Righteous Side of the Wicked: Pirates of Britannia

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “Why dinna ye tell me?”

  Jonesy frowned. “Sir?”

  “How is it the lass was dressed in my clothes?”

  Jonesy’s frown deepened, his spine stiffened. “You accusin’ me of somethin’, Capt’n?”

  Would do the lad no good to challenge him. Coire wouldna spare him his full fury. “She couldna reach my trunk and dress herself while chained to the bulkhead, now could she? And how did she cut her hair? Dinna lie to me, son. Ye wouldna like the outcome of such folly.”

  “Jonesy,” Mr. Shaw chided. “What have ye done?”

  “Not a damn thing.” The defensiveness in his tone suggested otherwise. But then the taut, mutinous slant around his eyes loosened as an idea struck. “Oh, that sneaky pullet.” He apologetically shook his head. “She asked for butter to soothe her raw wrists.”

  Coire snorted. “She is an inventive one.”

  Shaw agreed with a muttered curse.

  “’Pologies, Capt’n. If I’d have known…” Jonesy appropriately deflated.

  “The lesson is she canna be trusted. Dinna fall for any woman’s designs disguised as sensibilities. They are more resilient then ye might imagine.”

  Jonesy pondered that for a mere moment. It would likely take the lad several burns before he learned the truth of it. “Thank the saints Miss MacDougall wasn’t who Pullings was looking for.”

  “Aye, capt’n,” Shaw added. “An’ what’s this about ye bein’ a windward passage?”

  Coire planted a hand upon Jonesy’s shoulder. “I’m quite certain the crazy lass is a fugitive.” Jonesy heaved a deep sigh concern.

  “And, no, Mr. Shaw, I’ve not taken a preference to boys or men.”

  Mr. Shaw chuckled. “A relief to hear, Capt’n.”

  Dropping the subject like a grenado, Coire instructed Jonesy to seek out Graer for an exchange at the Muddy Bollix as soon as they docked at Scarba. Normally, Coire would wait at a corner table in the tavern, drinking stout whiskey, while waiting for the man to show. But today, he’d be escorting a MacDougall. He didna want any surprises and showing up after Graer seemed to be the best way to avoid them.

  About surprises… Coire excused himself to confront the MacDougall in question.

  Just who the hell was she? He intended to find out, and find out he would.

  Coire didna bother knocking before barging in. ’Twas his own damn cabin, after all. He found the lass sitting upon his bed, hands folded in her lap, as if she had been patiently and dutifully waiting for his return. And she had the ballocks to discard the pretense that she had been his captive. The manacle hung uselessly and empty on the bulkhead.

  “Let us begin again.” He planted a chair in front of her and sat. Though the proximity to her was close enough to make a lady uncomfortable, he doubted she’d even so much as flinch as he leaned forward with his arms on his knees. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Treva MacDougall. What I’ve told ye, I told true.”

  “Except why ye were paddling out to sea.”

  The lass’s victorious smile could surely bring the greatest of warriors to their knees. “I should thank ye again for assistance. Indeed, I escaped prison.”

  “The bruises?”

  Her expression faltered but she recovered well enough. “At the hands of guards. But that was the least of my concerns. I was to hang today.”

  “Today? How long had ye been imprisoned?” She was slight of frame, but didna look emaciated as prisoners who’d been withering away in a dungeon often were.

  “Only a couple of weeks.”

  She was that much of a threat to hasten her death? He knew cruel, unrepentant pirates with hearts black with rot who sat in prison for months before their execution. “And so ye escaped. Conveniently. I can imagine how ye wiled yer way out.”

  “I had help, aye, an English guard. But I didna trick it from him. His reasons for freeing me were his own.”

  “Hard to believe.” He had to look away to keep a level head. Her pleading eyes called to his soul, like a thirsty man floating in the doldrums.

  She tilted her head. “Ye dinna think much of me, do ya, capt’n?”

  “On the contrary. Ye…fascinate me.” The corner of her lip twitched with a grin. Had he not dropped his gaze to her lips, as he unwittingly kept doing, he’d have missed it. “But ’tis good practice to avoid ambitious women. A spy, no less.”

