Once a Pirate (9 page)

The thought brought his attention back to the very instrument of his retaliation: Amanda.

An innocent, as well.

For as long as he could remember, anger and pride had guided him, the desire for retribution his greatest passion. Yet, Amanda made him question that self-imposed isolation.

Rolling a sip of brandy over his tongue, he watched her chest rise and fall with her exertions. He remembered well the feel of her small but strong body, her soft curves. Her skirts lifted as she twirled, revealing the shapely form of two long, deliciously bare legs. He pictured her round bottom, and how that warm flesh would feel cupped in his palms.

The ache in his groin echoed a need too powerful to be deadened by liquor, and he weighed the consequences of giving in to his desire for one night. Later, as every other night, he and Amanda would be alone in his quarters. If he chose to seduce her, no one would be the wiser. Lying awake at night, he’d often imagined how she would look wearing nothing but her silky skin, her nakedness for him alone to see. He’d longed to press every tempting inch of her to him, her sweet mouth welcoming his kiss . . . as he hungered for her body to welcome him.

Damnation.
He grabbed the bottle and drew on it long and hard. Speaking of madness, his inappropriate lust would surely have him at Bedlam’s doorstep before the voyage was over. Amanda scuttled his ability to function as a logical, reasonable man. Indeed, to regain his wits, he had no choice but to use her to satisfy his physical cravings, his erotic curiosity. ’Twas a matter of survival. Aye, he’d have her; then he could sleep at night without her visiting his dreams.

A sudden sickening shame roared through him. Had his father’s blood corrupted his very soul? If he were to sell Amanda after they made love, he would be branding her a whore. He would not, could not treat Amanda, or any woman, the way his father had treated his mother. At all costs, he must keep away from Amanda until he was free of her.

Carly’s heart skipped a beat when she finally spied Andrew. He was leaning against a coil of rope, his face drawn into a scowl. Oh, for Pete’s sake. Of all nights for him to be in a bad mood. She’d cheer him up—as soon as her duties in the Neptune ceremony were over.

“Time for the hooch!” she cried.

She accompanied Willoughby to a bucket of the foulest brew she’d ever helped create. The cook had poured in two bottles of cheap gin before adding a few rotten eggs—“cackle fruit,” he called them—and some watery, fermented cabbage similar to sauerkraut, a dish so putrid that the only reason sailors ate it was because it was rumored to prevent scurvy.

She stirred the mess with a ladle, wrinkling her nose when the pungent odor reached her. Grinning wickedly, she sought out Theo, cowering in the front of the crowd, and winked. He managed a wobbly smile. He and two other young sailors had never yet crossed the equator and would be initiated into the society of Neptune tonight.

“Will the first hopeful come forward, please?” Gibbons called. A shaky-looking young man inched toward him. “Move your arse, lad!”

The sailor bolted, but two burly others dragged him back to Gibbons.

“Men!” Gibbons roared. “Would you like to see what happens to sailors who lose their nerve?”

“Aye!” they answered.

Carly grimaced and turned away. This was one revolting tradition she hadn’t been able to convince Willoughby to drop.

“Surgeon!” Gibbons beckoned to Willoughby.

For reasons Carly would rather not contemplate, the cook was referred to as the ship’s “surgeon.”

With uncharacteristic ferocity, Willoughby waved a bloodied knife through the air. “Where is the coward?”

Gibbons commanded, “Answer him!”

“Here, sir,” the young man whimpered. “Oh, I beg you—have mercy. Have mercy!”

“Gut him, Doctor.” Gibbons sounded cold, indifferent.

Willoughby grabbed the struggling youth from behind. Carly cringed at the sailor’s pitiful sobs. She covered her eyes but peeked through her fingers.

A piercing shriek tore through the night air. The crowd howled in delight as blood and entrails slithered to the deck.

Carly squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the nausea that rose in her stomach. That chicken had been killed this morning, and the sack of guts Willoughby had hidden beneath the boy’s shirt to simulate cutting him had sat in the hot galley the entire day. It would be putrefied by now.

