My Lady Pirate (2 page)

Her hair, caught in a thong of tough leather at her nape, was heavy and straight and of the darkest shade of red, a shimmering fall of polished chestnut threaded with strands of ruby. Her temper was fiery and her stance warlike as only a gleaming dagger, a set of pistols, and a necklace of sharks’ teeth could make it. Two large hoops of gold hung from her ears and kissed the bare tops of bronzy shoulders. Her clothes were garish, her tongue sharp, her face clever, hardened, and deeply tanned after seven years in the Caribbean sun. But when Maeve Merrick smiled, her teeth made a startling contrast to such darkness of skin, and her laughter was full-blown and hearty, as blustery as a reefing wind.

But the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean was not laughing now. A quick-running tropical

storm shook the palms and slashed against the roof of the abandoned planter’s mansion that was now home to her and the crew of the schooner
Kestrel.
It was not the gale that annoyed her, for she loved storms and could sail her ship through the eye of a needle, if necessary; the dangerous passage between the coral reefs that guarded her private lagoon would not have stopped her if she had wanted to go a-raiding. But the wishes of her crew did, for she was a pirate captain, supreme in battle but otherwise subject to the rules of majority, and majority ruled that this unlikely damsel should have what the spell book called, her “Gallant Knight.”

Gallant Knight, indeed, Maeve thought. What sort of spell book was this, anyhow? Any

fool knew that there were no “gallant knights” beyond the tales of King Arthur.

And yet Maeve couldn't bear to spoil the fun for Aisling and Sorcha, the two youngest

members of her crew. The Irish sisters had lost their da and mama when their ship had gone down in a storm a year ago, and Maeve, who had come across the orphans crying their eyes out in a small boat in the wake of the storm, had a soft spot for the two girls. Their little faces were eager, their eyes bright with excitement. Once, she had been young and foolish and full of romantic nonsense, too. Once, she had also dreamed of a prince charming to come and sweep her off her feet.

But “once,” of course, was a long time ago.

Seven years, to be exact.

And so, she sighed with resignation and allowed them to drag her to the hastily built altar and what would have to pass as their cauldron—a pot, borrowed from the kitchen and framed on the right and left by twin pink candles that sputtered and spit in the drafts as though they, too, held this silly exercise in high contempt.

“Ready, Majesty?” chirped thirteen-year-old Sorcha, aglow with the innocent enthusiasm of a child who still believed in fairy tales.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Maeve said, opening the book of spells and dramatically turning up her nose at the pungent scent of mold that issued from it.

The girls laughed. Beyond them, some of the other crewmembers exchanged smirks.

Aisling, just twelve years old, handed Maeve her cutlass. “Here, the book says that you have to be the one holding the Magic Wand when it touches the cauldron, since
you're
the one we're going to conjure a Gallant Knight up for.”

Laughing, Maeve handed it back. “Sweeting,
you
should hold the wand, not me. After all, you have a far better chance of snaring a Gallant Knight than I ever will!”

“Oh, Majesty,
everyone
has a Gallant Knight, somewhere! Even you!”

“Especially you!”

“And you shall marry him and live happily ever after!”

“Bah, I'm too old, too cynical, and too rough around the edges. Even if there were such

things as gallant knights, I can assure you that they wouldn't be marrying the likes of me!”

The girls were too young to note the sudden pain in their captain's golden eyes. But Maeve's quartermaster and longtime friend, Orla, was not, and as a sudden gust of wet wind drove

through the tall, open windows, shaking the giltframed portraits on the walls, she quietly took the spell book from Maeve's hand, found the proper page, and handed it back to her.

She alone knew why Maeve did not believe in Gallant Knights.

And she alone knew why Maeve was starting to look like a cornered animal.

But the Irish girls were not as observant, nor did they know the full story of what had

brought the woman who had taken them under her wing to this remote Caribbean island. Now, they pressed close, and Maeve, with a wry twist of her lips, looked down at the spell book to try and hide her growing impatience. “Why are you two so eager to see me married?” she grumbled, tossing a handful of black gunpowder into the cauldron; some of it missed the pot and trickled down the sides, causing the crew to cringe, fearing an explosion. “It would mean the end of our life together. I’ve fought hard to gain respect and independence and a name for myself in these lawless waters, and I’ve no wish to give it up, or share it with some sneaking, skulking, dog who’d only want what I
have
and not what I
am.
Marriage? Bah! We have everything we could need or want, right here on our island. There is no need for me to marry, and nobody who'd want a sunburnt old maid like me, anyhow.”

