Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  The scene that greeted her almost shook her resolve. Someone had spread sand over the red-painted decks and Johnnie was running everywhere, fetching ball and shot for the guns and setting buckets of water beside each one. The brig was growing closer and there was Sam, standing at the rail with his back to her and a telescope to his eye.

  Maria strode across the deck like Joan of Arc. Johnnie saw her and froze. Men, hiding beneath the gunwales out of sight of the unsuspecting brig, speculating on its cargo as they nervously fingered their knives and pistols, went slack-jawed at sight of her. Even the British colors streaming proudly from the mast snapped to attention as she passed beneath the flag’s shadow.

  The heavy coat draped her arm, the boots pressed against her breast, the sword dangled from her wrist. Across those sandy decks she marched. Past the guns, the swivels, the weapons chest. Past the staring pirates. Past Nat, who looked at her in surprise, a grenade in his hand. Past the astonished gun crews and boldly up to where Sam, oblivious to her presence, stood watching the brig from the rail.

  “I brought you something,” she announced.

  He turned and stared, frowning in confusion. “Maria, lass, things are about to get hot. Ye shouldn’t be up here.”

  “And neither should you, dressed in those rags. Here.” She held out her well-laden arms, conveying the depths of her apology, of her love, in her eyes. “I think a pirate captain should look the part, don’t you?” She took a deep breath, fearful of rejection. “At least, when he’s going into battle.”

  He looked at her for a long, searching moment. And then he smiled, the grin spreading until his eyes gleamed with a humorous twinkle. He took the coat from her, pulling it on and smoothing its pleated skirts down over his hips. He pulled on the boots, still holding her gaze. And as she handed him his cutlass, a hoarse, ragged sound came up from beneath the shadow of the bulwarks.

  The men were cheering.

  Stripes appeared, his eyes bright and laughing. “Well now, would ye look at this. ’Bout time you two made up yer diff’rences. I tell ye, the lads were a bit nervous, Cap’n, with ye at odds with the witch. Never know what might ’appen to us with ’er riled so.”

  Sam clapped the garrulous young man on the back. “Know something, lad? Ye’re fortunate that my mood has just improved such that I’m willing to overlook such a nonsensical comment.” Grinning broadly, he took the three-cornered hat that Maria offered him and set it on his head at a jaunty, cocky angle. “And if you want to retain my favor, then ye’d best take her below and get her safely settled. For if ye don’t, and she comes to harm here on deck, the consequences ye suffer will be far worse than if she and I were merely at odds with each other.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!”

  Stripes reached for Maria’s elbow, but she had other ideas. Her shining gaze drank in the handsome picture Sam made, standing tall and proud with the broad blue sea at his back. Go below? Oh, no. She’d spent too many lonely, miserable hours there as it was. She wanted to be where she could see him, hear him—and above all, appreciate him. She touched his wrist. “Sam, please, let me stay.” Her eyes were clear, bright, guileless. “I won’t be any trouble.”

  “That’s right. You won’t be any trouble.” Grinning, he hefted the cutlass and slashed the air to loosen his tight muscles. “That’s why ye’ll remain below, Maria. Now off with ye, before ye have the lads forgetting just what we’re about.”

  “Is that the only reason? So I won’t distract the men?”

  His smile was roguish. “The men? Bah! Get belowdecks, woman, so ye don’t distract me!” He turned to the grinning crew. “Now run up the colors, lads! We’ve a prize to take!”

  Chapter 23

  Rich the treasure,

  Sweet the pleasure,

  Sweet is pleasure after pain.

  —Dryden

  “Your glass please, Mr. Paige.”

  They were ten leagues off the New York coast and heading south. Several days had passed since Maria’s escape attempt, and abrupt—and to all concerned, welcome—change of heart regarding Black Sam’s activities. Peaceful days they’d been, too. Maybe a bit too peaceful, Nat Paige thought.

  It had rained during the night and now Nat tore his eyes from the water-swollen halyards, the still-dripping ratlines, the steam that the morning sun pulled from the deck. Black Sam stood at the rail beside him, bareheaded and barefoot, his dark hair swept back in a loose queue threaded with a fiery slash of crimson silk. One hand shaded his eyes as he squinted into the burgeoning sunrise.

