Once a Pirate

by Susan Grant

  Distant lightning pulsed on the horizon.

  “Maybe it’ll rain again,” Amanda said fervently.

  He gave an indifferent grunt, understanding all too well why she had joined him tonight. He kept up the crew’s morale by day, but in the evenings, Amanda boosted his spirits. He allowed her to do so only because he had come to trust her. Cheering him tonight, however, would be an impossible task.

  “Come on, Andrew. Chin up.”

  He snorted. “I have resigned myself to it; they will catch us. But we shall be ready. My only regret is the possibility of you and my men being injured in battle.”

  She said quietly, “Just promise me you won’t try to be a hero. I’d die if anything happened to you.”

  His heart leapt. Did she care for him? Something deep inside him stirred with the possibility. “Milady, I shall do whatever must be done.”

  “I know. That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said somberly, then tended to her hair.

  In the silvery moonlight ’twas easy to believe she was a mermaid intent on enchanting him. Moonlight and magic—were not sailors warned of this? Nearly a month had passed since the last full moon, and he remembered well the mischief it had wreaked on its previous visit. A man wouldn’t soon forget a kiss such as the one they’d shared.

  He stared at the comb as she rhythmically sifted it through her glowing locks. If she were his, he would comb her hair each night. “Aye, I would comb it,” he said under his breath.

  Andrew clamped his jaw shut, praying she hadn’t heard him.

  Her arm hesitated. “Sorry, what was that?”

  He felt a flush creep up his neck. Bloody hell. Had he actually said he’d comb her hair? He must have lingered in the sun too long today.

  The silence between them stretched out into long moments. Then, to his utter amazement, she nonchalantly placed the comb on the wood between them. “If you want to, I don’t mind.”

  Andrew’s heart thundered in his ears as he curled his fingers around the ivory comb. He swallowed, gathering her thick, damp hair in his hand. It was like wet silk. Reverently, he stroked the comb through it.

  A shiver ran through her, and she arched her neck as he patiently worked through the tangles.

  “This is unearthly wonderful,” she whispered.

  Andrew barely heard her voice above his ragged breathing. He lifted her hair from her neck to gaze at the curve of her pale shoulder, revealed by her too-large shirt. ’Twas all too easy to imagine kissing the side of her throat, touching his lips to the pulse he saw there.

  She was meant to be made love to in the moonlight.

  Aye, he would take her here, loving her as their bodies moved in rhythm to the gentle swells.

  His swelling manhood throbbed painfully. “Blast.”

  “What is it?”

  “A splinter,” he growled.

  She laughed softly. He immediately tugged on her hair. She yelped.

  “No laughing, milady. Or I shall comb your mane out by the roots.”

  Amanda held up her hands in surrender, then hitched up her fallen sleeve, fastening a button at the collar.

  Andrew exhaled.

  “Do you have any sisters?” she asked.

  He frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. I thought maybe that’s why you wanted to comb my hair—that you’d done this for your sisters.”

  “Humph.” What he was feeling for her was anything but fraternal.

  “Do you have any brothers?”

  “One.”

  “Older?”

  “Younger.”

  After a pause, she asked, “What is his name?”

  “Was.”

  “Was?”

  “Was his name,” Andrew said. “He died.”

  “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “He must have had a name, though.”

  “Jeremy.”

  More silence.

  Sighing loudly, she scooted around to face him. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to have a conversation with you? Oh, sure, you can talk the fur off a cat when it comes to sailing or thunderstorms or your precious helicopters, but when it comes to your family or any other normal topic that two people can talk about, I get this!”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Carly hadn’t forgotten that look. “And furthermore,” she said, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll kiss you like there’s no tomorrow.”

  His shoulders rocked with laughter. “Good God,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I never know what will come out of your mouth.”

  She turned away from him to hide her smile. “Is that why you were gaping at my mouth?”

  “Hardly,” he said. Curling a finger under her chin, he angled her face toward him. His own was shadowed, his eyes dark. “Have you any idea how much I want you?” he asked and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She sighed as honeyed warmth spread through her. His kiss was deep, hungry. She’d never dreamed kissing could be like this. And it felt right, somehow familiar, his tongue velvet against hers, fingertips deftly skimming across her throat and jaw, to her ear, circling, over and over, fanning her desire into languid heat.

  Threading her fingers through his silky hair, she cuddled closer until he simply lifted her onto his lap. He moved her shirt aside to nibble her shoulder, and she half-laughed, half-moaned at the sensation of his raspy whiskers mingling with the softness of his lips.

  “You are sweet,” he said, his voice huskier. “So delicious.” He buried his face between her breasts, his strong hands kneading her back, lifting her to him. With the flimsy barrier of her shirt in place, he coaxed her nipple into his mouth with gentle suction. She panted with the intimate attention, thinking she would never again catch her breath.

  He took his lips from the tight peak, blew a stream of cool air on the linen moistened by his hot, wet mouth, and she gasped with the sudden, sharp pleasure. She knew then that if he were to touch her where she so desperately ached for him, her last shreds of resistance would blow apart. She would give him everything. . . .

  Her heart, her soul.

