Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  Searching farther afield, he saw the swath of shiny skin on her arm where she had said she’d been burned, the countless nicks and tracings of fine white lines that could have been caused by knives or swords or a myriad other violent means.

  His gaze returned to her face—a truly lovely face when it wasn’t trying so damned hard to be fierce and unapproachable. The cheekbones were high, the brow wide, the eyes large and luminous. Her mouth, when it wasn’t scowling, was lush and evocative and wreaked enough havoc on Varian’s senses to make his toes curl into the bedsheets.

  “Something amuses you?” she asked warily.

  He made no attempt to curb his smile. “My own misguided perceptions, perhaps.”

  “Well, perhaps you could guide them elsewhere and give me ease to breathe.”

  “And forfeit the advantage I have so keenly won?”

  She started to wriggle out from beneath him but found her wrists suddenly caught and pinned flat to the bed, her legs effectively trapped under his.

  “What are you playing at now?”

  “I am not playing at all, Captain. I will confess, however, that I am curious to know if this was just a simple diversion for you, or if you had some other reason for plying me with your charms.”

  “Do not flatter yourself by supposing it was anything other than a brief diversion.” She released an extravagant sigh. “Faith, I did not think men needed a reason to bed a woman; I thought they simply needed the opportunity. Thus, having taken it, sir, you may now heave off me.”

  “In due course... if that is what you really want.”

  “What else would I want?”

  The question had barely cleared her lips—in fact, the last word faltered and quivered away to nothingness as she felt his lower body press forward and pull slowly back.

  He was growing hard again.

  She, on the other hand, was all soft and buttery inside. She had thought that was the end of it, for none of her three lovers, not even her exquisite Frenchman, had done more than grunt and roll away when they were finished—and they had not had half the number of reasons to toss her aside as Varian St. Clare. She had been rude, mocking, and outright belligerent with him since the moment he had wakened on board the Iron Rose. She had further deceived him by letting him believe she was taking him to see her father when in truth, he was scarcely more than a hostage against whatever use her father might make of him. In truth, when she had kissed him out on the balcony, she had fully expected him to reject her artless attempt at seduction.

  He had not only answered it, but with a single flick of his tongue he had turned the tables, and if it was possible to believe what she was seeing in the smoldering depths of his eyes, he was turning them again, offering her the choice of whether to stop or go forward.

  It would be different in the morning, she had no doubt, for he would once again assume the mantle of king’s envoy and she would again be the daughter of a pirate wolf. But morning was hours away and she had other things to ponder now ... like how limbs that had been dead-weights only moments ago were drawing themselves up and hooking around his waist, how a body that had seemed completely lacking in initiative was now tingling everywhere, gathering strength from each slow, heated thrust of his flesh.

  He released her wrists, pausing long enough to remove the torn halves her shirt, and when he bowed a determined mouth to her breast again, it was with a boldly ominous, “En garde, Captain.”

  She curled her lip between her teeth and had to bite down hard to smother the groan of utterly decadent pleasure as he rolled her onto her belly and pushed his arms between her thighs to spread them. She stretched up to grasp the bedpost and let her lips fall slack while the promised friction of all that heat stretched up and began to move inside her again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Heave, damn you! Put your weight behind it!”

  Exasperated, Juliet vaulted over the deck rail and joined the men who were in the process of winching a heavy thirty-two pounder on board the Iron Rose. An inspection of the guns had revealed a hairline crack in one of the barrels, a flaw that could prove fatal if the cannon overheated and blew apart. The crew had disassembled the gun carriage and slung ropes around the barrel to hoist it out of the cradle and drop it over the side.

  Juliet wrapped her gloved hands around the cable and added her weight to that of the men heaving and straining to lift the brass culverin into its wooden cradle. The effort left her winded after only a few moments and she found herself sweating and gritting her teeth to keep her feet from skidding out beneath her. Though she refused to think about it, she knew full well why her energy reserves were depleted. She knew it every time she walked or sat or ran her tongue across lips that felt so puffed and tender she imagined every man on board the Rose was snickering out the corners of their mouths.

