Once a Pirate (13 page)

“You believe me!”

He nodded.

Joy and relief surged through her. She clutched her hands, fought to keep her breathing even. “Had I known the gun would convince you, I’d have shown it to you long ago.”

With bloodshot eyes, he contemplated the weapon in his hands.

“Would you like to see how it works?” Tapping the gun with one finger, she raised her brows in silent
entreaty. The ammo was precious, but it was worth a bullet to ensure her victory.

“Aye.”

Cautiously, she covered his hands with hers. Standing beside and somewhat behind him, she gently guided his fingers around the gun. “See? Not so different than your pistol.”

His dark brows drew together. He lifted the weapon, pointing it out the window that faced the stern.” ’Tis prepared?”

“No powder,” she told him. “Now all you do is fire.”

A muscle ticked above his stubbled, sweaty jaw. He aimed steady and true, then fired a single shot out to sea.

“Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. Holding his arm rigid, the gun firmly in his grip, he closed his eyes. “It has the gentle kick of a babe,” he said finally.

“Compared to your pistols, yes.”

“No powder is required?”

She shook her head. “It’s inside the individual bullets. The rounds.”

“Hide it.”

She stepped back. “No. Keep it. Please. You’ll need it out there.”

“No!” he snapped. “No one must see this. No one must know. Swear to me you will not show any man this weapon.”

“I swear. I—” He was regarding her in an odd, intense way. “Andrew?”

Something inside him seemed to snap. He hauled her up against him so fast that her feet came off the ground. His mouth came down hard over hers, and he
kissed her with a possessiveness that had not been there before. He smelled of gunpowder, tasted of battle—of salty sweat, the metallic tang of blood. He was impatient, almost rough, and there was both fury and frustration in his muffled, drawn-out groan.

She locked her arms behind his neck, pressing every inch of herself to him. Growling deep in his throat, he dragged his open mouth from her lips to her cheek, her ear. His hot breath sent streaks of pleasure up her spine, raised goose bumps on her arms and legs.

He gasped, “Carly . . . oh, Carly.”

Carly.

Uttering a soft cry of joy, she clasped her fingers behind his head, forcing his mouth down to hers to taste the sweet sound of her name on his lips.

Mumbling something about wanting more than kisses, he pushed her backward to where the hammocks padded the wall. In one swift motion, he caught her thighs and hoisted her up. Molding his hands over her buttocks, he lifted her atop the hard, thick bulge between his thighs.

He buried his face between her shoulder and neck and rocked his hips as though he was already inside her. His whiskers scoured her neck, his hands covered her breasts, and his breathing grew harsh and uneven. Reaching between their bodies, he fumbled with the buttons on his pants.

Driven by the lingering adrenaline from the battle, he intended to take her hard and fast against the wall, so unlike her fantasies, where he’d made slow and exquisitely tender love to her. Yet her need for him was so intense, she’d do anything he wanted.

“Yes, my sweet girl, my fire.”

Anything.

“Amanda—”

“Carly,” she corrected breathlessly.

He gaped at her blankly, as though he’d woken up to find a stranger wrapped around him.

“What is it, Andrew?”

Anguish flashed in his eyes. He made a choked groan and went rigid. Carly’s thighs slid down his legs, and her booted feet hit the planked floor with twin thuds.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I made a big deal out of it. I expect it’ll take a little while to get used to calling me Carly.”

“‘Used to’?” He slammed his open hand against the wall.

She flinched.

“Where is Amanda?”

“How am I supposed to know where she is? I don’t even know how
I
got here.”

“You don’t know,” he repeated in a monotone. Abruptly, he turned his back to her and buttoned his pants. Then he crossed the room to the door.

“A good-bye would be nice.”

“Do not seek to detain me, milady.”

“Afraid if you stay that you’ll soil the cargo?” she quipped nervously in hopes of defusing whatever had gotten him so riled.

He said nothing.

A few steps brought her next to him. “Andrew?”

The veil of icy remoteness that had so characterized his behavior in her early days onboard the ship had returned to his eyes.” ’Tis the way of it, aye.”

As if deflecting a blow, she brought her hands to her stomach.

“I don’t understand,” she persisted, hating the quavering of her voice. “I don’t belong to the duke. I don’t belong to anyone. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. She saw him clench his jaw. “I must see to my men.”

“Talk to me, Andrew. Don’t do this.”

“No?” he bellowed. “What would you have me do? You have proven your identity, have you not? And now you want me to act as though I am pleased? God’s teeth, woman!” The very air in the stuffy room vibrated with his rage. “What the bloody hell am I supposed to tell my crew? That I’ve risked their lives for naught? That instead of the duke’s betrothed I’ve snared some apparition from the future? ‘ ’Twas a slightly muddled kidnapping, Your Grace. Please accept my apologies.’ Oh, bloody hell, I can hear Richard laughing now.”

