“That is none of your concern. Let me speak to your captain.”
The lad ducked into a low bow, one that mocked any sort of courtly fashion. “At your service, my lord.”
Blast… Titus groaned. He was dealing with an adolescent who likely had a large chip on his shoulder. “I must inform you that you are sailing within English waters and are required to return to Ireland.”
“Required?” The young lad locked his eyes on Titus, a challenge in his gaze. “I don’t think that is quite accurate, my good fellow.”
“I assure you it is,” Titus said through gritted teeth.
“Ah, but my good man, we have business in France.”
Not bloody likely and most definitely not of an innocent nature. “What business could you have with the queen’s enemy?”
“That is none of your concern.” The young captain was mocking Titus’ earlier reply. He grinned, showing even white teeth, and a rather feminine bone structure.
Titus narrowed his eyes, studying the lad. He was tall, but his build was slight, and… a bit curvy. Titus detected a hint of a swell beneath the lad’s doublet—breasts? Overly developed muscles? Impossible. Was the lad actually a female?
If it were not a ship within the O’Malley fleet he would have doubted it, but given the entire empire was run by a female, how could he have any doubt? Rumor had it that at sea O’Malley herself dressed like a man. Why would any other female dress differently? The lad’s long red hair was pulled back in a queue at the nape of his neck, a cap on top of his head. In fact, there was nothing about him that screamed lad. He could very well be a female. And the longer Titus stared, the more he believed that to be the case. Another thought struck him. What if this was, in fact, the same chit who’d been at court the day before? Her hair was certainly just as fiery. If not her, then a relation, no doubt, to the pirate queen herself.
“What is your name?” Titus asked.
The pirate captain grinned, a teasing smile curled at the corners. “Oh, Captain, I don’t believe we’re quite there yet. I hardly know ye.”
Titus frowned. Whoever this person was, they were mocking him. His blood grew hot with irritation. “Is not sharing your name part of getting to know one another?”
The captain did a little dance on the rails, tapping tiny toes to a tune Titus couldn’t hear. “How about ye share with me where ye’re headed and what your orders are from the queen?”
Preposterous. Did a pirate truly believe he’d divulge that kind of classified knowledge? “That information is confidential.”
The captain laughed. “Nothing is truly confidential. Why, I’m willing to bet most of the men on your ship know where they’re going.” The imp gave a slight nod and, from nowhere, one of the gallowglass barbarians flew through the air and snatched a sailor from Titus’ deck. Within seconds, the poor sailor was standing on the deck of the Lady Hook, a thick arm held tight around his neck and a blade pressed to his ribs.
Titus wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Lady or lad, he was going to take the arrogant captain down.
The imp sauntered toward the sailor, flashing a proud grin at Titus.
“Return my man to my ship at once,” Titus growled. “That is an act of war. I will give you to the count of three and if he is not returned, we will fire upon your ship.”
The captain suddenly faced him, fury on his or her feminine face, red tendrils of hair falling from beneath the cap. A snarl curved lips that had jovially smiled a moment before. The fury there, the lash of anger, it was frightening. If Titus had not been trained with a sword, trained at war, he might have actually been concerned about what the slight creature could do.
“If even one shot is fired, you will not live to see the end of this day,” the pirate said, voice calm, cold. “I promise ye that, sir. I promise that after I finish gutting ye, I’ll moor my ship at your docks once more, and I will hunt down everyone ye hold dear, and I will tell them the news of your death, just before I slit their throats.”
Titus slowly pulled his sword from his sheath. “You’ll be doing no such thing. You’re but a headstrong lad in need of a whipping. Now return my man, else I make good on a beating you’ve been long deserving.”
Fury flashed on the pirate’s face. “Tell me where ye’re going.”
Titus pointed the tip of his sword into the deck floor. “I’ll tell you when you return my man.”
The pirate fingered the blunderbuss at his/her hip. “Tell me first.”
“France. We are going to France. Now send him back.”
