by Sabrina York
“I am.”
His resistance annoyed her. His chivalry annoyed her. She’d been so pent up with fear and terror over her punishment, and now that it was over, she was filled with a great welling of joy and relief. And with it, desire. Last night had been splendid and she wanted to taste the passion again.
She skated her palms over his shoulders and down his arms and then drew him up beside her on the bed. She slipped onto her knees before him and opened the placket of his trousers. His cock was hard, magnificent. It filled her fist. A thick vein pulsed along its length and the purple head plumed at the crest. She tested his bulk with a pump and he shivered.
Last night he’d told her, shown her, what this felt like to him and, knowing the bliss, having felt it herself, made her lust rise. Each touch, each stroke would be divine. And indeed, she read it on his face. How lovely to be able to give him such pleasure.
She licked her lips and lowered her head. As she sucked him in, he groaned, “God, Sophia. I don’t deserve you.”
But he did.
Oh heavens, he did.
Ned threw back his head as Sophia worked her mouth and fist on him. He shouldn’t be permitting this but he would, he vowed, return the favor. He couldn’t mount her though; he didn’t dare take the chance of hurting her. But he could pleasure her. Gently.
No. He didn’t deserve her, he certainly wasn’t worthy of her love, but by God he would become so. When they returned home—if they should be so fortunate—he would find a place in Edward’s estate, take some job, any job, where he would be productive. With any luck, and groveling, Ewan might agree to advise him on investments, to show him how to build a fortune of his own. He would work at it. Diligently. And when he was successful enough, when he was wealthy and powerful and worthy of her, he would claim her. He could only hope she would wait for him.
He glanced down at her bobbing head and a surge of protectiveness and love and lust swept through him. She did something with her hand, that twisting motion again. She cupped his apples and his need swelled.
“Ah, darling,” he groaned and she murmured around him and took him deeper. Sucked. His belly tightened. His cum began to surge. His—
The door opened and his eyes snapped up. Captain Marquee stood in the doorway with an expression of shock written on his features as he stared at the “boy” with his mouth working Ned’s cock.
Horror skirled through Ned. They’d been discovered! Fuck!
But Marquee merely shook his head and muttered, “Well, that explains a lot.” And then he closed the door.
Thank God Sophia had been too absorbed to notice.
* * * * *
The next morning, Sophia awoke to a strange feeling of stillness. It took her a moment to work out what it was, and then she realized the boat was not moving. They had docked. Likely at the pirate stronghold.
Curiosity burned. She’d never seen a pirate stronghold before. She slipped out of Ned’s arms and stared down at his face in repose.
Lord, she loved him. After she’d brought him to release yesterday, he’d done the same for her. Well, he’d gotten up and shoved a trunk in front of the door and then given her release. Gently, reverently. And then he’d done it again and again until her muscles were limp and her breath was spent.
She wanted to spend every night with him. Forever.
If they didn’t die soon.
She padded over to the small window and, climbing on a chair, peered out.
Disappointment trickled through her. The pirate stronghold looked very much like the Port of London.
She put out a lip. All in all, she had not found pirates very extraordinary. They were not much different than her brother’s men who had, much to her dismay, become somewhat tame in the last years. The captain himself was more of a popinjay than a brutal villain. And this dreary port? There should at the very least be a slave auction or a pile of treasure chests. Instead there was the same flurry of busy men in tatty clothes, hauling carts to and fro. The same dingy warehouses. The same wretched orange girl—
Sophia’s heart stuttered.
The same orange girl? She narrowed her eyes and took in more detail. Yes. Yes! This was not a pirate stronghold—oh, thank heavens, she didn’t think she could stand the disenchantment. It was London. They were home.
She scampered back to the bed and shook Ned awake. “We’re back,” she hissed.
He sat, wiping sleep from his eyes. He was so adorable when he awoke. “What?”
