But her anger, which intimidated most in its path, could not scare away the truth, no matter how much she might have wished it. There was the Sight. The Vision she’d had foretelling his arrival. And despite what Aisling had said, she knew the Sight was seldom wrong. . .
Maeve shuddered, suddenly afraid.
Bah! She was not afraid!
But she was.
He was The One. She knew it in her bones, knew it in the way she’d responded to his
confident virility, even as she denied it with all her heart. She who had wished for a gallant leader just like her father, the legendary privateer Captain Brendan Jay Merrick. She who idolized the brave English Admiral Lord Nelson. She who had (privately, of course) yearned for a sea officer cut from the same mold as men such as these. But what had she been given? A pirate. A bloody, useless, pirate with bad manners, a tattoo on his arm, and an insolence she had yet to see matched. Oh, she knew his kind; devastatingly handsome, fatally charming, and likely to break a woman’s heart.
And Gray. What the hell sort of name was that?
Don’t think about him!
Cursing, she flung herself onto her side and stared out her window and into the night, her gaze on the starlit horizon, her heart twisting and turning and reminding her that the object of her thoughts, and, unfortunately, her desire, was locked up just outside.
Don’t think about him.
She turned her face into the pillow, pounded it with her fist.
Don’t think about him.
Her heart slowed, became regular again, and closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe deep and hard, finally putting that wickedly handsome face out of her mind and replacing it with older, gentler memories, until at last her anger cooled and her spirit began to drift back through time. . .
Home. It would be late spring now. Robins on the lawns, birds' nests in the trees, lilacs and apple blossoms bursting with color, and the ice long gone from the river. Fishing boats being scraped down, greenheads on the beach, a fresh crop of kittens following Mama from the house to the barn to the pasture. . .
Her eyes shot open.
“No,” she whispered into the darkness. “Don’t think about that, either. . .”
But it was no use.
Daddy at the shipyard with Uncle Matt, working on plans for a new brig or a fine frigate, while her brothers and sisters and cousins played atop the logs that floated in the mast pond; Mama trying desperately to make a fruit pie and wondering why everyone had an excuse for skipping dessert . . . ornery old Grandpa Ephraim, surrounded by his beloved clocks and still fighting with his short-tempered daughter. . .
It had been seven years since she’d last seen their beloved faces, seven years since she'd allowed herself to cry over all she had lost, and now the tears spilled over, running silently down her face to soak the hot pillow beneath her cheek. She dug her nails into her palms, furious at her inability to quell this womanly weakness, but she had no more control over the tears than she did the memories that had brought them.
Seven long years. Of watching the horizon for authorities who would never find her. Of
watching the horizon for rival pirates over whom she must continue to triumph.
Of watching the horizon for a daddy who had never come.
It was the most heartrending betrayal of all.
Maeve Merrick—daughter of the most famous privateer of the American Revolution and
now, the undisputed Pirate Queen of the Caribbean—rolled over in bed and sobbed for all she was worth, for she didn’t need the Sight to know that the handsome rake chained in the old storehouse just outside was no Gallant Knight— but the next in a line of men who would only break her heart.
Chapter 3
In the dark gloom of the dungeon it took Gray exactly forty-five minutes to work himself
free of his bonds, and another ten minutes to assess the walls that enclosed him. It was no dungeon at all, but a simple chamber of stone. In other days, it had probably been used to keep foodstuffs cool; now, it was as empty as the hold of a warship too long at sea, and smelled no better. Mildew, moss, stone . . . well, perhaps a little better, he thought wryly.
He’d cursed those rough walls when he’d awakened—and blessed them when he discovered
that, by rubbing his wrists up and down against the cool stone, he could steadily chafe away the hemp that bound him. He'd made short work of it, of course.
Now, his hands were free, his wrists scraped and bleeding. His clothes—especially the snug-tight breeches—were still damp and now, itchy with salt against his skin. That discomfort, however, paled in comparison to the loss he felt for his precious jackboots. They were probably gone for good. And while Gray was not one to admit defeat by any means, he was certainly ready to call a cease-fire, and the manacles around his ankles demanded he do just that.
And so he waited.
He looked outside, past a rusty, iron-spiked door entangled with vines bursting with pink and scarlet flowers. Sunset blazed on the horizon like a rim of molten flame, turning the serene waters of the bay orange, the beach pink, and casting the palm trees in silhouette. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. In that sheltered harbor lay the finest schooner he’d ever seen in all his thirty-six years.
From its rakishly cunning design to its ten guns, the vessel looked very well suited for the piratical endeavors in which it was doubtless employed—and, in that moment, Gray vowed
before heaven and earth that the trim little craft would assist in getting him out of this predicament.
When—he amended, with a rogue’s grin—he was ready to leave.
His stomach growled with the ferocity of a tiger on the hunt, and he realized he hadn’t eaten for nearly a day. Did Queen Maeve—he chuckled at the absurdity of the title—think to starve him into submission? Submission to what?
Her?
He threw back his head in laughter. Majesty indeed! She was naught but a she-wolf, an unscrupulous thug who deserved no more than the loop end of a rope. When he got free, he’d damn well consider giving her just that for the way she’d treated him!
