What a Pirate Desires

by Michelle Beattie

  “I couldn’t chance you revealing me. And, if you recall, we were in a hurry.”

  His head dipped as though he would kiss her. She arched away, her body stiffening.

  “Step away, Bradley.”

  “I see where your parrot gets the attitude.” His gaze wandered to her chest. “Do you still have your knife handy?”

  She did, but her hand was shaking too much to reach for it. Ever since the plantation, she’d managed to stay clear of men. At least in personal matters. Her crew were workers, nothing more. Their loyalty was appreciated, their labor needed. Best of all, they left her alone. Partly because she’d saved their lives, but mostly because Joe had threatened terrible things if they ever laid a hand on her.

  Still, she’d never given them any notice on an intimate level. Her first experience being close to a man had left deep, blistering scars. Keeping her emotions cold was the only way she’d managed to survive these last four years on the ship.

  Sam braced herself, terrified that Luke had the power to chip away at her resolve.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. But I can’t help but wonder why you keep pushing me. With a snap of my fingers the crew will dump you in the sea. You do remember what that’s like, don’t you?”

  His expression hardened, though he tried to hide it behind a cocky sneer. “Aye. But then you won’t be finding Dervish, will you, luv?”

  “So is this the way of it, then? You continue to push me, reminding me I need you, while I contemplate the logic of not heaving you overboard?”

  He grinned, a real one if the gleam in his eye was any indication. “That about sums it up.”

  She turned away before he could see the smile that itched to escape. The man was insufferable. It must be exhaustion that was making her enjoy the bickering between them.

  After checking the compass and ensuring they were going in the right direction, Sam looped a rope over the tiller so she could step away for a few minutes without the ship veering off course. The gunwale was smooth beneath her palms as she looked out into the darkness.

  Light footsteps followed her to the side.

  “You love the Revenge. Why would you give it away? Especially to me?”

  She kept her gaze locked on the sea, preventing him from seeing the moisture in her eyes at the thought of saying good-bye to her ship. “Because I won’t need her anymore. And if I know one thing about you, Luke, it’s your love of ships. I know you’ll take good care of her.”

  “And your crew?” he pressed.

  The male scent of his skin, windblown and musky, drifted under her nose and made her wonder about things that had previously petrified her. She took a step back.

  “It will be up to them if they want to stay under your command. But none of them have ever expressed a desire to captain her. Assuming you’re fair, I don’t see why they wouldn’t stay on board.”

  “And you’ll be going where?”

  She glanced over. He had one hand on his hip, and his shirt gaped open revealing a long, lean chest. Her mouth became unusually dry. “That’s personal.”

  He took another step to close the slim distance between them. Before she could move, he’d taken her hand and pressed it to his lips. The action was at odds with the pirate behind it. Although, having heard of Luke’s way with women, it shouldn’t have surprised her. Nor should it have curled her toes.

  “And if I have my way, Samantha, things will be getting much more personal before we’re through.”

  With nothing more than a smile and a good night, he left her. Her hand was warm and tingled where the warmth of his lips and the soft brush of his mustache had touched. The marching rhythm in her chest pounded loudly in her ears. And he’d walked away without even a hitch in his arrogant stride.

  “That’s Captain Steele to you,” she said, though by the time she’d come to her senses and formed the words, he’d slipped beneath the main hatch.

  When dawn crept over the horizon, Sam’s eyes felt like pools left behind at low tide—full of water with a layer of grit all around. The more she blinked or moved them, the worse they grated. Even the pink and purple slashes on the sky’s canvas weren’t enough to keep her interested. She was bone-tired and ready to sleep. She’d spent a long night thinking of Luke’s kiss. Too much time, she argued with herself.

  She heard the shuffle of boots at the same time she smelled freshly cooked eggs and ham. Her exhaustion was forgotten as she turned. Trevor smiled and offered her a plate.

  “Trevor, you’re a saint. This smells delicious.” The eggs were scrambled and fluffy; the ham, a deep pink color.

