Never Trust a Pirate

by Anne Stuart

  She was glaring at him with absolute hatred, something that might disturb him if he didn’t understand what lay beneath it far better than she did. “Mary Greaves,” she spat. “Now let me go or I’ll have the police after you.”

  The ship lurched, then smoothed out, and he knew by the feel of it that they’d left the harbor. Any experienced sailor would recognize the signs, but the daughter of Russell Shipping had never been on a ship before, a fact that astonished him. He couldn’t very well task her with it, though, without giving away that he already knew her name.

  “I’m afraid the police are most likely busy trying to solve the death of Mr. Dorrit and his accomplice to worry about you. If they’d found your body it would be a different matter, but I did, in fact, rescue you. Saved your life, and I have yet to hear a word of thanks from your dulcet voice.”

  “If you don’t let me off this boat you’ll hear screaming from this dulcet voice.”

  “If you start screaming I’ll throw you overboard.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll swim to shore.”

  He shook his head. “I’d say we’re too far out by now, and the night wind is picking up. Even a strong swimmer would have a hard time against the tides, and you’d be encumbered by all those clothes. If you tried it naked you’d probably freeze to death in ten minutes—the waters are cold off Plymouth this time of year. I’d say you’re not going anywhere but where the ship—not boat—takes us, at least for the time being.”

  She grew very still, her eyes impossibly wide and her entire body vibrating with fear. “We’ve set sail?” Her voice was little more than a croak.

  “We’ve set sail,” he verified. “Someone was intent on killing you back there, either Rufus Brown or someone else, and the only way to make certain you’re safe is to take you out of the reach of casual marauders. Why don’t you like to sail?”

  “I don’t sail,” she corrected him fiercely. “I know I’m going to drown. I nearly did when I was a child and the little dinghy my father gave us capsized, trapping me underneath. I haven’t been in a boat since, and I don’t intend to…”

  “This has nothing to do with your intentions, my sweet, it was decided for you. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you or this ship.” Her fear made no sense to him, but he knew it was nothing she could be reasoned out of.

  She was trapped, and she knew it, and he watched in fascination as she exerted sheer will over her trembling body. The shaking slowly ceased, and she turned her back on him, her hands and ankles still trussed with the ropes from Dorrit’s companion. “I’m going to throw up,” she muttered.

  It was a possibility, but she was showing no signs of mal de mer, just impotent fury. “I’ll bring you a basin,” he replied. “Do I dare untie you, or will you try to strangle me with your ropes?”

  “I’ll kill you the first chance I get,” she said grimly, and he wanted to laugh. That would have been a grave mistake—she was holding on to her self-possession with the desperate grip of a drowning woman, and it wasn’t wise to anger her further.

  “Then I’ll leave you as you are. Try to sleep—it’s a long time until morning. I’ll bring you something to eat when I come to bed and I’ll untie you then. You’re less likely to get seasick if you have a little in your stomach.”

  That was enough to make her flounce around again, staring at him with new horror. “You’re not sleeping here.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “It’s my cabin,” he said mildly. “Where else would I sleep?”

  “Not with me!”

  “Your chastity is safe,” he said, and saw the flush mount to her cheeks briefly. So the rumors were true and she had given herself to her faithless lover. So much the better. He didn’t have to worry about hurting her—all he had to do was give her pleasure, and he was very good at giving pleasure. “Tell me your name and I’ll untie you and give you your own cabin.”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Mary Greaves.”

  In that case, she’d literally made her own bed for the night. He was simply going to have to up the stakes.

  He locked the door behind him as he headed for the galley. The sea was smooth, just a light wind filling the sails as they headed south toward France, and he reveled in the rightness of it. Billy was out of his mind, talking about love, for God’s sake. Luca knew nothing of love, and he preferred it that way. Women were for pleasure, not for a lifetime, not for a wanderer like he was. A woman terrified of setting foot on the deck of a ship with a man who couldn’t breathe when he wasn’t near the water was no possible match…

  Not that he was thinking of matches. He simply needed her to admit to who she was. He needed that sign of trust from her, and until he had it he wasn’t giving her a thing. Once she told him then maybe he’d drop her off somewhere safe with enough money to get her home again. After all, Russell had been good to him up until almost the very end, and he owed him the safety of his daughter. She was just an annoyance to deal with and then dispose of. If he managed to get between her legs before that, so much the better, but in the end it didn’t matter. One woman was the same as the next.

