Once a Pirate

by Susan Grant

  “Be off with you!” Andrew shooed them away. In a fresh fit of giggles, they ran away. He raised himself on one elbow and smiled down at her. “How was that for a stern fatherly voice?”

  She laughed. “How many should we have? Two? Three’s a good number.”

  “Let me see.” He stretched his hand across her hips, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “You are small-boned, but you have wide hips—”

  “Wide hips?” she repeated indignantly.

  “Very sexy hips, I might add.”

  She grinned, satisfied.

  “Childbearing hips, nonetheless.” He blocked her playful punch. “You will bear me many children.” he said smugly, covering her body with his. “Three, you say? Bah! Eight at the very least. A veritable litter of squealing babes.” He rocked his hips against her and said, “Each and every one the result of my loyal husbandly duties.”

  She took his earlobe in her teeth and tugged gently. “That was a very nineteenth-century thing to say.”

  “I am a very nineteenth-century man.”

  “Yes, you are,” she agreed, sighing as he settled his warm mouth over hers.

  “I, Andrew Edward Spencer, take thee, Carly Ann Callahan, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward. For better or for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. To love and to cherish. I promise to be faithful to you until death do us part.”

  Carly tucked an errant flower into her hair. Then she tilted her chin up to gaze at Andrew, so handsome in his dark gray suit. His blue eyes glittered with emotion as he recited the vows.

  “Do you, Carly Ann Callahan, take me . . . ?” he began.

  Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as the crowd of ex-pirates and villagers, children, dogs, and roosters looked on. The wedding was supposed to have been a symbolic ceremony between just the two of them. But Carly had told Maria about the plans, and it was one secret the woman refused to keep. Now, the entire village was gathered on the beach to watch the ceremony.

  “. . . In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, and promise to be faithful until death do us part?”

  “I do,” she promised in a husky voice.

  There was silence as Andrew rooted around in his pocket for the ring—one that had been his mother’s—and her mother’s before that.

  Carly swallowed as he slipped the ring onto her finger. The rose sapphire set on a gold filigree band glinted in the hazy sunshine.

  Evidently moved as much as she, Andrew cleared his throat. “I now pronounce us husband and wife.”

  The crowd roared their approval, which caused the babies, startled by the cheering to wail, setting off the roosters, who had managed to behave themselves during the ceremony.

  Willoughby, of all people, bellowed above the chaos, “Go on, kiss the bride!”

  Solemnly, Andrew brushed the pads of his fingers along her jaw. She lifted her chin, meeting him halfway, sealing their vows with a kiss of lifelong trust and love.

  Applause overrode the cheering. Andrew caught her around the waist and twirled her around, scattering the flowers she’d woven into her hair over the pebbly sand. Her simple, hand-sewn ivory dress fluttered over her bare legs . . . and bare feet.

  As they walked through the crowd, shaking hands, hugging, accepting congratulations, the scent of smoke and roasted pig filtered through the grove of palms that sheltered the village from the beach.

  When they’d eaten their fill and drunk toasts ranging from simple goodwill to lusty suggestions as to what to do on their wedding night, Andrew took Carly’s hand and said, “We will not spend this night in the choupana.”

  “Where, then?” she asked expectantly. “The beach?”

  He shook his head.

  “The falls?”

  “No—”

  Carly gave a quick triumphant laugh. “The lagoon!”

  “You’re getting warmer,” he said, gathering her into his arms. He relished the feel of her slender curves under his palms, molded his hands to her bottom, pressing her to him. His desire grew from a smoldering burn to an aching, heavy heat. He would make love to her as her husband tonight. The thought aroused him like no other.

  After a circuitous route to the lagoon, and numerous delays when she’d insisted on a kiss—he had gone on to kiss every part of her that wasn’t covered by her white silk dress—he led her over the rise that overlooked the lagoon.

  “Close your eyes,” he directed.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, lifted her chin, and smiled.

  Gently, he pushed her in front of him. His heart slammed against his chest; he was as excited as a small boy.

