Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  But he wasn’t moving, only studying her with eyes that were narrowing in suspicion.

  “Did Prudence put you up to this?”

  She turned her face away and struggled to put on her petticoats.

  “Damnation, did she?”

  It was a thunderous voice, cold and vibrant with anger. For Maria, it was too much. Forsaking her efforts to don her clothes, she threw them to the ground, sank to her knees, and buried her head in her hands. Tears leaked between her fingers and watered the apple blossoms on which she knelt.

  “God’s bloody teeth,” Sam muttered, pulling her into his arms. This time she didn’t struggle but huddled there, sobbing quietly. “If Prudence didn’t put you up to this, then who did? A friend? An enemy? Why’d ye do it, Maria? Why’d you lead me to believe you were some accomplished temptress playing a game of innocence?” He turned away, gritting his teeth. “And why the hell didn’t you stop me?”

  And in between broken sobs, choking hiccups, and a stream of tears, she told him about Jonathan and the plan to make him jealous enough to marry her, of Thankful’s assurance that one kiss would make him—Sam Bellamy—fall in love with her. She wept out her heart and her loss of innocence, soaking his chest with her tears and huddling within the protection of his arms like the lost child she was.

  The moon was beating a retreat into the western sky by the time she finally quieted. And Sam Bellamy, who’d always fancied himself a heartless rogue, was seized by a flash of honor that, three hours ago, he would’ve denied existed within his black and godless soul. He looked down at her bent head, the nagging voice of his conscience telling him that if he were truly as wicked as he liked to think he was, he’d succumb to her innocent charms and take her once more.

  But he didn’t.

  “It seems we’ve both been the victims of a cruel joke,” he murmured. Pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he dabbed at her cheeks, patting them dry with a tenderness he didn’t know he had. His voice softened, became almost teasing as he tried to console her. “Now stop crying, princess. Rant at me, curse me in a dozen languages, but please, don’t cry. I can take anything but tears. Anything. Besides,” he added, “things aren’t so bad.” He shut his eyes, knowing he was going to regret this. “I have a plan of my own.”

  Woodenly, she looked up, shame dulling her eyes. “There’s nothing more that you can do for me.”

  But ah, there was, he thought. He’d ruined this shy colonial maid. She’d never find a husband without her virtue. There was that flash of honor again, tormenting him when he wished with all his black heart that it would go away and bother someone else. A wife was the last thing on earth he needed—or wanted. But what did it matter, anyway? It wasn’t as though he’d have to be saddled with her; soon he’d be gone from Eastham, leaving her with only his name. But it would be enough.

  That satisfied both his black heart and his newfound sense of honor.

  “Nonsense, lass. There’s plenty I can do for you. I may not be your Jonathan, but I’m an honorable man.” And then, with a teasing light in his eye, he tipped her chin up and looked down into her face. He brushed the last tears from her cheeks with calloused thumbs and forced her to meet his gaze when she would’ve looked away. “We’ll marry, Maria. And when I come back from the tropics and the hold of my ship is bulging with treasure from the Spanish galleons, I’ll take you away and make you a princess of a West Indies island. A real princess. Ye’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  The brief spark of hope in her eyes died. She stiffened within his arms, looking at him as if he were a wasp that had just stung her. “Marry you?” She pushed back and away from him. “I don’t even know you!”

  “Maria, think of your reputation. My name is good. I only wish to spare you shame and humiliation.”

  “I know what you want, and it’s not me.” Her fingers fumbled with the tapes of her petticoats, struggled to button her jacket. “When I marry, ’twill be for love, not because someone feels sorry for me. Go away, go make your fortune, go make someone else your ‘princess,’ someone who’s smart enough not to let herself be taken and dirtied. Do you understand? Do you?” And then her small hand came up and dealt him a stinging slap to the side of his cheek.

  Before the surprise left his eyes and his mouth tightened in frustration, she was gone. Only the forgotten basket of flowers at his feet was left to remind him that she’d ever even been there.

  With a heavy sigh, Sam bent and picked it up. He studied it for a moment, then stared off toward the woods where she’d fled. Absently, he tapped a finger against the woven handle. It was just as well, really. The years he’d spent at sea, his command of a privateer during the war—they’d not taught him about survival for nothing. He recognized danger when he saw it.

