A Pirate's Pleasure

by Heather Graham

  “What in God’s name are you up to?” he demanded.

  “Let me out of here!” she told him.

  “Nay, lady!” he said harshly. “You’ve seen the storm!” Her words were a ploy. The fool girl meant to flee him at any cost.

  “Please!” she whispered, and despite his better judgment, the curious plea tore at his heart. He had never seen a woman fight as she had earlier. Perhaps she was as good at acting as she was at swordplay.

  He shook his head with impatience. “Lady Kinsdale, the storm is lessened, but it has not ended. You must remain here.” He stood, and headed toward the doors.

  “No!” she cried, leaping to her feet. She caught his hand. “Take me with you! Please, take me with you—”

  “You are mad!”

  “No, I—”

  “The winds nearly swept you over, Lady Kinsdale. And you are worth far too much for such a fate.”

  “Don’t leave me!” she pleaded.

  He paused, looking at her hands, small and delicate, upon his own. They were as pale as cream and as soft as velvet. Her nails were long as were her fingers, and they spoke of a genteel elegance. Amazed, he looked into her eyes.

  She wasn’t looking at him. She was, but her eyes went through him, and beyond him.

  He took her hand, freeing his own. “I cannot take you out there.”

  “Then give me a light.”

  “Milady—”

  “Please!” He stared at her, trying to fathom this woman, and she took his hesitation as a denial. “Please!” she repeated. Her voice lowered and cracked. “Leave me with a light, sir, and I swear that I shall …”

  Intrigued, he paused, watching her carefully. “You shall what, mam’selle?”

  “I shall—” She paused, but went on then. “I shall repay the kindness.”

  “You shall repay … the kindness?”

  “Yes!” she screamed.

  He arched a brow, inclining his head, taking his time. “Milady, my apologies, but I would that you be a bit more specific. We pirates are known for being dim-witted.”

  She wanted to kick him. She might well have done so except that he seemed to sense her intent and carefully caught her by the shoulders, drawing her against him. His eyes bored into hers. She felt his breath once more against her cheeks, against her lips. Curiously, his breath was sweet. It smelled of mint. His teeth were good, his own, and clean and white and straight and handsome, flashing with his every dangerous smile. His beard covered most of his face, but she thought that it was probably a striking face beneath the dark mat, ruthless perhaps, and formidable, but striking nonetheless.

  She was thinking this of a pirate. A man who intended to rape her, and barter her back to her father or fiancé.

  And worse, she was ready to promise him anything, just so long as he didn’t leave her in the darkness again.

  “What are you saying, Lady Kinsdale?” he demanded softly.

  “I will do anything you want!” she lashed out. “Just so long as you don’t leave me again in the darkness.” She hesitated again and then whispered desperately, “I promise!”

  He stared at her long and hard. Rather than being pleased by her promise, he seemed to be furious. He shoved her away from him. She stumbled, but she did not fall. He strode across the room to the bookcase and she saw that there was a lantern there, protected from falling off the shelf by wooden laths, just as the books were protected from being thrown about the cabin.

  Watching her with that same curious fury, he found a striker and flint and went to the stove first, lighting the coals. As the glow rose around him, Skye realized just how cold she had been. He must have been freezing, too, she thought, for he was drenched. Despite herself, she found her eyes wandering over him. Muscle and sinew were delineated clearly.

  His eyes fell upon her and she found herself shivering. With great deliberation he found a length of match and lit the lamp from the fire in the Dutch stove. He set the lamp back in its place. “Don’t touch it or the stove,” he said harshly. “I would not survive the storm to burn to a crisp upon the sea.”

  “I won’t let anything burn. I promise.”

  “You are quick to hand out promises, Lady Kinsdale,” he commented.

  She shrugged, staring at the warmth of the fire, ignoring him. He kept watching her. She shivered anew with the warning tone of his next words.

  “You will keep any promises you make to me, milady.”