  He’d only had his fiftieth birthday, but the years on Mr. Grant’s plantation had taken their toll. Thick creases were carved into his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes. A white scar ran down his right forearm and led to hands that had been smashed until the fingers bent abnormally at the middle knuckle. As a sailor he wasn’t very useful. But as a cook, he was priceless.

  Trevor ducked his bald head, but not before Sam saw his smile. His pride had taken more of a beating than his hands. She was glad she’d been able to give it a little nudge by hiring him.

  “Thanks to your idea of not springing Luke until midday, I was able to go ashore for all sorts of supplies. We should have enough eggs for a few days.”

  They all but melted on her tongue. And the ham was smoked and flavorful. She passed her empty plate to Trevor.

  “You know you don’t have to wait on me. I was going to get it myself before heading off to bed.”

  “It’s no trouble, Captain. I was coming up anyway, to check the weather.” He took her empty plate and went back to the galley.

  As a lie, it was a sorry one, but she let it pass. Trevor had served her breakfast every day since he’d been on board. She made a point of going down to the galley early for the other meals. It wouldn’t do for the rest of the crew to see her getting special treatment. There was a rule on the Revenge that she lived by. She might have the title of captain, but each member of her crew was valuable. No one was worth more than their fellow man. Or woman.

  “Off to bed, are you? Want any company?”

  Of all the men to wake up, why did Luke have to be one of the first? She hoped he wouldn’t see the frayed ends of her nerves poking through her skin. And she prayed feverishly that he wouldn’t realize they were all his doing.

  “I prefer to sleep alone.” She looked hopefully for signs of Joe or Willy.

  “I can take it, you know. I’ve captained my own share of ships.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s Joe’s duty. Not yours.”

  His gaze hovered over the tiller. His lips flattened for a brief moment. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but now that it was said, she saw the merit in angering him. It kept things at a safer distance.

  When he raised his head to hers, there was nothing in his eye to reveal what he was feeling.

  “What is my job, exactly? I believe you failed to mention that yesterday.”

  He’d moved close enough that his shirt rubbed against the arm of her coat. She ignored his deliberate attempt to taunt her. She’d thought of him the whole damn night; that was as much power as she was prepared to give him.

  “You can run the bilge pumps.”

  His lips pursed. “I could. But I won’t.”

  “It may not be the best duty, Luke, but it’s vital. If we sink due to taking on water, there’ll be no saving you this time.”

  “You may be more comfortable to have me below and out of sight, but as I’ve been a captain, I won’t work below deck. Get another of your crew to run the pumps.”

  The last thread of her patience snapped. She was exhausted, and the more time she spent around Luke, the less in control she felt. And where the devil was Joe?

  “First, I’ll be sleeping, so I don’t care where you are. Second, every member of this crew is important, and we all take turns with the pumps. Third, as you so clearly pointed out, you’re a former captain. On this voyage, I’m captain, and
as long as you’re on my ship, you’ll be obeying my command.”

  Luke leaned in close, close enough for Sam to notice the black ring that circled the deep green of his eye. His gaze clutched hers and refused to let go.

  “The way I see it, me, you, and Joe should be taking turns at the helm. You didn’t disagree with me yesterday when I suggested we go to Tortuga first. I’ve been there enough to find the damn place with my eye closed.”

  “You will not be taking the helm,” Sam managed between gritted teeth. “And you will not be giving me orders.”

  “If you didn’t trust me, why in blazes did you spring me in the first place?”

  “Mornin’ Capt’n,” Joe said cheerfully as he joined Samantha. His voice lost all humor when he turned. “Luke.”

  “Ah, our first mate. Samantha here was just about to run off to bed. You and me shall captain this ship together while she rests her pretty head.”

  Sam fumed. How dare he disobey her!

  Joe, finally seeming to catch the undercurrents between Sam and Luke, moved closer to her side.

  “Is that a fact?” he asked.

