.

It was the woman herself.

Supported by her crew, she was still staring at him, a pulse beating wildly at her throat, her lips—lovely lips, of the sort to drive a man to madness—parted and trembling.

“You . . .” she whispered, in a tremulous voice.

And then, without warning, she shot to her feet, visibly shaken but in command of herself once more.
“Who the hell are you?”
she demanded, seizing her cutlass and storming forward.

“Gray.”

“Gray
what?”

“Just . . . Gray.”

Twin stains of scarlet flared to life beneath her high cheekbones. “You’ll be
gray
and
dead
if you persist in this deliberate taunting of me! Don’t think I won’t run you through and enjoy every moment of it! I asked your name, damn you!”

He shrugged, leaned negligently against the doorframe, and, with studied nonchalance,

plucked the dagger from the wood and gallantly offered it—hilt first—to her. “And so I have told you.” He gave a faint smile as she grabbed the knife. “Gray.”

Her eyes narrowing, she thrust the dagger into the scabbard at her belt. “Your ship, then.”

“
Tri
-”

He caught himself just in time.

“Try
-what?”
she demanded, raising the cutlass threateningly.

He pushed it away. ‘Tri . . .
umphant.”

“Bah! I’ve never heard of her, and I know every ship that plies the waters between these

islands. You lie!”

“I do not lie.”

“I do not lie,
Majesty!”
she roared.

He smirked. “Aye, you’re right, I do not.”

The cutlass slashed down three inches from where his shoulder rested lazily against the

doorframe. “Dare you anger me? You shall regret the day you crossed my bows, damn you!

Orla! Enolia! Seize this dog and throw him in the dungeon! A few days of starvation in company with the
rats
will soon teach him to show manners to a lady and respect to a
sovereign.”

“Lady?”
he murmured, with a dubious grin.

This time the flat of the cutlass slammed against the side of his head, and when Gray awoke, it was to pitch-darkness . . .

And chains.

###

shadowy darkness. Her hands were crossed behind her head, her body sweating from the island heat. Outside, she could hear the roar of the sea, the soft, eternal rustle of breezes moving through the palms.

“Gallant Knight, ha!” she snarled.

But her anger, which intimidated most in its path, could not scare away the truth, no matter how much she might have wished it. There was the Sight. The Vision she’d had foretelling his arrival. And despite what Aisling had said, she knew the Sight was seldom wrong. . .

Maeve shuddered, suddenly afraid.

Bah!
She was not
afraid!

But she was.

He was The One. She knew it in her bones, knew it in the way she’d responded to his

confident virility, even as she denied it with all her heart. She who had wished for a gallant leader just like her father, the legendary privateer Captain Brendan Jay Merrick. She who idolized the brave English Admiral Lord Nelson. She who had (privately, of course) yearned for a sea officer cut from the same mold as men such as these. But what had she been given? A pirate. A bloody, useless,
pirate
with bad manners, a tattoo on his arm, and an insolence she had yet to see matched. Oh, she knew his kind; devastatingly handsome, fatally charming, and likely to break a woman’s heart.

And
Gray.
What the hell sort of name was
that?

Don’t think about him!

Cursing, she flung herself onto her side and stared out her window and into the night, her gaze on the starlit horizon, her heart twisting and turning and reminding her that the object of her thoughts, and, unfortunately, her desire, was locked up just outside.

Don’t think about him.

She turned her face into the pillow, pounded it with her fist.

Don’t think about him.

Her heart slowed, became regular again, and closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe deep and hard, finally putting that wickedly handsome face out of her mind and replacing it with older, gentler memories, until at last her anger cooled and her spirit began to drift back through time. . .

Home. It would be late spring now. Robins on the lawns, birds' nests in the trees, lilacs and
apple blossoms bursting with color, and the ice long gone from the river. Fishing boats being
scraped down, greenheads on the beach, a fresh crop of kittens following Mama from the house
to the barn to the pasture. . .

Her eyes shot open.

“No,” she whispered into the darkness. “Don’t think about
that,
either. . .”

But it was no use.

Daddy at the shipyard with Uncle Matt, working on plans for a new brig or a fine frigate,
while her brothers and sisters and cousins played atop the logs that floated in the mast pond;
Mama trying desperately to make a fruit pie and wondering why everyone had an excuse for
skipping dessert . . . ornery old Grandpa Ephraim, surrounded by his beloved clocks and still
fighting with his short-tempered daughter. . .

It had been seven years since she’d last seen their beloved faces, seven years since she'd allowed herself to cry over all she had lost, and now the tears spilled over, running silently down her face to soak the hot pillow beneath her cheek. She dug her nails into her palms, furious at her inability to quell this womanly weakness, but she had no more control over the tears than she did the memories that had brought them.

Seven long years. Of watching the horizon for authorities who would never find her. Of

watching the horizon for rival pirates over whom she must continue to triumph.

Of watching the horizon for a daddy who had never come.

It was the most heartrending betrayal of all.

Maeve Merrick—daughter of the most famous privateer of the American Revolution and

now, the undisputed Pirate Queen of the Caribbean—rolled over in bed and sobbed for all she was worth, for she didn’t need the Sight to know that the handsome rake chained in the old storehouse just outside was no Gallant Knight— but the next in a line of men who would only break her heart.

In the dark gloom of the dungeon it took Gray exactly forty-five minutes to work himself

free of his bonds, and another ten minutes to assess the walls that enclosed him. It was no dungeon at all, but a simple chamber of stone. In other days, it had probably been used to keep foodstuffs cool; now, it was as empty as the hold of a warship too long at sea, and smelled no better. Mildew, moss, stone . . . well, perhaps a
little
better, he thought wryly.

He’d cursed those rough walls when he’d awakened—and blessed them when he discovered

that, by rubbing his wrists up and down against the cool stone, he could steadily chafe away the hemp that bound him. He'd made short work of it, of course.

Now, his hands were free, his wrists scraped and bleeding. His clothes—especially the snug-tight breeches—were still damp and now, itchy with salt against his skin. That discomfort, however, paled in comparison to the loss he felt for his precious jackboots. They were probably gone for good. And while Gray was not one to admit defeat by any means, he was certainly ready to call a cease-fire, and the manacles around his ankles demanded he do just that.

And so he waited.

He looked outside, past a rusty, iron-spiked door entangled with vines bursting with pink and scarlet flowers. Sunset blazed on the horizon like a rim of molten flame, turning the serene waters of the bay orange, the beach pink, and casting the palm trees in silhouette. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. In that sheltered harbor lay the finest schooner he’d ever seen in all his thirty-six years.