In a Pirate's Arms Page 31

  He leaned against the arbor, and though his eyes glittered she could read nothing in them. “I can handle myself, Rebecca.”

  “I know you can. But I don’t trust Lieutenant Dee.” She leaned forward. “He’s wanted revenge against you for a long time, and he’ll take it any way he can. I tell you, Marcus, he told me today you’d be arrested for spying.”

  “He has no proof.”

  “It won’t stop him. Oh, why won’t you listen to me?”

  “I am listening, and believe me, I don’t underestimate him. But he is a risk I have to take.”

  “As I was?”

  “Yes,” he said, after a moment.

  She looked down at her skirt, pleating it between her fingers. “Did—did what we have ever mean anything to you?”

  “The devil take it, Rebecca, you know it did!”

  “Pray do not swear.”

  “And pray do not act prim and prissy with me,” he shot back. “I like you better when you’re honest.”

  “Honest! You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “Yes. Honest. When you’re yourself, not acting like a cold, frigid spinster.”

  “Frigid—!” She stared at him. “Of all the nerve—”

  “Ha.” He was grinning. “Didn’t like that, did you?”

  She closed her mouth with a snap. “Listen to you talk about honesty, with all the lies you’ve lived.”

  A curious silence fell between them. “You’ve not forgiven me, have you, lass.”

  Rebecca bit her lips. “No,” she said, slowly. “I suppose I haven’t.” She lowered her face, wondering why she felt so wretched, so guilty. Why should she forgive him, after all she’d been through? The past year, thinking he was dead—that was the worst, of course. Knowing she’d never see him again; dragging through her days with no reason to live, except that she didn’t like the alternative. Enduring her father’s scorn, and never, ever, being allowed to cry. No hope, no light, no color in her life; only the memory of those weeks aboard a pirate ship, when she had come so briefly, unexpectedly, alive. And then to learn it was all a lie. “I can’t seem to put it behind me.”

  Marcus muttered something she didn’t catch. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  He swung to face her. “I said you’re just like your father.”

  “What? How?”

  “Cold and unforgiving.”

  “I am not!” She jumped to her feet, hands clenched. “I am not like him.”

  “You are. You’ll nurse your grievances to the grave.”

  “I have cause.”

  “So does he,” he retorted. “Or he thinks he does.”

  “I—” Rebecca began, and fell silent. “Am I really like him?”

  “No.” His face softened, and yet his stance remained rigid, implacable. “But you will be if you go on like this. Think on that, Rebecca. Think of your life, lonely, alone, afraid to love. And then think about forgiveness.”

  She swallowed, hard, and extended her hands to him beseechingly. “Marcus, I don’t want to be this way—”

  “But you are,” he said, flatly. “You shouldn’t be here. I’ll see you home.”

  “I’d rather stay,” she murmured, greatly daring, wanting only to feel his arms about her again.

  Something flickered in his eyes, but he shook his head. “When you can come to me with nothing between us, Rebecca, then you can stay.”

  “But you’re the one who lied!”

  “Aye. And I’ve suffered for it, too.” He stalked to her. “Do you think this year past was easy for me? Wanting you, knowing you were near, but not being able even to see you? And then when I did, it was as a man you didn’t know. Devil take it, Rebecca, it was hard for me aboard the Raven! I knew what I was doing to you. But I couldn’t help myself. Neither could you.” He stared down at her. “At least be honest with yourself about that.”

  She gazed down at his hands, seeing them through a blur of tears. “I have been. But—”

  “No more ‘buts.’” He sounded weary as he took her arm. “‘Tis late. I’ll see you home.”

  Rebecca glanced up at his set face and discarded any idea of attempting to win him over again. He’d made up his mind, and nothing would sway him. “I knew as soon as I left the Raven I’d made a mistake,” she said in a small voice. “I knew I should have stayed with you.”

  “But you didn’t,” he said, and reached for her arm. “And it’s past.”

