Righteous Side of the Wicked: Pirates of Britannia

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Still, he was sure to hear from a few of the more superstitious lads about how unlucky ’twas to have a woman on board. Mr. Shaw was one of them. He was slow to return back to work as he circled around her. The lass, with her hands clasped in front of her, simply smiled at the old tar, unfazed by his best evil eye.

  “Captain Fletcher.” She leaned in, almost conspiratorially, when he returned to her side. “May I ask ye for a private audience? I should like to explain my,” she spun her hand upon her wrist as if to curtail her actions, “reckless behavior.”

  “Yer reckless behavior extends to yer request, Miss MacDougall. To be alone in the company of a stranger, with no reference to his character, and trust me, my character is to be questioned, is beyond foolhardy.”

  Her head bobbed in agreement. “Perhaps. But considering ye did just rescue me, I’m thinking ye might be honorable enough.”

  From the way she kept eying the dwindling shoreline, not as if reconsidering what she had done, but rather as if she were relieved to be putting distance behind her, he suspected he had saved her from more than sharks and a watery grave. And that made him curious. “As honorable as a privateer might be.”

  Her gaze flipped back. He may have startled the lass, but her eyes lacked any fear. And that might have been a trace of a smirk cross her lips. Maybe she really was daft.

  “Will I be gaining yer ear, captain?”

  “Come.” He led her across the deck to the ladder leading down to his cabin where he snagged a lantern at the hatch and lit it. “Stick close. Ye dinna want one of the men to nab ya.” None would, of course. The punishment for violating the Articles was severe. They may all be the scourge of the sea, but the men on his crew valued their brotherhood over impulsive carnal urges.

  “Oh, thank ye for the warning.” Instead of keeping on his heel, she fell back a step. The lass was a contrast to everything a woman in her position should be. She didna tremble from fear nor show any sign of regret for her rash behavior. Instead, she seemed to purposely spurn his directive. Coire loathed defiance. Had no room for it. Had killed because of it. It rankled him even more when the fairer sex displayed any amount of it. He’d not allow another woman the opportunity to disrespect him. But with this lass, he wondered how much of it was intentional.

  Coire opened the door to his quarters and allowed her to precede him. Once inside, he hung the lantern on a hook overhead. “Have a seat, Miss MacDougall.” He motioned to a chair at the table that doubled as his desk nailed to the floorboards in the middle of the room. She tucked the skirt of her drab brown dress, the hem wet and tattered, beneath her and promptly sat. He’d consider that a win.

  He had a feeling in his gut this night was about to get worse. He amended that. It most certainly would get worse, now that he had gotten a good look at her. In the dancing firelight, he could make out the smattering of freckles sprinkled over her nose. Her eyes, which followed his every movement, were the lightest of green—the color of feathery fern fronds on a moist forest floor. Mesmerizing…

  Coire gave her his back, determined not to forfeit good judgment for a pretty pullet. A stout swig of whiskey would do. He retrieved two cups from their secured spot on a shelf. “I’ve a pitcher of fresh water, if ye’d care—”

  “Whiskey, if ye please.” His surprise must have shown. She added, “I’m a bit chilled from getting wet.”

  He filled her cup halfway, handed it to her, and filled his own tankard to the brim. The lass raised her mug to him, smiling her thanks, and threw back the entire contents in one swallow with nary a winch from the hard liquor. “Ah, I needed that. My thanks, sir. Ye’ve been my salvation twice this night.”

  The women Coire knew who could drink whiskey like that were cut from the same hard-bitten cloth of the wretched dregs of society, often thieves and whores. He didna get that undercurrent from her, but the girl called for closer scrutiny. “Salvation. Quite a choice in language. One that belies ye didna just happen upon misfortune, finding yerself carried out by the tide. Ye are running. Why? And dinna lie. I’ll excuse no more of them.”

  She sighed, for his benefit, surely. Any other typical captain might have believed her original story. But Coire thrived amongst liars, rooks, and politicians. Taking strangers at their words was an occupational hazard.

