In a Pirate's Arms Read online

  Jeremiah’s hands tightened on the quarterdeck railing. The world must be freed from the scourge of the Raven, and he, Jeremiah, was the man to do so. It was his divine mission. He’d seen it just now, in those few disoriented moments after receiving the blow to his head, a vision of light and terror, an angel with a sword. His duty and his mission.

  Dee looked up to heaven, briefly said a prayer of thanksgiving for having been vouchsafed such a vision, and added a solemn vow. He would not give up. Somehow, someday, he would find the Raven again, and his mission would be fulfilled.

  Brendan had hardly stepped into his cabin when a warm, soft form threw itself against him. “What the—Rebecca?” he said, staggering back.

  “Of course it is.” She flung her arms around his neck, glad, so glad, for the sight of him, the feel of him. “You’re not hurt.”

  “Nay, lass. But let me catch my breath. Ye’ve knocked it out of me.”

  “Oh.” She turned away, eyes downcast, as he closed the door behind him. Her silhouette was outlined against the soft lamplight; the curve of her breast, her hips, and the soft flow of her hair—dear Lord, her hair was down.

  “Not that I didn’t like the greeting, lass,” he said, his voice husky.

  Rebecca, eyes uncertain, looked at his open arms for only a moment before launching herself at him. This time his arms closed around her, and held. “I was so worried. Tyner told me you were unhurt, but still, I was so scared.”

  “Were ye, lass?” Brendan gazed at her, absurdly pleased. “I thought mayhap ye’d want to see the end of this pirate.”

  “No. Oh, no. At least”—she pulled back, her face stiffening into primness—“not that way.”

  He laughed, and her face relaxed again. “I’m glad of that. And ye, Rebecca? You’re not harmed?”

  “No, except for a few bruises.” She grimaced. “Did you have to turn the ship so fast?”

  “‘Twas the only way I could come about to escape in time. And I had to escape.” His eyes were suddenly serious. “You know that.”

  “Yes, I know.” She looked down. “And—I’m glad.”

  His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Are ye, lass?”

  “Yes.” She faced him defiantly.

  “Well, imagine that,” he mused. “Turning pirate on me?”

  “Oh, don’t jest about it! I was terrified you’d be caught and hanged.”

  “Lass.” His voice was husky again as he caught her chin in his hand. “I didn’t think ye cared.”

  “I don’t,” she tossed out, but her eyes said something different. “I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  “Nor would I,” he said fervently, remembering the sound of the cannon shot whistling by his head. It had been close, indeed, closer than she knew. “Lass, if ye stay pressed up against me like this, I’ll have to be kissing ye.”

  “Oh?” She looked up at him, eyebrows arched, and then, with deliberate provocation, leaned her breasts against his chest. “Then why don’t you?”

  He couldn’t help it; he laughed. But the laughter quickly changed to something else as she surged up against him, catching his lips with hers for the very first time and finding him unprepared, but very ready. Their tongues met, his seeking, hers retreating, and then advancing again, in a battle neither could lose. Dear God, he wanted her. It thrummed in his veins as his hand caught her hips, dragging her against him, her softness to his hardness. He was alive, alive, and he wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman. As he would never want another. The knowledge shot through him, cooled his ardor for a moment, awoke him to what was happening between them. It wasn’t what he had planned, it was something he’d struggled against, but, God help him, it wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

  “Rebecca,” he gasped, wrenching his mouth away while he still could, his breathing ragged as, diverted, she began to press kisses on his neck. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  That stopped her. She looked up at him, some sense creeping into the mindless, blind desire that had swamped her when he’d pulled her close. Seven years ago she hadn’t known what she was doing, but now she did. She knew the possible consequences all too well, and she didn’t care. What mattered more was that she wanted, no, needed, this man, in a way she had never before needed anything, and she could not resist. It went deeper than mere desire, into her heart, her soul. Something had happened to her today, making her see things in their shining essence. He was no longer a pirate, or she a prim spinster, but a man and a woman. Oh, yes, she knew quite well what she was doing. “Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” she said, startling a laugh out of him.

