The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines)

by C. B. Halverson

  His eyes narrowed as if he had come to some decision. “Go on.”

  I nodded, fumbling over the words.

  “Alone, alone, all, all alone,

  “Alone on a wide wide sea!

  “And never a saint took pity on

  “My soul in agony.”

  I groaned out the last word as his fingers danced around my mound, playing with the tiny curls before traveling farther down. Agony was right. With the slightest of touches, he found the small button hidden between my folds, and I threw back my head and arched my back as a thousand darts of pleasure burst through me.

  I gritted my teeth, continuing, staring hard at the words dancing across the page.

  “Instead of the cross, the albatross

  “About my neck was hung.”

  I shook my head and looked up from the volume. “They hung the dead bird around his neck? ’Tis a right odd thing to do.”

  Grant growled.

  I gulped down the lump rising in my throat. “Right, right…”

  Coleridge’s words tumbled from my mouth, something about a chit with rose red lips and a skeleton playing dice. The Captain continued to tease my clit, caressing my folds with a persistent rhythm. I bucked in the chair, my body suffering for release, but the bonds held tight.

  “Shhh…” he whispered, his face moving closer to my opening. “Keep reading.”

  I panted the words of the poem as he lowered his mouth to my slit, his tongue darting back and forth and lapping up the wetness between my thighs. I gripped the book tight, fighting the urge to close my legs, but his shoulders pressed hard against me, locking me in place. He gripped my waist and pulled me closer toward him, his tongue moving fast against my sensitive flesh. Then he entered me, licking my inner walls, and I had to bite down a moan of pleasure. I had no idea a man could do such things with his mouth, and I writhed against the chair as he pushed my bliss to a level that left me blind and panting. My body peaked, my hips moving wildly against his face even as his fingers gripped me, bruising my skin.

  And then…

  He backed away and stood up. His cock filled my vision, bulging beneath his trousers, begging to break free.

  I glanced up at him, breathless, my opening tingling and cold as a draft hit it. My body screamed to be filled, and I folded my hand to mark my page, setting the book in my lap. I had done this. Filled this piece of him with lust. With want. With need. My face flushed with the thought of it, all the blood running to the space between my thighs.

  “Sir…” I whispered.

  He didn’t speak as he unbuttoned his trousers, his cock springing free in his wide hand. It was stiff and impossibly large, a small drop of come slipping down from the tiny slit at the top. I suppressed the urge to lick it, and instead ran my tongue against my dry lips.

  Grant placed a hand on my shoulder. “Do you want this?”

  “Yes.”

  But I had no clue what to do with it. I shifted in my seat, trying to rub my sore clit against the wood as I pressed my mouth to his swollen manhood. He gripped the base and pressed it against my lips, and I had no choice but to take all of him in. His hand slipped to the back of my head and with firm pressure, he guided himself into my mouth until I gagged. He backed away, then slipped forward again, wrapping his fingers in my short curls.

  “Relax the back of your throat, boy,” he breathed.

  Taking a deep breath, I released the muscles in my neck. He made a low, affirming sound as he pressed harder between my lips. My body sang with pleasure at the sound of his moan, and I pushed my lips down on him, creating suction.

  “Yes, you are doing very well,” he said, driving back into me.

  His hand wandered down to my nipple, and he cupped my breast again, this time harder. He rolled my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a firm pinch, the sensation of pain and ecstasy so sudden, his cock almost slipped from my lips. His hand returned to my curls, and he pushed himself in deeper, fucking my mouth, jamming himself into me.

  His other hand slipped down until he reached my core, and he slipped two fingers into me. My release was instant, my mouth clamping on his cock as he rocked my body with his hands, milking me, teasing out the blast of pleasure as it shattered through my belly and out to my limbs. Come built up at the base of his cock, and he groaned and shuddered as it burst in my mouth.

  “Swallow it,” he growled. “Take me in.”