With theatrical realism, no doubt enhanced by the foul odor, the youth sagged to his knees, moaning hideously and clutching his bloodied middle.

“Stand aside!” Theo yelled.

Grumbling vibrated through the crowd.

Carly lowered her hands.

Theo explained, “There is a man down.” He crouched next to a third young man, who had fainted. The candidates hadn’t been told that the execution was staged.

“Move back, I say!” Theo fanned his hat vigorously over the unconscious fellow’s white face.

Booth shouted, “Gut the swoonin’ jellyfish!”

The crowd echoed his jeer.

Theo rose to his feet. “No. Take me, instead.” Though his wan face revealed his terror, his steady voice resounded clearly across the deck.

Carly glanced behind Theo and locked her gaze
with Andrew’s. His frown had vanished. Propping his arms on his bent legs, he shared her smile of pride.

“Come forward, lad.” Gibbons’s tone had softened, revealing the respect he had for the boy. “Are you prepared to become a son of Neptune?”

“Aye, I am,” answered Theo solemnly.

At Gibbons’s nod, Carly scooped up some hooch with a ladle and dribbled it into a cup. “I’m so proud of you, Theo,” she whispered. “The captain is, too.”

Theo nodded, wide-eyed, and took the cup from her. To her delight, he raised it high with unexpected showmanship. “To King Neptune!”

Gulping the cup dry in one swallow, he handed it back to Carly. “Whew,” he gasped, his blue eyes watering.

She framed his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. As the crowd roared their approval, Theo blushed brighter than the moon.

Gibbons and Cuddy poured a bucket of seawater over the fainted sailor. As soon as his eyes fluttered open, they gave the sputtering youth a mouthful of hooch. “To King Neptune,” he gasped and promptly got sick over the side of the deck.

Someone fired a pistol shot into the air, then another, and the rowdy celebration resumed. Jonesy picked up his fiddle, stomping his boot as he played.

As the men gathered in groups to talk, sing, and laugh, Carly crossed the dance floor. Bombarded by sailors eager to dance, she shook her head, discouraging the men as politely as she could, and moved just beyond the crowd, into the shadows at the edge of the lantern light.

Half-reclining against a coil of rope, his shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest, Andrew should
have looked like the other drunken sailors but did not. He was magnificent, as regal and elegant as a lion at rest.

And just as potentially dangerous.

Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she gave Andrew the sultriest come-hither look she knew how. Though his eyes blazed, he did not rise to his feet.

“Playing hard to get, is he?” she said under her breath. “Fine. I’ll do this by myself.”

Facing Andrew, she swayed slowly. Using all her other senses, she savored the magic of the tropical night. Moving her hips in a primitive, undulating invitation, she raised her arms.

Andrew watched her intently.

The beat drummed faster. Letting go, she arched her back, shaking her hair until it was wild and tangled, tumbling over her heated face and bare shoulders. She was vaguely aware of the raucous sounds of the party far behind her, but she ignored them, becoming lost in a world that was nothing but stars and sea and freedom such as she’d never known before. Drunk on life, she let out a whoop of joy, whipped her hair, and twirled on the balls of her feet, dancing faster and faster, her bare feet slapping against the deck planks in time to the feverish, hedonistic beat deep inside her.

In the end, satisfaction eluded her. Her steps faltered. She slowed, panting. She needed more than the sensuous caress of linen clinging to her moist skin, more than the excitement the music brought her. Her heart was tired of dancing alone, always alone. She wanted Andrew. She wanted his strong hands to pull her hard against him, holding her until the sweaty heat of their bodies melted away all the reasons they
shouldn’t be together. A hundred rational, haven’t-you-learned-your-lesson-yet reasons.

She dropped her arms to her sides and peered past the ropes and rigging until she found him.
Target at twelve o’clock.

Smiling, she armed her weapons and rolled in for the kill.

Sitting up with some effort, Andrew lowered his bottle of brandy. Amanda was walking toward him, her cheeks flushed, her hips swaying, her skin slick from exertion.

The way she would look when he made love to her.