  She nodded, playing only for the moment. Light and warmth flooded the room, and courage began to seep back into her along with the warmth. Then he took two steps toward her and she knew that he meant to touch her then and there. Despite herself she screamed. He ignored her, catching her shoulders, dragging her close. “No!” she gasped, seeking to stop his hands as they fell upon her bodice. Little was left of her gown; he found the ties of her corset and tugged upon them.

  “Wait!”

  “Your promise, milady!”

  “You said you were going back out! The storm! The wind, it still rages, stop, please, you must—stop!”

  “Be damned with the ship, mam’selle!”

  “We’ll drown!”

  “Happily shall I die in your arms!”

  Her bodice came free and her breasts spilled forth. Color bathed her face, but he barely glanced at her, swinging her around and plucking her torn wet gown over her head. Desperately she flailed against him, but managed only to entangle herself in her clothing. Then suddenly she was naked, shorn of her gown and corset and even her shift, and left only in her stockings and garters. She stared from the pool of her clothing cast upon the floor to his face, and his eyes so cold upon her, denying his taunting words. He took stock of her in a calculating assessment. His gaze was so icily cold that she did not even think to cover herself, to draw her arms about her. He did not in the least seem to appreciate what he saw; indeed, it was almost with disdain that he swept his eyes over her body. He hated her, she thought. But then he took a step toward her again and she screamed with pure primal dread.

  He did not touch her. He wrenched the knit coverlet from the bed and tossed it upon her nakedness. She stumbled to her knees as she caught it, sweeping it around her shoulders and hovering there, her eyes lowered.

  “You’ll die of pneumonia and be worthless to me, mam’selle, if you do not dry off,” he said curtly. She did not answer him. She saw his boots before her lowered eyes. His gleaming black boots. She did not look up.

  The boots moved. He turned around and strode toward the door. He paused there and spoke very softly. “Don’t deceive yourself, Lady Kinsdale. I have not forgotten your promise. You do give your oath freely, mam’selle. And with little meaning, so it appears. What you promise to me, you will give.”

  She heard the slam of the doors against the wind, and then he was gone.

  Skye pulled the cover more tightly around herself. The cabin slowly became warm, and it was bright and comfortable.

  And she slowly ceased to shiver, and when she did, she hated herself. The fear! It was so awful, and so ridiculous. She had humiliated herself before the very dregs of the earth because of it. She had made a promise to a pirate!

  Suddenly she was shivering again, remembering the way that he had looked at her, as if he hated her. As if he knew her, or knew something about her, deep inside, and hated her for it. What?

  Why should she care?

  She should cling desperately to every moment that kept her away from him.

  He teased her now. He taunted her. He would come back, and it would be all the worse for her because he hated her, too.…

  At least he had all of his teeth. And he didn’t smell bad. His husky whispers carried the scent of mint.…

  What was she thinking?

  Skye bolted to her feet and raced to his desk. She tore open drawer after drawer. He was a pirate, wasn’t he? He had to be carrying about some kind of grog.

  But his desk was empty. As she stood there perplexed, the ship took a sudden harsh keel
and she landed flat upon her derriere. She swore softly and wished heartily she were back in London. London! Suddenly she loved it. There was so much there! Not the struggling new city of Williamsburg. In London there were balls and there was the theater and the opera and the elegance of court. In London there were rakes and rogues, of course, but they were of the civil kind, and a lady could not fall from virtue unless it was her choice. In London, there were no pirates!

  She had loved her home in Williamsburg before she had left it. She had loved the beautiful streets, so carefully laid out when it had been determined to move the capital of the Virginia Colony from Jamestown to the place that they had previously called Middle Plantation. She had loved the College of William and Mary, and the capitol building they had built. The homes were clean and bright with white picket fences, and sometimes it seemed a raw place, and sometimes it seemed incredibly exciting to watch it grow. When she had been a child they had begun the grand mansion for the governor, and now, so father had written, Governor Spotswood was moving in. At one time, it had been so beautiful to her.…

  But now she was being forced to return home to marry a stranger who lived out in one of the godforsaken plantations.

