by Kruger, Mary
“I—I thought—we made a bargain, and you accepted.”
Brendan doused the lamp, and abruptly the room was plunged into darkness. “Ye overrate yourself, lass,” he said, almost gently, and the ropes creaked as he climbed into the hammock. “Good night.”
Chapter Six
Rebecca stared into the darkness towards the hammock. Of all the possible things she had imagined happening this night, she had not expected this. Not from a pirate, not when he had seemed so willing, so seductive, so—desirable.
No. With a little sniff, Rebecca flounced onto her side, facing away from Brendan. He wasn’t at all desirable, unprincipled rogue that he was, and certainly no woman of virtue would think so. Ah, but that was precisely what she no longer was. If she’d ever needed proof of it she had it now, in her own reactions and responses. For, when the Raven had snuffed the light and jumped into his hammock, she had felt, for just a moment, strong, irrational disappointment.
And he, the wretch, was sleeping! She could hear his even, regular breathing, deepening into soft snores, quite as if nothing had happened. Overrated herself, had she? Perhaps she had, but it was galling of him to say so. Well, he’d see. When he finally got around to their bargain, they’d just see what would happen. She would not cooperate with him. He was a vain man, was the Raven, and he had vastly overrated his charms. Perhaps other women had been fooled by him, but she wasn’t. She would not let him best her.
Taking a deep breath, Rebecca composed herself for sleep. She had lived through difficult situations before; doubtless she would again. But what, she wondered, would happen when the Raven came to claim her?
“Good morrow, miss,” a cheery voice called, and Rebecca shot up in the bed, startled from sleep. For a moment she stared, dazed, at Tyner, standing with a pewter dish in one hand and a tankard in the other, and then it all came rushing back to her. She and Amelia were captives on a pirate ship. “I fell asleep,” she said.
“Aye, miss, that ye did,” Tyner said, smiling genially and placing the dish on the table. “Breakfast here for ye. Be ye hungry?”
“No—yes,” she said, as her stomach suddenly growled. Had she no sense of shame? A proper lady would be pining away at the horrors that had befallen her. Discreetly she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Is my sister well?”
“Aye, miss. Be ye wantin’ water for washing?”
“Yes, thank you.” She nodded, the unreality of the situation compounded by his cheerfulness and her politeness. “When may I see her?”
Tyner’s face sobered. “Sorry, miss. Cap’n said you’re to stay in the cabin.”
“But my sister needs me—”
“She’s well taken care of, miss. Don’t ye fret, no harm’ll come to her.”
Rebecca bit her lip. Amelia was safe because of the bargain she had made. The bargain the Raven seemed disinclined to keep. “Where is the captain? I would like to ask him for myself.”
“On deck, miss. Now. There’s porridge, and bacon, and coffee—hope ye like it? No milk for it, I’m afeared, but ‘tis good and strong. And an orange. Not many of those left.”
In spite of herself, Rebecca drifted over to the table, lured by the smells. The hammock Brendan had strung up last night was gone. Would he be sleeping in it again tonight?
Her stomach lurched at the thought, making her grab the back of a chair for support. “There, miss, don’t doubt you’re weak with hunger,” Tyner said, reaching for her arm, and she flinched away. “Just ye sit down and eat, and I’ll get water for ye. It’ll have to be seawater, I’m afeared. Fresh water’s in scarce supply at sea.”
Rebecca raised dazed eyes to stare at him, near the door. “What kind of a pirate ship is this?”
Tyner looked up from sorting through his keys. “Miss?”
“This.” She gestured towards the food. “Breakfast, and now you’re bringing me water.”
“Is that all right, miss? There’ll be soap, too.”
Rebecca let out a short, sharp laugh. “Why, of course there will be. I have gone mad,” she said, and sank her head into her hands. “Do you treat all your captives so well?”
“Nay, miss. But ye’re special, ye and ye’re sister. Now, eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back with your water.” Before Rebecca could protest, he was gone, his key clicking in the lock.
