Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance

by Michelle Beattie

  When he’d come home after weeks away searching for an elusive treasure, he’d known immediately something awful had happened. The door to the house was gaping open. Every window was broken and the inside was ravaged. He’d screamed for Catherine, ran inside. Tables, chairs, dishes, clothes, everything was all on the floor.

  Catherine and Caden had been nowhere to be found. But, there, amid the debris of what used to be his home, amid the smears and pools of blood, he’d found the necklace. He’d dropped to his knees; a keening wail had ripped from his lips as he’d realized he’d lost everything that ever mattered.

  For days and months, hell, even years, he’d all but been buried alive by his guilt. Truly, it was a wonder he wasn’t dead by the sheer enormity and weight of it all. It had taken Blake Merritt and Nate Carter to push him into the present. When they’d found him and told him of his dying brother Vincent’s final wish; that Cale take over the role of Sam Steele in his stead, he’d been shocked. And though he’d fought—the idea and the men who’d presented it—he’d come around. Vincent’s wish had humbled him. Humbled and shamed him, because despite how callously he’d tossed his brother’s very existence aside, Vincent had still thought enough of Cale to ask the favor. Vincent may have been a dwarf, but his request had left his brother feeling like the smaller man.

  Much as he didn’t care for pirating, he’d taken the role of Steele. He couldn’t do anything to make amends for what had happened to Catherine and Caden, not without a clue as to who took them, but he could step into the role his brother had coveted.

  He’d plundered, pillaged, and made a fortune, all in his late brother’s name. He’d led through victories, storms, and illnesses. He’d fought, bled, and cursed until he dragged his battered body to bed, only to start again the next day. Initially, his living as Steele might have been selfless. Indeed he’d convinced himself he was doing it for Vincent. But truth be told, he’d since come to do it for himself.

  Pirating kept him busy, and allowed him to be someone else. As long as he was Steele, he didn’t have to be Cale. He could be as cold and hard as his namesake. It had been enough. For many years it was all he’d needed.

  Until he’d found Grace.

  Now, though the only sound he heard was her even breathing, he could hear her sweet voice singing. With his eyes closed, he saw her face shine with joy as she sang of home. She’d touched him, not only with her singing but her compassion. While he’d been guarding the hatch, she’d prepared him a pallet of blankets and jackets on the floor. He’d have been fine with any garment balled into a pillow and, while he could admit this was far more comfortable, it wasn’t the comfort he appreciated most. It was the gesture, the thought.

  Granted, Nate’s wife always fussed over Steele when they made port, but somehow it was different. Claire’s fussing didn’t have the effect Grace’s had. In the berth, he heard Grace roll over. He pictured her in his bed, warm and soft and so damn close he could smell her.

  It wasn’t right but his body reacted anyway. Desire simmered through his blood until he was hard and hot with it. Damn it, she was pregnant, he shouldn’t be having such thoughts. He had no intention of getting married again, not after failing so dismally the first time. Besides, Grace wanted to go home to Ireland, and his life, such as it was, was in the Caribbean. Yet no matter how much his head spoke, his body wasn’t listening.

  He flung an arm over his eyes. Four days suddenly felt like an eternity.

  Chapter Seven

  The beauty of sailing the Caribbean waters was the Spanish Main was filled with islands of all sizes. There were rocky, tree-filled mounds and an occasional few that were hardly more than a sand bar with a lonely clump of struggling palm trees. Steele set down the looking glass, called out adjustments for the sails, and turned the wheel slightly starboard. There was just such a spit of land ahead.

  It wasn’t long before he judged his position to be perfect. While his little sloop could get much closer, Steele saw no need to go any further. If Isaac wanted to live, he’d swim.

  “Lower the anchor, bring in the sails.”

  It was barely midmorning and already the day was a sweltering one. His hair was damp at the temples and his shirt clung to him in sticky clumps. Inside his leather boots, his feet felt as though they were being boiled. The one bright side to the heat was that as miserable as it was for him and the crew, it would be fathoms worse for Isaac.