  I gulped it down, and it tasted warm and spicy down my throat. He arched his body over the chair, caging me in with his massive arms. He panted, sweat beading down his neck. Finally, with a long breath, he slipped out of my mouth and stuffed himself back into his trousers.

  I licked my lips, tasting the last salty remnants of him. Through bleary eyes, I watched Grant as he bent down and untied my ankles, massaging the delicate flesh. With one sweep of his arm, he held me cradled close to him for a moment before settling me in the bed. He returned to the chair and picked up the volume of Lyrical Ballads.

  “Will you finish?”

  “I believe I just did, sir.”

  He shoved the book in front of my nose. “The poem.”

  “Aye, sir.” I yawned, taking the volume in my hands and reading through the rest of the poem, my eyes heavy.

  Grant stretched out beside me, a lazy hand smoothing my hair away from my forehead and down my cheek. I snuck glances at him, studying his long legs, his wide chest. I still felt the imprint of his fingers on the back of my neck, the strain of the bonds on my ankles. As exhausted as I was, I found desire kindling in my belly again, the need for his control so addicting my hands trembled as I turned the pages.

  Finally, I read the last line and folded the book shut, resting my head atop its weathered leather binding with a long sigh.

  Grant leaned on his elbow next to me, his fingers trailing up and down my back. “Did you enjoy the poem?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” I flashed him a sly smile. “But I don’t understand why he had to spoil this nice couple’s wedding with this dour story about a dead bird. Seems a bit rude to me.”

  He smiled. “Some say it reflects the Captain’s loneliness, the way he destroys the albatross and must wander the world, forced to tell this tale.”

  I snorted. “Loneliness. ’Tis a man’s curse.”

  Grant’s hand hesitated on my shoulder. “Are you never lonely?”

  I glanced over my shoulder, crossing my ankles in the air. “Of course. But I have better things to do than sit around and talk about albatrosses, you know.”

  “Like find your Johnny.”

  I looked away, the sound of Johnny’s name on the Captain’s lips like a foreign word.

  “Yes, like find my Johnny.”

  The Captain’s hand rested hot on my flank, the air heavy between us.

  “All I’m saying,” I said, beginning again, “is that most women I know don’t have that kind of luxury, to sit around and bemoan our fate. We do what we can with the cards we’re dealt.”

  “And is that what you are doing?”

  “I didn’t get the best hand, Captain.” I sat up to face him. His eyes flitted to my chest, and I suppressed the wave of heat rising in my belly. “But I’m not going to sit around and cry about it. I’m certainly not going to barge into someone’s wedding and tell them some horrible story. Where I come from, if you have a sad story to tell, you should at least have the decency to sing it.”

  The Captain laughed, and my heart warmed at the throaty sound. I didn’t think it was possible the man could laugh.

  “Do you sing?”

  I shrugged. “Sure I do, well enough. I am Irish, you know.”

  He then did the strangest thing. He kissed my neck and collected me in his arms, holding me close. I snuggled up into the hollow of his shoulder, his muscles rippling as he tucked me close against him.

  “Will you sing for me?”

  “It’s late, Captain.”

  “Sing for me.”

  I knew it was wrong, but I
loved his bossy moods, his commanding tones. My body responded to him, and I reveled in that strange sense of no escape, the freedom of only having one task, to please him, make him happy. I opened my mouth, not sure what I would sing, but the lyrics poured out from me, filling the tiny room, the ship rocking us gently in rhythm to the lilting verses. I had grown so used to speaking in such low tones, the clear highness of my voice surprised me, but it seemed to relax Grant, and my body melted into his. I sang a song about a girl who dressed in man’s clothes to board a ship to seek out her young man, lost at sea. Once he discovered her true identity, the Captain fell in love with her and begged her to marry him. She refused and left him, continuing her search for her true love. It was a silly song.

  I grew quiet, singing the last verse in little more than a whisper.