  Luke’s eyebrow arched as he waited for her to choose. Lord, she was too tired for this. It took all her will to keep her head upright. But hadn’t he pushed her enough? He’d forced her to reveal she was Steele before she was ready. He had yet to address her as captain. And he touched her every chance he found.

  She’d had enough. It was time to get some control back.

  “Luke is to man the bilge pumps. Wake me when we get to Tortuga.”

  She brushed past them both, ignoring Luke’s mutinous stare. She felt his anger latch onto her coattails, trying to drag her back for another argument. Deliberately keeping her head held high, she grabbed the hatch, careful not to rip it from its hinges the way she wanted to. Once in her cabin she undressed, muttering the whole time.

  “Damn Luke. Damn his arrogance.”

  Squawk. “Damn Luke. Damn Luke.”

  There. Even Carracks had him figured.

  Sam fluffed her pillow, crawled into bed, and fell into a restless sleep.

  Oliver Grant stepped into the dank shed that stood in the middle of the large-leafed green crop that had propelled him from small merchant to respected—and wealthy—owner of one of Port Royal’s largest plantations. The small structure was a haphazard construction of rotten boards with a leaky roof. But it wasn’t designed for comfort. Its placement, if not its sturdiness, amid the fertile fields where his slaves worked was ideal.

  Taking a white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, he dabbed at the moisture on his forehead. Thick slabs of sunlight angled inside from every direction and crossed the dirt floor in a battle of golden swords.

  Nathaniel, his overseer, stepped forward. He was a brute of a man whose head reached nearly to the roof of the shed. His hands were the size of dinner plates and could crush human bones in seconds. It was why Oliver had hired him. He dragged alongside him an average-sized black man. Blood oozed from cuts along the slave’s arms and bare legs. He wore nothing but a loin cloth.

  “Sir. He was found hiding in a small village on the other side of the island.” Nathaniel cupped the man’s jaw and jutted it upward.

  Oliver didn’t care to know the names of his slaves, but he knew faces. The one that looked at him now, with chocolate eyes surrounded by a rainbow of bruises, was definitely one of his. Or had been until four years ago.

  The smell within the closed walls was a mix of sweat, blood, and fear. Oliver didn’t mind the last, but the first two gave him a headache.

  “Where’s my ship?” he demanded.

  “I—I don’t know, sur.”

  Oliver’s gaze roamed the walls around him where whips, chains, and knives hung in glory. A few were stained with blood, as a reminder to those who were brought in. Lying, disrespect, and stealing were not tolerated on his plantation. The slave’s eyes widened fearfully—large bulging white orbs.

  “You and thirty men escaped here four years ago. You’re the twenty-fifth man I’ve located. My ship, however, is still at large, as are five of my slaves.”

  The man shook his head. His voice quaked as he pleaded. “I didn’t see no ship. I ran, sur.”

  Oliver had already learned from those who’d been recaptured that a large white man had chopped away the locks with an axe in a effort to free them. Some had fled blindly in the night, others had stayed behind in fear. Nobody had seen which direction that man went, or who he was with. But Oliver knew. Only a handful of white men were in his employ, and one of them had been Samantha’s friend. Both were still unlocated. Obviously they were together, but where?

  Oliver rubbed at his left arm, where tingles ran from his shoulder to his fingers. He rotated it to get the feeling back and stepped to the wall. The slave begged for mercy behind him. Enjoying the thickening smell of fear, Oliver trailed his hand over a scythe, and then an axe that had been sharpened to a bright silver. His fingers closed over a pick brought from the ice house. Lifting it from the wall, Oliver turned and pressed it against the man’s throat. The slave squealed like a wild boar.

  “Four men and a woman are missing, as is my ship. Where are they?”

  Sweat poured like water from the top of the slave’s head. He trembled and wept. With the pick at his throat he could do no more than whisper and beg, plead that he knew nothing, that he hadn’t seen anything.

