The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines)

by C. B. Halverson

  “Then you should be able to work more efficiently.”

  My jaw dropped, and a small sound of exasperation escaped the back of my throat.

  “I am tired,” Grant said. “And I would like to go to bed sometime in the near future.”

  “That makes two of us,” I muttered beneath my breath, my limbs heavy with exhaustion.

  “What was that?”

  My eyes snapped back to his. “I said, ‘Yes, sir.’”

  He frowned, nodding down toward his chest. “My shirt, if you please.”

  With a deep breath, I reached up and loosened the drawstrings, mentally forcing my hands to stop shaking. The whole time his gaze drilled into my skull, and I knew he saw me hesitate before reaching down at the waistband of his trousers to pull the shirt loose. He sucked in his breath as I inched my hands up his abdomen, my fingertips brushing his skin.

  “Your hands are freezing,” he growled.

  I lifted his shirt, my eyes widening at the landscape of muscle beneath, the brush of brown hair leading straight down beneath his trousers to the bulge of his cock below. I swallowed, shaking my head.

  “Sir, could you…?”

  He bent his towering frame so I could tug his shirt gently past his massive arms. I turned away, heat prickling up my neck and blooming on my cheeks. Even two steps from him, I could sense the heat radiating off his body, the way his presence sucked up all the air in the room. To avoid looking at him, I folded the shirt neatly on top of his coat, taking extra care to match the seams.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “My boots. I’ll need you to polish them before morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kneeling down, I braced my hand on the thick black leather, giving his boot a firm tug. Over-shooting my strength, I toppled to the floor on my bum, boot in hand.

  Grant gave me a hard stare, and I cleared my throat and continued with the other boot.

  “There is a night shirt in that drawer there.” He pointed to one of the built-in shelves. “From now on I shall call you boy or O’Brien. You shall answer only to that. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” I retrieved his shirt and stood there as if giving up an offering. My eyes flitted back to his naked chest, the chiseled muscles of his abdomen, the cords in his arms. Power hummed beneath his skin, and I suppressed the urge to run as he met my gaze with a menacing stare.

  “Are you just going to stand there, boy?”

  Bowing my head, I unfolded the shirt and slipped it over his head, breathing in the manly smell of him again, sea salt and lingering sweat.

  I stepped away to retrieve his shirt and coat.

  “Are you forgetting something?”

  “Sir?”

  “My trousers.”

  Heat burned in my cheeks, sparks shooting through my limbs as I stood paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

  “Your trousers, sir?” I squeaked.

  His voice softened. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

  The words sounded almost like a plea, as if we had played a long, intricate game of chess and I had refused to move my king at checkmate. And yet, when I glanced up at him, his hot gaze reminded me that this was a man used to winning, to conquering. If I ran away, if I cried out in humiliation and shame, he would have proven his initial stance—that women didn’t belong on his ship. He wanted me to refuse him, but I wouldn’t dare give him the pleasure.

  With small, agonizing steps, I crept closer to him and kneeled, the great bulge beneath almost bursting through the smooth wool fabric. My hands grasped at the buttons, fingers numb and fumbling with the embroidered buttonholes. He stood so still, as firm as an iron statue, and the effect his powerful stance had on my body betrayed every ounce of sense I had in my head. Johnny had been sweet, boyish, but no matter how much he toyed with me, I maintained all the control. Kneeling before this towering man sent a dizzying wave of overwhelming desire through me. Desire to be in his control. In his power. Face-to-face with his belly button, I breathed in his warm, musky scent, the trail of hair leading to his cock tickling my nose, I was that close to him. I licked my lips, swallowing hard.

  With a firm tug, the trousers dropped to the floor, and the Captain stepped out of them. I lifted my chin and found myself face to face with his cock. Even at rest it appeared impressive, proud. Flashes of the Captain bending me over and taking me with it flooded my mind, and I gave my head a tiny shake to clear it as I scrambled to my feet and collected the last article of clothing.

  He’s just a man, Mary. Just like every other worthless man in the known world.

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “Wait.”

  My blood turned to ice, my spine rigid. “Sir?”