  “Open.”

  Carly’s eyes widened. He heard her suck in a breath. “A choupana—our choupana?”

  “Ours, love. Our home for the time we have left here.”

  She hesitated with her fingers on the door latch. “Actually, you’re supposed to carry me inside for good luck.”

  He swept her into his arms and stepped inside, feeling her delight course through him as she took in the furnishings. Maria and the other women had sewn curtains, a tablecloth, sheets, pillowcases, and a blanket. A carved wooden bowl of ripe mangos and a vase of flowers sat atop the table next to two chairs.

  He lowered her to her feet. “Welcome home.”

  “It’s lovely,” she whispered fervently. “A real home.”

  The next thing he knew, she was wiping her eyes. His heart swelled with love. It seemed she had been crying on and off for a week—the same woman who’d shed nary a tear for an entire voyage.

  “You brought the furniture from the Phoenix. The bed, the desk, and your blue robe,” she said with a sly smile, glancing at one of the chairs. She sat on the edge of the mattress, bouncing a bit, her eyes sparkling in open invitation. “Just think of the things we can do in a real bed.”

  He moved her thighs aside and stepped between them. “Not think, wife. Do.” Slipping his thumbs inside the neckline of her dress, he eased it off her shoulders.

  He bent down to kiss her, showing her without words how he meant to take her body.

  Breathless, she pushed him away. “The robe, Andrew. The robe.”

  “The robe?” Bewildered, he followed her gaze to where his brocade robe lay tossed over the back of the chair.

  She wrapped his collar around her knuckles. “Take off your clothes and put on the robe.” She gave him an impatient shake. “You don’t know how many times and how many ways I’ve fantasized about taking that robe off you, and the things I’ve imagined doing to you once it was off—”

  “Enough, woman,” he said huskily, stopping her erotic recitation with his mouth. “I’ll retrieve the bloody robe.”

  A wave slammed him up against metal. His back, his arm, on fire. Agony erupted in a cry of pain through his clenched teeth. Blindly, he swept his arms back and forth, feeling for something, anything, to help him find her.

  “I’ve got you!” He held her as though he’d never let her go. She was so cold. “Don’t sleep! Don’t leave me!” His gasps turned to pants. He fought to control the pain so he could stay conscious. He didn’t dare loosen his grip on her for a moment. He was what was keeping her alive.

  But something pulled her from his arms. He struggled in vain to reach her.

  “I don’t want to lose you! Carly!”

  “Andrew, sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s only a dream.”

  Carly’s soft, sleep-thickened voice seeped into his consciousness, chasing away the last tortured traces of the nightmare.

  “Bloody hell.” He hauled her to him, holding her as he could not in the dream. The room was dark, silent but for his ragged breathing and the faint, steady breaths of his wife. In the four days since moving into the new choupana, he hadn’t once had the nightmare. But the respite was over.

  A breeze sailed through the window as Carly soothed him. She caressed his back, combed her slender fingers through his hair. In that moment, her love for him became a tangible thi
ng, surging into him with profound power.

  Rolling her onto her back, he sought the completion of that love. He parted her lips with his, cupped her warm breasts in his hands. She welcomed him with a soft moan as he slipped inside her. They made love with a hot, silent passion, their fingers laced together. When she climaxed, her hands squeezed his almost to the point of pain, and he reached his release with the same soundless intensity.

  He held her until the gray light of dawn suffused the room. She’d fallen back asleep. Andrew kissed her lips softly so she would not wake. Soon they would leave the island and he’d see her safely to America. Tenderly, he lay his palm over her warm belly and closed his eyes. If they had made a child tonight, the baby would be born in safety.

  The breeze coming through the window strengthened. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Then a resounding explosion tore through the early morning calm.

  Andrew flew out of bed and had his pants half on before Carly had come fully awake.

  Another explosion followed the first, and was met with a shrieking protest by the island’s monkeys.

  Carly stumbled out of bed and snatched her dress from the chair, clutching the bunched silk to her breasts. “What is it?”