  He had Aidan fetch the prisoner, who Steele had personally clapped in irons an hour ago, while Jacques stayed in the cabin with Grace. He expected foul language and all other manner of bad behavior from Isaac and Grace didn’t need to witness it. She’d suffered enough.

  “Smoky, get the plank.”

  “Aye, sir.” Shoving the smoldering cigar to one side of his mouth, Smoky bent at the gunwale and released the plank they kept tied to the side. He had it in position, jutting over the greenish-blue water by the time Aidan shoved a cussing Isaac through the main hatch.

  Even with his hands bound behind his back, it didn’t stop Isaac from lurching toward Steele. Eyes burning, spit gathering at the corners of his mouth, he looked like a rabid dog. “Curse you for breathing! I did what most men were thinking. Why are they not being punished?”

  “Because they weren’t daft enough to act on their foolish ideas.” Steele jerked his head for Aidan to bring Isaac to the plank.

  Isaac squirmed and wrenched, tossed his head, narrowly missing Aidan’s jaw. Aidan grabbed the irons and yanked them up Isaac’s back.

  “Ah!” Isaac fell to his knees. “Damn you all to the depths.”

  “You sealed your fate when you stole, uninvited, into my cabin and went after Grace.”

  Isaac glared at Steele from under his brows. “I didn’t go after Grace, I went after a whore.”

  Steele didn’t feel the deck beneath his feet as he moved but he felt, and relished, his fist connecting with Isaac’s jaw. The man’s head snapped to the side. A bloody shame it didn’t snap right off as far as Steele was concerned.

  “Get him up.”

  Aidan hauled Isaac back onto his feet and this time the man was quiet as he was led to the gunwale.

  “Take off the irons.” He tossed the key to Aidan, then drew the pistol from his sash and aimed it at his former crewman.

  Isaac’s scowl was firmly on Steele as Aidan caught the key and released the shackles. As soon as he was free, Isaac rolled his shoulders, wiped the sweat dripping from the end of his nose. “You’ll rue this day,” he vowed.

  “Actually, I believe I’ll look back on it with fondness. Take off your clothes.”

  Isaac looked at his captain as though he’d lost his mind. “What?”

  “I didn’t mumble. Take them off.”

  Panicked, he looked about the crew which had gathered. “What sick game are you playing at?”

  “No game. But it seems to me you were more than ready to take them off for Grace. As punishment, you’ll be going ashore naked.”

  Isaac’s face contorted in rage. “I’ll see you in hell first.”

  Steele stepped before Isaac. “You can take them off or have them cut off you. Gentleman?”

  At his words there was rustling and shifting as the remaining crew drew their dirks.

  Isaac snarled. “The lot of you will pay for this day.”

  “As it is, we’d just like to get on with it.” Steele pointed his pistol at Isaac’s head. “I won’t tell you again.”

  With catcalls and whistles taunting and belittling him, which had been Steele’s intent, Isaac wrenched off his clothes.

  “Go on.” Steele gestured to the plank with his weapon.

  He’d never before marooned anyone, and certainly never made a naked man walk the plank, but considering what Isaac had wanted to do to Grace, Steele considered it just punishment.

  At the end of the board, Isaac turned. “You’re leaving me with nothing?”

  Steele looked him up and down, another means of degradation. “Well, I’m
certainly not leaving you with much. Mind the sand fleas, they can get annoying.”

  Then, with the crew chuckling, Steele grabbed the man’s sword and launched it overboard. “It’s more than you deserve,” he said.

  Hatred poured from every one of Isaac’s pores as surely as it shot from his eyes. “This isn’t over. Whatever it takes, however long, I’ll find you and make you pay.” Then, with a final scathing glare, Isaac dove into the sea.

  The sound of the splash had barely faded when Steele turned from the gunwale and headed for the quarterdeck. “Weigh anchor,” he called as he took the steps.

  From his perch by the wheel he heard Carracks squawk, “Weigh anchor. Weigh anchor.”

