Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  He began slowly. But within seconds he had caught the contagious thrill of her excitement. He began to pump against her, setting a rhythm of furious intensity.

  Roz moved eagerly in response. With one arm she encir­cled his neck, pressed her face against his neck and urged him on. Just as she thought she would be overcome by the unbearable torrent of flame he aroused, she felt him swell inside her. Exulted by the feeling, her desire flung itself to meet his. With that, they erupted in a mutual storm of fulfillment, his body surging against hers, the power of it building. Together, they crested the waves and reached their pinnacle.

  Roz was so exhausted, she slept after. She hadn't meant to slip into unconsciousness, but with Kit's arms around her, sunk in that glorious feather bed, she was gone in an instant. A rosy haze of pleasure surrounded her, and for the first since the voyage began, she felt a curious peace. Her last thought as she gazed at Kit, then let her lids close, was that tonight was a beginning.... She fell asleep with a smile of satisfaction on her lips.

  Kit let her sleep, gazing down at her face. The frown she wore so often was far away, her expression sweetened by repose. It was better she should sleep, he thought, drawing away from her stealthily so she would not wake. There was practically nothing for supper. With a small nod, he dressed and went on deck to check the helm.

  Sometime later, Rozalinde awoke, alone in the cabin. It was dark, and she wondered what time it was. Groping her way out of the bunk, she felt for her clothes in the dark. Then she remembered. The power of their lovemaking re­turned to her, and she felt herself blushing in the darkness. "Troth," she said aloud, pulling on her smock and tying it at the neck. She was all but married to the man, why blush.

  As she fumbled with her bodice buttons, she shook her head, wondering at this pleasure in the midst of the many troubles she must contend with. Perhaps life's pleasures al­ways came that way, amid difficulty. She must take comfort from them, because violence lay in her future. She knew it of a certain. Trenchard would have his day.

  The buttons of her bodice refused to go in their proper places, so she cast it aside. There would be only the watch awake. She would go in smock and kirtle skirt. Feeling in the dark for her astrolabe, she grasped it and left the safety of the cabin.

  Kit was dozing. He had turned the hourglass earlier, then settled down in the shelter of the helm, eyes half closed, watching Ruske guide the ship. Some time after midnight, he let himself drift off—and found himself no longer on the Swiftsure. No, it was another ship he sailed tonight— the Elizabeth Bonadventure. He was fifteen again, fresh out of Oxford. In fact, he'd run away from the servants his father set on him, for he'd won a large wager in cards that night, and having money for the first time in his life, he headed for Bristol.

  The ship's master he approached hadn't believed his story—that he was an orphan without parents. But no one would care if Kit went to sea. For a small fee to compensate for his inexperience, the master took him, warning Kit that life at sea would be hard. Especially for a pampered young gentleman. From the start, Kit strove to prove him wrong Because he knew the truth—no one could set stiffer rules than his father, or inflict punishment more rigorously for breaking them. In point of fact, the captain of the ship seemed tame to Kit in comparison, for all he had to do 1 was what he was bid, and that was to work until he dropped each day. It was easy compared to the confining rules made by his father, the worst of which applied to the concept of pleasure. Whatever he did in life, he was not to admit plea­sure, not to show the signs of pleasure—no laughing, no singing, no jesting, no embracing. Such things were signs of emotional weakness and were driven away by beatings. With his captain, Kit was never beaten unless he failed in his duty. And that never happened but once. Knowing the requirements, Kit was scrupulously careful after that, doing his work thoroughly and with goodwill. I

  Once accepted by the crew, each task was a joy to Kit. His sense of humor surfaced, and because there was always a rollicking song on his lips and a jest to be shared with a shipmate, he became well liked. The comraderie he experienced on board ship deepened, the men became friends and family—friends to toil with, friends to visit the ale-houses and taverns with, where they spent their few shillings and tumbled the prettiest wenches. To Kit, this was freedom. More than that, Kit's stint aboard merchant traders taught him that trade was his destiny. Then one day, when he'd returned to port, on impulse he'd sent a letter to his quiet, ghost of a mother. She was the only being in his life who might care about his disappearance, and he felt a burning desire to share his joy with some living person. He told her everything in that letter, that he was happier than he'd ever been. But he didn't disclose his location. No, his father would be looking for him. For two years he'd moved from ship to ship, finding good captains to crew with, learning the trade. Every other month, he would write to his mother, never letting her write back, but telling her he was well.

