He shook his fist at Grant who sat cold and placid, an awkward grimace plastered on his hard-lined face. Beneath the table his knuckles cracked with tension, and he flashed me a dark stare, as if he could will me to leave the table.
I lifted my chin in challenge, mischief flickering in my belly. Perhaps it was the wine, but some flash of rebellion surged through me, reveling in Grant’s discomfort, his loss of control. Shifting in my seat, I turned back to McGregor, trying to ply more secrets from the Surgeon about the mysterious commander. “You sound like you’ve known the Captain for a long time.”
“Near twenty years now. Balls of steel, this one.” The Scotsman nodded to the Captain. “You’d do well to learn from him.”
“Certainly not when it comes to drinking, if that’s all the Captain can stand.”
Grant tensed beside me.
McGregor howled with laughter, banging his fist on the table. “Och, ye best be careful lad. That’s a challenge yer no likely to win.”
I raised my hands in the air, flashing the doctor a wide smile. The heat radiating from Grant’s body emboldened me, and I wanted to push this as far as it would go, his rage stirring a strange recklessness in me that felt as hot and erotic as our bath earlier.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I said.
The Surgeon’s eyes twinkled, and he threw his head back and laughed. Pointing at me, he leaned in to Grant. “Where did ye pick up this cheeky lad? I like him!”
The Captain stared straight ahead, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “He is impertinent and out of turn.”
I nodded, raising my fork and tucking back into my dinner. “Fair enough. I do see how an Englishman might be intimidated by an Irishman when it comes to drinking, Mr. McGregor.”
The Scotsman bent over with laughter, some of his wine spilling on his coat. “Did ye hear this one, Grant? I think ye might need to take this laddie down a peg or two.” He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Or twenty.”
The Captain turned to me with a deadly stare. “It would seem so.”
I gave him a sly smile, reveling in Grant’s disapproval. But there was something else, something I couldn’t quite name. Freed of petticoats and pretty manners, I shifted in my seat and ran my hand through my short hair, the desire to prove myself as equal, as good and strong as any man, sent sparks of anticipation through me. In my trousers and oversize coat, I didn’t have to back down. Not this time.
“A contest!” McGregor bellowed, pushing his polished plate away. “I know ye have some rum here somewhere, Grant. Let’s get this boy good and initiated.” He rushed off toward the buffet, clattering through a cabinet.
“What are you doing?” the Captain growled through gritted teeth.
“Being a cabin boy.” I gave him my best doe-eyed stare, raising my wineglass in honor to his fleeting control over the situation.
“You must stop this nonsense,” he hissed.
McGregor returned, a great bottle of rum sloshing in his surgeon’s hands. Three glasses clicked on the table, and he poured them full of the spicy alcohol.
“Cheers, lad!” He raised his glass and threw it back, nodding at me to do the same.
I reached for the glass, but Grant’s hand closed over mine. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Right, Captain,” I said, leaning back in my chair and waving to McGregor. “I would not want to embarrass you in front of the company.”
The Surgeon bellowed and pushed the glass of rum toward me. “Och, aye,” he panted as he laughed, taking off his spectacles and wiping tears from his eyes.
“Very well,” Grant spat, lifting his hand from mine.
I took a deep breath and tipped the glass to my lips, the spicy liquor stinging my tongue before leaving a trail of fire down my throat. I coughed, bile rising up through my chest, but I swallowed it down, banging the glass on the table.
“That’s good,” I gasped.
“Aged in oak. Only the finest for Captain Grant.” McGregor nodded at Grant’s glass. “Having second thoughts?”
The Captain squinted, picked up the rum, and swallowed it with one gulp. He didn’t even flinch at the straight liquor, but gently set his glass down on the table and waved his hand. “You were saying?”
McGregor grinned and filled the glasses again. We clinked in cheers, drops of rum spilling on my thumb before I slugged it back. I blinked, swallowing hard and doubling over with a choking cough.
