The Highlander's Pirate Lass (Brothers of Wolf Isle)

by McCollum, Heather

  “Ye are so sweet.” He inhaled against the delicate skin of her neck. She rubbed her bare arse against the hard jack behind her and heard his heavy kilt and belt drop to the deck. His large hand gripped her waist, and she arched into him. Beck’s other hand played her inside and out until her breathing grew rapid.

  “Beck, please,” she called into the night, her words traveling out across the water. He played with her one breast as she squeezed the other, her breath catching as she felt him slide between her splayed legs.

  She tilted forward, her hands grabbing the lines before her that soared up from the rail. Arching back, she felt him seek her. She spread her legs farther, and he thrust up inside, making her gasp at the fullness.

  “Aye,” she moaned and heard his answering groan at her ear. Arms pulling her into his chest, he thrust long and deep as his fingers stroked the skin of her abdomen down to rub her. Skin slapped against skin as they found their rhythm, straining together in wild, primal need. Could he feel how her body tightened inside, the ache that coiled tighter?

  “God, Eliza,” Beck breathed at her ear as he thrust. “Reach for your pleasure, lass.” His hands grabbed hold of her hips, his strength dizzying as he pounded into her.

  “Aye!” she yelled, the darkness shattering with a great pulsing of ecstasy. She held his arm against her as wave after wave of pleasure rolled along every muscle in her body.

  “Dia math,” he rasped against the side of her face and pulled back. She felt his body tighten and his release start, but she didn’t let go of his arm. “Eliza!” he groaned, his body straining as he exploded inside her.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Swallow it down would have to do with what I did to you the other morning in your cottage,” Eliza said. “But instead of you spilling outside, you spill in my mouth?” she asked, a grimace in the tone of her voice.

  “Aye,” Beck answered as he held her against him with one hand, his other raised to hold the back of his head on the pillow. The two of them lay curled together, naked in his bed in the captain’s cabin on the Calypso.

  “Is it…palatable?” she asked. The vehemence in her question made him smile as he looked at the planked ceiling.

  “I do not have an answer for that,” he said.

  “I will ask Lark.”

  He turned his face toward her. “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Tis not a question ye go about asking someone. It is…improper in society.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Society is foking complicated.” She smiled wickedly for using the crude word that she favored.

  He chuckled. “Aye, it is that.”

  For the last half hour, she’d been questioning him about all the things she’d heard the crew of the Devil’s Blood talk about after they’d gone whoring in ports.

  It was helping to distract him from the thoughts that had whipped through his head upon waking that morning on the Calypso with a glorious siren in his arms. She could be with child. A bastard born to a Macquarie. I don’t believe in the curse. How can I convince her to wed me? I can’t let her leave.

  They’d come together two more times through the night, each time just as explosive as the first. However, he’d managed to spill outside her during those two.

  No bastards. The words echoed in his head. Words he’d heard from Adam, Drostan, Rabbie, even fun-loving Callum. I am a fool.

  “You are worried?” she guessed, pushing up out of his arms. “’Twas just once. The odds are with us.” She leaned in to kiss him, and he tried to give her an encouraging smile, even though he had no idea what to hope for. If she were not with child, she would leave.

  Fool. Even if she were with child, she would leave.

  She wore his tunic and the brooch around her neck. He caught it between his fingers to stare at the wildcat etched on it. “Ye always wear this. ’Tis important to ye?”

  Her smile turned sad. “’Twas my father’s, and he gave it to my mother. ’Tis the only thing I have left of her, so aye, ’tis important.”

  “’Tis the Wentworth crest?” he asked. Gems were locked in the setting. It was probably why she kept it hidden down her bodice all the time.

  She shrugged. “I just think of it as a piece of my mother. To her, it was very important, important enough to give to me for hiding when the pirates boarded.” Her smile faded, and she lowered again to lay her head on his chest.

  Who were her parents? Wentworth was a well-known name in England. Tor said it was connected to royalty.