  He shoved his pistol and a bag of black powder into the waistband of his trousers. “We’re under attack.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cold fear plunged into Carly’s stomach. She knotted the dress around her as she bumped into chairs, the corner of the bed, frantically searching the room. “The gun. Where’s the gun?”

  Andrew swiped for her hand and missed. “Make haste, Carly.”

  She ran to the trunk and rooted through the clothing stored inside. “Andrew,” she gasped, staggering backward. “My gun’s not here. It’s aboard the Phoenix! In your safe, with the sapphire and the gold.”

  The savings for their new life.

  A series of sharp detonations drowned out a distant explosion. “Carly, now!” Andrew seized her hand and yanked her out the door.

  Stumbling in tow, she struggled to match Andrew’s long strides. They raced into the jungle. Darkness enveloped them, the cool, humid air muffling the sound of another explosion and magnifying their harsh gasps.

  “Who do you think it is?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Don’t know—” He veered onto a path that led down a grassy hill.” ’Tis cannon fire, though.”

  His palm was sweaty, his skin pale against his dark whiskers. He was afraid. Fear settled a little bit deeper inside her.

  Emerging into the sunshine, they sprinted toward the village. Pebbles brutally pricked the raw skin on the soles of her feet, cut when she’d stepped on the vegetation covering the jungle floor. Andrew didn’t slow until he pulled her through the grove of palms between the village and the small harbor where the Phoenix sat unprotected. The air was thick with the acrid odor of gunpowder and the scent of burning wood.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Andrew exclaimed. The Phoenix was sinking. Swollen clouds of black smoke floated into the sky from her burning masts and sails. Silent, he watched his ship burn, and his dreams with it.

  Overseeing the destruction was a familiar warship.

  “The Longreach,” he said bitterly. “I would not have thought it possible.”

  Carly pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She reeled with the full impact of the hatred Andrew had struggled with in the years before he met her. It clogged her throat, choked and sickened her. The duke of Westridge would not rest until he had shattered Andrew’s soul.

  “They’ll be coming ashore, Carly. We don’t have much time. We’ve a small fortification in the interior, built for a situation such as this. Food, water, everything we need. Nearly impossible to find unless one knows the way.”

  “Jungle warfare . . . unconventional tactics.” She grasped at the prospect of surviving, of evading their pursuers. “We can hide for months if we have to, pick them off one by one if they come looking for us.”

  “Aye, spitfire,” he said admiringly, taking her hand. “That we will.”

  Cuddy and Gibbons met them halfway to the village. The men quickly exchanged ideas, agreeing that the best course of action was indeed a prolonged stay in the hidden fort.

  Andrew and his officers supervised the hasty gathering of supplies, ensuring that one man was present with each group that assembled and disappeared into the jungle. The efficiency of the evacuation amazed her. They must have practiced this many times before.

  When the village emptied, Cuddy led their small party into the forest. Carly trailed Gibbons and his family. Theo walked at her side. Pistol drawn, Andrew brought up the rear. They hiked inland and uphill, jogging at times, until the path narrowed to shoulder width, slowing their pace. Perspiration from exertion and anxiety dampened her dress. She swished past leafy vines and shrubs. Some scratched her bare arms; others sprouted sticky blossoms that left a residue on her skin. The hum of millions of insects muffled the sound of her labored breathing.

  Every few minutes she glanced over her shoulder at her husband. We’re going to get away, she told him with her eyes.

  The humidity climbed and her strength flagged. But hope kept her going. Just as she allowed herself to believe that they were really going to make it, all hell broke loose.

  From behind . . . shouting and unfamiliar voices.

  She spun around just as Andrew disappeared into the underbrush. Her stomach squeezed into a knot. “Where’s he going?” she asked Cuddy. “Why isn’t he coming?”

  “They’re overtaking us. He’ll hold them off.”

  “Alone?” Her gun was locked in a chest on the Phoenix. If only she could will it into her hand. “Why?”

