My Lady Pirate (11 page)

trembling, and she saw humor dancing in his eyes as he looked at the jiggling sword tip. “You
escaped
. . .”

“Aye.” He gave a lewd, suggestive wink. “Proud of me?”

“Proud?”

“Aye. Your pirate here is smarter than you give him credit for.” He tapped his temple and grinned. “I merely plucked the key from you when you lay senseless in my arms. You really didn’t expect me to berth on that filthy pallet, now, did you?”

Her mouth fell open and she could only stare. The rogue! Her skin flushed hot and feverish, flushed hotter still as she noticed that he was beginning to swell and rise and stiffen. Her palms grew sweaty, and she tightened her grip on the sword hilt and forced herself to meet his eyes, admiring his courage and yes, even his insolence. No coward,
this
man!

“So,” he drawled, taking advantage of her stunned silence. “Did you have a nice meeting

with the admiral?”

His words jolted Maeve out of her shock. “My meeting with
Lord Nelson
is none of your blasted business! And if you think to change my mind about handing you over to him”—she

stormed to the window to escape the temptation his virile body offered— “you’re wasting your breath.”

“Ah . . . so you
did
meet him,” he murmured from behind her. “Quite a remarkable little fellow, isn’t he?”

“In spirit,” she allowed, “but not stature. I make two of him.”

She was staring out at the turquoise sea, gripping the cutlass so fiercely the wire-bound hilt drove itself into her palm. Then she swung back, not liking the feel of that amused gaze nailing her between the shoulder blades, of having her back to an enemy, of knowing his eyes were sliding heatedly over every inch of her spine, her rump, her legs, her bare calves. . .

“So, you failed to convince him of your mystical powers, eh? Is his lordship’s course a

southerly one, after all? Hmmm?”

“I will not answer that. You’re a spy and therefore I shall disclose
no
information about the British Navy to you.”

“Why this apparent loyalty to the British Navy, eh? By your speech, I’d have thought you an American.”

“I
am
an American. But I detest the bloody French as much as the British do. And as for Nelson, he’s not only a hero, but the finest sea officer in the world and I happen to admire him, all right? Now shut your damned mouth before I lose my temper and flay that tongue of yours into ribbons!”

His lips twitched, and she bristled at the thought that he was inwardly laughing at her.

“Well, you can’t blame a body for trying,” he said mildly, his gaze sliding down the front of her shirt with enough heat to burn the fabric right off her skin. Maeve slapped the flat of the cutlass across her chest, but the action only called further attention to that part of her anatomy. “And Villeneuve? Surely you can tell me about
him
. . .”

“Villeneuve is north, and that’s all
you
need to know.”

“Aah, but does
Nelson
know that?”

“Aye, I told him.”

He smirked. “And did his Lordship believe you?”

“No,” she admitted, her mouth tightening in an angry line. Unbidden, her gaze flickered to his masculinity before she glared up into his smug, amused face. “Damn you, do you have to lie there, all exposed?”

“It’s . . . hot.”

“There’s a fine breeze blowing!”

“I wasn’t referring to the weather.”

In one quick motion, Maeve drew her dagger and flung it at his head, satisfied to see him jerk away so that the vicious blade impaled the wall just above and behind him. “You are

disgusting, despicable, and totally without pride!”

“On the contrary, madam.” Without blinking an eye, he reached up, pulled the dagger from

the wall, and plucking an orange from the nightstand, began to use it to peel the fruit. “I am quite proud of it, thank you.” Still holding her gaze, he popped a section of the orange into his mouth, eating it with slow, suggestive motions that shortened the breath in Maeve’s lungs and made her realize that he was not the only one who was
hot.
Her temper and her temperature were rising as well. Had she had her pistol, she probably would’ve shot him. Probably. Maybe. Maybe . . . not.

Her gaze darted from him to the window. From the window to him. From him to the window . . .

and each time she looked at him, she saw that he was watching her, fully enjoying her

discomfort.

He grinned, and suggestively licked at the juices trailing from the sweet fruit, letting his tongue wrap around each section and making sure she saw him doing it. His eyes were dark, laughing, and half-veiled by heavy, thick lashes that did nothing to conceal the wicked expression that lit them.

