Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  Kit refused to look up. "Take her out," he growled to Phillipe as he continued counting sacks with two crew members.

  Phillipe took her arm firmly and led her away.

  "What is it?" Rozalinde asked anxiously as they came out into the sunlight. The men seemed sullen and tense to her. Phillipe drew her to the rail, away from everyone else.

  "The food stores. We're short. Much of it was destroyed in our brief battle with the Spanish and the storm. It wouldn't be so bad, to be a little short on rations, but we're short on water, too. With thirty men who must work hard to keep the ship running and on course, such a thing can be disastrous."

  At his words, Rozalinde grew edgy and looked around her. The men were gathering down near the quarterdeck. Kit emerged from the bread room and went among them, mounted the ladder and waved them to silence. He began to speak.

  It was a routine address as far as Rozalinde could tell. He called them his good and trusted company. He commended their ability and their loyalty. But when he paused, she sensed the men shifted uneasily, anticipating the coming bad news.

  "The storm took us by surprise," Kit continued. "We could not fight the wind. It was the correct choice to run before it. Now we are heading for the nearest shore to take on water and food before we return to the Netherlands, so you need have no fear. It will delay us only slightly. Our navigator," he gestured to indicate Wrightman, who stood among the others, "knows his business. We are certain of our position and direction. You must bear with a little shortening in rations for now. It will be made up when we reach port. There will be triple pay for everyone once we've landed in the Netherlands and I've had a chance to visit my bankers."

  A pleased rumble swept through the men. "Until then," Kit continued, "each of you will have porridge, a ration of salt meat daily, and bread."

  A universal groan sounded. For a working man, this was far too little. Comments could be heard rising from the crowd.

  "We'll be starved."

  "I can't last."

  One man shouted, "How long till we reach port, Captain?"

  "We will reach the coast of Jutland sometime tomorrow," Kit answered. "Until then, all duties will be lightened. We'll do the bare minimum necessary. Ah, and there are the lemons. I have not forgotten them—you will each have a whole lemon today and a half the day after."

  "What about water?" one man called out. "How much's left?"

  "I estimate four gills per day per person."

  An agitated sound rose from the crowd. It was too little.

  "Only for today and part of tomorrow. Come, be of good cheer. I will take the same with you," Kit promised. "No more, no less. And we will rendezvous with the navy of the Netherlands two weeks hence. Keep thinking of the triple pay. All of us have seen far worse hardship than this."

  There was grumbling, and it was more than idle complaint. A discussion seemed to be going on, as far as Roz could tell. Then Ruske stepped forward as spokesman.

  "We will bear with you, Captain," he said, bowing slightly to Kit and gesturing to the others. "But what of her." His thumb stabbed the air in Rozalinde's direction. A woman aboard is bad luck. She's brought us to this."

  As Rozalinde watched, Kit nodded, acknowledging the statement. Fury swept through her, and she took a step forward. Phillipe's hand on her shoulder arrested her. She looked back at him and saw his warning shake of the head. To a man, all eyes were trained on her and a quiet settled over the ship. For the first time Rozalinde was aware of being a lone female among men whose feelings about her presence had honed to an intense hostility.

  Kit broke the tension. With a loud laugh he slapped Ruske on the shoulder. "Believe me, our situation right now is due entirely to those Spanish whoresons. It was their ship that lured us into the North Sea during storm weather, but I have good news for you. We will be revenged on them for that indignity. We will join them in battle, I promise you. The Gran Grifon will not evade us twice." He armed to his topic, and the men let him capture their attention. He had a way of cajoling the crowd that drew them inexorably. Putting his hand on his rapier, he nodded confidently to them. "The woman, you may forget. Since she is to be my wife and countess, she will obey me implicitly. She will keep to my cabin, come out only for occasional exercise around the deck. Treat her as if she weren't there."

  Rozalinde stiffened with horror at his words. Scanning the men for a reaction, she saw none. They seemed unsurprised to hear this news—that she would wed with their captain. As usual, he was manipulating them, and though it was to protect her, she could not believe what she'd just heard. She fastened her gaze accusingly on Kit, but he purposely avoided her. He and the men were engaged in that bizarre male ritual she had often observed but never under­stood, the self-congratulatory goodwill, the hail-fellow-well-met.

