Cash Remington and the Rum Run (Sexy Dreadfuls Book 2)
Read Cash Remington and the Rum Run (Sexy Dreadfuls Book 2) Online
Authors: Celia Aaron
Cash Remington
and the Rum Run
Celia Aaron
Cash Remington
and the Rum Run
Celia Aaron
Copyright © 2016 Celia Aaron
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please store your files wisely, away from under-aged readers. This book stars an alpha male who takes what he wants. It’s full of sex and violence. It’s an erotica adventure, not a romance, and is not ‘safe.’ If you're cool with these caveats, enjoy!
Cover art by Perfect Pear Creative
Content Editing by J. Brooks
Copy Editing by Spell Bound
Other Books by Celia Aaron
Acquisition Series, Book One
Acquisition Series, Book Two
Acquisition Series, Book Three
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Taken by Olympus, Book 1
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C
ASH
R
EMINGTON AND THE
M
ISSING
H
EIRESS
Sexy Dreadfuls, Book 1
Table of Contents
T
HE ANGRY SEA HISSES
and roils beneath the ship as the harsh sun beats down on my bare shoulders. We’ve been passing bits of timber and shipping crates for half an hour, my crew keeping a weather eye open for whatever vessel met its unfortunate fate in this part of the ocean.
“Captain!” Roland yells down from the crow’s nest and points to the starboard bow.
I leave the helm to my second-in-command and dash down the steps, across the main deck, and up to the foredeck. A mass of wreckage drifts one-hundred yards ahead. The ship looks blasted in two. A tattered blue and white flag marks the ruin as belonging to the East India Trading Company. It barely flies above the sparkling water.
What’s left leans badly, and has taken on enough water to sink at any moment. A few bodies float nearby, bobbing up and down on the waves that knock more water into the ship.
I turn back to my crew of a dozen men. They wait for orders, and they shall have them.
“What are you waiting for, you scurvy dogs?” I roar. “Get your arses in the water. I want every piece of cargo, every bit of cloth, and every morsel of food left on that ship!”
I toss my leather hat onto the deck, and with a strong running leap, I dive headfirst into the rough waters and strike out for the wreck. Something whispers to me like a long-lost lover. Gold. I can’t so much as see a glint of it anywhere in the blasted remains of the vessel, but I can
feel
it. It’s in there, and it will be mine.
The Caribbean water flows warm around me. Spring has only just begun, scenting the air with the phantom smell of faraway blooms. But all I smell is pitch and ruin as I near the hull of the ship. My men yell and splash behind me in the row boats.
The tattered white mainsail billows just beneath the surface, blocking entry from this side. Instead of swimming around, I dive beneath it, kicking hard and strong past the splintered mast and into the bowels of the wreckage. Bits of junk—planks, empty sacks, clothing, and pieces of barrels—float all around me. I push farther down, avoiding the trap of the sail. A man’s body floats by, his dark eyes open and staring, his mouth twisted in horror. I shove him away and swim closer to the hulking vessel above me.
Once the shadows change and the sail is at my back, I kick toward the surface until my thighs burn. I break through and take a deep breath before spinning to take in what’s left of the ship.
The cargo hold is split wide open, and I pull myself onto the sideways keel to survey what goods are left intact. More splashes tell me my men are close.
“Get your useless, pitiful arses in here or, so help me, I’ll whip you, one and all!”
Cries of “Aye aye, Captain,” ring out. My crew isn’t the smartest or the fastest, but when I threaten the lash, they get shit done.
Spilled bags of sodden grain line the hold directly in front of me. We can dry them out and sell them, making no mention of their salty contents. I add up the haul in my head. It won’t amount to much, but it’s something.
I scan deeper into the shadows as a particularly large wave crashes against the keel. Something glimmers in the darkness. Something that calls to me more than anything else—gold.
I jump back into the water and swim the ten feet to the drenched cargo. Pulling myself over the grain sacks, I crawl and roll until I’m past the burlap and into a sea of cannonballs, kegs, crates, and one small chest. It must have been perched atop the highest section of cargo, but now it lies on its side. The lock is busted, and a single coin shines in a sliver of sunlight peeking through the shattered boards above.
“Well, fuck me proper.” I grin and reach for the box when another large wave crashes against the hull. The timbers creak and groan, the sounds echoing in the space. I hang on to the nearest crate as the vessel rocks back and forth, then settles down.
When I reach for the box again, a pale hand rests atop it. I follow the hand to a lace sleeve, and then farther up until I see the shape of a small woman lying between two crates. Her pale blue eyes pin me to the spot as her blonde locks fan out in the water.
“Help me.” Her voice is weak, and her eyes flutter closed. The pale yellow lace of her dress will fetch a nice price in Port Royal. Not to mention the woman herself—so thin and ethereal. I’ll have her sold in no time, for top coin.
I open the chest, and my breath catches in my throat. “Bless my black heart.” The inside is lined with gold doubloons, and on top rests a deep blue gem, almost as big as a small apple. Peering behind me, I make sure my crew hasn’t seen the goods, then I tuck the chest beneath my arm. The waif moans low, the sound going straight to my trousers.
“Lads!” I pull her to me, her pale, slight frame at odds with my corded muscles and swarthy skin.
“Captain?” Gravy’s voice, and he’s nearby.
“Come on in, lads. Water’s fine. Take everything you can.”
“Aye aye!”
I keep the small box tucked to me and clutch the other treasure to my chest as I kick away from the wreck. Her eyes remain closed, her pulse beating steadily in her graceful neck.
I’m almost to the closest rowboat when the water near the damaged ship begins to churn. Bubbles rise and pop along the surface. I’ve seen this before.
“Back to the ship, boys!” I hand the girl to Gravy and pull myself into the boat.
With his one good eye, he gazes at the wooden chest I stow under my feet, but then turns to the girl as Scab rows us away. “She’s a pretty thing.”
I take her from him and lay her in the bottom of the rowboat, next to the chest. Her skin is luminous in the sunlight, like mother of pearl. I want to see all of her, the need to strip her almost overcoming me. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d ripped a woman’s clothes off, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Mmm.” Gravy reaches out to touch her hair.
I slap his hand away. “She’s mine.”
“Apologies, Captain.” He withdraws his hand, but still inspects her slight body. I want to wring his scrawny neck.
A rumble from the deep brings me back to the present. We have no time to waste.
I wave my arms, motioning my crew away from the wreck. “Go. Now!”
Finn and Goat curse and argue with each other, both men leaning over the side of their rowboat. They’re entangled with the main sail.
“I told you to go left!” Goat yanks at the sail, trying to free the boat from its grasp.
“You said right!” Finn stops pulling at the sail and stands. He shields his eyes from the sun and waves at me. “We’ll be out of here in no time. Sorry, Captain.”
“Now! Finn, now!” I point to the water.
He scratches his head.
“That’s got it.” Goat stands and grabs for the oars.
The bubbles stop. The waves quiet.
“Oh, fucking shite.” I lean over and stare down into the depths, knowing what’s coming just as sure as I know my own name.
