Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  “Tea.”

  “Tea? Christ, I’ll bet fish piss tastes better than this godawful—”

  “Sam, please. Your language.”

  “The hell with my language!”

  “You were easier to manage, asleep. I suggest you behave yourself, or I’ll give you something to return you to that state.” Her fingers touched his brow. “You’ve had a terrible fever, and it’s the seawater that broke it. As for the tea, it is bayberry. Brewing the leaves and stems is beneficial.”

  He glared up at her in distrust, but the effort was too much for him after his outburst. He let his eyes drift shut.

  Maria, watching him, let out her breath in relief. He would survive, and that was all that mattered. But she did not remember Sam Bellamy as being so angry. So…so savage. He was a pirate, yes, but was he still the same man with whom she had fallen in love so long ago? The man she had made a baby with? She studied him, his breathing sending little ripples pooling out from where the strong column of his neck rose out of the water, trying to reconcile this man with the gentle, caring one who had once wooed her. His large, masculine form reposed beneath the surface in crystal clarity; it was a form she’d labored over for a week, trying desperately to contain the life that sought to escape it; a form that, since he was awake, now brought a hot flush to her pale, tired features.

  She tried to lighten the moment, plumbing the depths of how much he must have changed.

  “I could go back to the goldenrod,” she mused.

  One eye opened to regard her balefully. “Goldenrod?”

  “Yes, I brewed some yesterday. You were pretty sick; I don’t think you’d remember it.”

  Both eyes were open now, staring at her.

  “Or maybe you’d prefer a different tea,” she added. “I have some that I made from oak bark, another from birch—”

  “Maria.”

  “Or perhaps I should try the elderberry—”

  “Maria.” His eyes began to flash. “I don’t want to know what ye’ve been feeding me, I don’t want to know what crusty mess lurks beneath the bandages on my fingers, and I don’t want—”

  “’Tis a poultice. I made it from plantain leaves to draw out the splinters beneath your nails—”

  His voice, no longer patient, was gaining strength. “—to know what was sliding up and down my cheek a moment before I opened my eyes.”

  At that moment Gunner, who’d been watching this exchange from a rug near the hearth, stood up, and Maria saw the exact moment her patient realized what had been licking his face.

  “Damnation!” he roared, lunging from the tub. “Ye let that damned beast near me?” Water went everywhere, splashing onto the rough-hewn floor and soaking Maria’s petticoats. But strength failed him and he pitched forward, cursing as he fell, there to lay naked in a spreading puddle of cold water.

  “Gr-r-r-r….”

  “Gunner, go lie down.” The dog looked uncertainly between his mistress and the intruder, hackles stiff. “It’s all right. Sam Bellamy is not going to hurt me.”

  But the fury in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I survived a year of piracy, a shipwreck, and your damned ‘cures’ only to have my throat torn out by an overgrown whelp,” he seethed.

  “Your throat is still intact,” she returned. “Though I’ll admit your dignity has been grievously wounded.” She reached a hand down to help him up as the dog padded back to the fire. He managed to stand, towering over her in a display of male flesh and muscle that made her wonder if she was the one who now had a fever, and she saw his eyes drift out of focus with the effort of staying on his feet. The rage had left him as quickly as it had come on, and he leaned heavily against her as she toweled him dry, too weak to even raise his head. She led him across the room to the bed and he sank down onto her mattress, stuffed with cornhusks and straw. As she pulled the thick, warm coverlet up over his chest, his swarthy face, so fearsome just moments before, broke in a faint smile.

  “Tucking me in like a babe, are ye?” he muttered.

  “You need to sleep.”

  His smile spread, slightly wistful. “Nobody, not even when I was a child, ever tucked me in.”

  “Then it’s about time someone started.”

  She adjusted the covers and spread a second blanket over him.

  “You’re forgiven,” he murmured.

  “Forgiven?”

  “Aye, lass. For stuffing weeds down my throat. For drowning me in ice water. For poisoning me with the foulest tea I’ve ever tasted. But not for binding my fingers in two pounds of bandages.”