“We’re in London!” How simple would it be now to escape? The window was far too small for either of them to squeeze through, but when night fell, surely they could work the lock and slip above—
The door swung open. Or tried to. It hit the trunk with a thud and then whoever was on the other side of it pushed hard and the trunk scraped across the floor. Quinn, Marquee’s second-in-command, peered in, frowning at the trunk. “Captain wants to see you. The both of you.” His gaze landed on Sophia. “He don’t look very happy.”
“Oh dear.” What now?
Quinn marched them down the hall and ushered them into Marquee’s quarters. The captain lounged in his chair, fluffing the lace at his cuffs in a desultory fashion. A tall, nasty-looking man with a crooked nose and beady eyes stood behind him, his arms crossed, a scowl on his mangled face.
Now this was a pirate.
Sophia almost smiled. Almost.
Marquee did not ask them to sit, which was terribly rude because there were plenty of chairs. Rather, he raked them with a scorching scowl.
“Are we in London?” she asked.
Ned set his hand on her shoulder to silence her. He should have known better. She was not so easily silenced.
“Because that,” she thrust a thumb out the wide bowed windows, “looks like London. You have a set of balls on you, to sail merrily into port, being pirates and all.”
Marquee daintily sipped some wine from a delicate crystal goblet. He shrugged. “I am merely a merchantman, towing a crippled ship back to port. No doubt I will receive a handsome reward from the owner.”
“My brother owns that ship. He will’na pay you.” Och, how her brogue came out.
“Ah, yes. Your brother.” Marquee sighed. “I asked you if you were keeping anything else from me. I trusted you to tell the truth.”
Sophia snorted. Ned’s grip tightened. She ignored it. “For pity sake, you took us captive—”
Ned sent her a glare and stepped forward, putting himself between her wrath and the captain’s. She tried to shoulder past him but he would not allow it. “What is this about?” he demanded.
Marquee stood, strolled to the windows and stared out. “I sent men ’round, asking about this McCloud you claim as your brother—”
“He is my brother.”
“This villain. This brigand. He is, as they say, much feared, though recently he has become somewhat…domesticated.” He shot a look over his shoulder. “Pity that, but it is the way of the world, I suppose. That is not what displeases me. What displeases me is the other bit of unsettling information.” He crossed his arms, his sharp attention falling on Sophia. “He does not have a brother.”
Ned bristled.
Sophia stared at Marquee, trying not to look mutinous, but she probably failed.
His focus shifted to Ned. “You made all that up to protect your…boy. Imagine my chagrin when I learned this after I had already sent a missive to the McCloud, proclaiming I had his wayward brother in tow.” His eyes narrowed. “When he doesn’t have one. I very much dislike being made to look a fool.” Silence crackled. “What of the rest of it? Are you really Moncrieff’s brother?”
“I am. And Andrew is my relation.”
Marquee’s lip curled. “Really?” He blew out a breath and muttered something to himself.
“Distant relation,” Sophia added. It did bear mentioning. They were not related by blood.
“You’d better be telling the truth.”
“I am.”
Marquee
shrugged. “We shall know in a minute.” He waved at the chairs. “Please sit.”
Finally!
Sophia shot him a frown, mentally berating him for his poor manners, but then her heart lurched when he said to his man, “Tie them, please.”
It was mortifying, sitting there while the pirate with the spotted face and the bilious breath wound rope around her wrists and then looped it about the chair. But it was harder watching Ned be bound. She could see the humiliation and anger in his face. Still, he was so stoic. So brave. Her heart swelled with love for him.
“It will be all right, Ned,” she whispered, but she didn’t think she’d convinced him.
When they were firmly tied, Marquee nodded. “Right, then. Bring them in.”
Bring who in?
And heavens, how could this get any worse?
Ah, but it could. Edward, the Duke of Moncrieff, and his man Transom pushed into the room, and behind them, her brother.
When they spotted Ned, relief flooded their expressions. And then Ewan’s cold perusal raked her. His eyes narrowed, then widened. His throat worked. His face went red. The veins on his neck bulged. And he bellowed, “Sophia Fiona St. Andrews! What the holy fuck happened to your hair?”
