Chapter Three
“Stay your weapons, men. Keep them out of sight. We dinna want to engage unless we’ve no choice.”
Coire hadn’t needed to remind the crew. ’Twasn’t common practice to keep arms at the ready but hidden amid the miles of ropes, in secret crevices along the bulwarks. Weapons were usually stored in boxes under the careful watch of the quartermaster, only to be brought topside for battle. But since cruising up and down the European coastline infested with the Royal Navy, it had become necessary to be prepared for trouble.
“Why canna the bastards just leave us alone?” Mr. Shaw’s whiskered jowls flapped as he groused.
Redd handed Coire a spyglass. “Pompous asses think they own the sea.” He spat onto the deck.
Here off the coast of England, they did. This would be the fourth time the Kelpie would be boarded by an Andrew in the last month.
Coire sighted in on the vessel and immediately recognized the warship, silently reciting a variety of curses. “She’s the Invictus.”
“Blazes.” If hypocrisy had a smell, by the way Mr. Shaw’s lip curled, he’d smelled it.
The ship and her captain had become well known by runners and merchants alike, relentlessly harassing crews and commandeering whatever they saw fit. All in the name of the king. They were little better than uncivilized and undisciplined…pirates.
“Capt’n,” Jonesy sidled up beside him. “The lady? What should we do about her?”
Ah, yes. The tempting minx. His whole damn ship had been atwitter with her daring deeds and swaying hips. Hell, even without the chatter, Coire couldn’t get her off his mind. She was a puzzle that intrigued him with her resolve, quick tongue, and refusal to show fear. He’d made it a personal mission to frighten her last night. But he also nearly lost his own resolve when he moved close to her, touched her silky hair, caught a glimpse of the valley between her mounds straining for release from her bodice, heard the hitch in her breath as his fingers hovered near her chest. Shite, he’d had to force himself to remember he meant to scare her before his reaction to her in his trousers had become evident.
When he had entered his cabin and saw her stretched out toeing his wash basin… What a sight. Caught, her mossy eyes were as wide as saucers. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing.
Never mind how she caught his fancy. Her stories didna add up and with each word she dug herself into a deeper hole. For that, he had no patience. Whatever had her on the run, whatever she had to hide, ’twas important to her. Nay, he couldna deny his respect for her risking life and limb for her cause. But he sure as hell didna have to trust her.
“No harm will come to Miss MacDougall, Jonesy. We’ll see to it.”
The quartermaster nodded but cast a glance toward the hatch all the same.
She’d become such a potent distraction, Coire was unable to trust himself. He badly wanted to touch her, to taste those lips. It bothered him that she had the ability to cause him to act like a wet whelp. ’Twasn’t as if he needed to release himself with a willing partner. He’d been with a strumpet just days ago, empty and unsatisfying as it was. Nay, this woman stirred unidentifiable sensations within him. There was no room in his wretched life for frivolities brought on by a passing, lying, rebellious poppet. With that and his not wanting to test his self-control, he opted to send Jonesy to his quarters with her food.
Coire had questioned that decision afterward. He was just about to go look for the man when Jonesy had returned with the tray to the galley where Coire was catching up on last night’s meal. He had not liked the moon-eyed expression on Jonesy’s mug. It took him dropping the bone he’d been gnawing meat off of onto the metal plate to garner the quartermaster’s attention. He inquired about the lady to which Jonesy responded she was pleasing and in good spirits “despite being tied up like a mule”. That had prompted a stern warning—be careful questioning his captain’s actions. Coire had wanted to add never trust a woman, too, but muzzled his tongue.
That he had issue with Jonesy getting on with the lass made him uncomfortable. More so after he’d made a mental note not to send Jonesy to her again. ’Twas absurb. He hardly knew the girl, would be rid of her soon enough, and yet he had this inexplicable desire to claim her. This annoyed him greatly.
As did the boarding of his ship by the Royal scum.
Each encounter with Invictus had become more tense than the last. Pullings was well aware of Coire and his men’s questionable pirate reputation. The captain had tried very hard to find fault with Kelpie to no avail, finding an empty cargo with each boarding. But this time, not only was their hold full, it was full of cargo they could ill afford to have taken. Worse, if they realize the whisky and spice barrels were just decoys for the real freight.
