The Pirate's Daughter

by Helen Dickson

  ‘I cannot promise they will always be so.’ Stuart’s voice was deep with desire. His eyes darkened and, plunging his fingers into her silken hair, he kissed her again. When his mouth left hers he smiled, holding her away from him.

  ‘I always knew the kind of woman I wanted as my wife, but I thought she could never exist, except in my mind—and suddenly I find that she does.’

  ‘You make me sound a paragon among women,’ Cassandra whispered, her eyes dark and dilated.

  He took her face in his hands, his dark eyes tender, but commanding her to submit to him. ‘And that is what you are, Cassandra—to me. Now come, my love. I have no desire to delay any longer what is fast becoming inevitable. Inhibitions are meant to be lost on your wedding night.’

  ‘And here was I thinking I had already lost them in a cave on Barbados.’

  Her teasing reply brought a low chuckle to Stuart’s throat as his hands methodically, and with as much care as if he were unwrapping a precious object, divested her of her clothing. Lifting her, he carried her into an adjacent cabin and laid her on the bed, leaving the door ajar to allow the moonlight to invade their privacy.

  It was a time of exploration and unhurried discovery for both of them, of delights and pleasures to be savoured. Stuart’s kisses were slow and deliberate as he sought to awaken her to desire, delaying and lingering over the performance. But desire and passion were already vibrating like a harp inside Cassandra, setting both their bodies aflame. No one else had seen her like this or touched the secret places of her body, which Stuart brushed and squeezed lightly with his fingers, causing her to utter a groan of pleasure as a rush of flame tore through her.

  She shivered, carried away by his maleness and his caress, by the strange attractions of this man, her husband, of his lips travelling over and burning her eager flesh. Of its own volition her body offered itself eagerly to his. Every touch was one of infinite tenderness, heightening their senses, each responding to the other’s sensuality, their bodies communicating with growing fervour, which became a frenzy of passion, until they surrendered at last to the primeval force that possessed them. Their senses ripened and swelled until they were scattered in a storm of passion of such magnitude that they both thought they could bear it no longer.

  The sky was beginning to grow light when Cassandra—cocooned in lethargy and contentment, satiated and replete—at last fell into a deep and blissfully untroubled sleep, with dreams of a wonderful voyage back to England, unable to see anything but smooth sailing ahead.

  But long before they reached its familiar shores she would have given everything she possessed to exchange the perils that would beset her on the ill-fated Sea Hawk. She was unaware when Stuart rose and left her to visit his friend Captain Tillotson on the Spirit of Enterprise; he had hoped to meet up with him when he had arrived at Barbados with Cassandra all those weeks ago, but had failed to do so.

  When Stuart returned to his ship, his whole world had been unbelievably shattered and his heart was filled with a terrible, impotent black rage as he considered the hideous truth Samuel Tillotson had divulged as to Cassandra’s true identity.

  His face had been grim as he’d listened in frozen silence, feeling as if an iron band around his chest was being tightened with every condemning word his friend uttered. At first he had felt there must be some mistake, but the one irrefutable fact he could not ignore, or disprove, was that it had been Cassandra he had seen at Execution Dock when Nathaniel Wylde was hanged. That was why he had sensed there was something strangely familiar about her when he’d met her for the first time. Her features and silver and gold hair resembled the pirate’s. Why hadn’t he had the sense to see it?

  After all his experience, he thought as his wrath continued to grow, he’d fallen like an ass for the oldest trick in the world, and he cursed himself for trusting her. What a brilliant, scheming little opportunist she was, a consummate actress, and, like the fool he was, he’d been taken in by her, been transfixed by her beauty when he’d first set eyes on her, acting like a knight errant when she’d been about to be tipped into the sea. He’d been duped—not only by Cassandra, but also by John Everson. The man must have been laughing himself into a seizure when he’d offered to marry his cousin. No man in his right mind would want her, knowing she was the spawn of Nathaniel Wylde.