  “And ye a pirate. With rebel arms in your hold. Surely ye are not casting judgment as I have not you.”

  How the devil did she know that? Aye, his suspicion of her had grown twofold. “My cargo is no concern of yours.”

  “Ye are right. My only concern is to get home. Will ye take me? ’Tis but a mere stone’s throw from Scarba.” She placed her hand upon his forearm to beseech him. The soft warmth caught him off guard. He stared at her delicate hand marred with cuts, traveled up her slender arm to the tops of her chest, over her sweet mouth, to settle upon her doe-eyed gaze. His tongue swelled in his mouth not letting his refusal to be uttered. She had a gift, to be sure. How many had succumbed to her siren call? Fortunately for him, he wore his distrust of women like a coat of armor. Her plea fell on deaf ears.

  “Nay. I have other obligations. I will, however, find ye passage to Oban.” Where the blazes had that promise come from? He had no obligation to this woman. Maybe so, but after all she’d done to make it this far, he felt compelled to help her follow through to her final destination.

  She withdrew her hand. Looking away, she reached for her hair, patting the ends of her bobbed tresses. Odd how he didna like how he was no longer the object of her attention. Just as odd that he wanted to tickle his fingers in her shortened hair.

  “Thank ye, Captain Fletcher, for not turning me over to the navy. Ye have saved my life…again.” She spared him a quick glance. “I am sincerely indebted to you.”

  If he were a weaker man, he’d demand recompense with a kiss or dally. “Ye’re welcome, lass. Though I ought to make ye pay for insinuating I’m a bugger.”

  A smirk tugged upon her mouth and she slid a sidelong look at him. “I’ve no proof either way.”

  He couldna help it. “Is it proof ye want?”

  She lifted a shoulder, her gaze dipped to his crotch. Hellfire, if his cock didna twitch. “Being surrounded by a ship full of men, I can only assume.”

  Oh, she wanted play, did she? “Ye assume incorrectly.”

  “Says ye. I’m not inclined to believe a pira—”

  Coire jumped from his chair so quickly, it fell back, smacking the floorboards. He sprang upon her, pushing her back upon his bed and securing her wrists on either side of her head. A small yelp of surprise escaped her as his lower body blanketed her. She was so…pliable, soft, feminine. Hovering an inch from her face, he searched for a modicum of fear but found, instead, an equal match. He could lose his way in the mossy depths of her eyes.

  “I ask again, is it proof ye want?” He was giving her a chance. By God, he didna want to, but he did. He may have a damned soul, but he’d never force himself upon an unwilling woman.

  “Undeniable proof.” Her whispered answer rasped across his very being, struck him deep in his core.

  He was a weak man after all.

  Coire took her mouth, raw and salacious. He’d give her no effeminate peck. Nay, she’d get a full frontal assault. But he soon realized smashing his mouth to hers wasna enough. He had to have access, sample her. His tongue swiped across her lips and magically they parted. The wee lass was as hungry for a taste as he.

  Their tongues rolled and rollicked in an urgent waltz. He savored her warm, nutty whiskey flavor. She’d hit his liquor bottle again, but he didna mind. Coire was getting drunk off her kiss. She equaled him stroke for stroke, nip for nip. His heartbeat loud in his ears, his breath all but ceased, and his cock grew thick and heavy. God help him, she was making him delirious. He wanted more of her. So much more.

  He had to stop before he lost control. Never again. He would never again
lose control to a woman.

  Coire pulled back, but damn if the lass craned her neck to follow, refusing to break their wet, frenzied contact. Two, three more heartbeats and he managed, barely, to reign in his discipline and withdraw.

  Her heavy breathing matched his own. Coire marveled at her swollen, parted lips, willing himself not to ravage them again. Hell, not to ravage her. She stared up at him with a strange look. ’Twas just like the one Fenella used to give him—feverish, impulsive, and with a hint of forbidden adoration.

  “Proof enough for ye?”

  “Mmm, yes.” Her tone was thick with desire. He could come undone just listening to her husky voice. “But just to be sure…?”

  A chuckle rumbled in his chest. What a paradoxical woman.