Coire gripped the railing tighter as the naval captain, dressed in his best uniform, ordered grapples. The hooks flew through the air, catching Kelpie’s bulwarks, and the soldiers pulled to bring the ships side by side.
The boots of the unwelcome visitors thudded upon the deck like the whumping of incoming arrows. Coire strode mid-ship to meet the naval captain.
“Captain Pullings. To what do I owe the honor?”
Pullings greeted him in the usual manner—with a rod up his arse and staring down his nose. The intimidation may work on others, but Coire, having met the infamous pirate Charles Vane and nearly shite his trousers, was unaffected. Vane, the protégé of Blackbeard, was ruthless, cunning, and fearsome even among his own men. But he was also well-respected by many, including Coire.
“Captain Fletcher.” His name was as close to a respectful address as he’d get. “A convict has escaped Peel prison on the Isle of Man. I have orders to search every ship in the Irish Sea until she is found.”
She? What were the odds? Good to undoubtable, he’d wager.
“What has this woman done that makes her so important the Royal Navy is wasting resources?”
Pullings scanned Coire’s men, not bothering to look at him as he answered. “She’s a traitorous spy.”
A spy? For whom? Being traitorous implied she could work for either side of the border. Or any country, for that matter. He’d inquire more, but that would cast suspicion.
“We’ll be searching your vessel.” Pullings flicked his wrist to give the order for his men to spread out. Coire growled. ’Twas a violation to have those overdressed, lily-hearted pigeons combing over his ship.
“Of course.” Coire couldn’t keep the acid from his tone even if he tried. So, he didna.
A soldier jostled past Jonesy who had inched closer to the hatch. The hard crease in his brow was mirrored by many of his men. None would give the mahogany-haired beauty up unless Coire gave the order.
He wouldna. He understood just what she risked to escape. The intrepid dinna accept such condemning fates. They fought for survival, never gave up. To the very end. A man was nothing without his freedom. He commended the lass for her perseverance. Unfortunately, they’d find her in his cabin momentarily and arrest her. He’d lie about her, of course. Make up something plausible to try to save her as if she were one of his own crewmen. Just not at the expense of his men and ship.
He was in a precarious situation. Pullings may decide to look into his cargo or fire upon his ship after disembarking. With all the gunpowder they carried, ’twould be a spectacular, explosive massacre. One he’d rather avoid.
“Your ship is sailing low, Captain Fletcher. You have a full hold this time. What is your cargo and your destination?”
“Rum, bound for Greenock.”
“Hm.” Pullings showed only mild interest. Finding this lass must have career enhancing possibilities. Nature of beasts, the more souls delivered into the hands of God, the higher the rank. Coire didna care for titles. If he sent a man to his death, he had a damn good reason—him before me.
A soldier stuck his head out the hatch. “Captain! You might want to see this.”
Bloody hell. He didna want them to drag the lass kicking and screaming from his ship. He had to remind himself they weren’t in the Caribbean where they were kings of the sea. They were well-paid pawns entangled in a prelude to a war they weren’t going to fight. But their commission was one of great importance and worth more than a poor criminal’s life. Under different circumstances, Coire would fight for the beauty—for his honor and hers.
Coire ground his teeth and tailed after the naval captain as they made their way to his cabin. Jonesy started to follow but Coire ordered him to stay topside. The second-in-command needed to be able to react appropriately should something go awry below deck. Jonesy’s nostrils flared but he nodded in compliance.
“What is it, Lansing?” Pullings pushed through the cabin door and stopped short.
The soldier Lansing stepped aside as Coire entered.
He fully expected to see the lass coiled up in the corner of his bed like a venomous snake ready to strike. Nay, ’twasn’t what he saw at all. It took considerable will to keep his jaw from popping open as she slowly rose to her feet.
Pullings frowned. “What’s this?”
Coire would like to know as well. What in the hell happened to the lass’s gorgeous hair? ’Twas gone, cut short, hacked, really, flipping in all directions just above her shoulders. Where was her dress? Were those his trousers, his tunic, his waistcoat? Despite being oversized and the trousers held in place by pieces of rope, the clothing hid her curves. An odd sense of pride surged through him that she was in his garments. Her green eyes held the appropriate amount of fear, but ’twas all an act. Coire could see the fire beneath. She was…strangely beautiful.