  No. She was a pirate’s captive. A plaything. And the pirate didn’t think that her fiancé would avenge her honor. Perhaps, the pirate had suggested, Lord Petroc Cameron would not even offer to pay a ransom.

  Her eyes fell upon a rosewood caddy, that she hadn’t noticed earlier, by the side of his desk. There was a decanter of brandy and four stemmed glasses there, held in place by brass racks. Skye quickly stumbled to her feet and filled a glass with the brandy. It was hot and it burned, and it was the most delicious drink she had ever tasted.

  She coughed and sputtered, and filled another glass.

  The light, the warmth, and the alcohol quickly restored her courage. She railed at herself for having been such an awful coward, but the moment was past now, and the damage done. She had to look to the future. Setting her glass down once again, she began to search through the desk. There had to be a weapon here, somewhere.

  There wasn’t. All she could find were ledgers and maps. Frustrated, she slammed the drawers.

  She paused for a moment. The ship was not swaying so violently anymore. The storm was breaking.

  He could come back at any moment.

  Inspired with renewed energy, Skye dove toward one of his handsome traveling trunks. She cast it open and came upon an array of stockings and breeches and vests and shirts and coats.

  They were in differing styles and fabrics, but they shared one common trait. All were in the color black.

  “Damn!” she swore softly, despairing that she could find some help for herself. Then she lifted the last of the shirts and discovered a blade at the bottom of the trunk.

  She gasped, for she had come upon a short broadsword, a two-foot weapon honed to a razor’s sharpness on both edges. She held it in her hands, dreaming of freedom. Then the blood drained from her face as she wondered how she would manage once she had slain the captain.

  His men would slice her to ribbons.

  She could capture him. She could hold him hostage and demand that his men bring them into the Chesapeake Bay, and down the James. Perhaps she could capture the entire ship.

  She sighed, shuddering. She would not capture the ship. But neither would this pirate, the Silver Hawk, ever touch her again and live to tell of it.

  There were footsteps beyond the door, coming very close to it. She froze for a moment, then they moved away. She heard laughter now. Voices rising over the sound of the wind.

  They had bested the storm.

  Skye hurried toward the bunk. Wrapping herself, she put the evil blade close within the coverlet, then scurried as close to the wall as she could. Her heart raced furiously. What should she do? If she feigned sleep, perhaps she could buy herself more time. He would have to be exhausted when he returned. He had battled the other pirates, he had battled her, and he had battled the storm.

  She heard footsteps again. And again, they paused before the double doors. She had just begun to relax, thinking that the footsteps would move away again, when the doors flew open.

  And the Silver Hawk stepped into the cabin.

  Skye closed her eyes and hoped that she appeared very small.

  And very pathetic. Then she wished that she had not curled so completely toward the wall, for her back was exposed to him.

  Every fool knew not to expose his or her back to the enemy!

  But she dared not turn, lest he suspect that she was awake. And so she strained to listen, hoping desperately that he would leave her be.

  She heard him close and bolt the doors, and she heard the sounds of his boots against the wood as he moved into the cabin. He paused before the stove, and she could imagine him warming his hands. Seconds later, she nearly screamed, for the bunk shifted as he sat down upon it. His boots clunked to the floor. Then she could hear little, but she was horribly aware of what he was doing. His sodden shirt struck the floor to be followed by his breeches and hose. She heard the curious smacking sounds as the wet fabric slapped against the floorboards.

  She waited for him to touch her, or to stretch out beside her.

  He did not.

  He rose and silently padded across the cabin. She heard a tinkle of glass and knew that he had gone for the brandy. His soft laughter assured her that he realized that she had been into the liquor already.

  He poured himself a drink, and then there was absolute silence for so long that Skye feared she would scream and slit her own throat with the double-edged blade.

  She heard nothing else.

  She felt his touch. Soft, light, and subtle. It came against her so suddenly that she barely refrained from jerking away.

