The Care & Feeding of Pirates

by Jennifer Ashley

  He pressed his knee between hers, his rough breeches catching on her thighs. "You should write a pamphlet of your own."

  "One that tells ladies to beware falling in love with pirates?"

  "One telling ladies how to give their pirates what they want."

  "A guide to being a pirate wife?" She pretended to think. "Let me see. First, a woman must possess extraordinary patience and fortitude."

  Christopher smiled, his eyes warming. "And resilience. Don't forget resilience."

  "Yes, for the many times you throw your woman to the floor and ravish her."

  "I think the bunk will do tonight."

  He ended the conversation by scooping her into his arms and tossing her there. Honoria landed in the pile of quilts and bedding--the real featherbed Diana had given her before they'd left port.

  Honoria wanted to stay angry at him for using their license to pass information on the treasure, turning their marriage ceremony to his own purpose. A part of her told her that what he'd done had probably been reasonable under the circumstances, but her emotions wanted to rage.

  Then Christopher began to strip. As he slid off his shirt and breeches, Honoria's blood warmed, and her anger began to slide away, no matter how desperately she tried to hold on to it.

  His body was incredible, even with his ruined side. Strong thighs, ridged stomach, muscled arms. The Chinese dragon on his collarbone, with its curled tail, looked a bit smug, and the lion on his hip beckoned her touch.

  Honoria twisted a lock of hair through her fingers and wondered why sailing men liked to decorate their bodies with pictures. Traveling ladies usually made do with a vase or cup painted with the name of the town.

  Blast the man, he'd done it again. Christopher had distracted her from her very reasonable, furious anger.

  He stepped to the bunk where she waited, ducking under the beam, and rested one knee on the quilts. "Open your legs," he said.

  Honoria did so without hesitation. Her thighs were already damp.

  Christopher leaned down and brushed a kiss to her lips, then he kissed his way down her body, pausing to swipe his tongue across her navel. He moved down her abdomen to the join of her thighs and farther, to Honoria's aching opening.

  His breath ruffled her dark curls as he gently blew on them. He kissed the swelling point there, then slid his tongue inside her.

  Honoria could not stop the sharp cry that escaped her mouth. She grabbed the quilts, hands twisting them as Christopher began to explore--kissing, licking, nipping.

  Her husband knew how to do incredible things with his tongue. Honoria had asked him to drink her, but she'd never dreamed it would feel like this. Christopher had skill, his mouth bringing her to life until her entire body throbbed and tingled, and her pride and self-control vanished on a tide of sensation.

  Honoria cried his name over and over in a hysteria of longing. She told him that she wanted him and begged him to do things that would make her blush later.

  Just as she thought her voice would break from her cries, Christopher softly kissed her tightened bud and eased back from her. Honoria fell to earth with a crash and lay stunned, but thoroughly pleasured and oh-so wicked.

  Christopher's smile was hot. "I came back for you, my wife. I want it all back--my treasure, my crew, you. I won't stop until I have everything. Never forget that."

  "You have me," she said, her whisper cracked.

  "Damn right I do."

  Without preliminary, Christopher slid on top of her, opened her thighs, and pushed himself into her aching, needing body.

  He held her down with unbreakable strength, thrusting into her until his seed came. As Christopher groaned his release, he took himself out of her and fell beside her, breathing rapidly, eyes closing, as though he'd swum many miles and finally made it to shore. Honoria brushed a wisp of hair from his face, wheat-gold on bronze, drifting on warmth and comfort.

  "Is my forfeit over?" he murmured after a time.

  "What? Oh, the wager. Yes, yes, I think so."

  He sent her a lazy smile. "Pity." He kissed her throat. "But that means I can now do what I want."

  Honoria shivered, wondering what that meant. "I suppose it does."

  He sent her another smile and proceeded to show her.

  What Christopher did would have been downright sinful if she'd not been married to him. Perhaps it still was.

  All Honoria knew was that he began again the exact sequence of steps that had just driven her mad, this time with more creativity and still more enthusiasm.

