“Don’t be angry. There is no one else to avenge.” Her soft smile eased the tension from between his shoulders as he handed her a cup of wine. She took a sip before passing it to him. He took a long draw, then eased her off his lap.
“I shall arrange a bath for you. It will be me who knocks but still lock and bar the door.” Ruairí left before Senga could say anything. She went to her chest and pulled out the things she needed, and it surprised her how quickly Ruairí returned. She still didn’t trust a crew she didn’t know, so she asked who it was before she lifted the bar. A troop of men arrived with a large tub and several steaming buckets of water. It amazed her that there was hot water. It meant there was a flame somewhere on the boat.
“I detest cold food every day, so I allow one fire, and it’s in the galley,” Ruairí explained.
Senga didn’t care at that moment where the hot water came from. She wanted to strip and hop in. When the men departed, she shucked off the robe she’d thrown on and was ready to climb in when Ruairí lifted her once again, and her legs encircled his naked waist as he slid inside her. He settled them in the tub where they coupled once more. Senga found the feel of the lapping water to be the most sensual experience she’d ever had. Ruairí squeezed her breast as she rocked against him, her nub rubbing against his pelvis. She felt the tightness beginning in her core as she tried to gain more friction, but their slick skin made it harder.
“What do you want, little one? Tell me what you need.”
“You. I just need you.” Senga ground herself against him as his hands on her hips pressed down, giving her the position she needed to edge closer to release. Her head lowered to his shoulder, her teeth grazing his skin as his fingers bit into her flesh. The harder they each pressed, the wilder they grew. Both enjoyed the fine boundary between pleasure and pain, finding one merged into the other. Her teeth sank into his shoulder as she moaned, her muscles clenching around him. He barely pulled out in time.
They eventually washed one another, and Ruairí poured fresh water over her hair to rinse out the suds. They dried off and chatted about the various places Ruairí had traveled and where Senga dreamed of going. Her knowledge of geography surprised him, but he reasoned that she’d lived among sailors her entire life.
Once dry and dressed, Ruairí assured her it would be fine for her to come above deck. He warned it was windy and pulled a MacNeil plaid from the bed. Senga hesitated a moment before accepting it. She’d only ever worn a MacLeod or Sorley plaid. She knew the statement it made if she wore Ruairí’s, but it seemed pointless to deny she was his mistress. In the back of her mind, the thought niggled that not even mistresses wore a man’s plaid in public. It was a claim of ownership to wear a man’s plaid.
“I’d like you to wear it, Senga. I saw your other ones, but I want to see you wear mine. Not the one of a clan that forsook you, nor another man’s.”
She could see the importance of her decision in his eyes, and she realized she wanted others to know she was his. The only thing she was unsure of was whether he was hers. She wrapped it around her as an arisaid and belted it in place. She turned to look at him and caught his look of awe.
“Did you think I didn’t know how to put on an arisaid?” She was confused.
He shook his head and swallowed. “No woman has ever worn my plaid before.” He adjusted it to cover her shoulders. “I’ve never wanted one to. I don’t know that I ever want you to take it off.” He spoke more to himself than to Senga.
“You don’t need the plaid to know I’m your mistress, Ruairí. Everyone on this ship knows that. If I go ashore with you, everyone will surely know it there. The plaid doesn’t matter.”
Something flashed in Ruairí’s eyes, and Senga regretted her words. “It does matter. It matters a great deal to me. You know as well as I do what it means for a woman to wear a man’s plaid, especially a woman outside of the man’s clan. I’m staking my claim to you, Senga. And by me giving this to you, I hope you understand the claim you have to me.” There. He’d said it. They both stood in shock at Ruairí’s profession.
“Do you mean that?” Senga’s voice cracked, and Ruairí nodded.
“I don’t know what the future holds for either of us. I don’t know if in a sennight you won’t be able to stand the sight of me. I don’t know if in a moon, I’ll regret trapping you aboard this pirate ship. I don’t know if in a year’s time, you’ll wish you never met me. But I know that right now and for the foreseeable future, I want no one else. I knew that last night when Agnes approached me. I know it now because my mind can’t fathom another woman. You’ve bewitched and enchanted me. You’re my own selkie come ashore to woo me. I just pray you don’t disappear.”