  Everson had deliberately lied when he’d told him Cassandra’s father had been killed while fighting for the King at Worcester, and Cassandra had looked him in the eye and endorsed this. Damn her! Damn her cheating, deceitful heart.

  Despite her strong protests when he’d asked her to marry him—which, to be fair to her, might have had something to do with Nathaniel Wylde being her father, and her conscience—that fair-haired sorceress had agreed to marry him in the time it had taken him to make love to her. She hadn’t resisted, hadn’t protested or tried to fight him off—in fact, she had been wanton, as wanton as sin. He hadn’t stolen her virtue, she had given it to him, driving him to a violent compulsion to possess her, making sure he would want to go on possessing her—and he had, he thought, admitting the truth to himself. He had wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Parading before his eyes were visions of an enchantress, of a bewitching young woman—Cassandra lying in his arms, Cassandra looking at him with her melting eyes…laughing up at him…

  Samuel had asked him to have another drink before returning to his ship, but Stuart had refused. There was no way to avoid the truth. No amount of liquor could douse the pain and the anger that were burning like an inferno inside him.

  And now, as he looked down at Cassandra’s sleeping form amid the tangle of sheets, at the smoothness of her belly and the upward thrust of her breasts, he remembered vividly how soft, how slender, her arms had been when they had twined themselves about him, captivating him, making him her pliant, willing slave.

  His throat ached as his eyes drank in her alluring beauty, but then a white-hot fury unlike anything he’d ever experienced consumed him, turning his mind into a furnace of boiling rage. Unable to bear looking down at her and not drag her from the bed and send her packing back to John Everson, he turned away and left her. It was a long time before the pain inside him began to dull as a cold, black rage swept over him.

  It was much later when Cassandra awoke and stretched, luxuriating in a delicious feeling of warmth and well being. Rolling over, she found the bed next to her was empty. Sleepily she opened her eyes, letting her gaze wander through to the main cabin. Stuart was standing by the window, already dressed.

  Climbing out of bed, she draped a sheet about her nakedness and went to him. He stood with his back to her, giving no indication that he was aware of her presence as he stared out to sea, one hand raised and resting on the window. Sliding her arms tightly about his waist, she rested her head against his back, uttering a deep, contented sigh.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ she murmured.

  She felt his body stiffen within the circle of her arms, felt the tension rock solid inside him, and when he firmly took hold of her hands and disengaged them from his waist, instinctively she felt that for some reason all was not well. It was warm inside the cabin, but a creeping chill stole over her. When he turned and faced her, she saw the tender gaze of a lover had fallen away, and in his eyes there gleamed a cold, unrelenting light. For the first time she saw behind the masquerade of a dashing sea captain. She saw the real Stuart Marston, a man devoid of emotion—merciless and dangerous.

  Looming before her in a midnight blue jacket and breeches, he emanated a wrath so forceful that she gasped and instinctively stepped back, her heart beating like a battering ram in her chest. Never in her life had she witnessed such controlled, menacing fury.

  ‘Why—Stuart! What is it?’ she asked, trying to combat her mounting alarm. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  His voice was calm, much too calm and carefully modulated, and that alarmed her. She was suddenly afraid and there was a trem
ulous feeling inside her, but she knew she could not give in to it, not when he was looking at her like that. She took a deep breath, and when she spoke her voice was as calm as his own had been.

  ‘Has something happened? Why do you look at me like that?’

  ‘My compliments,’ he emphasised contemptuously, ‘on your duplicity, your deceit, and your disloyalty.’ When she paled, he nodded. ‘It would seem our marriage began on a lie. Yes, Cassandra, I accuse you of having deceived me, of pretending to be what you are not. Why did you not tell me you boarded Captain Tillotson’s ship at Trinidad?’

  Completely taken off guard, Cassandra stared at him, speechless. The light went out of her eyes as she was brutally roused from her happy state. Her heart contracted painfully, for there was no sign of the love they had shared. None of that was evident in the cold, marble severity of her husband’s face. His bronzed features were a dangerous colour, his dark eyes snapping furiously as he glared at her. She wanted to turn and flee from him, but she stood, facing him with perfect composure.