  He slammed his fist into the wood planked wall in sudden frustration. Who the hell was he trying to fool? Himself? That was an idiot’s trick. He could lie to anyone, deny anything, but when he couldn’t face his own truth it was time to worry.

  So Billy knew him well enough to be partly right. He was a bit too… interested in Maddy Russell. In fact, he was almost obsessed with her. During the trip back from London she was all he could think of, her stubborn mouth, her fierce eyes, the soft, lovely curves of her body beneath all those ugly layers. So he wanted her. There was nothing wrong with that—she was a beautiful woman. He should be more disturbed if he didn’t want her.

  Except. He couldn’t picture being without her. Before he slept with a woman he always had an exit strategy. He knew the ones who could be bought off with jewels, the ones who needed to be convinced they were too good for him, as in Gwendolyn’s case. Of course, he hadn’t even managed to bed his fiancée, mainly because he’d never really wanted to. She was a classic blond beauty, and she’d always left him cold. At least she’d now consider herself well-rid of such a ruffian, and it hadn’t cost him a thing.

  He had no idea what Maddy’s price would be, any more than he could imagine sending her away. It was simply because he hadn’t had her yet, he told himself. The longer the anticipation, the greater the reward. A week or so in the confines of his quarters and he’d grow tired of her very quickly.

  She’d probably make the fool mistake of thinking she was in love with him. Women were like that—they didn’t know how to enjoy their bodies just for the fun of it, and in order to assuage their consciences they had to tell themselves they were “in love.”

  He didn’t believe in it, at least, not for him. He’d seen it occasionally, and always wondered at its strength and elasticity. No matter how far Billy roamed, Duncan was always waiting for him. Russell had mourned his wife for his entire widowhood, and Luca’s gypsy grandmother and grandfather had seemed blissfully happy.

  But love wasn’t for anyone like him. He was a gyppo half-breed, and there were many doors closed to him, many societies shut off. He didn’t mind the troubles he’d gone through, but he’d be damned if he’d submit his wife or his children to that kind of vicious, casual cruelty.

  And God, what was he doing thinking about marriage? Another ridiculous supposition. Except that he’d stolen her from her house, even if it was technically his, just as his family had done for centuries, and she lay in his bed now, mutinous and angry and just ready for him to walk over and change her mind.

  He should tell Billy to turn the ship northeast, sail up to Victoria Dock in London, and dump her there. She was possibly the most dangerous female he’d ever met—the most dangerous to his piece of mind, to his carefully ordered way of life. His gypsy blood had nothing to do with his life, except to mark him as one of the unwanted. So why couldn’t
he stop thinking that he’d ended up stealing his bride after all?

  The galley was deserted, and Luca began searching through the stores for food for Maddy. She’d probably throw the tray at his head, but it was worth a try.

  “What are you doing?” Billy appeared in the entryway. “Mooning over the lass?”

  Luca made an extremely rude suggestion. “Why are you down here?”

  “I’m looking for you. I left Jeffries at the helm—he’ll be good enough for the time being.”

  Luca leaned back against the wooden table that was bolted to the deck. “What do you want? If you feel like punching me it might be a good idea. Might knock some sense into me.”

  “Ah, don’t tempt me.” Billy grinned. “Your romantic troubles aren’t at the forefront of my worries right now. There’s a storm brewing.”

  “I saw no sign of it.”

  “You’re too busy thinking with your John Thomas instead of your brain. It’s a few days out, and I’m thinking we can avoid it if we head west for a bit.”