  Rebecca pressed her lips together to hold back tears. It was past. If only she could put it behind her, as he seemed to have done. But she couldn’t. Not without some indication that it wouldn’t happen again, that she could trust him. She loved him with all her being, all her soul, but she couldn’t trust him, and that hurt.

  Marcus was watching her, one eyebrow raised quizzically. “Ready?” he whispered.

  Nodding, Rebecca put her hand on his arm, and let him lead her out of the garden.

  With the President having addressed Congress, what happened next was inevitable. In mid-June, the United States declared war on England. The British legation staff increased their guard and began packing, against the day when they would be ordered to leave. In high spirits, the Americans made plans to invade and annex Canada. And with the navy so pitifully small, anyone who owned any sort of vessel applied immediately for a letter-of-marque to become a privateer.

  “Hell and damnation!” Ezra roared when the news reached him. He stomped through the house into the kitchen, where Rebecca, face flushed with heat, calmly continued peeling potatoes for dinner. She had heard the news earlier when doing the marketing. “We’ve an idiot for president. I swear if I didn’t have this foot”—he pointed down at his gouty foot, swollen and sore again—“I would do something about him.”

  “Father.” Rebecca frowned. “You knew this was coming.”

  “Do not talk back to me. This is a disaster, girl.” He glared at her. “How am I supposed to get my ships to sea?”

  Rebecca concentrated on the potato in her hand. “Turn them into privateers.”

  “Have you run mad? I’ll not fight against England, not while there’s breath in my body. They need my help, not my opposition.”

  Rebecca set the paring knife down. “That’s treason.”

  “Do not speak to me of treason.” He leaned over, his face close to her, the smells of sour wine and perspiration making her nauseous. “You are the traitor.”

  Rebecca drew back. “I? What did I do?”

  “Consorting with the enemy. Don’t think I haven’t seen you. That Brand fellow. I was deceived in him, and you hang all over him like a bitch in heat.”

  “I do not!”

  “Aye, I thought I could trust him, and now I hear he’s gone and turned privateer with all the rest.”

  Rebecca shot to her feet, her chair falling back. “He hasn’t!”

  “He has.” There was an odd look on his face, almost of satisfaction. “And what is a privateer, but a legal pirate?”

  Marcus had turned privateer. He would be leaving her, and he hadn’t said a word to her. “You’ll never forgive me for that, will you?”

  “What you did was unforgivable.”

  “I did it because,” she began, and stopped. She had explained her actions aboard the Raven again and again, and always to the same effect. Father neither listened to her, nor believed her. He hadn’t forgiven her.

  Just as she hadn’t forgiven Marcus his transgressions. Moving automatically, she righted the chair and sank into it. She hadn’t forgiven him, and now he was leaving. Fool! She’d been foolish, to let the past come between them. Lies? Yes, but necessary ones, and not uttered to hurt her. Since then he had been nothing but honest, except about leaving. In the face of that, how could she continue to hold a grudge?

  “Are you listening to me, girl?” Ezra’s demand penetrated into her consciousness. “I am talking to you. And what are you smiling about?”

  Rebecca rose. She was smiling, she realized, and she couldn’t seem to
stop. She didn’t want to. “About forgiveness, Father.” To his evident surprise, she kissed him on the cheek. “You should consider it,” she said, and floated out the door into the garden, feeling light, free, at peace. Feeling like herself, for the first time in ages. Why, forgiveness was easy, she thought as she drifted out onto the street, not caring that she had neither bonnet nor gloves. Easy, and right. Why had she not seen it before?

  The pleasant daze continued as she ambled uphill along First Street, heading towards the river. Heading for the Sally house, and Marcus. She noticed neither people staring at her, nor greetings called to her, but continued on, confident at last of the future. The past was over, done. There was only now.

  It was only when she had let the doorknocker fall several times at the Sally house, with no answer, that her curious, inviolate sense of rightness began to fade. No one there. Had Marcus left already, without saying goodbye? Panicking, she grasped the knocker again, banging it down in a fusillade of short, sharp raps, and nearly fell forward when the door was abruptly opened.