  “A sailor boy I was on ship, but a maid I am on shore

  “Adieu, adieu, dear captain, adieu forever more…

  “Come back, come back, my blooming girl, come back and marry me

  “For I have a good fortune, I’ll give it all to thee…

  “To marry you, dear captain, is more than I can say

  “For it’s for the sake of Johnny, I’ll wander night and day…”

  A tense stillness settled between us, and I stared at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “For the sake of Johnny,” he said, his voice edged in steel. He let out a long exhale and pulled the covers tight around his waist.

  “It’s a very old song. I didn’t write it.”

  Minutes ticked by, and my heart thundered against my rib cage at his horrible silence. Why would I sing such a ridiculous song? Of all the hundreds of songs I knew, why this one? Why now?

  “So does she ever find her man?” The sound of his voice startled me, and I cleared my throat, shifting to my side.

  “I don’t know.” I palmed the crisp sheet in my hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The Captain was a fool to fall in love with her when she was pledged to another.”

  “Hearts can change.”

  My chest tightened, and I closed my eyes as his breath tickled the back of my neck.

  “Can you sing me something in your language?” he asked, his hand lingering on my shoulder.

  I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear my peasant garbage, sir. Don’t pretend to.”

  “Are they more ridiculous love songs about boys named Johnny?”

  “No,” I snapped.

  His fingers dug into my flesh, and he turned me around to face him. “Please. Sing.” The hard angles of his face opened up to reveal a painful rawness, a vulnerability that took my breath away.

  I swallowed hard and bowed my head, curling my arms around my naked chest. The desire to run from him rushed through me, but another part of me, the lonely part maybe, wanted to open up to him, share something of my story.

  “Well, there is this one song,” I said in a quiet voice. “I wrote it about my home, Dunraven. Would you like to hear it?”

  “You wrote a song?”

  “Sure I’m not a complete savage now.” I laughed beneath my breath. “Would you like to hear it or not?”

  He nodded, cupping my head against his neck, his chin resting on the crown of my head.

  So I sang again, in Irish this time, and ’twas a good thing, too, as it was all about freedom and revolution and kicking out English soldiers and military men. Kicking out men like him.

  When I finished, all I could hear in the silent room was the sound of the Captain’s breathing, and I thought he was asleep. His eyes fluttered open and his brilliant blue irises glittered with emotion.

  “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.” He ran his hands through my curls, planting a delicate kiss on my lips. “What does it mean?”

  I smiled. “You’ll have to learn Irish to find out, sir.”

  He looked down, the features of his face falling before he peered up at me again, and for a brief moment I glimpsed the young, vibrant cabin boy he once was. “Perhaps you can teach me some time.”

  I winked at him. “I serve at my master’s pleasure.”

  He rumpled my curls. “The pleasure has been all mine…boy.” He said the last word softly, his hand drifting back to my breast. His thumb brushed against my nipple one last time before I grabbed the gauze and wrapped it back around my chest. I needed to stop this intimacy, this warmness between us. Fucking was one thing, but this connection between us, or whatever it was, couldn’t exist. Not in this world, and probably not in the next, either.

  Grant’s hands spread across mine, and he took over the task. I hitched my breath as he tightened the ends together and tucked them inside.

  Jumping from the bed, I dressed hastily, mumbling something about polishing his boots for tomorrow. I bowed, grabbing them by their large brass buckles, and dashed out the door.Remember Johnny. Remember Dunraven.

  But my body still quivered in the aftermath of the Captain’s touch—a touch that could be brutal and commanding one moment and gentle and attentive the next. For a fleeting second, I wondered what it would be like to serve him always, to go to sea with him, not as his boy, but as his woman.

  I shook my head, knocking that idea right out of my mind. I was Johnny’s betrothed. The future Lady Brighton. No matter what happened aboard this ship, I could never forget that simple fact.

  I set the Captain’s boots on the table, scouring the pantry for shoe polish. I found the tin, but blast if it wasn’t empty.

