A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  Finally cinching the reticule’s neck tight, she looked around and met his eyes. Hers burned with shades of anger. “I was aiming for his head.”

  He knew better than to grin. He pressed his lips together and nodded. He squeezed her shoulder in wordless support. “I doubt Benson will care. You still saved his life.”

  Aileen humphed, let the reticule dangle, and reached for her paddle. She met Robert’s eyes. “To the ship?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  The sea fog was lifting, and the first rays of dawn were painting the sky in shades of soft pink when, under close escort from the tender, they finally reached The Trident’s side.

  A rope ladder had already been lowered, but she discovered that getting onto it from a bobbing canoe was far harder than from the tender. In the end, Robert shifted to the middle of the canoe, then lifted her onto the lowest rung.

  Once on the ladder, she accomplished the climb with relative ease.

  Hurley and Wilcox were waiting at the top to help her onto the deck.

  She felt like falling to her knees and kissing the planking—or at least giving thanks to the heavens. Over the past twenty-four hours, there had been too many moments when she really hadn’t known what their future held.

  “We heard a shot,” Hurley said. He glanced at Robert as he stepped up onto the deck. Hurley was clearly perplexed, presumably knowing Robert hadn’t been carrying a pistol.

  Robert nodded at Aileen. “That was Miss Hopkins. Thanks to her...”

  There was pride in his eyes as he filled in what had happened on the water for his officers. Because of the fog, they hadn’t seen any of the latter stages of the engagement.

  Aileen basked in the glow of Robert’s praise as she stood by the railing and watched the tender’s crew come aboard and the tender itself made ready for winching onto the deck. When Robert paused in his recitation, she turned to the gathered officers. “And indeed, we’re very grateful to whoever thought of shooting those arrows. That made a critical difference, too.”

  Robert nodded and thanked Latimer, whose quick thinking had been behind the archers’ efforts.

  “I’m just sorry we couldn’t do more.” Latimer looked at Aileen with a hint of a rueful smile. “Trust me when I say that was a few tense minutes for all of us here. We thought that pistol shot had to have been you, but we didn’t know whether it was a good sign or a bad one.”

  “Captain.”

  They all swung around as a crewman came lumbering from the stern.

  He drew up before the officers, paused to nod to Aileen, then looked at Robert and reported, “You won’t believe it, but those beggars are coming for us.” He pointed astern.

  Along with Robert and the officers, Aileen hurried up to the poop deck, to the stern rail, and looked out.

  A flotilla of armed slavers in a motley collection of canoes and rowboats were determinedly hauling nearer through the remnants of the fog. Aileen narrowed her gaze on the figure in the middle of one of the canoes. “Damn,” she muttered. More loudly she said, disgust lacing her tone, “Kale survived.”

  The slavers’ leader had a bandage wrapped about his upper right arm, but the wound seemed only to have fired his fury.

  “Actually,” Robert said, “I’m glad he did.” He caught her gaze as she shot a scowl his way. “If Kale had died, we have no way of knowing what might happen to his operation—his camp. At present, he and that camp are our only connection to this elusive Dubois, his enterprise, and all our missing people.”

  Latimer, standing on Aileen’s other side, his gaze assessing the on-coming threat, snorted derisively. “What do they think we are? Some helpless merchantman?”

  “As it happens,” Robert replied, his tone taking on the crispness of command, “that’s exactly what I hope Kale does assume we are.” Turning from the railing, he met Latimer’s eyes, then Aileen’s. “Just think. At present, all Kale or Muldoon knows is that you”—Robert tipped his head at Aileen—“started to poke your nose into the children’s disappearances. Then when they kidnapped you, you were rescued by some sailors.” He gestured to himself and the tender’s crew, hovering nearby and listening—waiting for their next orders. “Us. Subsequently, you and I—presumably with me acting as guard to you—saw the slavers gathering children on the beach and followed them all the way to their camp. And subsequently, we’ve scurried back to this ship.”

  He glanced at Latimer. “If that’s what they think—including that we’re some lily-livered merchantman—then we’ve accomplished our mission without endangering the missing people.” He looked at Aileen, then raised his head and looked around at all the others—officers and crew—waiting to learn what came next.

  Robert grinned. “So we are, indeed, going to play the part of a lily-livered merchantman. One that happens to have rather a lot of sail to call on.”

  His grin widening, Robert looked at Hurley. “Mr. Hurley. Do you have that course I asked for—our fastest route home—plotted?”

  Hurley’s smile split his face as he snapped off a salute. “Aye, sir.”

  “Then all hands to the ropes, boys!” Robert’s voice rang down the ship. “Let’s find ourselves some wind—we’re heading home!”

  A cheer went up from the crew. Even before it faded, Aileen heard the clanking rattle as a team of sailors flung themselves on the main capstans and winched the heavy anchors aboard.

  Others swarmed into the rigging. Still others raced along the decks, shutting this, swinging that into place, making all shipshape and ready to sail.

  Robert clapped Latimer on the shoulder. “The wheel’s yours. Take her out of the estuary, keeping as far north as you can—the last thing we need is to run into Decker on his way in. If you see him, pretend you don’t. He might huff and puff, but he won’t fire.”