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  ‘I—I did not lie. You did not ask and I did not think it was important.’

  ‘No?’ His voice was chilling, with all the deadly calm of approaching peril. He moved closer, his eyes hard and compelling, holding hers so that she was unable to look away. Cassandra was fearful of what he was going to say next, suspecting the worst. ‘Then answer me this. Are you the daughter of Nathaniel Wylde—the bloody barbarian who was hanged at Execution Dock in London in November of last year?’

  Cassandra’s face went white, her throat going so dry that she was unable to answer. He knew! The question hung in the air between them like a threat, his tone telling her he would allow her no respite until she’d given him some answers. Her silence maddened him. Losing control of his precariously held temper, he lunged out and seized her shoulders in a bruising grip, his iron fingers digging deep into her soft flesh, but so great was the panic inside her as she looked up at him towering over her that she was unaware of the pain this caused her.

  ‘Answer me, damn you,’ he lashed out furiously. Close to tipping over the edge into a pit of madness, he shook her hard. ‘And if you lie to me I’ll throttle you, so help me God! You are a conniving, deceitful little bitch, but just once in your misbegotten life, I demand that you tell me the truth.’

  Shuddering violently, denial sprung to Cassandra’s lips, but still she uttered no sound—what was the use? He wouldn’t believe her and it would only add insult to injury. A wave of terror passed over her and she was afraid, terribly afraid, for she had never felt like this in her life before. All the fury Stuart was capable of feeling was concentrated in his face, making her realise that in failing to tell him about her father she had unleashed in him a fury so profound and terrible that a man of his inflexible nature would find hard to forgive.

  ‘I am asking you again. It is true, isn’t it?’ he persisted ruthlessly. ‘Nathaniel Wylde was your father?’

  She nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So—you do not deny it?’

  She shook her head, her hair falling about her face, and said with quiet resignation, ‘No, I don’t. I have no reason to.’

  Stuart stared at her hard for a moment before letting his hands fall to his sides and stepping back, as if he couldn’t stand to be close to her, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. No one had ever looked at her with such scathing contempt, such loathing. Cassandra saw the savage, scorching fury that was emanating from every pore of him. His jaw was taut with rage, his mouth drawn into a ruthless, forbidding line, and his expression was as murderous as his feelings.

  ‘Why was I not told? Why did you keep a matter of such importance, of such magnitude, from me?’ he demanded.

  ‘I am sorry. I—did not think it important, but I should have told you, I realise that now. How did you find out?’

  His eyes were merciless. ‘You did not think it important to tell your husband that your father was a vicious pirate? Really, my dear—you astound me,’ he said with scathing sarcasm. ‘When I awoke early I decided to pay a call on Captain Tillotson, who arrived to take his place in the convoy during the night. He congratulated me on my marriage, as one does—but can you imagine my shock and amazement when he expressed his surprise that I had married the daughter of a pirate—and not just any pirate, but the infamous Captain Nathaniel Wylde?’

  Cassandra stared at him in disbelief. ‘Captain Tillotson knew?’

  ‘The man you were with at Trinidad aroused his suspicions—along with the fact that you and your companion were travelling to Barbados alone. After making enquiries and giving a description of his character to some of his seafaring friends—for a man who bears such a marked facial disfigurement is not easy to forget—he knew beyond doubt that the man you were with was none other than Drum O’Leary—Nathaniel Wylde’s closest confidant—with a price on his head to equal his own. I also believe your companion travelling with you on board this ship to be his daughter. Is that correct?’

  Clutching the sheet about her nakedness, Cassandra’s anger was swift. The bewildered terror that had seized her initially evaporated. In a blinding flash she understood that he wanted to degrade her because she had kept the truth from him, that his monstrous pride would wreak some unspeakable revenge on her for her father’s crimes. She searched that hard, sardonic face for some sign that he felt something for her, anything, but there was nothing but contempt. Bile rose in her throat as she realised she did not know him after all. Tossing her head, she stared at him, her eyes scornful, her pride forbidding her to bow to his harsh interrogation.