“Damn it, Andrew. Let him laugh! Who cares?”

He glowered at her. “I do.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad I found this all out now. Before we . . . you know.” Tears stung her eyes as she waved her hand at his crotch.

“Milady, I will say this but once more. I cannot dally, tempted though I am by your, ah, sweet invitation.”

“How dare you!” She lifted her hand, wanting to slap away his insolence. Instead, she curled her hand into a fist and pressed it to her thigh. His nostrils flared as though she had indeed struck him.

He looked almost apologetic as he reached for the bolt. “Stay back.” He opened the door, then peered
cautiously outside, his cutlass poised and ready. “The skirmish has ended. The day, however, is far from over. Stay inside. That is an order, be there any doubt on your part.”

“Yes, your high and mighty
sir.”
With that, she slammed and bolted the door.

Andrew stood outside the door, inhaling deep lungsful of air. It seemed he was caught in the momentum of his life, rushing toward a fate his despicable deeds had set in motion. He could no more stop the imminent outcome than he could stop his heart.

There’s no turning back.

He plowed his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and marched away from the cabin. But not from the image of Amanda’s—
Carly’s
—incredulous, anguish-filled gaze. He remembered well the wariness in her eyes during her first days on the ship. Now it was back.
He’d
brought it back.

His chest squeezed tight.
Damn her eyes.
Damn her for making him believe he could be like other men. That he could love.

And for making him love her.

“Mr. Egan,” Andrew called out upon sighting his first mate. “I take it you’ve disposed of the last of the
Longreach’s
milksops?”

“Where were ya?” Relief was etched on Cuddy’s exhausted face. “I thought we’d lost you overboard.”

“There was a problem at the stern. ’Tis solved.” The lie tasted bitter. “As soon as we are in range, Cuddy, have the men aim for the rudder post.”

“Aye, sir.”

Andrew clasped his hands behind his back and walked toward the helm. After surveying the damage to his ship and discussing the casualties sustained with Willoughby, he spent the last tense moments before battle pondering the identity of the woman in his quarters.

The extraordinary pistol had scuttled his lingering doubts. She was not Lady Amanda; thus she was not betrothed to the duke. The possibilities frightened the hell out of him.

She could be yours.

But this was a woman who could vanish into the future as abruptly and unexpectedly as she’d come into his life.

Don’t let her,
he thought crazily.

If she stayed, what then? What had he to offer her save a nomad’s life and the shame of his sorry past? Furthermore, his loyal, profit-driven crew expected to divide the promised ransom upon her release. Andrew’s honor and his word as their leader were at stake if he did not follow through with the plan.

Bloody hell. ’Twas a seemingly unsolvable dilemma.

A cannonball tore through the ship with a hideous screech of splitting wood. Carly dove into her nest of rolled hammocks and flung her bare arms over her head—flimsy protection should one of the twenty-five-pounders hit the cabin.

The
Phoenix
answered with cannonfire of her own. Carly prayed the men would be successful in their dogged attempt to hit the warship’s rudder.

The
Phoenix
shuddered and turned. There was a moment of blessed silence. Then Cuddy bellowed, “Fire!” and it started all over again.

It reminded her of the time she’d served temporary duty in the Middle East and the Iraqis had shelled the barracks in which she’d been sound asleep. It had scared the stuffing out of her. But this—hands down—was a hundred times worse.

More silence followed as the ships maneuvered in the breeze that had strengthened as the morning wore on.

Carly detested the silence. Even the terrifying interruption of the cannons was preferable to the quiet, aching emptiness in her heart.

What a fool she was! How could she have misinterpreted Andrew’s friendship as something more?

He hadn’t developed feelings for her. He’d intended to trade her for a few gold coins—and still did. End of story. Still, unlike Rick, at least Andrew had been truthful about it all along. Give the man two points for honesty. And another for remaining loyal to his men. Duty above all else—that was Andrew’s credo. In a way that made her feel better, but not much.

She touched her fingertips to her puffy lips, the tender places on her chin and cheeks where his whiskers had scraped her, remembering the joyous relief on his
face after he’d fired her gun and accepted who she was. But she must have misinterpreted it. Lovemaking was the farthest thing from his mind this morning. He’d only wanted to rut with her like an animal. He’d been on a combat high, fueled by the adrenaline and aggression that filled men whose lives were on the line, the same emotion that caused some soldiers to rape. But he’d come to his senses; his icy aloofness had returned.