  “A sail, sir?” Nat asked, handing him the glass.

  “Aye, perhaps.” Sam extended it and lifted it to his eye. In its circular field, swells danced away toward the horizon, where a few last clouds still lingered stubbornly. He swept the glass to the left. There it was, the distant speck that had caught his eye. But in the glass, topsails just visible above the horizon, it was much more than just a speck. He hadn’t been mistaken after all.

  “Ah.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “A brigantine. Hull-down and wearing French colors.” He lowered the glass, tapped it smartly across his palm, and handed it back to Nat. “You lads are going to have to do better than this, ye know. What sort of pirates let their captain sight a prize first, eh?”

  At that moment an excited cry was heard from high above their heads. “Sail ho! Fine off the larboard bows!”

  Sam threw his sailing master a sidelong glance. “What did I tell ye, eh?”

  The crew came swarming up on deck, some rubbing sleep from their eyes, others cramming their breakfasts into their mouths and swiping away crumbs as they ran to the rail to see the distant ship. Silas West ambled over, tying a kerchief over his scalp to protect it from the strengthening sunlight.

  “Don’t tell me it’s our mysterious follower,” he said, squinting toward the sun.

  Propping his elbows upon the rail, Sam rubbed his chin and studied the distant sails. “Nay, ’tis not. We must’ve lost him during the night, whoever he is. Damned cowardly whelp, I wish he’d show himself. I hate surprises.”

  “So do I,” West mumbled, echoing the sentiments of the small group at the rail. For two days, the sails of an unknown sloop had been sighted on the distant horizon, never coming close enough to actually make a threat, but trailing them all the same. And while it might have made some of them a bit uneasy, for the most part the men of Nefarious had grown more and more cocky with every passing day.

  “Well, if he bothers to show his slinking face before noon,” Sam said, “we’ll come about and show him how it feels to be followed. Keep an eye on that brigantine, will ye, Mr. West? I’m going below to get some breakfast.” He straightened up, tossed what was left of his now-cold coffee into the sea, and made his way aft.

  He found Maria in his cabin, sitting up in bed with fabric in her lap, a threaded needle in her hand, and what looked to be a half-finished gown spread over her knees. She was wearing one of his shirts and beneath that, nothing—or so he hoped. The fabric covered her lap. His stomach was growling, but the sight of her, all morning-fresh with the sun slanting in through the open windows to light her golden hair, drove thoughts of breakfast from his mind. She looked up and gave him her sweetest smile. “Hungry?”

  He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it to the chair. “Insatiable,” he said, not referring to his stomach at all.

  She saw the heat in his eyes. “I told Johnnie to bring your breakfast by at seven o’clock. I mean…six bells.” She put aside the garment she was making.

  Nay, she was wearing nothing beneath the shirt. Instantly aroused, he sat down beside her and pulled her into his arms.

  “We’re having buttered eggs….”

  “I don’t want buttered eggs,” he murmured, his teeth nipping her nape, his breath warm against her neck, her ear, her throat.

  “And cornbread with jam—”

  “I don’t want that either.” His lips found her ear. “Breakfast be damned. Ah, lass, ye feel so good….”

&n
bsp; She melted back into the pillow and coverlet, still warm with the scents of morning and sunshine, and reached for him. Her eyes drifted shut and she moaned softly, helpless beneath the delicious feel of his mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear, kissing the hollow of her throat, brushing across the rise of her shoulder. Big, callused hands smoothed the tumble of hair from her forehead, cleared gossamer strands from her lashes, her cheeks. His thumbs lifted her jaw and he kissed her with all the ardor of a starving man attacking the tray that Johnnie, pausing just outside the doorway, held.

  “Ahem,” the boy said, shuffling his feet and looking down at the steaming plate of buttered eggs, fried bacon, and cornbread. Maria blushed furiously, Sam chuckled, and with good humor, got up to relieve Johnnie of his burden while Maria scrambled to cover herself.