Escape would not be difficult. However, wanting to escape was another matter entirely.
Gray considered the lean beauty of his captor’s body, enough of which had been revealed to whet his appetite to see, touch, and yes, enjoy, more.
No, he was in no particular hurry to leave.
He had just sat down on the single item of comfort the room offered—a filthy straw pallet—
when he heard the soft crunch of sand outside, growing louder and louder as the footsteps approached.
“On your feet, dog.”
Gray yawned, hid his hands behind his back, and did not bother to rise.
“I said, on your feet!”
“I prefer to sit, thank you,” he drawled. “Especially since you’ve anchored me to the floor.
You understand, don’t you?”
Sure enough, he heard the angry clang of a key in the old lock, and a moment later the rusty hinges squealed in protest as the door swung outward. Gray waited, his hands behind his back so his captor would not see that they were loose and, therefore, quite capable of strangling her.
But the Pirate Queen was taking no chances. In one hand she held a lantern, in the other a flintlock pistol. Both the lantern and the pistol were raised; the one to blind him, the other, if need be, to kill him.
“Get up.”
He shrugged and got to his feet.
“Make one move and I’ll blow your damned head off.”
Gray had a whole vocabulary of smiles. Smiles to tease, smiles to charm, smiles to frighten, smiles to bode ill . . . smiles to win a female heart.
This last he flashed at her and was rewarded by a burst of angry color across his captor’s face.
“Blast your eyes, have you no brain in your head? Are you not afraid of me? I could have
you shot! I could have you nailed to a tree and gutted! I could—”
“Why
don’t you, then?” He regarded her with studied insouciance, his gaze raking
appreciatively over her bosom.
For a long, terrible moment she said nothing, her face a pale oval of anger and disgust. She finally set the lantern down, flung her hair over her shoulder and spat, “Because you might be worth something to me.” She turned away to hide her expression, began picking at her sleeve, and in a sullen voice, added, “Because . . . you’re my Gallant Knight.”
“Your what?”
“My Gallant Knight!”
He shouldn’t have smirked. He shouldn’t have laughed. But unable to help himself, Gray did both, and the resultant slap across the side of his face stunned him to silence.
“Do not,” she shouted, “ever laugh at me again!”
It was all he could do not to reach up and touch his throbbing cheek, but Gray could not, would not, allow her to see that he was far from being totally at her mercy. Instead, he drew himself up and, still clenching his hands behind his back, summoned another smile: this one reserved for Ladies Who Have Just Been Insulted and Must Be Placated.
“Forgive me, your most Royal Highness”—bending deeply at the waist, he gave a chivalrous bow—”but I merely found the idea of a Gallant Knight . . . amusing.”
“You laugh at me again and I’ll give you nothing to be amused about!”
He bit his lip to prevent such a possibility, for this spitting cat—armed, thinking herself dangerous, and setting more than his cheek afire—was amusing him highly. And, if he had his way, she would amuse him even more before the night was out.
But his silence, and perhaps the gleam in his roving eye, did Maeve in. She waited for him to say something more, to further fuel her wrath, but he did not. Instead, he merely looked at her, his dark gaze wandering suggestively down her bosom in a way that set her cheeks afire and her body aflame with longings which had been long dormant. His eyes met hers; one side of his mouth was turned up in a rogue’s grin, and there was a boyish dimple beneath it. Maeve didn’t care for that smile. She didn’t care for what it did to her heart nor the temperature of her blood.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped.
“I cannot help it. You are quite beautiful.”
She chose to ignore his remark. “Why did you laugh just now?”
“’Tis my secret.”
“Share it, or I’ll blow your privates off and leave you squeaking like a field mouse!”
Gray happened to value his privates. And right now, they were beginning to throb with the familiarity of arousal. “Well, here you are, so lovely, so serious—and you speak of talking dolphins, spells, and now, Gallant Knights. Forgive me, Majesty, but I am utterly charmed and thoroughly taken aback.”
“Charmed? By what?”
“Why, by you, of course.”
Her cheeks went scarlet, as though his words embarrassed her and made her uncomfortable.
She looked trapped; scared, even. Couldn’t she accept a compliment? Then she turned away, her jaw hard and angry once more. “There is nothing about me that is charming, and you’d best remember it!”
“Aye, you’re not of the ordinary sort, to be sure. But, a delightful change from the plump, peach-skinned, and ripe.”
“Are you talking about females or fruit?”
He grinned wolfishly. “One and the same. I happen to enjoy both.”
“And what about me?”
“Oh, I should dearly love to enjoy you. And I intend to, before the night is out.”
She jerked the pistol up and pointed it at his heart. “But please,” he continued smoothly,
“not here. What do you say to trysting on the beach outside? Surely, the water lapping around our flesh will only heighten the pleasure. . .”
“You dog, how dare you speak to me like that!”
“What, is the notorious Pirate Queen a mewing virgin and not the spitting tiger she pretends to be?”
“What I am is something you’ll not find out in a devil’s decade!”