Carly got the message loud and clear. Andrew didn’t want anyone too close to him. He preferred isolation to revealing who or what had hurt him in the past.
That
at least was something she could understand.

“Fire!” Cuddy shouted from the deck. The cannons thundered in answer.

. . . Because until recently you felt the same . . .

“Fire!”

. . . and would have lived your life that way . . .

“Fire!”

. . . had Andrew not smashed the door to your heart wide open.

A cheer went up, louder than the cannons themselves. She popped upright and looked expectantly out the long window that faced the stern. Within seconds, every man onboard the ship was yelling, whistling, and whooping.

Only victory could make chaos sound sweet.

Carly leaned over the sooty windowsill. Turning southeast, the
Phoenix
leaned into the wind that had eluded her for so many weeks.

The warship didn’t follow. Because she
couldn’t
follow.

“Way to go, guys!” Carly raised both fists in victory. “You did it! You really did it!”

At twilight, Carly lit more lanterns, placing them close to the wounded men who had been brought to the makeshift sickbay—a partitioned area with a hatch in the ceiling as its only source of light. Because it was where she figured she’d be the most useful, Carly had offered to help Willoughby tend the wounded.

The cook was as skilled using the primitive tools and medicines of nineteenth-century healing as he was at creating meals from the limited resources onboard the ship. She’d helped him clean an assortment of cuts and burns, and even a few bullet wounds, though Willoughby had dug out the balls first. Luckily he hadn’t asked her to stitch the wounds. It was not a task for the fainthearted. She’d felt the blood drain from her face the first time she watched him push a needle through a man’s skin. Upon hearing her muffled moan, Willoughby had said, “I left a kettle of broth in the galley. See if it’s bubbling, milady.” It had given her an excellent opportunity to escape.

Now only two men remained in the hammocks. Jonesy—who’d been stabbed in the shoulder—and a cheerful, burly man with a broken leg: Angus MacVey. They were resting quietly, thanks to liberal swigs of gin and doses of what she guessed was a form of opium.

So far, Angus hadn’t developed a fever. His color was good and his eyes were clear. Poor Jonesy, on the other hand, had a fever that defied all attempts to bring it down. Willoughby had confided to her that his chances of recovering weren’t good. Again, she’d found herself wishing for the miracle of antibiotics.

Amazingly, there had only been two deaths.
Andrew had conducted a brief funeral before their hammock-wrapped bodies were gently tipped overboard. After a pensive moment of silence, the raucous sounds of hammers, saws, and shouting resumed. Only at twilight had the repairs ceased. Carly was certain the crew was on the deck by now, drinking their grog and solemnly toasting their fallen comrades in the starlight.

Carly settled onto a stool between Jonesy and Angus. She lifted a wet rag from Jonesy’s forehead. “Can’t wait to hear you play your fiddle again.”

He licked his dry, cracked lips and tried to smile. “Can’t think of anything sorrier than a one-armed fiddler.”

“If you keep talking like that, sailor, I’ll pour the rest of your gin overboard.”

He chuckled, then gave a raspy cough.

She wrung out the cloth, still hot from his skin, and dipped it in a bowl of cool, precious fresh water. “Well, you’ll be back fiddlin’ before you know it.”

“Aye,” he whispered. “That I will.”

With a light, tender touch, she stroked his hair with her flattened palm, the way she used to do as a child when her mother was bedridden. When she’d been in pain, this had never failed to put Rose to sleep.

Jonesy closed his eyes. “Feels nice, miss. ’Tis like bein’ cared for by an angel.”

“Aye,” Angus piped in. “And we thank ye.”

She shook her head. “I thank
you.
You and Jonesy and the rest of the crew sure beat the pants off that ol’ man-of-war.”

Both men chuckled.

“Captain Spencer’s fortunate to have such a courageous crew,” she insisted.

“’Tis the other way around, miss,” Angus said. “We’ve served with Cap’n Spencer since he was our lieutenant in the navy. We’d follow him anywhere. He’s the best there is. He was knighted for valor by the king himself. For his deeds in the war.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“The Americans outnumbered him that day. Everyone said he’d lose the fight, but win he did.”

“Like he did today,” she murmured.

“He’d be on his way to bein’ an admiral if it weren’t for that blasted duke.”

Her mouth tightened.

Angus looked positively stricken. “My apologies, miss, but there’s bad blood between the two. ’Twas a shame about the court-martial. Lies, all of it. Cap’n’s an honorable man. He wouldna done what the duke said he done.”

Jonesy patted her hands with his hot, dry palm. “When Cap’n came for the
Phoenix
—he and Booth—he told us we were free to go. We said we were staying. Ain’t that the way it was, Angus?”