“What’s your name, lad?”
Lad? To him, she looked like a pixie. And I’m was pixie-led. Sonofabitch. Where had that come from?
“Charlie, sir.” Her voice was low, rough, not forced. By the devil’s toes, she sounded like a young boy. A young British boy.
Pullings swiveled his gaze to Coire. “Why is this boy shackled in your cabin, Captain Fletcher?”
“He’s a—”
“A slave, sir.”
“An insolent one at that to talk out of turn,” growled Coire.
Her challenging gaze slid to him. “Bought to pleasure t’e captain.”
Coire sputtered. Pullings’s lips retracted in disgust. Lansing coughed uneasily.
Heat burned Coire’s ears. Whether from embarrassment or anger for the allegation, he wasna sure.
Pullings’s judgmental gaze cast condemnation from head to boot. “Wretched man.”
“’E’s better t’en me last keeper, sir. Feeds me, ’e does. ’Adn’t ’urt me.”
Blazes! The lass pushed constantly against the grain.
“Not until I cut yer tongue out,” he hissed.
“Yes, well, whatever degradation you dally in, Captain Fletcher, is none of my concern.”
“Captain, sir.” Another soldier stepped in the room and saluted. “No sign of the fugitive, sir. The ship carries spices in her hold.”
“Thank you, Barton. Order the men back to Invictus.”
Pullings marched from the room, Lansing on his heels like a pup afraid of getting his tail nipped off.
With a well-earned, relieved grin, the lass sunk to the thin mattress. She’d saved herself, and, by extension, saved him, the crew, and their cargo. He admired her for her artistry, her ability to think on her feet, impersonating another. In retrospect, it was the perfect cover to make an uptight arsehole disgusted enough to want to leave.
By damn, his admiration for the lass grew by the moment. In some way, Coire was ashamed he was willing to turn her over to defend himself and their commission. Yet, he had no way of knowing who she really was, what she’d done to bring her to this point. With her skills, he wouldna make the mistake of underestimating her again. She was, after all, a felon.
“Ye have a lot of explaining to do.”
She held is gaze. “I suppose I do.”
“I’ll expect answers.”
“I suppose ye will.”
Coire stopped at the threshold before trailing after Pullings. Addressing the insinuation he had a fondness for boys, he said, “Ye’ll pay for that.”
She presented him with a sweet smile and shrug of one shoulder. “I count on it.”
Flummoxed, and not liking it one bit, he stalked topside. He didna have the time to figure her out. He needed to make sure the naval bastard got off his ship.
As he stepped outside, he immediately noticed the stares, some repulsed, some confused. How quickly a rumor spread.
Pullings crossed ships. “Should you come across the fugitive,” he said as the grappling hooks were pried out of Kelpie’s bulwarks, “I highly suggest you turn her over. Otherwise, you will be accused of abetting and be arrested.”
He had been accused of much, much worse. Rightly so. Coire tipped his hat. “Always a pleasure, Captain Pullings. Until we meet again, which will be far too soon.”
Pullings derisively snorted and the Invictus pulled away.
“Heave to, mates,” Coire called from the helm. “Back to work! I want to be drinking whiskey in a Scarba rat hole in two hours.”
Good wind filled the unfurling sails and whipped across his face. Kelpie lurched forward, her timber and sheets creaked in rejoice. Dropping anchor and unloading his burden couldn’t come fast enough. While the pay lined his pockets, he’d grown weary of the clammy chill of Great Britain. He longed to return to tropical climes and less clothing. With thoughts of burdens and less clothing, a trouble-making pixie came to mind. Kelpie’s course was set. Invictus was disappearing on the horizon in the opposite direction. Time to get answers.
Coire turned on his heel and bumped into Jonesy. Mr. Shaw flanked the quartermaster.
“What happened?” Jonesy said.
“Why dinna ye tell me?”
Jonesy frowned. “Sir?”
“How is it the lass was dressed in my clothes?”
Jonesy’s frown deepened, his spine stiffened. “You accusin’ me of somethin’, Capt’n?”