“You're not old!”

“You're only three and twenty!”

“And you deserve your Gallant Knight!”

Maeve laughed, just a little too loudly. “There
are
no Gallant Knights, girls, and when you get some age under your keels you’ll know I speak the truth! Men are all rascally blackguards, every last one of them, all intent on one thing and
one thing only,
and that’s satisfying the itch between their legs! Love? Bah!” She dismissed the idea with an scornful wave, shut the book, and handed it to them. “Love is nothing but a cruel hoax played by nature to entice two people to rut like dogs and so continue the miserable existence of this species. I do not believe in Gallant Knights, I do not believe in spells, and I
damn
well do not believe in wasting time in fruitless nonsense when we could be out
stealing
something!”

Her words echoed in the silence, and no one spoke. The two sisters hung their heads,

looking crestfallen. “It's just a game, Majesty,.” whispered Aisling.

“Yes, just a game. . . .”

“We're sorry.”

Instantly, Maeve regretted her harsh words. She took a deep breath, and laid her hands on the shoulders of each girl. “I’m sorry, too. You're right. It
is
just a game.” She picked up her cutlass, and gripping the savage weapon that would have to act as the Magic Wand, mustered a grin. “Right, so, tell me what I'm supposed to do so we can end this lunacy.”

The crew exchanged glances, knowing how difficult this was proving to be to the woman

who led them. Enolia, her lieutenant, ebony-skinned and exotic, her tall, lithe form banded with muscle and flattered by African jewelry. Karena, blonde and blue-eyed and the finest gunner this side of Jamaica. Tia, the boatswain, sultry, and mischievous, Jenny, the sailing master, and of course, loyal Orla “You’re supposed to tell us what sort of man you want for your Gallant Knight,” Sorcha

said, pushing her hair behind her ear as she peered earnestly down at the ancient text. “Then”—

she frowned, trying to decipher the words—”then, you’re supposed to tap the Magic Wand

against the cauldron three times and—ta da!—your Knight will appear, just like that!”

‘Ta da, just like that,” Maeve scoffed.

“Yes, just like that.”

Rolling her eyes, Maeve gazed out the open window, through the sheets of rain and toward

the distant horizon. “Well. . . He would have to be a sailor,” she mused, her voice softening somewhat, “tall and lion-hearted, and strong as an oak. He would be a prince of the sea, a fearless warrior with courage to rule his every deed. . . “

“Yes? Go on!”

She tapped a ragged fingernail against her chin, her eyes beginning to gleam as she warmed to the fantasy. “He would be dark and handsome, masterful and brave. Clever. Strong. And of course,” she added, with a fleeting smile, “he would be an officer. . . a courageous and noble officer, a worthy man of purpose and honor and decency—”

“A man like your papa, then?”

Abruptly, her smile vanished and a cloud as dark as the one outside passed over the Pirate Queen’s face. “Aye,” she said bitterly. “Like my
father.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued. Swift glances were exchanged, and Aisling flushed

crimson at her ill-chosen words as the Pirate Queen turned to stare out the window, her eyes hard, her mouth an unbending slash of pain. Orla, who seldom spoke, made as if to do so now, but Maeve quickly recovered. Prideful as ever, and forcing aside the pain of the second, and most savage, betrayal of her life, she snatched up the spell book and affected an air of humor that fooled no one.

“Blast it all,” she muttered, “why do I stand here wasting time? My deeds are too black, my heart too hard, for such a worthy man to ever take notice of me. Besides,” she added, in the haughty tone of the All-Knowing, “I had one of my Visions last night. I already know what manner of man I shall have, and he is no better than I am—a
pirate,
a thieving blackguard worthy of the gallows and nothing more.” Her voice rose with suppressed hurt.
“That
is what the Sight has shown me, and it is never wrong!”

“It is
sometimes,”
Aisling taunted.

“Well, it’s not this time!” Maeve snapped. “Enough of this madness,
Kestrel
has not been out in three days and my palm grows itchy for want of good, stolen coin—”

“Oh, no, Majesty. We can’t leave without first completing the spell!”

“Damn the spell!”

