The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt

by Stephanie Laurens

  She frowned. “From the cultists chasing you?”

  “They’re not skilled sailors, but they have deep pockets, enough to hire captains and crews who can sail and are willing to engage, even with a peaceable vessel.” He glanced at Griffiths, who he took to be her first mate. “You can’t count on them behaving rationally—they’re dangerous because you simply can’t predict to what extent they’ll go to seize what they want.”

  “And they want you?” Griffiths asked, eyes narrowing.

  “They want the document I’m carrying,” Logan replied. “It’s crucial evidence to bring down a villain—an Englishman who’s been wreaking havoc in India—and he, of course, doesn’t want it to reach the authorities.”

  Griffiths snorted, looked at Linnet. “Well, he won’t catch the Esperance, that’s for certain.”

  She nodded. “Give the orders and have the crew armed and ready to sail by dawn. We’ll put out the instant the tide turns—the others will give way to us. What winds are expected?”

  “For Plymouth, fair. We should be able to catch a good breeze once we’re round the point.”

  “Good.” Linnet stepped through the hatch. “I’ll be below. Make sure the others report as they come aboard—from the sounds of it, we’ll want a full complement for this trip.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Logan stood and watched her descend. He wanted to put a halt to the insanity; just the thought of her facing cultists made his gut clench sickeningly. But … how to do that, without trampling on her toes—or, worse, her pride? Still wrestling with the ramifications of this latest twist in who and what she was, feeling strangely helpless as if awash on a tide he couldn’t control, he hoisted their bags and followed her down the narrow stairs, then along the tight corridor to the cabin door through which she’d passed.

  Ducking, he stepped through the open door. Filling the space across the stern, the cabin was large and, like her office on the quay, beautifully appointed, all polished oak paneling and furniture, the latter anchored to the floor. To one side stood a desk, with an admiral’s chair behind it and two smaller chairs facing it. In the center of the room was a round table, with bench seats attached, while in the far corner a good-sized bed was built out from the wall, with storage below and racks above. A sea chest sat at the foot of the bed, with an armoire along the wall, while the inner wall played host to a built-in washstand with every necessary amenity.

  A lamp was set into the table’s center; there were holders for cups and candlesticks at suitable positions around the room.

  It was the best, most comfortable cabin Logan had ever seen.

  Tossing her cloak on the bed, Linnet started pulling pins from her hair. “Shut the door—and I’ll have my bag.”

  Pushing the door closed, Logan set down his bag, then crossed the cabin and put hers on the bed. With her hair loose, tumbling about her shoulders, she set her pins down, opened the bag, rummaged inside, and drew out a long-sleeved white shirt. Nudging Logan aside, she went to the sea chest—from there she pulled out a pair of leather breeches, a waistcoat, and a coat.

  Logan blinked. When she tossed the clothes on the bed, he reached out and touched the breeches—and found the fawn leather butter-soft. The image taking shape in his mind did not bode well. “Linnet—”

  “Help me with these laces.” She gave him her back. He frowned. Muttered, “This must be what King Canute felt like.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.” He swiftly undid the laces while evaluating his options. “Linnet—I appreciate all you’ve done and are doing for me, but …” Having freed the laces, he stepped back, sat on one of the bench seats, his back to the table. Leaned his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands the better to keep them from her. Locking his gaze on her face as she glanced inquiringly at him, he said, “Frankly, I’d be much happier getting some other ship.”

  She considered him for a moment, then smiled, almost secretively, and stripped off her gown. “No, you wouldn’t be. Happier, that is. Let me tell you why.”

  He frowned, found himself watching in curious fascination as she pulled off her shift, then, drawing a long linen band from her bag, set about binding her breasts. He knew women sometimes did that, for hard riding or similar violent exercise … shaking off the distraction, he forced his gaze back to her face. Recalled her last words. “So tell me.”