Would do the lad no good to challenge him. Coire wouldna spare him his full fury. “She couldna reach my trunk and dress herself while chained to the bulkhead, now could she? And how did she cut her hair? Dinna lie to me, son. Ye wouldna like the outcome of such folly.”
“Jonesy,” Mr. Shaw chided. “What have ye done?”
“Not a damn thing.” The defensiveness in his tone suggested otherwise. But then the taut, mutinous slant around his eyes loosened as an idea struck. “Oh, that sneaky pullet.” He apologetically shook his head. “She asked for butter to soothe her raw wrists.”
Coire snorted. “She is an inventive one.”
Shaw agreed with a muttered curse.
“’Pologies, Capt’n. If I’d have known…” Jonesy appropriately deflated.
“The lesson is she canna be trusted. Dinna fall for any woman’s designs disguised as sensibilities. They are more resilient then ye might imagine.”
Jonesy pondered that for a mere moment. It would likely take the lad several burns before he learned the truth of it. “Thank the saints Miss MacDougall wasn’t who Pullings was looking for.”
“Aye, capt’n,” Shaw added. “An’ what’s this about ye bein’ a windward passage?”
Coire planted a hand upon Jonesy’s shoulder. “I’m quite certain the crazy lass is a fugitive.” Jonesy heaved a deep sigh concern.
“And, no, Mr. Shaw, I’ve not taken a preference to boys or men.”
Mr. Shaw chuckled. “A relief to hear, Capt’n.”
Dropping the subject like a grenado, Coire instructed Jonesy to seek out Graer for an exchange at the Muddy Bollix as soon as they docked at Scarba. Normally, Coire would wait at a corner table in the tavern, drinking stout whiskey, while waiting for the man to show. But today, he’d be escorting a MacDougall. He didna want any surprises and showing up after Graer seemed to be the best way to avoid them.
About surprises… Coire excused himself to confront the MacDougall in question.
Just who the hell was she? He intended to find out, and find out he would.
Coire didna bother knocking before barging in. ’Twas his own damn cabin, after all. He found the lass sitting upon his bed, hands folded in her lap, as if she had been patiently and dutifully waiting for his return. And she had the ballocks to discard the pretense that she had been his captive. The manacle hung uselessly and empty on the bulkhead.
“Let us begin again.” He planted a chair in front of her and sat. Though the proximity to her was close enough to make a lady uncomfortable, he doubted she’d even so much as flinch as he leaned forward with his arms on his knees. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Treva MacDougall. What I’ve told ye, I told true.”
“Except why ye were paddling out to sea.”
The lass’s victorious smile could surely bring the greatest of warriors to their knees. “I should thank ye again for assistance. Indeed, I escaped prison.”
“The bruises?”
Her expression faltered but she recovered well enough. “At the hands of guards. But that was the least of my concerns. I was to hang today.”
“Today? How long had ye been imprisoned?” She was slight of frame, but didna look emaciated as prisoners who’d been withering away in a dungeon often were.
“Only a couple of weeks.”
She was that much of a threat to hasten her death? He knew cruel, unrepentant pirates with hearts black with rot who sat in prison for months before their execution. “And so ye escaped. Conveniently. I can imagine how ye wiled yer way out.”
“I had help, aye, an English guard. But I didna trick it from him. His reasons for freeing me were his own.”
“Hard to believe.” He had to look away to keep a level head. Her pleading eyes called to his soul, like a thirsty man floating in the doldrums.
She tilted her head. “Ye dinna think much of me, do ya, capt’n?”
“On the contrary. Ye…fascinate me.” The corner of her lip twitched with a grin. Had he not dropped his gaze to her lips, as he unwittingly kept doing, he’d have missed it. “But ’tis good practice to avoid ambitious women. A spy, no less.”
“And ye a pirate. With rebel arms in your hold. Surely ye are not casting judgment as I have not you.”
How the devil did she know that? Aye, his suspicion of her had grown twofold. “My cargo is no concern of yours.”
“Ye are right. My only concern is to get home. Will ye take me? ’Tis but a mere stone’s throw from Scarba.” She placed her hand upon his forearm to beseech him. The soft warmth caught him off guard. He stared at her delicate hand marred with cuts, traveled up her slender arm to the tops of her chest, over her sweet mouth, to settle upon her doe-eyed gaze. His tongue swelled in his mouth not letting his refusal to be uttered. She had a gift, to be sure. How many had succumbed to her siren call? Fortunately for him, he wore his distrust of women like a coat of armor. Her plea fell on deaf ears.
