My Lady Pirate (34 page)

I ought not to have come.

She thought of Nelson as his bargemen had rowed him back to
Victory
not fifteen minutes ago, how he’d looked up and waved his hat at her, his melancholy little face breaking into a smile of reassurance as though he knew of her fears and trepidation.

He’s going to reject me, he’s going to send me away, I know he will. He's had too much time
to think, too much time to see that I’ve done nothing to make him respect me enough to love me

—

All too soon, they were standing at the door of Gray’s cabin. A marine, sober-faced and

severe, stood just outside. “Admiral’s not seeing anyone,” he growled, staring straight ahead.

“He will see
me
,” Maeve snapped before she could falter, and pushing past him, shoved open the door, closed it in his face, and strode into the cabin, blinking away the sunspots.

Stillness. Thick, cloying quiet. No movement, no sound, nothing. Only the gentle wash of

the sea around the great ship’s rudder, far, far below her.

“Gray?”

After the blazingly bright sunlight, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the

comparative gloom of the cabin. She saw her cousin, lying on the same sofa on which she had convalesced and looking about as close to death as a person could get without stepping over into the hereafter. She saw a cat nestled against his blanketed feet and staring at her, its jaws open in an angry, threatening hiss. She saw a roll of bandages on a table beside him, a half-empty glass of brandy, the bottle, and there—the admiral himself.

Asleep.

She froze, torn between an absurd and cowardly urge to flee before he could waken—and

going to him.

He was slumped over the table, his brow resting on his forearm, his black hair loose around his shoulders, his sleeves pushed up to the elbows in a futile attempt to escape the heat. His fine naval coat lay over the back of a chair, his hat on the table beside his arm. A stack of papers was spread out around him, and a pen lay in his relaxed fingers, dribbling ink all over the reports and dispatches he’d been working on when exhaustion had finally done him in.

There was fatigue in the lines of his face. A sizeable cut on the back of his hand. Blood on the edge of his cuff.

“Gray,” she said softly, and tiptoeing forward, stood over him. Time stopped. The world

went away. Holding her breath, she slowly, hesitantly, reached out, her fingers coming to within an inch of his shoulder before halting in uncertainty.

The Pirate Queen swallowed, hard, overcome by emotions she couldn’t name or recognize.

She hadn’t thought a mighty admiral could look vulnerable, but this one did. She hadn’t

thought a man who commanded a fleet of battleships and the lives of thousands of sailors could look so defenseless, but he did. She didn’t think the sight of her Knight in such a state would rouse such a magnitude of love and fierce protectiveness in her breast—but it did.

For a long moment, she stood there, listening to the soft sounds of his breathing and holding this special, private moment next to her heart. Sir Graham, alone. Sir Graham, defenseless. Sir Graham, vulnerable.

Sir Graham—
hers.

A half-finished report lay beneath his wrist, three paragraphs of the worst handwriting she’d ever seen in her life sprawled across the page before the words faded off into a black dribble of ink. Her brows snapped together in indignation. Why didn’t he employ his secretary, his clerks, to write the blasted thing? He was an
admiral,
for God’s sake, with a whole staff of personal servants to attend to such menial matters!

And then she saw that it was no report at all, but a letter—a letter to
her,
full of the outpourings of his heart, an apology about the
woman,
and declarations of the utter, infinite magnitude of his love for her.

A thick knot of emotion lodged in her throat. She sucked her lips between her teeth,

carefully slid the paper out from under his wrist, took the pen from his lax fingers—and on a deep, poised breath, touched his shoulder.

He jerked awake, blinking, his eyes momentarily unfocused and confused. “Maeve?” He

stared up at her, but Maeve glanced at Colin and put her finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, he’ll never hear us. I got him foxed so he could get some relief from the pain . . . Good God, am I
seeing
things?”

Touch me, Gray. Hold me. Comfort me. I need you.

“Of course you aren’t seeing things,” she snapped, tossing her head and retreating behind the safety of her customary bluster. She picked up his hat with the point of her cutlass and flung it at him, her eyes flashing. “You’re a damned fool, Gray!”