  “Lord Andrews will expect you to be punished.”

  My mouth dropped open. He truly wanted to break me from my pursuit. “You can’t be serious.”

  A muscle flickered in Grant’s jaw. “I will not give you special treatment.”

  “But it was an accident. You know that.”

  He stalked over to me, but I held my ground, more terrified to move than anything else. “I do not tolerate back talk, boy.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “And I do not tolerate bullies like Andrews,” I said, my voice firm.

  “But you will tolerate me.” He moved in closer.

  My eyes grazed his body up and down. “If I must.”

  With a swift hand, he grabbed the back of my neck. I let out a small squeal, his clothes and boots falling to the floor with a thud. His thumbs digging into my neck, he pushed me toward a chair.

  “Hold on to the back.”

  My hands remained limp at my sides.

  “Hold on to it.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll make it quick.”

  “No.”

  “You want to raise suspicion?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. My nipples hardened beneath my bonds, wetness dripping between my thighs. I did not understand how Grant’s power—his brute masculine force—quickened my body, but he seemed to sense it, his hand relaxing against the tense cords in my neck. He rubbed his thumb back and forth as if to lull me into obedience, and my shoulders trembled at his touch. I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of Grant, but I knew I had to go through with this ridiculous punishment. And part of me wanted to succumb to it, to see what power dwelled in those powerful arms, those towering shoulders.

  “Do it then,” I whispered.

  “Drop your trousers and bend over.”

  I did as he asked, the cold night air stinging the swollen flesh between my legs as I grasped onto the back of the chair.

  Grant rested his hand on my bum for a moment, his hand scorching hot against my skin, his wide, padded palm expanding across my cheek.

  I cleared my throat. “I never heard of a Captain taking orders from his inferiors. Do you do everything Andrews says?”

  Grant lifted his hand as if I’d burned him, and I peered over my shoulder, flashing him a spiteful smile.

  A sharp, slapping sound echoed through the room and filled my ears. White hot pain exploded through my body, and I yelped, nearly toppling over the chair as my knees wobbled. My fingernails dug into the wood, my knuckles white.

  He struck me again, tiny needles darting through my skin. I stifled my cry, Grant’s hand still tight around my neck, holding me steady.

  “I’ve had enough of that sharp tongue, boy.”

  I looked over my shoulder again, panting, sweat beading down my jaw. My gaze flitted down to Grant’s swollen and twitching cock beneath his nightshirt.

  “You might come to appreciate my sharp tongue, Captain.”

  Slap.

  I gasped, the back of the chair shifting forward with a groan. The pain burned through my body, leaving behind a smoldering ache, wildfire shooting from my core. A dizzying fever took over my brain, and I arched my back, lifting my arse higher in response.

  Slap.

  Grant’s hand loosened, resting on my
shoulder. He breathed hard against the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. I moaned, my body burning beneath a layer of sweat, my shirt clinging to my skin. His hand lingered on my hip for a moment, and he pitched me forward. I staggered, collecting my trousers and pulling them over my red hot bum, the coarse fabric tortuous against my tender skin.

  Grant paused, and I stared up at him through the sweat clouding my vision.

  “Make sure you finish up your chores.” He walked to the bed. “I will expect you at first light to dress me and prepare my breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir,” I breathed.

  He turned and his eyes met mine, and I inhaled sharply at the sudden emotion in his face. He opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, resting his forehead in his palm.

  I scurried away, collecting his clothes in my trembling hands. “Was there anything else, sir?”

  Grant paused then looked up, his blue eyes dull with exhaustion. “Yes, come here.” The hardness of his voice had fled, and only a velvety softness remained.

  I took a tentative step forward. The air between us grew thick, and I fought the urge to shrink away from the massive weight of him before me.

  He reached a hand up, and I flinched, but he only ran his fingers through my cropped curls, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone to rest at the curve of my shoulder.

  “You will pass as a pretty boy, O’Brien,” he whispered. “But be mindful how you move, how you talk. You are too soft. Too graceful. Be bolder, stronger. Do not shrink away. Speak clearly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And try to stay out of sight as much as possible.” He stared at me for a moment then pointed to the door. “Leave me now.”

