Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  “What about their crew, sir?”

  “All being held below until we can deliver them to port.” He eyes me sidelong, lowering his voice. “How do you feel now about afternoon tea in the parlour and walks around the garden? Better suited to you perhaps than you previously believed?”

  The sunshine on the lawn…

  My pavilion…

  Home…

  …

  …

  My mother…

  Her blunt disapproval of almost everything I do or wish to do…

  Mr Melville…

  Trying to kiss me…

  His wet lips… drawing close to my face…

  My stomach rises, churning and sour…

  Something jolts me back to the world; one of the men… I don’t even know his name… slapping his hand down on my shoulder. “Well done, lad.”

  He turns to the captain. “I thought you wuz goin’ to be cut in two there, cap’n. Then I saw young Sam here jumping in to save you and I thought he wuz goin’ to be cut in two. ‘Twas the act of a hero.”

  I stutter, “I… I didn’t really do anything…”

  “No, lad. But yer tried yer durnd’st and yer stopped the bastard. That counts for a lot. When a man’s in a fight, he likes to know who he can count on.”

  He grips my shoulder hard. “But you've got to take better care of yourself, laddie. If yer goin’ to swing a sword, yer’d best learn as how to use one. When that wrist's healed, I'll teach yer, eh?”

  The captain frowns but says nothing, instead dropping his face, staring at his lap, lips pursed.

  My heart hammers behind my ribs. I reply in a whisper. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  The surgeon makes his way across to us, hunkering down to examine the captain’s shoulder, but he brushes him off. “Look at Mr Parsons’ wrist first.”

  The surgeon blinks but complies, lifting my arm with some care. I suck air between my teeth as he prods and probes. Pain arrows up past my elbow, stabbing at my shoulder.

  The captain speaks quietly. “Is the wrist broken?”

  The surgeon lay my hand with some care onto my lap. “No, captain. It’s just a sprain. Painful for the lad, no doubt, but it will ease in a day or so. Light duties for you, Mr Parsons, until then.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 9

  The Bargain

  In fact, I discover I am excused all duties for three days. No fetching and carrying for the captain. No polishing his boots. No brushing down his jacket and laying out his clothes.

  I miss him.

  I am not really so disabled. There are men already working who were much more badly injured than I was. I can only conclude that the captain does not wish to see me. Some of the men invite me to play cards or dice with them, but I have no heart for it.

  Leaning on the side, I watch the sea and the spray as Albatross skims the waves. Dark clouds splat drops onto the rail and I draw a finger through fat splashes, scribbling salty lines over the polished timber.

  “Mr Parsons…” I jolt. It is Mr Foster. “You’re wanted in the galley. Mr Bowers wishes you to take the captain his meal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Our cook passes me the tray; mutton stew. “Can you manage that without spilling, with your wrist?”

  “It is quite healed now, sir. I’ll be fine.”

  At the captain’s door, I tap, feeling timid.

  “Come.”

  I enter. “Your meal, sir.”

  My captain sits in his accustomed place, discussing something with the first mate. “Put it on the side, Mr Parsons.” He turns back to Mr Cromwell. “That will be all for now. I wish to speak with Mr Parsons here and do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir.” He raises brows, but nonetheless, makes his respect and exits.

  Uncertain what is required of me, I hover by the door, but the captain waves me to the chair recently vacated by Mr Cromwell. “Take a seat.”

  He sits back, fingers steepled. “So, Josephine…” He nods down to my wrist. “Are you quite recovered?”

  “I am, sir, yes.”

  “Have you had any further thoughts on our discussions?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you still wish for adventure? Or, having had a taste of it with the events of a few days ago, would you prefer to leave?”

  “I wish to stay, captain. If that is acceptable.”

  “You are certain of that?”

  “I am certain.”

  He nods, staring into some distance, then stands, fetching a decanter and two glasses. “A glass of wine?”

  “Ah… yes, thank you, sir.”