  “Do what you have to do.” Billy had always had a sixth sense about the weather, something Luca envied. Then again, he always knew trouble when it was on the horizon, giving them the choice to dive in or avoid a brawl. So why hadn’t he recognized trouble in the form of Madeleine Russell?

  Ah, but he had. And he’d ignored it.

  “What’s that you got there?” Billy demanded. “Bread, cheese, wine? You thinking food will do it? I thought she had a problem with sailing. You don’t want to waste good food on a tricky stomach.”

  “It’s not her stomach that’s the problem, it’s her mind.”

  “I could have told you that,” Billy shot back.

  Luca managed a reluctant grin. “She’s afraid of sailing.”

  “Russell’s daughter?” Billy didn’t bother to hide his amazement. “Is she a changeling or what? I heard she used to hang around his office all the time and visit the docks with him.”

  “She did. She just never got on a ship.”

  “Well, you’re already broadening her horizons,” Billy said with a heartless laugh. “Give her enough of that wine and you’ll broaden them some more.”

  “Go to hell, Billy. I’m sending in one of the cooks. Maddy would probably try to kill me.”

  “Maddy, is it now?” Billy shook his head. “Well, who can blame the girl if she wants you dead? Many’s the time even I wanted you dead. You need to forget about her. Come on out on deck and I’ll see if I can finally teach you the signs.”

  “There aren’t any signs, Billy,” Luca growled. “You’ve got a fortune-teller’s magic powers when it comes to weather, and if I haven’t learned in fifteen years I’m not going to start now.”

  “Just get it over with and you can get your mind back on business.”

  “I’ll get it over with when I can dump her on solid land, as far away from Plymouth and all its ports as I can get.” He picked up the tray from the table and started past Billy. “Get around that storm and get us somewhere safe.”

  “Aye aye, cap’n,” Billy said, grinning.

  Maddy hurt. Everything in her body hurt—the ropes around her wrists weren’t tight enough to cause pain but she’d struggled so long she had rope burns. Her feet ached from kicking the wall, her neck felt as if someone had crushed it, and her throat was raw from screaming behind the gag. At least he’d left her alone in here, but it was a mixed blessing. It gave her too much time to think.

  Her face was tender, her chin hurt, and she couldn’t remember why. The stranger had knocked her across the face—that explained her painful cheekbone, but why did her jaw…?

  He’d hit her! That goddamned, bloody, no good whoreson of a bastard had hit her, knocking her unconscious so he could carry her off. For a moment she bordered on apoplectic rage. It was one thing when a hired killer slapped you—that was at least expected. But when the man who rescued you socked you then enough was enough. She was going to kill him.

  On top of that colossal insult he’d brought her onboard a ship, refusing to release her despite her pleas, and the gentle rise and fall of the deck beneath them was still sending shards of terror through her.

  She only wished she were seasick, so she could spew all over Luca when he came back. Unfortunately her stomach wasn’t responding to the power of suggestion; even conjuring up the vision of the dead man with the knife in his eye couldn’t make her stomach lurch.

  All right, she was trapped, at least for the moment, and she seemed to have survived her first few hours on the ocean. If she wasn’t going to die then her next step was to ensure Luca wished he would. She struggled once more with the ropes around her wrists, but even using her teeth to try to untie them hadn’t done any good, and they were beginning to bleed. She sank back, panting. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

  He expected her to thank him for saving her life? He was going to have a good long wait for that impossibility. He wanted her to tell him who she was? She’d be burned at the stake before she gave in. Revenge was a dish best served cold. It didn’t matter if it seemed as if Luca hadn’t had anything to do with her father’s death, he’d done enough to her to earn her lifetime enmity. She’d find a way to repay him for hitting her and then dragging her on board this ship. She’d make him rue the day he met her.

  Though in truth he probably already did, she thought, sinking back on the bunk, trying to relax her tense muscles. But if there were any room for doubt she’d take care of it. Luca was going to be very sorry indeed.

