My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  But there was not. I love you, dearest. I will endeavor to be all that you ever desired . . . and God strike me dead if ever I allow a single hair of your head to be harmed.”

  Just then, the marine sentry outside the door thumped his musket on the deck. “Flag-captain to see you, sir!”

  Gray sighed and stared up at the deckhead, which danced with refracted sunlight. “Come in, Colin.”

  The door opened and Captain Lord entered, the ship’s cat trailing in his wake and rubbing herself affectionately against his ankles. But then, all animals seemed to gravitate toward Colin, a peculiarity Sir Graham had noted and often wondered about. The flag-captain, more sensible than himself in this wretched heat, was stripped down to shirt and breeches, and his hat was tucked smartly under his arm. Despite the fact that the fair hair at his temples was dark with sweat, his manner lacked none of its usual aplomb and only his eyes revealed his concern.

  “How fares my cousin, sir?”

  Gray gave a snort of self-disgust. “She'd have fared far better had I kept my damned mouth shut.”

  “Sir?”

  “I told her the truth and it shocked her insensible,” he admitted, sheepishly.

  “I see.”

  “Perhaps I should not have told her which admiral I am; the knowledge probably did much to upset her, given my er . . . uh—”

  “Reputation, sir?”

  “Uh, yes, Colin, that is a good word for it, is it not? But oh, no matter,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal of the idea, “my pillaging and plundering days with regard to the fair sex are over. I have found my treasure, at last.”

  Colin hid a grin. His stare, keen despite the deceptive softness of his lavender-gray eyes, settled on his admiral as he held the girl so tenderly in his arms. Sir Graham loved women, yes, but never had Colin seen him treat one with the sort of obsessive, worshipful devotion he’d bestowed upon Maeve Merrick from the moment he'd brought her aboard. He’d made a bed for her on the sofa tucked beside the starboard bulkhead, bathed her damp skin, and braided her hair to get the hot, heavy mass off her neck. He’d flung open all the stern windows and gone into a rare fit of temper when the tropical breezes had dimmed and the air grew sultry, hot and still. His demands had sent the harassed Dr. Ryder running for the escape of a rum bottle, a midshipman into tears, and the company into hushed and strained eagerness to obey every order relayed through the lieutenants’ speaking trumpets. And to top it all off, Sir Graham had had a blazing argument with Maeve’s formidable lieutenant, Enolia, over who would get custody of the convalescing Pirate Queen.

  Despite the fact the warrior-woman had pulled a gun on him, there was, of course, no

  arguing with an admiral.

  Sir Graham had gotten his way.

  Was his philandering superior finally and truly in love? Well, given Sir Graham’s obsession with pirates, Colin was not surprised. It would only stand to reason that he would fall in love with his very own Anne Bonney; God only knew what had happened on that island of hers!

  Picking up the worshipful cat, Colin turned to go.

  “Did you want something, Colin?”

  The flag-captain paused. He looked at Sir Graham, sitting on the sofa with the girl held

  protectively in his arms, and wished that he, too, had someone to love and cherish. But Colin was a private person, and accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself. “Aye, sir. The masthead has just raised Barbados.”

  “And?”

  “We should close with it by nightfall, sir. The convoy is assembled there and waiting for us to escort it home.”

  “Very well then, Colin. The sooner we’re out of the Indies, the better. Escorting a damned convoy of merchant ships back to England is a duty I'd sooner not have to undertake. We shan’t dally, though, and will make quick work of getting underway tomorrow. After that . . .

  He trailed off, looking at Colin with a smile in his eyes.

  “After that,” the flag-captain finished, quietly, “England.”

  The two exchanged glances. England. How nice it was to be going home again.

  ###

  It was the unbearable heat that woke her. Perspiration that pasted the nightshirt to her skin.

  A wall of flesh, hard and solid against her own, suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even sweat. She opened her eyes, panting. The body against hers, she realized, belonged to Gray.

  No, not Gray, she corrected herself, but Admiral Sir Graham Falconer—the most notorious

  profligate in the entire Caribbean.

