My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  She stared at him. He was eating, just as calmly as before, looking down at his plate with those ridiculously long black lashes veiling his eyes, lying against his cheeks. He glanced up, stopped chewing for a moment, glanced pointedly at her chair, her plate, and inclined his head to indicate that she should sit down.

  Maeve sat. Or rather, fell into the chair. Now that she’d said it, admitted it, she felt foolish, ridiculous— conquered. It was not a comfortable feeling, and she shot back to her feet, feeling trapped and humiliated.

  “Sit down.”

  “Stop telling me what to do, I hate it!”

  “Sit down.”

  She sat glaring at him, wanting to bolt.

  He glanced up, grinning. “I am your Gallant Knight, you know.”

  She looked away, her mouth severe and hard, her hands fisted in her lap.

  “Your heart has been sorely wounded, Maeve.” She heard the scrape of his chair as he

  pushed it back and came around the table toward her. She felt his presence behind her, felt his hands touching her hair, then resting lightly upon her shoulders. It was a gentle touch, a possessive, protective one, and beneath the weight of it she melted inside. His thumbs grazed her nape, eliciting an involuntary shudder; his breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned down and kissed her temple.

  “I love you, Maeve.”

  She clenched her hands together fiercely, her nails biting into her palms.

  “I love you so much I would give my life for you,” he continued.

  Her fists buried themselves in the folds of the blanket, and the nightshirt just beneath.

  “I love you so much I would marry you tonight, if I could. But I shall wait, because I would have your father’s consent on the union.”

  “My father,” she snarled bitterly, “has washed his hands of me. Disowned me. Forsaken me

  as his daughter. Abandoned me.”

  “Your father,” he responded, his voice deep and soft just above her head, “has, for the past seven years, believed you to be dead.”

  Gray, standing above her, felt every muscle in her body go rigid.

  “D-dead?” Slowly, she twisted around in the chair to face him, all chalky face and chestnut hair and a lost-child look that drove a fierce urge to protect her, to shield her, into his heart.

  “What do you mean, he thinks I’m . . . dead?”

  “My flag captain happens to be your cousin. He realized who you were the day you burst

  into Lord Nelson’s cabin the first time,” he said softly. “He told Nelson, and Nelson told me, and now, I’m telling you.” He gazed deeply into her eyes, and stroked her cheek. “Your father did not abandon you, dearest. He’s spent years thinking you are dead.”

  “You lie!”

  “No, Maeve. I do not. Ask Colin if you don’t believe me.”

  She went very, very still. Her eyes fell shut, and her body began to tremble violently.

  “Oh . . . my God . . . ”

  He said nothing and merely stood beside her, being there for her, at this moment of

  horrendous discovery.

  “You mean . . . you mean, all these years I’ve thought he’d disowned me, when all the time he thought I was dead? ” She looked up, stunned, her face frighteningly pale. “But why? Why?

  Why would he think that?”

  “According to Colin, your father went after you as soon as he discovered you had run away from home, Maeve. He got as far as Florida, where he was told by some Bahamian fishermen, and then, the captain of a French merchantman, that a topsail schooner had wrecked on the reefs off one of the Keys.” He took her hand. “The schooner answered Kestrel’s description, Maeve.”

  “And he believed that?”

  “Apparently not. He searched for weeks for you. And returned home brokenhearted. I am

  not a father, but I can well imagine his grief, and his anguish over the fact that his headstrong young daughter had met her end because of a silly argument over what he, in his love, thought was best for her. Perhaps he went on denying her death—but since he never heard from her, ever again, he must’ve had no choice but to accept the apparent truth. How awful it must’ve been for him, and your family, to bear.”

  “Oh, my God,” Maeve whispered. “Oh, my God . . . To think that all these years . . . to think I believed the worst of him—I—” She put her head in her hands, then shot to her feet and

  stumbled dazedly to the windows. “I’m so ashamed. . .”

  He moved to stand beside her.