  Luca was bloody tired. They were five hours out from Devonport and Plymouth, there’d been no thumping from the cabin, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back down there. It had nothing to do with the fact that she’d bitten the cook’s assistant when he’d tried to feed her. Nothing to do with the fact that his entire crew was going to think it extremely odd that he had a woman locked in his cabin and he wasn’t doing a thing about it.

  In fact, he wasn’t sure what was stopping him at that point. They’d been out at sea long enough that she would have had to make peace with the fact. In fact, if she were going to be prey to seasickness it would have started by now, and she might be lying in his bunk, covered in her own vomit.

  Which gave him a good excuse to go down there, and a good way to tone down his hunger for her. Nothing like a little seasickness to dowse the flame, he thought cynically. If she tried to bite him he could always gag her again, but he’d taken the rag off her face for a reason. If she did cast up her accounts she would choke to death with a gag covering her mouth.

  So he’d deal with her fury and her teeth. In fact, the idea of her biting him was unexpectedly arousing, though he didn’t think the cook’s lad had thought so. He’d reported she was a rabid dog who ought to be tossed overboard, and Billy had seconded the notion, just to cause trouble.

  Luca was tired, and he wanted to sleep. Which was ridiculous—he could go days without sleep, and had, often enough, when the weather was bad. If he was really tired he could go bunk in Billy’s cabin while his old friend manned the helm, and to hell with what the sailors said. No, he had only one reason to go back to his cabin. Because he wanted to see her.

  The sun was just beginning to appear on the distant horizon, the bright, pinky-red glow verifying Billy’s concerns. Red skies at night, sailor’s delight, red skies at morning, sailors take warning. The sky was blood-red in the east, and a storm was brewing. If Maddy wasn’t frightened of sailing before, this would probably put the fear of God into her.

  He’d never made an unwanted sound in the last twenty years of his life, and the key turned silently in the lock as he let himself into his cabin. The predawn light was filling the place with a rosy glow that would have been pretty if he hadn’t known what was coming. She lay curled up on the berth, her bound hands in front of her, her long hair loose and tangled. She was sound asleep, and she looked like a slightly battered angel, with her bruised face and her thick eyelashes against her creamy skin. She wasn’t an exquisitely pale Eng
lish beauty like Gwendolyn—there was fire in her, warmth to her skin, flames in her heart. She’d probably stab him the first chance she got. His kind of woman.

  He walked to the edge of the bed. “Move over,” he said.

  She jerked, startled awake, and opened her eyes, staring up at him dazedly. And then her gaze sharpened.

  It was all the warning he needed. Before she could move he was on the bunk, wrapping his arms around her body, rolling onto his side so that she lay between him and the wall. It took surprisingly little effort to keep her contained—her struggles weakened and then stopped, and she rested her head against his shoulder, breathing heavily.

  He didn’t move, didn’t loosen the encompassing circle of his arms, not trusting her, but as the minutes passed and her breathing deepened once more, her body flowing against his, he realized she had actually fallen back asleep. He started to release her, slowly in case she’d managed to trick him, but instead she made a sound that was a cross between a moan and a purr, snuggling closer.

  In the shadowy light he rolled his eyes at the entire ridiculousness of the situation. He was her worst enemy, or so she believed, and she was curling up against him like a kitten. He wondered what would happen if he licked her.

  Christ! He was already hard as a rock, just lying up close against her; he didn’t have to make it worse by envisioning all the things he’d like to do with his tongue. He let his chin rest on top of her head. It was surprisingly comfortable. He never slept with a woman in his arms—if they shared a bed for a night they kept to their own sides when they weren’t busy. For some reason Maddy just seemed to fit against him, around him, perfectly.

  He closed his eyes. He’d never been a fool, and he recognized the signs. So had everyone else, apparently. He wasn’t going to dump the lying, treacherous, devious Madeleine Rose Russell off at the nearest port. He wasn’t going to let go of her ever again.

  The problem would be to convince her, but at least when she was mostly asleep she trusted him. That was a good enough beginning. He slid his hand up her back, urging her closer, and she came to him, sweet and warm, as the ship rocked beneath them, and he fell asleep in the arms of the ocean and the woman he loved.