Commanding His Heart (American Pirate Romances Book 2)

by C. K. Brooke

  She’d thought she was alone, but when she turned, she saw a stubble-faced man shake his head disapprovingly. “Bad luck,” he muttered, ambling away.

  Em frowned. What was bad luck? Her bonnet?

  She then recognized the tall form heading in her direction. He carried a silver tray in both hands, steering around the masts and through the stream of sailors moving opposite him. It was only when he drew closer that Em knew she was his destination.

  “Sweetest, I’ve brought our supper,” he called past the pirates’ irate glances.

  “Oh, thank thee, Mr. Redding,” cooed Emeline, inwardly begging the other sailors to stop gawking at them. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep up the cloying charade and familiar talk before melting into a pool of embarrassment.

  Commander Redding approached the prow. The other sailors disappeared across the deck, plainly eager to leave the gushing couple to dine in privacy. Em’s stomach groaned eagerly as the commander handed her a plate of hot fish and a chipped china cup from the tray. She peeked into the cup.

  “It’s just tea,” Redding told her. “I wasn’t sure whether you liked it with milk, or…”

  Em grinned. “It all looks splendid. Thank you.”

  He gave her a spoon wrapped in a rag. “It was the cleanest substitute I could find for a napkin,” he apologized.

  The two sat onto the floor together, their backs against the bow. After a quick whisper of grace, Em poked her spoon into the fish and ate. It was salty and flaky on her tongue. She hungrily swallowed another mouthful. “Er…Mr. Redding?”

  He glanced up.

  “A minute ago, I overheard one of the crew muttering about bad luck.”

  “Oh?”

  Em waited, but the commander only watched her, the afternoon breeze tousling his locks. She cleared her throat. “Did he mean me?”

  “Don’t take it personally.” He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth, speaking between bites. “It’s a common superstition among seamen that a woman is bad luck aboard a ship.”

  Em dabbed the raggedy napkin at her lips. “And do you hold to that superstition as well?”

  He shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “You’re teasing,” Em realized, detecting his well-hidden smirk.

  “Am I?”

  She giggled, raising her cup to her lips.

  “Your hair is quite lovely,” said the commander plainly.

  Em almost choked on her tea. “I—beg your pardon?” She rubbed her throat.

  “Your hair,” he repeated, making a motion with his hands around his face, as if she didn’t understand the meaning of the word. “The way the wind tosses it about…One can almost get lost watching it.”

  Em lowered her cup, pressing its warmth between her hands. She didn’t quite know how to respond. “Well…thank you.” I suppose? “I’ve been hoping the sun would lighten it, actually.”

  “Why ever for?”

  “Because lighter hair is more appealing on a woman.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said simply.

  When he didn’t look away, Em set down her spoon, her stomach giving an odd little lurch. “Mr. Redding,” she said haltingly, “aren’t you going to tell me where we’re sailing?”

  The man took a long draught of tea. He set the china onto the saucer and rested his arms over his knees. “Barbados,” he finally answered.

  Em’s heartbeat accelerated. She’d never been to any place like Barbados before. “And, er,” she tried to eradicate the childish excitement from her voice, “what’s in Barbados?”

  “Caribbean waters.” His gaze wandered out to sea. “Clear skies…”

  “You’re evading my question.”

  He returned his focus onto her, and Em drank in his steady face. “And aren’t you evading something as well today?” He quirked an eyebrow. “As I recall, an engagement of sorts?”

  Em looked down.

  “Makes one wonder. Why would a bride-to-be wish to miss her own engagement party?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.” Em rested her half-eaten dish back onto the tray. The thought of Mr. Grady and what awaited her in Jamestown had caused her to lose her appetite.

  But the commander wasn’t keen on giving up. “Aren’t young ladies typically delighted by marriage and weddings?”

  “Typically,” replied Em shortly, “but not in my case.”

  “And why not?” he pried.

  She refused to look at him. “Mr. Redding, I boarded this ship so I would not have to think about Lawrence Grady ever again. The last thing I wish to do is sit here discussing him with you.”