  *

  On the beach, Isaac watched the Revenge sail away. He sat in the shallow water, sword in hand, and smiled. Steele may have taken his clothes and attempted to take his dignity, but he’d also given Isaac more than he realized. Lifting his sword, a sword he’d fashioned himself, Isaac focused on the pommel and the piece of flint embedded into its tip.

  He had means to make fire. All he needed now was a passing ship to see it.

  “Then, Steele.” He smirked. “We’ll see who has the last laugh.”

  *

  The heat only got worse after the midday meal. Steele, like all the others, save Aidan, had shed his shirt, sash, and weapons. Anything that could be taken off was and still it wasn’t enough. His chest gleamed with sweat. The thick humidity ensured even the minimal breeze offered no relief.

  He’d let Grace come on deck for a time but he’d worried the heat would be too much for her and had sent her back shortly afterward. It was slightly cooler in his cabin but he imagined by now the air would be stale as a month-old biscuit. Still, he selfishly preferred her below. When she’d been on deck he’d made all the men keep their shirts on and they’d been none too happy about it. Besides, when she was out of sight, she was slightly less on his mind. After listening to her breathe all night long, combined with the odd little snuffle noises he inexplicably found endearing, he needed her to be far more out of his mind than she was.

  “Captain?”

  He shook his head to clear it and looked at Aidan. “What?”

  “You haven’t gone below in hours.” He reminded him.

  “I will soon,” Steele promised.

  Earlier, when he’d noticed his crew’s movements growing listless, he’d ordered them to take turns getting out of the sun. “You’ll be no good to me if you all end up sick from too much heat.” He’d commented.

  It was a fact he’d learned the hard way the first time he’d set sail. He remembered the shivers, feeling hot one moment and as though he wouldn’t ever get warm again the next. He’d had a blooming headache and what little he’d had appetite for had refused to stay down. Since then, he’d always ensured the same never happened to him or his crew.

  Steele wiped a trail of perspiration from his temple. “Have you gone?”

  “I just came back. You didn’t notice when I came to get Carracks?”

  A quick glance at the hook confirmed the bird was, indeed, gone. “No, I didn’t. But I suppose I should’ve noticed the lack of noise.”

  Aidan dropped a hand onto Steele’s shoulder. “I’ve got the helm, Captain. Jacques has been with Grace for a time. He can come up and sweat along with the rest of us.”

  Steele nodded. He’d order up another round of grog for everyone. With having looted Roche’s ship, and arriving in Santo Domingo within days, they could afford to be more generous than usual with supplies.

  The galley was damp but at least it was out of the blessed sun. Steele helped himself to a cup of grog and sat heavily at the table.

  He allowed himself ten minutes of silence and peace. His eyes and mouth felt as though they’d been washed in sand. While at first the galley had felt cooler, it didn’t take long for it, too, to become uncomfortably hot. Everything felt heavy, even raising himself off the chair seemed to take more effort, as though he suddenly weighed more.

  “Damn heat,” he grumbled and poured more grog.

  He debated for a moment between drinking it or pouring it over his head, but his dry throat won the war. Then, unsure how much Grace had had to drink, Steel poured her a mug as well. Just crossing the small distance between the hatches his skin felt as though it was being singed.

  “Captain?” Aidan called.

  “I’m taking this to Grace and I’ll send Jacques up. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “But—”

  Irritable already, Steele just waved off his first mate. Whatever Aidan wanted could wait.

  The cabin was every bit as stifling as the deck. Even the dust seemed too lethargic to bother to move. She was at the table, Carrack’s cage before her. Jacques had his head on the table, sleeping. So much for being a guard, if someone could walk in without Jacques waking. But then, he figured if Grace were to say anything the man would be awake in an instant. It was a skill all pirates had acquired in order to survive.

  A fact proven when Steele stepped off the last rung and Carracks once again whistled. Jacques’ head snapped up and the pistol resting next to his head was suddenly in his hand and pointed at Steele.

  “It’s only me,” he said.

  Squawk. “Only me. Only me.”