  His fingers ran over her blanketed shoulder, and down the length of her back. He paused, then ran his hand over the protruding curve of her derriere.

  She bit into her mouth to keep her silence, and she waited, praying.

  His weight came down beside her, and he touched her no more.

  She would wait, she thought. She would wait, and he would fall asleep, and she would have him at her mercy.

  But it didn’t work out that way. Skye tried to listen for his even breathing. It was late, and he had worked hard, surely. No, it was no longer late, but early. The sun was rising. The fire in the stove still warmed the cabin, but light from outside glowed against the draperies. It was day again.

  And still, he moved restlessly. He did not sleep.

  Skye waited.…

  At some point she ceased to wait. Exhaustion, perhaps, or betrayal by the brandy. He did not sleep; she did so, in truth.

  Moments later—or was it hours?—she awoke. Her eyes flew open and she remembered that she lay in a pirate’s bunk with only her hose and garters and a coverlet and a twin-sided blade. She needed to roll and face the pirate and plan her strategy.

  She was already staring straight at the pirate, she realized.

  She had rolled during the night, or so it seemed. She lay on her side facing him.

  He lay upon his back. His eyes were closed, his deep dark hair was tossed about his forehead. His nose, she thought, was long, and very straight, and his whiskers were far more curly than the hair upon his head. He should shave, she found herself thinking. He probably had a handsome face.

  He was a deplorable pirate!

  But this morning there was definitely no denying that he was a pirate in his prime. Even in sleep his stature was imposing. His shoulders seemed to stretch the width of the bed, and like his arms they were heavily laden with muscle. He was deeply bronzed from the sun, and his flesh glistened and rippled even as he slept. His chest was furred with crisp dark hair that narrowed at his waist. Below his waist it flared and thickened again and formed a neat nest for …

  Her face flamed and her eyes widened and jerked from the grandly protruding piece of his anatomy back to his eyes.

  They were open. He was sta
ring at her.

  He smiled at her pleasantly. “Ready to keep your promise, Lady Kinsdale?”

  She flushed furiously, wishing there were a way to instantly escape life itself. He rolled swiftly to his side and stroked her cheek, and though she tried not to, she slapped his hand away. She tried not to stare into flashing blue eyes, but to keep her gaze fixed upon the ceiling.

  His laughter was quick and easy, as if his earlier anger had dissipated. But his face came nearer hers and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You were warned, mam’selle.”

  “I am exhausted.”

  “Are you?”

  “Utterly. How can one possibly fulfill such a promise in such a state?”

  “You’re a liar. Why, Lady Kinsdale, I believe that you do not intend to keep your promise at all.”

  Her eyes sizzled with a fury she could not suppress. “You are a pirate, sir. You are the scum of the earth. No decent man or woman would begin to imagine that such a vow need be upheld.”

  “The very scum of the earth?” he said. “Mam’selle, how offensive!”

  “You are offensive!”

  “But I am not, milady.…” he whispered softly, his voice trailing away in a haunting whisper. His knuckles brushed over her cheek and his fingers whispered against the length of her throat. She stared at him, unable to move or protest, compelled to silence by the silver-blue command of his eyes. Compelled, perhaps, by more.

  “Ah, lady, think! It might have been One-Eyed Jack with his gruesome pitted face, decaying teeth, and lice-ridden body. You’ve done quite well, I daresay.”

  “You conceited oaf!” she spat, regaining her composure. He laughed, catching her wrists with one hand, straddling her squirming form. “Conceited, mam’selle? Nay, I offer you cleanliness and sound teeth, and you scoff at the lot of it.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Ummm!” he agreed, and the touch of his free hand and fingers traveled lower, teasing the mound of her breast. She gritted her teeth, preparing to scratch and rail and fight and find some way to reach the blade at her side. His fingers fell lower and lower, rounding her breast, grazing her nipple. She screamed out with protest, but before she could fight him, he laughed, and his touch was gone.