  “What the devil?” Marcus stood there, in shirtsleeves, hair disordered. “Rebecca?”

  “Oh, Marcus!” She launched herself at him. He fell back into the hall, taking her with him. “I was so frightened.”

  Marcus cast a quick glance out into the street before closing the door. “About what, lass?”

  “That you had gone.”

  He grimaced. Something else for her to hold against him. “You heard of that, did you?”

  “Yes.” She gazed up at him, and, unbelievably, her eyes were shining, a clear, sparkling emerald. “And I couldn’t let you go without doing this.” Standing on tiptoes, she reached up and pressed her lips to his, using all the persuasion that he had taught her. Little witch, he thought, but his arms came down around her. His Rebecca. Devil take it, but it was good to have her in his arms again, and that was dangerous.

  Summoning all his strength, he pushed her away. “This changes nothing, lass,” he said, sternly.

  “But you’re wrong.” Again she stretched up to kiss him. “Everything’s changed.”

  “Devil take it, Rebecca!” He pushed her away. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  A slow, secretive smile spread across her face. “Yes.”

  He couldn’t help it; he grinned. “Ah, lass. For a prim spinster, you do some bold things.

  “I am not a prim spinster.” She moved against him, her smile widening. “At least, not prim.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Her smile faded. “You were right, Marcus. I haven’t been honest with myself. And the way I felt about you...” She swallowed, hard. “It was myself I couldn’t forgive, not you.”

  “Oh, lass—”

  “For behaving as I did, for worrying my father, for”—she swallowed again—“falling in love with you.”

  He could endure no more. Heedless of where they were, that Mrs. Sally might walk in at any moment, he pulled her to him and brought his mouth down on hers. She responded eagerly, the feel of her breasts and hips so warm, so close, inflaming him. God help him, but he wanted her. And yet, if they were dealing in truths, he had a few to confess.

  He tore his mouth from hers and stood, his forehead to hers, breathing harshly. “You were right, too,” he said, his voice low. “I did lie to you.”

  “Because you had to.”

  “No. Not at the end, on the Raven. I could have trusted you. I just thought”—his mouth twisted in frustration—“that it would be better for you if you didn’t know.”

  “And it probably was,” she said, softly. “What I found hardest to forgive was that you let me believe you were dead.”

  Was. Past tense. At some point in the past few days, she had put the past behind her. It filled him with a tremendous lightness, making him want to laugh aloud. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” His voice was low. “I’m sorry that you were. But the truth is, Rebecca...”

  “Yes?” she said, when he didn’t go on.

  “You scared the life out of me.”

  “I did? Why?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “Because of this,” he said, and kissed her again. Because she made him feel things he had felt for no other woman. For a man who prized his freedom, that was frightening, indeed.

  “Oh, Marcus,” she began, when he lowered his head to press kisses on her throat. “I think—Marcus!”

  He raised his head, caught by her urgency. “What?” he asked, and then heard the voices outside. “Devil take it, Mrs. Sally’s come back.” He caught her hand. “Come on.”

  “Where?” she gasped, as he pulled her up the stairs.

  “To my room. She can’t see you here.”

  “But—”

  “Hush.” He placed his hand over her mouth as the front door opened. Standing in absolute silence on the second-floor landing, they listened as Mrs. Sally chattered on to her maid, about the high cost of goods and the insulting attitudes of the shopkeepers, and did she think that nice Mr. Brand was home? Rebecca bit back giggles at that one; she loved Marcus, thought him a wonderful man, but nice? “Might as well call a raven a pretty bird,” she whispered unsteadily.

  Marcus gave her a little shake, and they waited until the voices below faded before they moved across the hall to his room. “That was close,” he said, closing the door behind them and pulling her into his arms. “If she finds out you’re here, your reputation would be ruined.”

  “Hang my reputation.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Marcus, my reputation was ruined long ago. Nothing I’ve done has fixed it.” She drew back. “And as I once said to you, might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

  He grinned. “Is that so.”

