My Lady Pirate (39 page)

He slammed the pencil down and looked up, his eyes penetrating, fiery.

“You are . . . brilliant, sir.”

“I said,
do you understand,
Gray?!”

Gray met that intent stare. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “I understand
indeed
.”

A plan to tempt the mouse out of the hole. A plan to
divide and conquer
.

Not a French fleet—but a Pirate Queen’s heart.

“Very well then,” Nelson snapped, but his eyes were gleaming. He smiled, faintly. “Now get back to your ship, Falconer, and be about it!”

###

beaten rock stretching away into a long coast swallowed up by mist. Clutching the rail, she choked back the seasickness that had been hers for the last week, and stared bleakly off into the fog.

She had never been seasick a day in her life.

And she knew that her nausea was not
mal de mer
. Now, as the convoy and the little squadron that accompanied it beat its way up-channel—the two frigates that had survived the battle on station to windward,
Triton
lumbering along with the rear admiral’s flag at her mizzen, and Lord Nelson’s
Victory,
minus the Mediterranean Fleet which had been left at Gibraltar, in the van—Maeve could only view her future with dread and uncertainty.

“Gray,” she whispered, as the cool mist drifted across the deck and touched her face. She thought of him the last time she’d seen him, when he’d broken down the door to her cabin and in a towering rage, forced her to listen to him.

Forced her to love him.

No,
she thought on a little smile.
Not forced
. . . He would never have to
force
her to do
that

. . .

But then her smile faded, for he’d left her after that stormy scene—and she hadn’t seen him since.

Night after night she’d lain in her bunk aboard
Kestrel,
burning with desire for him, staring out at the lights of the mighty
Triton
and pining for him with a desperation that burned a hole in her heart. Night after night she cried herself to sleep, wishing she dared trust him enough to give up her hard-won life of independence. And day after day a boat had put off from
Triton,
carrying a cheeky midshipman with a packet of sealed dispatches for her. Except they weren’t dispatches at all, but ardent declarations of love and devotion written in the admiral’s atrociously unreadable hand.

And then, unexplainably, the letters had stopped coming.

Just like that.

Now, the only contact she had with the flagship was a daily exchange of signals—signals

that advised where
Kestrel
should be positioned, signals that conveyed the admiral’s annoyance when she strayed too far from the Fleet, signals that spelled out friendly invitations to Aisling and Sorcha to have dinner with him and his flag-captain, Colin Lord.

You’ve got to tell him, Maeve.

No. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell her crew, whose loyalties she no longer trusted.

Would your life as an admiral’s wife be as bad as all that? He said you could go to sea with
him. He said you could always stay near him. He said you could have all the freedom you
wanted. His only wish is that you give up the pirating. And given that he’s an admiral, that’s
really not such an unreasonable request . . . is it?

“I
can’t
!” she whispered.

Why not?

“Because . . . I don’t
know
any other life! Because I’m scared, dammit!”

She saw the mist drifting around his flagship, making the great man-of-war look like a ghost vessel in the dim gray light of morning.
Kestrel
surged on a swell, and again she felt the nausea curling in her belly, and with it the terror . . . the joy . . . and the realization that she was soon going to have to make a decision.

If not for herself, then for the tiny life that grew within her.

Do you want his baby to grow up to a life of thieving, piracy, and killing, only to die some
day at the end of a noose? Or do you want it to have what you once had . . . two loving
parents . . . a belly that is always full . . . a fine education, a safe home, and a solid
understanding of decency, morals, and guidance?

A father.

Doesn’t that innocent little life deserve more than what you alone can give it?

Her hand strayed protectively to her belly.

Doesn’t it?

She could smell the land now, the fishy stench of a harbor, the smoke from chimneys, the

ripe scent of grass and vegetation.
A father.
She thought of her own, who had once served this country and later fought against it, and wondered if he had once glimpsed these same shores, strode the very streets she would soon walk. She thought of the proud schooner that had carried her here, which had once fought against Britain’s fleet and now sailed in company with not one, but two English admirals. To have British colors flying from her gaff didn’t seem right—but yet, it
was.
It was poignant, strangely ironic, almost as though
Kestrel
had come home.