  There was nothing he’d like to do more than to get to know this captivating temptress. There was time enough for it, too. But Kelpie would be dropping anchor soon and for a reason he could not understand, Coire feared another empty, unsatisfied dalliance. He didna want to remember the lass in that way. She was too…special for that. Even if he didna trust her.

  He gave in to his whimsy and feathered his fingers through her unruly lopped hair. “Clever. Looks…nice.”

  Another vainglorious smirk graced her mouth. ’Twas well-earned, to be sure.

  He pushed off her, stood, and busied himself with righting the chair, hoping the task caused his cock to temper. “Get back into your dress. My oversized clothing will only attract the wrong attention for you in Scarba.”

  “But—”

  “No more negotiating your way, Treva. That ends now.”

  Coire escaped his cabin before he lost all good sense.

  Chapter Four

  She was smitten. Without a shred of doubt, Treva was infatuated by the captain. She well and true liked everything about him—handsome, strong, playful, dangerous, domineering. Yet, he gave her a chance to back away from his punishing kiss. He was completely foreign to her. He had more honor and self-control than most men on either side the law.

  Her virtue had long ago been compromised by a man driven by his cock. For some time, she thought that was just the way men were, as if their satiric behavior were no fault of their own. And then she learned, or, rather, was taught, that ’twas her fault men lost their bawdy heads. Just like her mother had been blamed.

  ’Twasn’t long after her parent’s untimely deaths and she’d become homeless that she discovered—out of necessity to her survival—just how governable a man was when distracted by his spicket. Men like that were pathetic and they disgusted her. Thankfully she never had to resort to actually bedding one of those wretches to bend them to her will. She had her pride and was fortunate she had fair looks and a daring spirit—handy for obtaining secrets and information. After all, it wasna her fault they were weak.

  Treva tucked a thick strand of hair behind her ear. She would miss her long tresses, but ’twould grow back. Fletcher seemed to like it, and that pleased her greatly. Coire. When he had called her by her given name, she tingled. Or maybe it was merely after-effects from his kiss. Her toes curled at the thought. He’d been possessive, his mouth hot, wet. Treva had not been able to breathe, hadn’t wanted to, for her frenetic need to have more. He was an aphrodisiac. Though she didna completely understand why, she was determined to kiss him again. She’d come too close to death—and might meet it very soon still—to not indulge in such sin-like pleasures Coire Fletcher might have to offer. Nothing risked, nothing gained.

  If she were to dress in her soiled gown, the least she could do was give herself a quick scrub. She removed the captain’s clothing and did the best she could with the chip of soap and the small wash basin. Not long after, the crew’s voices carried down into the cabin. They were close to Scarba. A rumbling reverberated through the room. Nay, not close. The anchor had been dropped, and so had her stomach.

  They had arrived in Scarba. Treva prayed she would not see him. The demonic, cruel man of her nightmares. Captain Dread. She instinctively put her hand upon the sgian dubh strapped to her thigh, knowing very well the dagger could not protect her from him. Not a second time.

  Coire had come to collect her. Few words had been spoken aside that she was to accompany him until he arranged for her passage to Oban. This suited her fine. He was helping her when he didna have to. Besides, she would take every moment left with him before she was back on course to complete her mission. Perhaps she’d see him again someday. If not, she had their kiss seared upon her memory evermore.

  The moment she stepped on deck, she threw her head back to soak in the sun. It had been long weeks since she felt the unobstructed warmth upon her skin. When she opened her eyes, it was to an entire crew staring.

  “Miss MacDougall.” Jonesy stepped forward wearing a confused grin. “Your hair. ’Tis…”

  “Gone,” she said, stating the obvious.

  “I was going to say lovely.” He presented her his elbow. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying you on shore?”

  How could she deny his request? ’Twasn’t as if Coire had offered. He was too busy giving orders to various members of his crew. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Jones.”

  Like a proud cock, Jonesy escorted her from the ship. Coire followed close behind as they meandered through the quay. Jonesy chattered about nothing important and she appreciated his effort to set her at ease as they made their way around the dubious people of Scarba. It hadn’t mattered that the island was once a stronghold of her pirate ancestor, Savage MacDougall. She didna feel safe knowing he might be there. Several times she tilted her chin down and to the side just to make sure Coire was still nearby.