  She still seethed with anger when she saw Wrightman at the helm later. Her supper had been scant—a small piece of salt meat, not even boiled to make it tolerable, a swallow of water. Her stomach was empty, and now she must pretend to admire the view while checking Wrightman's readings. She was barely civil to him, though he tried hard to please her. Clearly he craved her approval since she had proved to him and the others her skill and knowledge. But she would show him no mercy. She would work him hard and make him suffer the lack of praise. He was a man; he must do without.

  By the time she returned to Kit's cabin, darkness had overtaken the ship and she overflowed with choler. Though the hour was not late, every man who wasn't on duty had retired early to conserve his energy. Moving up and down the tiny space, she let down her pinned braids so they hung over her shoulders. And she cursed Kit.

  "Troth," she muttered, pouring some water in the basin and trying to wash her face while the ship rolled. It was salt water and most unpleasant to wash with, but they couldn't use scarce drinking water. As she scrubbed her face, she bemoaned her fate. Why had she ever left Lulworth? She had tried to see her cargo safely to market and he stopped her. She tried to save the ship and all the crew, but he stopped her. And where was her cargo? Where was the shipment of wool she should be selling, for some kind of profit, right now? She paused at the reminder, cloth and soap forgotten in her hands. "I should be doing my duty," she said out loud. "My family needs me."

  Tears stung her eyes at the thought. Her father's wan face came back to her, pale as the linen pillows coverings. Presumably he would not worry about her. He would have had her letter. Fervently she prayed he would believe she was safe, not fret over her and hurt his health. She had considered that possibility before leaving and weighed it against the need to gain immediate profit to pay their creditors. In her letter she had assured her father all would be well.

  Her thoughts stimulated her anger. This was Kit's fault. She would have been at Antwerp by now otherwise, and ... Brokenly she discarded her anger, realizing her logic was flawed. She'd been wrong about Antwerp from the first, falling for misinformation. Her mistake shamed her deeply. Yet the truth was that Kit was a manipulator. Look how cleverly he'd handled his men over the food issue, look how he manipulated her—telling her the truth only when he felt ready, not when she needed most to know, before she left West Lulworth. The men now thought him their savior, and to her, he was ...

  What? Lover? Husband? She said the words out loud, her own sarcasm twisting her mouth into a grimace. What false words they were. Once again Roz's thoughts raced, taking her back to the afternoon when Kit had freed her body, her mind, her passion. Yet all the time he'd been after something—to make her his possession. Next he would insist she obey him. Oh, she had noted well how close two things hung together in his words and his thoughts—marriage and obedience. Damn his eyes, didn't he understand she didn't want to be his countess. She just wanted to be herself.

  Done with her washing, Roz poured a little wine in the cup on the stand and drank it. She'd rather drink water, but now they were rationing. The wine was sour and she immediately choked on it. Spluttering with rage, she slammed the cup back on the stand and bent
over double, choking and hacking. "I hate him." The words fell from her lips as she coughed and tears sprang to her eyes. "I wish he would drop me at the nearest port and I would never have to see him again."

  "That seems an ungrateful attitude to me, after all I've done for you."

  The coldness of the voice behind her made Rozalinde jump. She whirled, clutching a towel she'd caught up to her chest. "There's nothing wrong with my attitude, as I've told you before. And if you were so eager to do something for me, you might have asked me first."

  "Asked you what?" He closed the door of the cabin, went to sit on a chair and began to pull off his high black boots.

  "My God, you don't know?" Rozalinde came over to stand before him, her fists clenched against her thighs. Her rage swelled inside her brain until she thought her head would burst with it. "You don't even know the question, let alone why you should ask it."

  Kit had already shrugged his way out of his doublet and hung it on the pegs. He stood without answering her and stripped off his shirt.

  Roz stared at him. "W-what are you doing?" she stammered uncertainly, backing away and fumbling at her throat for the laces to her smock. Finding them, she pulled them tightly together. "You're taking off your clothes."