He choked on his brandy. His head was already swimming with the effects of too much liquor, yet he tilted the bottle a second time, drinking deeply and then swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

She stopped directly in front of him and leaned forward. Her bodice gapped slightly, revealing the rounded tops of her small breasts. He tightened his grip on the bottle, crushed his other hand into a throbbing fist, and somehow resisted the urge to slip his hand inside the muslin to caress one of the exquisite mounds.

She is your cargo, Spencer. She differs from the other booty aboard only in her
potential value.

In a breathless, husky voice that shuddered through to the very core of him, she asked, “Would you like to dance?”

He stifled a groan. The way she’d danced for him had aroused him completely, set on fire the deepest, most primal male part of him. He’d never felt anything like it.

“Andrew?”

The sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him. Dizzy from the alcohol, he peered at her, steeling himself against her invitation.

He did not consider himself a religious man, nor a believer in miracles. His skills and instincts had kept him afloat these past few years. Not faith. Yet, there were times, after his dreams, when he’d entertain the notion that he and Amanda had been brought together for a reason.

“Come on. . . .” She raised her hand, palm up, beckoning. It was so simple. He merely had to touch his fingers to hers—

No. He had to see through his revenge.

It was all he had left.

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Her lips curved in a sweet smile. “I’ll teach you.”

“I do . . . not . . . dance.”

Disbelief, then hurt flickered in her eyes, but she recovered swiftly. “You know, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou, you could try being a little more polite.”

“Polite?” He snorted. He was ready to detonate, and she was questioning his social graces? Good God, if he was any more polite, he’d explode.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” She gave a quick laugh that hinted at bitterness. “Guys like you haven’t changed one bit in the past hundred and eighty years. All you care about is money, and you’ll roll right over anything and anyone in your way to get more, won’t you? You’re not better than me. You’re nothing but a rich man’s bored and spoiled son.”

He raised one brow.

“Well, you’re not spoiled, exactly.” She paused to catch her breath. “All right, ‘bored’ is pushing it, too. But that leaves duke’s son, and believe me, that’s plenty.”

He stared at her. “A duke’s legitimate son? Wherever did you get such a notion?”

His astonishment escaped her notice. “Listen,” she said, “I don’t know what happened to you to make you such a jerk, but it has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you, milady.”

Her eyes flashed. “It has everything to do with
her.
Amanda. My name is Carly. Why don’t you try saying it? Maybe it will help you figure out that the night you thought you saved Amanda, you saved me instead. Carly. Go on, say it.”

Watching her, he brought the bottle to his lips.

“Say it!”

“The dress—it suits you,” he offered, making certain she saw his appreciative perusal. It was an attempt to dilute her growing fury, but it did quite the opposite.

She rolled her hands into fists. “I’ve had it. You’ve ignored everything I’ve said since the day I got here. All you care about is
your
revenge,
your
plan, what benefit I will bring
you.
I’m sick of it.” Her voice trembled, and she swallowed. “You aren’t the only one with a grudge
to bear. You aren’t the only person in the world who has been wronged by someone else. Or has felt pain.”

“You know nothing of pain, milady.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, as though she’d been struck. Her eyes glinted with sudden tears. She bit her lower lip and raised her face to the stars. “You know nothing about me,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

Her anguish smashed his heart into a million pieces.

“Milady, I—’twas wrong of me to say that,” he heard himself say in a hoarse, alcohol-slurred voice.

She would not look at him.

Andrew rubbed the palms of both hands over his eyes. He was fighting on two fronts now—one against the woman he was dangerously close to falling in love with, and another with the man she would marry.

“If you think that I’m going to go to this duke-guy willingly, then you’re more nuts than you think
I
am.” Pausing, she silently mouthed the words she’d uttered. Apparently satisfied that she’d gotten the statement right, she bent forward and tapped her finger on the top of his head. “I ain’t going. Got it? Work
that
into your brilliantly calculated strategy, Captain.”

With that, she left him.

“Cuddy,” she called out, smoothing her skirt, “how about another dance?”