He stared at her in bewilderment, clutching the hat to his chest.

“And I’m a bigger one,” she added, sullenly. She bent her head, examining the wire grip of her cutlass, suddenly unable to meet that dark stare. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

He didn’t move, and she wondered if he was allowing this awkward silence on purpose so

she would have no choice but to fill it with something. Anything.

The tactics of an admiral.
She was becoming wise to them.

Her head snapped up. “I had to come back, you know. After all, you
are
my Gallant Knight.” Then, she slammed the cutlass against the top rung of an empty chair, the resounding crash echoing through the cabin.
“But I’ll tolerate no more long-lost lovers on your part, is that
understood?”

Guiltily, she glanced at Colin, but her cousin remained still and unmoving. As for Gray, he was looking slowly, pointedly, at the sword buried in the rung of his chair, his brow lifted in silent amusement.

Maeve immediately saw her predicament. “Oh, shit.” She tried to pull the heavy blade free of the wood, but it was stuck fast. She gripped the hilt of the blade and tried to jerk it up and down—to no avail. Sweat dampened her brow and her face went a deep, blazing red. “Oh,
shit!”

He rubbed his chin, as though trying to mask a grin. “Need some help, Majesty?”

“You laugh and I’ll ram this thing up your—”

“Uh, uh, uh, Maeve, that’s no way for a monarch to talk.”

“You think it’s funny, do you?” She put her bare foot against the seat of the chair, gripped the cutlass, and yanked with all her might, her skirts jerking with every erratic, furious lunge.

“Bloody
hell!
Son of a—”

“Here.” He put the hat down on the table. Then he stood up, tall and handsome, his head

nearly touching the deckhead above and a wicked smile lighting his face. “Allow me.”

“I can do it, damn you!”

He merely lifted a skeptical brow, gently stepped in front of her, and grasping the hilt of the savage weapon, patiently rocked it back and forth until it quietly eased free. Then, with a flourish and a bow, he presented it to her with all the chivalry that he, a gallant Knight of the Bath, could muster.

“Your sword, Majesty.”

He was grinning, that dimpled, wolfish grin she’d come to know so well. Humiliated, she

glanced at the still-motionless form of Colin Lord, and snatched the cutlass away from him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“I’ll . . . replace the chair.”

“There is no need.”

“No, I insist.”

“I said”—a faint smile of admiration and approval curved his mouth as he studied her

ladylike garb— “there is no need. There are other ways of paying me that would suffice just as well.” The smile grew slow, lazy, hot. “Better, in fact.”

He stepped forward.

She stepped backward.

He moved closer.

She puffed out her chest and forced herself to stay put.

Then, very slowly, the admiral reached out, took the cutlass from her suddenly boneless

hand, and laid it carefully, deliberately, across the table beside his hat. His hands closed around her elbows, skimmed up her arms, and, as he drew her into his embrace she felt her defenses crumbling, her body melting. “Oh, Gray,” she murmured, and went into his arms with all the desperate gratitude of a lost child who has suddenly been found.

He kissed her deeply, his hand catching in her hair, his arm a steel band around her waist.

She drove upward, clinging to him, her tongue hot against his, her heart wanting to weep with gratitude that he had been spared. Finally she drew back, her eyes misty.

“Leaving you to fight Villeneuve was the hardest thing I have ever done. I thought I’d never see you again. I thought you wouldn’t have a chance against all those ships—”

He set her back to stare down into her eyes, his expression ripe with humor. “Come now, my dear,” he said softly. “Do you have as little faith in my abilities as all that?”

“For God’s sake, Gray, you were vastly outnumbered; you could’ve been killed!” she said,

angrily.

“And
you
could have left me to my fate.” His thumbs smoothed her hair from her temples, and his eyes went soft and dark with wonder. “And yet . . .”

“And yet, what?”

“You came back to me,” he said softly.

“Aye, well I”—she looked down so he wouldn’t see how red her face must surely be—”I

realized I was acting rashly about that—that
woman
.”