  ‘Yes. Rosa is Drum’s daughter,’ she admitted coldly. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I am your husband,’ he ground out, ‘much as I have come to regret that unfortunate state of affairs since my encounter with Samuel Tillotson. It comes as a hard lump for me to swallow that my wife has been queening it among an ill-disciplined, murderous rabble—that she was so well acquainted with them as to collude in the stealing of a ship from her moorings, and cutting down a dead man from the gallows who had been justly hanged.

  ‘No doubt there are those among the criminal fraternity who would compliment and applaud such feats of daring and success—but I cannot. I shudder to think what kind of education you received while you were living with a bunch of cut-throats, whose way of life depended on the use of force and extreme violence, torture and death. I understand perfectly now why your guardian spoke so disparagingly of you—no matter how light-hearted he sounded at the time—and why he was so eager to get you off his hands.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Cassandra snapped, glaring at him.

  ‘Is it? I don’t think so,’ Stuart remarked with cool mockery. ‘You, my dear, are a virtuoso of deceit—which, because of your past, is a fair assumption. Little wonder your cousin wants everyone to believe your father was killed honourably in battle whilst fighting the King’s cause, to conceal the fact that he was a pirate, an arch-villain—a butcher whose hands were stained with the blood of a thousand innocents. There isn’t a man alive who would knowingly take Satan’s spawn for a wife.’

  His bitter insult finally snapped Cassandra’s fragile self-control, sending her into a fury that was almost uncontainable. Her eyes flashed a dangerous, steely blue as she took a step towards him and slapped his face so hard that his head jerked sideways and she feared she had broken her wrist. The sound of her hand striking his cheek echoed in the cabin.

  Stuart stepped back, absolutely appalled, his face turning white with rage. ‘You little hellcat.’ He caught her wrist when she would have slapped him again, and in the next instant she was crushed unmercifully against his chest. ‘Be warned, Cassandra, if you were a man I’d kill you for that,’ he rasped hoarsely, before thrusting her away from him.

  Cassandra held her ground, her chest heaving with anger, her eyes locked on his. ‘If I were a man I’d kill you myself. You bastard!’ she burst out mindlessly, too infuriated to care
what she was saying, or that a muscle had begun to tick in the side of Stuart’s jaw and that he looked murderous. ‘I did not deserve that. Don’t you ever call me that again, ever—do you hear? You are heartless and cruel, and I cannot believe I let you sweet talk and seduce me into marrying you, and I will never be able to forgive my stupidity in trusting you—in loving you,’ she confessed, without knowing what she said in her impassioned moment. ‘And I did not steal any ship. The one you speak of was the Dolphin—my father’s ship—which became mine on his death.’

  Stuart stood perfectly still, giving no sign that her confession of love moved him. He stared at the tempestuous beauty with blazing eyes and a face alive with fury, unable to believe the alluring, impulsive girl he had married had become this furious, self-possessed young woman. ‘The Dolphin was impounded, so the crime was theft. And your father? Do you deny that you colluded in having his body removed from the gallows?’

  ‘No. I have no reason to deny it. He may have been a notorious pirate, but he was still my father, and I was determined he would not be stuffed into an iron cage and hung on the marshes for the crows to pick at. His body was buried at sea, which was his wish.’

  ‘No matter how staunchly you try to defend what you did, you should know that since your hasty departure from England, the Lords of the Admiralty had no doubts as to the identity of those who stole the Dolphin from her moorings. Drum O’Leary was seen on board as she slipped down the Thames—and also a young woman, who those who saw her said bore such a strong resemblance to Wylde she could have been his daughter.’

  ‘They have no proof of that. It is mere supposition. As far as I am aware, apart from a small number of our neighbours in Chelsea, there are few that know Nathaniel Wylde had a daughter, let alone what she looked like.’