Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  “Flo-Florence!”

  She ran, dodging between the stalls. Rounding a corner, she came up against the blank wall of a warehouse. She was cornered beside the docks, on the harbour edge.

  Oh no, I am trapped!

  “Missy, lady, come you.” A dark-skinned boy with an engaging, conspiratorial smile reached out and took her hand. He tugged her along with him, and Florence allowed him to guide her, flashing him a grateful smile as he opened a door in the warehouse wall and ushered her through.

  Once inside, the gloom after the bright sunlight brought on temporary blindness. Rough hands grabbed her. She screamed. A sack of some kind was yanked over her head. The cloth muffled her shrieks, and Florence flailed about in an attempt at escape. Large hands lifted her, hefting her over what she presumed was a man’s shoulder.

  “Be still. You want to escape the people chasing you, yes?” a brusque voice enquired.

  She replied in the affirmative, relaxing with relief. It seemed this man meant her no harm. Florence could not say how far she was touted in this ignoble way, but she later guessed the time to have taken no more than fifteen minutes.

  Her abductor finally halted and set her on her feet, but instead of removing the covering from her head, he took hold of her wrists, pulling them against her sides. He tied something around her body so her arms were secured tight to her flanks. She felt disquieted, especially since the deep rumble of male voices murmured nearby, talking in another tongue. Farther beyond the sound of their conversation, someone wept. Florence’s apprehension grew.

  Hands reached under her skirts. Instinctively, she kicked out.

  How dare they touch my ankles!

  Her abductor manhandled her, and something was fastened about her legs. With sickening clarity, Florence realised these people were no friends of hers. She screamed for all she was worth. Her nose and mouth were pinched through the sacking, and a sickening, cloying scent filtered through the cloth. She felt incredibly dizzy…

  Awakening, she became acutely aware of her pounding head. Florence flinched squinting at the blinding light that burned her sensitive eyes. She gazed about, dumbfounded by the sight of a crowd of predominantly male faces; this did nothing to help her confusion. Quickly, she closed her eyes against the painful glare. She wondered whereabouts in the town of Kingston this place was? Perhaps Herbert was already nearby. What a fool she’d been. She would apologise profusely to her brother when he found her…if he found her.

  I must be positive… Herbert, please find me, I am here…

  Her thought process might be fragmented and woolly, but Florence was fully aware that her arms and back hurt. She lifted her head and looked up, dismayed that her wrists were tethered to a thick wooden post. The position stretched her back painfully against the hard wood. Her tongue felt thick and cottony; she was so very thirsty.

  A man’s booming voice intruded on her scattered thoughts. She concentrated on his words.

  “Gentlemen, we have something unique and rather special for you today, an English lady. I already have a bid of two hundred on the book for this one… Three hundred, thank you, sir. Five hundred at the back! Five hundred…five hundred twice… Six hundred! Six hundred once, twice, thrice, sold!”

  What the deuce is happening?

  Her arms were seized, and her wrists released.

  “Where am I?” she muttered weakly.

  There was no answering reply.

  “Next up for your delectation, we have a true Spanish beauty. This firebrand will keep you warm at night, but be warned, it will take a special kind of man to tame this little beauty, she bites!” Raucous laughter broke out at the auctioneer’s summary. “Where shall we start? I am in your hands… How about we begin at two hundred? Come along, gents… Very well then, you decide, make me an offer…”

  “One-fifty!”

  “That’s more like it, me hearties!”

  “Two hundred!”

  “Two-fifty!”

  Florence glanced over at a stunning brunette now being wrestled onto the post she’d just vacated. The woman spat at her gaolers, shouting discordantly in her own tongue. Florence listened as the bidding continued to climb, finally reaching four hundred.

  Dear Lord, what is this place?

