The Pirate's Bride

by Skendrovich, Cathy

  “And you came to me because you want my expertise, oui?" Louis puffed out his chest in expectation. Andre shook head again.

  “No, not really, Papa. I came to load supplies and let you know what happened. You are the one who bound us together, which, I have to say, seemed to be working out. I felt you needed to know.”

  Louis waved his answer away. “Bah, you ungrateful pup. Even now, you can’t admit you need my knowledge. Well, she was my daughter-in-law and I brought you two together. I am coming with you. Sophie deserved better, and I loved her like a daughter. Actually, she became my daughter. No arguments. I will straighten my affairs, gather some men and we will be off.”

  Andre stared at his father. Take the old man along? He hadn’t imagined this outcome. It could work. Two Dubois’ would be better than one. Easing himself into a chair opposite his father’s desk, he watched while Louis spent time lighting a cigar, puffing it to life.

  “This could be good, Papa. How long before you can ready a ship?”

  “Oh, I’m not taking a ship, m’boy. Getting one vessel into Formosa’s main harbor is going to be tough enough, let alone two. No, boy, I’m coming on board the Princess with you. With a few of my own men. For example, my first mate, my purser, and my cook. Especially my cook, since yours can’t boil water without making it taste like piss.”

  Andre stared into his father’s face. Sail with his father, in close quarters? Merde. Having him sail his own ship would have been iffy at best, but on the Princess? Hadn’t he experienced enough of a disaster? Yet, somehow, it felt right to have blood with him on the expedition, even if it was in the form of this interfering old codger. Perhaps they might learn something from one another. He made up his mind.

  “Fine. However, my men are in charge. Besides, are you sure your first mate Philippe is even up to this journey? He was old when I sailed with you, and that’s been years ago, Papa.”

  Louis shot smoke to the ceiling. “Oh, aye, Philippe has retired, Andy. He counts his money daily down in Port Royal amongst the island girls, I hear. No, I have a new first mate. Quite capable he is, and right eager for adventure. In fact, he’s here right now. Come on in, boy.” This last was said as an order, and by the wording, Andre’s heart began to sink and to pound simultaneously.

  For, entering the room with a swagger fit for the best courtier, was none other than the youthful Brit, Limey.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bloody buggering hell, this could not be happening. Hadn’t he just cleared his life of this lusting traitor? Andre stared at the smiling youth still wearing on his cheek the red line from Andre’s pistol-whipping, and anger bubbled up from deep inside. This could not be happening. Unable to sit still, he leaped from his chair, knocking it onto its back. He strode the length of the room and back before confronting his father.

  “You already knew about...about your daughter-in-law, yet you acted so surprised. Fils de pute, I’m your bloody son, the fruit of your loins, Papa. Yet here you are, cozying up to this, this betrayer, giving him a job, a home, while all the time you act shocked and sad for my benefit. Mère de dieu." He returned to his chair, kicking it and gaining satisfaction from the action.

  Louis rose to his feet behind his desk, pointed a knobby finger under Andre’s nose. “I have not. I did not. The boy came to me the other day and said you’d thrown him off your ship and could he get his old position back—”

  “And you didn’t think to wonder why I threw him off my ship? You’re showing your age, old man, if you didn’t ask him why.”

  He leaned toward his father’s face over the wide desk. Limey stood off to the side, propped against the dark, wood doorframe with arms crossed.

  Louis straightened. “I asked him if he’d done something like treason, or theft, or some such, to warrant being kicked off, and he said no, it was personal, between you and him. I have no reason not to believe Limey. I’ve known him all his life.”

  They stared each other down. Andre was the first to look away. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Mon dieu. Straightening, with an expletive dropping off his lips, he turned dagger-like glare to Limey, whose lips twitched with barely concealed triumph. Andre swore again.

  Inhaling deeply, he dismissed the younger man with a flick of his eyes, before cautioning his father. “This conversation should include family only, Papa. Please decide which of us is staying the night and which is going. Choose carefully, you old reprobate.” He crossed his arms and rested a hip against the desk. Louis made a disgusted sound and jerked his head at the British youth.