  “To think that he, too, probably watched the shore every day in the futile hope that I would return . . . to think he probably stood at the waterfront every single night, every awful, single night, staring at the horizon and wishing he could turn back the clock and change things. Oh, God”—she felt him gathering her close, and didn’t pull away—“Oh, God, what am I to do?”

  “You’ll do, dearest, what your heart tells you to do.”

  “But it’s been seven years, Gray, seven years! ”

  “In the scope of eternity, that is but the blink of an eye.”

  “I know, but I’m—I’m so ashamed! ”

  He held her protectively against close. “Whatever you do, Maeve, I love you, I will stand beside you, I will even take you home to New England myself if you wish me to—and I hope

  you do. Whatever you decide to—”

  A musket thumped outside, angry voices sounded, and the door opened just enough to admit

  Colin Lord’s fair head. His face was crimson with embarrassment, his eyes anxious. “Admiral, sir, forgive me, but there’s a lady here to see you. I told her that you would not wish to—”

  “Pooh on what you told me, Captain-dear,” came a feminine voice, and the woman shoved

  past both Colin and the marine sentry and strode brazenly into the cabin. She stopped, her lip curling with contempt at the sight of the admiral and the chestnut-haired girl who’d gone stiff in his arms. Maeve stared back. The woman’s lips were awfully red. Her face, awfully fair. And then she gave a slow, sultry smile and driving her hand into her pinned-up hair, sent it tumbling down her back in a sleek fall of liquid ebony.

  “Well, well, Sir Graham,” she said, her voice a study in practiced, husky sexuality. “I see you’ve found yourself another trollop with whom to amuse yourself. What, weren’t my attractions hot enough for you?”

  Maeve stared, her eyes going wide. She turned, speechless, and looked up into Gray’s face.

  But the admiral had turned a ghastly white, and beads of sweat were dappling his forehead.

  He did not look well. He did not look well at all.

  The woman smiled. “Surprise, surprise . . . Gray. I see you’re just eating dinner. Mind if I join you?”

  “Cat,” he said shakily, and raked a hand through his hair. “I th-thought you were . . . on Barbados.”

  Chapter 23

  “On Barbados?” The woman strode forward, plucked Gray’s mug from the table and took a

  long sip, watching him from over the rim. Then she put it down. “Oh, darling, you of all people should know how positively bored I am with the tropics, especially after how many years have elapsed since I’ve last been to London. I thought I would take passage on one of the merchantmen that Papa’s sending home with your convoy.” She looked at him pointedly. “After all, I’m still waiting for a dangerous pirate to whisk me off in the middle of the night. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Gray! Did you really think I’d let you sail back to England without me?’

  The admiral made a choking noise and motioned for Colin and the sentry to leave.

  Maeve had gone numb with shock. For a brief, hollow moment she was unable to feel

  anything; then, myriad emotion flooded in. She thrust herself out of his arms and stared up into his ashen face. “Gray—who is this female? ”

  “L-L . . . Lady Catherine Fairfield,” he managed. He looked lost, and, for the first time since she’d known him, a prisoner of a situation r
ather than master of it.

  So, this was the mistress on Barbados.

  “Look, Maeve, I know what you’re thinking, but this is not what it seems—”

  “Indeed, Gray,” the woman said silkily, with a pointed, insulting glance at Maeve, “I should hope it isn’t. And who is this . . . chit? Your latest toy? ”

  “She’s no chit, Catherine, she’s to be my wi—”

  Maeve jerked free of his grasp, drew the blanket about her as though it was a monarch’s

  robe, and glared at the other woman. “I am Captain Merrick, Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, and if you do not watch your tongue, I’ll cut it out, feed it to you and and watch you choke on it. ”

  Lady Catherine smiled. “How charming. Your newest kitten has claws, Gray.”

  “Really, Catherine, this is not the time or place for this—this discussion—”

  “What, would you prefer to have it in more pleasurable surroundings, my handsome

  admiral? I seem to recall you have a penchant for creative positioning within the confines of such unlikely surfaces as tables, hammocks, and overstuffed chairs. I’m sure something can be

  arranged.” She turned disdaining eyes on Maeve. “Pirate Queen, eh? Fancy that. From the stories I’ve heard about you, I thought you'd be much . . . older.”

