Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  Maria felt Stripes’s elbow in her ribs. “I think ’e knows somethin’ we don’t. ’E’s grinnin’ like the devil ’imself!”

  “That doesn’t mean he’ll tell us. And knowing Sam, he’d be grinning whether it was the Royal Navy, this Ingols character, or a mere fishing boat out there.” She frowned as Stripes lurched to his feet. “Wait, where are you going?”

  “Why, t’ see if I can find out just what ’e knows that ’e ain’t sharin’ with the rest o’ us!”

  Sam was all business. “Make haste, Mr. Flanagan, we haven’t all day. Nat, a point more to leeward. Stripes! Stop feigning sleep and get this ship ready for action!” He glared in disgust at the littered decks, the luffing mainsail, the sluggish, hampered movements of his crew. “Shake out tops’l and jib and look lively about it, damn you! This is a fighting ship, not a bloody alehouse!”

  It didn’t take long for Nefarious to show her heels to her pursuer like the thoroughbred that she was. By noon, when the sun stood pasted in the sky and melting a hole in that wide expanse of blue, the horizon was empty for the first time in days. Her captain’s order brought her due west, toward a ragged coastline of coves, islands, and hidden sandbars—pirate’s country—where they could hide for days, weeks even. And as Nefarious nosed into the shallows, Sam sent a leadsman forward to take soundings, took the helm, and with a skill born of years of seamanship, brought her over the treacherous, shifting bars under nothing but the jib at her nose and his own instincts. And there, screened by a narrow peninsula and a wall of pines, she finally dropped her anchor.

  * * *

  They lay quietly together, oblivious to the crew’s revelry coming from the beach a quarter-mile away. The breeze whispered through the trees and cooled their naked flesh. The night air was heavy with the scents of pine, roast venison, and the sea, and through the trees, Nefarious lay quietly at anchor, a light at her stern glittering upon the water.

  But Maria wasn’t interested in the sloop. She didn’t care about the celebration down on the beach. There was only one person in the world who had her attention and that was the pirate captain stretched out beside her.

  Forgotten clothes lay scattered nearby, colorless shapes in the darkness. A sword was thrust into the sand, carving shadows from moonlight and throwing them over the brace of pistols beside it. And the pirate captain himself lay on his back, arms crossed beneath his head, thick, glossy hair falling away from his face and over his brawny arms.

  He was looking up at her with a lazy smile and eyes that gleamed with a devilish sort of charm that never failed to set her blood afire.

  “Witch,” he said so softly that his voice barely stirred the air about them.

  “As I would have to be, to lie with the devil himself.”

  “Ah, Maria. We make quite a pair, do we not?”

  She smiled, tracing the corner of his mouth with one finger. Sam lay watching her, enthralled by the beauty of her moonlit face, finally catching her fingertip in his teeth and suckling it. Her gaze flashed to his and he held it, his eyes smoldering like embers. “Are you never sated, my little princess?” he asked softly.

  “Me? Sated?” Her laughter was as gentle as the lap of water against the distant beach. “Never, you rogue. Not when it comes to you.” She palmed the rise of his chest, feeling the muscle, seeking his heartbeat. And then a smile—slightly triumphant, Sam thought—brightened her eyes, and he knew she’d found what she was looking for.

  “You are, ye know.”

  “I am? What?”

  “A witch,” he murmured. “A sorceress, a siren. God, Maria, look what you’re doing to me.”

  She smiled, her gaze roving down the handsome, honed length of him. The caress of her gaze did as much to fan his desires as if she’d actually trailed her finger down his chest, his belly, and to his arousal, rigid and swollen once more. Impatient, he hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her down until she lay atop him, her chin propped on her wrists, her unbound hair melting with his like cream and black coffee.

  She lowered her head, her nose touching his. “Know something?” she asked, her hair tickling the hollow above his collarbone.

  He reached up to cup her cheek. “What’s that, princess?”

  “The best day of my life was when you came striding into Eastham like a king, all talk and persuasion and promise. The villagers didn’t know what to make of you. Eastham was never the same after that, and neither was I.” She leaned her cheek against his palm. “I guess we never know how our lives will change, do we?”

  “Nay, Maria. And more’s the pity that we don’t.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to know what’s around the next bend.”