The mist parted and she had a clear view of Sir Graham’s massive man of war. There was a

cluster of officers gathered on her quarterdeck, and it was all Maeve could do not to raise her glass and try to find
him
in its circular field.

Oh, Daddy. I wish you were here to advise me . . . I don’t know what to do.

Marry him, of course. You love him, don’t you?

She hugged her arms to herself and bent her head, torn, scared, and never feeling so alone in her life . . . while forward,
Kestrel's
jibboom thrust through the mists, steady and true as an arrow.

###

Aisling and Sorcha had come aboard
Triton
the previous evening with the declaration that they wanted to make biscuits for Colin Lord, and had ended up staying the night—safe, of

course, in a lieutenant’s cabin under the grumbling protection of Sergeant Handley after the culinary deed was done. Now, Gray wished that his heart wasn’t so damned soft with regard to letting them stay, for his belly was sick after overindulging in the treats and he was nursing a headache of thundering proportions.

So much for drawing the “enemy” into his own camp, he thought wryly. He had all of them

eating out of his hand except Her Majesty herself.

He glared off across the misty water at the schooner as
Triton
entered the Spithead anchorage, fired her guns in salute to the port admiral, turned into the wind and let her massive anchor splash down into the sea.

He turned to his flag-lieutenant. “Mr. Stern, make a signal to
Kestrel
. Tell Captain Merrick,
repair to
Flag
immediately.
I wish to see her before I’m called to pay my respects to the port admiral.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gray caught the arm of a midshipman as the boy hustled past in the lieutenant’s wake. “Mr.

Hayes!”

“Sir!”

“Go and ready my barge. And be quick about it.” Off to starboard, he heard twin splashes as the frigates
Cricket
and
Harleigh
dropped anchor nearby.

“Kestrel
not acknowledging, sir.”

Gray swore beneath his breath. It was bad enough his own lust for the Pirate Queen had kept him up every night with an arousal as hard as his sword hilt. It was bad enough that he could think of nothing to prove the depth of his love for her. And it was bad enough he’d been forcing himself to stay away from her when he wanted nothing more than to storm aboard that damned schooner, love her until she couldn’t see straight, and carry her off as his bride.

But no. His
á la Nelson
plan of tempting the mouse out of the hole by retreating seemed to be failing miserably.

“Fire a gun and get her attention,” he snapped.

His order was promptly carried out. “She’s still not acknowledging, sir.”

Nelson’s words came back to him.
Divide and conquer
.

He stared at the little schooner. Then he yanked his hat down over his brow and calling for his barge, strode to the rail.

His patience had reached its end.

“The admiral's here, Captain!”

‘Thank you, Orla. Please show him in.” The Pirate Queen went to the stern windows and

leaned out over the water, her hands shaking. She had known it would come down to this, yes, even
hoped
it would come to this, after her blatant refusal to answer his summons—

The door crashed open and Sir Graham stood there in full uniform, magnificent in his fury, his eyes blazing.

He strode forward, slammed his hat down on the table and roared, “By God Maeve, I don’t

know what the bloody devil you’re up to but I can assure you I’ll tolerate no disobedience from any ship under my command! I
ordered
you to come aboard the Flag and you blatantly ignored my summons!”

Head high, the Pirate Queen merely shot him a scathing glance and moved gracefully across the cabin, her green satin gown whispering on the deck behind her, a shaft of stray sunlight gilding her lovely profile. She was haughty, poised, aloof, the choker of sharks’ teeth emphasizing the elegant grace of her neck, her hair piled atop her head and anchored there by a tiara of pearls. She looked every inch a queen. She looked every inch a warrior preparing for battle. She looked every inch a lady.

She turned and met his black glower. “Sir Graham.”

