In a Pirate's Arms

by Kruger, Mary

  Chapter Eight

  There was no warning. One moment Brendan was looking down at her, and the next he had captured her lips like the marauding pirate he was. He gave no quarter, but demanded all of her, kissing her open-mouthed, warm and wet, and, oh, yes, she was willing, though she didn’t want to be. A part of her stood aside, watching as the hands she had so reluctantly put around his neck tightened, grasping at his shoulders as if for support. And somehow she was detached from the woman who pressed up against him, all of him, desperate and eager for an embrace too long missed, too long desired. It was her body that willed her to do those things, to open her mouth to his seeking tongue, to reply in kind, as aggressive in her own way as he was. And surely it was her body that made her head arch back when his lips, greedy and impatient, sought a course down her throat; surely it was her body that shifted when his hand slipped up between their bodies to cup her breast—

  Mind and body abruptly merged. Warm, perhaps, but no longer willing, Rebecca went still. This was wrong. What she had offered to him had been out of expediency, but this need, this wantonness, were wrong. No matter that everything within her clamored for more. Her body was weak, and what she had allowed him was wrong. Her only defense against him, against herself, was coldness.

  Brendan looked up, his gaze unexpectedly keen. “Is it not to your liking, leannan?” he said, softly, and it was too much. Wrenching herself from his arms, she whirled away from him, standing at the stern window and hugging herself to still the long, slow shudders within her. Oh, yes, it was very much to her liking. That was the problem. “Rebecca?”

  “Go away,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “Ah, now, leannan, I can’t do that. ‘Tis my cabin, after all.” He sounded apologetic, but she heard the underlying note of triumph. “Come, lass, never say you’re scared.”

  “I—I’m not.” Not of him, at least.

  “Then what is it, lass?”

  “I do not desire you.” She had meant the words to sound cold. Instead, they came out shaky.

  He chuckled. “Ah, lass, do ye not?” The hair at the back of her neck prickled. He was nearing her. She could sense it, and oh, how she hoped he would reach up and touch her, stroke her neck, place a hand on her shoulder and turn her, persuading her, taking the choice away from her. “Admit it, lass, that I was right.”

  She held tighter onto herself. If he touched her, she would shatter. If he didn’t, she would die. “About what?”

  “The kiss. Warm and wet and willing.”

  She jerked away, though there was no place to go. Oh, yes, he was right. It had been all those things, and more. It had been wanton. And that was something she couldn’t face. “I will never be willing, captain,” she said, and this time her voice was steadier.

  “You offered yourself, lass.” The teasing, coaxing note was gone from his voice. “You could be mine at any time.”

  “Not all of me.” Her strength was returning with the ebbing of desire. She had spent years resisting passion; what was a few more hours? “There are parts of me that you will never have, because I will never give them.”

  “Sail ho!” The cry was distant, and faint enough so that Brendan was certain Rebecca didn’t hear it. But he did. He jerked his head upward, looking at the beamed ceiling as if he could see through it to the man at lookout, to see the sail with his own eyes. Friend or foe? Given who he was, the latter was more likely.

  “Rebecca.” He made his voice patient. He knew what he was dealing with here: a virgin who had just discovered passion in his arms. The wrong man’s arms. In this, though, he was the right man. He would have to proceed carefully. While that was frustrating, it also added spice to a game that lately had lost some of its excitement. He wanted her more, now, than he could remember ever wanting a woman. Such passion, such fire, under her prim exterior. “I didn’t mean to frighten ye, lass.”

  “You didn’t.” Her voice was almost completely calm now. “But if you are going to take me I wish you would do so and be done with it.”

  “Be done with it!” That was too much. He stomped away. “Be done with it? By God, lady, that kiss was more than just being done with it! What the devil do you think I’m made of? Do you think you can kiss me like that and not expect more? Be done with it.” He snorted. “No, Rebecca, what’s between us won’t be settled that easily.”

  Rebecca had turned and was staring at him wide-eyed. “You can’t want me,” she stated.

  “The hell I can’t—the devil take it, what is it?” he roared as a knock came on the door.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n.” It was Tyner. “A sail’s been spotted. Sam thinks ye should see it.”

