My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  out of the warship’s sides . . . and another.

  And closed the book with a furious snap.

  “What’s he saying, Captain? What’s he saying?” She stared at the big ship, the colorful

  array of flags waving in the wind.

  “He says,” she muttered, on a dark little laugh, “that if I so much as even think of sailing off, he’ll blow us out of the water.”

  “Oh, Captain, surely he wouldn’t do that!”

  But Maeve remembered the admiral’s shocked and stricken face after she’d saved him from

  el Perro Negro . . . and wasn’t so sure.

  Chapter 30

  It had been seven days since they’d caught up with the sugar convoy, two weeks since Sir

  Graham had ordered Kestrel to remain with his fleet, and a half hour since Sir Graham had joined Colin Lord for dinner in the flag-captain’s cabin.

  The atmosphere between them was strained and tense, for with every league the British

  fleet, the convoy, and Gray’s few warships drew closer to Europe, with every league the little schooner Kestrel hovered mutinously at its fringes, with every league of sun and rain and wind and salt they put behind them, Sir Graham’s normally jovial mood had evaporated into a dark and simmering silence that no one—with the exception of Nelson and Colin—dared to disturb.

  Courageous to a fault, diligent in his pursuit of every detail, in possession of a keen

  maritime acumen, and guided by an unflappable sense of fairness, duty, and insight, Colin was by no means stupid, and should have known better than to broach the subject of Maeve Merrick.

  Yet Gray saw it coming; it was there in Colin’s eyes, in the faint puckering of his fair brows, in the way he was fidgeting and shifting the pillow beneath his thigh to take the weight off his leg.

  Gray picked up his napkin and dabbed at his lips. “Leg bothering you, Colin?”

  “Not really, sir. It itches beneath the cast, but otherwise, healing quite nicely, I daresay.”

  “Good. I’d hate like hell for anything to happen to you. You’ve been the best damned flag-captain I’ve ever had.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Distractedly, the younger man pushed a piece of roast beef around on his plate, making a dollop of gravy in its center. “Though sometimes, I wish I’d chosen a different career . . . something that preserves life, rather than destroys it. Forgive me, sir, but I’ve seen enough of death and killing to last a lifetime, I’m afraid.”

  Death and killing. “Aye, so have I,” Gray drawled, and glared out the window, where he could just see the distant shape of Kestrel hugging the horizon, as if poised for flight. He had no doubt she would have been long gone, if not for the fact he’d ordered his frigates to keep an eye on the schooner and put a shot across her bows if she tried to escape.

  The flag-captain finally looked up at Gray. “If I may speak, sir?”

  Gray raised his wineglass—he was no longer drinking rum—sipped it, and motioned

  impatiently. “Be my guest.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking, sir, about that time you came to me and asked, in a roundabout way, the best way to, er, go after the heart of the Pirate Queen . . .”

  The admiral’s fingers tightened around the stem of the glass.

  Colin, unflappable and unfazed, ignored the sudden tension, merely pushing the beef around and around on his plate. “Well, forgive my bluntness, sir, but I think you’re behaving like a hypocrite.”

  Gray’s glass slammed down on the table so hard it shattered into a thousand pieces. Wine

  went everywhere, and servants came running.

  “Damn you, I’ll have you watch what you say to me!”

  Colin lifted his head, regarding him steadily. “I merely speak the truth, sir, as I see it.”

  The admiral glared at him, bristling with anger, his shoulders very stiff beneath the proud epaulets.

  Colin did not back down. “You loved her when she would not have you, when you thought

  her nothing but a little girl playing at being a pirate queen. She was a source of amusement to you, a . . . fantasy.”

  Sir Graham’s swarthy countenance went dark with fury.

  “Forgive me, sir, but you’ve put this ship in peril with your orders to fly pirate flags, your unconventional habits, and your expectations that my crew and I turn a blind eye to your doings.

