In a Pirate's Arms Page 16

  “What!” That made her rise up again. “You did serve in the British navy?”

  “Aye, lass. I’ve the scars to prove it.”

  Her voice was a whisper. “Scars?”

  “Aye. On my back,” he said, prosaically. “Ye didn’t notice?”

  “No,” she said. “But how—”

  “The lash, Rebecca. All too common on a warship.”

  “The lash—”

  “Aye. Which I will not wield on any ship I command.”

  She shuddered and settled against him again, her arm across his chest, hugging him tightly, as if to keep him safe from harm. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing so very much. Dared to question the lieutenant’s ancestry.” His eye twinkled. “He didn’t much like it.”

  “He flogged you for that?”

  “It seemed necessary at the time. Tyner saved my life.”

  “How?”

  “Kept me from going after the lieutenant. For that, he got the lash, too. He was a mean bas- man, the lieutenant.” He stared up at the overhead, remembering. “If I’d attacked him, likely he’d have flogged me to death. Aye, and enjoyed it, too.”

  She shuddered again. “Why in the world did you go into the navy in the first place?”

  “Lass, do ye think it was my choice? I was impressed. Just like the lads on your country’s ships are.” His lips thinned. “Aye, taken by a press gang, and when I woke up there was the King’s shilling in my pocket, as if I’d agreed. And me the only support of my mother.”

  “But that’s terrible.”

  “Aye, lass, it is.” His face hardened. “I never saw her again. Only her grave.”

  “Oh, no!” She stared at him, eyes huge. “No wonder you hate them so.”

  “Aye. Soon as we could desert we did, Tyner and I. Been together ever since.”

  “And became pirates,” she said in a small voice.

  “No, not right away. But ‘tis the most profitable thing I’ve done.”

  “Profitable!” This time her shock was directed at him. “How horrid, when it means peoples’ lives—”

  “Lass.” He laid his finger on her lips, stilling her. “D’ye not realize why I do it?”

  “No. And it doesn’t matter. It’s wrong.”

  “Mayhaps.” Her face was set in stubborn lines. He sighed inwardly. If he could tell her the truth—but that would jeopardize too much. “Ye’ll not reform me, lass. Giving me your body doesn’t give ye that right.”

  “Oh, you’re horrid!” she exclaimed, tossing onto her side away from him. “That’s not why—”

  “I know. Here, don’t leave me.” He caught her about the waist, pulling her back, though she stayed stiff and unyielding. “And I don’t mean to belittle it.” He paused. “It meant a great deal to me, Rebecca.”

  “It did?” Her voice sounded uncertain.

  “Aye, lass. It did.”

  “But there’s no future in it,” she whispered.

  He stared at the overhead again. No, no future, not between a pirate and a respectable lady. “I’d not have thought ye a coward.”

  “I’m not!” She turned to face him, her forehead creased. “What does that have to say to anything?”

  “No future,” he murmured, lifting her hand and measuring his own against it. A small hand, but square, capable. “We only have now, lass. Are ye brave enough for it?”

  Her eyes met his, and in them he saw acceptance and a sad wisdom. “Yes,” she said, and lowered her mouth to his.

  In later days, Rebecca would look back on the following three weeks as among the happiest of her life. Strange, considering that she was held captive on a pirate ship; but it didn’t feel that way. For in loving Brendan, a part of her that she had never known existed had broken free, was soaring. It was this part of her that accepted that there could be no future for them, that this was an interlude out of time. Of course it would have been, anyway, even had Brendan been engaged in a respectable occupation. Aboard a ship, far from any sight of land, the concerns of ordinary life seemed distant and unimportant. Now was what mattered. Now was to be treasured.

