by Julia Knight
“Catherine bloody Harcourt.” Wagstaff shook his head sadly and crossed himself. “Poor woman, never had a good bit of luck since she got here. Become quite odd since her husband was murdered, though I daresay it was a relief for her. Very damned odd, to be frank. So they attacked you and took her and the Kittiwake. Yet you and the other crew seem relatively unharmed. Just how much of a fight did you put up?”
“The crew says they came upon them suddenly. They seem to have crept up on us unawares. Most of the crew were just knocked out, though I lost half a dozen men.”
“And you, what did you do?”
“Got a crack across the back of the head. I never even saw them.” Paul tried to will away the flush he could feel creeping along his neck, but it was the truth, even if he had left out quite a bit.
“Hmm, well, Ambury, I’m not quite sure what to do for the best. You did your duty in assisting the Kittiwake, but to lose your ship, that I can’t have. But your court-martial can wait. I need more officers here for a start, and when they’re here, I’ve got things more important for them to do.”
Wagstaff pushed away from the desk. “Right, it’s time we got shot of these damn pirates once and for all. I want every ship available out and looking for them and Lady Harcourt. I want every man trying to find out where they hole up. We can triangulate a rough area to search from where they hit the ships. And you, Lieutenant Ambury, consider yourself beached, indefinitely. Consider yourself lucky you don’t get the lash. You may yet.”
Paul fidgeted in the corner of the room, hoping to remain inconspicuous. Ten days had passed since he’d lost the Newquay, and his cheeks still burned to think how easily his frigate had been taken from him. The last place he wanted to be was at a party for the governor’s wife, with all the attendant manners and fluff, not to mention curious stares. Ten days onshore, with no prospect of getting back to sea. Worst of all, he couldn’t voice any of his suspicions about Lady Harcourt, or not without incriminating himself in some way. He’d been thinking quite a bit about Catherine Harcourt, and he still couldn’t quite decide between anger that it might be her behind the stealing of his ship and his current embarrassment, or the thought she was an innocent caught up in it all. If so, then by God he wanted to find her. If she were the woman he’d originally supposed, then he wanted her. Wanted to find her, make her cling to him, and then push her away as she had him. Sting her pride as she’d stung his. Or even keep her for a time. Yet he couldn’t decide what he believed about her, and the thoughts ran round his head endlessly, making him prickly at best. He’d already managed to offend two ladies this afternoon with a single caustic remark about their lack of brains. That’d do him no good. So he tried to keep out of the way and seethed silently to himself.
Matthew sauntered over, drink in hand. At least he seemed in high humour. “Paul! What are you doing hiding in the corner? Come on, this is the perfect place to introduce you to some of the delectable delights in Bridgetown.”
“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Nonsense. Come on, the luscious Dowling twins are over there. One each.” He lifted his glass in the direction of two insipid-looking blondes. “Personally, I’m awaiting the arrival of the best tits in Christendom. Ah, there she is now. What do you think?”
Paul looked in the direction of Matthew’s nod. A petite brunette stood with Admiral Wagstaff and one of the other captains. She was attractive in a delicate kind of way, though how she held herself and looked up shyly at the admiral as he spoke made Paul think she was just another brainless idiot. Yet when Matthew turned to him and made some comment or other, she looked Paul’s way and sneaked him a sly wink. That wink quickened his interest, and also made her look familiar.
Matthew offered to introduce him, and he followed without hesitation. “Cecily Harper. Good breeding fallen on hard times. She’s Catherine Harcourt’s cousin, came out here when her father died. Penniless, the poor bastard. Good timing—Catherine’s husband had just died, and Cecily helps keep her company. Catherine never mixed much after that. In fact I doubt I’ve seen her twice in the last two years, and never up close, but Cecily’s always around. I’m hoping one day soon I might manage to get her to agree to marry me. She’s very like Catherine except for the hair colour. Don’t you think? In looks, at least, not in temperament, from what I hear.”
“Still intent on marriage? Seriously?” Matthew hardly seemed the type.