  Shivers ran through him, his jack twitching to attention, and he looked down his chest. The tip of Eliza’s finger drew swirls along the taut lines of his abdomen. “If ye keep that up, school will be back in session,” he said.

  She laughed, pushing up on her elbows. “I can now see that riding a woman has nothing to do with a horse,” she said, and all thoughts of heritage dissolved as one of her full breasts peeked out of the gap at the untied neck of her tunic.

  Eliza caught him staring at them. She parted the neckline, letting the tunic drop low and scooped up both breasts, lifting them like pale, sweet buns. “And these would be what Wretch calls two plump partridges.”

  “I… I suppose so, but I’ve never met Wretch, so I don’t know,” he murmured, lifting his mouth to draw one of her rosy nipples between his lips. Even her skin tasted good.

  Eliza’s fingers tangled into Beck’s hair, holding his face to her as she made a sound very much like he did when he was sampling tarts. “And taste her honey,” she said, her voice breathy, “is what you did to me before we came together the first time.”

  He lifted his head, his hand expanding against her lower back to pull her in closer. “Aye. Would ye like me to show ye again?”

  She looked into his eyes, her smile spreading into a mischievous grin. With her wild curls lying in hues of gold around her shoulders and her gaze full of promise, she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. “Aye, Scotsman,” she said, her voice dipping to imitate his brogue. She slid her hands up to hold the sides of his face and lowered her mouth to his, kissing him as she slid her naked body to lie completely on top of his.

  Somewhere in the distance, Beck heard a noise, but he was too drunk on Eliza to care.

  Rap. Rap. Rap.

  Eliza broke the kiss, her head tipping. “Someone is on the ship.”

  “Beck! Ye in there?”

  “Blast it. ’Tis Adam,” Beck said. Neither of them moved.

  Rap. Rap. Rap. The knocking had moved to the cabin door.

  “Go away, Adam,” Beck yelled. “’Tis too early.”

  “If Eliza is in there, ye two need to get dressed and come out. We have visitors.”

  “It better be the bloody king,” Beck murmured when Eliza pushed up off him and turned to grab her incredibly rumpled dress. “Give us a moment,” Beck called as he unfolded from the warm, fragrant sheets.

  Eliza glanced at his stiff jack, and she smiled. “We are definitely picking back up where we left off.” Just her mischievous look made him want to grab her to him. To hell with Adam and his visitors.

  But Eliza threw on her smock and stays, yanking the front closure tight, the round brooch sitting outside over her breasts. Och, but her breasts called to him.

  Beck groaned as he snatched up his tunic and wrap, cursing under his breath. Morning alone tested his patience, but this was beyond simple annoyance.

  …

  Eliza opened the door, and her hand went to the dagger that still lay in the pocket tied around her waist. Beck’s brother stood with another tall Scotsman and a shorter man dressed in an English sea captain’s uniform. They created a semicircle before the door as if about to take her prisoner.

  Beck’s hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her back slightly into him. “Good morn, Chief Maclean,” he said. “Adam.”

  The thir
d man was older, about the same age as Chief Maclean. His eyes were gray and haunted. Little white lines cut outward from the corners, etching his tanned face as if he, too, spent most of his days squinting against the sun. It was the look of a sailor, a military man, not a pirate, because he was clean-shaven, his hair clipped, and his uniform clean with the ridiculous ruff that English sailors wore.

  The man studied her. “You have the look of Richard,” he said, his voice heavy but precise with his English accent. His gaze dropped to her chest, and Eliza realized her brooch was still out, balanced over the rise of her breasts to fall across the stomacher. His hand rose toward it, but Beck stepped in between. Eliza stared at Beck’s broad back, her fingers curling into the fabric. Richard? Her father’s name had been Richard.

  “Who are ye?” Beck asked.

  Taking a full breath, Eliza stepped out from behind Beck. I will not hide.

  “I am Captain Thomas Wentworth of King Edward’s royal navy. My brother was Richard Wentworth who wed Anne Tyrrell and left with his two children for a station in Ireland back in 1535. They never made it.” All this he said while staring at Eliza. “And you wear the Wentworth brooch.”