“I’m not going to disappear, and I’m proud to wear your plaid.”
“No one has seen this plaid since I first boarded the merchant ship. Rowan and I practiced speaking to do away with our accents and hid our plaids to keep people from knowing which clan we ran from. Once this became my cabin, I was willing to lay it out. It was no longer a secret that I’m a MacNeil. But no one else has seen it. I like the idea that the first time it’s worn again, it’s worn by you.”
Senga strained to reach his jaw and gave him a quick kiss, unable to reach any higher. “Then let us get some air and sunshine.” Ruairí trailed after Senga, amazed how the sight of her wearing his plaid seemed as normal as the sun rising and the moon shining.
Chapter Seven
They spent the afternoon together on deck. Ruairí introduced her to several deckhands, and it shocked him that they were on their best behavior. It stunned him to see the manners they could show when a woman other than a whore was nearby. Her easy smile and knowledge of sailing went a long way to make her welcome. She no longer was a mystery to the men, and most no longer found her a threat. They stood together at the prow as the mist sprayed onto their faces. He encircled her in his arms as one hand rested around her waist and the other braced them by holding onto the railing. They continued to talk about places Ruairí sailed and how far into the Mediterranean he’d been. Senga expressed curiosity about the women she’d heard of, those who wore veils and were owned by men for their pleasure. She knew someone could draw a comparison between these women’s circumstances and her own, but she didn’t feel like Ruairí’s possession even if he showed some possessiveness. It was just enough for her to feel cared for rather than oppressed.
They returned to the cabin for their evening meal, but he had to leave soon after they finished for his turn at watch. When he returned, he slid into bed next to Senga. She snuggled next to him.
“Cold,” she muttered in her sleep before draping herself over him as if to share her heat.
Ruairí woke her in the middle of the night with an aching need to join with her. Senga couldn’t force her eyes open, but she fully knew the way Ruairí made her body demand their coupling. He gripped her wrists, pinning them over her head as he pounded into her. His need and dominance had always spurred her arousal, but this time, he pounded into her with an urgency that kept his weight pinning her to the bed. She discovered she enjoyed the feel of Ruairí taking after he’d always been so sure to give. She welcomed the harshness of how he surged into her over and over, but she could do little to move beneath him. She wanted this coupling to be for him after all the times he’d ensured she climaxed over and over before he did. She found her release just before Ruairí could no longer hold on, pulling out to spill his seed onto the sheet. She was back asleep before Ruairí knew it. Her soft breathing lulled him back to sleep as he spooned her.
When they woke in the morning, once again need overcame them. Ruairí eased from their bed and stalked naked to a chest in the corner. He lifted the lid before rummaging through its contents. Senga tried to peer around him to see what he searched for, but his hulking body blocked her view. When he turned back toward her, she caught sight of four lengths of satin. They resembled the veils he’d told her the women in the Mediterranean wore. She didn’t want to thin
k about how he acquired them, and she had no time to.
“Roll over, Senga,” Ruairí’s tone was soft, but the order was clear. She shivered in anticipation as she suspected she would enjoy whatever Ruairí intended. “Spread your arms and legs wide, little one.”
When she didn’t move quickly enough for him, he snapped one of the swaths of satin over her backside. The sting tempted Senga to draw out his command in the hopes of receiving another one. When he pinched her backside then slapped her sheath after nudging her legs apart, she decided resistance was worth the risk.
“You’re testing me, aren’t you?”
“Mmhmm,” Senga moaned.
“Then you shall see how a pirate plunders his woman.” Ruairí caught hold of one wrist then the other, quickly binding them to the headboard then repeating the process with her feet at the foot of the bed. He trailed his fingertips over Senga’s back, smiling when he noticed the goosebumps rising on her skin. He knew her shivers came from anticipation not the cabin’s temperature. He kneaded the ample flesh of her backside before trailing his fingers down the cleft and to her rosebud. “Have you had a man here, little one”
“No. It would be yours alone, mo chaiptean. All yours.” Senga raised her hips in offering as she called him “my captain”.