  “Ah, love, you’re awake!”

  She pushed hard, ignoring the sudden sharp pain in her side. “Dry up and die, you deceitful bastard.”

  “Would you like a sip of water, dearest? Some lemonade?”

  “Only to dump it over your head.” She glared up at him as he rose to his feet, gently tucked her against the pillows piled against the arm of the sofa, and pulled up a chair. Sunlight slanted through the panoramic stern windows and gleamed against the gold tasseled epaulets on each shoulder; oh, to think she’d felt guilty over sending him to his “death!”

  “What can I get you, Maeve?”

  “Not a damned thing. You tricked me. You made me look like a fool—”

  “The lemonade would probably be better, I think. Here, let me help you to sit up. I have

  some all poured and ready for you.”

  He pressed a glass to her lips. He was smiling, his eyes twinkling, but she felt the

  determination, the strength, in the hand he held against her jaw, forcing her head in one place when she would have turned away just to spite him.

  She was no match for it.

  “Now Maeve, sweetheart, do not be difficult,” he chided, tipping the glass, still holding her jaw so she couldn’t turn away, and watching her like a hawk to make sure she drank. “I dosed it with plenty of sugar. You’ll find it sweet and tangy, just like you.”

  “If you knew what I wanted to do to you right now, you wouldn't be thinking me so sweet,

  you snake.” Glaring at him from above the rim of the glass, she shut her mouth, refusing to swallow, and the lemonade ran down her chin, her throat, and onto her sweat-drenched

  nightshirt.

  The dark blue eyes narrowed. “Drink.”

  Such a sudden change of manner caught Maeve completely off guard and she drank.

  The admiral was smiling again.

  He made her finish the glass. Every last, tarnal drop of it, until there were only a few pale shreds of lemon on the bottom. She swallowed the last mouthful and her eyes slipped shut.

  “You’re a miserable wretch,” she accused, too weak to even wipe the tangy drops of juice from her chin.

  He set the glass down, dipped a cloth in a bowl of water, and gently dabbed the lemonade

  from her parted lips. “I know.”

  “I think you’re a vile son of a bitch.”

  He wiped her chin, his touch achingly gentle. “I know that too.”

  “I’ll see you dead.”

  “Someday, perhaps. But not now.” He dragged the cool cloth over her neck, her throat, the soft swell of her breasts, refreshing it with water and wiping up the spilt lemonade. “Maybe in thirty, forty years or so . . . depending on which one of us outlives the other.”

  God, she was too tired, too weak, to fight with him. She tried to glare at him, but her eyes fell shut of their own accord and she lay there, lacking the strength to even clench her fists in fury as the cloth moved soothingly over her hot skin. “Where is my ship . . . my crew?”

  “Your schooner is in company with us, sailing just to leeward under a fine press of sail. As for those vicious she-wolves you call a crew, they are all safe, so do not distress yourself. ’Twas only by their quick thinking that you even lived to wonder about them, for it was their idea to bring you to Nelson.”

  “Nelson? Why Nelson?”

  “He has a surgeon.” The cloth moved over her mouth, and the dark blue eye
s above it were

  gentle, concerned. “You, on the other hand, did not.”

  “What of that pig, el Perro Negro?”

  The admiral grinned at the venom in her voice. “Your crew wished to kill him, of course,

  but decided instead to save him for your— mercy, I believe they called it. Not that he shall ever see it, of course. As we speak the Spaniard is locked below, deep in the hold, where he shall remain until I can bring him to England, trial, and probable execution.”

  “Probable?” She tried to sit up, her jaw falling open, only to have him push her gently back down. “You let that bastard live, after he took an English merchantman and killed her captain?”

  “Aye, but he also professes to have a French letter of marque issued by Villeneuve himself, which means that I have no honorable choice but to treat him as a prisoner of war. Have no fear, dear madam. I doubt he’ll be able to produce such a paper, and you 'll probably see him swing, yet.”

  “I’ll slit his damned throat!”