  No one said anything, and the man, Thomas, took his hat from his graying head. “When I inherited Richard’s position, I joined the royal navy under King Henry to hunt for details about the murder of my family. One crew member from the Ireland-bound ship, the Rose, had pledged allegiance to the pirate who boarded it, sparing none. The turncoat alone survived, and I tracked him down to find out the name of the bastard who killed my brother, his wife, his daughter, and his unbreeched son.”

  Breath came haltingly as she stared at the man. “Claude Jandeau,” she said, her voice but a whisper floating on the silence that sat between them.

  Thomas nodded once. “I have been hunting him ever since, but the French bastard is slippery and either down in the West Indies or hiding behind the throne of King Francis, acting like a privateer instead of the bloodthirsty pirate that he truly is.” Thomas’s face had turned red with his passion.

  Beck squeezed her hand, and she leaned into him.

  “I thought only to find Jandeau and see him hanged, but then I captured another vessel off the coast of Ireland. The captain said he was a privateer for King Henry, but I had never heard of Captain Henry Cockswaddle.”

  The name shot into Eliza’s middle. “Captain John.” She turned to Beck, her fingers curling into his tunic. “He has Captain John.” She turned back to Thomas. “The only lie he told was his name. He worked as a privateer for King Henry. We’ve been waiting to hear back from King Edward.”

  Thomas Wentworth scratched his forehead. “Well, if the new king had an inkling that his cousin was alive and on the Devil’s Blood, he may have responded sooner.”

  “Cousin?” Adam said, and all eyes turned to Eliza.

  The man nodded. “I, and, of course, my brother Richard, if he were still alive, are great-uncles to the new king, his grandmother, Margaret Wentworth, being our sister.”

  Eliza waved her hand in the air. Lineage was not nearly as important as her crew. “Where is he?” she asked.

  “The king is currently at Whitehall.”

  “No,” she snapped, frowning. “Captain John Pritchert, who uses Henry Cockswaddle as an alias.” She stepped closer as if to grab the English captain. “Is he well and whole? And the crew?”

  “They are the same colorful mix of rabble I intercepted two weeks ago. I was sailing them from Ireland to London for trial when the captain told me about you, Elizabeth Wentworth, saying you were on Eilean Mòr. I rerouted to the isle, only to find it abandoned. But”—he leaned forward—“I found your message to Henry Cockswaddle etched into the wall, which led me to Mull and Chief Maclean. They are imprisoned at Aros Castle right now.”

  Eliza drew a ragged breath. “Captain John and his crew saved me from Jandeau. When I told them I had no family back home, he kept me, raised me as his daughter.”

  “Selfish and lazy,” Thomas said, his face hard. “He should have investigated.”

  “Nay,” she replied. “Selfish would have been trying to ransom me back.” She curled her lips inward, wetting them. “You must free Captain John and his crew, this instant.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Regardless of their role in protecting you, they are pirates without the backing of King Edward and his regent, Admiral Seymour.”

  “But they had the backing from his father, King Henry.”

  Thomas shook his head again. “There is no registered John Pritchert nor Henry Cockswaddle. Believe me, I know the registration lists by heart. It has been my mission all these years to coordinate all the ships sailing in the Atlantic.”

  “I must see Captain John,” she said, dodging around the men.

  Thomas caught her wrist, halting her. “I just found you, Elizabeth. You even have the Wentworth seal about your neck. You are my only family, and I would talk with you, tell you of the life waiting for you back in England.”

  She turned, meeting his eyes that had taken on the shine of emotion. “We can talk later. Right now, the only family I know is sitting in the dungeons at Aros Castle.” She snatched her hand from his grip with a twist, yanked her cumbersome ruined skirts up in one hand, and stormed barefoot down the plank to the dock.

  “Eliza,” Beck called and caught up to her.

  She stopped, turning to him, her face set in granite determination. What was he thinking? What was she thinking? Cousin to the king of England? Raised by pirates? Uncle Thomas? “What?” she asked, her tone defensive.