  “Mmmm.” He relieved Johnny of both the tray and a jug of cider. “Looks like the cook’s outdone himself today, eh? God’s teeth, if they keep feeding me like this I’ll never leave the sea.”

  “You’ll never leave the sea regardless of what they feed you,” Maria remarked, but her voice held no rancor.

  “Off with ye now, lad,” Sam said, and Johnnie, blushing himself, bolted from the cabin.

  Maria crawled out of bed and retrieved the hated breeches.

  “Leave them,” Sam said. He set the tray on the table, took the breeches from Maria, and tossed them aside. His gaze roved appreciatively over her figure as he seated her. “I’d like to enjoy your lovely bare legs while I break my fast.”

  “Sam, ’tisn’t proper.”

  “To hell with proper. Sit down and eat your eggs.”

  He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. The table was so small that their knees bumped. They ate, he hurriedly, she picking at her food. She could feel the heat of his dark stare. She could feel her own body, naked below the long hem of his shirt, firing with response at his nearness, his perusal, the thought of what awaited them.

  “For God’s sake, lass, stop watching the door. No one’s going to come barging in.”

  His hand reached beneath the table and began a slow, tantalizing exploration of her kneecap. She glanced up to find him regarding her with a taunting gleam in his eyes.

  “So what changed?”

  She gave him a curious look, then put down her fork. “What do you mean?”

  “Ye don’t seem to hate me anymore.”

  “I never hated you. I was angry, but I never hated you.”

  His hand drifted over the top of her thigh, and Maria sucked in her breath. “Ye know,” he said, grinning wickedly, “I think I know the real reason ye tried to leave me.”

  “I told you why.”

  “No, I mean the real reason. It hasn’t anything to do with being angry with me, being worried about me, or taking revenge on me. I think—” his fingers, tracing a slow circle against the inside of her thighs, made her shiver—“that it has more to do with this.”

  “Yes, the pleasures of the flesh,” she breathed, her eyes slipping shut. “Is it not sinful?”

  “Not when two people love each other.”

  “This particular sin dominated old Reverend Treat’s sermons after you sailed into Eastham,” she managed, catching his hand as it drifted closer to her womanly curls. “You wouldn’t know, of course, since you never set foot inside that church.”

  “And I would not’ve been welcome if I had.”

  “Not by the pastor, at least.” She opened her eyes and gave him a sly grin. “Though the ladies would have loved it.”

  “Ah, the ladies….”

  “Shouldn’t you be topside plotting the capture of that brigantine?”

  “Probably.”

  Her eyes drifted shut again. “I’d hate to see your men depose you for not performing your duties as a captain.”

  “Right now, I’d far rather perform my duties as your lover.” His fingers drifted beneath the shirt hem, parting her curls and stroking once down her slit, until she shuddered. “But first, tell me…why did ye forgive me?”

  “I thought about the things you said. I thought about how close I came to losing you. But mostly”—she got up, came around the table and leaned down to kiss him—“I realized how very much I love you.”

  He grinned. “Enough to overlook the more objectionable aspects of my character?”

  “The more objectionable aspects of your character are what won my heart in the first place. Your boldness. Your charisma. Your recklessness. Besides, you’re kind-hearted and—”

  “Kind-hearted?” He quirked a brow, his eyes gleaming with good humor.

  “Yes, Sam Bellamy, you are kind whether or not you’ll admit it, as well as brave, fair-minded and compassionate—”

  His mouth began to twitch.

  Maria folded her arms with mock outrage. “If you laugh at me I’m going to stomp on your toe!”

  He did laugh then, yanking his foot away as her bare heel thumped down to the deck.

  “And arrogant,” she finished.

  “Arrogant?”

  “You think you’re invincible, that you can conquer the world, don’t you? Stripes told me what you once said to some poor captain whose ship you’d taken shortly before Whydah wrecked—”

  “Stripes needs to mind his damned tongue.”

  “He told me that you said, ‘I am a free prince, and I have as much authority to make war on the whole world—’”

  “‘—as he who has a hundred sail of ships at sea and a hundred thousand men in field,’” he finished, with a distant little smile. “Aye, I did say that. And so what, lass? I do have the authority. To make war on Boston, to make war on England, even, if I so desire. Name one thing that might stop me.”