  We have done so, sir, because you are a fine commander and we have nothing but respect for you. But I cannot respect a man who conducts his behavior under a double standard.”

  The admiral lunged to his feet on a snarl of fury. “You’ll watch your damned tongue,

  Captain Lord!”

  The young captain put down his fork, placing it just so beside his plate, and looked calmly up at his commanding officer. “Sir, if I may ask you a question . . .”

  A muscle jumped along the admiral’s jaw, and Colin saw his hand fisting with suppressed

  wrath. “Out with it,” he bit out, through clenched teeth.

  “If it had been I who’d thrown that dagger and saved you from el Perro Negro’s bullet, would you have rejected me as you have her?”

  Steady eyes of purple-gray met angry ones of dark cobalt. Sunlight drifted through the stern windows, struck gold in Colin’s hair, glanced off the tassels of Gray’s epaulets.

  “I repeat, sir, would you?”

  The admiral’s nostrils flared. “You are a man, by God!”

  “So?”

  “That’s bloody different!”

  “I take that to mean it is permissible for me to defend those I love, even if it means killing someone, just because I am a man? That if I were a woman and had just saved the life of a high-ranking officer, it would be less than heroic? Sir, you cannot sit there across from me and tell me that if the situation were reversed, and Maeve’s life had been the one in peril, you would not have done the same as she did. You cannot, for that matter, tell me you did not want to kill el Perro Negro yourself when you saw him strike her unconscious, and, I daresay, you would have killed him if only the opportunity had afforded itself.”

  “That’s a damned stupid question, of course I would have! ”

  “Precisely my point, sir,” Colin said, returning his attention to the beef.

  Gray merely stared at him, helpless against the younger man’s logic. Angry because he had no defense against it. Feeling his temper rising . . . rising . . .

  The flag-captain continued in his calm, infuriating way. “You may think she should be soft and feminine, pampered and sweet, a lady in the accepted sense of the word, but she is what she is, sir, and acted with those qualities that, in a man, would have been applauded as heroic.

  Courageous.” The gentle eyes looked up at Gray, silently condemning. “I’m sorry, sir. But I think you are unfair to reject the woman you love just because she defended that which she held most dear.”

  The admiral’s fist crashed down on the table. “You think it’s unfair, do you?” he roared.

  “Aye, sir. I do.”

  They stared at each other, neither willing to give ground—and, for a brief, terrible moment, Colin thought his superior was going to strike him. Then, Sir Graham’s chest rose on a great, shaky sigh, and he sat heavily down in his chair to glare sullenly out the stern window.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a damned cunning bastard,” the admiral growled, and without another word,

  attacked his own supper.

  ###

  An hour later, Gray—embarrassed, angry, and determined—called for his barge, signaled

  for Kestrel to close with the flagship, and, wearing his best uniform, decided to make peace with the Pirate Queen.

  His officers saluted him as he strode grimly past them, but he knew the gossip would be

  flying the moment he left the flagship. And as the barge cut through the heavy swells, the spray drenching his fine uniform and soaking the smart, handpicked crew, he saw them grinning and exchanging silent
comments, saw their amused gazes flickering between the little schooner and their dark and angry admiral.

  “Row, damn you!” he roared, and gripped the gunwale so hard it nearly broke off in his

  hand.

  The schooner’s black side loomed before, then above him. High above his head, her two

  sharply raked masts thrust toward the sky. Gray waited for the barge to hook onto the little ship’s main chains and, grasping the ladder that Aisling and Sorcha tossed eagerly over the side to him, began to climb.

  He was halfway up the schooner’s side when he happened to glance up and saw the bell-like mouth of a blunderbuss staring him in the face.

  “Halt right there, Admiral,” came Maeve’s low, angry voice. “Or so help me God, I’ll

  shoot.”

  Gray merely set his jaw and on a dark smile, continued climbing.

  “I’m warning you, Gray!”

  Beneath him, he heard one of the barge crew gasp in alarm . . . another, choking back an

  amused snigger.

