My Lady Pirate (30 page)

Maeve jerked free of his grasp, drew the blanket about her as though it was a monarch’s

robe, and glared at the other woman. “I am Captain Merrick, Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, and if you do not watch your tongue, I’ll cut it out, feed it to you and and watch you choke on it.
”

Lady Catherine smiled. “How charming. Your newest kitten has claws, Gray.”

“Really, Catherine, this is not the time or place for this—this
discussion—
”

“What, would you prefer to have it in more
pleasurable
surroundings, my handsome

admiral? I seem to recall you have a penchant for creative positioning within the confines of such unlikely surfaces as tables, hammocks, and overstuffed chairs. I’m sure something can be

arranged.”
She turned disdaining eyes on Maeve. “Pirate Queen, eh? Fancy that. From the stories I’ve heard about you, I thought you'd be much . . . older.”

“As you so obviously are?” Maeve challenged, and saw her barb hit home. The woman

colored with rage, but Maeve—trying in vain to control her temper, trying desperately to play the queen and not the pirate—merely lifted her chin and with royal hauteur, drawled, “Forgive me, but I’d forgotten what the tropical sun can do to a lady’s face. Yours, I’m afraid, seems to have suffered the worst for it.”

“Why, you vicious, coarse little
bitch
!
”

Maeve turned, ignoring her. “Excuse me, Sir Graham. I have affairs to attend to on deck, if you don’t mind. Please, do not let me keep you from your business with this . . .
commoner
.”

“How dare you insult me so, you brazen little hussy!”

Maeve strode up to the other woman, paused in front of her and stared at her for a long,

tense moment. Then, fast as lightning, she raised her hand as if to slap her face. The other woman gave a cry of guttural horror and shrank beneath an upraised hand to deflect a blow that never came.

“Coward,” Maeve said, haughtily. And with that, she walked to the door, stiff-backed and

proud, fiery and beautiful and every inch the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. She heard the admiral’s sharp intake of breath, the angry exchange between him and that—that
woman,
felt the hem of the nightshirt brushing her calves with every step she took, and fought the darkness that threatened to bring her down as she walked across a deck that was suddenly like ice beneath her feet.

Keep walking.

“Maeve!” he roared, from just behind her.

She clamped her jaws together, hard, so she could not give in to the fierce urge to turn and scream out her anguish at this man who had deceived and betrayed her yet again, for so-help-her-God, the last time, the
very last time.
He did not love her. He never had. He only wanted her because she was a piratess, a
toy,
as his pretty slut had called her. Part of the fantasy, another piratical item to add to his collection.

She pushed open the door.

“Maeve!”

Finally she turned and faced him, chin high, mouth white with fury, eyes glittering. She did not know what to expect when she looked into his face, but it was not the utter terror and desperation she found there. “Aye, Sir Graham?” she said, her voice dangerously calm.

“Don’t—don’t go.” His eyes were imploring, begging her to understand.
“Please.”

She gave a soft, serene, totally sweet smile that nearly cracked her face and her composure along with it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Catherine’s swift grin of triumph, for now she would have the admiral all to herself.

“Really, Gray,” Maeve said, gripping the door latch so hard it nearly broke off in her hand.

Pain radiated up her wrist, her arm, with the force it took to retain her composure, and she moved her body in front of the door so neither could see how white her knuckles must surely be.

“Where indeed would I go? Your ship may be huge, but it is, after all, finite. Please”—she gave an imperious wave of her hand—”carry on with your little doxy. When you have put her back in proper temper you will find me topside, where you may attempt to do the same with
me
.”

He moved forward, as though to stop her, as though he didn’t quite trust her; he stole a swift glance at the sultry Lady Catherine; then he sighed heavily, swore beneath his breath, and raked his hair back, the movement causing the late-afternoon sun to burst in brilliant shards of light against the golden tassels of his epaulets.

But suddenly they didn’t look so grand anymore, and neither did that splendid uniform his shoulders filled so magnificently.