  She still wasn’t entirely sure herself what had happened last night, how she had ended up in Varian St. Clare’s bed. She had been restless, too full of herself—and wine—after her triumphant return to the Cay, and all that coltish energy had somehow been converted to lust. Now, in the harsh light of day, every scrap of wind that pushed her shirt against her skin had her nipples peaking like small beacons, every time her hair swept her neck or cheek she imagined it was his lips searching, nuzzling, whispering against her ear.

  The tenderness between her thighs was a constant reminder. She ached in places she had not known she could ache. When she glanced up—innocently or otherwise—toward the big stone house on the hill, all she could see was the bed they had shared, the splash of his dark hair on the pillow, the sprawl of his naked body on the bed. That would, in turn, make her remember how he had looked last night with the candlelight gilding his shoulders, his muscles bunching and flexing as he arched above her, his every sinew straining with intent.

  She should never have touched him. It had been a foolish, reckless, careless impulse and she was no better off for having burned half the night away in his arms. This was no time to be distracted by a handsome face, an incredibly inventive mouth, or a dangerously seductive body. Dear God, he had only needed to trace a fingertip along her hip to bring her crawling over his thighs.

  Worse, she had crept out of the bed like a thief before dawn. She had come on board the Iron Rose and worked alongside the men, hoping that pure physical exhaustion would erase any more foolish thoughts she might have.

  The rope slipped through her gloves and she scrambled for a fresh purchase. The cannon weighed upwards of two tons and the strain caused the metal cleats to scream in protest. The scream ended with a loud snap as the bolt broke and Juliet felt the cable spring back and go slack in her hands. The men on the line fell backwards in a heap as the barrel came crashing down. It landed crosswise on the carriage and split the wooden truncheon into kindling before bouncing off and slamming to the deck. One of the mates who had been guiding the barrel toward the rail was standing in its path and his foot was crushed to pulp on impact. The gun pitched forward pushed the bones in his lower leg up through the knee, breaking the skin and spraying blood across the deck. Two crewmen rushed to brace the barrel with staves to prevent it rolling further onto their shipmate, while several more tried to pull the injured man free. The sickening shreds of flesh that hung off his ankle were quickly bound in canvas and he was carried, howling, below to the surgery.

  Juliet sat gasping on the deck. It had happened so fast she’d had no time to react. She had fallen with the others, and while there was no reason to assign blame to anything other than a weakened bolt on the winch, she was angry at herself, angry at all the men who stood around scratching their heads and peering up at the pulley as if it was to blame for human carelessness.

  “By the Devil’s caul, did no one think to inspect the bolts before we started hauling guns around?” She pushed to her feet and smacked the sawdust off the seat of her breeches.

  “The winch was checked,” Nathan said calmly. “It looked sound enough. The bolt just snapped, is all.”

&
nbsp; “Just snapped?” She whirled on him. “A good man has lost his foot, possibly his leg and that’s all you can say? It just snapped.”

  Nathan shoved the brim of his cap back off his forehead and, ignoring the fact she was captain, he snatched her around the arm and dragged her out of earshot of the rest of the crew. “What would ye rather hear? That someone climbed up there, sawed through the metal an’ stood to one side eatin’ a plantain while they waited for the bolt to split an’ wham down on one of his mates? Pin my eyelids to the mast if it would make ye feel better, but it were an accident, plain an’ simple. Be thankful it weren’t yer leg that were crushed, though it couldn’t hardly put ye in any better of a mood if it were.”

  “My mood is just fine, thank you.”