  Treasure it, she did. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he might be, as well. He spent a great deal of time with her, and not just at night. During the long, lazy days when the Raven sailed aimlessly about the southern Atlantic, there was little for Brendan actually to do. They read aloud to each other from Brendan’s volumes of poetry and played endless games of chess; he taught her some rudimentary navigation and pointed out stars; and they talked. Oh, how they talked. Rebecca sometimes thought she liked that best of all. He told her of his childhood in Ireland, growing up on a poor, rocky farm and losing his father young, and of the joys that life had nonetheless held. She talked of home, of the mother she had lost so young and the stepmother she had adored, and once, only once, she talked about Robbie. If there were things in his past he never brought up she didn’t point that out; if she hadn’t told him anything about her child’s father, he didn’t ask. Both knew instinctively that their time together was too brief to be spoiled by any unpleasantness. There was just one thing that would have made everything perfect for Rebecca: to know that Brendan loved her. He had yet to say it.

  Rebecca awoke from sleep one night to see him bending over her, his face creased with concern. “Rebecca, wake up—ah. Ye are.”

  She looked up at him, befuddled. Dawn was breaking, and the light in the cabin had a pinkish glow. “Yes? What is it?”

  “Ye were having a bad dream, leannan,” he said, and touched his fingers to her cheeks. Abruptly she realized that her cheeks were wet, and as abruptly remembered her dream. “About your son?”

  “Yes,” she said, and went into the shelter he provided with open arms, burrowing her head into his shoulder. Oh, yes, she had dreamed about Robbie, and it had hurt, but before that had come the part of the dream he didn’t know about. Robbie’s father coolly telling her he was betrothed to another, that she had been a diversion, nothing more. Only this time it had been Brendan saying the cruel words. He was her life, but for him she was likely no more than a passing fancy.

  “‘Tis past, lass,” he said, stroking her arm.

  “You have dreams sometimes,” she pointed out, though he had yet to share them with her. “Is it past for you?”

  He was silent for a moment. “No.”

  “I dreamed I heard him crying. That’s the worst dream.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when he—when it happened, he didn’t cry. Oh, maybe he did, but if so, I didn’t hear him, and sometimes the thought of that—”

  “Rebecca. Hush,” he murmured, laying his fingers across his lips. She kissed them lightly, glad of his presence.

  “A baby can be so demanding,” she went on, driven to punish herself. “I was so tired. There were times when all I wanted was to sleep the night through. Do you know what I first thought that morning?”

  “No, leannan. What?”

  “How good it had felt to sleep without interruptions.”

  “Normal, I’d think.”

  “Yes, but—what if he cried for me and I didn’t hear? I think of that and sometimes I think I’ll go mad.”

  “Rebecca.” Again he touched his fingers to her lips. “There’s naught ye can do about it.”

  “I know. Oh, I know. But I can’t forget, either.”

  “No, I don’t see how you could.” He looked at her consideringly. “But mayhaps it’s time to forgive yourself.”

  “Forgive?” she said, startled.

  “Aye, lass. Forgive. Ye might think about it,” he said, and yawned, scrubbing his hand over his eyepatch.

  Instantly Rebecca’s attention was diverted. “Is it paining you?”

  “No.” He went very still, his good eye wary. “Itches sometimes. Another thing that can’t be changed. But, lass,” his voice had taken on the husky note that was already so familiar, and so dear, to her. “We have now.”

  “So we do,” she said, and went i
nto his arms.

  Brendan fell asleep after the loving, his body heavy atop hers, and it was only by pushing at him and twisting away that she at last lay in some comfort, her back to his front, like a spoon. By then she was wide awake, lying in his arms, watching the sky outside grow progressively lighter. The fire of their loving had burned away the night’s regrets. He was right. There was only now.

  Carefully she turned so that she could see him, studying and cataloging each feature against the day when they would be parted. Her gaze drifted over his thick, black hair; the stubble of his beard across his strong chin; the broad set of his shoulders, and the eyepatch. She frowned. It was the only part of him he hadn’t revealed to her. She could understand that; she wanted to be beautiful for him, perfect for him, and she empathized with his need to hide his flaw. But, oh, he didn’t need to hide it from her! She would not mock it, or shy away in disgust, or, worse, pity him for his loss. When she had given him her love, she had done so wholeheartedly. He had flaws, not the least of which was his occupation, and yet she loved him anyway. She would love him no matter what lay under the patch.

