The Pirate Hunter's Lady

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Diana knows exactly why I became a pirate hunter,” James said. “Do any of you?”

  “No,” Mallory answered, his voice filled with pain.

  “Because I made a promise to my brother. Do you know why he became a pirate hunter?”

  Mallory breathed shallowly. “No.”

  “Because of you.” James had left Paul’s diary far away on the Argonaut, but he didn’t need it. He could recite every word of it by heart. “They cut her,” James said. “Because she would not do what they said. She must have done everything to spare my daughters, but they took them all the same. Just babies, with little dark curls and their grandmother’s green eyes. I lie awake sometimes thinking how terrified they must have been, my girls and my lady, who’d known only kindness in their lives. I go to church and hear about forgiveness, but there is no forgiveness in me. When I find this man, whoever he may be, he will know what wrath means.”

  The words resounded through the watery caves, each one slinging back to him. James imagined Diana clinging to the rocks above, watching him with her heart in her beautiful eyes. She’d read the words too, had felt the pain in them.

  “Paul never learned the identity of the man who’d murdered his wife,” James said. “When Paul died, he made me promise I’d continue the search. I hunted all over the world until I found out about Black Jack Mallory. You ran for a long time,” James finished. “But I still found you.”

  Mallory was still. “I didn’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “But I remember. And Paul remembers. And I’m sure his wife and daughters remember.”

  A thin skin of water rushed at their feet. Another gull ducked past the entrance, its scream echoing through the high caves.

  Mallory swallowed, clutching his wounded arm, his face gray. “Go ahead and kill me.”

  Lockwood and Jack waited, tense. James sensed Diana, high above, holding her breath. He felt her blue-gray gaze on him as she crouched in the darkness.

  He could pull the trigger, and Black Jack Mallory would die. The man who killed Paul’s wife and destroyed the Ardmore family would be dead at his feet.

  Diana’s father had given Mallory parole on this island. This Haven. Likewise the admiral had given Lieutenant Jack a place to heal. Lockwood had given James, an outlaw to the English, parole as well.

  James did not believe in remorse. He pursued his course, no matter what the personal cost.

  He remembered how, on the first day he’d awakened here, Diana had said she’d call Jessup to change his bandages. That meant that Mallory had helped Diana and her father nurse James back to life while James lay in his three-week stupor.

  “Why the hell,” he asked Mallory, “didn’t you try to kill me right away? You must have known who I was.”

  “You were hurt, and needed help,” Mallory said. Blood seeped from his arm, staining the water at their feet.

  So much blood.

  James firmed his shaking finger. “Aren’t you going to beg for your life? Like I’m sure my sister-in-law begged for hers? Are you going to scream like my nieces did when they were being killed?”

  “No,” Mallory said. “I know what I was. Do it, Captain. Please.”

  Mallory closed his eyes. He was waiting for James to pull the trigger, waited for the noise, the pain, then the darkness.

  He didn’t look serene, or at peace. He was afraid to die, but he wanted it. He knew he was guilty and waited to make amends.

  “Damn you to hell,” James said.

  He lifted the pistol from Mallory’s throat and fired straight out of the cave.

  Sound exploded and reverberated up and down the rocks. Above it, he thought he heard Diana gasp.

  James flung the spent pistol into the water and strode from the cave. The bright light pounded into his head and made him sick. The waves tossed the boat that waited for him in the sunshine, and he climbed into it and rowed away, alone.

  *** *** ***

  Diana lay flat on her back in bed, staring, unseeing, at the ceiling when she heard James at last return. It was well past midnight, and the others had gone to bed, including her father and Mallory. Mrs. Pringle had dressed Mallory’s arm, her face grim, and they’d given him laudanum for his pain.

  James had not returned by dusk that evening. Diana hadn’t been able to spy him from the island’s summit, though she knew the island held places that were hidden from view.