“Nay. I have other obligations. I will, however, find ye passage to Oban.” Where the blazes had that promise come from? He had no obligation to this woman. Maybe so, but after all she’d done to make it this far, he felt compelled to help her follow through to her final destination.
She withdrew her hand. Looking away, she reached for her hair, patting the ends of her bobbed tresses. Odd how he didna like how he was no longer the object of her attention. Just as odd that he wanted to tickle his fingers in her shortened hair.
“Thank ye, Captain Fletcher, for not turning me over to the navy. Ye have saved my life…again.” She spared him a quick glance. “I am sincerely indebted to you.”
If he were a weaker man, he’d demand recompense with a kiss or dally. “Ye’re welcome, lass. Though I ought to make ye pay for insinuating I’m a bugger.”
A smirk tugged upon her mouth and she slid a sidelong look at him. “I’ve no proof either way.”
He couldna help it. “Is it proof ye want?”
She lifted a shoulder, her gaze dipped to his crotch. Hellfire, if his cock didna twitch. “Being surrounded by a ship full of men, I can only assume.”
Oh, she wanted play, did she? “Ye assume incorrectly.”
“Says ye. I’m not inclined to believe a pira—”
Coire jumped from his chair so quickly, it fell back, smacking the floorboards. He sprang upon her, pushing her back upon his bed and securing her wrists on either side of her head. A small yelp of surprise escaped her as his lower body blanketed her. She was so…pliable, soft, feminine. Hovering an inch from her face, he searched for a modicum of fear but found, instead, an equal match. He could lose his way in the mossy depths of her eyes.
“I ask again, is it proof ye want?” He was giving her a chance. By God, he didna want to, but he did. He may have a damned soul, but he’d never force himself upon an unwilling woman.
“Undeniable proof.” Her whispered answer rasped across his very being, struck him deep in his core.
He was a weak man after all.
Coire took her mouth, raw and salacious. He’d give her no effeminate peck. Nay, she’d get a full frontal assault. But he soon realized smashing his mouth to hers wasna enough. He had to have access, sample her. His tongue swiped across her lips and magically they parted. The wee lass was as hungry for a taste as he.
Their tongues rolled and rollicked in an urgent waltz. He savored her warm, nutty whiskey flavor. She’d hit his liquor bottle again, but he didna mind. Coire was getting drunk off her kiss. She equaled him stroke for stroke, nip for nip. His heartbeat loud in his ears, his breath all but ceased, and his cock grew thick and heavy. God help him, she was making him delirious. He wanted more of her. So much more.
He had to stop before he lost control. Never again. He would never again lose control to a woman.
Coire pulled back, but damn if the lass craned her neck to follow, refusing to break their wet, frenzied contact. Two, three more heartbeats and he managed, barely, to reign in his discipline and withdraw.
Her heavy breathing matched his own. Coire marveled at her swollen, parted lips, willing himself not to ravage them again. Hell, not to ravage her. She stared up at him with a strange look. ’Twas just like the one Fenella used to give him—feverish, impulsive, and with a hint of forbidden adoration.
“Proof enough for ye?”
“Mmm, yes.” Her tone was thick with desire. He could come undone just listening to her husky voice. “But just to be sure…?”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. What a paradoxical woman.
There was nothing he’d like to do more than to get to know this captivating temptress. There was time enough for it, too. But Kelpie would be dropping anchor soon and for a reason he could not understand, Coire feared another empty, unsatisfied dalliance. He didna want to remember the lass in that way. She was too…special for that. Even if he didna trust her.
He gave in to his whimsy and feathered his fingers through her unruly lopped hair. “Clever. Looks…nice.”
Another vainglorious smirk graced her mouth. ’Twas well-earned, to be sure.
He pushed off her, stood, and busied himself with righting the chair, hoping the task caused his cock to temper. “Get back into your dress. My oversized clothing will only attract the wrong attention for you in Scarba.”
“But—”
“No more negotiating your way, Treva. That ends now.”
Coire escaped his cabin before he lost all good sense.