  “’Tis what he ordered should this occur.” He snatched her elbow, urging her along. “He’ll return once we’ve gained some distance. Don’t ya worry, lass. They won’t track him. The man knows his way through the jungle like no other.”

  The crack of a pistol obliterated the sound of chirping insects. A projectile whooshed past her ear, and a girl’s high-pitched voice cried out in surprise. Cuddy shoved Carly to the ground. “Leila’s hit,” she heard Gibbons say.

  Breathless, they regrouped around the girl, who swayed on her feet, her face screwed up in pain. Theo crouched in front of her.” ’Tis but a flesh wound,” he said gently, prying her hand from her upper arm. Where the bullet had grazed Leila’s skin, a furrow was rapidly filling with blood.

  Circumspect, his hand moving in soothing circles over Maria’s back, Gibbons allowed Theo to care for his stepdaughter.

  Theo shrugged off his shirt, fastened a torn sleeve around Leila’s thin arm, and scooped her into his arms. Then Gibbons led the shaken party into the shadows, veering off the path that Andrew guarded. In hopes of confusing their pursuers, Carly surmised, if they sneaked past Andrew.

  Or killed him.

  Last in line now, she glanced over her shoulder. The jungle was dark, quiet. Disturbingly so. No voices, no shots.

  Something was wrong.

  A premonition of dread pierced her insides, and her steps faltered. She was running blindly and alone, doing as she was told. And it was wrong.

  She belonged with her husband.

  What was the point of being safe if she didn’t have Andrew with her? Life will mean nothing without him.

  She caught up to Theo. “I’m going after him,” she whispered urgently. “Don’t follow. I—I don’t know what will happen.”

  His eyes widened.

  Before he could speak, pistol fire exploded.

  “I have to go.” It was her only chance. The disorder left in the wake of the shooting allowed her a chance to bolt. Before Cuddy and Gibbons discovered she was missing. She offered a smile to Leila, let her hand slide down Theo’s arm. “I love you, kiddo.” Her throat constricted. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

  Then she ran.

  She raced through the unrelenting foliage for all she was worth, plunging downhill until her lungs were read
y to burst.

  Whither thou goest . . .

  On the path, she stumbled over a vine.

  I will go.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain, she regained her footing and pushed herself faster, harder.

  Where thou lodgest . . . I will lodge.

  “Andrew!”

  He whirled to face her. “No, Carly—go back.”

  “I won’t.”

  His incredulity darkened to fury.

  “We’re married,” she implored. “For better or for worse; you said it yourself. We’ll figure this out together.”

  “Drop your weapons, sir!” someone called from behind the trees.

  Carly swore under her breath.

  Fifty paces away, two burly young officers appeared, aiming their pistols at Andrew. Behind the hard-eyed thugs stood a dozen sweaty seamen in ragged clothes, none of them armed.

  “Drop your weapons,” the officer repeated.

  Andrew let his pistol and dagger fall.

  Carly crushed her hands into fists. The wedding ring pinched her skin, but she welcomed the pain. “It’s better this way,” she said in a fierce whisper, knowing Andrew was furious that she had returned.

  “Carly . . .” His mouth twisted ruefully.

  “Do you think I’d be safer without you?” she said in hushed tones as the group closed in on them. “Alone in a century I wasn’t born in? On a tiny island in the middle of nowhere? Jesus, Andrew. You’d never know what happened to me. You’d always wonder.”

  Andrew expelled a ragged breath.

  The second officer, the one with burn scars marring the left side of his face, retrieved Andrew’s weapons and roughly frisked him. “Are you Andrew Spencer?”

  Andrew squared his shoulders. “Aye.”

  “By order of the king, you are under arrest.” He thrust the muzzle of his pistol at Andrew’s back. “Move.” The other officer indicated with a sweep of his hand that Carly was to walk beside him. She furtively switched her wedding ring from her left hand to the pinkie finger on her right, adjusting the gold band so that it would stay snug.