  “Dammit, Gray, don’t make me hurt you!”

  He reached up, seized the cold metal of the weapon, and with one savage jerk, yanked it

  from her hand and flung it into the sea.

  And kept climbing.

  Up he came, his hat now level with the schooner’s gunwale, his progress never faltering.

  A cutlass thrust itself before his nose. “I mean it, Gray!”

  Never pausing, he knocked it aside and began to haul himself up and over the gunwale. She tried to step on his fingers as he reached for a hold. He grabbed her ankle. She pulled her knife on him. He snared her wrist and threw the weapon aside. She screamed every curse she knew at him.

  And he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, to the wild cheers of her own traitorous

  crew.

  Small fists beat at his chest. Her bare foot slammed against his shin. Her angry protests vibrated against his mouth, and her knee came up on a vicious swing to connect with his groin.

  Gasping, he doubled over in agony, his hat tumbling from his head and his vision going

  black around the edges.

  “Admiral!” Aisling and Sorcha caught him as he fell, their hands beneath his elbows.

  “Admiral! You all right?”

  He stumbled to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and recovered in time to see Maeve’s stiff, silk-clad back just disappearing down the hatch.

  “I’m fine,” he ground out and, pausing only long enough to retrieve his hat and slam it back down on his head, went after her.

  The fierce Enolia tried to bar his way with her cutlass, but he kicked it aside and kept

  walking. Down the hatch he went, after Maeve. He strode right up to the door of her cabin, seized the latch, and yanked.

  Locked.

  “Open the door, Maeve.”

  “Rot in hell, you wretch!”

  “Open the damned door, Maeve.”

  “I said, go to—”

  He raised his foot, drew back, and with all his strength, kicked the latch. Once, twice—and then the door crashed open under the force of his blows and he was in the cabin and striding angrily across the tiny space.

  He saw her, facing him with her back against the bulkhead, her breasts thrusting against her shirt and her face white with rage. She was holding a pistol, pointing it at him. Her hands were shaking. Her throat was working. He went right up to her, seized her collar, yanked her forward, and drew her up to within an inch of his face.

  “I have one thing to say to you,” he growled, holding her so close that her breath touched his cheeks, “and one thing only—”

  “Say it!” she screamed.

  He smiled, his teeth flashing white in his swarthy face. “I love you.”

  And then his head bent and he claimed her lips with his own.

  She melted beneath the sheer force of the kiss, the fury and love and desperation with which he drove his mouth down against hers. The pistol fell from her hand, but she never heard it hit the deck. He forced her backward, crushing her between his body and the bulkhead. His tongue plunged into her mouth, and she smelled salt water in his clothes, tasted it on his lips.

  Gasping, she tore her lips from his. “How dare you think you can just come in here and—”

  Her tirade was effectively cut off by his mouth slamming down on hers once more. He

  kissed her with an almost brutal desperation, robbing the very breath from her body, the strength from her legs, the resolve from her will. She could not resist him. Had never been able to—

  She came up, dazed and gasping, her eyes glazed with desire.

  “I’ll dare anything I damn well please,” he ground out, his dark face just inches from her own. He reached up, tore the hat from his head, the sword belt from his waist, and flung both to the deck. “Tell me you love me, Maeve.”

  “I—”

  ‘‘Tell me!”

  “Aye, I love you, but I’ll not marry you! I’m a bloody pirate, remember? A vile, despicable, thieving, murdering pi—”

  His lips came down against hers yet again. Struggling, Maeve felt his tongue stabbing into the warm recesses of her mouth, his hot breath burning her cheeks. It was no use fighting him. It was no use fighting how she felt about him. Sighing, she sagged against him, even as his hands caught the collar of her shirt and, with one savage yank, ripped the blousy garment from her body. Her breasts filled his hands and she moaned as he tore his mouth from hers and left a hot path of kisses simmering the length of her neck, capturing first one nipple and sucking hungrily on the hard bud, then the other, until she was writhing with delight and despair.