  He was alternately gentle and tender, rough and playful. He hurt her and yet excited her. Stately Honoria, the alabaster statue, was crumbling like weak stone at his touch.

  When he finished, Honoria was ready to curl up with him in oblivious slumber, but Christopher rose from the bed. The bunk was hot and tumbled with lovemaking, and Christopher's naked skin glistened with sweat.

  He dragged on his clothes and kissed her gently. "Go to sleep," he said, and strolled out of the cabin.

  Honoria lay back in the tangled bedding, too tired now for the anger that he'd so effectively diverted. He'd known she would be, blast the man. She tried to dredge up her fury again, but her body was limp and happy, and she slid into an exhausted sleep.

  *** *** ***

  Christopher found Manda in the stern watching the horizon and the stars. Her teeth flashed in the lantern light as he approached.

  "Evening, Chris. Can you still walk?"

  Christopher leaned against the gunwale, easing his cramped muscles. "Barely." The sensation of Honoria lingered on him, as did the bruises on his neck and scratches on his back.

  Manda's grin widened. "You really like her, don't you?"

  Christopher shrugged, unembarrassed. They stood relatively alone, and he felt free to talk, but he kept his voice low. "I saw you kissing Henderson, Manda."

  Manda's smile vanished. She pretended to concentrate on the pattern of Orion high above them. "I've kissed men before."

  "Kiss him all you want. Just don't talk to him."

  She glared at him almost as scathingly as Honoria could. "I wouldn't betray you, Chris. I wouldn't betray us for a few kisses with an English dandy who thinks he's better than anyone else."

  "I know. But falling in love changes the way you think. It makes men--and women--do things they never thought they would."

  "I'm not in love with that bespectacled, prissy Englishman," Manda said, a bit too quickly. She peered at Christopher. "Are you saying you are in love with your little wife?"

  "I think so." It didn't hurt to say it out loud. It felt good, in fact.

  Manda's look turned interested. "Why'd you marry her? I mean, the day before you were supposed to hang, you suddenly decided to get married?"

  Christopher shrugged again. He remembered the hot prison, stinking of damp and filth, and then Honoria coming to him, so pretty and clean, her eyes distressed, her soft lips whispering his name. A voice in the back of Christopher's mind had shouted at him to not let her go, not this time. He'd put his grubby hands on her fine face and said, "Marry me, Honoria."

  For a moment, Honoria had stared at him like a startled dove, then her green eyes had softened, and she'd said--incredibly--"Yes."

  "I don't know," Christopher finished. "I suppose I didn't want to die alone."

  He expected another snort of derision. His sister had never had much room in her life for emotion.

  But then, why should she? Manda had never known her mother--a freed Jamaican slave--and their father hadn't wanted her. Only Christopher had stood by her when the mother had deposited the baby at the feet of Emile Raine. Christopher's mother had felt sorry for the child so pathetically abandoned, but Raine had turned his back and said that if Manda stayed, the others had the keeping of her, until she was old enough to be sold.

  Christopher had felt a bond between himself and his half sister, despite their differences in race, gender, and age. His mother hadn't known what to do with a nearly wild,
half-black girl child, so Christopher had raised her himself, teaching her to be a fearless sailor and efficient pirate. Christopher had convinced their father not to sell Manda after all--not difficult once the man saw how hard she could work. Emile was never one to pass up free labor.

  Manda had always been strong, and not only physically. Her upright body, her quickness, and her strength often made Christopher forget that she could be as vulnerable as he was.

  Now she fixed him with her skull-boring gaze. "I think I understand."

  Manda did. Christopher did not have to doubt.

  He remembered Honoria's worry that Manda might still be upset by her treatment at Switton's hands. Christopher cleared his throat and groped his way along an unfamiliar phrase.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Manda blinked at him. "Talk about what?"

  "You know--what you went through with Switton."

  Her brows arched like blackbird's wings. "I survived," she said. "And no, I don't want to talk about it. It's over. Why do you?"