  “And why is that, Sam?”

  His eyes opened, penetrating her. “Because you’ve robbed me of the pleasure of touching ye.”

  His eyes drifted shut, and he never knew that his words had touched Maria in a way that his fingers could never have done.

  * * *

  When Sam awoke several hours later he felt well enough to notice that which he hadn’t before: his surroundings, the rhythmic roar of the sea outside, the tiny room in which he found himself, and of course, Maria.

  Questions burned in his mind. Survivors. If he’d made it to the beach alive, then surely others had as well.

  And yet he was here, alone.

  He sought a more comfortable position upon the mattress, silently cursing the crackle and rustle of cornhusks beneath him. All he needed was for her to notice he was awake and she’d be shoving more weeds down his throat. Next time he might not be so lucky. Goldenrod? Bayberry? Christ, with his luck it would be poison ivy.

  He watched her through narrowed eyes. She bustled about, replacing bottles and jars filled with God-only-knew-what in the cupboard that dominated one corner of the room, stirring something in a big pot that hung over the hearth, coming over every so often to lay her hand on his brow. He feigned sleep, and obviously satisfied she went about her business once more, humming now, as he secretly watched her.

  Admired her.

  Lusted after her.

  Oh, princess, he thought, wishing he could be doing other things in this bed—not lying in it, sick. This certainly wasn’t the way he’d envisioned their glorious reunion. It wasn’t the way he had dreamed their first hours back together would be. And Maria…oh, she was more than the memories that had kept him awake during the long nights in the Caribbean, more than the beautiful face and torrid fantasies that had driven his success, his aspirations, everything he had amassed in hopes of laying it all at her doorstep. He eyed her, noting the changes in her since they had last seen each other. Her hips had lost their girlish lines and now curved in womanly splendor beneath her tiny waist. Her hair, gleaming like gold in the firelight, tumbled to the small of her back. Such a sweetly rounded bottom, such trim ankles, and such pretty legs, the turn of her calves flowing enticingly into her moccasins….

  She turned then, caught his heated stare—and in that instant he realized that something else had changed about her as well. There was no longer childish innocence in those beautiful eyes, but pain, betrayal, and suffering.

  He opened his mouth to ask what had transpired during his absence, what might have happened to her, but her cheery words cut him off. “Ah, good. You’re awake,” she said, smiling and heading toward the pot. “Are you hungry?”

  For you.

  “Aye, I’ll eat something, as long as it’s real food and not something made from a tree, a clamshell or a weed.”

  She grinned. “Rice gruel. Made just for you.”

  That sounded about as appetizing as plaster on a wall, but he supposed he ought to be grateful for her care. After all, she’d saved his life. Hadn’t she?

  Had she saved others as well?

  Where were they?

  She came to sit on the bed beside him, her slight weight bowing the mattress as she helped him to sit up against the pillows and pulled the blankets—brightly colored ones that he recognized as her handiwork—up over his scraped, bruised shoulders. “Comfortable?”

  “For the moment.”

&
nbsp; He shut his eyes, his stomach recoiling as she dug a spoon into the bowl and nudged it against his lips. But she was right. It was only gruel, and she’d been thoughtful enough to sweeten it with a few drops of molasses. “There,” she said softly, her eyes shining as she gazed down at him. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  That one mouthful awakened his hunger. “Nay, princess.” He grinned. “In fact, I think I might even survive another bite.”

  Maria complied, happy that he was eating. And then her blood went cold. Sam Bellamy might have survived the shipwreck and a raging fever, but if Justice Doane discovered him up here, her efforts would go to naught. Her eyes wandered over his gaunt, handsome face, the scratches on his neck, the ugly, purple-yellow bruises on his shoulders, the gashes in his skin. She had not saved his life only to let him die at the end of a hangman’s noose. Endless treks to the forest to collect pitch from the scrub pines, heating the sticky mess into a salve that she’d spread over his chest in the hopes of keeping his lungs clear. Her battle against the fever, leaving her exhausted as one remedy after another had failed to break it. Her hopes had faded…until she’d looked out the window at the ocean he loved so much, the ocean that had tried its best to claim him—and now offered the only hope she had of saving him.