  “The devil take it.” He pulled open the cabinet door so hard it rattled, taking out his spyglass. “All right, Tyner. I’ll be right there. And you.” He turned, looking grimly at her. “We’re not done.”

  She raised her chin. “What do you expect there could ever be between us, captain?”

  What did he expect! It was his turn to stare at her. Had she, or had she not, kissed him with equal fervor? Had she not moaned, oh, not very loudly, but hadn’t she, when his fingers had grazed the underside of her breast? Oh, there was something between them, much as she might wish to deny it. “You’ll see,” he said, darkly, and slammed out the door.

  Aboard HMS Cardiff

  From his station on the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Jeremiah Dee collapsed the spy glass he had trained to the southeast. “It’s him,” he announced.

  Captain Lancaster, in command of the HMS Cardiff, a fourth-rater carrying fifty guns in service to His Majesty’s Navy, frowned. “Are you sure? Even my lookout can’t tell.” Damned if he were going to chase all over the sea in pursuit of a sail that likely belonged to a trader minding his own business. Not that he didn’t want to come up against the Raven, mind. There wasn’t a captain in the Navy who didn’t want that. He was not, however, too confident in the abilities of the young man standing beside him.

  He was a strange one, was Dee. Aboard the Cardiff with the duty of capturing the Raven, he kept to himself, and was disliked by all who met him. Well, that was all right, one didn’t have to be liked to do one’s job. But there was a look in Dee’s eyes that Lancaster distrusted, an intent gleam that bordered on fanaticism whenever the Raven was mentioned. In the past few days, that had been a great deal. Two days ago they’d spotted a ship, almost hull-down under the horizon; a short time later they’d come across the man floating in the water, clinging to a piece of wood. He was a crewman from the Curlew, out of St. Thomas, and he’d jumped overboard when the Cardiff had been sighted, in hopes of reaching her. Though nearly drowned, he had gasped out the tale of the awful recent events aboard that ship, and the passengers that had been taken captive. By then the Curlew, the ship they’d sighted, was well out of sight. Besides, the seaman had given them a valuable clue: the Raven’s last heading. For the last two days, they had been cruising in pursuit.

  “It’s him,” Dee repeated, that same satisfied note in his voice. “I can feel it.”

  Lancaster shifted uneasily from one foot to another. There were more important considerations than chasing pirates in his estimation, the French for one, and those upstart Americans for another. He had his orders, however, and this latest atrocity added urgency to the search. Bless his soul, two young women captives of that villain! They’d be lucky to escape with their lives, let alone their virtue. The Raven had to be found.

  Beside him Dee had raised the spyglass again, searching for his elusive quarry without success. Still, he was smiling when he brought it down again, a strange smile, feral, wild. I have you now, he thought. You’re there, I can feel you, and soon I’ll have you. And you’ll pay. Unconsciously his fingers went up to touch the scar on his cheek, a too vivid reminder of his prior brush with the Raven. He’d pay for that, with his life, if possible. The Raven was within his grasp, and he would never give up. Never. “Oh, yes,” Dee said softly, no longer aware of the captain or crew. His
attention was only on his quarry as he braced his hands on the quarterdeck railing, gazing far off to see. “This time, Raven, you’ll not escape me. And you’ll pay.”

  “Ye’re ready, miss?” Tyner said.

  Rebecca smoothed down her skirts one more time. “Yes, Mr. Tyner. Quite ready.”

  “Just Tyner, miss,” he reminded her again.

  “Yes, Mr.—sorry. Tyner.” Her smile was strained as she watched him unlock the door. At last, after three days, she was going to see her sister, and she didn’t for the life of her know why she was so nervous.

  It was the aftermath of that incident with the Raven, she decided, following Tyner into the passageway and waiting while he fumbled with his keys. For a time this afternoon she’d forgotten how truly formidable an opponent the Raven was, until he’d shown her. Trust a man, she thought bitterly, to use that weapon against a woman.

  Tyner unlocked the door, and, after tapping on it, swung it open. “Company, miss,” he called into the room, and then turned to Rebecca. “Go on in, miss. I have to lock ye in. Understand?”

  “I wouldn’t expect otherwise, Tyner.”

