A Pirate's Pleasure

Then she gulped in air and cast herself against the floor and gave way to a flood of tears.

  An hour later, after a great deal of reflection, she determined that she would clean the mess she had made. She brooded long and hard over the action, but in the end, she had to agree that the pirate had made one good point—a jar of jam was not worth this awful humiliation.

  She picked up the tray and the shattered porcelain and glass and cleaned the floorboards with a linen napkin. When she was done, she approached the windows and pulled back the drapes. She was startled to see that the sun was already fallen. They must have slept very late into the day. Night was coming again already.

  She tied the draperies by their cords, eager for the light that remained. The lamp had gone out and the stove had issued its last warmth and light. Skye knotted her fingers into her fists.

  He would leave her here again, she thought. Locked in as darkness fell. He would see her reduced to a groveling fool once again, and he would laugh all the while. He would assume that she deserved it.

  There was a knock upon the door. Startled, she whirled. She did not think that the Silver Hawk would be knocking. She pulled the coverlet tightly around her shoulders. “Yes?” she called softly.

  The door opened and the handsome young man the pirate had called Arrowsmith walked in, somewhat burdened by the weight of one of her traveling trunks.

  “This is yours, I believe?” he said.

  “Yes,” Skye said.

  “Then you’ll excuse me if I put it down. ’Tis heavy! What on earth is it that you women carry?”

  “I’m sure you’ve taken plunder enough to know the answer to that!” she retorted.

  He grimaced. “No, milady. We ransom off our plunder, just as we do our hostages.”

  “You’ll swing by the neck for it, just the same.”

  “Perhaps.” He grinned, setting down her trunk next to his master’s trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until we reach the Caribbean for me to bring you the rest of your trunks,” he said apologetically. “The captain went through this one and thought that it offered all that you might require for the next few days of travel.”

  “The captain—went through it?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  She thought that she would scream her outrage, but she kept silent. Her clothing and jewels were valuable plunder. She was probably lucky that he had decided to clothe her.

  “I shall take this away,” Arrowsmith said. He smiled and picked up the tray with the broken cups without blinking. He turned to leave the room.

  “Wait, please!” Skye said. He was a pirate, too, she reminded herself. Even if he was young and handsome and even gentle in his way. He stopped, looking to her.

  “Could you … light a lamp for me, please? It is growing dark.”

  “I shall take care of it, Robert.”

  Startled, they both looked to the doorway. The Silver Hawk had returned.

  “Aye, Captain, as you wish it.” Robert Arrowsmith inclined his head toward Skye and exited the room, brushing by his captain. The Silver Hawk came into the room, turning his back to her and, with slow purpose, closing the doors. He turned around again, leaning against them. He looked over the floor, and over Skye, and to the foot of the bunk where her trunk now lay.

  “I came to light the lamp for you, milady,” he said softly.

  She said nothing, standing still and awaiting his next move. It was a long time in coming. He strode across the room and lit the wick of the lamp. The glow filled the room. Skye lowered her head in a turmoil. She had thought that he would exploit her fear, that he would purposely leave her to her terror of the darkness.

  He had not.

  And yet it wouldn’t be proper to thank the vile pirate for the kind gesture, would it? Not after all that he had done to her.

  He set the lamp into its protected niche. “We head south with a good wind. It will be too warm for the fire, I believe, but the light should be good enough.”

  Skye swallowed and nodded.

  “I had thought to find you dressed by now.”

  “The trunk just arrived.”

  “Yes. Find something. I will help you don your clothing, and you can come on deck for an hour or so.”

  Her eyes widened and she bit into her lip. “I can dress myself, thank you.”

  “Shall I choose for you?”

  There was an edge to his voice. They were engaging in battle again.

  Eventually, she thought with a shiver, he would wear her down. Their strange encounters were unnerving her completely.

  “Sir, I tell you—”

  “I shall choose then.” He strode toward her trunk. She found herself running after him, catching his arm, then was dismayed by her action. She gazed at her hand where it rested upon him and recoiled swiftly, startled by the blood that had hardened upon his shirt. She stared at him in horror.