Grant slapped my back. A wee bit too hard.
I nodded, waving his hand away.
“Let it out, son,” McGregor barked. “There ye go.”
He poured again, a wide smile pasted on his face, his cheeks flushed.
My hand hesitated over the glass, the room starting to blur around the edges.
“Bottoms up,” Grant demanded.
I jumped at the sound of his stern voice and kicked back the shot. This time the rum went down smoother, a numbness flooding through my arms. Smiling up at McGregor, I held out my glass again, and he filled it once more.
“Now there was this one time,” the Surgeon began again, “where we had dropped anchor in Greece, and they have that…” He snapped his fingers. “Grant, what’s that liquor they drink over there?”
“Ouzo.”
“Ouzo!”
McGregor poured another round, and I sank into my chair, a calming warmth settling on my shoulders and spreading through my weary bones. For the first time since leaving Ireland, my neck muscles relaxed, and the constant gnawing feeling in my stomach subsided. I glanced over at the Scotsman across the table, studying his salt and pepper hair, his overgrown beard, his sharp nose. Beneath those spectacles, he wasn’t bad-looking at all. He slammed another shot of rum. No ring, I noted before throwing back my own.
“Now in Rhodes, there was this whore who could do this thing with her—”
Grant cleared his throat, slamming the glass on the table.
McGregor raised his hands and looked to the ceiling. “I’m just telling the lad a story. Broadening his education, ye ken?”
I leaned in, holding out my glass for more rum. “She did what with her—?”
The Captain kicked me under the table again, leaving a mark for sure. Grinding my teeth, I kicked him back, and he stifled a grunt. He grabbed my thigh, and I swiped his hand away, but he reached for me again, locking his fingers on my knee, flashing me a dangerous stare.
I raised my glass at him and grinned, flinging the shot back with a satisfied gasp at the end. Grant gripped his rum and narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass before swallowing the liquor with one smooth flick of his wrist.
“So there was this woman,” McGregor began again, “a woman of great skill. She was a verrah talented lass with verrah flexible appendages if ye ken my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said with feigned innocence, flinging back another shot.
Grant dug his fingers into my knee in a warning, but I held out my hand for more rum.
“Can we please keep some modicum of respectability in the conversation, McGregor?” Grant said in a low voice. “O’Brien here is not as worldly as you are.”
I arched an eyebrow at the Captain, remembering how his hands had traveled over my body, teaching me quite a few new things about the ways of the world.
“Och, well,” McGregor said. “If it’s respectability the Captain’s looking for, well, let’s just say she had the biggest…” He held his hands out in front of his chest, but then brushed them up against his cheeks, waggling his fingers. “…eyes you’ve ever seen. With thick, thick…”
Grant made a low sound in his throat.
“Eyelashes!” the Scotsman bellowed.
Another bright, feminine peal of laughter burst from my lips, numb from the alcohol. Grant’s fingers dug tighter into my thigh, urgent and bruising, but I was far from feeling much of anything in that moment.
A wistful look came over the Surgeon’s face. “And her eyes were bright green.” He leaned in, study
ing me hard, and his voice softened. “Like yours, actually.”
The Captain bolted up, knocking the glasses over. He made a choking sound in his throat, his palm plastered to his mouth as he heaved. Racing to his chambers, he turned into the doorway, and a loud retching sound filled the quarters.
“Och, no! We have a man down!” McGregor stood up, thumbing his lapels. “Ye getting soft in yer old age, laddie!” he called into the bedroom, shaking with laughter. Throwing back one last shot, he grinned down at me. “Take care of the poor drunken sot. Ye’ve won the day, young O’Brien. There will be no living with him now.”
I nodded, bracing myself to stand up and go see to the Captain. The door to his chambers suddenly appeared very far away, and I squinted, trying to focus. The Surgeon waved a silent good-bye to me, still laughing as he shut the door closed.