  “Aye, ye are right. I’ve not been forthright. I am running.” The lass took a deep breath, her gaze landing upon her cup. “From an abusive man.” She lifted up her sleeves to reveal her arms. Bruises the size of fingerprints mottled her creamy skin.

  “Yer husband did this to you?” He’d love to leave a few bruises of his own on whoever had harmed her. Rough-handling of someone so small was inexcusable.

  “I’m not married.” Her lips flattened, as if the very thought was unappealing. “Tonight, I feared for my life and took a chance.”

  “A hell of a chance.”

  She glanced up from her cup but returned her attention to it, gliding her finger along its rim. “He came to my…room. Had been drinking heavily. An opportunity presented itself and I fled.”

  Coire reached around to the small of his back for her pistol and placed it between them on the table. “This his?”

  “Nay. ’Tis mine now.”

  He nearly chuckled at that shameless answer. “Did ye kill him?”

  Slowly, she met his gaze. “Do I look like a murderer?”

  “Looks can be deceiving, lass. Answer the question.” ’Twould be important to know this wee detail. He wasna in the business of transporting fugitives. Not without a commission and a promise of considerable bounty.

  She lifted a shoulder. “I didna stick around to see.”

  The lass was wily. Alluring and wily. It had been his experience to never trust an alluring and wily woman. Something still smelled wrong. “Forgive me, lass, but yer logic is flawed. Ye’ve gone from the frying-pan to the fire. Casting yer lot with a ship full of sailormen is unwise. Fatal.” He wasna going to soften his words to save her sensibilities. Not when she clearly had none. “What is to stop me from forcing myself upon ye, discarding you to the men once I’ve had my fill, then throwing yer broken body overboard?”

  She leaned over her arms resting upon the table, lifted her chin, and pinned him to his seat with an undaunted stare. “I’d kill myself, or you, before I’d let that happen.”

  The girl snatched at the pistol between them so quickly he almost didna catch her by the wrist in time. But not enough time that the barrel wasna pointed directly at his chest. They stared at one another for two heartbeats until she haughtily pursed her lips and let the gun slip from her grasp.

  Coire fought back a smirk. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the only woman he ever trusted. Miss Treva Shawna MacDougall had some of the same bold fire as Captain Joelle Quint. That hellcat was admired by pirates the world over for her courage, tenacity, and skill. Coire had the honor to serve under her flag. She would have given her life for any member her crew, and he’d have done the same for her. But the woman sitting across from him was no red-headed pirate captain. She was a tiny girl with big ballocks.

  Mixed emotions warred within him. He fumed at her trickery, had no use for the conniving woman, and yet was overwhelmingly curious about her, admiring her diligence. Didna help that she was oh-so easy on the eyes. But he’d tolerate no vague threat. “That’s a dangerous line you tread, lass.”

  She straightened back into her chair and he let her wrist glide from his grip. “I beg to differ. Had I stayed, I would be dead by morn. He swore to it. I had no other choice but to embrace whatever opportunity was presented. I’d like to think I traded up. Being a pirate—”

  “Privateer.”

  “One in the same, captain. I’m sure ye understand the worth in seizing opportunity.”

  He conceded with the dip of his head. There really wasna much difference in the two. Legal document or no, the practice of pillaging was the same. But her actions still didna make sense. Why take a rowboat to sea? Why not go into hiding
and find a safer passage off the island? It didna add up. She wasna telling him the whole truth, if any.

  She lifted her cup. “May I have another?”

  “Opportunity is a part of our lifeblood,” he said, filling her cup with more whiskey than he had given her before. “And if ye understand my profession so well, why are you not afraid?”

  “Afraid of pirates? I’d be foolish to not be.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at that. “And yet…?”

  “Remember, I’m taking chances where I had none. Ye look nothing like the pirates I’ve run into—vile, unkempt, foul-smelling, savage, arrogant…”

  “Ye’ve met many pirates?”