  “You’re—bleeding.”

  “I was bleeding, milady. A shrew with sharp teeth caught hold of my flesh.”

  She swallowed, her eyes locked with his.

  “It is no matter, Lady Kinsdale. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “No! You needn’t go into my things again. You had no right to do so before. Sir, I tell you—”

  “Milady, I tell you. You had no difficulty riffling through my belongings to find that wretched broadsword. I found no difficulty in disturbing your belongings for a far more gentle mission, that of seeing you clad!”

  He was already upon his knees, casting back the unlocked lid of her chest. He found a corset and tossed it back down, then procured a simple shift and a linen gown with short sleeves. It was a soft, cool blue with white lace trim and she had purchased it with thoughts of the long hot Virginia summers in mind.

  “This one,” he muttered.

  She flushed furiously that his hands should be upon her apparel. She tried to shove him aside, taking up the corset he had dropped. “If you will just leave me—”

  “I will not. And drop that whalebone torture creation. You don’t need stockings, either. Even with the breeze, it is warm this evening.”

  “Mr. Hawk!” she snapped in exasperation. “Is it Hawk? Or is it Mr. Silver? I mean, really, sir, just how does one address you?” she demanded irritably.

  He sat back on his haunches and his slow grin curled into his lip. “I think that I might like the sound of ‘milord,’ from your lips, Lady Kinsdale. Or perhaps, ‘my dear lord.’ ”

  “Never,” Skye said flatly.

  “Then ‘Hawk’ will do, milady. Come, let’s see you clad in this piece of summer’s frivolity.”

  Skye straightened to her full height. “Sir, this will be done by violence only.”

  “If that’s the way you choose it,” he said with a shrug, rising and taking a step toward her. “The manner is of no difference to me.”

  “Stop!” Skye pleaded, backing away from him. She hadn’t the energy for the fight. Her flesh still burned from his earlier, less than tender touch. She promised herself that she hated him still with a vengeance, but for the moment, she needed to lick her wounds and recoup her energy.

  He stood still, watching her. She lifted her arms and dropped the coverlet from about her shoulders. She meant to keep her eyes on his but she could not, and her eyes fell in shame.

  “Oh, you will quit playing Ophelia!” he said in harsh exasperation. He stepped forward, but took his time easing her plight, raising her chin and meeting her eyes. His gaze passed quickly over the length of her. “Milady, the silk stockings must go. Clad only in them, you are most provocative.”

  If she had thought to shame him, she had sadly miscalculated, and her own temper flew back to a new high as he lifted her from the floor and tossed her nonchalantly upon the bed to strip away her stockings, all that remained of her clothing from the previous day.

  Skye swore, she flailed at him. He avoided her pummeling with amusement and quickly did away with the offending garments. “Calm down!” he charged her
. And capturing her shoulders, he straddled her. She wasn’t aware at first that he had her shift, and that he was trying to slip it over her shoulders. “Lady Kinsdale, I do swear, it is far more difficult to dress you than it has ever been to charm and unclothe any tender maid in all of my days.”

  “I daresay you’ve never known a tender maid!” Skye retorted. She quickly slipped her arms into the silken straps of the garment and faced him again, flushed and furious. He stood by the bed, watching her with a curious expression, his eyes the color of fog and steel, a pallor seeming to touch his face. She noted that his fists were clamped hard at his sides. He did not rise to her retort. It occurred to Skye that her shift defined more than it concealed, that her breasts were pressed strainingly against the bodice of the gossamer undergarment, and that the line of her hip and the soft triangle at the juncture of her thighs were hauntingly evident.

  “Why do you humiliate me like this!” she cried suddenly. “Why this slow torture—”

  “Milady, I promise,” he interrupted her dryly, “the torture I do is to myself.”

  “Then …”

  “Then what?”

  “Then … stop it!” she whispered.