  “Dammit, Gray . . . I cannot resist you . . . You cannot resist me . . . Does it have to be this way?”

  He bent his head, licking, tasting, suckling, her breasts, while all the while his hand strayed lower until it found the hot core of her womanhood and made her writhe with the pressure he exerted there. Her knees went to liquid, but she was able to hold her balance, pinned as she was between him and the bulkhead. Dark spots swam before her eyes. His hand drove beneath her waistband, yanking the trousers down and off; she felt his fingers sliding inside of her, and on a half sob of anger and defeat, sank down against his hand.

  “No Maeve, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he muttered, against the damp hair at her temple. ‘Two people who love each other ought to be together. Not fighting each other.”

  He stepped back and caught her as she fell. She felt herself being hoisted up in his arms, but he never made it to the bunk. Halfway across the cabin he set her down, tore off his coat, laid her down atop it, and kissed her until she couldn’t see straight, think straight, even remember her name. His body covered hers, seeking, driving, wanting. Her hands clawed impatiently at his shirt, found the damp skin just beneath, then downward, the flap of his breeches. His mouth drove against hers and his body crushed her, forcing her head and spine against the deck. But she never felt the pain, never felt anything but the boiling cauldron that was her blood, the hot length of his arousal swelling against her hand.

  The climb was short, fast, hard, and brilliant. He drove himself into her, and took her with a savage intensity that nearly impaled her to the deck upon which she lay. And when it was over, she lay bathed in sweat and the ashes of her anger, clasping his body fiercely to her own. His breathing was harsh and fast above her; his curses, soft and angry. He reached up, and pushing his hand into her hair, stroked it gently, over and over again.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” he muttered. “I feel like a bloody animal. God, Maeve, tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He raised himself up, taking his weight on his forearms so as not to crush her. He was silent for a moment and then he asked, “Can you forgive me, Maeve?”

  “There is nothing to forgive you for, Gray,” she said. “You have made love to me. Never

  apologize for that.”

  “No, no, you
don’t understand.” He dropped tender kisses on her brow, her cheeks. “I turned away from you after you killed el Perro Negro. After you’d saved my life, for God’s sake. I was wrong, Maeve. Wrong to expect you to behave like a fainthearted bit of fluff, wrong to be angry with you for showing the bold courage that first attracted me to you. Here you defended me, saved my life, and how did I thank you? By turning away.” His voice was anguished. “I feel like a vile, undeserving wretch.”

  “You are.” She grinned at his helpless look, then reached up to touch her finger to his nose.

  “But I forgive you, Gray.”

  “Do you, Maeve? Do you, honestly—”

  “I forgive you, Gray,” she said again, kissing him.

  “Then you will give up your life as a pirate and marry me?”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “For God’s sake, Maeve—”

  “Gray, I told you, I have obligations.”

  He stared down at her for a long, frustrated moment; then, his eyes went black with

  hopelessness and he lunged to his feet, leaving her lying there on the floor with his coat beneath her back. He buttoned his breeches. Picked up his sword belt. Retrieved his hat.

  “Gray, please, you don’t understand!”

  He shook his head. “Belay it, Maeve, I don’t want to hear it. I offer you everything I have, and still you throw it back in my face. Go find some thieving scoundrel like the one you just disposed of, if that’s what you want. Because you sure as hell don’t want an officer, despite whatever rubbish you once told me about Gallant Knights.”

  “But why must you marry me?” She got up, hugging her arms to skin that was suddenly cold where he had earlier touched it. She felt empty inside, scared. “Must you own me, Gray?

  Can’t we just be lovers?”

  He spun around, his eyes blazing. “I wish to marry you, Maeve, because I’m an honorable

  man. I wish to marry you because you are everything I ever wanted in a woman. It has nothing to do with ownership, I wish to marry you because, dammit, I love you!”

  He snatched his coat up from the deck, and donned it with angry, jerky movements that