Matthew grinned at him and winked. “Only way to drown myself in her tits. Besides, it’s about time I got married. She’s a quiet sort of mouse really, but she’d make a good wife. Don’t you think?”
“A pretty one, certainly.” Paul looked for more than just a pretty face in whoever would end up as his wife. This Cecily certainly didn’t look as though she’d match up to it. Now Catherine, on the other hand… He twitched his shoulders. The damn woman was everywhere in his thoughts. The longer he thought on it, the more he was convinced she was the pirate captain. His crew had all complained of dizzy spells right before the attack—and there’d been that tot of rum to all hands, not to mention Catherine drugging his brandy, but who would believe him? No one, because everyone, from the admiral down, held her in the highest regard, and he could produce no proof without revealing his dereliction of duty.
When he was awake, he silently cursed her name, but when he slept—when he slept, she came to torment him, to lick and tease and taunt him. Every morning he awoke with stained sheets, and he knew if he saw her again, it wouldn’t be the piracy he’d think of first.
They reached Cecily just as Admiral Wagstaff was apologising for leaving her to her own devices.
“Cecily, you’re looking ravishing this evening. I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Matthew bowed elaborately over her hand, and Cecily fluttered and smiled coyly at him. Then she turned her attention to Paul as Matthew introduced him.
A thrill went through him, as for a moment he thought she was Catherine. Then she put out a limp hand for him to kiss, and he realised it couldn’t be her. There was no life in this woman. He bowed and kissed her gloved fingers. It was only as she pulled away that he saw the recently healed cut on her wrist, barely covered by the glove. His mind flashed to the Kittiwake, to Catherine pouring him brandy and apologising for the blood on her shift. The same cut.
He stared at the face, too shocked even to stand up straight. Catherine was fair, and Cecily’s dark hair was pulled tight back from her face in a severe style that accentuated her demureness. Even so, it was her, he would swear it. Cecily, or was it Catherine? Or both? Whichever, she raised her eyebrow a fraction, and he knew he was right. If this was Catherine, then he knew now for sure. Pirate.
Sweat stuck his shirt to his skin as the fevered dreams of the last few days came back to him. Dreams of her naked body in lamplight, her taunting, teasing lips on his skin. But she’d pushed him away afterwards as though he were unclean, had stolen his bloody ship and got him beached and facing a court-martial. He didn’t forget that, either.
She smiled coyly at him. “Lieutenant Ambury. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“All good, I hope?” he managed to say past the dry click that had formed in his throat.
“Mostly.” She smiled, a wan little twitch of her lips. “Matthew, would you be a dear and get me a drink? The heat’s making me quite faint.”
Once Matthew was out of earshot, Paul moved closer. She smiled up at him, as innocent as a babe.
He lowered his voice. “Which name is it? Cecily? Or Catherine?”
Her fan clattered in her fingers, and her cheeks flashed white and then red. A trickle of sweat ran down her hairline. “I—er—I feel very faint. Would you mind escorting me outside? I need some air.”
Paul wavered a moment, torn between livid anger and sneaking admiration, but he’d have his answer and his bloody frigate. He nodded curtly, took her arm none-too-gently and led her out onto the veranda. She steadied a little in the fresher air, though it was still sult
ry. The usual breeze had died, and the air was close enough to suffocate.
“Well?”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, but began to stroll around the veranda, toward the rear of the mansion. “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure. My cousin and I are similar in looks, I’ve been told, but we’re not the same.”
He took her arm roughly, and she jumped at the touch. “Your ‘cousin’ had a fresh cut just here,”—he jabbed at the scab on her wrist—“when I last saw her. And you’re not just similar. You are her. How on earth do you get away with it?”
She sighed and pursed her lips. “Clearly I didn’t drug you well enough. I get away with it because Catherine rarely goes out, or allows herself to be seen in public. Cecily, on the other hand, does. Wigs are such useful things—no one thinks a thing of it if you wear one. She’s so much more demure than Catherine, wouldn’t you say?”