  Cursing, I slipped out of the Captain’s chambers to seek some polish down in the hold. Even with seven hundred sailors, the ship felt almost abandoned, a few lone men wandering past like the skeleton crew in the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” The only sounds onboard were the creaking of the hull as the waves tossed the ship about and the far-off calls of the changing watch. I raced deeper into the hold, remembering the way the members of the crew died one by one, their bodies dumped overboard. Shivering in the cold, damp air, I staggered into the darkness of the hold, my hands seeking out the shoe polish stored with other supplies.

  My fingers palmed the tin, but a strong hand clamped over my wrist.

  “Hello, O’Brien.”

  A chill settled into the marrow of my bones, and I tried to wrench my arm away. Andrews stood over me, his eyes glittering with predatory glee in the dim light of the hold.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I made a dash for the door, but Andrews sidestepped and blocked my way.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Captain’s little pet.” He folded his arms across his chest and sneered, his eyes dilating.

  My heart pounded, and I backed away, knocking over a crate of apples. They scattered around my feet like billiard balls, and I shrank farther into the shadows.

  “How does our Captain enjoy those pretty lips, boy?” He stepped toward me, backing me into a corner. My hands braced the wall, searching for something I could use as a weapon. My knees buckled as he pressed his body close to mine, and a wave of revulsion cramped my stomach as bile burned in my throat.

  “The Captain doesn’t touch me,” I spat, my eyes flitting around in the darkness. “He’s a good man.”

  Andrews’s hand clamped down hard on my arm. “Liar,” he hissed. “I know he’s been priming that tight little asshole for me.” His other hand dug into my hip.

  “No!” I shouted as he whirled me around, bending me across a crate. I scrambled to get away, but Andrews held on tight, tearing off his breeches and massaging his cock. He pinned me down with one hand while the other pulled down my trousers. Splinters shred through my cheek, and I choked and cried out, snatching behind me at his wrist.

  “Oh yes,” he breathed against my ear. The smell of rum wafted up to my nostrils, and I heaved. I flailed my arms, and my hand brushed against a bottle of ale. My fingers fumbled for the neck and I gripped it tight.

  He kicked open my legs savagely, and went to shove himself in. He hesitated. “What’s this?”

  In that same moment, I brough
t the bottle up behind me in one quick arc. It shattered against his skull, and he staggered back. With just enough space to squeeze away, I hitched my breeches up, racing out of the hold. I barreled through the ship until I reached the Captain’s quarters, slamming the door behind me.

  Hot and sweating, holding the stitch in my side, I collapsed onto my mat in the pantry. I curled up into a ball, my body shaking with violent tremors. Would Andrews remember what he saw after he woke up from his drunken stupor? Would he tell the Captain? Would Grant be forced to arrest me as a stowaway? I took ten deep breaths, placing my hand over my heart and willing it to slow. I had fought enemies before, and I needed to figure a way out of Andrews’s clutches. No matter what the price.

  …

  The next morning I woke early to set out breakfast and dress the Captain. When I entered his chambers, he frowned at me.

  “Have I offended you, Captain?” I said.

  He pointed to his boots, and my shoulders slumped. With everything that had happened with Andrews last night, I had neglected to polish them. My stomach dropped to the floor, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

  “These need to be polished every morning, boy.”

  “I know, sir. It’s just that it was so late last night, and I—”

  “I do not need your excuses, O’Brien.” His face darkened.

  I hung my head low. “I know, sir.”

  “And you knew the consequences of defying my orders.”

  “I did, sir.” I stared at a knot in the wood floor, running my toe over it back and forth. “Are you going to punish me?”

  He towered over me, his breath hot on my neck. “Would you like me to?”

  I nodded.

  “Look at me and say it.”

  The sound of his steely voice in my ear sent a shiver down my spine, and I gasped as his lips brushed against my skin.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I raised my chin and stared into his feverish eyes.

  “Yes. I want you to punish me, sir.”