  Her faint smile suggested she knew very well to where his mind had wandered. But then she grew serious. “At this moment, completing your mission is your highest priority, and rightly so. It’s important—the outcome will be far-reaching, affecting many lives in a positive way. The choices you make must be those that give your mission the best chance of succeeding—and if that means you must put personal feelings aside, then that’s what you’ll do.” Tying off the band beneath her left breast, she met his eyes. “You’re that sort of man.”

  Lips thinning, he couldn’t disagree, but … “Be that as it may, there’s plenty of ships in the harbor here, and surely one of them—”

  “No.” She pulled on the shirt; it billowed about her slender arms. Settling the neckline, then lacing it, she continued, “Of all the ships in the harbor, the Esperance represents your, best chance by far of reaching Plymouth safely.” Toeing off her half boots, she picked up the soft breeches and stepped into them. Tucking in the long tails of the shirt, she buttoned the waistband. “And contrary to what you’re imagining, the prospect of pursuit and attack, of action, only makes that more so.”

  Logan felt adrift, cut free of the moment again. The soft leather clung lovingly to her long legs. As she shrugged into the waistcoat, buttoned it, then pulled on the loose captain’s coat, all he could think was that the masculine attire only made her look more intensely feminine.

  More blatantly female.

  Also more dangerous.

  “We have superior capability, unmatched speed, and a highly experienced crew.” She went to the armoire, reached inside, and drew out a pair of long boots. Pausing to button the closures at the ends of the breeches’ legs, she glanced at him. “Believe me, if that weren’t so, if I didn’t believe the Esperance was the best ship for your mission …”

  Stepping into the boots—high boots in gleaming black leather that reached above her knees—she tugged and stamped, then, straightening, looked him in the eye. “If I didn’t know the Esperance was the safest ship for you to take, I’d set aside my own feelings and find you the best ship and captain, and twist his arm to make him take you instead.”

  Reaching up, Linnet parted her hair, then set about swiftly plaiting it. “As matters stand, however, you’re going to have to accept that, in this, I know best, and, judged on all the criteria that matter, the Esperance is the best ship to take you and your letter to Plymouth.”

  Eyes narrowed, his face like stone, Logan sat and watched her; she could all but see him searching for a way to counter her arguments. Tying off her braids, she walked to the small mirror set in the armoire door and wound the plaits coronetstyle about her head, then set about pinning them.

  In the mirror, she glanced at Logan, studied his face.

  She’d known he’d be difficult over her being there, captaining the ship, which was why she’d avoided telling him, had been careful to let no hint fall prematurely. Yet she’d told him the truth; the Esperance with her at the helm was his best chance of reaching Plymouth safely—there was not one soul on Guernsey who wouldn’t tell him the same.

  Of course, she’d yet to divulge the most pertinent peculiarity of the Esperance, the one that sealed the argument beyond doubt, but some niggling need wanted him to accept her word, her judgment—to understand and acknowledge that in this arena she not only knew best but was also commander enough to make the right decision with regard to his mission and his safety. Her decision to take him on the Esperance was based on what was right, what should be, not on a personal whim.

  Her hair secure, she reached into the armoire and retrieved her captain’s hat
with its jaunty cockade, then returned to the bed to pull a kerchief from her bag and knot it about her throat.

  Then she reached into her bag and drew out her sheathed cutlass.

  Instantly sensed Logan’s tension jump.

  “Yes, I can use it.” Pushing back her coat, she slung the leather belt about her hips. Buckling it, she looked up and met Logan’s eyes. “How do you think I could read your wound so accurately? I was right, wasn’t I?”

  The question distracted him, diverted his attention as he thought back, then, with obvious reluctance, lips tightening, he nodded. “Yes.”

  A tap on the door had them both glancing that way. “Come!” she called.

  The door opened and her cabin boy, Jimmy, poked his head around it. “All right here, Capt’n?”

  “Yes.” She could never keep back her smile, not with Jimmy. “How’s things above?”