  His face mirrored her own: hard and disturbed with a hint of astonishment. “I am coming with ye.” His mouth relaxed the smallest amount. “I have a need to thank a pirate captain for his obvious moral fortitude.” He handed her the slippers she’d abandoned on the deck.

  She snorted, slammed the slippers onto each foot while balancing, and pulled him along toward the shore where the Macquaries kept their dinghies to ferry across to Mull. Moral fortitude? There were a number of things Captain John had done that definitely crossed the moral fortitude line, but he was a good man. One who saved and protected those who were at the mercy of terrible men and women. Thomas Wentworth might call Captain John a pirate, but to her, he was a father. He had saved her from terrors she could barely imagine, and now she would do anything to save him from the gallows.

  …

  Cousin to the bloody king of England?

  Beck held his tongue as they hurried through the bustling village on Mull, but he could not stop the revelations from Captain Wentworth from swarming through his head. What would all of this mean for Eliza? Would she go to London, don court clothes, live easily within Wentworth’s obvious wealth? Would she marry?

  They hurried through the bailey and into Aros Castle. “Eliza?” Meg Maclean said, rising from her seat at a table where she was breaking her fast.

  “I have come to see Captain John,” Eliza said.

  “Who?” Meg asked as her mother, Lady Ava Maclean, walked in.

  “So his real name is not Henry Cockswaddle,” Ava said and looked to her daughter. “The pirate captain that Captain Wentworth brought with him.” Her gaze slid back to Eliza. “Who is apparently quite important to Beck’s friend.”

  “Lady Maclean, this is Eliza Wentworth. Eliza, this is Chief Maclean’s wife and Meg’s mother,” Beck said. “And aye, Captain John saved Eliza from the pirate Jandeau years ago and raised her on board his ship.”

  “Where is he?” Eliza asked. “And the crew.” She looked to Beck. “We do not know if the Devil’s Blood sank?”

  “Nay, since ye left Captain Wentworth behind.”

  “I thought I saw ye arrive, Beck Macquarie.” Cecilia’s gratingly lyrical voice called from the entryway of the castle.

  “Holy tupping hell,” Eliza said, breaking away from him. “How do I find your
dungeons?” she asked Lady Maclean.

  “This way, and please call me Ava.” Ava waved her to follow, and Beck had to watch her go because Cecilia was still talking to him.

  Cecilia’s gaze followed Eliza as she left the room. “Lord, is that the same muddy gown from yesterday?” She shook her head, making the glossy black curls jiggle. With her lips pursed, she did look a bit like a crow.

  She placed a palm on his chest, looking up at him with large eyes. “She will not do for you, Beck.”

  “Cecilia,” Meg said, impatience growing on her face. “’Tis none of our affair.”

  “She could never be a wife for you,” Cecilia continued.

  Beck turned, striding away. As he neared the ramp down to the dungeons, Ava stepped out. “Good,” she said as he closed the gap. “They are a rough group down there, and she is all alone.”

  “She grew up with them,” he said.

  Ava shook her head. “Brave girl.”

  “Is the key down there?” he asked, wondering if he’d be run over by a horde of angry pirates running up the incline to freedom.

  “Tor has the only key.”

  “Good.” He strode through the creaky oak door that led below.

  “I thought you were all dead,” Eliza said as he rounded the corner to see her standing before one of the two cells that ran the length of the walls, her hands wrapped around the bars as if she would tear them apart. At least forty men of varying sizes crowded into the two enclosures. They all pushed close to her as if hanging on her every word.

  “A sorry predicament, my girl,” a middle-aged man said standing directly before her. He had a coarse beard and tanned face. His nose was angular, giving him a hawk-like appearance, with deep grooves cut across his forehead. His squinted gaze shot directly toward Beck.

  Eliza followed it. “This is Captain John,” she said to Beck, “and the crew of the Devil’s Blood.” She rolled her eyes. “He uses Henry Cockswaddle when he’s annoyed.”