Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  The bed sheet flew into the air. Rearing up, she whirled around to face him.

  “How can you not comprehend what is wrong? You have ruined me, utterly ruined my life, and ruined my chance at happiness. I hate you! Go away and leave me alone!”

  “I beg to differ. It was you who abandoned your chaperone and ended up in a slave market. It was I who rescued you. I think you at least owe me some gratitude for saving you.”

  “Gratitude?” she scoffed. “Gratitude for despoiling me? Take me to my husband, and then I might show you some gratitude!”

  “I am sorry, I cannot do that,” he said firmly.

  “Why, why can you not?” she wailed, becoming distraught.

  “Because you are where you are meant to be—which is in my bed. You are mine, my pet, and the sooner you accept that, the happier you will be. Do you need a spanking to calm you and put an end to this tantrum, or will you deign to eat?”

  He almost laughed at the astonished look that crossed her face. She scooted across to the far side of the bed. With eyes like saucers, she grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him.

  The faint kittenish growl that rumbled in her throat had him throwing back his head with mirth.

  By gad, but she is going to be fun!

  “You need sustenance if you intend fighting me, pussy cat.” He turned and crossed into the far room to retrieve the tray. Returning, he ignored her glower and deposited the tray on her lap.

  “I shall leave you to eat your fill. You will not harm me, only yourself, if you go hungry.” He went to the door. “Oh, and should you escape via the open porthole, beware there are sharks circling the ship. The beasts would snap you up as a mere morsel.”

  “Sharks?”

  “Huge sea creatures with rows of razor-sharp teeth; they are flesh-eaters that would tear a man limb from limb in seconds.”

  He blew her a flamboyant kiss, spun about, and left her alone, locking the door securely behind him.

  A sudden crash of something, probably a dish, hit the inside of the door. He grinned, and here he thought he’d purchased a kitten, when in reality he’d bought a tiger.

  Florence was mad at him, but she was more livid with herself. Why did she always push the boundaries of every situation? She was in this deep pickle simply because she’d avoided her chaperone. He was right; her troubles had been caused by her own design.

  Could she escape?

  Gazing thoughtfully at the porthole window, she wondered if he’d told the truth about the sea monsters with many teeth. She’d heard no such mention of these creatures’ existence on the sea voyage from England to Jamaica. Then again, gentlemen tended to be inclined to keep nasty things from ladies for fear of female hysterics. Not that she considered herself at all like other women. No, she was tougher than most—or she had assumed so up until now.

  This situation was one she could never have envisaged. Tears of self-pity welled. Impatiently, she castigated herself for her stupid behaviour. For a while she wept over the cruel hand that fate had dealt her. Annoyed at herself, she brushed her wet cheeks impatiently. Tears resolved nothing.

  She looked down at the food on the tray in front of her—minus the dish of pickled limes which now lay scattered on the floor amid broken crockery. A nasty streak of oily liquid slicked across the cabin door. Florence was determined that she would not be the one to clear the mess up; after all, she did not ask to be kidnapped then bought by a damned pirate. Let him get down on hands and knees and scrub the wooden planks.

  He was right; it would help neither of them should she starve, and so she picked up a large chunk of pineapple. Curious to taste the fruit, she bit savagely into the juicy flesh. The piquancy danced upon her tongue, every bit as delicious as she’d imagined it to be. Before long, she’d cleared the entire meal and dropped the tray carelessly onto the floor with the same abandon she had felt towards the dish of pickles. She wriggled down into the bed and sighed, the bed linen smelt surprisingly fresh. She stretched, exhausted, wondering how she could possibly sleep under the circumstances. Despite her predicament, she did not feel under threat.

  The pirate had behaved like a cad, certainly, yet he had not been unkind. He had fed her well and told her he would not be back until morning. She felt safe enough to turn her face to the pillow. She only intended to rest awhile, but sleep overtook her and drew her down into a welcome oblivion.

  “Rise and shine, my beauty!”