Every part of Andrew cried out to run after her but, drawing on years of discipline, he did not. The beginnings of a headache throbbed behind his eyes. He set aside the bottle. He’d had more to drink than he’d intended, and he did not need more.

For hours, he listened to the music, the laughter, the lusty celebrating of his men. He was their purpose, their livelihood. He’d worked hard to earn their respect,
and judging by the eagerness with which they followed him into battle, they trusted him with their very lives. With the exception of Booth, who he tolerated because the man had helped him escape from prison, the men had served with him in the navy, where Andrew had been known for his rather unconventional thinking.

Unlike most of his contemporaries, Andrew had welcomed new ways of solving old problems, opened his mind to all possibilities, and then made his decisions heedless of tradition.

When had that all changed? When had he become so set in his ways?

He pressed his face to his open palms, massaging his temples with his thumbs. He thought of Amanda—her sweetness, the vulnerability that she tried so hard to conceal. And at odds with it all, her iron will. He’d called her daft, but his heart told him otherwise. For months now, she had been trying to tell him something. Perhaps it was time he listened.

“Sail ho!”

The cry startled Carly awake. She was still on her hands and knees, blinking, groping around in the bright morning sunshine as the crew sprang into action.

After the party had died down, the sour stench of sweat, grog, and rotting food was nearly overwhelming in the cloying, humid air, but the heat in the cabin had been worse. She’d slept on the deck protected by Gibbons and Theo.

Hastily weaving her snarled hair into a braid, Carly sought out Andrew. Deep in conversation with Cuddy, he was holding his telescope to one eye. She followed the direction of the telescope to the horizon. Her heart
lurched. She could barely make out the speck of white, but there was no doubt about it. It was another ship.

“Who is it?” she asked, joining the two men.

Andrew calmly handed the telescope to Cuddy. “’Tis a man-of-war.”

Absorbing his statement, she started to chew on a fingernail, then forced her hand away and into a fist.

“Aye. Too far yet to see her flag.” Cuddy lowered the telescope. “What do you make of it?”

“They may simply be running along the same route.” Thoughtful, Andrew squinted through the telescope. “Or they may be after me. Or perhaps the lady. Only time will tell. We shall be ready for them in either case.”

“Aye, sir. That we will.” Cuddy left to shout some orders to the weary, hungover crew.

Though Andrew hadn’t given Cuddy specific instructions on what to say, she knew the orders were Andrew’s. Cuddy spoke often of his years with Andrew. In situations like this, she surmised that they anticipated each other’s thoughts.

“May I see?” she asked with strained politeness.

Andrew gave her the telescope. She squeezed one eye shut, focusing on the ship as he moved behind her. His warm breath stroked the side of her neck. “Three masts, square-rigged—’tis a monster, armed to the teeth,” he said.

Her insides felt watery with his description of the threat. What if it was the duke’s ship? What if they took her aboard against her will? How would she ever find her way home then? Worse yet, what if they harmed Andrew and his crew? Willing herself not to show any emotion, she placed the telescope in his open
hand. She gripped the railing until her fingers throbbed. “Thank you,” she murmured, her back to him.

Andrew hesitated before leaving her side. “It frightens you.”

“Yes.” It seemed she could not hide anything from him. She exhaled slowly. “But not in the way you think.”

“In what way, then?”

She stubbornly kept her gaze on the water below, avoiding his eyes, avoiding the warship. “I don’t want to be taken against my will. I . . . feel safe here.”

I feel safe with you, Andrew,
was what she wanted to say.
I could love you.

Heat spread over her cheeks with the revelation.

She lifted her gaze. “I’m not Amanda,” she said quietly. “Help me get home.”

He winced, and that familiar look of pain clouded his tender gaze. This time, he was the one who glanced away.

Could it be that he didn’t want her to leave? Had he changed his mind? Hope buoyed her. “Andrew, don’t make me go aboard that ship. If Amanda’s who they’re after, and I’m not her, I don’t exactly relish the idea of being onboard that ship when they find out.”

“There is no wind, milady. We cannot move. Nor can they.”