“But there are other things that must be added to the cauldron!”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll add!”
Snatching up a gold drinking cup, Maeve stormed outside and returned, her hair wet from the rain, her eyes blazing, and flung the contents into the steaming cauldron. “Gull shit! Add this to the damned spell and see what you conjure up! There
are
no Gallant Knights in this world, there is no magic, and
there is no man who will ever love me!”

And with that, the Pirate Queen’s arm savagely scythed down and cutlass met cauldron with a ringing crash, once, twice, three times—

The explosion rocked the room. It may have been a resulting spark and the black gunpowder that caused it; or maybe it was the spell itself. The cauldron went up in a burst of pink-and-orange flame, exploding outward with the force of a warship’s broadside. The crew dived for cover, their captain was slammed backward against a wall, furniture went flying, and windows blew apart. A piece of metal ripped the spell book from Orla’s hands and missed hitting her by an inch. Thick slime blasted against the white walls and trickled down in unholy torrents. And somewhere amidst this shattering melee of noise and fear, a commotion filled the doorway and a man was hauled unceremoniously forward by two pirates who contained him with pistols held at either side of his set and stubbled jaw.

Too stunned to notice, the Pirate Queen lurched to her feet, her eyes still on the spot where the cauldron had been, where the two pink candles had stood, where there was now nothing but a blackened spot of singed flooring and an ugly mess of iron and sludge and stench. Her hands shaking, she reached up and touched her cheek.

“Orla? Aisling? Sorcha? You . . . all right?”

But they were all frozen in place and staring fixedly toward the door, their eyes as round as shot.

Maeve knew, even before she took a deep breath and slowly turned to follow their gazes,

what she would find.

A man. Not just any man, but a tall, gloriously handsome one whose black hair streamed in rampant disarray past mighty shoulders and down a broad back; a man whose great hands were bunched into fists, a man with the devil’s own fury blazing from eyes as darkly blue as an empty midnight.

Not the gallant officer she pined for . . .

but a pirate.

Maeve stepped forward, and gathered herself for a question that needed no answer.

“Who the
hell
are you?”

His gaze bored into hers. Furious, he reached up and flung an offending clot of slime from his dripping brow. Then, he pushed his captors aside and stepped forward, over six feet of towering male purpose, muscle, and rage.

“Your gallant-bloody-knight!”

Gray’s advance was halted by the Pirate Queen’s pointed cutlass against his chest.

Bronzed by the sun, his shirt gaping, his bare skin sugared with beach sand through which little rivulets of seawater ran down, his wet and mighty body was like an impregnable fortress—

but even so, he could not walk through a sword.

“Stand aside, woman.” His voice was steely and hard, its tone dark, dangerous, and

commanding.

The slender arm holding the cutlass did not lower. Neither did the regal nose, nor the

glittering gold eyes that clashed with his. “I am the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean,” she said, her voice quivering with rage, “and
you
will address me as
Majesty.”

“I,” he retorted, “will address you as I damn well please.” His gaze insolently drifted down her open vest and blousy shirt.

“You,”
she snarled, “are on
my
island, in
my
house, and barging in on
my
spell. Therefore, I’d just as soon skewer you to the wall and feed you your entrails for breakfast as toss you to the sharks.
Do I make myself clear?”

A thick silence followed, the air crackling with tension.

“I said, Do I make myself clear?”

Gray stared into the golden depths of her eyes, matching her in fury, matching her in a

struggle for power, matching her in silent, savage combat.
This
young brat was the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, a renowned figure he’d dismissed as an overinflated legend made large by the same sort who professed to have seen mermaids, sea monsters, and the ghost of Blackbeard?

Don’t vex me, little girl,
he thought, darkly; and then something tickled his temple and, reflexively, he swiped at the last of the slime that still dripped down his face. At that moment the absurdity of the situation struck him with sudden force and the corners of his mouth began to twitch in helpless amusement, even as his gaze slid down the graceful arch of her throat, the swell of breasts beneath the loose shirt, the bare legs and shapely ankles below the baggy, cutoff trousers. He liked what he saw, and his mouth curved in a slanted, wolfish grin of appreciation and amusement. But this formidable Amazon was anything but amused. She glared at him, eyes blazing—and Gray, undaunted, loosened his sash, let the dripping jackboots fall to the polished floor, and swept her a courtly bow.