  "Most observant, mistress. I am getting undressed for bed. I've had enough of the gunner's deck. I'm staying here tonight."

  "No." Roz backed over to the porthole, realizing vaguely that she'd begun to shake all over. She knew what his actions meant. "You can't sleep here."

  He still didn't answer, only continued to remove his clothes. It was one thing to see him without doublet and shirt. But when he removed his stocks and cannions and began to undo the points and laces on his trunk hose, she bolted for the door.

  "I'll sleep on the gunner's deck," she cried, groping for the handle but unable to find it in her blind panic. The sun had sunk beyond the western horizon in the last few minutes, and the light had dimmed in the cabin until she could scarcely see.

  "You'll sleep in this bunk and no where else," Kit told her sternly, coming up from behind and capturing both her arms.

  "I can't stay here," she wept, desperate now to escape him. "I won't."

  "You must. There's no where else for you."

  She felt trapped. "How could you tell the men ..." she choked out, "what you did ... earlier. It's a lie."

  Kit's hot breath quickened on the back of her neck. That you are to be my countess?"

  "I won't do it!"

  She struggled against him, but his fingers tightened on her arms.

  "Let me go," she cried. "You're hurting me." His grip loosened, but his voice was tense. "Can you honestly say you don't want to be my countess?"

  "I don't want to be the person you think you want."

  "I'm offering you something most women would kill for and you scorn it."

  "You didn't offer. You demanded I take it." He erupted in fury at that. He pulled her to him, handing her body as easily as if she were a doll. "You will take everything I offer. You'll not resist me any longer, Rozalinde. I've had as much of this as I can stand." His face was contorted into a mask of rage and she flinched before him. "You would be sorry an' you wed with me," she cried as he pulled her across the cabin. "We would fight every day of our lives, exactly as we're doing now."

  "In that case we will be no worse off than now." With one smooth motion, he swept her off her feet and into his arms. It happened so quickly, it left her dizzy and disoriented. By the time he landed her in the bunk, the room seemed to swirl with motion. She could only stare at him as he continued the job of undressing. "Christopher," she began uncertainly, scooting to the wall side of the bunk and eyeing him warily. "You will wear something to sleep in, at least for decency's sake?"

  "I don't intend to sleep." He removed his trunk hose and tossed them aside.

  Her gaze was drawn to the strength of his body, his stomach rippled with muscle. "I won't submit quietly to your dominance," she managed to falter, realizing her voice quivered with fear. "I would rather die." His answering smile seemed cold and heartless to Roz. "Well, it's too bad, you are stuck with me. Necessity dictates that we wed. I won't be blamed for ruining your reputation. I'll make an honest woman of you whether you like it or no."

  "You don't have to," she railed at him. "You could help me find a female companion once we reach the Low Countries. I can return to Lulworth and no one will know."

  "They would guess. Your business would be injured. Your sisters would be ostracized by polite society."

  She knew he was right, but she couldn't accept it. Her mind searched for escape, lunging desperately from one thought to another. "You can't really want me," she pleaded. "You said you've never loved anyone."

  "I'm under an obligation to wed with you."

  "I'll wager you never felt such an obligation before. Why now?"

  "Though you may not believe it, Rozalinde Cavandish, you are not the only one who believes in honor and duty. I, too, believe in them."

  "Honor and duty," she cried, crushing herself against the wall. "This is honor and duty?"

  "Yes." His lips parted in a grin that showed his white, even teeth. Coming over to the bunk, he stood before her, his body bared of garments.

  He looked glorious, Rozalinde thought, unable to tear her gaze away from him. Like one of the Greek gods she'd read about in her father's books. His skin seemed to gleam in the candlelight, and her gaze was riveted to the juncture of his thighs. His arousal stood out thick and large from his body, and she stared at it in fascination, just as she had earlier. Only now it was worse, because she knew how it felt to have that fascinating appendage give her pleasure. "Heaven save me from honor and duty," she whispered, forcing herself to avert her eyes, afraid he would see how much she wanted him. "Heaven save us both."