Head high, Maeve strode out the door . . . past the marine . . . through the passageway, up the hatch, and out onto the broad quarterdeck. Beyond the nettings, she saw the convoy moving along under clouds of sail. Colin Lord was gazing off to larboard, a telescope to his eye, his fair hair bright beneath his cocked hat; a lieutenant touched his elbow and the flag-captain spun around as she passed, staring at her first with shock, then alarm.

“Good afternoon,
cousin,
” Maeve purred, and strode purposefully past him and up the steep ladder to the poop deck. Her strength rapidly failing her, she moved across and up its long, empty expanse, focusing on the beckoning trio of high, mounted stern lanterns and the wispy clouds that framed them, and didn’t stop until she reached the flag locker and the taffrail, where there was nothing beyond her but blue sky, the broad, glorious expanse of the sea—
—
and
Kestrel
.

“Maeve!” her cousin shouted.
“Stop her!”

The Pirate Queen threw off the blanket, climbed up onto the taffrail, and swayed there for a brief moment, the wind whipping the admiral’s nightshirt around her body and tearing strands of hair from her braid; then she took a deep breath and threw herself outward, the wind screaming in her ears now, shrieking, the sea coming faster, faster, faster, to swallow her up with a violent, bone-slamming crash that burst every stitch in her bandaged side and left her stunned and senseless in the water. She lay there for a moment, dazed, the waves breaking over her head, her body beginning to sink down, down, down . . . then she heard the cries of alarm from the flagship’s decks some two stories above, the desperate shrieks of the bosun’s calls, and was roused by the thought of pursuit.

With the last of her strength, Maeve raised her arm to summon
Kestrel,
but it was a wasted motion, for already the little schooner was changing tack and sweeping in to rescue her drowning captain.

Prepare to heave to, Mr. Pearson!” Racing to the side, a horrified Captain Colin Lord

watched the lone figure floundering in the waves, the schooner sweeping in to her rescue. “Brail up courses, t’gallants and royals, and back the main tops’l! Lively now, for God’s sake!”

Pipes shrilled, sailors ran to their stations, the helm was put down, and the mammoth
Triton
swung into the wind with a protest of shaking rigging and groaning timbers just as Sir Graham came pounding up the hatch to the quarterdeck. His young flag-lieutenant, John Stern, caught his arm, and ran with him toward the nettings, gesturing madly. “There, sir! Just to starboard!”

Gray reached the side in time to see Maeve being pulled out of the sea by her crew. His eyes widened with disbelief. She’d jumped. The fool girl had actually
jumped
—

Paralyzed with shock, he gripped the shrouds and watched her climbing up the schooner’s

side, his now-transparent nightshirt clinging wetly to her body, her hair a dark rope streaming down her back—and a stain of crimson blossoming just above her hip with alarming speed.

“Damnation, she’s
bleeding!
” he roared, the sight shocking him into action. He spun around, nearly colliding with his flag-captain, his flag-lieutenant, the first lieutenant, and a little midshipman who looked as though he was about to piss his breeches. “Damn your eyes, Colin,
how the hell could you simply let her walk off the flagship?!
”

Young Midshipman Jones dived in recklessly to save his captain. “It w-was m-m-my fault,

s-sir,” he said bravely, trembling as his admiral’s furious stare swung on him. “I saw her h-h-h-heading toward the p-poop deck and didn’t tell the c-c-captain soon enough—”

“No, Mr. Jones, it was
my
fault,” Colin said soberly, standing stiffly at attention and refusing to let his officers take the blame. Composed and proper, he dauntlessly met the admiral’s glare.

“I saw her too, but must confess I was too shocked to react as quickly as I might have had the circumstances been different.”

“No, Captain,” First Lieutenant Pearson declared, “
I
should take the blame, I was nearest the ladder and didn’t move to stop her—”

“Damn your eyes, damn
all of your eyes!”
Gray raged. “It was
my
fault and
I’ll
take the blame for it!” He fisted his hands into knots of helpless fury and let loose such a foul string of sailor language that the very air seemed to smoke. “She’s escaped me, who the bloody hell cares how, it’s the damned
why
of the matter, I was so close, so
damned
close to winning her trust . . .”

He trailed off, spun around to watch the schooner, and bent his brow to his hand, feeling the weighty, nervous silence of the officers behind him.