  “The Royal Navy, for one.”

  He made a scoffing noise of dismissal.

  “That ship that’s been following us, for another.”

  “What, that little pestilence? I hardly think so.”

  “She hasn’t drawn close enough for you to determine if she’s so little.”

  “My dear Maria, I wish ye’d leave the worrying to me.” And with that, he yanked her down onto his lap, causing her to squeal with surprise, and began kissing her. She looped her arms around his neck and lost herself to the kiss, but the niggling worry in the back of her mind persisted.

  When they finally broke it, she looked up into his eyes. “You should go back up on deck, Sam. I would feel much better knowing that you are in command up there.”

  His fingers drifted from the side of her jaw, down her neck, and to the swell of her breasts. “I’ll go, in a bit.”

  “I really do think you should go now.”

  “I’ll stay,” he said, dipping his fingers into the valley between her breasts. He bent and kissed the swell of one of them, then looked wickedly up at her. The little crinkle lines she loved so much danced out from the corners of his eyes. A teasing smile lifted his mouth and framed it in deep, parallel creases of good humor that only emphasized the strength of his chin and roguishness of his smile. “I’ll stay,” he repeated, his eyes brooking no argument.

  And then he got to his feet, easily scooping her up with him and holding her close against his chest. Their eyes met with unspoken promise as he carried her with determination and purpose toward the bunk. Their pursuer could wait. The world could wait. Her arms locked about his neck, her hands slid beneath his queued hair. The flamboyant silk he’d so rakishly threaded through it tickled her fingers, and moaning softly, she pulled his head down to hers.

  Warm, sensuous lips moving against hers. The feel of his chest crushing one breast, the crisp black hairs pressing into her skin, the strength of his big, muscled seaman’s arms beneath her shoulders, the backs of her knees. She melted against him like butter left in the August sun. Everything ceased to matter; the unknown ship, the planned raid on Boston, piracy—everything. There was nothing but him. He lowered her to the bunk and stood looking down at her, drinking in her beauty. Her sunny hair spread out over the pillow, her firm
young breasts, her flat belly, the curve of her hips and long, long legs, so smooth and creamy and bare, beneath the hem of his shirt. And she lay there looking up at him, drinking in his proud masculinity. His dark hair and swarthy face. The strong column of his neck, the span of his shoulders, the indent of his sternum, against which the Spanish gold coin rested. As he sat down on the edge of the bunk, she placed her palm there. His heart pulsed beneath it.

  He shed his breeches and joined her on the bunk, one hand stroking over her sweet curves, the other propping up his head while his eyes, following the studied drift of his hand, darkened with hunger. Maria leaned forward and kissed the hollow between his collarbones, finding the skin salty with sea spray. Again, she put her hand against his chest. His heartbeat had quickened. She palmed the hard muscle there, threaded her fingers through the sparse hair and rubbed his tiny nipple with her thumb. His eyelids lowered. His breathing grew harsh and ragged. Her hand roved lower, to his belly. To his waist, as lean and strong as a ship’s mast…to the well defined ribs and flat hipbones, to his proud and jutting arousal.

  He was a study in masculine perfection. He was power, magnificence, everything that a woman might dream about—and more.

  “Must ye torture me so, woman? Such soft hands, such sweet flesh. By the living gods…”

  “I enjoy touching you, Sam.”

  Her lips nuzzling and brushing through the crisp dark hair of his chest, her fingers explored him until he found it hard to draw breath. She was nimble, yet agonizingly slow; she was sure of herself, yet not so confident that she lost the simple innocence that had first endeared her to him. Her hand teased the rigid length of him until he thought he’d burst, her thumb roving over the tip, her fingers squeezing him until he was mad with longing. And then she repositioned herself, laying the velvet-shrouded length of him against her cheek, now exploring him with her lips until sweat broke on his brow, on his neck, and the rapid hammering of his pulse echoed in his ears and made his head swim. He shuddered and groaned, the hoarseness of his breathing breaking the quiet of the cabin.