Stumbling from the table, I staggered across the room on heavy feet, bumping into the buffet with a hard thud.
“Dammit all,” I muttered, rubbing my side.
Rounding the corner to his bedroom, I stalled in the doorway, gripping the doorknob for dear life as my stomach rolled. I sought out the sick Captain, expecting to see him passed out on the floor, but my eyes focused on his large form standing in a corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest.
“You were sick,” I slurred, pointing at him with a giggle. “So I win.”
He darted across the room in two steps and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against his warm chest, rubbing my nose in his shirt. He smelled like salt and ocean and sweat, and the strange urge to lick his skin came over me. I giggled again, holding onto his arms, his biceps rippling beneath my grasp.
“You have the biggest musshels.” I laughed harder. “Goodness, I said musshels…”
He gave me a little shake, and I let out a gasp as he picked me up by my wrists and dragged me to a chair.
“I was not sick, you little chit,” he growled. “I faked it to avoid McGregor finding you out.”
My mouth gaped open. “He had no idea!”
“Are you so sure?” Grant towered over me. “The way you batted your eyelashes at him, you might as well have taken off your trousers and exposed yourself to him completely.”
I shook my head, which was a terrible mistake as the room began to tilt sideways, and I wondered what was keeping the furniture nailed down as the walls spun around me. Squinting and clutching onto the chair, I stood up and faced Grant. “It wouldn’t be the first time I took off my trousers and exposed myself to someone.”
The Captain blanched, his eyes glittering.
I let go of the chair and shifted forward. “Do you treat all your cabin boys that way, or is it just me?”
He eyed me from head to toe and shook his head. “You take one step closer to me, and I will show you exactly how I treat cabin boys who drink too much and forget their place.”
His words fell over me like a mantle, dark and soft, and I knew I should have run away from him, escaped from the room as fast as I could, but some shadowy part of me wanted to know his violence and his power. The limits to what he was capable of doing and what I was capable of taking.
I took a step forward.
“Stop,” he said.
I took another step. “Or what?”
I stood close to him, so close I could smell the rum on his breath, feel the heat pulsing from his body. Placing my hands on his chest, I steadied myself, running my fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Or what?”
My lips grazed his neck, but he stood there, unflinching, the tiny hairs on his smooth skin rising, his muscles tense. My hands danced on the edge of his trousers, fingering the brass buttons, the only thing standing between me and that incredible cock of his.
“Or what?” I whispered.
He grabbed my hand and dragged me to the door. “You will find out soon enough, boy.” Leaning into me, his breath felt hot and ragged against my ear. “I will not punish you drunk, but you better prepare yourself for tomorrow.”
He pushed me through the threshold with a savage shove. “Go sober up.”
And with that, he slammed the door in my face.
Chapter Ten
I woke up early the next morning, the light outside the iron-paned windows a pale blue thread on the horizon. Massaging my pounding temples, I swallowed the ball of cotton in my throat, the spicy taste of rum still lingering on my tongue. I replayed the events of last night in my head, my cheeks flaming at my saucy words, the way my hands had grazed over Grant’s belt buckle. What had come over me?
Smoothing my hands over my close-cropped hair, I took a deep breath, replaying all the reasons I sat in this tiny pantry on this bloody English warship: Dunraven. My mother. Freedom. Centuries of tyranny, and I had one chance to make things right again. The Captain’s stern voice, his blazing eyes, were a distraction to all that, and I had to keep myself together if I was going to survive this ordeal.
Grant’s words haunted me.
Prepare yourself for tomorrow.
I had signed my own death warrant with the man for sure, and I needed to find a way to make it right. Padding across his quarters, I sneaked into the Captain’s private chambers, grabbing his discarded clothes and boots. I scampered out, shutting the door behind me without a sound before setting to work making sure everything was pressed and polished. Then I crept through the ghost ship, brushing past a few lonely sailors switching watch before stumbling into the galley for Grant’s breakfast.
