Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  He reached up and claimed one breast. After kneading the swollen flesh, with a fingertip, he circled the tight peak, then closed his fingers about the distended tip and tweaked.

  She only just managed to muffle her shriek. Her eyes were opened wide; they locked on his.

  He’d never seen her quite so wild, so utterly unrestrained, so frantically needy...this was an Isobel he’d never had before.

  The realization sank in—and drove him.

  With passionate ruthlessness, he took her up and over one jagged peak, waiting only until her sobbing breaths had reduced to panting before taking her up and over again, sending her soaring into mindless ecstasy.

  When she fell back to the bed, limp and wrung out, he knelt between her widespread thighs. She was tall, and most of her extra length was in her long, glorious legs. He slid his hands beneath the globes of her bottom and raised her hips, leaving her knees draped over his elbows.

  He entered her on one long, slow thrust and saw her breasts rise on a shuddering breath.

  Then he settled to find his own release in the scalding slickness of her welcoming sheath.

  He hadn’t expected her to join with him again.

  Again, she proved she wasn’t the woman of his memories.

  The lust that blazed between them now seared hotter and flared more fiercely; the conflagration caught them both, cindered all restraint, and left them riding through a raging firestorm of unadulterated need.

  It shattered them again. Ripped them from this world in a blast of brilliant ecstasy that wiped their minds and left them floating on oblivion’s sea like hollowed-out shells.

  Left them clinging to each other in the aftermath, cleaving once more, each to the other, as they had so long ago.

  No. The simple denial echoed in his mind as, limbs and bodies still tangled, they slumped together in the cocoon of the sheets. A detached corner of his mind confirmed it—they were no longer those people who had handfasted years ago.

  This time, he didn’t immediately fall asleep, and neither did she.

  As they disentangled themselves and settled once more as they preferred, with him on his back and her against his side, he was conscious of a calmness, a steadiness inside that hadn’t been there before.

  Cathartic. The exchange had been that; the heated moments of passion had made them let the past go—they’d had to in order to engage with each other as they now were.

  But some things hadn’t changed. Like the physical joy of having her beneath him, the deeply sensual pleasure he found only with her, and the sense of completeness that lingered long after the act.

  How important she was to him—she and no other—hadn’t changed. If anything, the imperative to reclaim her had just grown significantly more pressing.

  Satiation had sunk to his marrow. Sleep tugged, but rather than surrender, he set his mind to replaying the encounter, like a cat reliving the wonders of an entire bowlful of cream.

  He refrained from licking his lips, although he did start to smile—then a less welcome thought doused his smugness. How had the girl he’d known years ago come to be the woman in his arms? The siren who had so recently tortured him with pleasure.

  He told himself he shouldn’t ask—that he had no right to do so. Yes, technically, they’d been plighted all that time, and she was the mother of his son, but if he asked her, she might ask the same question of him, and what could he say?

  He certainly hadn’t been celibate for eight years.

  The risk in asking was too great. If he had any sense at all, he would let the matter lie—

  “Where did you learn to do what you did to me?”

  For several seconds, she didn’t react, then she raised her head from his chest and, through the shadows, looked him in the eye. Her eyes were so dark, he had no hope of reading any expression in them, but the sheer weight of her gaze had him tensing.

  Especially when her eyes slowly narrowed. “Where do you think I learned about it?”

  And that was an even worse question than the one he’d feared. Her tone had been rigidly even, giving him no hint at all... He took refuge in a frown. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  She continued to stare at him for five silent heartbeats, then she humphed. “If you must know, women talk—and there are a lot of women at Carmody Place.” She lowered her head to his chest, then shuffled to get comfortable and ended somewhat huffily turning so her back was to him.

  She yawned, and he almost missed her next words. “I knew all about the theory eight years ago. I’ve been waiting to try it out ever since.”

  Ever since?

  By the time he’d convinced himself that her last sentence meant what he wanted it to mean, she’d fallen asleep.

  Through the dimness, he stared at her, then he slowly smiled. She was lying on his arm. He turned and gently drew her to him so her back was nestled against his chest, then he spooned his body around hers and closed his eyes.

  He continued to grin smugly; he fell asleep planning his next move.

  * * *

  He woke her as dawn was streaking the sky.

  With slow, drugging caresses, he led her onto a plane where every touch sparked magic, and the subtlest pressure of a palm wrought exquisite delight.

  He’d searched his repertoire for a special gem, and this was what he chose to offer her. In reparation for his gaucheness, he gave her devotion and worship.

  Flushed, heated, awash with desire, Isobel floated in the mists of pleasure he conjured, barely able to breathe through the clouds of sensation he wrapped her in. Trapped her in.

  But he kept hold of her. He pleasured her until she was aching—aching—then joined with her, and while the warmth built and overflowed, as it surrounded them, enveloped them, and flooded them, the pace remained slow.

  Exquisitely, excruciatingly slow.