He/she chuckled. The curve of his/her throat so delicate and fine that right then and there, Titus decided it was a woman.
“Isn’t it funny we should be going the same way?” She nodded to the barbarian holding the sailor, who let him loose, shoving him toward the rails.
“Don’t push him into the water,” Titus said. “Send him back the way he came.”
“Ye’re taking the fun out of it,” the pirate wench said with her lower lip puffed out, but she did acquiesce, nodding to one of the brutes to give the sailor a rope to swing back on.
“There is nothing fun about playing with people’s lives,” Titus said. “What exactly do you want?”
“Well, Captain, it’s funny ye should ask. Allow me and my men to come aboard and I’ll tell ye all about it.”
“I’ll never allow ye to board Her Majesty’s ship.”
“Shame. We asked nicely.” And then the barbarians were swooping overhead, landing on the ship, swords drawn.
“No quarter!” The pirate wench shouted, swinging across herself and landing on the deck just a few feet in front of Titus.
Up close, the feminine line of the pirate captain’s jaw was more evident. The sensual line of her lips… Titus frowned. He was definitely right. No lad beneath lad’s clothes. But a woman, in truth. The spray of freckles across her face and nose had him wondering if she was the same lass as the one who’d been at court. But how could she be? That woman had been striking, tall and well dressed. Her voice eloquent and refined. Exactly the opposite of the chit challenging him now.
“Do ye like what ye see, Captain? Ye’ve stared long enough ye could have painted my portrait. Do ye fancy lads?”
The woman pulled her sword from her scabbard, a beautiful work of craftsmanship if he’d ever seen one. The handle was gold and silver scrolled, the blade polished and sharp, curving wickedly at the end. It fit her grip perfectly, fashioned just for her for a pretty penny if he had to guess.
“You’re no lad,” Titus said, grinning. “But a woman.”
“Ah, intriguing, that ye should think so.”
“I know so.” Titus lifted his own sword as they circled one another.
She smiled. How had he not seen it all along? “And ye would fight a lady?”
“I would not fight a lady,” Titus admitted. “But we both know you’re no lady.”
The woman laughed. “On the contrary, Captain, I am a lady. Lady Antónia Burke.” And she perfected a feminine court bow, giving him an advantage he could have taken—the swipe at her neck as she knelt, but he did not. “And ye must have more morals than ye wish to admit, for ye did not strike,” she said.
Titus did not respond, feeling a pulse start in his temples. He’d have to take her down somehow without hurting her. For even though she was a pirate, he did not harm females.
“I have introduced myself, now, as you once asked, will you not tell me your name?”
“Captain Titus Graves.”
The lady’s lip quirked. “Graves. Fitting.”
He didn’t ask her to expand on that thought. “You were at court yesterday.” Titus continued to move in the circle she led, determined to get to the meaning behind this.
“Impressive you should remember. I was.”
“And you came to show the queen that the O’Malleys are still sided with the English.”
Antónia shrugged, her eyelashes dipping coyly.
“And now y
ou attack a ship in her service. Call off your dogs, or your grandmother and all of your family will be severely punished. I will not hesitate to report this to the queen.”
But that made her smile grow wider, her eyes large and filled with mirth. “Oh, for shame, Captain Graves. They will never know. After we kill ye, we will burn your ship, and all will think you were lost at sea.”
The lady jabbed her sword toward him and he backed up a bit, blocking it with his own.
“I am not the only ship sailing these waters,” Titus said. “We have a companion ship not too far behind.” That was not exactly the truth. There was another ship headed out soon, he knew, an envoy headed to Rome. And it was not likely that vessel would reach him in time.
Antónia paused and it was long enough for him to again take her in hand, but he didn’t. She seemed to snap back to herself and narrowed her eyes.
“Ye have something I want,” she said. “If ye agree to give it to me, I will call off my men.”
The sounds of fighting, metal scraping, death howls and pain-filled woes echoed all around them. The sea was tame, the boat barely rocking, and the winds had died down, leaving the vastness of the ocean still.