  The cords of the patch tied at the back of his head. Her fingers were reaching for the knot before she stopped, appalled. Yes, she would love him in spite of everything, and yes, he should know that. This wasn’t the way, though, this sneaking effort to remove his patch while he slept. What she should do was challenge him to show her. He couldn’t seem to resist a challenge.

  But he might resist this one, she thought, and again, her fingers crept toward the knot. This time she let them, working on the string with exquisite, patient slowness. It wouldn’t do to have him awaken during this, and—there! The knot was undone. Now all that was left was to lift the patch away.

  At the thought, she quailed. It wasn’t right of her, and it wasn’t fair. Something stronger than scruples drove her on, though. She reached to lift the string—and gasped as her wrist was caught in a hard, fierce grip.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Brendan said, his voice deadly cold, deadly calm.

  “I—I—please let me go.” Rebecca pulled her hand back as he relaxed his grip ever so slightly, not looking at him. Mercy, what had she been doing? “I’m sorry.”

  “I should bloody well think so.” Brendan twisted away from her, tying the patch in place with quick, practiced motions. “This is private, Rebecca. None of your concern.”

  “I know. I—” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to look at him as he paced away from her, his back muscles bunched and strained with tension, all lean, magnificent male. In spite of the situation she felt a thrill of admiration and pride, that she belonged to such a man, if only for a little while. “I meant no harm, Brendan. ‘Tis only that sometimes I feel you’re hiding behind the patch.”

  He shot her a look as he pulled up his breeches and began buttoning them. “D’ye think I’d wear it if there were no need?”

  “No. No, of course I don’t think that. But you don’t need to hide anything from me,” she said, leaning forward in her need for him to understand. “I wouldn’t spurn you because of it.”

  “I didn’t think ye would, lass.” He sounded more in control of himself as he pulled on his shirt. “But pity me? Aye, that I think ye might.”

  “I wouldn’t mean to.”

  “Aye, lass, but ye would. And I’m not a man who takes kindly to pity.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, looking away.

  “Rebecca.” He knelt on one knee on the bed, his fingers coming under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Ye’ll have to trust me on this. ‘Tis not something ye wish to see.”

  She searched his face. “I do trust you, Brendan. But do you trust me?”

  He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “You forget something. We’re enemies, you and I.”

  “Oh, how can you say that, after what we’ve shared!”

  “I took you captive, Rebecca. Remember that.”

  She flinched. “I can hardly forget, can I?” she said, her voice low. “What we’ve been to each other these last weeks—it was all part of the bargain, wasn’t it?”

  “Devil take it, no, Rebecca!” He stared at her, frustrated, and then turned away. “I don’t know what it is.”

  That hurt, and yet she should have expected it. When she was ransomed—and give him credit, he’d never claimed to need her for anything else—he’d go on his way and forget about her. While she—well, she would pay the price. The woman always did. “You’re not the man you pretend to be.”

  He turned again. “Oh, yes, I am, Rebecca. I am exactly how I seem.”

  “No.” She looked up at him, trying to see past his fierce facade to the man below. The man who made such sweet love to her. “You’ve kept us safe, Amelia and me, and given us every possible comfort. You promised me we wouldn’t be harmed, and we haven’t been. I think,” her voice softened, “you are a much better man than you’d have people believe.”

  He gave that bitter laugh again. “Aye. A common pirate, but a good man.”

  “You are!” Wrapping the quilt around herself, she climbed off the bed and went to him. “But you hide behind that eyepatch. Please.” She touched his shoulder. “Take it off. You need have no secrets from me.”

  He stood still, and she could sense his indecision, in his frown, in the way he looked away. Then his face hardened. “You asked if I trust you. The plain truth, Rebecca, is that I do not.”