  “As you so obviously are?” Maeve challenged, and saw her barb hit home. The woman

  colored with rage, but Maeve—trying in vain to control her temper, trying desperately to play the queen and not the pirate—merely lifted her chin and with royal hauteur, drawled, “Forgive me, but I’d forgotten what the tropical sun can do to a lady’s face. Yours, I’m afraid, seems to have suffered the worst for it.”

  “Why, you vicious, coarse little bitch! ”

  Maeve turned, ignoring her. “Excuse me, Sir Graham. I have affairs to attend to on deck, if you don’t mind. Please, do not let me keep you from your business with this . . . commoner.”

  “How dare you insult me so, you brazen little hussy!”

  Maeve strode up to the other woman, paused in front of her and stared at her for a long,

  tense moment. Then, fast as lightning, she raised her hand as if to slap her face. The other woman gave a cry of guttural horror and shrank beneath an upraised hand to deflect a blow that never came.

  “Coward,” Maeve said, haughtily. And with that, she walked to the door, stiff-backed and

  proud, fiery and beautiful and every inch the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. She heard the admiral’s sharp intake of breath, the angry exchange between him and that—that woman, felt the hem of the nightshirt brushing her calves with every step she took, and fought the darkness that threatened to bring her down as she walked across a deck that was suddenly like ice beneath her feet.

  Keep walking.

  “Maeve!” he roared, from just behind her.

  She clamped her jaws together, hard, so she could not give in to the fierce urge to turn and scream out her anguish at this man who had deceived and betrayed her yet again, for so-help-her-God, the last time, the very last time. He did not love her. He never had. He only wanted her because she was a piratess, a toy, as his pretty slut had called her. Part of the fantasy, another piratical item to add to his collection.

  She pushed open the door.

  “Maeve!”

  Finally she turned and faced him, chin high, mouth white with fury, eyes glittering. She did not know what to expect when she looked into his face, but it was not the utter terror and desperation she found there. “Aye, Sir Graham?” she said, her voice dangerously calm.

  “Don’t—don’t go.” His eyes were imploring, begging her to understand. “Please.”

  She gave a soft, serene, totally sweet smile that nearly cracked her face and her composure along with it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Catherine’s swift grin of triumph, for now she would have the admiral all to herself.

  “Really, Gray,” Maeve said, gripping the door latch so hard it nearly broke off in her hand.

  Pain radiated up her wrist, her arm, with the force it took to retain her composure, and she moved her body in front of the door so neither could see how white her knuckles must surely be.

  “Where indeed would I go? Your ship may be huge, but it is, after all, finite. Please”—she gave an imperious wave of her hand—”carry on with your little doxy. When you have put her back in proper temper you will find me topside, where you may attempt to do the same with me.”

  He moved forward, as though to stop her, as though he didn’t quite trust her; he stole a swift glance at the sultry Lady Catherine; then he sighed heavily, swore beneath his breath, and raked his hair back, the movement causing the late-afternoon sun to burst in brilliant shards of light against the golden tassels of his epaulets.

  But suddenly they didn’t look so grand anymore, and neither did that splendid uniform his shoulders filled so magnificently.

  Head high, Maeve strode out the door . . . past the marine . . . through the passageway, up the hatch, and out onto the broad quarterdeck. Beyond the nettings, she saw the convoy moving along under clouds of sail. Colin Lord was gazing off to larboard, a telescope to his eye, his fair hair bright beneath his cocked hat; a lieutenant touched his elbow and the flag-captain spun around as she passed, staring at her first with shock, then alarm.

  “Good afternoon, cousin, ” Maeve purred, and strode purposefully past him and up the steep ladder to the poop deck. Her strength rapidly failing her, she moved across and up its long, empty expanse, focusing on the beckoning trio of high, mounted stern lanterns and the wispy clouds that framed them, and didn’t stop until she reached the flag locker and the taffrail, where there was nothing beyond her but blue sky, the broad, glorious expanse of the sea— — and Kestrel.