  “You’ll need to sleep elsewhere t’night, boy. Go next door. I’m sure there’ll be any number of beds open for the likes of you.”

  Inclining his head on the ghost of a grin, Limey turned to leave, but not before touching his imaginary forelock at Andre. Andre barely resisted giving the younger man a swift kick in his retreating arse.

  After his first mate left, Louis stepped out from behind the desk.

  “I will always choose you, mon fils. Don’t impugn me loyalty by saying anything different. But I also trust that boy." He held up his hand to stave off Andre’s verbal attack. “He has served me well all his life, and unless you can tell me different, I will continue to trust him, just as I continue to love you. Understand?"

  Like a sail without wind, Andre lost his anger, bending to right the tipped over chair, and dropping into it. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes on a sigh. He heard his father creep around to his seat, but he kept his eyes closed. He was just so tired. Tired, sad, and mad.

  “I am very sorry about Sophie, mon fils. I, of all people, know your pain, as you must realize. However, taking your heartache out on others, although understandable, will not bring her back.

  “You do not understand, Papa. That boy, as you call him, wanted my wife for his own. How can I trust him to have my back in a battle against Zheng? How do I know he won’t be a little slow to come to my aid?”

  Andre leaned forward in his chair, hands gripping the arms, hair swinging forward as he beseeched his father. He hurt, and now that he was alone with his father, he could admit it.

  “Isn’t it all a moot point, anyway, mon fils? She’s gone. You can’t have her, and neither can he, so where would it benefit him to let Zheng kill you? He still wouldn’t get Sophie. She's dead. In addition, since you’re the best candidate to defeat Zheng, allowing you to die seals everyone else’s fates. It would serve no purpose to get you killed, and Limey is not stupid."

  “Now, retire to your room and get some rest these next few days. If you can have your ship provisioned by Friday, I would like to sail on that morning’s tide. We need to get around the Cape while the weather is decent. And, lay off the sauce, mon fils. You won’t find her at the bottom of a bottle."

  Louis headed out the study door, pausing beside Andre’s chair. His father placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder, cupping it in a restrained grip. As the older man moved on, Andre wished his father could take the pain away as he had when Andre was young. However, Sophie’s death could never be hugged away.

  ~*~

  Sailing with one’s own father after years of independence proved to be a vexing experience for Andre, one he realized as soon as they cruised out of La Nouvelle-Orléans not only was he battling the constant presence of Sophie’s ghost on deck during day and in his bed at night, had to contend with very alive father second-guessing his commands, as well endure that man’s surly first mate.

  During the first hour of departure, Andre found the elder pirate squinting up at the sails, then nudging a crewmember to adjust the sheets minutely, for whatever reason only the old buzzard knew. Gritting his teeth, Andre whistled for Louis’ attention. It would be best to assign his father a job to keep him out of mischief. Louis sauntered over, looking the picture of perfect health and contentment.

  “Aye, boy?” he asked.

  Without taking his eyes off their course, Andre asked in a conversational tone, “Did you not teach me how t
o sail, Papa?”

  Louis shifted his feet, looked down at them. “Aye, but—”

  “And did you not instruct me on all ways of the pirate life?” Andre spoke over his father.

  “Aye, again. But—”

  Andre gave his father an exasperated look, the braid he’d forced his hair into flopping over his collar.

  “There’s room for only one captain on this ship, Papa, and that would be me. I will discuss with you our course and the best way to get there, but do not undermine my authority by giving conflicting orders. It confuses the crew. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I would rather you took us out of the Gulf, while I figure out just how long this trip is, and—”

  “It will take us three to four months to get there, depending on the Cape, and how many times you make port along the way. You should know this already, mon fils."

  After a long, shared look, Louis reached out and took hold of the helm. He sighed, and Andre realized his father missed the sea more than he let on. It was too bad this trip was not a happy one.

  Andre continued with their conversation. “I do know the basic journey time. But this trip must be precise.” Yes, indeed. With murder on their minds, it was paramount that they arrive in Formosa swiftly and in secret.