  “No, you will not.”

  “Don’t you dare think to tell me what to do, you blasted son of a—”

  “Your mouth cries for a good bar of soap, madam. Please refrain from such tawdry

  language, as I do not like it.”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn what you do or don’t like, you cad!”

  Refusing to be goaded, he dropped the cloth into the bowl of water and leaned forward, his eyes hard, intent, determined. “I said, enough.”

  She set her lips and glared mutely up at him.

  “I am going to marry you, you know,” he announced in the same tone he might’ve used to

  proclaim the state of the weather. But beneath it was a tough note of steel, a steadiness of purpose that was not to be questioned. “You shall be Lady Falconer. There is no use fighting it, Maeve.”

  “You have no right to determine my future, and I’ll fight you ’til the day I die.”

  “No. You’ll fight me until you learn to trust me. And trust me you will, as God is my

  witness.”

  “You, of all people, are the last person on earth I’d ever trust!”

  He pulled his chair close. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, put his chin on the heels of his hands and looked at her, studying her, his face just inches from her own. She shut her eyes to that handsome visage, wishing she could block him out as well. “I know you’re furious with me for deceiving you,” he said gently. “And, I’ll allow that you have every right to be. Shall I even try to defend my actions? No. Let it be said, though, that I am as devoted to my country as Nelson is, and I acted as I saw fit.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your explanation or your apologies.”

  “Could I have trusted you? Could I have been sure you wouldn’t have turned me over to

  Villeneuve instead?” He went on as though she hadn’t spoken, a habit she found intensely

  infuriating. “Surely, even you will agree that the French would have liked nothing better than to have a powerful British admiral fall into their hands.”

  “An admiral,” she spat, twisting her head on the pillow so she wasn’t tempted to look into that handsome face. “A bloody admiral. Just my luck, isn’t it? I didn’t wish for anything more than a captain; hell, I would’ve even taken a lowly lieutenant, and what do I end up with? The highest-ranking officer in the Indies, a bloody admiral. ”

  He grinned. “One must take what one can get, Majesty.” He clapped a hand to his chest in a gesture of dramatic eloquence. “I am an admiral, yes, but I am your admiral. And I, dear sovereign, am at your command.”

  “My command is for you to get the hell out of my life. I’ve heard all the stories about you!

  You’re a rake and a libertine! You’re a wenching womanizer with a reputation from here to Jamaica!”

  “That was before I met you, love.”

  “But you’re too young to be an admiral!”

  “Why thank you. How nice to know that at thirty-six, I am still considered ‘young.’” He

  gave a charming, dimpled grin that made her heart flutter in her breast despite the fact she was positively furious with him. “Suffice it to say that I’m considered to be a very good commander.

  My promotions came swiftly. More lemonade, my dear?”

  “But you don't act like an admiral!” she raged, as though shouting the words would make

  them believable. “Admirals aren’t supposed to go about with gold earrings and pirate clothes and carrying cutlasses instead of dress swords! Admirals aren’t supposed to associate with pirate queens and seduce women when they’re trying to weave spells to net Gallant Knights! Admirals aren’t supposed to submit to rough treatment at the hands of a crew of pirate women—”

  “I love rough treatment. Especially at the hands of pirate queens. ”

  “And admirals aren't supposed to show interest or declare their love for ruthless outlaws like myself!”

  “I have never considered myself to be conventional.”

  “Just get out, Gray! Or are you Sir Graham now? Admiral Falconer? Just get the bloody hell out, so I can think, so I can fathom my situation, so I can—I can—” She took a deep breath and exploded, “S o I can take a damned PEE without you hovering over me like a bloody nurse!”

  “Dearest, you should have told me you have bodily functions you are anxious to address.”

  “Get out!”

  “Really, Maeve, I shall not suffer you to try and stand all by yourself. You hit your head when you fell, you are weak, you may be unsteady on your feet.” He pushed back the chair and stood, his face grave. “Here, allow me to help you.”