  He pours and passes me a glass, then sits once more, sipping from his own. “There are a number of practical difficulties to having a female crew member on board, the principal one being that, as I mentioned previously, once your true gender was generally known, it would be only a matter of time before you were… importuned. Almost certainly, a very short time.”

  My face heats. “As I explained, captain, I am quite able to refuse unwanted advances.”

  “And as I am explaining to you now…” He leans forward, places his hand on mine… “…such refusals are liable to be ignored by some.” He holds my eyes.

  His hand remains on mine. The skin is warm and dry. I want to lace my fingers into his…

  But he pulls away, sitting back in his seat. “I propose a solution to the problem. The solution may not please you, in which case I will have you returned to England.”

  “Please don’t. I… I… Please… Don’t.”

  Unperturbed, he continues. “For you to remain here safely, you must have more than the status of ship’s boy. If you are known as ship’s girl, you will quickly become merely ship’s whore…”

  I bolt up out of my seat. “I will not…”

  “Sit!” He roars the word, jabbing a finger to my seat and meekly, I obey.

  “Josephine, trust me. On a ship of two hundred men, you would. If you tried to refuse advances, someone would take the choice away from you. You understand my meaning?”

  Subsiding, “I do.”

  “Good. I am going to present you with a different choice. You may decide, or not, whether to accept it.”

  Hope flickers somewhere deep inside. “And that choice is...?”

  “You will remain my personal servant. But you will provide me with new forms of service.”

  He falls silent for a moment, allowing me to take his meaning, then, “You specifically stated that you do not wish to marry. I can understand that. But I do not envisage you living the life of a spinster or a nun. I believe you are cut from different cloth.”

  My breath catching, “You would have me, sir… in your bed?”

  His mouth quirks. “My bed is one option, yes. But not the only one. I have a wide variety of tastes and inclinations. You will serve them.”

  Anger flashes. “Instead of being ship’s whore, I become your whore?”

  He plucks at his chin, pursing his lips. “I would not choose to phrase it that way. I am merely proposing a bargain between us. You wish to travel, to see new and strange lands. You wish to be trained in the science of navigation and other useful skills normally out of the reach of a woman. Given your demonstrated aptitude and courage, and your presence of mind, I am inclined to provide all of that. But in return, you will provide me with what I wish.”

  He leans close, the heat of his breath over my face. “How far will your desire for adventure take you, Josephine?” I swallow hard. He continues, “I am the captain here. The ship’s Master. If it is understood that you serve me personally, you will remain unmolested elsewhere. You understand?”

  I speak the words slowly, reluctantly, cradling my wineglass. “Yes, I understand.” But inside me, something is stirring.

  I want you…

  This way, I can have you…

  I chew at my lip…

  ‘…a wide variety of tastes and inclinations…’

  But wha
t is it you want of me?

  I think he divines something of my hesitation, or perhaps reads in something I am not, in fact, feeling. “You need not be afraid of me, Josephine. I will not force you. I am not that kind of man. But I do want you. I want what you can give me and that I can give you. Give me what I want, and I will give you everything you want. Everything…” His smile is as sweet as sin and as pure as virtue. “… Even some things you do not yet understand you want.”

  My pulse is racing. My thoughts also. “What are these things, sir?”

  He does not reply immediately.

  Instead, he stands, pacing the room, then moves to stare out of the window. Then, “I propose a bargain between us, Josephine. The ship will make port tomorrow for, among other things, delivery of the crew of the Iron Hand to the authorities. After we set sail again, we will be perhaps two weeks at sea before we make land again. During those two weeks, I will show you the man I am…”

  He turns, fixing eyes like pitch on me, then resumes his seat. “…Once those two weeks are done, you may choose to stay or leave. Should you choose to leave, I will pay for your passage back to England. Should you have found my company agreeable, and I yours, then...”

  “Then?”