She stood straighter, threw back her shoulders from the coy pose she’d adopted as Cecily and looked him in the eye. Yes, this was the woman on the Kittiwake, there was no doubt now, if there’d been any before. A thrill of excitement started round his heart and travelled rapidly down to his belly, mingled there with his anger at what she’d put him through. She’d stolen his ship! “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you in as a pirate right now.”
She laughed up at him and raised an eyebrow. “Catherine could ‘escape’. I need only take off this wig, get rid of this dress, dishevel myself and tell some tale. I could tell the admiral how you took advantage of a poor, innocent woman before those nasty pirates came and took both our ships. My account will be much more coherent than yours, I’ve no doubt. And taking a drug while in command and on duty? Really, I think you’d lose more than I.”
He dropped his hand from her arm. “He’d never believe it.”
“Would you like to find out? I’ve known him a lot longer than you have, and I could find a crew member or two to escape with me and back up my claim. Who do you think he’ll believe? A man who lost his ship on his first patrol, or a titled woman with a faultless reputation? Or I could say I’ll mention nothing if you mention nothing. A deal?”
They reached the rear of the mansion, and Paul leant on the balustrade to gather his thoughts. She leant next to him, close enough that they touched, and that jumbled all his thoughts. It must be that or the heat. She was different from any other woman he’d ever met, in so many ways. Confident, complicated, intelligent—and all kinds of trouble.
Could he keep the knowledge that she was a pirate to himself? Maybe, if she got him his frigate back. That was all he wanted. His ship…his home too. His life. Dare he keep it to himself? If he was found out, the court-martial was certain, along with the gallows, but dare he say anything? That would be as bad. He’d be hanged for dereliction of duty. She’d almost had him court-martialed once already, had mortally embarrassed him and gotten him beached. Had it been worth it for that one dream of her, one he wanted nothing more than to repeat?
Maybe, just maybe, he could do something. He could string her along as he had so many women, before he tired of them and left them. If he could gain some control over her, he might have a chance at the court-martial. Not to mention that would involve taking her to bed. He could try to tame her—though whether she was tamable was the question. He doubted it, even half-hoped she wouldn’t be, and maybe that was what thrilled him about her. But, God damn, he could try. His cock stiffened at the thought. Oh yes, take her, tell her all his lies and have her testify on his behalf at the trial, and get to fuck her in the meantime. He’d fuck the worth of his ship out of her, and maybe, if he was subtle, get her to give the Newquay back. The plan was perfect, whichever way you looked at it.
Maybe she could read his thoughts, because she took his hand. Her smile was playful, mischievous, and it did things to him he didn’t want. His breathing was loud in his ears, competing with the sound of his thumping heart. She pulled at him, toward a dark doorway. He allowed himself a step, another, then sanity asserted itself.
He should turn her in, no matter the cost to him. That was his clear duty. This woman was nothing but trouble, and he knew it, but he was rapidly starting not to care. It was as though he were drugged, only this time with nothing but lust.
She stopped a moment and looked up at him, serious now. “I’ll leave tomorrow. You’ll not see either of us after today. I swear.”
He didn’t want that, either. Right now, this second, all he wanted was to kiss her, to rip off her clothes and see her naked in the lamplight once more. To hear her cry out against him. He shook his head, words failing him. Take control, what’s wrong with you?
She pulled him on with a taunting smile. “Come on, show me you’re up to the challenge. Show me how much more fire you have in you than those inbred fops in there. Show me the man I think you are, that I know you are.” She pulled on his hand again. “Show me. And maybe I’ll tell you where your ship is.”
Catherine and his ship—he could have both; they could both have what they wanted. All his resistance fled. He could no more refuse than he could stop his heart from beating. He strode for the door, pulled her in after him and held her tight. He didn’t bother to identify the room, only made sure it was empty. She kicked the door shut after them and locked it.
Her breathing was as rushed as his. The thread of her pulse flickered under his hand when he laid it on her neck. It seemed as though her eyes filled his whole mind in the dim light, and the touch of her skin overloaded his senses. He didn’t know where he was, or almost who he was. It didn’t matter. It only mattered that the dream would repeat itself. That he would have his ship from her. The anger at what she’d cost him resurfaced. He would do it. He would screw his ship from her, make her his and leave her, make her pay for his humiliation.