That Marquee’s wineglass shattered was small consolation.
Chapter Eleven
Ned nearly collapsed in relief when he saw his brother’s face. He knew—knew—this debacle was over. And Ewan was here. He would take charge and make Sophia safe in a trice.
Though, at the moment, he looked like he wanted to kill her.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” he roared.
“Ahem,” Marquee put in. “That’s what I would like to know.” But no one paid him any mind.
“I demand an explanation!”
Sophia put out a lip. How like her. Faced with a wrath that would make most men piss themselves, she merely tipped up her tiny nose and sniffed. “Don’t bark, Ewan.”
“Bark? Bark?”
“Don’t yell then. Calm down and I will explain everything.”
“I’ve a mind to tan your hide, young lady.” Ewan began rolling up his shirtsleeves in a menacing manner. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? How worried Violet’s been?”
Sophia’s lips quivered. “Violet. Is she all right?”
Ewan’s features softened but only a little. “She’s fine. A little weepy and cranky but considering—” He recalled himself and glowered anew. “That does not signify! Explain yourself at once.”
“Ah, I do beg your pardon,” Marquee put in. “I believe I’m the one asking questions here.”
Ewan whirled on him like an enraged bear. “And who the fook are you?”
Marquee showed his teeth in the resemblance of a smile. “I believe I am their captor,” he said pleasantly. “And who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the McCloud.” The words snaked through the room. To his credit, Marquee didn’t completely wilt. “And I’d like to know why you have my baby sister tied to a fucking chair.”
“Ahem. Your sister.” Marquee glanced at her. And then at Ned. “That is good to know, because—”
“She ran away, Ewan. On the ship I took to Italy.” Ned spoke quickly before the captain could utter something disastrous like because I walked in and found her mouth on his cock. “There was a terrible storm—”
“It was rather exciting,” Sophia put in.
Ned frowned at her.
“Well, it was.”
“The ship was badly damaged—”
“And I swept in to save the day,” Marquee said with a flourish.
“He took our ship,” Sophia complained, as though she expected Ewan to make everything right. But then perhaps she did. “And took everyone prisoner. They’re down in the hold. He intends to ransom them back to their families.”
“So we gathered from the ransom note,” Edward said, speaking for the first time, although Ned noticed he and Transom had been quietly assessing the threats in the room. Both were poised to spring into action. “But it wasn’t a ransom note as much as a command, was it, Marquee? Or should I call you Cedric?”
Marquee flicked his lace. “If you must. I always hated that name.”
Ned frowned at his brother. “So you do know him?”
“I’ll say.” Edward’s jaw firmed.
“Oh, do tell them.” All of a sudden, Marquee did not seem so blasé and feckless. Indeed, a great anger simmered beneath the surface. And his crisp British accent developed a bit of a brogue. “Do tell them everything.”
Edward stiffened his spine. “It was not my fault, Cedric.”
“You left me behind.”
“We couldn’t get to you.”
“You left me behind.” His nonchalant façade evaporated, replaced by a feral, angry beast. “While I was imprisoned, my entire estate was stolen from me. I returned home to find myself penniless, my entire family dead.”
“You could have come to me.”
“To the man who left me to rot in a French prison?” He laughed, though there was no humor in his tone. “I think not. I like this much better.”
“This what?”
His eyes narrowed. “This revenge.”
Sophia gasped but Edward remained stoic, throwing back his shoulders. Ned’s heart thrummed. Marquee was a heartless pirate. The thought of his brother at the bastard’s mercy made his vision cloud. He struggled against his bonds.
Edward cleared his throat. “What do you intend?”
“A fair exchange. I intend to end your life as you ended mine.”
Ewan shook his head. “That’s not a good idea.”
Marquee’s sharp attention swung to Ewan. “Why do you say that? I think it’s an excellent idea.”