  “Then we shall see.” He leans back, legs outstretched, hands clasped behind his head. “Now, do you accept my terms? Do we have a bargain? Or do I put you off at the next civilised port for you to return home to your suffocating little life with your Mr Melville?”

  I swallow then try to speak. It is not easy. Despite the wine, my mouth is parched, and I take a sip. “Yes, captain. I agree your terms.”

  He sits upright again, slapping a palm onto the tabletop. I jolt at the thump. “Good. I’m pleased to hear it. But… and here is your first instruction… Correctly speaking, ship’s master is a separate rank to captain, although…” He rocks his hand from side to side… “… the error would be a simple one for the untutored. In any case…” He aims a finger towards the door… “… out there, in public, you will address me as captain, or sir. In here… in private, just the two of us, you will address me as Master.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good.” His dark eyes hold mine. “Josephine, have you ever been with a man?”

  My cheeks blaze. I babble my reply. “No, Master. Of course not.”

  His mouth curves. “Then we shall correct that before we go any further.”

  Panic skitters around the edges of my mind. “But, Master... If you get me with child...”

  He sucks at his cheeks. “There is, Josephine, as I will show you, more than one way to cook a goose…” His voice turns dry… “… whatever your lily-white mother may have told you. And more than one way for me to take my pleasure of you…”

  “There is?”

  “Oh, yes.” Rising from his seat, he prises the glass from my fingers. “Stand up.” He offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet as I accept it, then rakes me with his eye. “We must get you out of these dreadful clothes. They are most unflattering.”

  “You… wish me to disrobe?”

  “That too, yes...” His lips twitch. “… But my meaning is that we must acquire alternative attire for you. I will not have my personal servant dressed like a street urchin.”

  He curves an arm around my waist, reels me in close. His face resting by my own, his low murmur is loud by my ear. “You want adventure, Josephine? I’ll give you adventure.”

  He presses closer, enough so that his heartbeat thumps against me, and my blood begins to sing. He kisses my cheek. “Do I have your consent?”

  My breath shudders. “Yes, Master. You do.”

  “Excellent. So… let us begin.” In a tone completely matter of fact, “I do not believe we need your shirt. We shall remove it.” His hands slip to my belt, tugging gently at the linen. “Raise your arms.”

  Flushing, I do so, turning my face away.

  “Look at me,” he says.

  Obediently, I raise my eyes to his. My face flames, the heat suffusing to my chest.

  He holds my gaze for long seconds, then, eyes softening, his head inclines. “Be easy, Josephine. You have nothing to fear.”

  My words shuddering as I speak, “No, Master.”

  He kisses my forehead, then slowly, he eases upwards, lifting the ugly garment over my head, leaving me to stand before him, wearing no more above my waist than the linen straps which conceal my feminine form.

  He rests one hand on my hip. With the other, he hooks a finger into the bands between my breasts. “I believe these are also superfluous. A lady should wear more seemly garments.”

  “Just now, sir, I do not much consider myself a lady.” I hang my head, but he pushes up my chin with a finger in that gesture of his I am coming to recognise.

  “One does not become a lady by obeying the rules imposed by society. One becomes a lady by rising above them. There is such a thing as natural aristocracy. You have already made the choice to live by your own rules. Now we are merely…” He inhales… “…extending the remit. Would you not say that is so?”

  I swallow, but his choice of words makes my lips quirk. “I am trying to see it in that light; yes, Master.”

  He tugs at the breast bands. “What is this exactly that you are wearing?”

  “Bandaging, sir. For the dressing of wounds.”

  He sucks at his teeth. “Hmmm… Most unbecoming. I believe un-dressing is what we require here.” With delicate movements, he unravels the knot fixing the bands. Then passing the loose end around me, moving it from one hand to the other, he unwinds the banding until my naked bosom is exposed.

  As the bandaging falls away, a shudder runs through me: part anxiety, part anticipation. The air is a little chilly. My skin gooses and my nipples harden.