  I bowed and bounded out of the room, shutting the door behind me with a grateful shove.

  I lay on my side, my head propped on the crook of my arm. My bum stung like I had sat on a beehive, and I winced every time I moved an inch. The ship rolled beneath me with creaking groans, and the sound of sailors calling watch echoed from the deck. I closed my eyes again, willing my exhausted body to drift into sleep. But the hard floor jutted into my hipbone, and the ache in my arse surely wasn’t helping anything.

  And there was something else.

  The memory of Grant’s hard gaze, the way his hand lingered on my hip before he raised it in punishment. His palm forceful. His voice unforgiving. He challenged me, made me want to break him, too. Made me want to win, but what the prize would be, I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps it scared me a little to think about it.

  You are too soft. Too graceful.

  He had watched me all through dinner, studied me. The thought of his eyes on my body quickened my core, and my chest tightened. I ran a hand down my bound breasts, wishing I could break them free, discard those loose trousers in exchange for something softer, more graceful. I wanted him to see me like that.

  Too soft. Too graceful.

  I grasped at my short curls and frowned, running my hands through them. He had called me boy. Insisted on it. I thought of my soft crepe dresses at home, my hair pins and delicate shoes, and I let out a small laugh beneath my breath. Being the Captain’s boy both repulsed and excited me. A beautiful wrongness that brought a rush of wetness between my legs as I remembered the way he had emphasized the word.

  Boy.

  It made me feel small, at his mercy, and yet powerful somehow, youthful and masculine. Full of vigor. As if to remember my own sex, I slipped my hand down beneath the band of my breeches, my fingers brushing against my slick folds. My hands moved lazily back and forth, blood rushing to my clit as I rubbed against the small nub of pleasure. Did he peek between my legs before bringing his hand down hard against my flesh? Had it tempted him to push that massive cock inside, punishing me with it until I cried out and begged him for mercy?

  I inserted a finger inside, my core scorching and aching. My inner walls contracted, begging to be filled, but even as I slipped more fingers in, nothing could sate me. My hand moved faster, harder, brutalizing my delicate flesh, wishing it were Grant shoving himself inside me, pounding against my hips as I rolled up to meet each desperate thrust. I thought of the smell of brandy on his breath, the dark scent emanating from his skin, and I pushed my arm over my mouth, biting down to hide my gasps of pleasure, imagining him grinding into me again and again until I begged him to stop. But he kept on coming, and as the dim light of early morning flooded the pantry, so did I.

  Chapter Eight

  Bright sunlight glinted on Grant’s hair as he chewed absently on the last of his toast, his eyes glued to a sheet of paper in his hands. I stood by the buffet, planted to the spot, watching his steady movements. He even ate with military precision, circling the corners of the bread before biting into the middle. He lifted his cup toward me, his gaze never breaking from the scrawl on the parchment.

  “Tea,” he demanded.

  Wrapping my hands around the warm teapot, I poured the steaming liquid into his cup, being careful not to spill. My stomach grumbled, and I grimaced at the sound.

  “Have you eaten, boy?” His eyes never lifted from the sheet of paper in his hands.

  “No, sir. Not since…” I tried to recall the last time I ate, but nervousness and sheer exhaustion had turned my insides to knots. “I haven’t, sir.”

  “Sit.” He nodded to the chair on the other side of the table, but I hesitated.

  He let the paper fall to the table. “It’s not out of the ordinary for the cabin boy to dine with the Captain if it pleases him. I did the same myself as a lad.”

  I slipped into the seat, wincing at the soreness on my bum. Sucking in my breath, I perched on the edge of the chair, placing a napkin on my lap.

  “You were a cabin boy?” I said through gritted teeth.

  It was difficult to imagine the hard, stoic man as anything else, as if he had hatched out of an eagle’s nest, tightly muscled and fully formed with a tricorn hat on his head.

  He picked up another sheet of paper out of the high stack at his elbow. “Long ago. That is how my career began.”