  “Maeve!” her cousin shouted. “Stop her!”

  The Pirate Queen threw off the blanket, climbed up onto the taffrail, and swayed there for a brief moment, the wind whipping the admiral’s nightshirt around her body and tearing strands of hair from her braid; then she took a deep breath and threw herself outward, the wind screaming in her ears now, shrieking, the sea coming faster, faster, faster, to swallow her up with a violent, bone-slamming crash that burst every stitch in her bandaged side and left her stunned and senseless in the water. She lay there for a moment, dazed, the waves breaking over her head, her body beginning to sink down, down, down . . . then she heard the cries of alarm from the flagship’s decks some two stories above, the desperate shrieks of the bosun’s calls, and was roused by the thought of pursuit.

  With the last of her strength, Maeve raised her arm to summon Kestrel, but it was a wasted motion, for already the little schooner was changing tack and sweeping in to rescue her drowning captain.

  Chapter 24

  Prepare to heave to, Mr. Pearson!” Racing to the side, a horrified Captain Colin Lord

  watched the lone figure floundering in the waves, the schooner sweeping in to her rescue. “Brail up courses, t’gallants and royals, and back the main tops’l! Lively now, for God’s sake!”

  Pipes shrilled, sailors ran to their stations, the helm was put down, and the mammoth Triton swung into the wind with a protest of shaking rigging and groaning timbers just as Sir Graham came pounding up the hatch to the quarterdeck. His young flag-lieutenant, John Stern, caught his arm, and ran with him toward the nettings, gesturing madly. “There, sir! Just to starboard!”

  Gray reached the side in time to see Maeve being pulled out of the sea by her crew. His eyes widened with disbelief. She’d jumped. The fool girl had actually jumped—

  Paralyzed with shock, he gripped the shrouds and watched her climbing up the schooner’s

  side, his now-transparent nightshirt clinging wetly to her body, her hair a dark rope streaming down her back—and a stain of crimson blossoming just above her hip with alarming speed.

  “Damnation, she’s bleeding! ” he roared, the sight shocking him into action. He spun around, nearly colliding with his fla
g-captain, his flag-lieutenant, the first lieutenant, and a little midshipman who looked as though he was about to piss his breeches. “Damn your eyes, Colin, how the hell could you simply let her walk off the flagship?! ”

  Young Midshipman Jones dived in recklessly to save his captain. “It w-was m-m-my fault,

  s-sir,” he said bravely, trembling as his admiral’s furious stare swung on him. “I saw her h-h-h-heading toward the p-poop deck and didn’t tell the c-c-captain soon enough—”

  “No, Mr. Jones, it was my fault,” Colin said soberly, standing stiffly at attention and refusing to let his officers take the blame. Composed and proper, he dauntlessly met the admiral’s glare.

  “I saw her too, but must confess I was too shocked to react as quickly as I might have had the circumstances been different.”

  “No, Captain,” First Lieutenant Pearson declared, “I should take the blame, I was nearest the ladder and didn’t move to stop her—”

  “Damn your eyes, damn all of your eyes!” Gray raged. “It was my fault and I’ll take the blame for it!” He fisted his hands into knots of helpless fury and let loose such a foul string of sailor language that the very air seemed to smoke. “She’s escaped me, who the bloody hell cares how, it’s the damned why of the matter, I was so close, so damned close to winning her trust . . .”

  He trailed off, spun around to watch the schooner, and bent his brow to his hand, feeling the weighty, nervous silence of the officers behind him.

  “Mr. Jones,” he heard Colin say quietly. “See to it that the admiral’s barge is made ready, if you please. I suspect he may need it directly.”

  ####

  Lady Catherine . . . Gray’s deceit . . . her father, not abandoning her after all, but thinking her dead all these years—

  It was too much.

  Panting, winded, her wet hair streaming around her shoulders and down her back, Maeve

  hauled herself over the rail with the help of her horrified crewwomen. “Up topsl’s,” she gasped, nearly collapsing in their arms, “and hurry!”