  All the way to that moment of peaking sensation, where pleasure scintillated and glory beckoned. He held her even then, his fingers locked with hers as their bodies strained in naked harmony.

  And then came apart.

  Later, when their breathing slowed and their hearts no longer thundered, she lay slumped by his side and languidly reviewed their present. One point was clear—their today wasn’t going to be the same as their yesterday.

  This—the resumption of their intimacy—had been inevitable, unavoidable, something she, at least, had had to broach before she—they—could move on.

  Into whatever future awaited them now he was back in her bed.

  Or she in his, as the case actually was.

  Now the step had been taken, and they’d discovered that, if anything, their physical connection was even more intense than memory had painted it—or perhaps the people they now were needed with a greater intensity than their younger selves had—the next question on her list was simple. What now?

  They were both awake. She shifted her head on the pillows so she could see his face. “Where do you intend this to go?”

  He would have a goal in mind; he always did.

  He glanced sideways and met her eyes. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

  Waspishly, she retorted, “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

  His lips twitched, but almost immediately, he sobered. His eyes remained on hers. After several seconds, he said, “I want you as my wife. As my partner in life. As my helpmate in all things.”

  All things? Yet his tone, his expression, what she could read in his steady gray gaze said he meant it. Every word.

  The realization shivered through her, and yet...

  “And Duncan?” She asked more to give herself a moment to think than from any real doubt.

  “Will formally become my son and heir.” He paused, then added, “He already is, regardless.”

 
; She didn’t dispute that. But when she’d boarded his ship, even though she’d accepted that he and she needed to resolve their relationship, she hadn’t anticipated this situation. So she hadn’t yet asked herself the vital question, much less found an answer.

  His declaration, however, required some response.

  Obviously, the woman she now was had no reservations over trusting him with her body. That was one question answered, one critical issue resolved.

  What she didn’t yet know was whether the woman she now was could ever again trust him with her heart.

  She had once, and he’d crushed it. Unintentionally, perhaps, yet pain was pain, and pain of that magnitude raised defenses that weren’t readily susceptible to logic.

  She no longer blamed him for what had happened; that didn’t mean she could erase the remembered pain. Nor could she recalibrate her reaction to the thought of making herself vulnerable to such pain again.

  He’d articulated his goal clearly, and she knew him well enough to know he spoke truly. And his mention of all things—of sharing his life with her, all the varied aspects without limitation—had sparked a deep-seated, instinctive recognition that such a complete sharing was exactly what she wanted. It was the only prospect she would actively reach for—and he’d known her well enough to offer it.

  He was an excellent strategist and an even better tactician. And he was sincere in offering her what she wanted, what she needed.

  Today.

  It was easy to say the words, easy to intend to keep their promise.

  But just as she appreciated that the offer he—the man he now was—had made was a major, well-nigh unprecedented concession, one that cut across instincts and deeply entrenched preferences, knowing that it did, she had to wonder whether, when some unforeseen situation arose, he wouldn’t find sharing too hard and, instead, convince himself she didn’t need to know.

  That had been his attitude before.

  She continued to hold his gaze as realization dawned; there was only one way to see if this particular leopard could indeed change his spots.

  Like her, he wasn’t unnerved by long silences. He’d waited, patiently, for her to come to a decision.

  With a fractional dip of her head, she said, “Let’s see where the winds take us.”

  It wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for; she saw that in the sharpening of his gaze, the faint hardening of his features. But then he inclined his head in graceful acceptance.

  They weren’t going to get any more sleep. Moving together, they flipped back the covers and got up to meet the day.

  CHAPTER 5

  Twelve days later, Isobel stood beside Royd as, under the cover of darkness, he steered The Corsair into the wide mouth of the estuary on the southern shores of which the settlement of Freetown sprawled. Peering across the dark water, Isobel could just detect glimmerings of light on the distant shore.

  It was imperative that The Corsair shouldn’t be identified, preferably not even seen; they couldn’t risk someone in the settlement realizing another Frobisher ship had arrived and alerting the instigators, who in turn might send word to the mercenaries at the mine. Isobel had been intrigued to discover that the ship carried false name boards and extra flags; she was currently The Pelican, and her pennants identified her as Dutch.

  Flying three black sails, the ship glided forward with barely a whisper. Isobel was impressed by how Royd finessed the onshore breeze to keep their forward momentum low so the ship slid rather than splashed through the waves.

  They were breaking maritime law by sailing without running lights. Although it was overcast and the moon had yet to rise, there was enough starlight to see that their way was clear, and they weren’t going into the harbor.

  Royd wasn’t calling orders, either; the members of the watch were standing ready to act on his signals. All had sailed under his command for years; they understood the need for silence. Sound traveled all too well over water.

  She glanced at Royd. Eyes narrowed, he was gauging the distance to the harbor, some way off to starboard. As she watched, he swung the wheel, bringing the ship slowly around.