  “What is that supposed to mean, lass?” he asked, his eye twinkling.

  “That everyone will believe I’ve lain with you anyway.”

  He laughed again, his head thrown back to reveal the throat she had so recently kissed, and wanted to, again. “‘Tis a rare compliment ye pay me, leannan.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shook his head, bending to kiss her. He meant it to be a brief kiss of affection, but the moment his lips touched hers the flames flared again, and somehow his hands were ranging over her body, stroking her breasts, her waist, her thighs; somehow her hands were at his shirt, pulling it free of his trousers. “Leannan. Mo cridhe,” he muttered, nudging her head with his chin and planting open-mouthed kisses on her throat. Beloved. My heart. “I want you.”

  She made a noise that might have been agreement. Suddenly he needed to know that this was by her choice, and not just because they had once made a bargain. “Rebecca. Look at me.”

  She raised her head, her lips already puffy, her eyes glazed. “Y-yes?”

  “I want you. Do you,” he moved his hips against hers, evoking again that little sound from her, “want me?”

  She gazed back at him, her eyes no longer dazed, but alert, aware, giving him her answer before she spoke. “Oh, yes,” she said, and, at her words, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rebecca turned her head into Brendan’s shoulder, feeling, not thinking. If she did she would remember the last time she had let her emotions run away with her, and the disasters that had followed. No matter that this was time out of time and a place that was not quite real. The consequences would be real enough.

  Brendan bent to set her on her feet, slowly, slowly, letting her body slide against his, making her exquisitely aware of his body’s reactions. He wanted her, old, plain Rebecca Talbot, she with the soiled past and the tarnished reputation. But he had a bit of a reputation himself, her common sense asserted, and that made her look up at him, seeing him gazing intently at her. It was as if he were trying to see through her in some way, and it was unnerving. Unable to meet that bright, blue look, her eyes drifted away, encountering the stark fact of his eyepatch and what it meant. Without quite thinking about it, she did what she’d wanted to do for a long time: raised her hand and brushed her fingers across the patch, gently, caressingly.

  Brendan flinched, his head rearing back, and his eye turned wary. “Havin’ second thoughts, are ye, lass?” he asked, softly.

  “Yes.” She looked down, but that was almost as bad; her gaze lit unerringly on the triangle of skin exposed by his shirt, warm and tanned, with just a hint of crisp hair showing. “But not,” she made herself look back up at him, “for quite the reasons you’re thinking.”

  That intent look was back, this time holding puzzlement as well as ardor. “How do ye know what I’m thinkin’, lass?”

  Oh, she knew. She knew quite well what he now thought of her, that she was wanton, shameless. “I’m not like other women you’ve known,” she said, primly.

  To her surprise, he chuckled and drew a finger down her cheek. The touch burned, making her jerk back. “Aye, lass, but I knew that already.”

  “Don’t—please don’t mock me.”

  “I wouldn’t, Rebecca,” he said, and bent his head, taking comm
and again. Oh, he kissed so well, his lips moving so persuasively over hers, making her melt. She could feel him against her through the skirts of her gown, hard and pulsing, and yet there was no force in the kiss. No demand. Not yet, and it was that, as much as anything, that made her finally capitulate. This was going to happen. She had agreed to it, and the moment was here.

  “What I meant,” she said, gasping, tearing her lips from his, her breath coming in uneven spurts as his mouth sought the side of her neck, “is that I’m not as experienced as I might have led you to believe.”

  “Don’t fret about it, leannan.” His lips moved along the line of her jaw, making her swallow convulsively. “I’ll take care of you.”

  That confused her, but then there was no time for thought, for his lips were on hers again, this time demanding; needy, and hot. Be damned with the consequences, she thought, hazily, in a rising swell of passion, feeling his hands slip over her back to her hips, holding her intimately against him. She’d deal with them later.