  “I’ve had the occasion.” There it was again. A ghosted smirk, just as her lips touched the rim of her cup. He was sure of it this time. But his interest in her fleeting reaction floated to the back of his mind as he focused on those rosy lips—plump, ripe, distracting…

  “I’m desperate to get home, Captain Fletcher.”

  Ah, something more of her to piece together. “Where is home?”

  “Oban.”

  Oban? She was a part of the MacDougall clan in Oban? Suddenly, like it or not—and he did not—he had a vested interest in making sure this lass got home. His livelihood might depend on it. He’d turn her over to Graer MacDougall, the man who had commissioned Coire and the Kelpie to run arms up and down the Scottish and British coasts, paying them handsomely.

  “We’re not headed to Oban but ye’ll be close. Our business takes us to Scarba.”

  “Scarba?” The color from her face drained. ’Twas the first real response of fear out of her. Interesting. “Will ye not dock elsewhere?”

  “Afraid not, lass. I’ve a delivery to make.” And under a time constraint to get his haul to Graer as soon as possible. “Besides, I should think it good fortune for ye to be going to a port on MacDougall lands.” So why did she look terrified at the notion?

  “Aye.” The word was as drawn out as her distant gaze. She suddenly snapped back to and bobbed her head. “I should be able to find passage easily enough to Oban.” Her confidence lacked in her voice. She fiddled with her cup before taking another long quaff. How much of the whiskey could she handle? He made note to keep a watchful eye on her and keep the chamber pot handy lest she become sick.

  “Which brings me to another matter. Nothing is free, Miss MacDougall. What will be my payment for saving yer pretty little arse and taking ye with me?” Coire should be ashamed of himself for his inappropriate language and demanding recompense from a lady in need. But he still seethed at the manner in which she forced her way onto his ship and, though she didna know it, put him in the loathsome position of acting as her guardian.

  “’Twould be terribly impudent of me not to pay ye for yer inconvenience and hospitality.” She reached into her skirts and withdrew a small pouch. The coins jangled together as she tossed them onto the table in front of him. “I think ye will find it more than enough.”

  Coire peered inside the cloth purse. Aye, ’twas enough to sail to the Northern Isles. She’d been prepared. “Seems ye are self-assured that I would accept this alone.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Would it be too much to ask to show me yer honor and respect mine?”

  He was no man ruled by his cock or primal need to assert authority over the fairer kind, though he would be quick to put a woman in her place should she ever try to machinate him.

  “I dinna take up much room,” she added from under coy lashes.

  That she didna, and yet she crowded his space with her presence.

  Dammit, wasna that what she was doing now? Machinating, beguiling, and shaping him to her benefit? Nay, not benefit. Survival. She may be mad, but she wasna so foolish to not be mapping out her survival.

  “The journey will last a day’s sail. During that time ye will stay below deck, out of the way.”

  “Oh, thank ye, Captain Fletcher.” Her smile, the brightness was blinding. He caught himself staring at her mouth again and something below his belt twitched. Look away.

  He stood, swiping the pistol off the table as he passed by, stuffing at his back once again. “Dinnae thank me yet. Ye’ll not be comfortable.”

  “I’m quite used to poor living conditions, captain.”

  Coire paused at her odd statement before opening a trunk against the wall. “I’ve no available cabin to accommodate ye. All are being used for storage.” He rummaged through the storage box until he found what he was looking for. “’Twould do no one good to have ye roaming around the crew’s sleeping quarters.”

  “A place on the floor amid barrels will do. I dinna want to be an inconvenience.”

  Graer would have Coire’s ballocks for wedging one of his clan’s women among the contraband. But the man wouldna be able to fault him for what he was about to do. “Too late for that, lass.” The metal of the shackles clanged as he pulled them from the trunk and turned on his heel. “I’m quite beyond inconvenienced.”

  She scrambled from her chair and backed away. Alarm slackened her jaw as she put the table between them, her gaze bouncing from the manacles to his face and back.

  “I’ll need to protect my investments if I’m to share my cabin with ye.”

  “I just want to get home, Captain Fletcher. There’s no need for such extremes.” Her hackles were up, ready to evade any sudden movement from him. She circled around the table as he advanced. Didna she know ’twas a base instinct for a predator to give chase?