  Unexpectedly, he grinned at her. “Aye. Yer a game ‘un, miss, and no mistake.”

  “Tyner!” she said, astonished.

  “When you’re done, just bang on the door,” he said, not at all abashed by her shock. “I’ll be in the pantry, there.”

  “Thank you, Tyner.” At last she stepped over the high coaming into the room to see her sister. “Melia!” she exclaimed, and rushed across the room, her arms outstretched.

  “What are you doing here?” Amelia said, and the flatness of her voice made Rebecca stop dead.

  “I came to see if you’re all right. This does look comfortable enough.” Amelia was standing at the far end of a very tiny stateroom. Tiny, but, Rebecca saw to her relief, clean and bright. A bunk set against the wall had drawers set into its base and a cheerful quilt atop, while tucked into the corner was a washstand. Much of Rebecca’s worry fled. “Oh, Melia, I’m so glad to see you safe.”

  “Are you? Then why haven’t you been to visit me before this?”

  “I wasn’t allowed. Oh, do let me hug you, Melia! I’ve missed you so.”

  “I didn’t ask you here,” Amelia snapped.

  Rebecca blinked. “Melia. What is wrong?”

  “I don’t want you here.” Amelia turned her back. “Go away.”

  “Melia,” Rebecca said, stunned, rather than hurt. Amelia had always depended on her, been close to her, and except for the past three days, Rebecca had always protected her—ah. Relief coursed through her. Of course. Amelia was upset at what must seem like abandonment. “Amelia, truly, I had no choice,” she said. “I asked to see you every day, and I wasn’t allowed.”

  “And now you are.”

  “Yes.” There was an odd note in Amelia’s voice. “Come, let’s sit down and talk. You’re being treated well?”

  “For a captive? Yes.” Amelia turned, and her eyes flicked scornfully over Rebecca. “You look the same. I wouldn’t have thought it.”

  Rebecca frowned. “Why shouldn’t I? Oh. You were afraid perhaps he’d beat me? No, nothing like that—”

  “You went with him,” Amelia spat out. “I didn’t think he’d like old tall Megs dressed in gray.”

  That hurt. It shouldn’t, but it did. “Amelia! I don’t think I deserve that. Besides, he hasn’t—”

  “Oh, you deserve it for the way you’ve acted.” The words tumbled out. “I’ve kept my virtue. But you—”

  “What else was I do to?” Rebecca cried. “Look where we are, Amelia! I did the only thing I could think of, to keep us safe. To keep you safe.” She swallowed, hard. “If it’s any comfort, he hasn’t so much as touched me.”

  “Liar.” Amelia stood with her arms crossed, looking so like their father it was uncanny. “You’re exactly what our father said you are. A whore.”

  Rebecca’s head snapped back as if she’d been struck. “Oh, Amelia, that’s so unfair—”

  “I don’t want you here.” Amelia turned her back again. “I want you to leave.”

  “Melia—”

  “Now.”

  Rebecca bit her lips at the contempt in Amelia’s voice and turned, blindly, stumbling to the door and clutching at the panels for support, before raising her hand to knock.

  Tyner opened the door a moment later. “Done so soon?” he said, looking at her in surprise. “Cap’n said you could have an hour.”

  “I—I am unwell, Tyner,” Rebecca said, stumbling past him into the passageway. “I would like to rest.”

  Tyner shrugged. “All right. But I doubt the cap’n’ll let ye see her again soon.”

  A little hysterical bubble of laughter rose in Rebecca’s throat as he opened the door of the Raven’s cabin for her. Sanctuary. And wasn’t that a ridiculous thought? “It doesn’t matter, Tyner,” she said, and still dazed, collapsed onto the bench under the stern window.

  A long time later, Rebecca stirred, sitting up and wiping at her face with her fingers. She had cried and she had raged, but neither had done her much good. Her much-beloved sister had rejected her in the cruelest way possible, and how was she to live with it? Especially when she knew she deserved it. For if she might not be guilty of her sister’s accusations in fact, in spirit, she was.