  He knew the exact moment, the exact heartbeat, when she became his. He felt it in her kiss, in the way her knees suddenly sagged, and he lowered her slowly to the bed until they were sitting together, their lips still clasped. Ah, but he couldn’t have enough of her, the taste of her, the warmth of her against him, the silk of her hair, tangled in his fingers. A strand slipped free, and his touch followed, to her neck, her shoulder, and then to her breast, feeling the satin of her hair against the prosaic roughness of her cotton dress. He had touched her there before, aye, but never would he have enough, never would he have his fill of her in his hand, round and plump, the hardened tip protruding impudently through her layers of clothing. His gaze followed the path his hand had taken, and suddenly just touching her wasn’t enough. He had to see her.

  His fingers fumbled as they searched for the hooks which fastened her bodice in the front. Intent on his task, feeling her warm under his hands, he yet saw her eyes drift closed with a little flutter of nervousness. Ah, poor lass, this wasn’t easy for her, even if she were made for it. For him. But he would show her, he thought as the outer half of her bodice fell open, if his fingers would stop shaking, if he could just untie the laces that fastened the underpart—there. The bodice fell back with a soft whisper of fabric, revealing the bandeau that supported her breasts, and a plain white linen chemise. Willing his hands to steadiness, he slid his thumbs under the edges of the bodice and peeled them back over her shoulders and down, until her arms were free and the upper half of her dress puddled about her waist. There was only her underwear to deal with, and that, without any frustrating hooks or laces, was easy in comparison. It joined her dress, and she sat revealed to him.

  “Ah, Rebecca,” he whispered. Once he’d thought her thin, angular, shapeless. Then, feeling her against him, he’d known that wasn’t so. Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the lush fullness of her breasts, firm and white and rosy-tipped. Unexpected in a woman who tried so hard to be prim. “Ah, lass, you’re lovely,” he murmured, his hands caressing her lightly, his thumbs stroking those velvet nubs. “Beautiful.”

  She arched her head back as his mouth sought her neck again. “Am—am I?”

  That made him look at her. “Don’t you know?”

  “I—want to be. I want to please you.”

  “Oh, you do, leannan. You do,” he said, and dropped brief, fluttering kisses on each nipple. Her breath drew in in surprise, and her fingers clutched at his hair. Aye, he’d been a fool, that other man, he thought, bending his head to his task again and lightly taking her nipple between his teeth. A fool not to awaken her passion and avail himself of it. Brendan was not going to make that mistake. She was his.

  Urgency grasped him, and in its grip he forgot about patience, about slowness. Instead her bore her down onto the bed, his mouth suckling her, his hand pleasuring her other breast, while her hands tangled in his hair, clutched at his neck, his shoulders. A growl of impatience, and he sat up, tearing off his shirt and then returning to her, his mouth hard, demanding on hers, drawing on her tongue as it darted and retreated in his mouth. More quick impatience, and he was skimming her gown and petticoat over her hips, her thighs, until at last all he touched was her satin-soft skin. His, all his, and as quickly as that, the urgency was gone. Aye, his, and he would love her so thoroughly, so completely, that she’d never forget it.

  Rebecca lay in a daze of feelings, hot, urgent, radiating from her breasts, throbbing from his attentions, into her belly, and from there into a part of her body that modesty rarely let her think about. Dear heavens, she was naked before him, and she should feel shame, she should want to cover herself—but she didn’t. She exulted in the greedy way his eye feasted on her, adoring her, making her feel as she never before had: beautiful, and wanted. She rejoiced in the feeling of his hard, calloused hands sliding over her, grasping her hips, gliding over her thighs, parting them. Willingly she opened for him. No, no shame in this, only glory, and love. For that was what it was. Love.