“I shall take your offer. Senga, I wish to finish inside you. I won’t risk getting you with child, but I hate having to pull out. I want us to enjoy our release together.”
“I want that too, Ruairí. I hate the feeling of you stopping when we’re so close.”
Ruairí eased off the bed and returned to the chest he’d drawn the satin veils from. He returned with a vial of oil that he heated by rubbing between his hands. He climbed back onto the bed, straddling Senga’s thighs as he dribbled oil on each globe of her backside. He rubbed it in as she moaned and shifted restlessly. He once again trailed his fingers along the divide, but this time he tapped a finger against her rosebud. He pressed the tip, and Senga made herself relax, accepting the slight intrusion.
“I must prepare you, little one. But you must stop me if it’s too much. I could seriously hurt you, and that’s not my intention. I want you to enjoy this, but don’t take more than you can for my sake. If you lie to me, I’ll take you over my knee. I won’t risk it.”
“I will. I promise.”
Satisfied that she was telling the truth, Ruairí poured oil into his hand, coating his fingers. He eased one into her, giving her time to adjust to the foreign feeling. When she didn’t flinch or show any discomfort, he slid a second finger into her, stretching and widening in preparation for his cock. As one hand worked her, his other fisted his cock. He stroked himself as he pictured the moment his rod would sink into her. He paused long enough to pour oil onto his cock, making his hand glide over the taught skin and reassuring him that his entry would be easier. He poured more onto his length before pressing the tip into Senga. She inhaled deeply, making herself relax as the initial intrusion burned. She trusted Ruairí implicitly and knew he wouldn’t do this if he was the only one who would find pleasure.
Ruairí watched as the tip of his rod disappeared into Senga’s rosebud. He clenched his jaw against the need to force his way in to the hilt. He wanted to bury himself and ride her arse, but he wouldn’t do anything that might intentionally harm Senga.
“I can take more, Ruairí. I won’t break.”
“I know, little one.” He inched his way into her, and Senga discovered that the more he filled her, the more the discomfort eased. Once he was settled to the hilt, Ruairí leaned his body over hers, entwining his fingers with hers. He rocked, flexing his hips as he thrust slowly. Senga’s moan was almost more than he could withstand as she pressed her hips up to meet him. “Do you like this?”
“Mmhmm. So full.” Senga could barely form a logical thought as her body grew accustomed to the strange and foreign sensation, but when Ruairí released one hand and slid his beneath her, searching for her nub, she lost any rational thought. She allowed the sensations to swallow her whole. Ruairí worked the bundle of nerves until Senga couldn’t keep from rocking against his hand. He increased the tempo and force as he thrust into her. She responded immediately, and Ruairí knew they’d found yet another way to bind themselves to one another.
The sun was well above the horizon when Ruairí slipped from the cabin, leaving a slumbering Senga in their bed and a guard posted outside their door once more.
They developed a routine that followed their first day. They joined several times throughout the day and night. Ruairí would slip from the bed in the morning while Senga continued to sleep off the exhaustion from the night before. She marveled at how he needed so much less sleep than she did. Ruairí showed her a small library of books he kept hidden in a trunk. As the daughter and nephew of lairds, they were both taught to read. It was a rarity for someone to teach a daughter, but Senga explained that since she was their only surviving child, her parents prioritized her gaining an education. She spent most mornings reading. They ate their meals together and spent most of their afternoons together on deck. While Ruairí couldn’t always stand looking into the distance with her, Senga stood with him when he was at the helm. He let her have a turn holding the wheel while he gave her instructions. It became obvious to Ruairí that even though she let him give her directions, she was already an experienced helmsman. He pointed out as much, but she only grinned.