Even as he thought it, he knew he fooled only himself.
Catherine shivered in anticipation as Paul wrapped his arms round her. He was a thrilling change from the usual well-bred, bland men stationed here. He was purposeful and full of fervour. Very full, from what she felt pressed against her so pleasingly.
He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head, and his lips landed on her throat. He’d not get her like that. The thrill gathered pace and heat in her belly and spread out as she rubbed against his growing cock. No teasing this time, no long, drawn-out torment. She just wanted him now. Wanted a strong man, strong arms to lean on—and yet she wouldn’t allow herself to keep them. She’d had enough of respectable men to last a lifetime.
She let her arms fall between them and fumbled for the buttons on his breeches. She shook too much. Stop it! She was supposed to be having this effect on him, bending him to her will, not the other way round, but the strong hands on her back, moving to pull up the front of her skirts, the insistent kisses at her throat that made her nipples tingle and ache for the touch of his lips, told her she was losing control. That it was him in charge of her emotions now. She’d always been a fool for a man with self-assurance. She couldn’t allow that loss of control, but even as she wanted to pull away, to regain her poise, he touched her thigh. A whispered laugh escaped him as he must have realised there was nothing between his hand and her skin. His fingers snaked an insistent trail upwards, and she was lost.
He ran his fingers over her cunny, and she didn’t resist. Daydreams of this since she’d seen him here had made her restless. She was ready to ditch a well-thought-out plan on the spur of the moment, and was ready for him, for this. More than ready.
He slid a finger in, and her mouth parted in a gasp as he ground the heel of his hand against her clitoris. All she wanted was for him to take her now, as relentlessly as he had before. She finally managed to undo his buttons and pull out his cock. The heavy feel of it was heaven in her fingers, would be even better inside her. There was no time to waste—someone might come at any moment.
She lifted the skirts of her dress out of his way and pulled him toward her. She didn’t want to wait; she couldn’t wait. The tip of hi
s cock touched her entrance and held there. She tried to pull him in, but he waited a moment, for what she didn’t know or care. She had to have him, and a word escaped her in a low moan, one she hadn’t uttered to a man since the disaster of her wedding night. One she’d sworn she would never utter to a man bent on fucking her. “Please, please, now.”
He laughed under his breath, lifted her and set her down on the edge of a table. His cock had never left her entrance, and the movement served only to make her try to pull him in. Her legs twitched in anticipation, her cunny dripped its juice along the length of his cock, and still he barely moved—just enough to make her shudder and moan, her eyes screwed shut.
Finally, deliciously, he shoved into her. Every nerve ending where he touched quivered, and she cried out. He tried to cover her mouth with his, but even now she would not let him kiss her. She buried her lips in his shoulder and tried to hold in her cries. Her back arched of its own accord, pushing her onto him. Her nipples, tight and aching, rubbed against the cloth of her dress and brought their own thrill. Again he sank into her, and it was too much. The fullness of him inside her, her aching need, the fervour of him burst within her, and she cried out louder so that he covered her mouth with his hand. He didn’t stop as she came, but carried on with deep, relentless strokes.
She opened her eyes as her muscles loosened, and he looked down at her with a triumphant smile, perhaps because he’d done this, made her come hard in just two thrusts. His breathing was ragged, and he buried his face in her hair, driving ever faster, harder, deeper. He seemed more desperate, as though what he’d seen in her eyes brought him closer to his own goal. Her desperation grew with him. A flush of excitement, nerves and anticipation tangled together in her loins till, with a strangled voice, she came in great, shuddering spasms that ripped through her from her toes to her throat, sent flashes of heat and icy-chill across her skin until she might faint from it. At that moment, he cried out, a coarse, guttural, “Fuck!” that almost brought her to coming, and then his final few strokes slammed into her, ensuring her spasms didn’t weaken but grew deeper until her body strained with the effort.