  Of course he saw it. She could hide nothing from him. "Look at me, my Rozalinde," he commanded. His silken voice cajoled. "I like it when you look at me. Don't play coy."

  "I must not look," she answered thickly, her throat suddenly drier than it had been all day, lack of water or no. "We'll both be lost."

  "And what will we lose?"

  His question wove a confusing web of thoughts through her mind. What would she lose, indeed, besides her free­dom, her independence—things that he cherished for him­self but never considered necessary for her. "You don't understand," she said heavily, trying to avoid his compel­ling blue eyes.

  "I understand better than you think. Look at me, my Rozalinde."

  Slowly she let her gaze return to meet his.

  "That's better. Now we shall begin."

  His voice mesmerized her, and as always, she gave in to it.

  Slowly she rose to her knees on the bunk. He motioned her out, and she came to stand before him.

  "First your kirtle skirts," he commanded, his voice rough from his uneven breathing. "Then your garters and stocks."

  Blindly she followed his orders, removing each item, cast­ing it away, not knowing where it fell. When she was wear­ing nothing save her smock, she gave him an entreating look. "Must I?" She could hear her voice quiver.

  In answer, he stepped forward, grasped the white linen at the hemline and whisked the skirt over her head. With a swish, the fabric flew through the air like a bird and settled on the floor behind them with a sigh.

  Rozalinde sighed also. Kit's arms were still outstretched from tossing away the smock. She stepped into them, as naturally as if he'd bid her come to him.

  "You're making a mistake," she said, tilting back her head to look into his sea-blue eyes. "I'm a lowly mer­chant's daughter."

  It was not the sort of conversation Kit was used to having with a woman. Her statement was not the least self-serving, and Kit found himself appreciating her honesty. For that, she deserved an honest answer, and he didn't hesitate in giving it. "I was never meant to be earl, Rozalinde. I was a lowly, second son, the stuff that gentry families are made of. I am no better than you in any way." He forced himself
to calm his anger and loosened the grip of his hands on her shoulders. Those shoulders were white and perfect, just like in his dream.

  "I'm a terrible shrew," she was saying earnestly.

  His hands crept lower to revel in her flawless breasts. "As if I didn't know." His voice grew husky as he traced

  the thrust of those orbs, saw her shudder with pleasure as he drew the flat of his palm across the tips of her pale pink nipples. First one, then the other, he stroked them, relishing the way her eyes glazed with enjoyment, the way the mus­cles in her jaw quivered as she clenched her teeth. Despite this, she spoke again.

  "Would you not prefer to wed a woman you can love, Christopher? You don't have to do this. You need not."

  Suddenly he'd had enough conversation. He was en-flamed with need for her, unable to wait. His hands devoured the slimness of her waist, traced the flare of her hips. Moving lower, he cupped the firm muscles of her but­tocks, reveling in her answering touch.

  "There's no going back," he whispered, scooping her up and laying her on the bunk. Quickly he took his position, his body hovering above hers. "Love is irrelevant when we share a passion like ours."

  "Is passion enough?"

  Again her words deserved an answer, but this time he couldn't give it. His desire had risen unbearably. Having lasted her sweetness before, he would wait no longer. Once again the passion in his life was out of control, and he hated himself for it. But it couldn't be helped. She belonged to him.

  Eagerly he parted her legs, searched with his fingers for the source of her pleasure. Finding it, he grinned with tri­umph as she closed her eyes and let out her breath in a gasp. He could feel that she was slick, ready for him. Swiftly he removed his finger, lowered himself between her legs. "Tis too soon after your first time, but I will try not to hurt you." He let his weight descend, and with care, he penetrated her.

  The heat of her core was so intense, he felt himself seized by an agonizing excitement. The old anger surged along with it as he recognized his lack of control. No, he would be in control, he would go slowly and pleasure both of them. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe, and he fought for air, turning his head away and drawing air into his lungs, calming himself. His heart pounded crazily, and he restrained himself, resisting the desire to ram himself blindly into her depths. When he was quite sure he was in control again, he