  “I would. Hate surprises, I do. They can kill a person.”

  He was done talking, and he would not ruin this night with talk of a future that neither of them could imagine or discern. He drew her down for a kiss, feeling the press of her breasts against his bare chest, feeling her hand stretching down to touch him until he groaned with need. He was clay in her hands and she knew it. She was driving him crazy, and she knew that too. She was a witch, and he was as much under her spell as he’d been that long-ago day when he’d first met her. He couldn’t get enough of her. He’d never get enough. He could take her over and over again, could lose himself in her soft, sweet warmth a dozen times a day and it would never ease his craving for her, a craving that went beyond mere pleasures of the flesh and lodged itself within the deepest regions of his heart.

  “God, I love you,” he said, gazing into her face.

  She smiled and caught her bottom lip in her teeth, her eyes large and soft. “And I love you too, Sam.”

  He rolled over, spilling her onto the sand that still bore the warmth of the sun and the imprint of his own body. Maria’s heart took wings and her eyes filled with tears of joy as the starry sky was blotted out by his powerful shoulders, his darkly handsome face. His mouth came down hard upon hers, slanting across it as he sought to get closer, his tongue against her own. Heavy waves of thick black hair tickled her neck, and that intriguing scent that was his alone—fresh wind and sea salt—filled her reeling senses.

  “Oh Sam,” she whispered, for he’d drawn back, aware that he might be hurting her with his urgency. “Please, don’t stop.”

  His smile flashed in the moonlight. “Do ye strike your colors then, wench?”

  “I…strike.”

  He passed a rough, calloused hand over her nipple, down the curve of her hips, in and around her thighs and finally between them, where his fingers found and rubbed the center of her desire. She gasped out loud, arching against his hand. “See what ye do to me, princess?”

  She reached for him then, the sand crunching beneath them as they settled into position. She heard his ragged breath, felt the scorching heat of his lips as they brushed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, and finally her mouth, parting it with his tongue. She took him greedily, tightening her arms around his neck and pulling his head down to hers. Her fingers tangled in his hair. His body weighed heavily on her own. And her own blood was running so hot she felt feverish.

  He was a bold, handsome pirate captain. He was the free prince of the seas…and he was hers.

  She could wait no longer, and neither could he. His arousal stabbed against her thighs and she opened to him, drawing him into her hot, aching flesh, locking her legs around his hips and pushing herself upward in her fierce need to get closer to him. His breath stirred the damp hair near her ear and he began to move within her, slowly at first, then savagely, every thrust of his powerful hips driving her buttocks deeper and deeper into the soft, warm sand.

  Her nails dug into the scarred flesh of his shoulders. She cried out his name. Higher and higher he took them until with one last, mighty plunge he drove into her and sent them both spinning out over the edge of oblivion.

  Tears of rapture streamed from her eyes. She clasped his body to hers as the tremors of aftershock rocked her, going on and on like ripples in a po
nd, slowly fading until once more she became aware of the pounding of his heart against her breasts, the feel of his hair against her neck, and, in the distance, the sounds of pirate revelry down on the beach.

  Suddenly a mighty thunderclap shattered the night.

  A chorus of frightened, confused yelling came up from the beach along with the sharp report of a pistol and Gunner’s insane barking. Maria grabbed for her clothes just as Johnnie burst through the bushes, his face panicked.

  “Captain! Captain, come quick! We’re being attacked!”

  But Sam was already on his feet, donning his breeches and snatching up his pistols and sword belt. There was no need to tell Maria to dress, and dress quickly she did, for no sooner had she found her breeches and yanked her own shirt over her head than Billy Flanagan came crashing out of the trees, panting and out of breath.

  “Captain, hurry! There’s a ship coming over the bars and firing her guns—”

  “I know, Mr. Flanagan. Do ye think me deaf?” He buckled on his sword belt. “Now calm down, if ye would. She didn’t fire into the sloop, did she?”

  “No, in fact, I’d think it a salute if she weren’t coming in so fast! Only a madman would venture across those bars at night in a ship as big as this one!”

  “Hmm. A madman, eh?” Sam stroked his chin between thumb and forefinger, a thoughtful look in his eye. He had no doubt the thunderclap had been just that—a salute. “Must be our little friend then. Sounds like he’s decided not to be bashful anymore, eh?”

