Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  “I’m ready.”

  Rowan’s expression remained the same except for the slightest widening of his eyes. It was the only indication that her capitulation surprised him. He sat down and drew her across his lap. He kneaded the flesh of her bottom before he rained down a series of spankings with his palm in preparation for the belt.

  “I do not relish the idea of using a strap, but you refuse to take proper caution with your well-being. You seem to need something more compelling than just my hand.” He rubbed his hand across her once more. “You will count each one and thank me at the end.”

  Rowan brushed her hair aside and placed one hand upon the small of her back. Caragh barely had time to take a deep breath as she heard the leather cut through the air and land across her backside. She arched in pain but refused to make a sound other than to begin her count.

  “One.”

  “You will receive twelve spanks. If you try to stop me or move your hands in the way, risking the belt hitting them, I will add to the tally. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Rowan.”

  Blows landed across her bottom, leaving stripes in their wake. Rowan alternated where the leather struck her, making sure none cut through her skin. Caragh counted as she was instructed. The third lash made her cry out in pain. She could no longer hide her discomfort. By the seventh, she could not keep from kicking her feet as tears streamed down her face. Eight and nine had her sobbing as Rowan rubbed her punished flesh between spanks. He had caught the underside of her bottom where it merged into her thighs. He rubbed the heat from it, but he felt a different warmth in that area. His fingers dipped between her thighs until his fingers grazed her entrance. She whimpered not in pain, but arousal. Her head hung limply during the lashing, but now she looked back at him, her confusion clear.

  “Let us be done with this.”

  Caragh nodded and turned her head back. The tenth strike rocked her hips against his muscled thigh. She shifted as her bud found friction that built a need for release.

  “You are not to find your release until I give you leave to, lass.” Rowan’s voice was hushed but held promise. A promise of further punishment but also impending pleasure.

  The fight drained from Caragh as the last two blows landed, and her need grew. As soon as he finished, Rowan dropped the belt and scooped Caragh into his arms. He cradled her and grazed his palm over her tender skin.

  She looked up at him through teary eyes.

  “Thank you, Rowan. Thank you for caring enough to want to keep me safe.” Caragh nearly admitted feelings she kept bottled and tucked away, certain they were not what Rowan wanted to hear.

  “I do care about you, mo chridhe.” My heart. He had not called her that again since the night on deck when he came to blows with Skinny.

  Caragh shifted, and Rowan stifled a groan. Caragh still felt it rumble in his chest and felt his rod hardening. Her desire for release had been overwhelming as the last strikes pushed her against Rowan’s thigh, but now she felt another need: to make recompense and reconciliation. She slid from Rowan’s lap, even though he reached to stop her. She kneeled before him, careful to keep her inflamed flesh off her heels. She folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

  Rowan’s chest squeezed as he watched an unprecedentedly demure Caragh humble herself before him.

  “Caragh?” he murmured.

  At her name, she looked up and pressed her hands against his knees to widen them. When he acquiesced, she scooted forward. She looked up at him and saw his bewilderment. She reached out and rubbed her hand over his length. She dropped her gaze in submission as she continued to stroke him.

  “What are you doing, mo chridhe?”

  Once again, the endearment slipped smoothly from him and encircled her with warmth. “I would show you I care just as much and that I am grateful for you. May I?”

  Her quest for permission tore at Rowan’s heart. He had fantasized as a younger man about finding a woman who would accept his dominance with willing submission. More recently, he wondered if Caragh possessed that nature, if only behind closed doors.

  “Yes, Caragh,” his voice hoarse and filled with emotions he could not articulate.

  She untied the laces to his leggings and eased them open until he sprung forth. She traced her fingertip over his scorching skin with a feathery touch. She wrapped her hand around him and stroked him before lowering her mouth around him. Caragh poured all the love that had built within her for a man she never expected to meet, but now could not imagine being apart from.