“Aye. And we stayed.”

“Cap’n didn’t like it much. Said he didn’t want us tossed in prison for his sins.” Jonesy, too weak to continue, lay back against his pillow. “Tell her, Angus,” he rasped, closing his eyes.

“The cap’n’s only sin was sharin’ the duke’s blood.” Angus’s ruddy cheeks colored further. “Something he’s been payin’ for all his life.”

Heavyhearted, Carly propped her chin on her hands. Angus and Jonesy were telling her what she already knew: Andrew possessed every quality she’d ever admired and wished she’d find in a man. He was brave, loyal, honorable . . .

Considerate and loving . . .

He’d held her in his arms as though she was the most precious thing in the world.

Passion and power; that was Andrew. A magical combination that had unlocked her heart. They might have had something wonderful had she meant more to him than a profitable piece of cargo. Or an instrument of revenge.

“His loss,” she muttered with a conviction she did not feel.

“My apologies, miss.” Angus was peering at her. “Me and Jonesy, we shouldna gone on about the duke so. Frightened ye, we have. I pray ye find happiness with the duke.”

“You didn’t frighten me. I couldn’t care less about Westridge. I’ll go to him, so you can get your money. But I’m not going to marry him.”

Angus shifted in his hammock, wincing. “Where will ye go?”

“Probably America. As far west as they’ve settled. I’ll be a seamstress, or maybe a teacher. Independence is what I’m after,” she declared, lifting her chin. “Relying on no one but myself.” Then she sighed. Her lifelong I-can-take-care-of-myself credo seemed to have lost its appeal.

“Whoever wins yer heart someday will be a lucky man,” Angus said quietly.

Tears blurred her vision, and she glanced away. She must be more tired than she’d thought.

She remained with the men until they’d fallen asleep. Worn out, she rose to her feet, massaging the small of her back.

Willoughby walked into the sickbay holding his
ledger in one hand, a towel-wrapped teapot in his other.

“They’re asleep,” she told him.

“You look weary yourself. I’ll fetch Mr. Gibbons to bring you back to your quarters.”

The last person she wanted to see right now was Andrew. “Can I sleep here? Come on, I know you could use the help with your galley duties and all.”

The cook smiled at her with gentle eyes. “I can manage, Miss Carly.”

“Please. I don’t want to go back to the cabin tonight.”

“Then I’ll tell the cap’n you’ll be staying.” He lifted the ledger. “After I tally the day’s figures.”

“Thanks,” she said as she trudged toward the extra hammock.

Willoughby extinguished the lights, save one candle on his desk, and sat down to work on his ledger, while Carly crawled into the hammock. Every bone in her body creaked and ached as she settled onto her back. Her stomach rumbled, too, but she’d lost her appetite for dried hunks of beef and couldn’t face the stale biscuits that even the bugs had abandoned lately. She yearned for fresh fruit and real bread. A huge crunchy salad. And french fries, a bowl of cookie dough ice cream, and . . .

“Oh, what I wouldn’t do for a slice of pizza,” she murmured.

Willoughby glanced up. “Was Pete your cook in Delhi?”

“In America.”

“America,” he repeated dutifully, stroking his wispy beard.

She lifted her head. “Wait a minute. Pete who?”

“You said you wanted a slice of Pete’s
zah.”

“Pizza,”
she said with a soft laugh. “It’s an Italian dish.”

“Italian, eh?” He raised his brows in interest. “How is it prepared?”

“Well, you start with dough. The best pizza places toss it—like this.” She lifted both palms, then jerked her hands upward.

He glanced warily at the ceiling, then at the planked floor. “I fear I’d drop it.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t. Then you top it with tomato sauce, cheese, and then anything else you want—sausage, mushrooms, onions, green peppers. Sometimes Canadian bacon and pineapple. Once I even tried pizza topped with broccoli.” She grinned at his expression of unadulterated horror.

“Dough . . . sauce . . . mushrooms—I don’t know, miss. Sounds a bit odd to me. Give me a plate of kidneys and eggs, toast, aye, and a rasher of bacon. Or perhaps a bowl of that fish stew the ladies make on the island.” He patted his belly. “I can taste it now.”

Gibbons climbed down the ladder from the deck.” ’Tis getting dark. Cap’n asked me to escort you to the cabin.”

“He hasn’t spoken to me all day,” she retorted, “but it’s heartening to know he still wants his cargo close by.”

“Christian,” Willoughby cut in, calling Gibbons by his given name, “I’d like to keep the lady here. I have two sick men. Two more hands is what I need, tell him. She’ll be safe.”