  “Yes, it’s so.” She reached up to smooth back a strand of his hair, touch his cheek, the corner of his eye. “Do you know, I rather miss the eyepatch.”

  “I could put it back on.”

  “No. I like you this way.” She peered up at him. “No more hiding?”

  “No. No more hiding,” he said, and bent his head for a long, slow thorough kiss. No hiding, no barriers. No secrets. Just Rebecca, in his arms, in his life. He would never leave her again. Never.

  And because he had made that pledge at last, of a sudden he couldn’t have enough of her: of her breasts, heavy in his hands; of her hands clutching at him; of the feel and the scent and the taste of her. “Too many damned buttons on this dress,” he muttered, his fingers clumsy as they struggled with the long line of buttons that fastened down her back. But then they were undone, and his touch was gliding over her skin, satin soft and warm. He tugged at the gown and she helped, shifting in his embrace as he lowered it, down her shoulders, down her arms, his hands skimming over her breasts. It fell to the floor, useless, discarded, and in a moment later her petticoat followed. Her breasts, full and round, were in his hands again, and he bent to kiss each hardened tip, feeling her hands tug at his hair, hearing her soft exclamation of pleasure. His Rebecca. His leannan, his heart.

  The door handle turned suddenly, making them both tense. “Mr. Brand? Are you there?” came a querulous voice. “Now why did he lock his door?”

  Rebecca buried her head against his shoulder, and he could feel her shaking. Tears? Concerned, he looked down, to see her face twisted with mirth. The little witch was laughing. The very ridiculousness of their being caught in such a situation struck him, and he clapped a hand to his mouth.

  Rebecca looked up, eyes sparkling, seeing the retribution he promised in his eyes, and not caring. With great delicacy she undid the laces of his shirt, and bent to taste his salty-sweet skin, her tongue flicking out in delicate circles. He groaned, a muffled sound behind his hand. “Witch,” he whispered, when they at last heard Mrs. Sally walking away. He caught her face in his hands and forced her to face him. “I could strangle you.”

  “You won’t,” she whispered back. “There are other things you’
d rather do to me.”

  His eyes roved over here, as warm and arousing as a touch. “Yes,” he said, and, lifting her in his arms, carried her over to the bed.

  She lay back, watching as he shed his shirt and trousers, holding her arms up to him as he settled onto the bed with her, above her, his weight a delicious burden. Loose, wanton behavior, and yet it felt right, inevitable, and all the more delicious for being done in utter silence. He rubbed her nipples, stroked her hips, her thighs, and her gasps of delight were muffled against his shoulder; she curled her fingers around his manhood, feeling the pulsing strength of him, feeling him tense with the effort not to groan aloud. She bit her lips to hold back her cry of pleasure as he entered her; swallowed the whimpers that rose, unbidden, as she moved with him, faster, urgently. The ache, the pleasure, grew, spiraled, lifting her higher, and then she was at the peak, crying out her joy into his mouth. She belonged to him. It was no good denying the truth. She was his.

  “Lord,” Marcus said in a low voice long moments later, raising his head to look at her. “What you do to me.”

  She shifted, feeling him still inside her, and glad of it. “What?” she asked, feathering her fingers through his hair. “What do I do to you?”

  He shook his head, bent to kiss her. “If you don’t know by now, I don’t know how to tell you.”

  She knew. Oh, she knew, and the knowledge was delicious. She encirled his shoulders with her arms. Outside were the normal sounds of life going on, of people and carriages passing by, and faint, far away, came the fluting tones of Mrs. Sally’s voice. None of it mattered. Only now, and this man.

  He mumbled something, and she turned her head. “What?”

  He lifted his head. “I said I’ll have to get you out of here somehow. But don’t worry, leannan.” He placed his fingers on her lips, as if aware of the dismay his words had caused her. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll never leave you again.”

  “I know,” she said again, but in truth, she didn’t. The loving was over. Reality had to be faced. “Marcus? I heard something today.”

  His lips slid along the side of her jaw. “Yes, love?”