  She’d lugged buckets of seawater up the cliffs until her back was near to breaking. She’d filled her tub with it. She’d dragged Sam’s feverish, sweat-soaked body off the bed, got him into the tub, and lost count of the hours spent pouring the frigid water over him. And her prayers had been answered; against the mighty will of the sea, the fever hadn’t had a chance.

  Now that he was awake and no longer deathly ill, she could look at his battered form and feel pity. The gashes on his upper arms, the splinters she’d dug from beneath his nails, the bruises, the cuts, the skin scraped raw by a night in violent surf. She thought of all he’d been through, the terror and suffering he must’ve endured. She had come so very, very close to losing him. Tears welled up in her eyes and she hastily blinked them back.

  He looked up then and frowned. “What is amiss, Maria?”

  She made a little noise of disbelief. “You were as good as dead when I dragged you up those cliffs. You almost died this past week. I’m just thinking how grateful I am that you’re alive. That you’re here.”

  “And where, Maria, is ‘here?’” He glanced around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. “I seem to recall that you lived in town. Yet I can hear the sea roaring outside, and I don’t recognize anything about my surroundings.”

  “I live here now, Sam.”

  “Live here? Where? Why?”

  “I’ll tell you, when you’re stronger.”

  His frown deepened. “I am strong, and I wish to know now, Maria.”

  She looked at him, not saying anything.

  He looked back at her, waiting.

  Finally, she sighed and picked at her sleeve. “’Tis my home, Sam. A one-room hut with mud-chinked walls and a roof of thatch, overlooking the sea here upon the Great Beach. What else do you want to know?”

  His ruthless gaze allowed no escape. “Why you’re here.”

  “When you’re better I’ll tell you.” She sat up, reached for the bowl, and began to feed him the gruel once more. She was not ready to tell him what had happened with the villagers, nor about little Charles, and it had nothing to do with his supposed lack of strength. But now his curiosity was piqued, and she saw his brow darkening with anger.

  He reached up and stayed her hand as she brought another spoonful of gruel to his mouth. “Damn it, Maria, I don’t like secrets!”

  “No? Well then, if you don’t like mashed goldenrod either, be quiet and stop asking questions.”

  “You’ll have to threaten me with something more lethal than weeds, lass, to get me to stop!”

  “Sam, please. Can’t you understand? I don’t want to talk about it!”

  “I can assure you that my fragile health can withstand it!”

  “Well maybe mine can’t!”

  He opened his mouth to retort, then fell silent, pushing the gruel away in disgust. Maria hooked her hair behind her ear. Sam gave her a long, menacing look, then gazed about the room, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The silence was weighted. Harsh. Ugly.

  “Are you comfortable?” she asked, awkwardly.

  “Quite.”

  She hugged her arms to herself, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a team of stomping stallions and the coach as well.”

  A long moment of silence. Her gaze roved the scrapes, the gashes, the bruises, and she ached to touch him, if only to spread a healing salve over his wounds. “It must hurt terribly,” she mused.

  “Aye.” He looked at her, his eyes seeing everything. “And ye’ve obviously been running yourself ragged, caring for me.” His voice softened. “Sit down with me. Take a rest.”

  She thought about it for a moment, then sat stiffly beside him.

  He did not apologize. Neither did she. Instead, he reached out and took her hand and they sat together in silence for several long moments.

  “Ye’ll tell me when ye’re ready, I wager.”

  “Yes, Sam. I will.”

  “Kiss me, Maria.”

  “What?”