  “The hell with it,” he muttered, tossing a wilted little blossom to the wind. It was high time he got the hell out of Eastham.

  Chapter 3

  For she is what my heart first awaking

  Whispered the world was; morning light is she.

  — Meredith

  It was raining again when Sam opened his eyes the next morning. Sighing, he threw back the heavy woolen coverlet. No sunrise today, and it had grown cold overnight. The chill spring air shocked his body to life and shivering a bit, he turned his head upon the pillow to gaze out the window. The wind hadn’t changed; one of those wretched little Cape Cod scrub oaks scratched against the panes, and its branches were all bent westward. The word that he used to greet the new day was a curse.

  “Damnation.”

  He’d be stuck in this hellhole for another day then.

  He ought to just close his eyes and go back to sleep. But he didn’t. From downstairs came the sounds of the awakening inn: a sleepy fire being stirred to life, the booming laughter of the innkeeper, the clang of a pail. He could smell something cooking; fish, maybe? And bread. His stomach gave a pleading growl.

  But the real reason he didn’t want to go back to sleep had nothing to do with breakfast, nor the fact that he had a million things he ought to be doing. It was because he’d spent a restless night plagued by dreams that, in the gray light of day, seemed no less real.

  Dreams…of an ethereal woman of moonlit beauty; a woman whose hair was silk between his fingers, whose sweet curves and untried flesh made him forget Spanish treasure galleons, turquoise waters, doubloons of gold and bars of silver…a woman who had lain in his arms, clinging to him, sobbing—

  His eyes shot open. It had been no dream.

  The room cringed beneath his curses as he lunged out of bed and stalked across the braided mat that covered the rough-hewn floor planking. Miraculously, his cheeks and chin survived both the fervor of his attacks on them with the razor and the anger that animated his use of the linen someone—that bloody Prudence, probably—had left folded beside the bowl and pitcher. Damnation. He hadn’t been dreaming. She’d been real all right, and he could only guess what would be waiting for him when he ventured downstairs.

  The constable, no doubt. An avenging papa with a loaded musket. Maria Hallett herself, with the decision to accept his oh-so-honorable offer of marriage….

  “Damnation!” he snarled again.

  But he’d never been one to run from anything. He dressed and headed down the narrow, steep flight of stairs, determined to face whatever this day might bring.

  But there were no constables, angry fathers, or visions in white awaiting him; just a warm fire, a room that reeked of stale tobacco and ale, and a serving wench who was doing her best to catch his eye.

  She sauntered over with an inviting smile, her eyes bright beneath her starched mobcap. “Breakfast, Captain?”

  He sank into the settle beside the hearth and held his hands out toward the fire to warm them. “Aye, and a good mug of hard cider, too, if ye have it.”

  She brought the cider first. He downed it and handed the empty mug to her. The fire in the hearth warmed his skin; the cider, his cold, hungry belly. But he didn’t see th
e flames, didn’t appreciate the bracing tipple and when it came, barely tasted the hearty breakfast of salt fish and buttered eggs, piping hot bread and bean porridge. How could he, when his mind was torturing his body with memories of last night, memories that were bringing his cock awake with stunning alacrity?

  A walk. He had to get out of here, had to get some fresh air to clear his head. He wolfed down a second helping of bread, chased it with another mug of cider and jamming his three-cornered hat onto his head, stalked toward the door like a sullen wolf.

  The serving wench stared at him as he passed, suggestively angling her hip his way, but Sam ignored her. He was fed up to the teeth with alluring females—and this one, compared to what he’d had last night, was far from alluring.

  But then, any woman would be after Maria Hallett.

  He slammed the door behind him with such force that upstairs, it woke Paul Williams to reminders of last night’s indulgence and set him to cursing in agony. Sam stood for a moment in the drizzle. Overhead, the clouds were moving swiftly, tumbling over one another as they moved inland and dragging thick tendrils of wet, clammy mist with them. He was fed up with this Cape Cod weather, too. But the fresh, tangy scent of the sea moved like a live thing in the wind, the errant drops of rain that slashed against his cheeks cleared his head, and he was suddenly glad of the dreary day as he moved through the woods and headed east, leaving Billingsgate and the bay behind and walking across the Cape’s narrow forearm toward where the Great Beach of Eastham faced the open Atlantic.