“It would make my wife very unhappy if you killed her brother, you see. And when my wife is unhappy, I am unhappy.”
Marquee did not recognize Ewan’s tone. Ned did.
The captain shrugged. “What a pity you will have to carry sad news to her. In the meantime, take your sister and go.”
“And Ned?”
“Take him as well. But the Duke of Moncrieff stays.”
Edward nodded to Transom, who bent before Sophia and made short work of her bonds. Once free, she flew into her brother’s arms. Transom began on Ned’s knots. It took far too long. Sweat popped out on his brow. Edward and Marquee glared at each other. Tension sizzled.
“What will you do with him?” Ewan asked mildly, though his nonchalance was misleading. He was coiled like an asp.
Marquee raised a pistol and pointed it at Edward’s heart. “Shoot him.”
Ewan chuckled, which surprised everyone, most especially Marquee. And Edward, judging from the way his head whipped around.
“What do you find so amusing?” Marquee asked.
“You can’t kill a duke.”
“Can’t I?”
Ned’s heart stalled. He recognized that tone. He recognized the gleam in Marquee’s eyes. The pistol lifted higher, a mere fraction.
A sudden heat cascaded through his body. There was no way in hell this man was killing his brother. Not today.
The last rope fell away and he leaped forward, throwing himself between his brother and the pirate just as a sharp retort rang out. A blinding agony screamed through his shoulder and he crumpled.
“Fuck!”
Ned had no time to process the imprecation—snarled in a livid female voice—because a wild scuffle broke out. Feet and legs and bodies whirled above his head. Unable to move, unable to think, unable to function, he lay like a lump as the melee swirled around him. He grasped his shoulder and then gazed at his hand in shock when it came away red.
“I’ve been shot,” he announced in case anyone had missed it. But they were all too busy to notice. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Sophia, sweet, delicate, elegant Sophia, screaming at Marquee and beating him over the head with the chamber pot.
It took three men to pull her off th
e bastard pirate, and still Sophia shook with rage and terror. He’d shot Ned. Shot him.
Watching him fall, seeing the hideous creep of red bloom on his shirt, had made her ill. Her belly had clenched. Acid pumped in her veins and she’d been possessed of one notion.
Kill Marquee.
A pity they wouldn’t let her.
After the two pirates had been subdued and tied with their own bonds, Ewan and Transom left to fetch a doctor, leaving Sophia and Edward with Ned. She held his head in her lap and stroked his hair and cooed nonsense to him, but he didn’t move. Not so much as a flicker of a lash. His face was so pale it made her blood run cold.
She glanced at Edward but he was blurry. Probably on account of the tears clouding her vision.
“Will he be all right?” she asked, hating the wobble in her tone.
“Of course he will.” Edward dropped a comforting hand on her arm. It was not comforting in the slightest. “It’s a shot to the shoulder.” But his voice wobbled as well.
When Ewan scuttled back in with the pirate’s doctor and the men insisted it was time for her to leave the room, Sophia refused.
“Please, Sophia,” Edward said, guiding her relentlessly for the door. “He would not want you to see this.”
“I can’t leave him. I can’t!”
“He’ll be fine. I promise.”
A thousand promises would not convince her.
Ewan wanted to take her home straightaway but she refused. He was a stubborn man but she was more stubborn by far.
“We are waiting for Ned,” she insisted. And she didn’t move. Not an inch. She stood in the hall outside Marquee’s cabin until Edward and Transom emerged, carrying Ned, who was still unconscious.
Marquee’s doctor followed, wiping his hands on a rag. He offered an anemic smile. “I was able to dig out the ball and wrap his wound,” he said. Thank heaven Ned had not been awake for that.
She gazed down at Ned’s pallid face and her heart clenched. Of its own accord, her hand sifted through his hair. “Will he live?” she asked through stiff lips.
“Yes.”
One word. One word and her world became bright once more. He would live. Ned would live.
But he could have died. Died.