  “All hands have reported for duty. Mr. Griffiths has everyone scurrying. Truth is, we’d’a been ready to sail tonight, if the tides were right, but they aren’t, so we’ll just have to wait ‘til tomorra, but we’re all keen as ever to get out. Wasn’t expecting any adventure this late in the year—like a Christmas present, it is.”

  “I dare say.” Jimmy had been throwing curious glances at Logan. Linnet waved at him. “This is Major Monteith, and he, or more correctly his mission, is the reason we’re doing this dash to Plymouth, so it’s he you should thank.”

  Jimmy grinned at Logan, bobbed his head. “Major. You won’t hear any grumbles from the crew. It’s a pleasure to be of service.”

  Logan, not quite succeeding in keeping his lips straight, inclined his head. “Pleased to be of service in return.”

  “Jimmy—the major will use the cabin next door, and we’ll dine here this evening. Usual time. And now …” Collecting Logan with her gaze, Linnet picked up her hat and started for the door. “I’m going to do a round of the decks.”

  Logan followed her up, trailed her as she circled the decks. Listened as sailor after sailor hailed her as “Capt’n,” the light in their eyes, the expressions on their faces, testifying to their eagerness and the respect and confidence they had in her as their leader. He’d seen successful generals who’d inspired less devotion.

  And the more he listened to her question each man about his family, about his home or whichever of the island’s small communities he hailed from, the more he saw of her eagle eye and her attention to detail, the more he heard of her quick, decisive orders, the more he understood that, even if she’d in some ways inherited the rank from her father, the respect that came with it in such abundance was something she herself had gained.

  Yet just how that had come about—how she had risen to fill such a position in such a way—mystified him.

  He got no real chance to pursue the issue when, with night shrouding the now quiet ship, they repaired to her cabin to sit around her table and dine; Jimmy was constantly in and out, often standing to attention behind Linnet’s chair and, chatting nineteen to the dozen, mostly filling Linnet in on the latest gossip among the crew.

  Logan quickly realized that Jimmy saw no need to censor the subjects on which he reported on the grounds Linnet was female.

  The more Logan thought of it, the more he suspected that her crew saw her as … not male, definitely not that, but as a different category of female, one demonstrably capable of leading them.

  Her comparisons between herself and Queen Elizabeth seemed even more apt.

  After dinner, he followed her up on deck, again trailing behind her as in the weak moonlight she checked this rope, that furled sail. Finding themselves at last alone, he murmured, “I thought sailors were superstitious about having women on board.”

  She laughed. Reaching the prow, she swung around, hitched a hip on a coil of rope, and looked up at him. Studied him through the shadows, then faintly smiled. “Most of the crew, certainly those years older than I, have sailed with me since I was a child. The Esperance usually does relatively short trips, so my father often brought me along.” She glanced around, affection in her face. “I ran wild on this ship as a toddler, as a young girl. And from when my mother died—I was eleven at the time—I sailed on every voyage.” She met his eyes. “I was even on board when we assisted with the evacuation at Corunna.”

  Logan shifted to lean against the side, studying her in return. “So you were a seaman’s brat, and when your father died, you inherited his captaincy?”

  “More or less. The rank is, of course, honorary, but you won’t find anyone in Guernsey quibbling.” Her lips twisted wryly. “Just as no one, not any harbor master here or in England, or even in France, or any other maritime authority, would question my right to take the helm even though, as a female, I can’t hold a master’s ticket.” She tipped her head, back along the ship. “There’s two others aboard with master’s tickets who could captain the ship, but they’re content to leave that to me. Experience tells, and on the sea there’s much less tolerance of mistakes.”

  How far had she ranged? Had she seen any naval actions? How much time did she spend aboard in any year? Did the Esperance ever put to sea without her? Logan asked his questions and she answered, directly, honestly.