  At eighteen, he met Courte Philips during a voyage to the Netherlands. The two became fast comrades, and when they once again reached England, he wrote to his mother giving his friend's address. And lo and behold, along with her reply expressing thanksgiving for his safety and approval at his happiness, she'd sent money—a good deal of it. From his maternal grandmother's will she'd told him.

  With it, Kit had bought his first ship, lying about his age to make it legal. He'd named the pinnace The Raven.

  After that, life treated him well by his standards. Taking Courte with him, he'd made money from his first cargo. But on his next voyage, pirates struck—French pirates off the coast of France. Damn if they would ruin his freedom or take his ship away. Kit fought them like a man crazed. All the hatred he'd felt for his father poured into that bat­tle. He'd fired his culverins, let fly his cannon, and the French had backed off, afraid of this English madman who fought like a devil. Kit had flourished after that. Not that pirates didn't attack again—they always attacked mer­chantmen. But he bested them, until that time off the coast of Spain with men who weren't pirates. Spanish officials accused him of being the pirate, of robbing others. He'd been stupid to trade with Spain. Some did it, but many suffered at their hands when they were in Spanish waters or Spanish territory. They'd killed all his men, taken his cargo. Half dreaming, half waking, Kit ground his teeth together until they grated. He hated the Spanish. Hated them.

  Even so, he had returned with his ship intact, bought another cargo, sailed to a different country and continued to amass money. Women drifted in and out of his life. He discovered he could have any female he wanted, just by beckoning with one finger. They came willingly to his bed-tavern maids, ladies' maids. Then he tried the ladies them­selves and found them just as willing. Married women were the best—they were eager for his muscular young body, experienced beyond his wildest dreams, and the children he begot, if any, were quietly absorbed into families.

  Kit's career advanced further when one year he met Lord Howard of Effingham, his distant kinsman, at Dover. As Lord Admiral of England, Effingham had many connec­tions. Kit arranged to do him several favors. For example, transporting English troops for free with his regular mer­chant cargos earned him the admiral's appreciation. In re­turn, Kit received an invitation to meet the queen. It had been a heady experience, kneeling at the feet of Elizabeth, seeing her admiration for his handsome figure. By then, he was more than one and twenty; his father couldn't touch him. And the queen thought well of his exploits and invited him to pay his respects each time he was in London. He'd done so, taking care to bring her clever or valuable gifts at each visit, knowing she was both a statesman and a woman, with an eye for value as well as a woman's vanity.

  It was shortly after that and the Spanish ordeal when his mother had died. Her letters, which he'd received every month like clockwork, stopped coming. At first he gave it no thought. He had his own troubles recouping his losses from the Spanish voyage. Finally, he'd run into his brother at Whitehall where the queen held court, deigned to speak to him, ask the damned vis
count how did their mother. Dead, he'd been told. From smallpox.

  He'd put it quickly from his mind. He didn't want to think about his past, so he immersed himself in other matters.

  His mother had floated out of his life as quietly as she had lived. She was dead and no one missed her. At the time, he hadn't mourned her. But now he felt a deep sorrow, although for what, he couldn't fathom. He'd loved her when he was three, four, five, and had probably needed her. But afterward, he'd done without her.

  The wind shifted slightly. Kit felt it in his sleep and stirred, coming awake where he sat, propped against the wall behind the helm. Opening his eyes groggily, he blinked, focused on the upper forecastle deck ahead and above him.

  She was there, moving in the wind.

  Kit's eyelids snapped open. He sat up, pulled himself hastily to his feet. Patches of mist floated across the ship, and a hazy figure in white fluttered on the forecastle deck. It couldn't be ... Kit started to his feet, then stopped.