“I will give it to ye.” Titus had no intention of giving her anything except a good thrashing, but she seemed intent on having whatever it was. Enough so that she’d already let her guard down more than once.
She shouted something in Gaelic and her men stopped their fighting.
“Cease fighting,” Titus bellowed to his own men.
The deafening roar of battle ceased and a charged silence surrounded them.
“I want the ring—” she started to say, but Titus wrenched forward, grabbing her arm and whipping her around so her back was pressed to his chest.
“You’re not getting anything,” he growled against the shell of her delicate ear.
Upon seeing their captain captured, the barbarians each grabbed the nearest sailor and held a blade to their throats. Their menacing glowers, bared teeth, all facing him.
“Tell your men to stand down,” Titus said. “Or I will kill you. And you won’t have the pleasure of chasing after me to get what you want.”
“I won’t chase you, I have you now.” Her voice was filled with an intriguing and baffling confidence.
“Still in denial about this situation, aye?” Titus said.
Antónia huffed. “Fine.” She shouted an order in Gaelic and though her men grumbled, they unhanded the sailors and then leapt toward their own ship.
Once each and every one of them was off his vessel, Titus whipped Antónia around so that her chest was pressed to his. What he’d thought to be small swells before was wrong. Her breasts were ripe and plush and pressed hotly up against him.
He leaned down, perhaps a moment of insanity, wanting to taste those luscious lips, but she snapped her teeth at him.
Titus chuckled and pinched her rib. “Feisty, wench.”
Anger flashed in her eyes, her cheeks flaming red. “Let go of me, you bastard.”
“Shall I toss you in the water as you wanted to do with my sailor?” He started to drag her toward the rails.
“Ye can go to the devil.” She wriggled against him, managing to jab an elbow sharply into his ribs.
Titus ground his teeth. “I could do it, make no mistake, but what fun would that be?”
She let out a disgusted snort, rolling her eyes and stomping on his foot. “I will get that ring.”
Titus jerked his boot back, wincing at the sharp pain in his toe. “Over my dead body.”
“I will be happy to oblige,” she snarled, twisting.
Titus did bend to kiss her then. If only to shock her. To stop her fighting. Oh, good heavens… He delighted in every angry snarl that issued from behind the press of her velvet lips. He swiped his tongue along the seam, breaking her lips open. Her teeth were bared and he licked those, too, until she gasped, and then he dove in for the kill. Titus was a good kisser. Damned good, if he didn’t say so himself. The ladies at court all wanted a kiss from him and yet he was bestowing it on this Irish rebel. Antónia, punched his arms, fisted her hands in his shirt and doublet, and then tugged him closer. Giving in to passion, she let out a growl and kissed him back just as hard. Good God, if she wasn’t a devastating kisser. He’d never put his lips to a woman so fierce, so full of passion.
Titus’ blood ran hot, pooling in his groin. If they weren’t standing on the deck in the middle of his ship, surrounded by both their men, he’d have swept her up to his captain’s quarters and shown her exactly what else he could do with his mouth. His hand brushed gently over one breast—aye, a wastrel thing to do, but he couldn’t help himself. Her nipple was hard and her breasts heavy.
Just as suddenly as she’d kissed him back, the heel of her boot slammed down on his foot—harder than before.
Titus groaned, gripping her tight. Begrudgingly, he pulled his mouth from hers and glared down at her.
Fury filled tension occupied the space between them. “Unhand me, ye buffoon. I’m no morsel for ye to be tasting.”
“Might I remind you, you were just as much tasting me, sweet lass.”
“You English disgust me.”
Titus grinned and loosened his grip. “Not too much I’d say.” He lowered his gaze to her breasts where he’d felt her hardened nipples, where her chest still rose and fell with heightened breaths.
She pinched him hard on the back of his arm. “Ye’re going to pay for taking liberties with me.”
He pinched her back. “I hope your punishment is just as fierce as your kiss.”
She slapped him hard, the sound cracking.