  It was an easy realization, natural and right, as if she’d known it for a long time, deep in her soul. She loved this man. He gave her no time to dwell on it, though, for his fingers were brushing against the soft curls at the juncture of her thighs, his voice whispering in broken words that she couldn’t understand and yet which resonated inside her. Her hips arched upwards without her conscious volition but very much with her will, and his fingers slid deeper, oh yes, there, working magic on her such as she had never imagined. She bit her lips against crying out at pleasure so great it was almost pain, and then bit them again when his touch was withdrawn. But it was a brief respite, time enough only for him to struggle out of his breeches. Rebecca hurriedly closed her eyes, not quite as brave as she’d thought, and so she was unprepared to feel him settle above her, his chest to her breasts, his legs between hers and his manhood pressing against her softness. Unprepared, but willing. She put her arms around his neck, and waited.

  “Look at me, Rebecca,” he said, his voice harsh. “Leannan, look at me.”

  Rebecca opened her eyes to see him looking down at her with that same, intent expression. And, at the same time as his gaze penetrated hers, he entered her, and this time she did cry out. It had been so long, and he was larger than she’d expected. It hurt, but it was an exquisite kind of pain, a stretching to accommodate him. Without quite realizing it she opened herself wider to him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, feeling the ache within her. A different ache, of need, not of pain. Her knees drew up around his hips and he began to move in quick, shallow strokes, making her breath come in pants. Oh, she couldn’t take this, she couldn’t, if he kept on she would surely die—but he seemed to know that, seemed to know when she had reached her limit. And then he filled her fully, moving in her with sure, confident thrusts, and she was moving with him, the ache growing, intensifying, consuming her as he was consuming her. She was his, and he was hers, and at the thought the ache tightened. It held, and she poised, trembling, on the brink of some marvelous discovery, eager, desperate, and yet frightened. “Brendan,” she gasped, holding to him, her only security.

  “Ah, Rebecca. Mo cridhe, leannan,” he answered, his voice rough, and it was enough. The ache abruptly let go, and it was wonderful and frightening all at once, sensations rippling over her like waves. She bucked against him, a harsh little cry issuing from her lips, and he abruptly grasped her hips, holding her tight to him. His cry echoed her own, hoarse and wordless and yet filled with meaning, and dimly she was aware that he had reached his release, his warm seed spilling inside her. He collapsed atop her, and her last, coherent thought, as she spiraled back to reality, was that she was right. She was his, and he was very much hers.

  A long time later Brendan lay on his back, Rebecca nestled close by his side, his fingers idly stroking her bare arm. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt this good, he thought, looking up at the overhead. If this was a mistake, it didn’t feel like it. It felt real and right. Under other circumstances he woul
dn’t have looked at Rebecca twice, and yet now she lay beside him. He was glad of it. He felt at peace, as he hadn’t in too long a time.

  Beside him Rebecca shifted, and then turned over, rising up on her elbows. Her hair spilled in glorious disarray over her shoulders, her lips were full and red, and her eyes—ah, her eyes. A sparkling, emerald sea he could drown in. “Ah, leannan, you’re beautiful,” he said, lightly running a finger along her shoulder and smiling when she shivered.

  “So are you,” she answered, making him grin. Aye, that was his Rebecca, he thought, forthright and brave. No halfway measures for her; she had given herself to him wholeheartedly. Who would have thought it, back on that dusty street in St. Thomas? “Do you ever take it off?”

  “What?”

  “The eyepatch.”

  “Nay, lass.” He kept his gaze steady. “What’s underneath isn’t pretty.”

  She reached out as if to touch it. He caught her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. “How did it happen?”

  “The eye?” He was tasting the soft skin of her wrist and was distracted. “During a battle. Spar came down, hit me on the head.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive!” she exclaimed, pulling her hand back and rising just enough for him to see her breasts. He grinned, enjoying the view. “Oh, why must you do it? Why are you a pirate?”

  “Rebecca—”

  “The way you sail, surely you could captain any ship you please.”

  “Like in the British Navy?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “No. I thought you hated the English.”

  He sighed and tugged her down to him. “So I do, lass. So I do.” He paused. “I’d be hung for desertion before being given a command.”