“So, what you’re saying is, don’t pack my bags yet.”

A moment of uneasy silence ticked by; then he faced her, his face contorted with what had to be honest-to-God guilt. “Later, I should like to speak with you, milady. About last night.”

The memory of his rudeness pulled her thoughts
from the warship, the possibility of her capture. She waved her hand and said almost airily, “Let me guess. You want dance lessons.”

His expression darkened. “Stay out of my men’s way this morn,” he said in an equally frosty tone. “The hammock in the rigging, too. That is an order.”

“Aye-aye,
Capítan.”

He scowled, then strode off, his cutlass slapping against his tight blue pants, while his knee-high boots thudded on the deck.

It was childish bickering, and she hated it. Sighing, she sagged against the railing. Why was she pushing him away when she needed him most?

As the morning wore on, the whisper of a breeze that had arisen at dawn died off. Andrew had ensconced himself at a small table with Cuddy and several other men in a tarp-shaded nook near the helm. He smoked a cheroot, occasionally rubbing his eyes tiredly as he leaned back in his chair. Though he looked haggard and hungover, there was no doubt he was in command of his men and his ship. She felt safer for it, admired him for it, too. After a while, her anger began to fade. Maybe the snob really didn’t know how to dance. In light of the present crisis, the whole thing seemed like a silly argument anyway.

By noon, the other ship’s position on the horizon had not changed. The men not immediately involved in hauling gunpowder and cannonballs from belowdecks were edgy and went about their chores quietly. Carly untied the festive ribbons and carefully folded them into the basket. She reclaimed her bra from Savannah, only to give it a well-deserved slingshot
burial at sea. She watered the ship’s vegetable garden and played with the new litter of rabbits. The ship grew some of its own food, of course. As the temperature climbed, she and Theo spent the remainder of the afternoon in the shade reading
Rob Roy.

Finally, when the supper whistle blew, Andrew stood and stretched. He crossed the deck to where she sat with her plate. “Would you care to join me for dinner?” He gestured to the same table he’d been sitting at all day.

“Sure.” She walked alongside him, stealing glances at the stubble on his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. “You’re looking a little rough around the edges.”

He pulled out her chair as she sat, then took his place opposite her. He propped one long leg across his knee and regarded her with thoughtful blue eyes. “Rough around the edges, is it?”

“It was a long night for all of us, I suppose,” she said, grateful that she’d danced instead of drinking grog.

Gibbons brought a tray with two plates of roast pork, biscuits, a side of pudding—which wasn’t much more than boiled flour and molasses—and two cups of warm beer. They thanked him, and he rejoined the other men.

Andrew cut into the pork and gestured with his chin to the horizon.” ’Tis too far away to see who she belongs to, but she has the lines of a new warship. If her captain is intent on catching us, he will.”

Carly’s heart thudded in her chest. “How long?” she asked, lowering her fork.

“In the absence of wind—days, perhaps weeks.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

His expression softened. “Do not worry. No one will force my hand. I will not give you up before the appointed time and place.”

“Was that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No.” He spread his hands flat on the table. “I was rude last night, milady. ’Twas a consequence of reacting before thinking. I do not wish to lose the pleasure of your willing companionship, so I pray you will find it in your heart to forgive me.” He reached across the table and grazed his fingertips over her bare arm.

She shivered, and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. What was it about the man that made her carefully dammed emotions gush to the surface? “I didn’t want to argue, either,” she said softly. “Apology accepted.”

Andrew felt his tension dissolve. “I am certain the duke received the news of the kidnapping weeks ago. Since our progress has been slow, this could very well be a ship dispatched to apprehend us.”

She sipped her beer. “They outgun us, don’t they?”

“Vastly.” He noted that she did not flinch. Would not a gently bred lady fall to pieces? Perhaps she was indeed his muslin-wrapped warrior. “This is the reason why I drill the men twice a week. Our twelve-pounders—our cannons—are no match shot for shot against the bigger guns on a man-of-war, but we can fire, reload, and fire again in under four minutes.”