  She had found on the summit, tucked under scrub, the kitchen mirror. Something with which James could have used to signal the ship that had been standing out to sea. That ship had faded over the horizon at sunset, and Diana spent the following dark hours wondering whether James was on it.

  She’d heard every word of his exchange with her father and the man she’d known only as Jessup. She burned with anger at her father for hiding Mallory’s identity all this time. And yet, the man was still the Jessup who collected shells with her and Isabeau, fished with Diana’s father for their supper, and had helped save James’s life.

  Diana had watched James fire his pistol out to sea and stride out of the caves, pain in her heart. He’d chosen to let Mallory live, and she knew what that decision had cost him.

  After she’d put Isabeau to bed, Diana spent the next few hours at her window, in the dark, watching the path from the cove. But James did not return.

  Tiredness at last sent her to bed, but she’d not slept, straining for any little sound of him.

  Diana heard it now, the creak of the garden gate, James’s footfalls on the path, the soft scrape of the front door as it opened.

  She remained still, her heart hammering. Should she go to him, or leave him be? Shout out at him for frightening her half to death? Or lie here in the dark wondering what he would do?

  Diana’s heart told her to run to him, but her heart had been wrong before. Most of the time, in fact.

  She wondered if the others were awake, listening to him mount the stairs, or if they had succumbed to their exhaustion. Only Isabeau seemed immune — everyone was safe, so they should all be happy.

  Boards creaked as James reached the landing, his footsteps quiet as he entered his bedchamber at the head of the stairs. For a while, all was silent, then Diana heard the sound of splashing water.

  Mrs. Pringle at night left water and a sponge in everyone’s chamber, so they could wash themselves before retiring or upon rising as they pleased. Saved her the trouble of hauling water upstairs in the morning when she needed to begin breakfast.

  The water made a hollow noise in the basin. Diana imagined James soaking water into the sponge then letting the water flow over his naked body, cleansing the sand and sweat from his skin.

  She listened to the crash of water as James wrung out the sponge, the trickling sound as he skimmed the sponge over his body, the splash as he dropped the sponge back into the basin.

  Crash, trickle, splash. Crash, trickle, splash. He would stop soon, Diana thought, dry himself with the rather threadbare towels, then lay himself on the bed to try to sleep.

  Time ticked by. The moon moved to beam straight into her window. Crash, trickle, splash. Steady, monotonous, unhurried, unceasing.

  Diana rose from the bed. Her feet found slippers, but she was too agitated to fumble for her dressing gown. She shuffled across the room and out, then across the landing to James’s small bedchamber. Diana pushed open the door as water crashed into the basin again.

  James stood with his back to her. Moonlight glistened on his wet shoulders and down the length of his spine, to touch the pale firmness of his buttocks.

  Water covered the floor. More rained to it as James stroked the sponge from his wrist to his shoulder. His hair lay flat and wet against his head and neck, the ends dripping rivulets down his back.

  He didn’t turn his head, did not acknowledge Diana as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

  Diana eased her slippers from her feet and walked barefoot across the sodden floor. James dredged the sponge back into the basin
as Diana stepped in front of him and closed her hand over it.

  He looked up at her, his lashes spiky with water. Diana drew a quick breath. James’s eyes were blank, dark pools devoid of emotion. He looked at her, and through her. He made no move to take the sponge from her — he simply let her hold it with him beneath the water.

  “James,” she whispered. “Let me.”

  James took his hand from the basin. Water rained from his fingertips, pattering softly on the floor.

  Diana squeezed out the sponge, her hands shaking. James stood silently, watching her.

  She reached up and wiped the sponge over James’s throat, then down to his chest and his tight abdomen. A long, pinkish streak creased his skin from his right side nearly to his groin, where the sword cut had laid him open. Diana eased the sponge across the closed wound, stopping at his lower abdomen.

  James watched her, unmoving. Diana filled the sponge again and stepped around to his back. She smoothed water across his shoulder blades, down his spine, over his buttocks. She circled him again, this time washing his arms from shoulder to fingertips, taking her time.