  “Alas,” he murmured, and the word carried a tender and wistful sound, “I have discovered that I cannot.” He turned swiftly away from her, finding the dress. “Come, Skye, let’s set this upon your shoulders and ease both our souls.”

  Skye …

  He had used her given name. He had used it with the ease of a friend or relation, or of a lover. She should have despised the sound of it upon his tongue, but she did not. She should have ignored his command, but she could not. She crawled from the bed and stepped to him slowly. She reached up as he deftly set the yards of muslin over her head and arms. He twirled her around and set to the twenty-one tiny buttons that closed the dress. He was deft with his movement, as if he was well-acquainted with women’s fashion. She began to tap a bare toe as his fingers brushed her back.

  “Are you done?” she inquired.

  “Umm. You intended to do this alone?”

  “The intent of such a gown is to have one’s maids along. But since those poor lasses have fallen prey to your men …”

  He was undaunted. “That is why, mam’selle, you must be grateful for my assistance.”

  “Grateful!” She pulled away, and whirled about. “May we go?”

  “If you wish.” But he reached down into her trunk again and plucked from it her silver initialed brush. “Your hair resembles an ill-kept bird’s nest.”

  “That is hardly my fault.”

  “But if you don’t care, lady, then I must. Come to me, and I’ll make some semblance of golden curls from that thatch yet.”

  “I care!” Skye cried quickly. On her bare feet she hurried forward, snatching the brush from his fingers. She tried to work through the length of her thick tendrils quickly, but she was nervous and tugged and tore far more than she cared to admit. He emitted some impatient sound and stepped forward with purpose, snatching the brush away again. “Turn!” he ordered her. Gritting her teeth, she did so.

  Again, his fingers were deft. There was no tenderness to his touch, but he was apt and able, and with little pain to her, the dreadful knots caused by the wind and tempest of the storms outside and inside the captain’s cabin were quickly untangled. Her hair fell about her back and shoulders in soft, shimmering waves.

  “It is an unusual color,” he commented almost idly. “It is neither gold nor red.”

  She turned around, smiling succinctly. “It is the color of thatch, so you said.”

  “Ah, yes, thatch,” he agreed, and smiled. Her eyes narrowed and she swung around again, waiting for the door to open. He came around and opened it for her. He offered her his arm. She chose to ignore it, staring straight ahead.

  “Skye, take my arm, else resign yourself to this cabin for the length of the voyage.”

  He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She took his arm and he politely opened the door.

  Sunset was coming. The very sight of the spectacular colors streaking across the heavens gave a curious thrill to her heart. The world had fallen apart. She had fallen prey to the true monsters that roamed the seas. Her own captain lay dead and surely floated in some watery grave. Crew had fought and died, and infamy had ensued. She had spent the night in the company of one of the four most notorious pirates about … and still, the sunset spoke of hope.

  It was glorious. It was red and gold and all the shades in between. The sun itself was a glorious orb falling slowly into the cobalt and azure of the sea. The colors seemed to stretch into eternity.

  “Now I know the color,” he murmured suddenly behind her.

  “What?” she said, turning to him.

  His eyes, smoke now, fell upon hers. “Your hair. It is the color of this sunset.” He was silent only a moment. “Come on. I am taking the helm. You may stay at my side for a while.”

  He gave her no choice but to come, holding her tightly as they walked across the decking from his cabin past huge cleats and piles of rigging and canvas sail until they came to the carved steps that led to the wheel. Men saluted, doffing their caps to her, smiling their knowing smiles. She felt her cheeks grow warm and she did not respond, but she tried to raise her chin.

  “Evening, Captain!” came a cry from the crow’s nest.

  “Evening, Jacko. Is she clear?”

  “Clear as the sound o’ my sweet mother’s voice, captain! It seems we’ve weathered the storms, and moved into clear weather.”

  “That’s fine to hear, Jacko.”

  “Milady, you’re looking well!” the man called.