  With no threat present, Jacques set the weapon back onto the table, rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Grace, however, remained still as stone. Her gaze had swung around at his entrance and it had yet to waver. Her face was flushed from the heat and her eyes seemed especially wide. Her mouth was parted as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t formulate the words.

  Jacques stood and stretched. The sound of bones creaking was loud in the silence.

  “You’re after relieving me, then?” he asked. At his captain’s nod, Jacques ambled stiffly to the ladder. “Thought we were all to keep our shirts on around her,” he muttered as he headed up on deck.

  Steele glanced down, sighed and shook his head. So that was what Aidan had tried to tell him. He set the grog onto the table, veered left and pulled a shirt from his trunk. The cotton stuck to his damp skin, but it wasn’t what added to the already simmering heat. Grace’s attention remained fixed on him as he struggled to don the garment. For a brief moment he saw her tongue through her parted lips. His chest tightened as he watched her watch him. Part of him wanted to hurry up and get the damn shirt on, but another part wondered what would happen if he reversed the motion and took it off again.

  The desire that had tormented him all night came rushing back. Steele turned his back, tugged the collar in place, ensuring the pendant was once again beneath the fabric, then decided it best all around if he didn’t tuck in his shirt. It would better mask…things.

  He could understand his response to her fixation on his nakedness, but, surely, his wasn’t the first bare chest she’d laid eyes on. And why did the truth make him want to snarl? It shouldn’t matter if she’d seen a hundred naked men before, as he had no intention of acting on his desires. She deserved better than a tussle in his bed and he had no intention of offering more.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he turned around. “It’s so blasted hot and I’d forgotten I’d taken my shirt off.”

  The flush had yet to fade from her face, but her fascination with his chest was clearly over as she was looking everywhere but at it. “I don’t blame you. If I could, I’d be taking me shirt off as well.”

  Her mouth formed a wide circle before she clapped both palms over it. If he’d thought her eyes wide before, it was nothing to what they were now. And he was damn glad his shirt covered him. The thought of Grace without anything covering her ample cleavage had his penis straining against his pants.

  Steele hurried to a chair and dropped into it.

  “I didn’t mean—I don’t want—”

  He held up his hand. “I know what you meant.” And yet he couldn’t help feeling disappointed he wouldn’t be seeing her naked breasts.

  “Oh. Good.”
>
  Silence then weighed as heavily as the heat. Since Catherine’s death, Steele hadn’t been a man of conversation and he had no idea what to say now. Besides, his mind was stubbornly stuck on the idea of Grace’s naked breasts. They avoided looking at each other but as their glances shifted from one object around the cabin to the other, inevitably their eyes met.

  Minutes stretched. Steele shifted in his chair. Grace tapped her fingers on the table. Soon, he was wishing the blasted bird would say something. Anything.

  Her skin shone with so fine a sheen it could have been dew. Small wisps of hair at the nape of her neck clung to her damp skin. He envisioned lifting those strands and kissing her heated skin. When she lifted the thick braid from her shoulders, unknowingly raising her breasts at the same time, he couldn’t help himself. He stared hungrily at the creamy flesh spilling over the ties of his borrowed shirt. Steele had a feeling he could drink a cask of grog and his throat would remain dry and achy.

  Grace lowered her arms, sighed. She grabbed a book she must have taken off his shelf and began to fan herself with it. Hell. He didn’t know if she was getting any relief but he sure as blazes wasn’t. Her movements caused her breasts to jiggle and Steele’s vision filled with images. Images of her riding him, his hands full of silken flesh as their bodies came together.

  Goddamn, he needed to reign in his thoughts or soon even the table wouldn’t be able to hide his desire. But she was making it impossible. As he stared at her, a bead of perspiration slid down her neck and slipped into the valley between her breasts. It must have tickled as Grace, with one of her hands still waving the book before her face, dipped the other inside the shirt. Watching her touch her breasts, even as innocently as to wipe away sweat, had Steele forgetting to breathe. His groin hardened until it was almost painful.

  But it wasn’t until she raised her eyes to his, her hand still on her bosom that Steele snapped.