  She sponged off James’s sides, gliding the sponge over his waist. Diana moved up to his throat again, massaging slowly, as James closed his eyes.

  Her nightdress was wet now, perspiration curling the wisps of hair about her forehead. Diana squeezed out the sponge again, then, her heart beating faster, she sank to her knees to wash his thighs.

  James might not move, but she knew he felt what she did. His erection was already long and hard, the beautiful, smooth cock she’d seen at the cave when she’d commanded him to bare himself standing straight out.

  Diana’s nightdress soaked up the water from the floor, wetting her knees. She slid the sponge down James’s thigh and over his muscular calf, then up his left leg, slowly washing him.

  There, she was finished. She could rise now. Except that Diana could not take her eyes from James and his beautiful body. His cock was firm and stiff, the balls beneath it tight, curls of hair coiled with water around it.

  Diana studied him for a long time, watching moon shadows play on the length of his cock. James’s pulse beat there, rhythmic and hard.

  Diana leaned forward and licked the tip. James started, drawing a grating breath.

  His cock was firm and warm under Diana’s tongue. The ridge between the tip and the shaft was smooth and wet, tasting of salt and heat. She licked down, tasting him all the way to his balls.

  James went rigid, fists clenching. “Damn, Diana. I’m not dead yet.”

  He reached for her and hauled her to her feet. James’s eyes were alight, flaring with desire and anger.

  Diana dropped the sponge into the water. “There,” she said shakily. “Finished.”

  James slid his arms around her and pulled her against him. “I’ll say when we’re finished.”

  His kiss was brutal, meant to punish. Diana hadn’t left him in peace to wash his skin raw, the kiss told her. She’d come to him and awakened him, making him feel, and he was angry.

  Even when she’d been his captive, James’s kisses had held playfulness, even a tenderness. All tenderness was gone from him now. This was a harsh man, this pirate hunter, who answered to no rules but his own.

  James furrowed her hair, pulling her head back until her neck ached. His wet body was hard against hers, soaking the front of her nightdress and her skin beneath.

  He explored her mouth in long strokes of his tongue. His fingers bruised her back, grip tightening until she could scarcely breathe. “Tell me you love me, Diana,” he said, lips brushing hers. “Tell me that.”

  “I love you, James,” she whispered.

  He wrenched away from her. Diana fell back against the high mattress of his bed, breathing hard.

  James pressed his balled hands to his chest. “There is nothing here to love.”

  “It’s true. I love you.”

  “Stop,” he snarled.

  “You told me to say it. Do you think I want to love you?”

  “Look at me. There is nothing — nothing — lovable about me. Trust me.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I’ve learned what love is. Isabeau taught me. She showed me the difference between true love and infatuation.”

  James looked at her without answering. Diana had no idea whether he heard or understood her, but she plunged on. “Infatuation means you want the other person to pay attention to you — you’ll do anything for their attention. It’s what I felt for Edward, at first. Infatuation is selfish, wanting. Love moves outward, giving. Love means you’ll change the entire world, even if it costs you everything you have, to make life better for that person.” Diana lifted her chin. “That is how I feel about Isabeau. And how I feel about you.”

  James’s chest rose with his breath. “Don’t try to change life for me. I like my life just fine.”

  Diana laughed, softening it so the sound wouldn’t carry. “No, you don’t.”

  “Don’t you dare do anything for me.”

  Diana’s throat ached with unshed tears. He didn’t love her back, and that hurt like fire, but she couldn’t force him to.

  But she knew what he wanted. Desire burned in his eyes, a wanting she’d sensed since the day she’d met him. A wanting that mirrored her own.

  Diana’s old worry streaked through her, but she pressed it away. This was different. This was James, and need, not Edward and his petty cruelty.

  His brows drew down as she studied him in silence. “I don’t want your damn pity, Diana.”

  “James . . .”

  He growled. “If you’re going to pity me, then get the hell out.”