  “Oh, it’s him all right!”

  Flanagan tore off through the trees. Sam found his sea-knife, calmly wiped the blade against his breeches, and tucked the weapon into his belt. And then he took Maria’s hand and with unnerving indifference, led her through the woods to the beach where Nefarious lay vulnerable at anchor.

  It was chaos: men racing to and fro, dousing the fire and digging frantically in the sand for weapons they’d carelessly tossed aside. Gunner ran the beach, his frenzied barks filling the air, and for a moment Maria couldn’t move as Sam melted into the confusion. Then terror seized her. Good Lord, she thought, don’t just stand there! She fell to her hands and knees, flinging her hair out of her eyes and searching frantically for a pistol, a knife, anything, and it was only as her fingers closed around the hilt of a half-buried dagger that her head snapped up and her frightened gaze darted past the beach, over the water, and toward the sea.

  Her breath caught in her throat. And in her veins, the blood went cold.

  For out on those bars was a great ship, lights blazing through its open ports, sails obliterating the stars and an eerie, horrible noise coming from its decks that seemed to rise from the very depths of hell itself.

  And shoving off from that ship was a boat, and in its bow, hair afire and casting a flickering, orange glow over his smoke-wreathed face and the straining backs of his evil rowers, stood Satan in all his horror.

  The world darkened and Maria clutched at her throat to keep from fainting. The howls of fear, the gunshots, Gunner’s frantic barking, all melted and meshed and faded to a numb din. She stumbled backward, unable to tear her gaze from the dreadful apparition. And then Johnnie’s shriek pierced the night, ringing through her brain and jolting her back to awareness.

  For there was Sam at the water’s edge, feet slightly apart, head high, and arms crossed imperiously over his chest—not trying to protect them, not trying to protect himself, not doing anything but simply watching that hideous specter as it came closer and closer.

  With a sharp cry Maria lunged forward, only to be jerked back by Stripes’s restraining hand. “Let me go! Sam! Don’t just stand there, run!” Frenzied, she kicked out at Stripes’s foot and struggled wildly. “Sam!”

  “Be still, Maria!” Stripes urged, tightening his grip.

  Sam stood unmoving. And closer and closer that awful boat with its terrible passenger came. So close that she could smell the pungent smoke of the embers glowing in its matted hair. So close she could hear the steady dip and splash of oars, the evil laughter of its demon crew. So close she could see into the depths of its soulless black eyes, the flame points reflected in those unholy orbs….

  And then it turned its awful face toward her beloved Sam.

  Maria’s scream bubbled raw in her throat. Sobbing, she turned her face into Stripes’s chest, but it was too late to block what she’d seen.

  A black, mangy beard that began somewhere beneath gaunt cheekbones and ended at a massive chest, woven into tendrils and writhing like snakes in the breeze. No less than six pistols were strapped to the thick leather bandoliers that crisscrossed that awesome chest, two more dangled from around that terrible neck, another was held in that brutal fist. A skirt of knives paid homage to the cutlass at its belt, and from the crown of its broad hat to the tops of its knee boots, it was dressed entirely in the stygian color of the grave—black.

  Maria risked another look. Now those cold eyes were flickering over her, the cowering crew of Nefarious, and Sam, whose broad, bared shoulders showed no trace of fear, whose proud stance offered no such respect to this demon as his men’s did. He didn’t move as the apparition’s mouth split in a terrible grin, didn’t flinch as the boat met the beach with an ominous crunch, didn’t say a word as the creature leaped into the surf, drew that wicked length of steel, and waded slowly out of the water toward him.

  All was silent. The apparition came forward. One step. Two. Still Sam didn’t move, and some of his men began to whimper as they awaited the ruthless slaughter of their captain. Three steps. Four. Five. Its eyes were black marble, colder than the crypt—and then, raising its cutlass, it lurched to a stop in front of Sam.

  As one, Nefarious’s men caught their breath, Johnnie hid his face behind his hands, and Maria’s guttural scream broke the heavy silence.

  “No-o-o-o-o-o!”

  And as her cry died into the night, she heard the deep boom of Sam’s laughter.