  Louis looked out to sea, adjusted direction. “I will get us there, posthaste, my son. And thank you for entrusting your precious ship in my hands.”

  Andre gave a short nod, relieved to have found a pastime his father could excel at, and consequently leave the rest of the crew at peace. As he moved forward, he paused. Turned back to Louis.

  “After we take care of this butcher, Papa, I have another job I’d like to entrust you with.”

  Louis dropped his gaze from the sails. “Anything, mon fils."

  “As you may have guessed when her father approached you, Sophie was violated a few years ago by a suitor. I planned on going after that salaud to even the score. Now that she is dead, my desire to do so is even greater. I need you to locate him, though I have little go on. Naturally, she wouldn’t discuss him much."

  His father’s eyes narrowed. Andre raised his chin. He would not be deterred from this quest. He would mete out justice to every man who’d ever harmed Sophie. None would live if she could not. Revenge filled his heart where love had once resided.

  The silence spun out between them. Andre held his breath. Would his father refuse, give him another useless talk about nothing bringing back Sophie? Mon dieu, didn’t he already know that?

  At last his father gave one short nod. “I understand your need for closure, mon fils. I will send out runners the next time we land."

  As relief flooded him, Andre reached out and hugged his father to him, words not being necessary. Then he headed for his cabin, wanting to be alone. On the way, Limey came up from the hold with one of Andre’s crew. After circling each other like two suspicious dogs, they continued on their way.

  ~*~

  Weeks later, the wild rocking of the ship wakened Andre from his much-needed sleep. He attempted to sit up, but two, slim, cool hands came out of the darkness and pushed him onto his back.

  “Shh, I’m sorry I disturbed you, mon mari. I returned to bed too roughly. shh.

  Andre‘s eyes flew open. Sophie was kneeling beside him in his berth. Sophie! Her long, dark hair hung loose about her shoulders like a rippling waterfall, the nightgown she’d worn at his father’s house concealing her young body from his sight. He shook his head on the pillow to clear it. She was still there, lips curved upward, sapphire eyes beckoning to him. He stammered, “How...how did you get here, Sophie? I thought—”

  Her smile widened, eyes twinkling, and then she pouted. “You left me in the water. I swam and swam, chasing behind you, shouting, but you didn’t hear me. Thank goodness you finally stopped for a while.”

  Mon dieu, she’d returned. Somehow, managed to return. All those nights he’d drank himself sleep, unable face the fact that lost her, his always beautiful, sometimes irritating, wife. Only after she disappeared did he realize he loved her, needed her, and was nothing without her. Now she'd returned.

  Her sudden reappearance into his dark abyss of an existence spurred him to rise up, to say exactly how he felt. He lifted trembling hands to stroke her corn-silk soft, raven hair, gazed into her brilliant eyes.

  Brokenly he whispered, “Ma coeur, ma précieux, I’ve missed you so. I must tell what I've never said before, what I only realized after I thought were dead—I love you, Sophie. My life has been worthless since you lost. You’re the other half of me. I've been a ship without rudder. Don’t ever leave me. I can’t go through that again. I won’t."

  On this last note he leaned forward, cupped the back of her head as he pressed his eager mouth to hers. He devoured her lips, pressed his tongue at the seam of her mouth until she opened for him. He swept in, touched hers, in, out, swirling the dewy warmth he’d desired for weeks. He angled his head for better access, but she pulled out of his embrace.

  “No . . .” He complained, brought to a startled halt when she grabbed the bottom of her nightshift and lifted it up and over her head.

  His mouth dried up, his eyes chased over all her naked perfection. He didn’t put up a fight when she reached out and pushed him once more to the bed. His heart began to pound in his chest. His breathing hitched. He licked his parched lips as her fingers moved to the ties of his breeches, unfastening them with agonizing slowness. Fisting his hands in the sheets, he lifted his pelvis for her to pull them down his legs, freeing him to her heated perusal.