Rebecca gazed at the door, and then, suddenly tired, sat down. For Amelia’s sake, she had to keep up her strength. She picked up the spoon and forced down some porridge. Why, it was good, she thought with surprise, flavored with brown sugar and a spice she couldn’t quite identify. Her stomach growled, and greedily she swallowed more, following the porridge with the bacon, smoky and sweet, and the dark, rich coffee. Finally sated, she sat back, letting out a sigh of pure contentment. She had, she realized with surprise, consumed everything set before her, even the orange, and this under the most trying circumstances. She most definitely was not a proper lady. But then, that had been established long ago.
The food she had eaten with such relish now lay heavy on her stomach as she rose, desperate to escape. But there was no way out, not from this room, not from herself. Eager for distraction from her thoughts, she gazed about the cabin. It wasn’t so very different from what she’d grown accustomed to in the Curlew, or in her father’s own ships. Perhaps it was more luxurious, as befitted the captain’s status, but it was small, and simply furnished. The table where she had eaten faced the door, and was circled by four chairs, bolted to the deck. Above was the oil lamp she’d noted last night, and a skylight, to let in light and air. Cabinets lined one wall, one with glazed doors, and the wall next to the bed held pegs, from which hung the Raven’s clothes. Rebecca’s gaze slid uneasily over these, and encountered the bed.
Her lips tightened. Nothing simple about this piece of furniture. Of carved mahogany, it was piled high with a feather mattress and downy, colorful quilts that had been carefully, lovingly stitched. By one of the many women in the Raven’s life? Rebecca flushed and turned sharply away. Best not to think about that, about what had gone on in that bed and would yet go on in it.
At the foot of the bed the stern of the ship curved in a graceful arc of tiny, paned windows. Beneath it was a bench, padded with a red tufted cushion. Rebecca knelt on it to look out, seeing not a sight of land, not a sign of another sail. Only the restless sea and the ship’s white, foaming wake, tracing their course. It was calm today, the swells slight, the ship rocking only slightly beneath her, and yet she judged that they were making good time. But to where? With the trackless sea between them and land, it would be a long time before she and Amelia were ransomed. If ever.
She was sitting, hugging herself against a chill of fear, when the door opened and Tyner came back in. “Ye’ve a good appetite, miss,” he said approvingly.
“Yes.” The fear slowly drained away. Tyner, at least, had been kind. “Why are my sister and I special?” she asked.
Tyner was busy clearing the table. “Why, because of the ransom ye’ll bring, o’ course.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Every man jack aboard’ll share in it, ye see,” he went on, seemingly unaware of the irony in her voice. “Times are hard for seamen, miss, and the money’ll be welcome.”
“Is that why you do this? For the money?”
Again his eyes flickered. “Of course, miss. What other reason is there?”
“But you’re English, Tyner. Why not serve in their navy?”
“Bah.” Tyner made a face. “Aye, I’m English, and what good did it ever do me? No, miss, the best thing that ever happened to me was meeting up with the captain. I’m my own man now, ye see?”
“Oh.” She didn’t understand. Who was the Raven, to inspire such loyalty? “Have you been with the Raven long?”
“We don’t call him that here.”
“Oh? By what name do you call him?”
“Cap’n Fitzpatrick, o’course. A good cap’n, he is, but hard on himself. Ye won’t see him below decks when
his ship needs him, not to eat or even to sleep,” he said, admiringly. “Someone has to look after him.”
The thought of the Raven needing to be looked after was ludicrous. He could well take care of himself. “I’d think there’d be women to do that.”
“Oh, no, miss. Not at sea,” he said, sounding shocked, and glancing at the bed. “Never at sea.”
“You relieve my mind enormously,” she said, dryly.
“Yes, miss.” He beamed at her. “Be ye needing anything else?”
“Yes.” Rebecca raised her chin, amazed at how self-assured she sounded, when all her emotions were in turmoil. “Please ask the captain if I may see my sister.”
Tyner’s lips pursed. “He’ll not allow that, miss.”
“Please! She needs me, and I—”
“I’m that sorry, miss,” Tyner said, his expression genuinely apologetic. “When the cap’n gives an order, that’s it.”