  Her long hair played about her face, teased by the wind. Shifting his position, he tried to see her better, squinting through the haze. She faced him, but didn't seem to see him. Her chin was lifted as she gazed heavenward.

  She held out her arms to the sky, as if making a supplica­tion to the stars. He wanted to run to her. A flood of feelings deluged him—like in the dream he'd recounted to Phillipe. Somewhere inside him the love he'd once had broke a small hole in the dam that held it prisoner. A violent gush of it burst forth, taking him by surprise, just as the dream of his five-year-old past had surprised him. It stormed through him, upsetting his equilibrium. Pain swept over him. He saw his mother sitting on a bench in the gardens of Lulworth Castle, holding a lap full of roses. A child of three or less, he giggled and teased her, pulled more roses from their canes and tossed them into her skirts until a thorn pricked him and his finger bled. He cried, but his mother threw away the roses, gathered him into her arms in their place so she could kiss away his pain.

  The mist thickened. Ten paces ahead and up the stairs, she stood. He need only climb to the forecastle deck to reach her. Surely he could do it. But his body felt heavy, immobile. Painstakingly he put one foot before the other, wanting to go to her, yet afraid. What would he say when he got there? "Why did you desert me? I needed you. But you did as my father ordered, without protest."

  She lowered her arms. In the shifting fog she stared at him, frozen in place, her white garment fluttering against her arms, her slender body.

  He could take no more. The gush of love was too painful. He must rebuild the dam. With a cry he lunged away from the steps, cast himself against the rail, almost going over in his agony. Closing his eyes, he clung to the rail and tried to make his mind go blank, the way he'd learned to do whenever his father disciplined him. Always before he had willed the memories away, shut them out. They would re­cede, leaving desolation in their wake.

  But not tonight. Tonight he couldn't forget them. The anguish washed over him again and again, the loss of his mother. Love, hate, he didn't know which he felt anymore. The memories were agony and he longed to escape their power.

  A warm hand closed on his forearm. He looked down.

  He started when he saw it was Rozalinde. What was she doing up? She never came out at night, so he couldn't think why ... She had her heavy brass astrolabe tucked securely under one arm. Other than that, she wore her smock and kirtle skirt without the bodice; her feet were bare. The white sleeves of her smock fluttered in the breeze and floating wisps of hair played around her angelic face. Shocked, his gaze darted to the empty forecastle deck above them, then back to her.

  "The sky is clear in patches," she said, her voice calm and rational. She pointed to the deck above. "I got a good sighting of the pole star. According to my calculations, we'll see land soon."

  Kit turned away and leaned heavily against the rail. It must have been Rozalinde he'd seen. Not his mother's ghost. He was being ridiculous and fanciful.

  Without warning he whirled on her, gathered her in his arms, astrolabe and all. "Come back to bed," he bid her hoarsely.

  He carried her to his cabin and laid her on the bunk. Taking the astrolabe from her, he placed it on the table, then stripped off his clothes. She had risen to sit on the bunk, and he motioned to her. "Now yours."

  She rose to stand before him, slim and proud. Like in his dream, her kirtle whispered to the floor. Her smock slid down to expose her white shoulders, her full, shapely breasts gleaming ivory in the half dark. Lower the smock went, and lower still, baring the sensuous tuck of her waist, the firm swell of hips and buttocks, her long, slim legs.

  But it was not like the dream. This woman was real, comforting. He gathered her to him so he could feel the firm globes of her breasts pressing against his chest. Cup­ping her buttocks, one in each hand, he reveled in the feel of her, the profound sweetness. He wanted to pleasure her, give her excitement and release she'd never before known, with a man or with any other pastime or person in her life. Yet what he'd shown her in lovemaking heretofore failed to fulfill his intentions. What would?

  Intently he contemplated the question, all the while en­joying the allure of her body. With his lips he showered her neck and lips with kisses. He filled his hands with the richness of her ample breasts. By heaven, but the feelings she gave him when he held her in his arms—he was the mightiest man on earth.