  Latimer grinned and cockily saluted. “My pleasure.”

  Robert turned to Benson, Coleman, Harris, and Fuller. All four stood waiting, either to be dismissed to their usual shipboard duties or to whatever other tasks Robert had for them. He smiled. “I’m very glad to see you all here.” He bent a wry look at Benson. “Hale and whole.”

  The big man shifted. “Aye, well. I’ve the lady to thank for that.” Awkwardly, he bowed to Aileen. “It’s thanks to you, miss, that I’ve still got me head. I won’t be forgetting that.”

  The other men murmured in agreement.

  Aileen blushed and disclaimed, “Anyone would have done the same.”

  “Anyone who happened to carry a loaded pistol everywhere they went.” Robert shook his head at her, but kept his opinions on that to himself. He didn’t want to think of what might have gone wrong with firing a pistol that had been left loaded for so long; he didn’t need more gray hairs.

  Instead, he returned his gaze to his loyal men. “From me, from Miss Hopkins, from the First Lord himself, thank you for your help today and throughout our time in the settlement. You all did well.” He gave them a moment to soak in the praise, then in a more normal commander’s voice asked, “I take it you fetched everything from the inn?”

  “Aye, sir.” Coleman went on, “We found your note when we came down to the inn. We left our bags there and searched on the beach for you, but found no trace—you must have been long gone by then. So we went back to the inn, picked up all the gear, and brought it out to the ship like you’d ordered.”

  “But then,” Harris took up the tale, “we didn’t know what to do, so we joined the tender’s crew and set up a continuous watch.”

  “We figured,” the laconic Fuller said, “that if you came back to the settlement, you’d hail the tender from the same cove we came in at. So we kept the tender at the mouth of that cove, but out far enough that we could keep an eye trained on the ship, just in case you signaled direct to her for a pickup.”

  “We saw the flare and came
running,” Benson said. Rather ruefully, he shrugged. “Might not have been my finest moment, but at least we got to you in time to deny those beggars what they wanted.”

  “Indeed.” Robert surveyed the four men. They’d put in as many hours as he and Aileen had, and had probably got little to no sleep over the past night. “You’re free of all duties until the start of the dogwatch. Eat. Get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

  The men came to attention and snapped off salutes. “Aye, aye, sir!” they chorused.

  Robert watched the four head down to the main deck. He felt Aileen’s fingers slip into his; he closed his hand about them, then stepped back to the stern rail and looked out at the dwindling figures of Kale and his men, left impotently shaking their cutlasses at them as The Trident gained speed and smoothly drew away.

  Then Latimer found the wind. He called for topsails and topgallants in short order.

  Robert draped an arm around Aileen’s shoulders; with the warmth of her tucked against his side, he looked across at Freetown as they swept past—at the distant conglomeration of roofs huddled around the harbor and dotting the flanks of the hill above. They were too far out to see anything distinctly; they could barely make out Government Wharf.

  Elation poured through him. He’d done what he’d been sent to do.

  And he’d discovered so much more.

  Even as the deck rolled beneath his feet and Latimer called for the royals to be unfurled and, minutes later, The Trident lifted and surged anew, cleaving through the waves arrow-fast, and the last glimpses of Freetown faded into the haze of morning, Robert sensed this leaving was not yet complete.

  He tightened his hold on Aileen. He looked down, and when she glanced up and met his eyes, he murmured, “We’ll be back. I can sense it.”

  She searched his eyes, then nodded. One of those definite nods of hers that left no room for argument. She looked back at the fast-disappearing shore. “This isn’t finished. You, me—we have more to do.” After a moment, she went on, “We saw too much. And after seeing, we won’t be able to simply go home and leave this to someone else to deal with—not completely.”

  He felt heartened that she understood. He, too, looked out over their frothing wake. “We’ll have to hand the mission over to whoever is sent in next. But that doesn’t mean we have to walk away entirely.”

  She caught his gaze. “That we have to wash our hands of it.”

  “To leave the missing—the men, women, children, and your brother—to an unassisted fate.” He found her hand, raised it to his lips, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “We’ll be back.”

  Together.

  The word hovered between them; it didn’t need to be said.

  But of course, that sent his thoughts winging ahead.

  He slipped his fingers from hers and wound both arms around her; he tucked her more firmly against him, her back to his chest, and leaned against the stern rail. Together, they watched the morning’s glory break over the sea and sky. The wind whipped past them, and the waves shushed along the hull as The Trident carried them forward and on.

  His heart swelled, and he gave thanks they were there, together and alive—more vibrantly alive than he’d ever felt before—with the knowledge he’d been sent to find in their keeping.

  The knowledge necessary to mount a viable rescue of her brother, and the children, and all the others.

  Triumph filled him. A sense of joy, of elemental self-discovery, swamped him, held him, buoyed him.

  This was who he was meant to be.

  As The Trident speared out of the estuary and heeled into the open sea, he drew his arms from about Aileen, claimed her hand, tugged her from the rail, and headed for the ladder to the main deck and the stairs to his cabin below.