By the time the Captain emerged, his face frowning and drawn, I stood planted by the table, his clothes and boots in my hand, his meal neatly laid out on the table.
He nodded and turned around, expecting me to follow him back into his chambers. He didn’t say a word as I dressed him, and the whole time my hands trembled as I slipped the linen material over his vast shoulders, brushed his coat, handed him his hat. He folded it beneath his arm and marched out of the room without even a glance at me.
My palms sweated and my stomach churned. Perhaps he had forgotten about the punishment and we could go on as before, quietly coexisting until I found Johnny and forced him to marry me. I didn’t understand why I felt so afraid, so anxious at the towering giant, but I remembered the cold look in his eyes from last night, and I shivered.
He ate his breakfast, and this time his eyes concentrated on a series of several maps. He would lay them out in various configurations and then move them around again, as if he were trying to solve some intricate puzzle. I stood by the side table the entire time, only approaching him to pour more tea.
Throwing his napkin to the side, he stood up and faced me, his face calm like the sea before a storm.
I met his gaze, my skin prickling and itchy beneath my clothes.
“When I give an order, I expect it to be followed,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Last night, your disobedience, your insolence, your sheer brazenness put you at risk. And that puts me at risk.” He stepped forward. “Which puts my ship at risk.”
I remained still, my fists clenched at my sides.
“This is not a game. We are at war.” He cornered me against the side table. “Turn around.”
I swallowed hard, lifting my eyes to meet his gaze. “Sir?”
“I gave you an order, boy.”
Swallowing hard, I turned around, his breath hot against the back of my neck. Wetness burst between my legs, and I shuddered as his hands grabbed the waistband of my trousers. I wanted him to control me, bend me over and take me hard. I wanted his ruthlessness and his cruelty, and it shocked me how much I craved it from him. Perhaps this was why I had behaved so carelessly last night, because in some dark, wanton place in my body, I knew his discipline would be the result. This man was driving me into sheer madness, and I shut my eyes and bit my lip, conjuring up visions of Dunraven in my mind. But all I could imagine were the chiseled muscles on his chest, his cock, firm and ready between my thighs.
“Grab the edge of the table,” he command
ed.
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled down my trousers, the cold morning air sweeping across my skin. Then his hand gripped my hip, and I let out a small moan from the hot brand of his fingers clutching tight to my flesh. I spread my legs wider, and Grant shifted himself against my body, his hard cock straining inside his trousers, brushing rough against my backside.
“Do not cry out,” he warned.
“I won’t, sir.”
“You want to dress like a man, you will take a man’s punishment.”
“I will, sir.”
Slap.
A scream choked in my throat, and I doubled over the side table, my fingernails digging into the wood to keep my knees from giving out.
Slap.
My flesh stung from the blow, the heat from his pummeling hands radiating through my legs, through my core. I dripped with desire, the pain awakening a carnal yearning inside me as I leaned forward, bending my hips higher to meet his palm. The white hot heat tore through me, destroying me, but I wanted it. I had always wanted it.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
The sharp sound of his hand against my flesh sang through his chambers, and this time I nearly broke in two with release, my bound breasts jammed against the table, my chest heaving. He slapped me again, but then his fingers trailed down the curve of my arse, sweeping past the tiny hole he had explored yesterday, to seek out my inner folds. With a slow, creeping closeness, he settled his hand near my opening, teasing me.
He leaned over me, his voice thick. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes, sir,” I gasped.
“You want my cock inside that secret little cunt of yours, don’t you?”
“Yes…”
He slipped a finger into my slit, and I let out a long, shuddering exhale.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moved another finger into me, slipping back and forth through my slick folds. I whimpered, soft mewling sounds escaping my lips as he moved me to the edge. “What do you want? Tell me.”
“I want your cock inside me, sir.”
His fingers moved faster, playing me, drawing out my release. “And what are you going to do for it?”
The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines) Page 8