  The confirmation that she had seen real action, that yes, she’d wielded her cutlass and killed when necessary, was both reassurance and horror combined, although the information that she’d carried her sword for more than a decade provided some relief.

  By the time his curiosity was satisfied, he had a much better understanding of who she was, and how she had come to be Captain L. Trevission, owner and captain of the Esperance.

  As those mounting the nightwatch came up on deck, Linnet rose, quirked a brow at Logan. “Are you feeling more resigned to letting me take you to Plymouth?”

  He looked at her for a moment, as if only then realizing that easing his mind had been her intention, then he looked across the deck to where most of the other larger ships dipped and swayed in the weak moonlight. “I suppose I am.” He looked back at her. “If you’re the fastest, the surest … then I suspect I should stop arguing and thank you.”

  Lips curving, she inclined her head regally. “Indeed.” Glancing pointedly at the men on watch, she looked at him, smiled. “You can thank me below.”

  She led the way, feeling deliciously brazen. He pushed away from the side and followed without a word. Down the companionway stairs, along the narrow corridor and into her cabin.

  He shut the door, turned, and she was on him, stretching up, winding her arms about his neck and pushing him back against the wooden panel. She pressed her lips to his, felt his, hands fasten about her waist. She kissed him boldly, determined to keep the reins, to remain in control, to have him offer his thanks under her direction.

  This was their last night together. Her last night with him, almost certainly forever. She would do her duty and get him to Plymouth tomorrow; by the time night fell again, he would be gone from her life. She was sure that was the way fate would have their liaison end—he would go, and she would never see him again.

  Blindly reaching with one hand, she fumbled, found the bolt on the door, and slid it home. Then she framed Logan’s face and kissed him, kissed him with all the passion he’d shown her she harbored in her soul.

  How? Where? She was struggling to think when, in the blink of an eye, in one surging heartbeat, he took over the kiss.

  Simply filched the reins from her grasp—as he hadn’t that morning in the stable yard.

  As he steered her back, back, until the back of her thighs hit the edge of her desk, she fought to regain the ascendancy, their battlefield the ravenous mating of mouths their simple kiss had become—but there he held the upper hand. Experience told.

  Wrenching back from the kiss, eyes closed, she tipped her head back, gasped, “My ship. I’m captain here.”

  “But I’m the captain’s lover.” As if to prove the point, he closed one hard hand possessively over her bound breast, palpating, then rubbing his t
humb over her tightly furled nipple. “Regardless”—wrapping his other hand about her thigh, he eased her hips up and back onto the desktop—”last night was yours.” He caught her gaze, boldly pushed his hand between her thighs and through the buttery soft leather, rubbed her there. “Tonight’s mine. Tonight I get to dictate. Tonight I get to have you my way.”

  His head swooped and his lips came down on hers and he captured her again, captured her wits and her senses and waltzed them into the fire.

  Into the heat she’d come to know so well, into the flames she’d learned to delight in. One hand at her breast, the other working between her thighs, he pushed her on until she was panting and desperate, then he flicked open the buttons at her waist, worked his hand inside her breeches, and his fingers found her. Stroked, then delved, then penetrated her.

  His tongue filling her mouth, his hand at her breast, his fingers buried in her body, he sent her spinning, dizzyingly rapidly, over the edge into ecstasy.

  Wits whirling, she slumped back, bracing her arms on the desk behind her. Eyes closed, head hanging back, she struggled to breathe, to think, to anticipate. Yet as he drew his fingers slowly from her sheath, all she could think about was having him replace them with his erection. She wanted that, ached for it, as if she were hollow inside. But how? Where? Her breeches were too tight—she needed to get them off before—

  One hand on her midriff, he pushed her down, until she gave up and fell on her back across the desk. He worked her breeches down to her knees. She felt the cool wood, the ridges of the desk, against her bare bottom. Then he grasped her knees, pushed them up and as wide as the breeches would allow and bent to taste her.