  Skye did not reply to him. The Hawk laughed and answered in her stead. “Perhaps, Jacko, the lady, too, has weathered the storm of the previous night and seeks calm seas this eve!”

  Jacko laughed. Skye was certain that she heard subtle sneering sounds from all about her, but then maybe she had imagined them. The Hawk’s men seemed more cheerful than licentious. They were a well-disciplined lot for scourges of the sea, she thought. And they were clean for pirates. And neatly garbed.

  Hawk led her around to a carved wood seat that curved around the wheel, built into the superstructure of the ship. The man at the wheel saluted Hawk, nodded very properly to her, and gave over the helm. “The course is set south, southeasterly, sir!”

  “Fine, Thompkins. We’ll keep her so. You are at leisure, Mr. Thompkins.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Thompkins responded. He saluted again and left the helm. The Hawk took the huge wheel, legs spread firm and apart as he stood and surveyed the sea from behind it. They might have been alone in the world, Skye thought, for the sea and sky seemed so very vast. The sunset falling portside was still a sight of crystalline beauty and the wind was gentle and balmy.

  She drew her bare toes up beneath her and leaned her head back, feeling the wind. She should be thinking of some new way to slay him, she thought. She should not let another night pass by. She desperately needed to find a way to salvage life and dignity and honor from this fiasco.

  But she was weary and unarmed and the air was gentle and soft. She needed to regain her strength, to find the will and energy and way to defy him.

  She opened her eyes, and discovered that he was no longer watching the sea. He was watching her.

  “What!” she cried irritably. “What is it that you want out of me!”

  He shrugged and glanced toward the sea once again. “I am curious, Lady Kinsdale, and that is all.”

  “Curious, why?”

  “That a woman raised as you have been—a God-fearing lass, born into the peerage—can take her vows so lightly.”

  She stiffened. “I do not take promises lightly, sir. Not unless they are given to the rodents and snakes.”

  “A promise, milady, is a promise.”

  “Not—”

  “Yes, milady, a promise, even given to me, is a promise.”

  “You are a rake and a rogue and a—” r />
  “Pirate! It is a most noble profession, milady! Why that dear great lady, Queen Elizabeth herself, encouraged the profession. Sir Francis Drake was a pirate, you know. Anytime that England has been at war with the Spanish or French, pirating has been called noble!”

  “Drake was a privateer—”

  “Pirate!” he claimed, laughing. “Or, to be a thief is fine—as long as we steal from other nations!”

  Skye turned away, looking westward toward the sunset. “You would compare One-Eyed Jack with Sir Francis Drake.”

  “No, I would compare One-Eyed Jack with Attila the Hun, for both were cold-blooded murderers.”

  “Oh? Are there good pirates and bad?”

  “Of course. There are the good and the bad in all peoples.”

  “You are scum,” she said sweetly.

  “And you are changing the subject. Consider then that we have established that I am scum. Let’s return to you.”

  “Let’s not.”

  He ignored her words. “To promises.”

  “I have already told you—”

  “That you are not beholden to keep a promise to me. Because I am scum. But what of your fiancé?”

  “What?”

  “You intend to breech your promise to him.”

  “I never voiced any such promise!” Skye declared. Then, furious that she had replied to him, she turned again. “It is none of your business, you—”

  “Cease. I tire of the barbs in your tongue.”

  “I tire of your presence.”

  “That can easily be rectified. Come, I will return you to your prison.”

  “Can’t you please let me be! Have you no mercy within you?”

  “I am afraid, milady, that you cannot expect ‘scum’ to come equipped with mercy.”

  “Oh!” she cried, frustrated. “What is all this to you anyway?”

  “I am curious.”

  “Why?”

  “Pure and simple, milady. I wonder if the dear fellow will or will not be willing to pay for your return.”

  Skye drew her knees up beneath her, folded her hands upon them, and rested her chin there. “It matters not if he pays or not. My father will ransom me.”

  “But what if your father has had a bad year? Most of his fortune comes from his holdings on the islands. It’s been a bad year for the sugar plantations.”