Titus grabbed her wrist and leaned down close to her face. “Get back on your ship. Go back to Ireland. Else, I’m forced to throw your pretty little arse in the brig.”
For a split second, she looked surprised. But she quickly recovered, that fury and arrogance returning. “Don’t close your eyes at night. Don’t get comfortable at your supper table. Don’t think that I’m not watching you when the horizon is clear.”
Once more she wrenched from his grasp and then she was running across the deck, grabbing hold of a line and swinging over the sea toward her own ship.
Bloody hell, but Titus looked forward to the chase.
Chapter Three
The wind from the English Channel blew over Antónia in scents of sun-warmed wood, freshly woven ropes, and baking canvas. The floors of the ship’s deck shined from being freshly swabbed. The salt-sprinkled mist brushed her skin, but did little to cool her heated flesh. She closed her eyes and breathed it all in, trying to wash the memory of the English captain from her mind.
But such a deed was harder to accomplish than she could have imagined.
Titus Graves was not the first man she’d ever kissed. Nay, there had been at least a dozen before him. Lovers, too. But none had kissed as he did. With such passion. Such skill. She’d been swept up in it, the heat, the desire. She might have accused him of being a magician if she believed in such things as magic.
Bloody blazes! Why did he have to go and kiss her? Life was glorious, or it had been until that moment. She’d been so close to recovering the bloody Lucius Ring from him. So close.
Now, she’d have to figure out another way to board his ship or else follow him at distance as he embarked toward France. And only an hour in which to figure it out. She wanted to take him out by sea, not by land. She was a pirate and pirates had the best advantage at sea.
Antónia had grown up hearing about the ring. The blasted thing. And she’d wanted it. She’d yearned for it. Wondered every time a lover broke her heart if she would have known better had she been in possession of it.
Her grandmother had gotten close at some point, touched it even, when a lady and her husband had been aboard a ship full of nobles from Scotland that the O’Malleys had plundered. The woman had begged and begged and told Antónia’s grandmother the story behind the ring, of a woman named Theodosia and her lover,
Lucius. The woman sobbed and sobbed, and lamented that if she lost it, she’d be lost forever, and her love would die. Granuaille, though she smirked at the story now, had given in, letting the ring go.
Granuaille had just given birth to Uncle Tibbot and was not in her right mind she said. A little more emotional than usual, and a lot more sympathetic to lovers. She’d lost the ring, but never given up on it, sharing her wish to find it with Antónia.
And then Antónia had spied it at the queen’s palace.
When she’d heard the queen’s request of Captain Graves, Antónia had stalked the English Channel. Waiting. And she couldn’t believe that she’d not had to wait long. Upon leaving court, she’d asked someone of inconsequence which ship belonged to the captain, and at the quay it had not been hard to have someone point her in the right direction. She’d memorized his sails, the length of his ship, not to mention the name. The HMS Lionheart.
The ring had been rumored to be kept under lock and key within the Tower of London overnight, beside all those other precious gems Antónia would love to get her hands on. Patiently, she’d waited for the captain to get his act together. She would have boarded ship after ship—stealing their goods, and especially their wine, until she came upon him, had he not hurried up. But, they just so happened to pass a ship leaving the harbor that morning, carrying a wayward seaman cast out by his captain for some crime, she’d not cared to ask what, and he’d told her the ring would soon depart London.
Captain Graves. What luck was it that the same man who’d taken her men into custody before would now be the one carrying the ring she desired to steal? Graves was often sent out to sea to monitor pirates and bring them to justice. He didn’t seem to remember meeting her the year before. He’d chased down another ship she’d been captaining—one that had since been dismantled, its parts used to build a few new ships. When Graves had boarded, she’d attempted to convince him that she was a mere captive of the true captain and he’d believed her. She’d donned a gown, kept her fiery hair in a bonnet and smeared soot on her face. That’s when he’d taken custody of half her crew, the other half able to escape.
Lords of Ireland II Page 44