  Is it just nerves?

  Or something else?

  He stands back, his face tilting back a little. “You are beautiful, madam.” Then stooping, he drops his open mouth over mine, one hand cupping and squeezing a breast.

  A shudder runs through me; a quiver… snatching at my breath, liquefying my… my sex… A sound drags from my throat; a sound part moan, part wail; all desire.

  My captain straightens up, making a small pleased sound as he palms my cheek. “That’s very good, Josephine,” he chuckles. “Very good indeed. I knew you were not made from the stuff of a parson’s daughter.”

  His eyes drop to my belt and the abominable sans-culottes. Crooking a finger into the belt, “I believe these too, are surplus to need. You may remove them, along with your shoes.”

  I kick off my shoes then fumble at the belt. It resists me. My hand is composed, it seems, entirely of thumbs. He watches as I do so. “At the very least, Josephine, we must dress you in clothes that fit your person.”

  I pause. “But it will be obvious then, sir, that I am female.”

  The devil dances in his eyes. “That is my intent.”

  The belt undone, in a final moment of doubt, I clutch at the canvas trousers, vast and loose and shapeless.

  Would he force me?

  But the captain merely stands back, watching and waiting. His face is bland, entirely lacking in expression, but there, behind his eyes… those dark pools of eyes… I see it. The smile that is not a smile…

  And it is for me.

  My doubt evaporates like the morning mist. I release my death-grip on the sans-culottes, and they drop to the floor. Stepping out, I kick the dreadful things to one side and, chin raised, turn to face my captain…

  My master…

  I am naked.

  He steps back again, looking at me. My courage crumbles and abashed, I drop my face, crossing my arms over my breasts.

  “No.” He steps forward and very gently, uncrosses my arms. “You are mine now. You will permit me to see you. The whole of you.”

  My throat is tight, but I obey him, glancing up, expecting to see the lust there, the leering…

  Mr Melville…

  Licking his lips…


  There is nothing of that.

  My captain’s glance is frankly admiring. I see nothing unclean there. Nothing reprehensible. His smile is a soft curve of the lips, a crease at the corners of his eyes.

  The lust is there. I see it clearly. This man wants me. He intends to have me. His gaze travels my body.

  And the lust I see is pure and clean and joyful.

  Now I understand. My captain wants me and…

  I want you…

  I want you, like this…

  Lightning spears through me, igniting… something…

  Raising my head once more, I hold his eye. “Sir?”

  His voice warms. “That’s better. I am your master now and I will not have you ashamed of it.” He offers out his hand. “Come to me.”

  I reach, touching his fingers, twining my own into them…

  I love you…

  Oh, sweet Lord… I am in love with you…

  … and abruptly, his hand curls around mine, pulling me to him. His body squeezes against mine; his chest against mine, his groin to my loins. His hard, male contours press against my softer feminine ones.

  Nuzzling into my neck, he nibbles at my skin, trailing soft kisses. Then open-mouthed, he bites, hard enough to nip flesh under skin but gentle enough not to cause hurt. A frisson capers down my spine and deep inside me, something flutters.

  His hands encircle me, settling to palm at my breasts. Something, I think his thumb, toys with a nipple and sparks zigzag through me, in and downward.

  He rumbles inside. “I do believe you are enjoying this, madam.”

  “Master, how do you know?”

  His left hand remains at the breast, but the right rides up a little, pressing lightly at my chest. “Your heart, madam. It is drumming a merry beat. I can hear your breathing and...” He bites again, harder now… “… and I smell your perfume. And that is not the smell of fear. Tell me…” His breath washes hot over the nape of my neck. “…did that pasty-faced milksop of a fiancé of yours ever make you feel this way?”

  “No, not ever. He… revolted me.”

  “Really?” His chest, pressed against my own, quakes…

  Laughter?

  “… He revolted you? What did he say to so offend you?”