The suckling noises increased.

“Stop it!”
she hissed.

He dropped the orange section into his mouth, licked his lips with a slow, languorous,

circular motion, and slowly peeled off another.

The heat rose in Maeve’s blood.

“Would you like . . . a
taste,
madam?”

She raised her cutlass. “I’ll give you a
taste
—”

“No decisive battle was ever fought from afar,” he interrupted on a low murmur, still

grinning. “Nay, two vessels must lie alongside of each other in order to best bring their guns to bear.” He bit into the orange, making lewd, evocative noises as the juice trailed from the succulent flesh and dribbled down his chin. There was a dimple in that chin, and Maeve felt her heart skipping, staggering, faltering. “We have a signal for such an engagement in the navy. ’Tis called
close action.”

“You are no longer in the navy, and I am
not
a ship!”

“Nay, you are not . . .” His voice grew low, dangerously seductive. “But I like the cut of your jib, the taut trim of your sails”—the dark gaze slid over her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips—”the shape of your hull.”

“Get out of my bed.”

“Why? I really am most comfortable. Not as comfortable, of course, as I would be if you

were to drop anchor beside me. . .”

Her skin tingled and flushed crimson. “I said,
Get out of my bed!”

He suckled the juice from his fingers. “What, would you prefer to do it on the floor?”

“I’d prefer that you shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”

“Now
that,
“ he said, wickedly, “could be interesting.”

“Damn you, I’ve had it with your sly innuendos!”

“Now,
Majesty, “
he murmured, affecting a look of mock hurt. Putting the dagger down, he sat up, swung his handsomely muscled legs off the bed, and sat looking at her, charmingly boyish, alarmingly dangerous, and shamelessly naked. “Don’t go getting your guns all primed. I am just a sailor . . . and what sailor doesn’t lust and pant after a beautiful woman? I find
you
beautiful, and”—he let his gaze rake over her breasts, her hips, her bare ankles—”I want you.”

Maeve swallowed hard.

“Come, now, dear lady.” His hand, a broad, and callused hand—a
man's
hand—slid over her silky sheets in a way that was calculated to suggest that same masterful hand roving over her equally silky flesh. He gave a slow, heated grin that sent the temperature of her blood soaring to new heights. “Don’t make me come over there and get you . . .”

His body seemed relaxed, but she sensed the raw power underneath, the ability to spring,

wolflike, and bring her down like a helpless hare.

The Pirate Queen took a step backward.

“You fear me,” he murmured, his eyes glinting. He spread his hands, as though in truce, and again she was struck by the power, the strength, in those broad palms, those beautiful, tapered fingers. Shivers coursed through her. She had no trouble imagining them around her throat. No trouble imagining them crushing the life out of her.

And no trouble imagining them caressing her heated flesh.

“I fear
nothing!”
she snapped, defiantly. “D’you hear me?
Nothing!”

“No? Your lie is thoroughly unconvincing, I’m afraid. I think you fear me very much.”

Rising to his feet, he took a step forward. Another. “You see, Majesty, I have waited all night and half the morning for you. I have waited . . . all my life. Now, be a good lass, and let me pleasure you. . . Love you. . . Stroke your sweet flesh into flame and fire. . . After all”—again, he flashed that disarming grin—”we have so
little
time left together. . .”

He took another step forward but Maeve stood her ground, gripping the raised cutlass, her gaze locked with his and every muscle in her body strung shroud-tight—

“I’m warning you, pirate!”

Sweat ran down her spine as he moved closer.

“Stay away from me!”

“So
little
time,” he said again—and reached for her.

With all her strength she swung the cutlass, and he expertly ducked the blow that would

have taken off his head. The momentum spun her around, the sword smashed into the bedpost, and Gray was on her before she could even think to go for the dagger on the nightstand, seizing her wrists, jerking them above her head, and slamming her belly up against the doorjamb so hard the breath exploded from her lungs.

“Back
off,”
she snarled, through clenched teeth.