  They sailed on for ten minutes. As the harbor drew nearer, a sense of expectation gripped her. Tonight would be the first real test of Royd’s commitment to sharing all aspects of his life with her.

  Since that first night out of Southampton, they’d shared the bed in the stern cabin, more or less as a matter of course. That side of their present was now well established—stronger and more intense than it had been before, and something they both valued and enjoyed. All was serene on that front.

  And while she’d wondered how Duncan would adjust to the change, that hurdle had been surprisingly easily overcome. He’d woken early one morning and found them both in her bed. They’d roused to find him staring at them, a frown in his eyes. Then he’d asked the obvious question of Royd: “Why are you in Mama’s bed?”

  She had to give Royd credit; he’d replied without hesitation, “You know I’m your papa. Sharing a bed is one of those things mamas and papas do.”

  Duncan had thought about that for all of two seconds, then he’d smiled sunnily and asked when they were going to get up.

  She’d given thanks he hadn’t seemed to notice that she hadn’t been wearing a nightgown.

  Her mind shifted to where Duncan was now—fast asleep in his bed below deck. She was rather relieved he wouldn’t witness the reckless adventure his mother and father were about to embark on.

  Assuming, of course, that Royd held to his declaration.

  Finally satisfied with their position, he steadied the wheel and pointed at the men standing ready at the mizzenmast. With very little rattling, the sail on the mizzen was lowered. In similar silence, the other two sails were successively taken in, and the ship slowed, then bobbed on the waves, drifting slightly on the incoming current.

  Royd handed the wheel to Kelly, picked up the main spyglass, and walked to the starboard rail, the better to survey the harbor.

  Isobel followed. At this distance, to her unassisted eye, the vessels in the harbor were distinguishable only by their relative size and, in some cases, their shape. She could guess how many masts each had, but she couldn’t be sure.

  With the glass to his eye, Royd scanned the dark shapes, eventually focusing on one. After several moments, he murmured, “Our luck’s in—it looks like Decker’s at home.” His tone conveyed satisfaction and no small amount of anticipation.

  “Which is his ship?”

  He handed over the glass and pointed. “The seventy-four anchored to the right of the rest of them.”

  Although she’d never worked on navy ships, she knew what the designation meant—seventy-four guns. She put the glass to her eye and located the ship in question. “You assume he’s there because there’s a light in the stern cabin?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone else being in that cabin at this hour, and the light’s steady—a lamp, not a candle.” A moment later, he said, “It’s already after ten o’clock. We should get moving. I’d rather not have to roust the man from his bed.”

  “Good God—the thought.” She handed back the glass and headed for the ladder.

  Royd returned the spyglass to Kelly, paused to signal Jolley to lower the tender, then followed. As he went down the ladder, then trailed Isobel through the aft hatch, down the companionway stairs, and along the corridor to the stern cabin, he reviewed his plan for reaching Decker. If all went as he wished, there should be no danger, yet...

  His campaign to win Isobel was proceeding, if not as he’d planned, at least very definitely in the right direction. He’d assumed a slow wooing would work best, but he’d failed to allow for her innate impatience—or his. So she’d filched the reins and rescripted his plan—and he certainly wasn’t about to complain. The past twelve days—and nights—had
been...like finding port after an eight-year-long storm.

  That side of their relationship was now rock solid. But, of course, everything came with a price. Namely, now that he had her in his bed again, his aversion to allowing her to face any sort of danger had also rekindled and grown.

  How to balance the competing claims—two opposing compulsions, one an instinct, the other a need—he hadn’t yet worked out.

  Walking into the stern cabin, the first thing he saw was Isobel bending over his armory trunk. He paused, distracted by the sight of her luscious derriere outlined beneath the thin fabric of her skirt, but after a second, he shook free and walked over to see what she was about.

  Testing the weight of knives was the answer. He had a good selection of various sorts in the trunk, and she was busy comparing the heft of two short blades.

  “This one, I think.” She put the other knife back in its scabbard, then straightened, her selection in her hand. She glanced at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.” That much was true. He’d taught her to use knives himself, to throw and defend, but he doubted she’d ever had reason to use the training. He watched as she headed toward the bed, her full skirts swaying. “You’re not going to be able to board Decker’s ship, you know.” When she swung to face him, he nodded at her legs. “Your skirts will make climbing up impossible.”

  The tight-lipped, narrow-eyed smile she threw him suggested she’d been waiting for the quibble. “Indeed.” She waved, directing his attention to the bed—to what lay on the coverlet. “That’s why I won’t be wearing skirts.”

  He looked and inwardly swore. She presented a powerful enough distraction in skirts. In breeches? The only saving grace was that at least they weren’t skintight.

  She’d set down the knife and was busy unlacing her gown. He left her to change and swung his gaze to the armory trunk and his attention to arming himself.

  His gaze, he could control; his attention proved more problematic. He heard the rustles as she dispensed with her gown, then the sliding shush as those long legs with which he was now intimately reacquainted were sheathed in sturdy cotton.