“Then, please, won’t you ask if I could have paper and a quill?” She was pleading now, her feelings openly displayed, and she didn’t care. Amelia needed her. That was all that mattered. “At least ask if he’ll let me write a message.”
Tyner’s lips pursed. “I’ll try, miss,” he said, and went out, locking the door behind him. Setting the dirty dishes down in the pantry just under the companionway, he scuttled up to the deck, squinting against the sun as he searched the sails. Aye, there was the cap’n, as usual high in his perch, the wind ruffling his raven-black hair like feathers. “Cap’n!” he hollered, cupping his hands about his mouth.
Brendan looked down. A moment later he slid down to the deck and walked over to Tyner, his stride rolling, meeting every dip and swell of the sea. “Aye, Tyner? What is it?”
“A request from our guest, Cap’n.”
“Our guest?” Brendan grinned. “Do ye disapprove of her then, Tyner?”
“Ye know how I feel, Cap’n. I think takin’ them was a mistake—”
“It’s done,” Brendan said, his voice slashing across Tyner’s. “Now. I’ve little time for this. What is it she wants?”
“To see her sister, and—”
“No.”
“Aye, Cap’n. She would like a sheet of paper, to write her sister a note.”
Brendan pondered that. “Aye, let her have all the paper she wants, and a quill, too, if it’ll keep her quiet.”
“Not that one,” Tyner muttered. “She’s trouble, Cap’n.”
“Get her what she wants, Tyner,” Brendan said sharply, and after a moment, Tyner nodded.
“Aye, Cap’n,” he said, and scuttled away.
Trouble. Aye, that she was, Brendan thought, though not in the way Tyner thought. The crew seemed not the slightest bit disgruntled that he had access to a woman while they did not, but instead seemed to approve, several going so far as to give him winks and sly smiles. He grimaced. While trying to protect his captives, inadvertently he had boosted his reputation as a marauder. All to the good, but what no one realized, what he hadn’t expected, were the complications caused by Rebecca’s presence in his cabin. Even he wasn’t sure quite what they would be yet, but of one thing he was certain. She was, in her own way, very much a threat to him.
On impulse he turned on his heel, striding along the deck and clambering down the companionway to his cabin. Madness, what he was doing, seeking her out, but then he never had been one to run from danger. And a danger she was, in spite of her prim ways and her austere appearance. He’d seen that last night, when she lay defenseless in sleep, and again this morning. The sight had evoked an odd, nameless feeling within him, that had driven him almost to stroke her hair, touch her cheek. Only his finely tuned sense of danger had saved him, and yet now the memory brought forth the same, undefined feeling.
Bah. Twisting the key in the lock, he banged the door open with more force than he had intended. Sitting at the table, Rebecca looked up, startled, and the pen she held flew from her fingers, spattering ink across the paper. “Oh, bother! Now look what you’ve made me do,” she exclaimed. “This paper is quite ruined.”
“There’s more, leannan,” he said, biting back a grin. No fainting or hysterics from her. Instead she challenged him, provoked him, as if he inspired no fear in her. And yet, he knew that wasn’t true; he could see the wariness in her eyes, in her posture. She was a brave one, his Rebecca. Bah. Not his Rebecca at all.
“I told you not to call me that.” She sounded disgruntled as she dabbed at the ink with a piece of blotting cloth. “I don’t suppose you’d allow me a penknife to sharpen the quill?”
“Nay, lass, I’m not that daft.” Crossing the cabin, he opened a cabinet set high in the wall, its door set with heavy glass, and took out a book at random. “Likely you’d try the knife on me. Not that it would avail you anything.” He sprawled onto the window seat. “Are ye writing to your sister?”
“No.” She gazed at him, her expression defiant. “I have decided to keep a journal.”
“A fine occupation for a lady.”
“I intend to document every single thing you’ve done, captain.”
“I’d expect no less of ye, lass,” he said, opening the book and pretending to ignore her.
“I—you’ll allow me?”
“Aye. I see no reason why not.”
“But it will be evidence against you.”
“Ah, but they have to catch me first.” He bent his head to the book, only then realizing he held it upside down. “I’ll leave ye to your writing, lass.”