  “Ye heard me. Kiss me.” As her eyes widened, he added roguishly, “’Twill speed my healing.”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. She leaned down, her eyes closing, her lips seeking the familiarity of his. And they were indeed familiar. During this past week in which he’d lain in this bed so close to death, she’d traced his mouth with trembling fingers, gently kissed it in hopes of finding a response. There had been none. But now, that handsome mouth was wonderfully alive, demanding and warm with life. Now, it sought hers with a passion that had been a year denied and Maria was lost, melting against him as his hands came up to thread through her hair, his bandaged fingers catching in the golden strands. Her senses spun. Her heart pulsed. And beneath her his breathing quickened as his own passion, fully alive and far stronger than his weakened body, responded to her.

  Reluctantly, Maria drew back, fearful of hurting him.

  He quirked a brow.

  “You’re not strong enough yet, Sam.”

  He laughed, incredulous. “What?”

  “I want you to rest, regain your strength.”

  “Don’t you love me anymore?” His smile was teasing.

  “Love you?”

  “Aye. Can ye love a pirate, lass?”

  His words had been cajoling, but beneath them she sensed a piercing need for the truth. Did he doubt her feelings for him? Did he think she hated him because he’d gone off to become the most notorious scoundrel this coast had seen in recent years? Oh, she was angry with him for it, furious even—but she had never ceased loving him.

  She answered his smile with one of her own. “Yes, Sam, I love you.” And then, softly, “I always have.”

  “Then tell me why you’re living here, all by yourself.”

  “You’re just not going to give up, are you?”

  His intense gaze pinned her. “No, I’m not. Tell me.”

  “Later.”

  “No, Maria. Now.”

  She looked at him, his eyes beginning to flash with impatience. Despite his weakened state he was as demanding as a king. No wonder he’d been such a capable leader and captain. And God help her, she did want to tell him everything, every bit of it, but how would he react if he knew he’d fathered a babe? What would he think if he learned she’d been accused as a witch? And worst of all, what would she do if he, like the others, turned away?

  Or worse, took it upon himself to go to the villagers to demand they apologize for their grievous treatment of her?

  They would hang him—a pirate—in a heartbeat.

  She looked at this dangerous, suddenly unfamiliar man who dwarfed her bed and knew there was something else. And that something else was that Maria could not predict his reactions. That she w
asn’t even sure she still knew him. There was a raw savagery about him now, a hard edge, and nothing of the affable gentility he’d displayed when he’d been here before. This was a far different man from the one she’d known a year ago.

  It wasn’t the unruly black mane that flowed to his shoulders, nor the beard that made his swarthy face all the more dark. It wasn’t the hoop of Spanish gold in his ear nor even the imperious manner in which he’d been dressed that gave him away. She looked down into his hard mouth and gleaming eyes and knew instantly what it was. A wildness from within. His was an untamable spirit that had gone unchecked, allowed to run free without restraint, and Maria knew then that while he hadn’t gone looking for piracy, it was inevitable that it had come looking for him.

  Bad blood runs deep. The words of Justice Doane, echoing over and over in her mind.

  He had robbed from good, innocent people. He had stolen ships and probably taken lives.

  And he was here in her bed.

  Did she really know this man? Had she ever?

  She reached for a jar of salve and began to smear it on a gash on his upper arm. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “No, woman, we’ll talk about it now.”

  She drew herself up. “Don’t think to play pirate captain with me, Sam Bellamy. You don’t frighten me one bit. I’ll tell you when you’re fully recovered, and not a moment before!”

  He reacted as though she’d slapped him, his face registering surprise, then shock. Being put in his place, she realized, was definitely not something to which pirate Captain Black Sam Bellamy was accustomed.

  He raised himself on one elbow, glaring at her from beneath a dark scowl. “Maria, don’t coddle me,” he warned.

  “And you, Black Sam,” she said, firmly pushing him back down to the pillows, “don’t threaten me. I told you, I am not afraid of you and your bluster, and need I remind you that Gunner does not like a commotion? Now, lie down and behave yourself. You’ve already made a mess of this salve.”

  His jaw clenched in frustration, he did as she asked, watching her with assessing eyes as she worked the salve into his scratches and scrapes. But she could see the questions burning there, his growing impatience with her, and knew he would not give up.