“Mr. Jones,” he heard Colin say quietly. “See to it that the admiral’s barge is made ready, if you please. I suspect he may need it directly.”

####

It was too much.

Panting, winded, her wet hair streaming around her shoulders and down her back, Maeve

hauled herself over the rail with the help of her horrified crewwomen. “Up topsl’s,” she gasped, nearly collapsing in their arms, “and hurry!”

“Captain! Oh, look, your
side
—”

“I’m fine, for God’s sake; it’s nothing but a few burst stitches!” Gripping their hands she swung onto the deck, the familiarity of her own ship infusing her with a sudden burst of life and energy. This was
her
command, the one place in the world that was a safe refuge, a trusted haven,
home.
Already she could feel the schooner’s spirit surging into her soul, that quick thrill of heady exaltation, and utter invincibility. The admiral would never catch her now; not in that massive and mighty flagship, not in a million years, not
ever,
damn his lying, wenching, blackhearted soul!

“Captain!”

She whirled, neatly catching the cutlass Aisling tossed to her, the weight of it nearly

bringing her down. Tia threw a light jacket over her for the sake of modesty and, trailed by the two Irish girls, Maeve ran toward the tiller, feeling the blood oozing hot from her side but knowing she had no time to worry about it now. He would send someone after her, she
knew
he would send someone after her, if only to save his rotten pride, if only to prove his
ownership
over this latest addition to his pirate collection, if only to make her life hell— Orla was at the helm, her eyes dark and condemning. “Maeve—”

“Not now, Orla, just get me away from that suffering bastard, and the sooner the better! I hope I never set eyes on that
snake
again!”

“Snake, Captain?” Sorcha cried, her eyes widening in horror at the bloodstained nightshirt just visible beneath Maeve’s jacket. Already her sister was running to get fresh bandages.

“Whatever has poor Sir Graham done now?”

Maeve exploded.
“Poor Sir Graham
flaunted his mistress right under my nose, that’s what he did! I hope he rots in hell, the bastard, the wretch, the slimy, two-timing, bucket of bilge-rotted scum!”

Orla merely set her lips and staring past
Kestrel's
plunging jibboom, said quietly, “Your orders, Captain?”

Maeve bent her head to her palm, wanting to kill, wanting to scream, wanting—

“Trim for beam reach, I think—yes, yes, a beam reach, a bloody, blasted beam reach, and

set the t’gallants too!”

“I think you’re being hasty,” Sorcha said smugly as she drew a knife, sliced through

Maeve’s soaked shirt, and, with the help of her sister, began rebandaging Maeve’s side. “The admiral loves you.”

Maeve’s head jerked up. “Well darling, here’s a lesson for you! Men like the
admiral
don’t know how to love! He’s a slinking slimy dog, just like the rest of his kind! He doesn’t love me; the only thing he loves is gratifying the itch between his legs! He’ll not leave his precious mistress for me, he’ll send someone else, and then, only because he’s obsessed with pirates and
I’m
a pirate and the most interesting addition to his
COLLECTION!
Blast it, don’t you understand, don’t any of you
understand?
If he was my Gallant Knight, he wouldn’t relegate his dirty work to a subordinate, he’d
damn well come for me himself!”

Enolia was standing at the rail with a glass to her eye.

“He is.”

Her sides heaving, Maeve came up short. “
What did you say?
”

Enolia lowered the glass and looked at Maeve. “I said, he is.”

The blood drained from Maeve’s face. She turned and stared dumbly at one of the starboard guns, unable to speak, her lips going gray with shock.

“Captain? You all right?”

Relief. And then fear, guilt, elation, and anger all bubbled up in her breast. She grabbed a telescope from Aisling and pressed it to her eye, the wind whipping loose strands of wet hair around her neck and making it sting her cheeks. Sure enough, she could see the frantic activity even from here; officers gesturing wildly, seamen running down the gangways, a boat being swayed out, a frigate—
oh God, he was summoning the frigate
Harleigh,
the fastest ship he had!

—charging down toward the big flagship—

Trembling, she dropped the glass.

“He’s coming after you, isn’t he?” Aisling taunted.