  But if Andrew believed she was Amanda, the love shared would be a lie.

  “Andrew—” She could barely form a single coherent thought, let alone utter a sentence.

  Yet, he knew; somehow he knew. He hauled her to him with enough force to knock the breath from her. She lay with her cheek crushed against his chest, listening to his thudding heart. He was just as affected by the embrace.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Aye, I know.”

  Curling her arms around his broad shoulders, she hugged him with all her might. Above, a sentry strolled by. When the sound of the man’s boots faded, Andrew cradled her face in his roughened hands and moved her head back. “I apologize for my impudence.”

  Is that what he thought, that she objected to his impudence? “I wanted you to kiss me,” she said, expecting him to make a remark about her loyalty to her betrothed. “I stopped only because you think I’m someone else.”

  “Give me reason to believe otherwise.”

  “I’ve given you plenty!”

  He regarded her. “Tell me about you, then. The woman you claim I do not know.”

  With his words, Amanda’s mouth curved ruefully. Andrew was amused by her sudden reticence. He kissed the tip of her freckled nose, then ruffled her damp hair. He used the comb to fix the chaos he had wrought. “Did you have a special acquaintance at home? A suitor, perhaps?” Or a lover? he asked silently, his gut twisting with the very thought.

  She stiffened. “No.”

  “No suitors before the duke?”

  “One.”

  “Was he saddened by your departure?”

  Her lips thinned.

  “Milady?”

  “No, I said!” She spun away from him.

  He brought his thumb to her chin and turned her head. “Have you any idea how hard it is to have a conversation with you, milady? Indeed, you can tal
k the ears off a dog when it comes to your imaginary world of the future. Or your bloody flying machines. But when it comes to family or any other normal topic that two people may discuss . . . I get this!”

  She laughed in delight. “Touché.”

  Andrew picked up the comb and resumed where he’d left off, although any tangles were long since gone. “Tell me,” he said.

  “I didn’t leave Rick. He left me. We were engaged, but he changed his mind. We’d lived together for—”

  Andrew yanked the comb, pulling several strands of hair out by the roots.

  She peered at him with accusing eyes. “Will you please stop doing that?”

  “You lived as husband and wife without vows?”

  She winced. “I’d rather you didn’t announce my personal life to the entire ship.”

  “I apologize. Now, answer me.”

  “Yes, I lived with him for two years.”

  “A bloody scoundrel.”

  “Actually, he was. But that’s not why he was. It is common for couples to live together before getting married. So you can get to know each other.”

  “That is the purpose of courting,” Andrew stated. “An honorable man does not bring a woman into his home and soil her, all without a legal commitment.”

  Her mouth crept into grin. “Dr. Laura would love you.”

  “Who is this doctor?”

  “She’s a therapist . . . a radio talk show host.” She shook her head. “Never mind. I met Rick when we were cadets at Annapolis. I was born and raised in a tiny town in Virginia, and it was my first time away from home. Boy, was I ever innocent.” She signed. “I fell head over heels. Rick came from a good family. Old money, he called it. To me, money meant security. When he bought me things, I thought it meant he loved me. He did, I guess, but other things were more important.”

  “Like what?”

  She gazed out to sea. “He left me . . . because his family told him to. His mother didn’t think I was good enough—rich enough—for her boy. To be perfectly honest,” she said, “all I’ve ever wanted was my own family—a husband who loved me. And children.”

  “’Tis not much to ask,” he said gently.

  “My childhood wasn’t easy. I worked when I should have played. I had to be an adult before I was ready—” Her voice caught. “Dreaming about a real family made it better, somehow.”

  Andrew admitted, “As a child, I, too, was often lonely.”

  “Tell me more, please. I know so little about you.”

  “My father never acknowledged me,” he said to his astonishment. This he had never told another soul.

  Had you been worthy, he would have loved you.

  Andrew grimaced as the mantra of his childhood sliced into him. He thought he had buried it where he could no longer hear it.

  “My father never acknowledged me, either,” Amanda said bitterly. “He got my mother pregnant and left. The usual story. He was rich. My mother was dirt poor. He accused her of wanting to trap him.” Her mouth twisted.

  Andrew gathered her close, fitting the curve of her spine against his stomach. He rested his chin on her shoulder.

  “He left to attend a university a month before I was born,” Amanda said. “He was the president of his own company. But my mother said it was dangerous relying on anyone else. She was too proud to ask him for money. Or to force him to accept me as his daughter.”

  “’Twas his loss.”

  “I’d say your father lost out, too.”

  Her confession smashed through every barrier he’d erected to cover the old pain.

  He closed his eyes as a shudder coursed through him. Never had he felt so close to another.

  “My mother was everything to me,” Amanda whispered. “She told me I could grow up to be anything I wanted. Everything I went on to achieve was because of her. She gave me the wings to fly.”

  He exhaled slowly. “My mother was an extraordinary women, as well. She was Italian, came to London as a girl.”

  “Yes,” she coaxed when he paused. “Tell me.”

  He drew her closer.