  As he neared it, the rain tapered off and the trees thinned, too cowardly to withstand the ocean’s harshness save for a brave little scrub pine here, a stunted oak there. His stride quickened as he crossed bleak, barren moors carpeted with bayberry, poverty grass, and spurge that crawled everywhere in a gallant attempt to hold down the wind-driven sand. Beach pea and cocklebur grew in wild abandon. The wind was brisk here, the scent of the sea, strong. He could see the frothy, gray line of it just over the last reaches of the windswept tableland now, could hear the hiss and roar of pounding surf. And just as it had done when he’d been a lonely little boy walking the beaches of Devon, the sight of it stirred his blood now and made his heart ache with longing.

  Untamed beauty….

  Like Maria Hallett.

  He shut his eyes on a curse. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never been one to dwell for any length of time on a woman.

  At the edge of the tableland he stopped. Beach grass rippled in the wind, and beneath his feet, the land dropped abruptly in a hundred-foot wall of gold and cinnamon-colored sand to the shore below. It was a gull’s view, this; the sea stretching away to the north, the south, and forever before him. The wind tore caps from the waves, made the swell of tide pulse like a living thing, and thrust the tang of salt—and the stench of something burning—deep into his nostrils.

  Burning? It was a ghastly smell, too. And peering down over the cliff, Sam saw the cause of it.

  No. Not again. He pressed his sleeve to his eyes, successfully blocking the sight—but not the smell. But it was her, no doubt about it, though what she was doing down there on the beach, burning something that made brimstone smell like the finest of French perfumes, he couldn’t imagine.

  Just as he’d been last night, he was drawn to her, though the stench was doing its damnedest to drive him clear back across the peninsula to Eastham proper. He picked his way down the cliff, the surf’s roar drowning the hiss of falling sand. She tossed something onto the fire. Still, she didn’t see him, but the shaggy horse that stood nearby did, and so did the big brown-and-white dog that suddenly rose to its feet and stalked toward him, hackles up and teeth bared.

  It was a pointer, and Sam consoled himself with the fact that pointers didn’t bite. But of course this one did, springing forward and sinking its pearly whites straight into his calf.

  His howl of pain and outrage brought Maria’s head up with a snap and she whirled, her hand going to her mouth in horror.

  Her gaze collided with his.

  His dark, furious, and very dangerous one.

  “Oh!”

  Sam Bellamy. Shame, embarrassment, and a thousand other emotions flooded Maria, along with the memories of last night. What was he doing here? And oh, he looked fit to kill something, maybe poor Gunner, who had moved protectively close to her calf and was now growling deep in his throat.

  “By the gods, woman, call that damned beast to heel, would ye?” Bellamy roared as the dog left his post and began approaching him once more, head lowered and hackles raised. He drew his pistol. “I happen to value my leg, mind you!”

  The sight of the flintlock pointed at her beloved pet shook Maria into action. “Gunner! Gunner, you come here!” She clapped her hands to get the dog’s attention, and still growling, Gunner turned and stalked back to her. She clamped a hand around his collar, not so much to hold him but to anchor herself. The dog was real; she wasn’t at all sure that last night had been. But the lingering ache between her thighs? That was real. So was the peculiar way her heart had begun to pound.

  And the man walking toward her, slowly tucking the pistol back into his belt?

  He was most certainly real.

  Maria held her ground.

  And Sam, his every well-honed survival instinct warning him to turn and walk away, did just the opposite. The dog eyed him coldly as he approached. The girl didn’t look any happier to see him. She held a bleached clamshell in her hand—a pitiful, far less effective weapon than that sniveling canine—and now, she tossed it onto the fire, where it quickly blackened like the heap of others that were already there. Ah, so that was the stench, then. Burning clamshells? Moving upwind of the fire, he squatted down in the sand, stretched his leg out before him, and examined the injured flesh.