  “And yet, you’re still engaged to marry him, are you not?”

  Em got to her feet. “Thank you for lunch. I think I’ll have a walk now. By myself,” she added, so there was no mistaking she didn’t desire his accompaniment.

  She left the man to finish the meal on his own. If there was one thing Em was learning to do well, it was to get away.

  Chapter 7

  “Another verse, Bucky!”

  The young sailor abided, lifting his bow and scraping it against the fiddle in the same merry tune. Grog-filled sailors danced a drunken jig, clumsy boots slamming the deck and laughter roaring like a jungle of beasts.

  Em had kept her distance for most of the evening. But when she saw Commander Redding join them on deck, she automatically stepped down from her spot by the rail.

  The man glanced up as she approached, the shape of his face outlined against the torchlight. “I thought I caught the fragrance of lavender,” he remarked, seeing her.

  Her face warmed against the night’s breeze. Some sailors turned to see whom he spoke to. But instead of casting Emeline their usual leery gazes, they simply resumed drinking and dancing. Another fiddler joined in, and then another, until the air was rich with music.

  “Good evening,” Em greeted him.

  Redding seemed distracted, as usual. Subtly, she followed the direction of his gaze and noticed, with a jolt of nervousness, the formidable Captain Crawley and Mr. Pleats scrutinizing them.

  Commander Redding held out his hand at once. “Shall we dance?”

  Em hesitated, her heart climbing up her chest. But she read the message in his eyes plainly. They were being watched. They had a façade to uphold. She pushed a grin through her lips. “Why, of course.”

  She took his hand, forcing her own not to tremble. Though weathered-looking, his skin felt smooth and warm. Em inhaled as the commander’s fingers wrapped around hers. His grip was firm enough to remind her of his masculinity, but gentle enough to assure her that she could let go any time she wanted.

  They began. While Em had danced with her sister and friends aplenty, her parents disapproved of her dancing with members of the opposite sex. She feared nerves would cause her to miss a step, but managed to keep in time with the fiddlers’ rhythm.

  To her surprise, the man pulled her closer, until her chest was staunch against his. He lowered his chin to her shoulder, murmuring into her ear as he turned her around. “Thank you for accepting. It won’t do to be seen keeping a distance from each other, I’m afraid.”

  Em merely nodded. Even if she wanted to reply, she couldn’t. The cadence of his voice, even in a murmur, and his breath at her cheek rendered her silent.

  He pulled back, just far enough to meet her eyes, and smiled. Em returned it with a genuine one of her own, forgetting the ship and the crew around them. She missed a step and stumbled. Redding seemed not to notice. She corrected her posture and tried again.

  A gurgling voice tore over to them: “Kiss ’er!”

  Commander Redding glanced up, his expression mild.

  “Aye,” crowed another. “Kiss yer bride fer us, Redding!”

  Similar cheers of encouragement—some less tame—rang out at them, and Em felt her face cook. “A husband kisses his wife in private,” she scolded the scallywags, “and certainly not before such a crude audience.”

  A band of pirates booed as the fiddlers
brought their tune to a flourishing end.

  “Mrs. Redding,” rasped a voice.

  Em looked up, her blood chilling in her veins. Captain Crawley’s hooded eyes surveyed her beneath the shadow of his tricorne. If she didn’t know any better, she might’ve thought she perceived the trace of a wry smile.

  “When you reach the intimacy of your cabin,” he croaked, “promise us all that you’ll kiss your husband. For the poor man looks right desperate for it.”

  Em dropped her gaze, mortified at the bawdy laughter surrounding them. Commander Redding cleared his throat, releasing her hand.

  “I—I am going to retire now,” she stammered.

  “No need to wait up,” the commander told her kindly. “I’ll be busy this evening.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  She bade the crowd a wary goodnight and saw herself to the companionway. Her ears still burned from the captain’s comment.

  ***

  Pleats leaned back, crossing his ankles atop the table as he downed another tumbler of grog.