Reining in his temper, he folded his arms and leaned against the door, watching her and

wondering what game she was playing now, what pretense she was up to, what she was trying to prove—and what she was really trying to say but couldn't.

“Let me clear a few things up for you.” She lifted her chin, trying to look down her nose as any good queen should, but his height made that a bit difficult. “I am not part of your navy. I fly your flag as a
courtesy
to you, and do not forget it. Therefore, you cannot
order
me to do anything.”

He smiled, and looked at her through the long sweep of his lashes. “Of course. I had

forgotten.”

She turned away, her nose rising once more, her voice lofty with challenge. “Furthermore, I have decided to weigh anchor. I don’t like the looks of this place, am sick of your high-handed ways, and am leaving on the evening tide.”

“Oh?”

She faltered, her aloof composure shaken by his casual acceptance of her impending

departure. “Yes, that’s what I said. I’m
leaving,
Gray—”

“I heard what you said, dearest, and you’re not going anywhere as long as your ship is still a part of my squadron. Which, at the moment, it is. Sit down.”

“I beg to remind you that you are speaking to the
captain
of this ship—”

“And I beg to remind
you
that I am your admiral and you’ll obey
my
command.”

She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “How dare—”

“I
—
am
—
your
—
admiral.”
His tone was low and dangerous. “Is that understood?”

They stared at each other, he commanding, unbending, secure in his power and authority,

she glaring at him and refusing to back down. Her mouth began to tremble and he saw her suck her lips between her teeth; then, on a hoot of laughter, she threw herself in a chair and tilted her face to look up at him. “Oh, Gray. I love it when you get angry.”

“Look, Maeve—”

She made a flippant gesture with her hand and shook her head. “Don’t try to stop me, dear, darling Admiral. I’m leaving. Tomorrow. After I replenish supplies. I’ve made up my mind and nothing you can say or do will sway me. Besides, what is there for me here in England? Your snobbish peers will never take to a sunburned woman who sails and curses and fights with a sword.”

He merely leaned against the door with his arms crossed and one hand idly tugging at his

earring, watching her, as Nelson’s words echoed through his mind . . .

Tempt the mouse out of the hole.

“They’ll never take to someone who
kills
,” she goaded.

He refused to rise to the bait. “So, you really have to leave then, eh?”

She rose and began to walk around the cabin once more, her words no longer controlled and detached, but coming out in hurried little bursts, as though she was about to lose her studied composure and wanted to get them out while she still could. “Yes, I have to go. You see, I left unfinished business back on my island. I need to take care of my dolphin. Water my flowers.

Weed my garden . . . “

She shot him a challenging glance, her head high, her eyes unnaturally bright.

“I need to paint my dock. Make sure my island’s safe. See about getting a new set of topsails for
Kestrel
. . .”

“Like hell you do,” he said softly.

She glanced away, and in that fleeting moment, Gray knew his intuition had been right. The hauteur, the pride, the cool detachment—it was an act, just as he’d suspected. He knew women.

He knew
her
. And he saw the longing in her face, the desperate plea for him not to leave her, not to
abandon
her—

He sighed, and very gently asked, “What do you
really
want, Maeve?”

She raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes were huge, and he saw her throat working

as she bravely tried to contain her emotion.

“What I really want is—oh, God, this is difficult for me to admit, to say—”

He walked forward, took her hands in his own, squeezed them tightly. “Trust me.”

“I—”

“Trust me.”

She drew a deep, tremulous sigh, raised her head, and met his patient gaze. “What I really want, Gray, is . . . to spend the rest of my life with you, the only man that I have ever truly loved, the only man who has been patient and tactical and determined enough to pierce my armor, to understand and love me for who I am. What I want is the courage to shed that armor . . . to put the drawbridge of my castle down so that it won’t be such a cold and empty house of stone.” She looked up at him, her eyes desperate. “What I really want is the courage to trust not only you, but others, with all my heart, with the knowledge that they won’t condemn me for the hard and savage woman that I am, and because of . . . certain unexpected things in my life right now—”