  CHAPTER 17

  Robert strode faster and faster toward his cabin. Her hand locked in his, Aileen had to all but run to keep up. Rather than complain, she gave a soft, sultry laugh. The sound flowed through him in a rush of giddy warmth.

  They encountered none of his crew, which was just as well; the emotions he’d held at bay through the past twenty-four hours—that the pressure and demands and outright danger had forced him to keep suppressed—had broken free, snapped their leash, and now geysered through him. Demanding release.

  Demanding acknowledgment.

  Demanding appeasement.

  They reached the door of his cabin. He opened it and towed her through. He spun her as he shut the door, pressed her back against it, stepped into her, dipped his head, and slanted his lips over hers.

  Her lips, those luscious lips, curved, then parted. Her hands caught his head, fingers sliding into his hair to hold him there, close, as she welcomed him in, welcomed him home.

  With joy, he plunged into her mouth, tasted, claimed and incited, delighted and reassured by her wordless understanding. By her blatant encouragement.

  By her glorious acceptance.

  Aileen clung to the kiss, to him, and rejoiced.

  They had so much to celebrate, so much to savor. But this...this came first. This restatement of their commitments—to each other and to life. This declaration of intent—of their determination to have this and all it meant. All it presaged, all it would lead to.

  They had accepted this path—they’d made that decision the last time, the first time they’d come together, here, in his cabin.

  But then, there’d been hurdles before them, immediate and vital matters to be addressed. So they’d gone and done their duty—they’d achieved their goals and fulfilled their commitments to others.

  Now...these moments were for them.

  These heated, giddy, hungry, increasingly desperate, and needy seconds.

  His lips demanded, commanded, and she gave. She surrendered all she was, gave him all she was—all her passion, all the fullness of her desire, all the love she held within her—without reservation. With her lips and tongue, through the ensuing duel of their senses, she laid herself before him and invited him to take.

  Gloried when he did. When he eased his grip about her waist and sent his hands skating upward to close about her breasts.

  He kneaded, the pleasure just this side of painful, then his long fingers found the buds of her nipples through the thin fabric of her jacket and blouse, and tweaked. Sensation lanced through her, sharp and sweet, and she gasped through the kiss.

  Then she kissed him back, as hungry as he, every bit as ravenous, and sent her own hands skating down over his shoulders, over his chest. In his immediate response—through the hardening of muscles already taut, through the hitch in his breathing—she sensed his reaction. And lurking behind that, she sensed his control—and beyond that, she glimpsed the full measure of all he held back.

  Seething, powerful—undeniable.

  Just that glimpse was enough. Her own hunger, her need of him—of this—soared.

  Desire welled, then overflowed. Passion erupted and rushed in its wake.

  She poured all of it—all she felt, all she wanted—into the kiss, and felt him, and that potent emotion that surged between them, ignite.

  He pressed closer, the rock-hard planes of his body impressing themselves on her curves in a flagrantly primitive fashion.

  She ignored his neckerchief, his jacket, his shirt; sliding her hands between them, with her lips and mouth hotly engaged with his, she searched and found the buttons at his waist. Slipped them free.

  Robert groaned as she closed her small hands about his aching shaft.

  While some tiny and increasingly distant part of his mind was faintly shocked—by her boldness, by his own driven intention—a far larger part gloried in the openness of her desire, in the uncompromising directness of her passion.

  Thank God.

  Because he felt the same. Because he, too, could not stand against
the compulsive beat of need that hammered so very heavily in his veins, deafening him to all reason.

  He needed her. Now. Here.

  Nothing was powerful enough to deflect that driving want.

  His hands were already hauling up her skirts, even while her clever hands and fingers—inventive more than experienced, but no less effective for that—reduced any control he might have managed to gather to shreds.

  Then he found her bare hips beneath her bunched skirts. Closed his hands about the smooth curves.

  She released his member, slapped her hands to either side of his face, and held him steady while she fused their lips and poured fire and lust down his veins.

  Driven, whipped, and goaded far beyond rational thought, he hoisted her against the door and nudged his erection between her thighs, and she wrapped her long legs about his hips and wriggled...

  They both broke from the kiss, gasping, heads lifting, their lids weighted and heavy as they both drew in huge, frantic breaths.

  As they both seized one finite split second to savor the sensation as the head of his erection eased into her slick, heated channel.

  Then he tightened his grip on her hips and slammed home.

  Her lids fell; on a soft moan, she arched into him. One shoulder pressed to hers, he watched her face as he withdrew and thrust again, then he settled to a rapid, pounding beat and watched the beauty of her passions flow across her face as she accepted and held him, as her body surrendered and her sheath clamped about him, and they raced up the precipitous slope of imminent ecstasy.

  Then he dipped his head, captured her lips, and drank in her cry as she climaxed in his arms in a maelstrom of passion.

  It still wasn’t enough, not for him. Not for the him that so needed to claim her—the him whose protective instincts had been abraded to near madness by the events of the past days.

  He felt the contractions of her sheath fade. She’d locked her legs about his hips; holding her against him, he stepped back from the door and carried her to his desk.