  “He’s a dangerous man, my lady, but the captain will not hurt a woman.” Crumpets! She’d been caught. “So long as he is not betrayed,” he added. “And then, well, that is a side you should not want to see.” He patted her hand. “You’ve nothing to concern yourself with.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Besides, I am here.”

  That garnered a snort from Coire, but Jonesy winked at her, ignoring his captain.

  “Go on ahead to the Muddy Bollix, Jonesy.” Coire grasped her elbow firmly, disengaging her from the crook of the quartermaster’s arm. “We will be delayed for just a few minutes.”

  The man frowned at his captain, not at all liking his dismissal. He bowed his head to her and took his leave.

  Coire took her arm and they continued down a different path from what Jonesy had taken. “He’s trying too hard to win yer approval.”

  “’Tis all right. He is pleasant company.”

  The seam of his mouth flattened.

  “Where are we going?” Treva scanned the street warily. The more visible she was, the more anxious she became.

  “We’re going to see a friend who will be able to help procure you suitable clothing.”

  “Suitable?”

  He cut her a side-eye while the corner of his mouth curled. “Aye, something less…aromatic.”

  Good lord! Did she stink that bad? Heat flushed her cheeks, something that didna happen often.

  “And, I should like to see ye in something more fitting…”

  He would? Did her heart just flip?

  “…for your trip home.”

  Her cheeks chilled with the drain of her blush.

  “Here we are.” Coire held open the door to a nondescript building nestled tightly among other equally unremarkable buildings.

  It took a moment for Treva’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. But once he closed the door behind them, it became abundantly clear they were not at a dressmaker’s shop. Women in various stages of undress lounged about on floor pillows and couches. A few were entertaining customers with drink and stray hands. Many looked up when they entered, but one slid off a stool and sauntered over to greet them.

  She was a petite woman with pale red hair and a gait that slithered rather than swayed.

  “Coire, love. What a pleasure to see ye.” The woman, wholly ignoring Treva, dipped with an arch to h
er back, likely to make sure Coire had a good view down her bodice.

  “Annabel.” The captain bowed his head in greeting. “This is my companion, Miss Treva.”

  The redhead assessed her with a tilt of her loosely coiffed head and stared longer than appropriate at Treva’s cropped hair. She was seemingly not impressed with what she saw. Treva shared the sentiment.

  “MacDougall,” he added.

  At the drop of her surname, the woman’s eyes dilated and she stood just a little straighter. Perhaps Savage MacDougall’s legacy still remained fresh on the isle. She hoped that was a good thing.

  Annabel forced a smile. “’Tis nice to make yer acquaintance, Treva MacDougall.”

  “Nice to meet ye as well.”

  Another stale smile.

  “We are in need of a gown. I’ve come to ye as you’ve always been so,” he bent closer to the woman, “generous.”

  Ah, this time Annabel’s smile was that of a twittering virgin. Treva ought not to blame her. Coire nearly reduced her to a withering flower with just one smoldering look. Still, this girl was a whore and twittering was not becoming of her.

  “I’d like one of your best; I’ve coin to replace it. But we must hurry. I have a meeting to attend.”

  Annabel nodded. “Anything for you, Coire.” She sized Treva by sight and bid them to follow her to a back bedroom.

  Annabel pulled out several gowns for inspection before they settled on a green dress with tiny green embroidered flowers on the stomacher and white lace sleeve ruffles. ’Twas a fine dress that was no doubt a gift to one of the girls in the brothel. Coire refused to leave the room, preferring to give them his back, while Annabel helped Treva dress. Aside from the raised eyebrow at the sight of Treva’s sgian dubh tied to her thigh, Annabel continued to ignore her, chatting up Coire while occasionally instructing Treva to suck it in, hold still, or lift an arm.

  She left in search of a pair of slippers, mumbling something about feet the size of an ogre.

  “She doesn’t like me much.” Treva stared at her reflection in the mirror leaning against the wall, wondering at how different she looked in it compared to Anabel or one of her girls.