  Florence surfaced groggily. Was that a male voice in her boudoir? Her eyes flew open. Shock stiffened her limbs. Where the devil was she? Then it all came flooding back. Sitting up, she groaned.

  Goodness, the fellow sat in the same tin tub she’d bathed in last night! She flushed furiously at the sight of his hairy, naked chest, gaping at the abundance of bared masculine flesh on display. He winked. Horrified at being caught observing him, Florence turned her head aside.

  “What are you doing in my chamber?” she demanded tartly.

  “Cabin, and since it is actually mine, I have every right to be here. As you see, I am bathing. Did you sleep well?”

  Surprisingly she had but she was not prepared to give him anything to gloat about and so she ignored the question.

  “Is the water not cold?” she asked instead.

  “No, I had fresh water boiled and added to what was left. You were not dirty, it seemed a shame to waste fresh water on a single bath.”

  She remained silent.

  “Would you like to break your fast?” he asked.

  She nodded, her face still averted. The sight of his naked torso was seared clearly in her mind. How could she have possibly imagined such sculpting of the male form? Whorls of dark hair defined the muscles of his chest, and the smooth, bronzed skin stretched over bulging arms and his toned stomach. His beauty stunned her.

  “Clean up the mess you made and join me in my cabin. There is a bucket and mop set beside the door.”

  His words snapped her out of an embarrassing reverie.

  “Clear it up yourself! You kidnapped me and forced yourself on me. I will do nothing to aid you, you fil—!” she spat, biting off the last refrain.

  He rose from the tub. Water streamed down his tall, muscular body. The sound drew her gaze, her eyes widened, unable to look away from the magnificent sight of him. She gazed at his broad, hairy chest, following the tapered line that trailed from his navel leading to a nest of equally dark fuzz. Therein lay his male member, the first Florence had ever seen. It lay thickly flaccid against his muscled thigh, appearing longer than she’d expected. With a deep breath, Florence raised her eyes and slowly raked over the length of him until she met his gleaming gaze.

  “As you see, I am clean, not filthy.” He grinned, obviously amused.

  She stared.

  “Like what you see, do you?” He grasped his manhood and tugged on it.

  Flustered, Florence withdrew her gaze.

  Lifting one well-muscled leg, he stepped from the tin tub and crossed to her side of the bed. She shrank back into the pillows as he raised his hand and swept a wet knuckle in a caress down the side of her cheek.

  “Very well, we shall skip breaking our fast, and the pleasantries. I shall join you in bed for the next stage of your tutorial,” he purred lasciviously.

  To her surprise, his cock lengthened, swelling further, until the flesh stiffened. Florence stared at the organ; it rose to stand tall like a flag pole.

  She moved faster than she had ever done before, scooting to the far side of the bed, where she dropped to the floor. She hastened over to the wooden bucket and, taking up the mop began to swab the muck from the floor. A loud, rumbling guffaw from behind her back only incensed her.

  “Oh, do be quiet, you nasty reprobate!” she admonished, crossly.

  Her waspish remark only garnered further merriment. He skirted her, naked, and walked into the other cabin, still chortling. While she worked, there came the sound of clinking china, and water glugged from what she sincerely hoped was a teapot.
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  With her task completed, she joined him. She found him clothed and looking every inch the pirate rogue. His dark hair, still damp, had been slicked back. It curled in long waves over the collar of a billowing white shirt, which was open at the neck. An abundance of crisp hair pushed through the gap. The lawn garment was tucked into black breeches, his calves and feet now enclosed in a pair of high, black leather boots.

  In comparison, Florence felt somewhat exposed in her thin nightgown.

  A bone china tea service covered the desk. The tea she so hoped for had been poured into two cups and a dish of lemon slices stood beside her plate. He pulled out a chair and indicated that she should sit. Nodding her thanks, she took her place and unfurled her serviette, placing it on her lap.

  Once he was seated opposite, they each concentrated on breaking their fast.

  “So now we are replete, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, waving a slice of fruit in his hand.