  Diana balled her fists, her anger surging. “Why do you do this? Every time I soften to you, you make me lose my temper.”

  “I don’t want you to soften to me. I like your temper and you throwing things at me. God save me from insipid, sentimental women. You’re what I need — a woman who won’t cringe in fear of me but who won’t try to reform me.”

  Diana wanted to lift the basin and dump the water over his head. “Lord help the woman who tries to reform you. Or tries to make you love her.”

  “Love has done nothing for me but cut me open.”

  Diana’s gaze strayed to the healing scar on his abdomen, but she knew what he meant. Love had cut her to the bone as well. “It’s supposed to heal us,” she said.

  “I don’t want to talk about healing. Stop crying.”

  The tears Diana had held in spilled from her eyes now without ceasing. “I don’t have to obey every word you say.”

  “Damn stubborn woman. I want you, Diana. I’m burning with it. Whenever you get mad at me, it just fires my blood. If you don’t want me to take you, then get out of this room.”

  Diana wiped the tears from her cheeks, but more poured down. “Perhaps I don’t wish to go.”

  “Then you’d better get on the bed if you want to land somewhere soft.” James stood rigidly, as hard as his erection, body tense.

  His loneliness, his need, poured off him in waves. Every bit of anguish about his brother and his promise had come to a head today and stripped James down to nothing. He was vulnerable, this strong man. And he was hurting. Diana had experienced much pain in her life, but the hurt he bore was immeasurable.

  Diana quietly unbuttoned her nightdress and slid it off over her head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  James hadn’t thought his heart could beat any faster, but it thrubbed and pounded as he heard the soft swish of the nightdress landing on the floor.

  Moonlight touched Diana’s long, slim limbs, the thick braid of hair falling over her shoulder, and her curved hips, which were probably a little wider than she liked them. Breasts round and taut. Diana’s exquisite face was set in stubborn lines, and tears glistened on her cheeks.

  “Get on the bed,” James repeated, amazed his voice was so calm. “Or it will be the floor, and the floor’s wet.”

  For a moment, Diana didn’t mov
e. He thought she’d turn and run out the door, sweeping up her nightdress on the way, but she abruptly turned and scrambled up to the top of the mattress, her red braid swinging.

  This woman made James want to swear, shout, and laugh, all at the same time. Standing there bleating about how it was all right if he didn’t love her back. Was she blind?

  No, just confused, like James was.

  James never remembered how he got himself up on the bed, but he was beside her sinking into the lumpy mattress he’d slept on now for over a month.

  When Diana Worthing had first thrown that candlestick at him in his cabin on the Argonaut, James had imagined taking her in some creative, seductive way that would last all night and well into the morning.

  But coherent thought had long since left his head, and now James could only react with desire. He’d once reflected that Diana could stir ancient mating desires in males, and those desires sure were stirring now.

  Lying down with her seemed far too tame. James dragged her to her knees. Diana leaned back in his arms, her lips parting, eyes half closed in passion.

  Fire, yes, Diana had it. James wondered how he’d been so polite to her so far, so restrained. She wouldn’t have called it restrained, but she didn’t know him, did she?

  He wanted her with a basic primal urge he’d not felt in years and years. He’d grown cynical about women, learning to satisfy his appetites on the parade of willing ladies, while closing the door on any feelings. He’d learned to completely separate the act of lovemaking from any kind of emotion.

  Diana had broken down that door. James shouldn’t have let her, but it was too late now.

  Emotions poured through him — rage and hate, anguish and heartbreak. Diana knew what James had done today, and why, and why it had almost killed him.

  Diana’s skin was as wet as his, her face damp, her hair curling and slipping from its braid. James caught her tears on his tongue, the salt taste driving his frenzy tighter. He loved the taste and the scent of this woman.

  His madness would not let him be slow. Slow would come later. James slid her knees apart. His throbbing arousal stood straight up, the focus of the madness inside him.