  “This coming from a woman who’d sink her boat to board my ship.”

  Around she went, around he followed. She switched directions, and he chuckled inwardly. A table wouldna keep him from her. Damn how he loved a good hunt.

  “I’m a threat to ye, am I, captain?” No smile upon her lips but he did spot a wicked gleam in her eye. And that was a provocation he could not refuse.

  In a flash, he was across the table, snaring her arm, and snapping the manacle upon her wrist. “This is where ye lose yer mettle, lass.”

  She screeched and spat a string of curses, wrestling uselessly to loosen his grasp.

  “Stop fightin’ me.” The girl caught him in the jaw with her free fist. He winced from the smarting and grunted against the new pain radiating from where she kicked him in the shin.

  “Let me go!”

  He obliged by tossing her upon his bunk. No sooner had she bounced on the meager mattress he had the other end of her chains secured to a bolt in the bulkhead.

  A tangle of her messy hair stuck to her lips whipped in and out of her mouth as she huffed angrily for breath, breasts heaving. Her stare could melt steel. Naturally, she yanked on the shackles testing its strength. The sight she made sprawled and writhing across his bed, her skirts climbing up her thighs, and wearing an indignant glower, was…arousing.

  Shite. He turned away and set about locking his trunks. “This is for yer own good, woman.”

  “Or is it for yers?” she spat.

  Coire retrieved the chamber pot, set it beside the bed, and squatted just inches from her exposed legs. He locked gazes with her. “Make no mistake, Miss Treva MacDougall. ’Twas yer choice to play a game of chance with a dangerous man.” He plucked the fabric of her skirt off her thigh, fingering the wool. Close to her core, he was lured by her heat. Wanted to press his fingertips into her creamy skin. Her pupils crowded out the green of her eyes. Again, not with fear. Something else entirely. Rebellion. That made her all the more fetching. Ah, but now was not the time to challenge that rebellion. And she was not the woman. “My generosity ends here.” He pulled her skirt down over her knees.

  The severe lines of her face relaxed with bewilderment. Aye, a lesser man would have taken advantage of her position. Though with the lewd images of what he’d find under her dress buzzing in his mind, he was only better by a degree.

  “I only ask for safe passage,” she said.

  “Which I will give ye…on my terms.”

  She yanked at her restraints.
“This isna necessary.”

  “I say it is.”

  “Dinna underestimate me, Captain Fletcher.” There was that wild look in her eye again. “Ye put me in a beastly situation. Desperate women are capable of the unthinkable.”

  This he knew to be true.

  “Then I suggest ye dinna do anything that will aggravate yer position further.”

  Coire shot up from the floor and left the cabin for much needed fresh air, locking the door behind him.

  Mr. Shaw was right. The devil was afoot. Dressed in skirts and disguised as a beauty.

  Chapter Two

  Treva tried the restraints one more time, if nothing more than out of stubbornness. She had small hands, but the metal cuff was too tight to squeeze through. She harrumphed and fell back against the mattress.

  This wasna how it was supposed to happen. William had said this ship was going to Oban. He had also said he didna know the captain personally but knew he was friendly to the cause and had suspected the ship was laden with arms meant for the rebels. She didna have time to question him as he handed her weapons and the gold coins for passage and helped her into the dinghy. After he shoved her off from the rocky shore beneath Peel Castle, he disappeared back to his post inside the prison and she had been certain luck was finally on her side. Now, she had her doubts. Trading one set of shackles for another.

  She reminded herself it could be worse. She could still be sitting in her cell praying in her last hours as she awaited the noose. ’Twas fortunate William was able to help her escape.

  Treva squeezed her eyes shut. She was exhausted, drained of mind and body. Weary of being alone with her dark thoughts and fatigued from running through corridors, climbing down the rocky coastline, and rowing out to a moving ship. The whiskey gave her a much needed zip of energy, but now it encouraged the lull of sleep. Not yet. She had to determine her next move…now and when they arrived at Scarba.