  But that was it, wasn't it! She wanted power. The power to be who she was, what she was, without changing. In­stinctively he realized what she would tike.

  "Come, sweet," he panted, his knowledge raising his ex­citement to fever pitch. Seating himself on a stool against the wall, he drew her toward him, indicated she must strad­dle him, one leg on each side. "Let me show you how to love me."

  Her eyes widened, and he looked into their velvet depths. He had apparently shocked her, for she didn't move.

  "Tis your fondest desire and well you know it," he teased, softening his voice to a caress. "You wish to control me, and in some things you shall."

  "I don't believe you," she whispered, standing stark still before him. "You want a subservient woman."

  Kit threw back his head and roared at that. "You, subser­vient? If you obey me, it's only because you decide my orders are acceptable and what you would do anyway. Admit it, Rozalinde. If you must settle for a master, I'm a damned reasonable one."

  "You're not. You're as likely to do your own choosing as not."

  "Then don't trust me."

  "I didn't say I don't trust you."

  "You didn't have to. You don't trust me." He was silent, letting his words sink in. "You were right when you decided I don't trust you. But you are no more trusting yourself. Now I'm offering you control in our lovemaking. Take it, Rozalinde."

  She seemed determined to do as he bid her. For she set her jaw firmly and straddled him where he sat on the stool. Grasping his shoulders with both hands, she lowered herself slowly. The ecstasy of her body assaulted him as she guided him toward the place. His body pierced her, then entered her tight, wet depths.

  "Troth," she murmured, throwing back her head so that her hair hung down her back, tickling his knees. The mo­tion bared her throat, and he leaned forward to kiss the cool, ivory column of flesh.

  Placing his hands around her waist, he rocked back and forth, maneuvering their bodies, making his passion flare unbearably.

  "Oh, troth," she murmured again. "Don't stop."

  He stopped instantly. "You must decide how it will be. Fast or slow. Gentle or hard."

  "And what if I'm too gentle to suit you? Or too slow? You'll change things to suit yourself."

  Their eyes met. For the first time he recognized her vul­nerability, her fear of being dominated, running through her thoughts as deep as the sea. It surprised him—why had he not noticed before? Surely that was what made her testy with him, resistant to his orders and insistent on her rights.

  But he would show her. With a disarming shrug, he in­vited her. "Tis your dec
ision, Rozalinde. Enjoy me any way you like."

  Her expression of distrust didn't change. But she did begin to move against him. Experimentally, at first. Then more surely. She began by testing the different motions she might make, rising slowly, then letting herself fall back into his lap. After about the fourth time, he moaned, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall. It was heaven. "Might I use my hands?" he asked, determined to give her all power.

  "Permission granted," she rasped roughly.

  Her breath, he noticed, came in tight, short gasps. She moved against him more quickly. Languidly he reached out and gathered a handful of her lush left breast. With his thumb he smoothed the rosy peak. He could feel her entire sheath, her thighs, quiver with pleasure. He reached for the other peak.

  Her speed increased. He didn't think he could last much longer, yet he wanted to be there as long as she needed him.

  "Tell me when, sweetheart," he panted as she rode him more wildly. "I'll do my best."

  "Oh!" She grasped his shoulders so tightly, he started.

  Then she gave a savage scream of pleasure and dug her nails into his arms. At her signal, he released his pent-up passion and thrust upward. Their mutual groans of fulfill­ment rent the air. With one last cry she collapsed against his chest.

  They sat there for some time in the afterglow of their lovemaking. Rozalinde huddled against his chest. Gently he smoothed her face and hair, pleased with the result of his decision. If this didn't convince her, nothing would.

  "We're near land," she whispered. With one finger she traced the line between his beard and his shaven cheek. "I'm quite sure."

  "How do you know?" He smoothed her hair, marveling, as he often did, that the curls sprang back beneath his hand.

  "Mmm, I love your arms, your shoulders." Her fingers glided over his upper arms.

  "Don't change the subject. How do you know we're near land."

  "I can smell it."

  An hour later, Kit sat up with a start from where they slept in his bunk. "Land, ho."