  She peered at him from over the rim of her teacup and wondered just how much he already knew about her.

  “You are betrothed to the under governor of Jamaica, you said,” he prompted.

  She set her cup down and put him right. “I am married to Sir Carlton Avery Gilbert Dowdeswell, Under Governor of Jamaica and Governor of the Island of Cigateo.”

  “Married?” he queried.

  “Married,” she repeated firmly.

  “Yet you remain a virgin?”

  Heat filled her face. “We were married by proxy, but I am a married woman in the eyes of God and his church.”

  His lip quirked; his eyes glittered.

  “What?” she snapped.

  “No marriage contract is lawful until consummation has taken place.”

  She shifted uneasily. “It has been consummated. I lied to you yesterday. Carlton met me in Jamaica when we first arrived.”

  One eyebrow rose. “Hmm, is that so?

  Florence stiffened. “Yes,” she lied.

  “Really, well, I do wish you had informed me of this yesterday. May I ask why you chose not to?”

  “Why on earth would I, since it is none of your business,” she scoffed.

  “Confound it, Florence…”

  “Lady Dowdeswell to you!”

  “Lady Dowdeswell, Flory, I should have thought that by now you understood the consequence of lying to me.”

  Florence was fairly sure that she did, yet she stubbornly shook her head in denial.

  “To be certain that you are fully aware of the consequences should that statement be untrue, I shall turn you across my knee and set your pretty little arse alight with the palm of my hand, much the same as yesterday. Flory, I am certain that you have lied to me about the consummation with your husband and so I am giving you a second chance to put the matter straight.”

  Uncrossing one shapely muscled thigh, he lightly patted his lap. Florence stared, mesmerised by the movement of his tapping hand. She swallowed.

  “The thing is…” she began.

  He tsked loudly, interrupting her.

  “The simple truth, if you please. Are you a virgin or not?”

  She stared wide-eyed into his gaze, her mouth working without sound.

  What should I say?

  “Understand that your answer will determine how I make love to you, for if you are untried by a man, I shall be gentler than if you have been previously ridden, d’you see?”

  She hated that he had the ability to make her flush so easily.

  “Flory?”

  Anger swamped her. She leapt to her feet and swept her arm across the tabletop; the china crashed to the floor.

  “How dare you! I hate you, I hate you! You crude, evil, filthy pirate!” she yelled.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “This again, and after you saw me take a bath, too,” he reproached.

  “Arrgh!” she shrieked.

  Florence dashed to the outer cabin door. To her delight, it wasn’t locked and, yanking it wide, she flew into the passageway rushing forth into the gloom.

  Chapter 5

  She reached the narrowest of stairways and scaled it but kept running until bright sunlight pooled on the floor ahead of her. She burst out onto the open deck.

  Her chest heaved. She looked frantically around for a place to hide. Three ragged sailors watched her. They appeared to be hauling a net in over the ship’s side but stopped to stare at her, astonishment etched across their faces. Bolting in the opposite direction to the men, she stumbled as the ship rolled. She slammed one foot down to steady herself. A sudden stabbing pain shot upwards through the sole of her foot. She squealed.

  Hopping about, Florence cursed herself for having left the cabin barefoot, recalling with horror that she only wore a nightgown. She cursed furiously. A hoarse shout alerted her to the captain’s approach.

  “Foolish, disobedient bloody woman!”

  Humbugs! Here comes the tyrant.

  “Bloody is absolutely right,” she quipped, lifting her leg so he could see the blood welling from the wound beneath her foot.

  He scooped her up and held her to his chest. She pressed her nose against the opening of his shirt and inhaled his intoxicating aroma, a dizzying mix of sea, sun, and man, earthy and alluring. She quivered at the proximity of his body. Why did his nearness affect her thus?

  Once back inside the cabin, he barged into the inner room and laid her out on the bed. Gently, he raised her foot and clicked his tongue as he studied the sole of her foot.