  “Teach,” he said, smirking. “Taking it a bit to the extreme, aren’t ye?”

  Maria’s mouth snapped shut. Confusion glazed her senses. He knew this dreadful apparition, this unholy, terrible demon?

  The creature’s voice rumbled up from the depths of its pistol-crossed chest. “Bellamy, ye old rascal! Damn and thunderation, the rumors be true then! Would ye take a look at this, m’ boys! ’Tis me old shipmate Sam Bellamy, straight from a stint with Satan himself!”

  Shipmate? Maria exchanged glances with the crew but only Stripes, now relinquishing his grip on her, seemed relaxed and unconcerned.

  Sam’s smile was a wry one as he stepped forward. “And I might say the same of you, old friend.” He turned to his men. “Relax, lads. This is Ned Teach from Bristol. We served together on Hornigold’s sloop—”

  “Until ye stole it right out from under him, ye conniving fox!” Teach clapped Sam across the back with a force that nearly knocked him off his feet. “And old Hornigold ain’t forgiven ye for it yet! He was madder ’n hell with ye, Bellamy! Swore by Lucifer and all his saints that if ye ever showed yer colors in New Providence again he’d blow ye clean out of the water whether ye was Brethren or not!”

  Sam only laughed. “Never could stand to be bested, could he?”

  “And neither could you, lad! ’Twas no wonder ye wrestled his ship and crew right out from under him. Me, I bided me time ’til he gave me a ship. Said I earned it, and was the best damned pupil he ever had. Hell, I didn’t steal it from him like you did! Why, I do believe they call that…piracy!” Pleased with his own joke, Teach slapped his thigh and roared with laughter.

  But Stripes was the only one of Nefarious’s wary crew who seemed pleased—if not relieved—to have this fearsome visitor. “Ye knew, didn’t ye, Cap’n?” he asked, looking from Teach and then back to Sam. “Ye knew who was tailin’ us all along, didn’t ye?”

  “Aye, lad, I knew.”

  “But how?”

  “Same way I knew ’twas Black Sam who mastered that pretty little sloop yon
der!” Teach roared, answering the question for him. “Saw his flag, I did, and recognized it, and it ain’t no secret what my own ship looks like. But ah, Bellamy, ye still led me a merry chase. Knew ye’d be waitin’ here in our old rendezvous spot!”

  Maria watched this exchange with a mixture of awe, relief, and a growing urge to knock that smug grin from Sam’s face for allowing them all to believe the worst. To think that he hadn’t been fleeing, but merely playing games and contesting his old shipmate’s sailing skills! And now he was shaking his head and grinning as though he found this whole thing unbearably amusing—which indeed, he did.

  He looked his old friend up and down. “I must say, Ned, devil or not, you certainly look the part. What’s this, match cords ye’ve stuck beneath your hat and set afire? The effect is most dreadful. And odorous, I might add. Almost had me fooled, even. Almost”—he reached out and flicked one of those burning lengths of hemp—“but not quite.” He grinned. “Must have your victims screaming in terror before ye even hoist your colors, eh? How the hell did you arrive at this…image? Oh, never mind. Ye can tell me over a pot of rum. Come, let’s see if ye can still out-drink me, old friend!”

  “Rum? Hell, I ain’t never been one to refuse a drink with an old mate, and one back from the dead at that! A pox on ye, Bellamy! Ye still haven’t told me how ye did it!”

  He started to follow Sam, but his cunning eyes found—and fastened on—Maria.

  “Ho, there! What say you, Bellamy? Why are ye hiding this sugary little treat in a pair of breeches and shirt?” He stretched a massive paw toward Maria, who shrank back in terror. “Come here, lassie! Ol’ Ned Teach from Bristol ain’t never been one to harm a lady!”

  “Shear off, Ned.” Sam took Maria’s elbow and drew her to his side. “She’s to be my bride—Maria Hallett.”

  “Ho, the celebrated Witch of Eastham herself!” Maria went stiff as Teach grasped her hand with surprising gentleness and bowed gallantly, a motion that seemed strangely out of place coming from one so ferocious, so barbaric. “The pleasure is mine! Tales of yer exploits are told from New Hampshire to New Providence. And damn me eyes if they ain’t all true! Why, ye’re prettier than pirate’s gold!”