  "Honoria thought you'd need to discuss it. She likes everyone to talk about their feelings."

  Manda stared at Christopher as though he'd gone insane. Then her lips twitched. She started to chortle, then she threw back her head and let out full-blown laughter.

  Christopher folded his arms and let Manda laugh, reflecting that it was damn good to hear her again.

  Manda wiped her eyes. "Oh, Chris, you poor thing."

  "Honoria makes up for it."

  "I know. I had to hang halfway into the water to drown out the noise you two were making."

  Christopher smiled, remembering what had caused the noise.

  "Lordy, look at you grinning." Manda's peals of laughter rang into the wind. Every so often she'd relapse into chuckles, then she'd say, "Talk about your feelings," and be off again.

  Christopher watched her, enjoying the fact that she was close enough to him at long last to bathe him in her rich, warm laughter.

  *** *** ***

  The fine weather--few clouds, no storms--meant that, as they sailed south, the air turned sweltering hot. The men and lieutenants stripped down to breeches. Two sailors Christopher had recruited in Siam wore nothing but loincloths that covered their privates and not much else. Manda bound a strip of colorful cloth about her breasts and wore that and breeches, her brown skin shining in the sun.

  Honoria took to wearing less and less under her lawn and muslin dresses. Christopher observed this delicious fact every time she came up on deck. The hot weather had some compensations.

  Her nose turned bright red, then began to peel. Mrs. Colby kindly provided her with a cream, and Honoria went about with her nose slathered with the gray-green concoction. No one laughed at her, because the thick, eucalyptus-scented sunburn cream made its rounds to the entire crew.

  The blazing sun grew hotter, the clouds grew thinner and then disappeared altogether. And finally, as Christopher had feared, the wind died.

  The ship glided to slow halt, the sails limp. No amount of tacking could find even a hint of breeze.

  Christopher ordered the men to stand down, letting as many as possible rest below out of the sun, though it became stifling in the forecastle and the cabins. Tempers ran high, and levels in the freshwater barrels ran low.

  Christopher had faced water shortage before. Most ships did. He immediately went to drastic rationing, and the routine fell into place.

  A cup a day to every man or woman, less to a sick man. Two dozen lashes and a cutting of rations for stealing water or fighting over it. On some ships the penalty for taking water was hanging--if you died for stealing, that much more water would be available to the others. But Christopher wanted all his crew alive.

  "A sick man needs more water," Honoria tried to point out.

  "A sick man sleeps in his hammock all day," Christopher returned. "While the others work in the heat. Besides, if I announce that sick men get more water, half the crew will report ill in the morning."

  Honoria looked unconvinced.

  She was arguing, because young Carew had fallen sick. He did not have plague, thank God, nor cholera or anything else that would render the Starcross a ghost ship--he had a fever from too much sun and overwork.

  Honoria took it upon herself to look after him. She'd grown fond of Carew, who'd taught her how to steer the ship, how to tell when sails should be adjusted, how to know when the wind changed dangerously--all without shouting at her. He'd been a patient teacher, and Honoria had been grateful. Now she'd become his most tender nurse, to Christopher's annoyance.

  When Christopher remonstrated with her for tiring herself, Honoria changed in a heartbeat from enticing pirate's wench to stately Southern lady. "I am only doing my duty to one less fortunate."

  "He has the sniffles, not smallpox," Christopher growled. "And your duty is to me."

  Honoria gave him a lofty look. "I know, you are the captain. We all bow down before you." She walked away with her nose in the air, back to tend Mr. Carew.

  Christopher retaliated by making love to her that night against the wall in the cabin, until she was gasping for breath and begging for release. Only then did he let her lie down, where he proceeded to do it again.

  It was a hell of a thing to be married to a wife who refused to grasp the idea of obeying her husband. Christopher guessed that in her fancy Charleston home Honoria hadn't been denied anything. The pretty, only daughter of a wealthy family had commanded obedience, not given it.