  “Get yer ruddy boots off of me dice,” complained McNichol.

  Miers checked his compass. He tucked the little gold device back into his jacket pocket and peered out of the grimy porthole. It didn’t startle him when a massive, black-nailed hand closed over his shoulder.

  “Not yet,” said the familiar voice.

  “I know,” said Miers.

  “Apprehensive?” Ramses Crawley wanted to know.

  “Maybe.” The commander turned, running an absent hand over his chin.

  “Commander,” the captain grinned, showcasing his many-colored teeth, “it’s just a wee raid. It won’t kill you.” He reconsidered. “Well, most likely not.”

  But Miers wasn’t afraid for himself. As a naval officer during the Revolution, he’d seen worse. It wasn’t fear that perturbed him, rather, his conscience.

  And yet, Eliza needed him. He hadn’t a choice. For her, he’d vowed to do anything—whatever it took.

  “Say, Commander.” Jones, the quartermaster, flashed him a deck of cards, drawing their attention. “How abouts?”

  The cabin boy pulled up a stool, and Miers decidedly sat. A round of cards might help to ease his mind off of its many anxieties. Jones dealt him a hand and Miers examined the cards, simultaneously withdrawing a coin from his purse and adding it to the pile of loot at the center of the table.

  The cabin boy refilled their grog as they played. Miers kept to his tea instead. Although his mother was no longer among the living, and he’d abandoned most of the practices she’d kept, he’d failed to develop a taste for alcohol in all his years abstaining at her behest. An odd trait for a sailor, he knew.

  “Day after tomorrow,” said Ginty, drawing a new card from the stack, “I expect we’ll be interceptin’ our company.”

  Miers listened as they discussed the plan, and contemplated his own. Trouble was, once they reached Barbados, he still wasn’t sure what he would be facing. But at least Crawley’s crew would help him face it.

  By little effort of his own—and more, he suspected, due to the others’ inebriation—Miers won the first round. His opponents jeered as the cabin boy motioned to collect his winnings into a sack for him.

  Miers waved a hand. “Save your sorry pennies,” he pronounced over their rowdiness. He dismissed the cabin boy and stood. “I care not for this pile of trinkets when worthier loot is headed our way.”

  That garnered a “Hear, hear!” from the mates, who raised their mugs.

  Before he turned away, something in the pile caught his eye, glinting green in the lantern light. Miers reached to touch it.

  From the winnings he’d rejected, he withdrew a fine gold hairclip, studded with emeralds, in the shape of a salamander. It shone as though never worn, appearing indeed newly forged. For a long moment, he pictured Miss Winthrop’s enchanting raven hair, the way it tumbled in the sea breeze, free of its bonnet. He envisioned her tresses tucked into the emerald salamander, fastening it into her hair, brushing the back of his hand against the undoubtedly soft, lavender-scented nape of her neck…

  His fingers closed around the piece. “Except this one. If no one objects, I’ll be taking it.” Nobody protested, as the quartermaster was already dealing out cards for another round. Miers slid the hairclip into his pocket.

  “Getting back to your wife now, Commander?” asked Crawley knowingly.

  Miers paused. Wife. Though he barely knew the girl, for a second he nearly wished it was so.

  But, whether she liked it or not, the truth was that she belonged to another man.

  Realizing the captain was still watching him, Miers inclined his head. “I’d best be, sir.”

  ***

  Em had lain awake for a long while, but sleep never overcame her. It wasn’t until the cabin door creaked open that she felt a sense of relief, and realized what she’d been waiting for. “Mr. Redding?” She sat up in the cot, holding the blanket to her neck.

  He set down his lantern and shut the door behind him. “Sorry to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  He turned away to remove his jacket. Em’s insides contracted at the shape of his back through his blouse, taut and strong in the flickering lamp light. He went to the trunk and withdrew the blanket again.

  “Oh, truly, I wish you wouldn’t sleep there,” Em lamented as he spread it down over the floor. But the commander only dialed down the lantern and bade her to rest well.