  Rowan watched her through slitted eyes and marveled as the satisfaction she seemed to get from the act. When he could no longer hold back his climax, he scooped her hair off her neck and pressed her away. He stroked himself as his seed coated her chest and dripped down her breasts. She wiped a finger along her nipple and brought it to her mouth, humming as she licked it. Rowan knew he pulled away not to save her from choking or the taste, which she seemed to like, but because he wanted to mark her as his. His possessiveness had not flared this strongly since their first night together.

  He stood from the chair, and Caragh backed away but remained kneeling. Rowan returned with a damp cloth but rather than let him clean her, then himself as he usually did, she wiped the cloth along him like their first morning together. Once they were both tidy, he carried her to their bed.

  He always thought of the cabin and everything within it as theirs. It had ceased being his the night she arrived aboard his ship. Rowan covered them with the coverlet, then held her as she traced his tattoo. He had noticed that following the intricate pattern soothed her, and he liked the feel of her caresses.

  Each night when he returned to the cabin for the evening meal, they talked about a variety of topics including his travels, the battles he had fought, the treasures he accumulated, her village and townspeople, and her family. He never volunteered anything from his past before he became a pirate, and she never asked. He knew she wanted to know, but she respected his privacy. He appreciated it more than he could say, but he knew the time had come to reveal more of his story. Despite their closeness when they made love–and he admitted to himself that they did not simply couple–he had not shared enough with her. He suspected that was part of the reason she was withdrawing further into a shell of her own making. She had humbled herself before him that night and made herself vulnerable. It was time for him to do the same. He kissed her forehead before he began to speak.

  “Caragh, you’ve never asked about my past. The time before I became a pirate or even how I became one. I wasn’t ready to tell you, but I would share that with you now.”

  Caragh did not move except to nod her head twice.

  “You know I’m a MacNeill of Barra, and I suspect you know my tattoo is not typical of a sailor. I can only guess what your vivid imagination has concocted to explain it.” When she did nothing but continue to trace the ink on his skin, he continued.

  “My father was the laird of our clan, and I was his heir. I was loved by my parents, and they were more attentive than most. While I remained close to my mother, I argued often with my father as I grew into a young man. We had differing opinions on how to treat our clansmen. My father ruled with a heavy hand and through fear, even though he made sure all members of the clan were cared for, especially the elders. We had an abundance of men willing to sail for us. My father believed it was because they sought riches like he did, but I understood it was freedom from his tyranny that they sought. My mother was the only voice that could soothe him when he was at his worst, but over the years, even my mother’s influence diminished as his greed grew.” Rowan paused to gather his thoughts. He was about to reveal to Caragh things that he had not shared with anyone, not even his mother.

  “My father rode out twice a year to survey all of his land. He would be gone a fortnight or more as he checked the planting and harvesting of the meager crops we could grow on Barra. I began riding along with him and his men when I was three and ten. I watched the tenant
farmers quake when they recognized their visitors. I watched him levy unfair taxes that kept the families indentured to him. I sailed with him when we raided the MacLeods.” He paused to see if she would react, but she only nodded once again. “I learned how brutal a sea captain needed to be. It was the only time I could agree with his method of leadership. I gained my fearlessness from the things he made me do as I learned to captain the crew. These skills have kept me alive.”

  Caragh continued to stroke his shoulder and arm as she listened in silence.

  “When I was six and ten, it was time to ride out to oversee the spring planting. He wanted to follow a stream that was known to overflow its banks in spring after the thaw. I tried to warn him we could lose a horse if it went lame in a mudslide, but he refused to consider my caution. He called me weak and unfit to lead if I was afraid of a bit of mud. He insulted me and questioned my manhood in front of our warriors, men I would someday have to lead. I had no choice but to agree with him and ride out, though my gut warned me it was a mistake.”