  Squeezing her eyes closed, she put her head in her hands. It wasn’t the first rejection she had ever suffered, nor was it the most painful. Her father’s had been that, and for the same reason. Because she was wicked, wanton. She carried the curse of it like a badge, and she would never be free.

  The light had faded. Tyner had brought her supper a while ago without saying anything, and then, just as tactfully, collected her untouched plate. Now it was late, and she was exhausted. She had gone through too much this day, too many emotions, from fear to passion to absolute, wretched dejection. Rising, she fumbled her way across the cabin, falling onto the bed, not bothering to change into her nightgown or to braid her hair. Nothing mattered anymore. If the Raven came to her that night, if he touched her and made her body respond in ways she couldn’t control, she no longer cared. Nothing mattered.

  Brendan yawned hugely as he unlocked the door to his cabin. A nuisance, this, not being able to come and go as he pleased. If he’d had any hopes of being able to ignore Miss Rebecca Talbot, they’d been dashed that afternoon. Nor could he simply put her in a cabin with her sister until they were ransomed, not after what Tyner had told him. It looked as if he were stuck with Rebecca for the duration of the voyage.

  Faint moonlight spilled into the cabin, fading now, but Brendan’s night vision was very good. He could see, well enough, Rebecca sprawled on the bed, still dressed, her eyes puffy, and he was suddenly, irrationally furious at her sister. What Rebecca had done was out of love for Amelia. Her sister had taken that gift of love, and flung in in her face.

  Not that he’d helped matters. God knew he’d made Rebecca pay for her act, he thought dispassionately, as he strung up the hammock. He made no effort to be quiet, but she didn’t awaken. What had happened this afternoon must, in its way, have been as shattering to her as her sister’s rejection. He smiled, humorlessly. Imagine finding yourself attracted to a pirate, when you were a most prim and proper young lady.

  Groaning slightly, he threw himself onto the hammock. Aye, he was tired, and why not? It had been a trying day for him. Delightful at times, with the chess match that was about so much more than chess, but difficult, restraining himself from reaching out and taking her when he wanted her so much. Even now, when he was worn out, his loins ached with desire for her. ‘Twas the closeness, he told himself. Aye, and wouldn’t making love be a good distraction right now, too?

  For there was the matter of the sail spotted that afternoon. At most other times Brendan wouldn’t have been concerned, but three days had passed since he’d captured the Curlew. Anything could have happened in that time; the Curlew could have been recaptured by the British. Whate
ver had happened, he’d had an uneasy, crawling feeling between his shoulders when he’d looked through the glass and seen the sails for himself. Danger. Square sails, like on a trader, or a man-of-war. Likely the latter, his instincts told him, and he’d learned to ignore them at his peril.

  All through the day the other ship had played cat and mouse with him, sometimes coming nearer, sometimes dropping below the horizon, but always there. He could feel it. If the Curlew had been retaken, then his last heading would be known. In the letter he’d sent with Neville he’d set the rendezvous with Ezra Talbot for four weeks hence, at a specific latitude and longtitude. It was the only way he could have arranged it.

  Now there was a chance that all his planning had gone for naught. If that were the case, what was he going to do? Groaning again, he put his arm over his eyes. He couldn’t well show up at the rendezvous, unless he wanted to be captured. His best option would be to put the Talbot sisters onto another ship, and then disappear. If he did that, however, he risked mutiny. His crew was looking forward to sharing out the ransom.

  Ah, well, whatever happened would happen, he thought, with Irish fatalism. Likely he’d awaken and find that the other ship had disappeared. The matter was out of his hands.

  As quickly as that, he pushed his worries aside, falling into a deep, untroubled sleep. Sometime later something pierced his consciousness, a little mewling sound, as of someone in pain. Instincts honed by years of being on guard brought him to instant wakefulness. No need to ask what the sound was, or where it was coming from. In the bed next to him, Rebecca was crying.

  “What is it, leannan?” he asked softly, so as not to frighten her. When there was no answer he swung out of the hammock, but all light had faded and he couldn’t see her. Frowning, he found tinder and flint, and at last lit the swaying oil lamp suspended from the overhead. Only then did he turn back to the bed. “Rebecca,” he said, in that same soft voice, and saw immediately why she hadn’t answered him. She was fast asleep.