  “’Twas a fine pair of stockings,” he murmured absently, and then flashed her a forgiving smile that caused her to frown in confusion and loosen her hold on the dog. Sam froze, but she grabbed its collar just in time.

  “Gunner, that’s enough. Be off with you!” She waved her arm, and giving Sam a last look of cold malice, the dog left them, trotting off toward a pair of gulls picking through the surf a hundred feet away.

  Sam visibly relaxed with Gunner’s departure, but the girl did not. She kept her distance. Her arms were crossed tightly over her breasts, as though holding herself together. Her eyes darted to the side, to the dunes, as though looking for an escape route.

  “I mean ye no harm, Maria Hallett.”

  “The harm is already done.” She looked away. “Please leave me, Captain Bellamy.”

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  Tears filled her eyes and she looked down, poking at the sand with her toe. He saw her gaze flicker, briefly, to his calf, now bleeding through the hole her damned cur had torn in his stocking. Was that concern he saw in her eyes?

  She said nothing.

  And because she didn’t, Sam Bellamy just stood there looking at her.

  By the light of the moon, Maria Hallett had been breathtaking. By that of day, she was nothing short of beautiful.

  She was clad in a blue gown of corded dimity that hugged her slim frame and lay open in front, revealing quilted petticoats as white as fresh snow; a handkerchief was knotted around her neck, discreetly draping the firm young breasts that he’d pleasured just hours before. At her elbows, the rolled-back sleeves of her shift peered out and her small, graceful feet were clad in Indian moccasins. His gaze drifted upward, lighting on her face. Lashes sprinkled with gold dust. High cheekbones and pretty pink lips. Skin that was young and flawless and clear, and eyes the color of the sunlit Caribbean beneath delicately arched brows that seemed to have been brushed on by the hand of an artist.

  And her hair…. As bright and shiny as a Spanish doubloon, tumbling down her back, inviting him to twine it around his fingers and draw her close in a kiss. How soft that hair had been between his fingers. How magnificent that mane—

  Damnatio
n!

  Maria Hallett was a burst of sunlight in the oppressive gloom that was Puritan Eastham, and he would not dishonor her further.

  “Good day to you, Maria,” he said, bowing, and turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  He raised a dark brow.

  She blushed and jerked her chin to indicate his leg. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “My dog…he bit you.”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “I feel responsible. I would have a look at that bite, if you’ll allow it.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Her eyes flashed to his, then away. “I’m a healer.”

  “I see.”

  She moved closer, nervous and guarded, her arms crossed at her chest, her gaze darting away from his. “Actually, it doesn’t look that bad,” she said, quickly stepping back. “In fact, it’s barely bleeding.”

  “’Twill be fine.”

  “But puncture wounds…they can turn gangrenous.” He saw her throat working. Saw her clamp her lower lip between her teeth. “I should probably examine it.”

  “’Tis barely a scratch.”

  But it was more than a scratch, and by her face, he knew she held herself responsible.

  Surely, he could oblige her…wicked deflowerer of young maidens that he was.

  And then he would get up and walk away, leave Eastham, get the hell out of here.

  Maria, however, could not know what he as thinking. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She cast a quick glance about her. The beach was deserted; there was no one to see her. No one here to help her, either, if this man forced himself upon her. But Gunner was within calling distance. And surely no harm could come of examining his leg.

  After all, it was her dog who had bitten him.

  Tell him again to leave, her mind screamed. Remember last night….

  Remember? How could she forget? The feel of those strong, rough-palmed hands gliding over her flesh, the solid, masculine weight of him pinning her against the tree, his lips stealing the very breath from her body and driving her to return his kisses with an ardor that shocked and now mortified her. Her face was steaming; she must look like a fool. Could he hear her heart pounding? Did it matter? If it did, it shouldn’t. After all, it was Jonathan she aimed to impress, not Sam Bellamy. Yet she hadn’t thought of Jonathan at all in the agonized hours she’d lain awake in her bed last night, tortured by shame, consumed with guilt over what she’d done with this handsome stranger. She couldn’t imagine doing those things with Jonathan. She didn’t want to imagine them. And it startled her to realize that making a good impression upon Sam Bellamy did matter—it mattered quite a bit.