“Oh.” For a moment, there was silence. Brendan could feel his gaze on her, but he continued to concentrate on the book. Only when he sensed her turning away, returning to her letter, did he quickly turn the book the right way, to realize that he had opened to a poem by John Donne. An erotic one, written to his mistress. He didn’t know whether to groan or to laugh. Under the circumstances, with a woman in his cabin and his own hunger growing in a way he couldn’t explain, he could not have made a worse choice. He was caught now, though. Rather than risk catching Rebecca’s attention, he stretched out his legs and grimly began to read.
Sheer torture, as Donne cajoled his mistress into taking off her clothes. What did Rebecca look like beneath that shapeless gray gown? Not as angular as he’d first thought, not from the way she had felt against him yesterday. Soft, white skin, a shape he could only guess at, and that hair, crackling fire as it spread over her shoulders, over his pillow. He shifted on the bench as a surge of heat went through him, making his breeches uncomfortably tight. And this because of a woman who may have offered herself, but whose stance and expression, whose very being warned him away.
“You read poetry?” Rebecca said, breaking into his thoughts, and gladly he looked up, away from the images the poetry evoked, into another temptation. His gaze locked with hers, now the murky green of a stormy sea, hinting at emotions he could only guess at. A storm, was it? Aye, but he welcomed storms, as he welcomed danger. More fool he.
“Aye, lass,” he said, and cleared his throat, annoyed beyond measure at the huskiness of his voice. “That I do.”
Her brow wrinkled. “I didn’t think—I mean, I didn’t even think you could read.”
“A high opinion ye have of me, lass,” he said, closing the book. “Did ye take me for an illiterate fool?”
“No. Oh, no,” she said earnestly, as if concerned for his feelings. “But with your being a pirate, I just assumed—”
“Ye know nothing about me, lass.”
“No.” Her eyes widened as he rose. “I don’t even know why you took us captive.”
“But ye do, lass. For the ransom.”
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes remained on him, sharper now. “I think you’ve reasons of your own.”
“Some dark, nefarious purpose, d’ye mean?”
“Yes. And how a pirate knows such words, I don’t know.”
“There ye go again, lass, assuming ye know me.” He picked up the book, to put it back on the shelf, and then, seized by a mischi
evous impulse, stopped. “Do ye read poetry, lass?”
“Why, yes.”
“And are ye familiar with John Donne?”
Her brow wrinkled. “A bit. ‘Death be not proud, though some have called thee—’”
“Ah, his sacred period. Nay, lass, I was referring to his earlier poetry. Like this.” He flipped the book open to the poem he had been reading. “‘License my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below—”
“Mercy!” Rebecca clapped her hands over her ears, her face scarlet. “You’re no gentleman, to say such things to me!”
He laughed, genuinely amused in spite of the tension stretching between them. Ah, ‘twas a mistake to tease her so, when he was the one ended up burning. “But as we’ve established, lass, I’m no gentleman. And I very much doubt,” he tilted her chin up with his fingertips, “that ye are a lady.”
“Of course I am!” she protested, but she didn’t pull away. Nor did he. God help him, he couldn’t, not with their gazes locked together as they were. He knew well the sexual attraction that could spring unbidden between a man and a woman, but this was beyond his experience. “I was raised properly, sir.”
“Were you?” He was hardly aware of what she said, of what he answered. His senses were filled with her, with the softness of her skin beneath his fingers, of the fire of her hair, and, most of all, her lips, full, pink, eminently kissable. God help him, he was playing with fire, but never had he wanted more to be burned. “Ah, leannan, the words of the poem—I’d like to do them with you,” he said abruptly.
“You presume too much, sir!” Rebecca said, almost falling off the chair in her haste to get away from this mesmerizing, maddening man. Dear God in heaven, that poem he had read! She could still feel the warmth of it in her body, down deep in her stomach. Oh, she was wanton, and she must never forget it, must never forget as well that this man was a threat to her.
“Do I, lass?” He remained where he was, an odd smile on his face. “But then, ‘tis your idea, or so I believe?”