  “Aye, for a harridan. Ye’ve been barkin’ an’ snarlin’ the whole blessed morning long an’ the men are thinkin’ they should just bare their backs an’ take a dozen licks o’ the cat now so ye can vent yer spleen all at the one time and be done with it. Ye’re not doing anyone any good here, lass. Havin’ ye bray an’ stomp around won’t get the work done any faster. Go ashore an’ if ye’re needed, I’ll send one of the lads to fetch ye. An’ whup!” He held a finger up to forestall whatever retort was about to burst from her lips. “If ye don’t leave of yer own accord, I’ll heave ye over the side myself an’ let ye swim ashore.”

  They glared one another down for another full minute before Juliet dredged up a fearsome oath and stormed to the gangway. She swung a leg over the side and descended to one of the many boats bobbing in the water below. A harsh bark set eight oars in the water simultaneously and within a few strokes, they were flying across the bay.

  Mounting the first horse she found tied beside the dock, she kicked a wet boot into its flank and galloped all the way up the slope to house. Knowing she was in no fit mood to encounter any of her family, she followed the lower veranda around to the stairs at the rear of the house. She took them two and three at a time and, without looking to the left or the right, walked straight to the double french doors of Varian St. Clare’s room. She thrust them open and stood a moment on the threshold, her blood pounding fiercely in her temples.

  ~~~

  Varian came awake with a start. He sat bolt upright, his dark hair spiked over his ears and spilling forward over his brow. The noise, the sound ... whatever had wakened him was gone and could not be readily identified. He was alone, that much was confirmed when he glanced quickly around and searched the room. There was nothing, not even an indent in the bedding to show there had been another body beside him during the night.

  He ran a hand through his hair and frowned. The frown turned into a wince as he brushed the injury on his cheek—an injury that, oddly enough, had not troubled him overmuch during the night. None of his aches or bruises had intruded, though now, in daylight, he felt like he had been hauled beneath the keel of a ship encrusted with six months worth of barnacles.

  Frowning again, he made a second slow search around the room. Was it possible he had dreamed the entire incident? Was it possible he had spent the night alone and only dreamed that Juliet Dante had been there beside him?

  No, he had not dreamed it. The lingering heaviness in his body belied any doubts he might have had, as did the redolent scent of sex on the bedsheets—the ones that were not scattered on the floor or tossed into a heap at the foot of the bed.

  He groaned and sank back down onto the bolsters. He’d had wine, but only two small glasses, not nearly enough to make him dizzy with lust. The hot soapy bath—the first in over two months— had made him decidedly light-headed, but instead of putting him to sleep, it had sent him prowling out onto the balcony like a tomcat. Seeing Juliet there, clad only in a cambric shirt, had completed his fall from grace. Had she not stunned him by initiating the seduction herself, he likely would have thrown her over his shoulder and ravished her anyway.

  Having already reached the conclusion that Juliet Dante was unlike any woman he had ever encountered before, the fact that she’d had him out of his clothes and damn near out of his skin quicker than he could blink an eye should not have surprised him, but it had. He had known too many women who were eager to make the conquest but then were paralysed by propriety when it came to actually enjoying the deed. Juliet, on the other hand, made it quite clear she had no interest in making a conquest of any kind. She had simply wanted something and had taken it eagerly and aggressively.

  His blood stirring at the memory, Varian rolled onto his side. A single filament of auburn hair trailing across the pillow and he stared at it for several moments before plucking it up between his fingers. Long and shiny, he imagined it tangled in the rest of the silky mane, the curled ends teasing his flesh as she moved above him. It had been his enormous pleasure to let her straddle his hips and assume command of the ship, so to speak. A superb navigator, she had sailed them both into a maelstrom of bouncing bedsprings and juddering posts.

  Only afterward, swallowing past the hoarseness in his throat and listening to the sound of his heart thundering in his chest, had he thought to give thanks for the fact that her family slept in the other wing of the house.

  Yet as well as he had come to know her body, he was no closer to understanding what went on behind those pale gray-blue eyes. When they were not willfully engaged in acts of pleasure, she had wanted no part of him. She had wriggled to one side until they were not touching—difficult to do in a bed not much wider than the span of his arms—and only at the last, when neither of them could have raised a limb or exchanged a caress to save their lives, had she fit herself snugly into the warm curve of his body and drifted to sleep.