They sailed south for a fortnight, skirting the coast of France until they reached Portugal. They anchored for a night, and Senga was barely aware they took on new cargo before setting sail for further down the coast. Ruairí came to bed so exhausted that neither of them stirred the rest of the night. It was the first time he didn’t wake her in the middle of the night, so she awoke refreshed while he snored. She climbed over him with care to look out the porthole. There was nothing to see but open water. It was still early, the last of the pink hues of dawn fading into the clear blue skies of daytime. Over the past fortnight, Ruairí had pointed out which men he trusted with her safety and those he still watched. Senga knew enough of the crew to feel comfortable around them without Ruairí at her side. She dressed in a pair of leggings the barrel man gave her. He wasn’t a man, but a boy of about twelve summers who spent most of his time in the crow’s nest. They were a similar height, so the pants fit well on Senga. She looked back as she lifted the bar and unlocked the door. Ruairí didn’t move, and she had a moment of worry since he was the lightest sleeper she’d ever met. She felt badly that he was so tired that his only movement was to breathe. She made her way above deck and found Tomas and Kyle speaking together near the rail. They smiled as she approached.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.
“Not at all, lass,” Tomas replied. He was still the man who guarded the cabin door, and rather than be angry about the post, he took it as a position of honor. He was chuffed with himself that Ruairí trusted him with such responsibility.
Kyle looked around her but frowned. “Where’s the captain?”
“Still asleep. I almost feared he was unwell, but I think he’s just exhausted.”
Kyle still frowned but nodded. “I take it he doesn’t know you’re up here.”
Senga bit the side of her bottom lip. “Not exactly.”
“Lass,” Tomas warned as he too looked at the stairs leading to the captain’s cabin. Trepidation was written across his face.
“No, he doesn’t. Like I said, he’s asleep.”
“You better return sharpish,” Tomas cupped her elbow and tried to steer her back the way she came.
“Are you both occupied right now? Is there no one who can act as my nursemaid?”
“I know what you’re doing, Senga, and it won’t work. You can’t bait us into putting our necks on the chopping block with the captain,” Kyle responded.
Senga crossed her arms, but her eyes shifted to two figures circling one another. She recognized one as Braeden, the boy who lent her the leggings. The other was an older
man she recognized as being approved by Ruairí, but she couldn’t recall his name. She watched as the boy tried to pick up a sword that was much too long for him. He looked like a child trying to play with his father’s sword. She cringed as he struggled to lift it vertically as the older man circled him again. The older man thrust his sword forward and narrowly missed the boy as he leaped aside and inadvertently dropped his weapon. The surrounding men guffawed, and one ruffled the boy’s hair. Senga saw the boy’s embarrassment as he tried to stand taller. She remembered that feeling when she was his age and her father insisted she learn to protect herself, but she was far smaller than the lads her age, who trained with experienced warriors. Only one had been patient with her: her cousin Alfred, the son of the man who later orchestrated her parents’ deaths.
Senga spotted a large chest that sat open. Even from across the deck she could see it was filled with various swords and knives. She stepped around Kyle and Tomas, who still tried to convince her to return to the cabin. She made a beeline to the chest even though Kyle was close on her heels. Senga peered inside and spotted just what she wanted. She pulled a falchion sword that resembled a meat cleaver from the pile. It fitted her hand well, but she could see that the chips in the blade made it more dangerous for sparring than if someone sharpened it. She returned it and pulled a cusped falchion from the chest. It was just over three feet long and the right weight for her to manage. She eased several blades out of her way before finding another cusped falchion.
“Put those back, lass, before you harm yourself,” Kyle barked.
“You whittle like an old woman.” Senga waved away Kyle, then the man who spared with Braeden. She handed Braeden one of the falchion swords. “Let it rest in your hand. See if you can find the point where it will balance. Once you do, then grip the hilt. It’s slightly different for each person, depending on the size of your hand. It looks like ours are matching pairs, but my hand’s smaller than yours, so I must grip closer to the blade.”
The Dark Heart of the Sea: A Steamy Fated Lovers Pirate Romance (Pirate of the Isles Book 2) Page 6