  It was the same song and dance he’d heard from the others. Furious to be no closer, Oliver plunged the pick into the man’s throat, then stepped away before he could be dirtied by blood. There was a gurgle as the man attempted to breathe. His eyes rolled back. Nathaniel let go and the man slumped to the floor, dead.

  “Nathaniel, I expect the search for the remaining five to continue.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oliver glanced at the dead slave, then at his overseer. “I will be most displeased if we cannot locate them. Most displeased.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then, knowing his place, he stepped back into the shadows.

  Sighing, Oliver tugged his vest down, checked his tie, and ran smooth hands down the front of his suit. Then, whistling, he opened the door.

  Hands went back to work and heads lowered as he stepped from the shed. He kept to the small dirt path that cut between the healthy growing plants of his crop. Oh, he’d find her yet, he vowed again. No whore was going to leave him for dead and get away with it. Samantha had cost him time, energy, and far too much money. He glanced back at the shed. Waste, he thought with a click of his tongue. She’d pay for that, too.

  Three

  The door creaked open. Sam shot up in bed.

  “Don’t come near me,” she threatened. “I’ve got a weapon.”

  He laughed. The sound was as evil as his heart. “Silly girl.” He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked loudly into place.

  Cold sweat ran down Sam’s back. She knew why he was here. She began to shake.

  “Get away from me!” She pressed herself into the corner of the bed as the shadow of hell stepped closer. His steps made no noise; he’d already taken off his boots.

  “Be a good girl”—he unfastened his pants—“and this won’t take but a moment.”

  They’d been through this once before. Sam had sworn then that it wouldn’t happen again, even if she had to kill him. The hammer she’d stolen weeks ago was hidden in the folds of her nightdress. She’d slept with it every night since he’d last been there. Weapon aimed high over her head, she flew out of bed.

  Her breath stuck in her throat. The hammer was slick in her palm. Fear blurred everything as she lunged toward her attacker. One good blow, that would be enough. Then she could run away. But somehow the hammer vanished. One second she was ready to kill her attacker, and the next the weapon had dissipated like fog. Her fingers were uselessly empty. Then he had her by the arms, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  “No,” she whimpered. Not again.

  �
�Samantha! Samantha!” He shook her.

  She thrashed against him, desperate to escape. There were no tears. They were frozen inside.

  “Get away from me. I’ll kill you. I swear I will.”

  Though her fists shot out, she hadn’t the satisfaction of hearing them connect with flesh.

  “I don’t doubt it, but not today.”

  It was the voice that seeped through her nightmare and chased the evil away. A deep voice that ran smooth as honey.

  Squawk. “Hands off. Hands off.”

  Her head snapped back, and she opened her eyes. Luke Bradley stared back at her. He still held her arms, but his grip had softened. She blinked, and the last traces of the nightmare slithered away. Mr. Grant was gone. He was really gone. She took a shaky breath, trying to regain a normal rhythm.

  “Go away,” she pleaded. It would only be seconds, she knew, until the shudders would take her. She’d had enough of the nightmares over the years to know the order of things. First the dream and waking bathed in sweat. Then the shudders that racked her body. Finally the exhaustion and weakness. He’d already seen the beginning. She’d do anything to prevent him from seeing the end. She shoved away, embarrassed at how limp her arms were.

  “Not until you tell me what the hell that was about.”

  “Where’s Joe? How did you get down here?”

  “I waited until his attention was diverted. Now what’s going on?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” she managed before the tremors began. Then there was no stopping them. She felt as though she was covered in ice. Her teeth rattled along with her bones. Luke’s eye widened in surprise and Sam lowered her head, hating the weakness she was incapable of halting. So much for taking back any control.

  The mattress shifted under his weight, and before she could look up, he’d wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close. He smelled of wind and sea. His chest was smooth under her cheek, the chains around his neck cool compared to the heat of his skin. Because it was too easy to lean in, to let him share the burden, to let anyone share the burden, she pushed herself away.