  Carly felt the prickle of his whiskers against her cheek, the heat of his broad chest through her thin linen shirt. Despite the warm night, goose bumps raised on her arms. To be held like this was something she’d waited for her entire life. To feel safe, secure, cherished. She wished the moment would last forever. Warily, tentatively, she opened the door to her heart. Just a crack.

  Andrew found her hands and laced his fingers with hers. “Richard’s uncle, the elder duke of Westridge, was my father. My mother was the duke’s mistress. I am a bastard.”

  “That’s why Richard inherited, not you.”

  “Aye.” He tightened his grip on her hands. Odd, but she appeared pleased with his announcement. It was the first time a woman had met that news with anything other than distaste. “I grew up in a town house near Hyde Park. Close to where Westridge lived with his family. I rarely saw him, though. He did not meet with my mother at our town house—not after I was born, at any rate. He maintained yet another residence for that purpose.

  “There were many demands on her. Yet I never doubted she loved me. She may not have been able to give me time, but she showed me love with her deeds. For instance—and this was highly irregular, mind you—she wrote Westridge’s name on my record of birth. Then she insisted that I receive an education. When I expressed a desire to go to sea, she had the duke buy me a commission.” As a younger man, Andrew had been mortified to learn that the man who had not thought him worthy of a second glance had been goaded into buying his bastard a livelihood—by his mistress, no less! He’d felt indebted to his father, although he resented the man’s absence. It had taken years, but Andrew finally understood that all Westridge did was gain him entry. He now realized that his success had been up to him. He’d achieved it. Despite his father. Only to have Richard wrest it away.

  “My mother may not have had the best judgment,” Andrew said tightly. “But she was fiercely loyal. She would have fought to the death to protect her own.”

  Which was precisely what she did, Spencer, he said to himself.

  Amanda covered his hands with hers and squeezed. “Now I know where you get it from.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re the same way. You’ll fight to the death to protect what’s yours, won’t you?”

  He inhaled the scent of her hair. “Aye,” he whispered, tucking the locks spilling over her shoulder behind her ear. He kissed her there, eliciting a shiver. In a surge of affection, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against him. “I never could understand why someone so beautiful appeared so melancholy,” he said.

  “Your mother.”

  “Aye. I don’t know precisely how it came to me, but I knew Westridge was to blame. From the time I was six or seven, I hated him.”

  “Which is why you’ve sworn revenge on his nephew.”

  Among other reasons. He gave a curt nod. If not for the vengeance he so desperately sought, he would have no reason for living at all.

  The moon rose higher. Reflected in shimmering bands of light on the water, its timeless tranquility cooled Andrew’s anger. He hugged Amanda close, breathed in her scent. She was all that was sweet, all that was good.

  The very opposite of him.

  Slowly, he rocked her back and forth, holding her until he’d lulled her to sleep. Then he held her for hours afterward, until the stars in the eastern sky began to fade.

  At dawn, he reluctantly carried her to his bedchamber. After tucking a light blanket over her legs, he brushed his finger over her soft cheek. “What am I to do about you? You will marry another, Amanda. Losing you will torture me all the days of my life.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “H. M. S. Longreach,” Andrew read aloud.

  Cuddy took the telescope. “Never heard of her.”

  “Nor I.” Thoughtful, Andrew stroked his chin. “I can only assume she’s recently commissioned.”

  C
arly stood quietly as the men discussed the warship. A light breeze had come up during the night, bringing the vessel close enough to see in detail. If the wind continued, the ships could engage each other within hours.

  Her stomach clenched. She wished she had something constructive to do to calm her nerves. She walked to the bow, where Jonesy and Theo were wrapping Savannah with ropes and hammocks.

  “It looks like a cocoon,” Carly remarked.

  “If you’d been the least bit willing,” Jonesy said, “Cap’n would have the same done to you.”

  They exchanged knowing grins. So much for her participating in the battle, Carly thought.

  “She’s overseen every battle, with nary a scratch,” Jonesy explained, finishing the job with several strong knots. “Patience, sweet Savannah. We’ll be unwrap-pin’ you before you know it.”

  Carly continued her inspection of the ship, sensing the tense anticipation of the men as they readied the guns. The cannons weighed thousands of pounds each, and it took several men to operate them. It was sweaty, strenuous, exhausting work. The great guns had to be pulled backward, loaded with a ball and gunpowder, pushed forward, aimed, and fired, before starting all over again. There was no room for error. If the fire wasn’t out before fresh gunpowder was added, the mistake could trigger an explosion. With only fifty sailors aboard, the Phoenix could fire no more than half her guns at any particular time. This further added to her vulnerability.

  A distant sound—like the backfire of a truck—erupted from the direction of the warship. Carly’s heart echoed with her own thunder. “Are they firing already?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d actually voiced the question until a sailor nearby answered, “She’s wantin’ to test our mettle.”

  Carly hastened back to Andrew and Cuddy. “Explain ‘test our mettle.’”

  “She’s firing her long nines,” Andrew replied. “Testing her range, and hoping we’ll fire an answering volley.” He exhaled. “They’ll not risk your life, though. I suspect the captain will try to ascertain whether you are aboard before he commences firing in earnest.”

  Her throat went dry. “How’s he going to do that?”

  “Dispatch a party, a longboat or two.”