  “I beg your pardon? ”

  “I absolutely forbid you to get out of that bed unless I help you.” Before she could protest further, he slid his arms beneath her hot and sweaty back and lifted her up off the sofa. Pain lanced her side, waves of nausea assailed her, and a fresh tide of sweat broke out along the length of her spine. Weakly, she clutched at his lapels, her cheek falling against the fancy gold lace, the cool medal of the Nile that lay against the crisp, white-ruffled folds of his neckcloth.

  “Put me down.”

  “But you have bodily functions to address, my dear.”

  “For God’s sake, Gray, I have my pride,” she wailed. “Can’t you understand that?”

  He stood holding her, appearing to think for a moment. Then he carried her across the cabin and stopped before a fancy commode. It concealed a porcelain chamber pot and this, he pulled out using his foot. Then, he carefully eased her down until her feet, bare beneath the hem of his nightshirt, rested on the cool floor.

  “Go ahead.”

  She looked up at him with miserable despair; then she bent her head and bit down savagely on her lip. “I can’t . . . not with you standing here.”

  “I'll turn my head.”

  “Please,” she pleaded. “I’d rather you leave.”

  “I cannot.”

  He pulled her up by the wrists. Humiliation and despair burned in her eyes. The worst of it was, he was right; she was so weak she couldn’t have supported herself in a squatting position for all the money in the world. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled, hanging from his grasp and leaning her cheek against the inside of her elbow. “Don’t help me. Just get the hell away from me and leave me to myself!”

  She hung there, shaking, sweating, and dizzy, running hot and cold and trying valiantly not to be sick, not to faint, not to show weakness, not to let him help her in any way, shape or form.

  She twisted in his grip and kicked him in the shin, hard, and reluctantly, he let her go.

  Immediately, the floor rushed up to meet her, and he caught her before she would’ve fallen.

  “You see, dearest, I cannot leave you alone for a moment.”

  “Go away,” she cried, wanting to die. “For God’s sake, just leave me alone . . . ”

  He set her down in a chair. Her chin fell to rest on her chest,
and great tears of helplessness and fury flowed down her cheeks and dropped into her lap. She put her hands over her face and sobbed bitterly, her hair lying in a thick braid over one shoulder, her wet shirt swallowing up her body.

  Gray stood looking down at her. Then he knelt down before her so that his eyes were on a

  level with hers. He put a finger beneath her jaw, and slowly lifted her chin until the anguished golden eyes met his.

  Her misery nearly broke his heart. “Maeve, my dear,” he said gently. “I have seen many

  things in this life, and I shall see many more before I depart it. I will not be shocked by the necessity of a very seriously injured young woman having to relieve herself. But should my presence disturb you so very much, I can send for one of your crew to be your nursemaid.

  However, I warn you that your Kestrel is a good cable’s length to leeward of my flagship, and it would take a fair amount of time before she could be up with us. If you can wait that long, then by all means, do so. If you cannot, then pray, take my hand and let me support you. I promise you, that on my honor I shall not look.”

  “Bloody right you won’t look, because I won’t do it!”

  He put his hands beneath her arms, pulled her up, kicked the chamber pot against her feet and, true to his word, turned to look out the window, beginning to whistle a British sailor’s tune she recognized as “Hearts of Oak.”

  Humiliation and mortification burned through her that she was incapable of performing even this simple task by herself. Yet there was no recourse. Dizzy, nauseous, and faint, she was helpless and at his mercy, and he knew it. The tears came faster, harder, burning twin rivers of shame down her cheeks.

  The whistling became humming, loud, annoying, obnoxious.

  Maeve eyed the chamber pot at her feet and sniffled loudly. Oh God, why didn’t he think

  beforehand to send one of the girls to attend her, why did he insist on putting her through this embarrassment, this humiliation—

  The humming became singing, the volume loud enough to be heard two decks above, if not

  in the main top itself.

  “We ne’r see our foes, but we wish them to stay! They ne’r see us, but they wish us away! If they run, why, we’ll follow, and run them ashore, for if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more!