  Varian stared at the dancing pinpoints of sunlight on the ceiling. He had no idea what time it was, no idea when she had left or how she had managed to extricate herself from his arms without so much as jostling the bed. He did not even want to hazard a guess as to what her reaction would be when she saw him today. Would she be embarrassed? Angry? Would she resent him for having exposed the softer, more vulnerable side that she strove so hard to keep hidden beneath all that thick-skinned armor?

  Or worse... would she act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? As if it was her habit to take her hostages to bed and extract her pound of flesh before they were delivered to her family for their amusement.

  Varian sighed, raked his hands more vigorously through his hair, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Never mind her, he thought sourly. What would his own reaction be when he saw her again? He had sold his soul to the devil and no doubt the devil would demand his due. He was the Earl of Harrow and he had all but foresworn his wild ways when he had agreed to the marriage with Lady Margery Wrothwell. The fact he was not officially betrothed was small consolation for it was understood by both parties that the engagement would be announced upon his return to England. Yet here he was, his body rife with lust for a woman he had known but three days. A woman who was more comfortable wielding a sword than a tapestry needle. A woman whose entire family held only scorn for the king, for England, for the strictures of a society that had dictated every facet of Varian St. Clare’s life for the past twenty-eight years.

  Despite the fact he’d exchanged barely a dozen words with Simon Dante, he was more than halfway convinced he was here, as Juliet had so eloquently put it, on a fool’s errand. Dante had a fortress here, why should he concern himself with the dictates of a king who waved his sceptre from three thousand miles away? If anything, James Stuart should be asking himself why the Pirate Wolf continued to go to the trouble of sending the royal treasury ten percent of his privateering profits? Surely after all these years he needed no letters of marque granting him permission to trade. From what Varian had seen of the firepower anchored in the harbor below, the Dante clan posed a formidable threat to any foreign port or authority and it would behoove the king to do whatever was necessary to ensure the wolf continued to fly England’s colors on his masthead.

  Varian stood and gingerly stret
ched the knotted muscles in his arms and legs. Dazzling blue sky showed through the open french doors and the cool breezes that had played across their bodies through the night had been replaced by a moist heat. He cast around for his clothes, vaguely recalling he had torn them off with such haste he’d almost knocked over the bedside table. There was no immediate sign of his shirt or breeches, but his doublet was draped over the back of the chair and he stared at it grimly, not entirely eager to button himself into confining layers of padded velvet and leather. Moreover the original owner of the garments had neither been as tall nor as broad across the shoulders as he, and in spite of the hasty adjustments Beacom had made, the sleeves were too short and the collar of ruffled Spanish lace would not close. The wool stockings scratched and the pantaloons were stuffed so full of horsehair he felt like he had two gourds attached to his thighs.

  Fostering this small streak of rebellion, he walked naked to the door. He stood with his hands braced on either side of the frame, his eyes closed tight against the glare of sunlight as he let the full blaze of tropical heat bathe his skin. He recalled Juliet’s comment about all Englishmen being terrified of allowing sunlight to touch their flesh, and he had to admit, if only to himself, this was the first time he had greeted Mother Nature face to face. To that end, the sun’s rays felt marvellous on his chest and arms; even his nether parts seemed to respond amiably to the new experience.

  “I warrant it should take about ten minutes for your skin to turn red and start to blister.”

  Varian jerked his eyes open and brought his hands swooping down to cover his crotch.

  Juliet was sitting out on the balcony, her booted feet propped on the rail. She was dressed in an airy white shirt and black breeches; her hair was gathered at the nape and tied with leather thong. There was a second chair and a small wooden table beside her, the latter holding a huge tray laid with bread, cheese, an inordinately large mound of sliced meat, and bowls of exotic fruits Varian was not readily able to identify.