  I leaned forward. “You mean you didn’t start out as an officer?”

  His blue eyes stared at me from above the parchment. “You mean like your Lord Brighton? No. Not everyone has the wealth and rank to enter leadership positions without merit.”

  I glanced down at the tablecloth, studying the delicate lace patterns swirling around my plate. So the Captain was a commoner. Interesting.

  He waved his hand at the bread and jam. “Eat. You will need your strength today. McKellan will have chores for you.”

  I crammed a piece of warm bread into my mouth, seeds from the strawberry jam settling into my teeth. I swallowed, wiping my lips with my napkin.

  “But Johnny wasn’t lucky, was he?” I said.

  The Captain set down his paper, peering at me with an arched eyebrow.

  I shrugged. “I mean to be taken by the French like that.”

  He nodded, returning to his letter.

  “Did you know Lord Brighton? Did he ever…” I swallowed hard. “Did he ever speak of me?”

  Grant shook his head. “He served in another ship in Redmill’s squadron. I met him only once, so I am afraid the extent of my knowledge of him came from idle rumors.”

  I paused between bites. “Rumors?”

  “Eat your breakfast and report to the quartermaster for orders.” He filed his papers in his hands and stomped over to his wide desk before retrieving his hat. “That is enough chatter from you for one day.”

  I took another bite of bread and then cleared the breakfast things, my mind whirring with what he had meant by “rumors.”

  The hot sun prickled the bare skin on the back of my neck as I ran across the deck toward the quartermaster. He frowned, the flames in his black eyes stopping me short.

  “O’Brien, ye little shite, ye think ye’re on holiday?” he barked, tobacco-stained spittle peppering my cheek. “Ye think we’re off looking for buried tr
easure?”

  “No, sir.” I stared straight ahead, thinking of what Grant had told me. Don’t shrink away. Don’t cower.

  McKellan rapped me on the side of my head, and I staggered backward, my ears ringing.

  “I expected ye on deck an hour ago, boy!” he roared in my face. “Don’t ye be faffing with the Captain’s business. Ye be quick about it and make sure ye don’t skimp on yer duties topside, ye hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He shoved a mop and bucket into my hands, the filthy water sopping over my chest.

  “Mop the deck, ye useless whoreson, or we’ll tie a rope on yer ankles and use ye for sharkbait.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Grasping the mop, I set to work, the sun’s rays beating on the back of my neck. After hours of scrubbing, my arms felt like they might fall off, but I bit my lip through the pain, refusing to pause for even a moment. I dunked the mop into the soapy water and sopped it over the deck, the monotonous back and forth motion giving me relief from the orchestrated chaos of the ship.

  A dark shadow crossed my path and grabbed the mop out of my hands.

  “Hello, boy.”

  I glanced up, and my stomach flipped. Lieutenant Andrews stood in front of me, a leering grin plastered over his face. Giving him a curt nod, I reached for my mop, but he extended it out of my reach.

  “I hope the Captain gave you ample punishment last night.”

  My teeth ground in my skull, and I narrowed my eyes up at him. Sure it was none of his business what the Captain and I did, and as his subordinate, he should know that.

  “The Captain is fair,” I muttered.

  Andrews arched an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. “Did he seem to take pleasure in it?”

  Some glint of hesitation must have flashed in my eyes, because Andrews threw back his head and laughed. He ran his fingers through my cropped hair, and I flinched away, his mere touch sending a wave of nausea through my belly.

  “Grant always had a soft spot for his cabin boys,” he said.

  The blow came before I could even move. With one whirring arc, Andrews brought the end of the mop across my backside, sending me sprawling forward on my hands and knees. Sweat poured down my face, darts of pain shooting up through my arms as I gasped, trying to scramble away. Blood roared in my ears, and the sound of bellowing laughter surrounded me. Andrews brought the mop down again, and I let out a cry as it broke flesh, a trickle of hot blood falling between my legs. I reached out, trying to escape, and my hand fell on something hard and metal. Without a thought, I turned and threw the water pail savagely at Andrews. It bounced against his forehead with a metallic thud, dousing him head to toe with grey water.