  She lay back in his cot, watching the ceiling. “Mr. Redding?”

  “Yes?” The panels beneath him creaked.

  “Is the ship making good time? When do you reckon we’ll reach Barbados from here?”

  She sensed an edge of hesitation in his voice before he answered, “Six days.”

  Six more days. She could handle that. What was the worst that could happen?

  The cabin fell silent. Em was succumbing to the lulling invitation of slumber when a gasp pierced the quietude. The man scrambled to his feet.

  “What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Rat,” he exhaled. “You were right.” He turned to her. “It’s got to be the most enormous one I’ve ever—”

  Em moved aside. “Take the cot, I insist.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly allow you to—”

  “We’ll share it.” When he didn’t respond immediately, she pressed, “We are ‘married,’ aren’t we?” Her heart pounded, but she was amazed to discover it wasn’t for fear of the scandalous arrangement she was proposing.

  Rather, it throbbed in desire for him to agree.

  “Here.” She stood, straightening the blankets. “You make yourself comfortable, and I’ll just…find an open space to curl into. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  He stared at her in the scant light, the lines beneath his eyes tired and serious. “Of course I’ll know you’re there,” he said simply.

  She swallowed, stepping back. There was naught to do but wait and see what he would choose.

  Slowly, he went to the cot and turned down the blanket. Em stifled her breaths as he reclined, keeping as far to the edge as possible. An anticipatory shiver coursed up her spine as she got in beside him, folding her knees to her chest in an effort to take up as little space as she could.

  There was no way she could sleep like this, she realized. Her body burned from head to foot. How could she have suggested it?

  She was sharing her bed with a man. A stranger, really—albeit, one she trusted. Lord, help her. When she’d fled her home, she’d never have imagined this.

  And yet, the man beside her kept perfectly still, making no indication of moving. Ever so slightly, she turned her head to watch him. His eyes were closed, uncombed hair sprawled across his forehead. She repressed the unexpected urge to reach out and smooth his curls. Not because they were unruly, but only to see if they felt as lush and springy as they looked.

  His breaths steadied, streaming quietly between parted lips. Heart-shaped and shadowed with a day
of stubble, his lips looked defined and firm. But Em reckoned his kiss would be as soft and considerate as his touch.

  Involuntarily, she moistened her own lips with her tongue. She wanted to find out what his kiss would really feel like. Not just imagine it.

  She recalled Captain Crawley’s words to her earlier that evening, as she and the commander had danced. “Promise us all that you’ll kiss your husband. For the poor man looks right desperate for it.”

  Was it true? Was the commander desperate for her kiss? Or was the captain only trying to stir the pot?

  She watched the man asleep at her side, full of the strange hope that he might sense her longing, open his eyes, and reach for her. Wake up, she begged inwardly. Oh, wake up, and catch me spying, and take me in your arms again and put your lips on mine so I can thank you for all you’ve done.

  But no matter how many silent pleas and sweet fantasies she entertained, he never did.

  Chapter 8

  Emeline Winthrop was unaccustomed to a life devoid of industriousness. That was why, the following morning, when she found herself idle at the rail again, she turned to the pirates waxing the wood and raising the masts behind her.

  “Pardon me, but does anyone have clothing that needs mending?” she asked them.

  No one spoke to her. At first.

  But then, deliberately, a young man set down his tools. “Me breeches ’ave torn,” he confessed, and his fellows guffawed. “Not the pair I’m wearin’,” he chided them. He addressed Em again. “My only spare. An’ those of our crew what sew have been too busy tendin’ these ruddy masts to fix ’em.”

  “I used to be able to stitch about anything,” grunted a middle-aged seaman, “but my fingers ain’t nimble as they used to be.” Indeed, his raw hands were caked in dry, crackled skin and a little bit of blood.

  Em moved into the fray of pirates, glad they were coming to speaking terms. “Bring your torn and holey garments to me, and I shall mend them,” she told them. “All I ask is for a needle and thread in exchange.”