  Rowan halted in his story as long-repressed memories flooded his mind. Caragh’s tender touch as she ran her fingers over his bristle brought him back to the present. He looked down at the luminescent emerald eyes that he lost himself in time and time again. She stretched to kiss him before tucking her head back against his chest. He found it easier to tell his tale if he did not have to see her reactions.

  “We were gone a sennight when a storm crashed down upon us. It wasn’t anything unusual for the Hebrides, but the stream turned into a river. My father sent men out to scout where we could cross while he and I remained at the camp. We had argued the night before and once again that morning. While I tried to keep our disagreements private, my father relished dressing me down in public. He said being able to maintain my baring before my men was building my character. It just made me loathe him.”

  Rowan paused to swallow the lump forming in his throat. His chest felt as though a ball of fire had come alive and burned him from the inside out. Caragh’s patience lent him strength as he pushed past the pain.

  “I’d turned away to lead my horse from the bank. I didn’t trust the sludge that shifted beneath our feet, and I feared my steed would get sucked into the mud and end up lame or drowned. It wasn’t my own horse I should have feared for. I heard my father’s horse scream and his bellow. I turned back in time to see the mudslide pour over the hilltop and cascade down to where we had just been standing. It washed away both my father and his horse. I ran along the banks and tried to find him. I could see his hair just beneath the surface, but there was no way to get to him without being swept away. I finally decided entering the water on my own was better than being swept away. I ran further down the bank, trying to get ahead of my father before I waded in. The current swept my father toward me, and I clung to an overhanging branch as he came toward me. I reached for him and dragged him toward me with all the strength I could muster. The current shifted and gave up its hold on him. He went crashing into the branch I clung to. He bashed his head, leaving a massive gash that squirted blood. I knew head wounds could bleed profusely, but this was unlike anything I had ever witnessed.”

  Caragh nodded her head as her hand rested, cupping his cheek.

  “I clung to the branch and my father as I called for help. I could barely hear my own voice over the rushing water. When no one came running, I knew I had to get us out, or we would both die. I pulled my father against my chest and wrapped my legs around him as tightly as I could. I pulled us, hand over hand, along the branch until I felt the bank against my back. I dragged us through the muddy embankment until I could get to solid ground. I dropped down beside him, and I don’t remember anything until I awoke to one of my clansmen kicking me in the ribs.”

  Rowan had to stop once again. The memories felt like a weight crushing his skull, and he gripped his head between his hands. He felt Caragh shift against him, then her fingers prying his hands away. She replaced his hands with her cool ones then brushed the back of her fingers along his temple and forehead. Rowan never thought he would share this story with another living soul, never thought he would allow anyone to see him this vulnerable. His pride tried to rear its head, but his need for comfort, comfort only Caragh could offer, was far too strong. He rolled onto his side and looked into her eyes. He saw anguish on his behalf, but there was no pity. He could not have managed her pitying him. Not when he told a tale of his father questioning his manhood. Caragh opened her arms to him, and it was his turn to burrow into her chest. His cheek rested against the pillow of her breasts. He heard the solid, steady rhythm of her heart as she stroked his head.

  “You don’t have to tell me anymore,” she murmured against his hair.

  “I do.”

  “I won’t think less of you. I don’t believe any of what your father must have said. I could never.”

  Rowan leaned back, and it was his turn to offer a kiss, except his was not quick. It was a drawn-out merging of their souls. When they finally pulled apart, Rowan settled back against her chest.

  “I awoke to my clansmen staring at me. There was only anger and hostility in their stares. ‘Why’d ye do it, lad?’ Timothy, my father’s second, asked. I sat up and looked around. ‘Do what?’ I asked. ‘Kill him. Kill yer da.’ I remember shaking my head as I looked over at my father lying next to me. His skin was a deathly blue, and blood caked the wound on his head. We were both soaking wet. ‘I did no such thing,’ I remember yelling. I remember the grumbling and curses as Timothy pulled me to my feet. ‘Then explain how yer da’s ended up dead, and ye barely have a scratch on ye.’ I could not believe anyone would accuse me of killing my own father. We might not have gotten along, but I always believed my clansmen knew me, my character, better than to think such a thing. I explained to them about my father and his horse being swept away, how I’d run alongside trying to catch sight of him, how I entered the river downstream from him and caught him as he floated past. I told them how he hit his head as I tried to pull him to me and how I yelled for help, but no one came. I pointed to the branch that hung in the water now that the surface had risen further. I recounted how I pulled him onto the bank using the tree limb and that I collapsed next to him before I could even check on him.”