  “Oh, Brendan—”

  “Because ye’ll go back someday, lass.”

  “I wouldn’t say anything!”

  “No?” He cocked his head. “Maybe ye wouldn’t mean to, aye, I give ye that. But if they keep after ye, Rebecca...” He shook his head. “Better for ye that ye don’t know everything. Better for me, too.”

  Rebecca frowned. If she did see beneath the patch, what could she tell about him, after all, except that he lacked one eye? “What would happen if I did say something?”

  “It would mean my life, Rebecca.”

  Her breath caught from the horror of it. Brendan, swinging from the end of the rope. But why would her paltry knowledge of him cause such a thing? He was hiding something from her, and for the life of her she didn’t know what. “I won’t tell. Oh, Brendan!” She threw her arms around his neck, and the quilt fell to the floor in a jumble of color. “Don’t you know I’d never do anything to harm you?”

  “I believe you believe that,” he muttered, and brought his lips down on hers. It was a hard, demanding, desperate kiss. Something within Rebecca responded, making her rise to her toes and tangle her hands in his thick hair. His hands swept over her, touching her everywhere, molding her to him, and when he swept her up into his arms she made no protest. In the past weeks they had learned each other well. This time there was no need for slow, careful wooing or seduction. She was his for the taking, and she gloried in it.

  She rained kisses on his throat and jaw as he carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, and then raised up on her elbows, watching as he rid himself of his breeches. No more shyness, now; she reached out, enfolding his hard length in her hand as he came down onto the bed with her. He groaned, capturing her mouth for another long, ravaging kiss, and when at last he released her she reared back, catching his head with her free hand and holding it so that she could press kisses to both his eyes. She loved him, oh, she loved him, whether he had perfect sight or not, and as if sensing it he groaned again, hauling her up against him. “Put your legs around me,” he commanded, and a second later she felt him thrust within her. No slow, gentle loving, this, but a quick, fierce mating, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hips rising and falling with his rhythm. She was hopelessly lost, no longer knowing anymore where she left off and he began, for he possessed all of her. She cried out as the climax swept over her, and clung to him when he, too, reached his completion, knowing in that moment that she possessed him, too.

  “God.” Brendan raise
d himself on his elbows a few moments later, staring down at her. “Did I hurt you?”

  She smiled, a secretive woman’s smile, and traced the outline of his lips with a fingertip. “Do you really have to ask me that?”

  “I am not the only one who hides from the world,” he said, and rolled to his side, taking her with him, so that they were still joined. “You aren’t what you seem, either.”

  She frowned, though to her delight and amazement she could feel him growing hard within her again. Extraordinary, that she had this effect on him. It gave her a feeling of power such as she had never known. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe I’m seeing the real Rebecca right now.”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, shocked. “This—I’ve never acted like this with anyone!”

  His eye twinkled. “Glad I am of that, lass.” He propped himself on his elbow, tracing lazy circles around her nipple. “But still, leannan, I think ye really aren’t what ye seem. Mayhap ye don’t realize it yourself.”

  She opened her mouth to answer, and then hesitated. It was true that she’d often felt there were two of her, the Rebecca she showed to the world, and the woman she hid inside. But how did he know that? “I don’t know who I am anymore. If someone had told me a month ago I’d be like this!”

  He grinned. “You wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Mercy, no! It’s not real.”

  “But that’s where you’re wrong, leannan.” His face sobered. “I think this is the real woman I’m seeing. Now, lass,” he went on, as she opened her mouth to protest, “think of how we met. Ye didn’t plan to interfere, on St. Thomas.”

  “No,” she said, slowly. “If I’d had time to think, I surely wouldn’t have.”

  “Ye acted on something inside ye. And when you came to my bed, Rebecca”—his voice was husky—“that wasn’t because of a bargain. And ye know it. Ah, now, don’t look at me like that, lass. It isn’t so bad.”

  “But it is!” she burst out. “A proper lady would never behave like this.”