  “Nasty. Keep still,” he reprimanded when she squirmed.

  She snatched her foot away. Small drops of scarlet blood scattered over the sheet.

  “Why, what do you intend?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “You have a rusty nail embedded in your foot. I shall have to remove it and wash out the cut,” he stated firmly.

  “In that case I shall need a doctor in attendance. I could suffer the lockjaw!”

  “There is no need for panic, for if we drench the wound in alcohol first, you should recover. Come now; give me your foot, speed is of the essence with this type of injury.”

  He sounded reassuring, but since Florence had no reason to trust the man, she hesitated.

  “How would you know what to do, you are nothing but a…”

  He leant in, placing his hand over her mouth, his nose nearly touching hers.

  “I swear, if you tell me once more that I am a filthy pirate, injured or no, you will go straight over my knee for a damned good hiding. Now give me your bloody foot!”

  Despite herself, Florence giggled.

  “It is bloody, very bloody.” She chortled, feeling light headed.

  He scowled at her then startled her by striding away from her into the outer cabin. He returned holding a squat brown bottle. Seated beside her, he removed the cork with his teeth and handed her the bottle.

  “Drink,” he commanded, his tone brusque.

  “What is it?” she asked, sniffing the top and wrinkling her nose as the potent fumes tickled her nostrils.

  “Rum. Drink, it will help numb the pain.”

  “Pain…?” she enquired faintly.

  “Yes, perhaps worse. You have a nail embedded in your foot, for Gawd’s sake, what do you expect? Now drink!” He tilted the bottle with unsympathetic efficiency.

  Obediently, she swallowed a mouthful, coughing violently when the strong liquor hit the back of her throat. With her distracted, he snatched the bottle away and doused her injury, then proceeded to pluck the large nail from her foot. He ignored her agonised shriek of pain and pulled free his knife. Tipping more rum over the blade, he used it to slice open the wound. Pouring yet more grog into the bleeding cut, he rubbed the alcohol deep into the laceration. All the while, Florence pounded his shoulders with her fists.

  “Stop, stop!” she sobbed, thumping his back.

  With a set jaw, he ignored her and continued to squeeze her foot until fresh blood ran freely. He repeatedly washed away the flow wit
h more rum. The mess on the bedding was nothing compared to what putrefaction would do to her flesh. He knew he had to make certain her wound was totally free of dirt and rust. Lockjaw was prevalent after such an injury. It was a horrible death, and in his experience, always proved fatal. He would not allow such to be her fate.

  Once satisfied the wound was clear, he went and fetched the box of clean rags he used as bandages. He wrapped her foot with the longest, tearing the end which he tied into a knot to keep it in place.

  Satisfied he could do no more, he sat back and looked at her. She seemed unaware of the fact she was weeping still. Furious tears shone in her blazing eyes.

  “You utter beast!” she shrieked.

  He grasped her hand and held it fast.

  “Yes, so perhaps you will hear me now, and hear me well, you are never to defy me like that again. I refuse to bear responsibility for your death…”

  “You should have thought of that before you kidnapped me!” she flung the accusation at him.

  Letting go of her hand, he grasped her shoulders and shook her.

  “Do you know that you are the most maddening female I have ever encountered? Now be quiet and listen!”

  The look of shock that crossed her face was extremely satisfying. He relaxed a little, knowing he held her attention.

  “Flory, you are the instrument of your own demise. I fear that you lack patience and self-control. In short, madam, you need discipline, and I intend to see that you receive plenty of help with that.”

  Nonplussed, her mouth opened and closed. Not a word passed her lips. He nodded, gratified that she remained silent.

  “It will take a few days for that foot to mend, and so you will remain here, in this bed until it is fully healed. Do you understand?”

  He held up his palm to halt her reply.

  “If you answer anything other than ‘yes, sir’, I shall have no compunction about turning you over my knee, injured or not.”

  She glowered at him, saying aught. He snaked his arm out and snatched her wrist. His narrowed gaze met hers with steely determination.