  Rowan was certain tears would soon flow from his eyes, but he was compelled to tell Caragh everything. He wanted her to know. He wanted to share his entire tale with her.

  “Not a one of them believed me. They either accused me or agreed with the accusation of patricide. They bound my wrists and tied me to my saddle. They made me ride with my father’s dead body swaddled in cloth in front of me. It took a sennight to return to the keep. My mother greeted us as we arrived in the bailey, but she took one look at the corpse over my saddle and my bound wrists and began wailing. She ran to my horse, but it wasn’t me she cried out for. She barely noticed me. She sobbed for a man who had begun to mistreat her as badly as he did me. Someone pulled me from my horse and dragged me to a cell in the dungeon. The clan elders held a trial in absentia and declared me guilty of killing my father. They stripped me of my title as his heir, and they decided rotting away in a cell was a far worse punishment than killing me for the crime they accused me of. I would have to agree. Once they handed down the sentence, they moved me from a cell with a door and bars I could look out of to the oubliette. I spent a moon down there. I was sure I would perish, and the rats that shared my new living quarters would eat the skin off my bones. I lost all sense of time. I had no idea if it was day or night, or which day it was. The hatch opened only once daily, when stale bread and a water skein were lowered to me. Once or twice in what I imagine was a sennight, dried beef was also sent down. I had all but given up until the hatch opened and someone flung a rope ladder down. I looked up to see my cousin Ruairí standing at the top of the pit. He called down to me to climb up, but I hadn’t the strength. He cursed up a storm, then scrambled down. He pushed me to the ladder, and only with his help was I able to make it out. It w
as the dead of night, and he had been away for nearly two moons with his own father and brothers. He discovered what had become of me and knew the lies for what they were. He freed me, and we stole a birlinn. We sailed down the coast for several days, but we had no choice but to put ashore when I developed a fever. There was a tavern where the owner allowed me to stay until I was well enough to leave. My cousin and I knew we needed to find work since we had nothing to our names but the clothes on our backs. We thought we found a merchant ship, but it wasn’t until we were under way that we realized the captain was a privateer. Caragh, we did what we had to survive that first crew. They were cutthroats and evil to their core, but we learned how to fight and to earn our share of the riches. It was aboard that ship that I earned the moniker the Blond Devil. Three years passed before Ruari and I went our separate ways on different boats. It wasn’t long after that we both became captains of own ships; I through inheritance and election, my cousin through mutiny. My anger over the betrayal subsided as I made the best of my new life, but in Ruairí, the anger turned to bitterness that still burns. He never let go of it, and it’s what still drives him to this day.”

  Rowan stopped speaking, but he realized his hand continued to stroke Caragh’s hip. It was a habit he developed from nearly the beginning of their time together. Caragh ran her hands through his hair and laid next to him in silence. When Rowan could no longer bear it, he looked up at Caragh. Just as before, she cupped his face and kissed him. She rolled onto her back and drew him with her. She reached between them and guided him into her.

  “I believe you, Rowan. I wish I could hurt those who hurt you and mistreated you, both in your clan and among that first crew. I have a rage burning in my chest at the injustices you’ve faced. But I admire you, too. You have made a success of yourself when most men would have crumbled. You captain your own ship, you’re wealthy, and your crew respects you. It’s not simply fear, though there is a healthy dose of that; they truly respect you. And so I admire you.”