“Nay.
You
, madam, should have had the sense to do that when you first entered this hallowed chamber.” The silkiness was gone from his voice, the playful teasing replaced by a hot, sexual carnality that made her tremble. His chest drove against her back, his arousal against her backside, and she felt totally helpless. And with her body crushed against the doorframe, she could do nothing but shut her eyes and steel herself against the ripples of desire as she felt his breath against the curve of her neck.

“All my life, I’ve fantasized about making love to a lady pirate,” he murmured, his deep

voice sending tremors down her spine. “At last, that fantasy is about to become reality. . .”

“Over my dead body!”

“Oh, I hardly think so,
Majesty.
In fact, I shall take great delight in making that body of yours come
alive.”
His hand slid up her forearm, over her shoulders, caught the thick fall of her hair and lifted it off her neck. She felt his lips against her nape, his breath fanning the damp skin there, and still, his big body pinned her helplessly against the doorjamb.

“I’ve heard the tales about you, but they do not pay tribute, nor do justice, to such a fair and fiery maiden . . . I think I am in love . . . Do you believe in love at first sight, Maeve? I never did, but I do now.”

“No, I don't believe in love at first sight, and indeed, I don't believe in love at all!”

“Now that is truly a pity.”

“What is a pity is that if you so much as touch me, you won't live to tell about it, damn your eyes!”

“Ah, such pluck, such fire! Indeed, madam, I
will
touch you . . . but were you to go down without a fight, I should be sadly disappointed. . . So, indulge yourself, Maeve, and”—his fingers caught her collar and pulled it downward, exposing her neck and shoulders to his mouth —
”fight.”

She felt his lips moving against the back of her neck, nibbling, kissing, feathering, his tongue tasting the hot skin and drawing little circles in the downy hair at her nape. Her senses swam and she caught her breath. She tried to struggle, but he only pushed himself against her all the harder, crushing her, pinning her, rendering her more helpless than she already was.

“Do you know your body is already answering mine, Majesty?” His hand caught in her hair

and pulled off the leather thong, and she felt his fingers trailing through the long, silky tresses, smoothing them, stroking them, separating them. “Don’t deny me, sweetheart. Don’t deny

yourself,
for there's something between us and you know it as well as I do. Let me take you in my arms, carry you to your bed, and make delicious, savage love to you. . .”

She waited for his lips to touch the soft hollow between her shoulders; then, catching him off guard, she jerked her arm down and out of his grip, and drove her elbow brutally into his chest. But he was quicker than she, and far stronger, spinning her around and backing her spine against the wall so fast the room twirled around her. He caught her wrists, dragging them up over her head; furious, she looked up into his face, met his eyes, and drew her lips back in a feral, savage snarl.

“Let—me—
go.”

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I want you too much to let you go.”

Then he smiled. Disarmingly. Devastatingly. Knowingly. Something melted inside her. Her

knees went weak and her breathing quickened. He moved back, ever so slightly, pressing his bare leg against her thigh and allowing her to feel his heat, his power. He dragged his foot up the side of her calf, his knee trailed toward the junction of her legs with agonizing slowness. There it pressed, burning through the loose trousers and making her long to thrust herself shamelessly against that sweet pressure.

“When I get free,” she managed to say weakly, “I swear to God I’ll stab you so full of holes you’ll look like a damned fishing net.”

“My dear madam,” he murmured, still holding her arms high while he nuzzled her ear and

branded her neck with warm, searing kisses, “any
stabbing
to be done is
my
delightful calling, not yours. Relax, Majesty, and give in to your deepest desire.”

“My deepest desire . . . is to sink my dagger into your heart and watch you . . . die.”

“And mine is to sink
my
dagger into your sweet woman’s flesh and watch you writhe with pleasure.” His lips were moving lower, toward that creamy swell of flesh above the closure of her shirt. Maeve’s heart began to pound, and the room was suddenly too hot, far too hot. “Shall we have a contest to see who wins?”

His knee continued to press, to rub, against her throbbing junction. Then his hand followed, touching her, stroking her, caressing her through the thin barrier of fabric. She felt a rush of pleasure and dampness, and sank against his hand, knowing, even as a sob caught in her throat, that he would win, indeed.