“You acted . . . as I would have expected someone in your place to act.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing with challenge. “You don’t think I behaved like a

damned fool, then?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Majesty.” He smiled, and dropped a kiss on her brow. “But I love you anyhow.”

A soft sigh ensued from behind her, and she gasped and spun around, remembering Colin’s

presence.

“Have no fear, love. As I told you, my captain is dead to the world and will not eavesdrop on us, I can assure you.”

“What happened to him?”

The admiral’s easy humor abruptly faded, and with a great, weary sigh, he gazed bleakly at the still form on the sofa. “Another casualty of war, I’m afraid, caught by a ball from a Spanish cannon. His leg is shattered and so, I fear, is his career in the navy. He may well end up as a cripple—even if he
does
live.”

“Why wouldn’t he live?” she asked, frowning and following his gaze.

“If gangrene sets in, the leg will have to come off. But let’s not talk of so gloomy an affair.

We survived the engagement, thanks to a trick up this old dog’s sleeve, and as for young Colin—

well, he’s made of strong stuff indeed.” He gave a brave smile, though she knew the fate of

“young Colin” was very much on his mind. “He’ll recover—or I’ll thrash him to within an inch of his life, the pup!”

Maeve swallowed hard, her heart aching for him. He was like his mentor, Nelson. Kind and

concerned and always putting the fate of his men before himself. “I could send Aisling and Sorcha across to nurse him,” she offered, slowly. “Perhaps they could read to him, clean the wound, keep his spirits up. . .”

“Oh no, they’re far too young; I could never allow it.”

“Young, but not entirely innocent. His would not be the first male thigh they have seen. And besides, they’ll be together”—she paused at the stubborn look on his face—“for God’s sake, Gray, there’s only so much one overworked surgeon can do! He has a far better chance of survival with my girls tending to him.”

But the admiral was cocking his head, narrowing his eyes and looking at her speculatively.

“And just why do you care so very much, eh?”

“What?”

“I know he’s your cousin and all that, but you barely know him.”

She caught her breath, feeling like a thief who’s been suddenly found out. “I . . . I don’t know.” She tightened her mouth, not willing to examine these feelings of tenderness and

compassion for another. “I just do, all right?”

His eyes darkened, and he took her face in his hands. “Maeve, darling, sweetheart,
love.
You try so hard to hide that gentle heart of yours beneath bluster and ferocity. But inside, you are a warm and compassionate soul, full of generosity, concern and caring, with so much love to give —”

Panicking, she drew back, feeling suddenly threatened, vulnerable,
scared.

“Please sit down,” he said quietly. “Don’t abandon
me.
I could use a friend right now. It gets lonely sometimes, being the sole man at the top.”

Don’t abandon me.
Nothing he might’ve said could’ve affected her more. That simple, unashamed plea, that honest admission that he didn’t want to be alone—obviously the admiral had no such fears as
she
did about laying bare his heart, his feelings. Reluctantly she sat, pressed her palms together, and tried to avoid those dark, steady eyes.

He poured two glasses of rum, sat down, and pushed one across the table to her. “Do you

have any idea how I felt when I saw your little schooner leading the might of the Mediterranean Fleet back to me this morning?”

She glanced at the door, her heart beginning to slam within her breast.

‘Trust,” he said gently, and she felt the warmth of his dark gaze upon her, “works both ways.

You could have forsaken your promise to me and simply gone back to your island without ever summoning Lord Nelson. You could have abandoned
me,
but you didn’t. And I
trusted
that you wouldn’t. I trusted you so much that I kept my two ships sitting here in the middle of the damned ocean waiting for you, because I
knew
you’d return—and I didn’t want you to come back and find me gone. I didn’t want you to think that
I
had abandoned you, when it might seem that everyone else in your young life has done just that.”

The room grew very silent. From somewhere above, came the shrill of a bosun’s pipes. A

long moment passed; then, he reached across the table to lay his knuckles gently against her cheek. She shut her eyes and caught his hand with her own, pressing her cheek against his palm and wishing for more than just a simple touch, wishing he would carry her away and make the world cease to exist, cease to matter.
Hold me, Gray. Love me. . .