“I beg to differ”—he grinned rakishly— ”madam.” They stood locked in silent eye-to-eye combat; finally, his gaze lowered and roamed over every curve, every hidden hollow that graced her lovely body, the way a sailor might assess a ship he found particularly striking. Tanned by the Caribbean sun and wearing a necklace of sharks’ teeth, a blouse with the sleeves ripped off, and trousers hacked off at the knee to show equally tanned calves and ankles, Queen Maeve was not quite his idea of femininity.
Nor, he thought wryly, of boredom.
He wondered how much more of her was tanned, besides what he could see—
—and made the mistake of asking.
Her hand came up to deal him another stinging blow, but this time his own flashed out from behind his back and caught it, neatly, effectively, smartly, his fingers closing around bones he could’ve snapped with one jerk of his wrist.
Their gazes clashed. She smiled cunningly. And then he felt the prodding nudge of the pistol against those private parts he would go to any lengths to protect.
“Unhand me.”
With a dramatic, reluctant sigh, he let her go.
She stared at him, her eyes glittering, haughty, assessing. He stared back, refusing to be cowed. For a long moment she said nothing, the very picture of the affronted monarch. And then, surprisingly, she threw back her head and rich, billowing laughter burst from her throat. “Ah, pirate, you do not disappoint me after all. Do you think I’d wish an insipid pup with the blood of a jellyfish for my Gallant Knight? Bah! Perhaps there’s hope for you after all. A brute you may be, and a rascal besides, but you have managed to work yourself free, stand your ground in the face of my fury, and prove yourself more clever than I had given you credit for. Huzzah for you.”
“What?”
“Do you think us incompetent, that we’d leave your wrists so tightly bound that you could not possibly escape?”
He stared at her, gaping in shock and wounded male pride. “You mean, you purposely left my bonds loose?”
“No need to look so downcast,” she said prettily, her eyes taunting, a playful smile flitting about her hard mouth. She tossed her head and turned to go. “You may be worthy of me, yet!”
Gray lost his temper. “Like hell!” he thundered, and in a lightning-fast movement knocked the pistol aside, grabbed her by the shirt, yanked her up against his body, and crushed her in his arms.
And then, he kissed her.
Long and hard and without quarter.
He had meant only to prove his mastery over her.
What it was, and what it became, was much, much more.
Chapter 4
In that moment, Gray was done in.
It was only natural that he—born one hundred years too late and obsessed with all things
piratical—should find himself totally undone by the allure of the most legendary she-wolf to rule the waves since Anne Bonney herself.
Just as it was also only natural that Maeve—cruelly used by that long-ago French lover,
abandoned by a family that had never forgiven her, and distrustful of any and all males old enough to sprout hair on their chins—should find herself helpless beneath the masterful demands of a corsair’s kiss.
The pirate’s lips drove against hers, first with anger, then intent, then . . . then, only sweet rapture that robbed her legs of bone, her body of will, her hand of the knife that had reflexively swung up to plunge into his back and now fell, forgotten, to the floor. A moan escaped her throat; Maeve felt her heart pounding against her ribs, her pulse echoing in her ears, the silky slide of her hair tumbling down her back.
Let me go. . . .
But his arm was a stout bulwark behind her shoulders, his chest a pressing wall of heat and strength, and her heart was trapped mercilessly between them.
She tried to twist away, but his arms only tightened, crushing her. Feebly, her palm came up to press against his chest, and in that moment his tongue plunged into her mouth—
Gray felt her go limp, her mouth falling slack from his, her arm tumbling off his shoulder to swing like a pendulum above the stone floor. At first he thought it was a ploy, and expected a savage explosion of pain in parts of his body that were now burning with fever; but then he saw that this formidable woman was dead to the world, at his mercy, and truly, totally, out.
The gate to freedom was open.
Beyond, that incredible schooner stood waiting.
And in his arms, the Pirate Queen lay senseless.
“God’s blood, “ he swore.
Gently, carefully, he set her down on the floor, spreading limp limbs over cold stone,
arranging shiny chestnut tresses around a face fairer than any that had ever graced a governor’s daughter, a dignitary’s wife, a willing noblewoman, a skilled courtesan with the charms of Venus at her beck and call—all of which he’d bedded at one time or another during the span of his illustrious career. For a moment he stood looking down at the unguarded beauty of her face and the sheen of her hair, aflame in the warm, molten glow of the lantern; then, with deft fingers he plucked the key ring from her waist and unlocked his leg shackles. As he did so, he glanced once more toward the sleek little ship anchored out in the bay . . . but even he, skilled mariner that he was, could not sail her to freedom all by himself.
Patience, good fellow.
There was little recourse for him, really. And so he did what any red-blooded sailor in his advantageous position might do; he crouched down, slid one arm beneath the Pirate Queen’s body and the other behind her neck, seated himself on the floor, and pulled her up against his chest, cradling her in his arms and positioning her so that her gaping shirt revealed parts of her body that made his prison seem like paradise.
She was beautiful.
She was perfect.
And, she elicited a rush of tenderness in his heart that surprised him as much as the idea that he might ever fall in love.
Love?
It was suddenly hot and stuffy in the little room, and he tore at the lacings at his throat, exposing his flushed skin to the breeze whispering through the doorway.
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