  Christopher wished she had learned obedience, and learned it forcibly. Because as the weather continued hot and still, and the sweating men stank, and the food turned sour, he caught Honoria giving extra water to her ill friend Mr. Carew.

  *****

  Chapter Seventeen

  Honoria had never seen Christopher so enraged as when he faced her in the stern, stone-faced, but with eyes blazing fury.

  She held her head high. "I did not steal the water. I gave Mr. Carew my ration. I can do as I like with it."

  "No, you either drink it yourself or pour it overboard."

  "How ridiculous." She swallowed, her throat already parched. "Anyway, it brought down his fever."

  Christopher's eyes sparkled dangerously. "I don't care if it made him dance a hornpipe. You need that water, Honoria. You can die of heat stroke faster than you know."

  She believed him. The heat pounded at them, and her thin dress was damp with her sweat. She wished she'd dare bare her torso, like Manda with her strip of cloth, but some things proper Honoria could not bring herself to do.

  "He needed the water," she repeated stubbornly.

  Christopher glared at her. "Go below, and stay there. Carew can do without you for the afternoon."

  Honoria stamped away but threw the last word over her shoulder. "I know why you never want to talk about your feelings, Christopher Raine. You don't have any!"

  That night, he proved her wrong. He took her to the stern as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the sky turned cool twilight blue.

  Christopher had certainly taken to ordering her about of late, Honoria thought, but it was far too hot to argue with him. Last night, he had not even made love to her--they'd lain side by side, breathing the night air through the cabin's open window, both exhausted from heat and thirst.

  Instead of being disappointed, Honoria had felt peace and languorousness, comfort in the strength of his hard body next to hers. She'd watched the moonlight travel across his bare body, black shadows outlining the ruin of his side as well as the perfection of the rest of him.

  Honoria was taken again by the beauty of him as he stood waiting for her now, the dying light touching his tall body. He wore only breeches against the heat, his torso bare, no bad thing.

  Christopher beckoned impatiently, so she left off her moonstruck staring and went to him.

  He led her to the stern bench, where he sat her down next to him, pulled her back into the circle of his arms, and lifted a cup of water from the deck. Ma
de of copper, the cup was corroded green around the top edge but moist with dew. Honoria's dry mouth yearned for it.

  Christopher held the cup to her lips. "Drink."

  She did not need the command. Honoria opened her mouth, and Christopher poured the cool liquid into it.

  Lovely, lovely water. Never mind that it tasted a bit musty and coppery.

  Honoria took a second, long swallow, savoring it all the way down. To think, at home she'd turn up her nose at such an offering, preferring lemonade with sugar and a bit of cinnamon. Here, musty, warm water seemed the purest nectar.

  Christopher watched her drink, his eyes still. Honoria was surprised he'd procured an extra ration for her. He was bent on following the rules, and made even stricter rules for himself.

  She took a third swallow and then she realized. "This is your ration."

  "Yes, and I can do whatever I please with it."

  Honoria pushed the cup away. "You must drink it. I do not need it."

  "Don't be stupid. Yes, you do."

  "I am better now, really."

  Christopher gave her a narrow look. "I don't want a heroic wife, I want one with common sense. Lately you've been lacking any kind of sense. It must be the heat."

  "You're the one being heroic," she said.

  "I'm no hero, wife. I'm a villain. And if you don't drink the water, I will do something even more villainous."

  "What?" she asked.

  He gave her a look that made her shiver. "I might just hold your nose and dump the water down your throat."

  "That would be foolish. You could spill it."

  His scowl deepened. "Or I might toss you into the waves. You said you wanted to bathe."

  "We all need to bathe," she said. "The men have become quite odiferous. Although I fear being salt encrusted might make things worse."

  "Then obey your husband and drink."

  "You must drink too," she said stubbornly. Her mouth did feel better, less swollen and dry, though she still thirsted.

  Christopher studied her a long moment. Behind the ship, to the east, the sky was already dark, a pale moon above the horizon.