  After one, long look that had him hardening more, she didn’t waste time, rising up to straddle him, seating herself upon his straining erection. She took him into her body on a sensual sigh. He groaned at the feel of her tightness surrounding him. Inch by inch she lowered herself, until he filled her completely.

  She moved upon him. He swore, releasing the bed sheets to grip her buttocks as she rose up, then down, riding him, slowly at first, and then faster, the tempo increasing with their desire.

  “Merde,” he breathed, raising his hands to her perfect breasts, those creamy handfuls that he could knead once more, mold, caress. His thrusts strengthened, deepened, fueled by her sighs that turned to gasps, and then to moans the faster they moved.

  He murmured love words he’d never dared utter before. They poured out from his brain, from his heart, stampeding past his lips in a fierce longing to prove the love he’d never professed, and which he’d damned himself daily for since her disappearance.

  “Sacrebleu, Sophie, I love y—"

  Before he could finish, before their bodies soared over that last pinnacle together, her hands, which had been driving him to distraction coursing over his burning skin, clenched around his throat. At the same time, her legs tightened around his hips, constricting his thrusts, introducing pain to his subconscious. He thrashed from side to side, attempting to unseat her.

  Confused, he lifted heavy eyelids. It wasn’t Sophie astride him, but a huge, octopus-like creature with grasping tentacles winding around his hips, squeezing his legs, pressing upon his chest, contracting tighter and tighter, crushing the air right out of his lungs—

  He rose on an agonized howl, sweaty chest heaving, unbound hair swirling. He slammed his lips shut when he realized it had all been an awful dream, a nightmare of the worst kind. Sucking in air on rapid gulps, body quivering from fright and unreleased passion, he glanced about his quarters, wanting to find Sophie, knowing he wouldn’t.

  Uttering a vile expletive, he realized he would get no more sleep that night. He unwound himself from the jumble of bedclothes that had become the tentacles in his dream. His monstrous erection faded as he stood on shaky legs, running trembling fingers through his tangle of hair. He righted his clothes and pulled his boots on, needing to go above for cooler air.

  The first person he saw topside was his nemesis at the helm. He swore once more under his breath before stalking toward the wheel, casting a glance at the flapping and flu
ttering canvas above. He opened his mouth to shout at the young idiot, but caught sight of his own first mate rounding the cabin, tucking his shirt into his breeches. They nearly collided before de Gallo glanced up.

  “Master G, why are we not laying ahull?” snapped Andre, his black temper redirecting to the nearest person at hand.

  “Disculpe, Capitán—"

  Andre’s voice raised a notch over his first mate’s. “I gave strict orders to strike sails, yet there they are, threatening to rip apart in these winds. Why, Master G, why?”

  “The winds seemed to have abated some, so young Limey and I thought we might make a run for it. We’ve been sitting here at the Cape for blasted days, Señor, so—"

  Andre reached out without warning and backhanded his first mate, nearly spinning him around with the force of his strike. Limey shouted from the helm.

  Andre ignored him, continuing to castigate de Gallo. “No one second-guesses the captain, imbécile. You should be keelhauled—"

  “Stop taking out your anger on everyone! It was my idea anyway.” Limey bolted from the helm, leaving the Princess foundering in the winds and choppy seas of the Cape of Good Hope. He grabbed hold of Andre’s elbow.

  Andre yanked his arm free, spewing French curse words, forgetting about de Gallo for the moment. He faced the tall youth as they began circling each other. The moment they’d been spoiling for had finally come. Who would emerge the victor, and who would crawl off to lick his wounds? Andre danced on the balls of his feet in anticipation, arms spread for balance and swiftness, while Limey crouched low in a street fighter’s stance, looking for the advantage.

  What they fought for was who loved Sophie more. Andre knew that, and he’d be damned if this young traitor bested him. He might have realized it too late, but Andre loved Sophie with a ferociousness that the Brit could only hope to feel one day.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the crew begin to gather, shuffling in a ring around them, waiting to see the outcome of this kafuffle. Would it be to the death, or until neither could see out of swollen, bloodied eyes? It was up to Andre.