  Disorientated, she couldn’t take in the enormity of her circumstances. Her gaoler, a tall blackamoor, pulled her inside the shade of the building. It was a relief to be back in the cool shadows and out of the cruel heat of the tropical sunlight. He ignored her rasping questions and shackled her ankles with fast efficiency. He pushed her over to the warehouse wall and fixed wrist cuffs to her. The chain was attached to an iron ring set into the wall. Florence barely had enough length of chain to enable her to sit on the ground. She rested against the wall, her shoulders slumped, her head drooped onto her knees.

  With closed eyes, she tried to gather her fractured wits in an attempt to make sense of everything that had happened to her thus far. She’d been an idiot that much was clear. Would Herbert ever find her? The blackamoor came back and shoved a ladle into her hands. Florence drank thirstily, finishing the stale-tasting water down to the last drop.

  She must have slept, because she was rudely awakened by a sharp kick in her flank. The same man ordered her to stand. Clambering slowly upright on stiff limbs, her attempt impeded by her full skirts, Florence managed to rise unsteadily to her feet. Her gaoler unlocked her chain and yanked her from the wall by her bound wrists. Florence had no choice but to stumble along behind him. He led her outside. It felt cooler now the sun had sunk low, indicating it was late in the day.

  Florence glanced over at the platform where she had been shackled earlier. The pole was empty, and the earth-impacted area surrounding it was utterly deserted.

  Her captor led her through a line of palm trees and halted. Florence waited; what was to happen now? She stared suspiciously at a wooden jetty where a tethered boat bobbed and two men sat in the bow talking. Her gaoler jerked a sack over her head. Panic set in, and Florence dug in her heels in an attempt to stop the man dragging her forward.

  He stopped tugging, and she opened her mouth to ask him where he was taking her. Crisp pain sliced through the side of her face. He had slapped her! His callous action shocked her into stunned silence. She lifted her palm to cover her throbbing cheek, rubbing the area through the coarse material of the hood. Stinging tears filled her eyes. The man took advantage of her momentary lack of resistance and swiftly swung her up into his arms. He swung her into the small craft. Immediately, Florence yelled for help. The men in the boat laughed at something the blackamoor said to them in his foreign tongue. Florence stopped screaming, stunned by the men’s scornful disregard. Dejected, she realised they had no expectation of anyone coming to her aid. Crestfallen, she sank to the floor of the small boat, wishing she had not been so utterly foolhardy. Belatedly, she acknowledged her brother had been right—she had needed a chaperone.

  Why, oh why did I not listen to you, dearest Herbert?

  There came the splash of oars, and she became nauseated when the small boat rolled and pitched out to sea.

  A while later, Florence could tell they had drawn alongside a much larger vessel because of the resonant bumping of their craft as it drew alongside. The larger ship groaned and grated as if it welcomed the new arrival.

  Hoisted up and over yet another shoulder, her head spun as one of the men from the boat transported her up the side of a ship. Hanging upside down, she feared being dropped into the ocean below.

  Once on deck, she was set upon her feet and hustled forward. Fearful of stumbling, she stepped carefully. Then she was told to descend down steep stairs by a male voice which barked, “Step, step, step,” until she reached safety at the bottom of the flight.

  Finally, her head cover was removed. Florence looked about. She found herself inside a basic ship’s cabin. A narrow cot stood lengthways, next to a commode cupboard which had a white china ewer and basin on top.

  She spun about, intend
ing to confront her abductor, but too late, he had already closed the door behind him. There was a grating noise as he turned the key in the lock.

  Florence realised that at some point her kidnapper must have cut the bonds at her wrists, for they fell apart, and she was able to move her stiffened arms. Disentangling herself from the rope, she crossed to the door and rattled the latch, screaming for help. No one responded, so she gave up and glanced around. A window slit, perhaps large enough for her hand to slip through. The tiny cabin only received crepuscular light, but for Florence it was a relief to be out of the unforgiving tropical sunshine.

  Sitting on the small cot, she turned her attention to the ewer set upon the commode cabinet. She scooped some water out, drinking thirstily from the ladle. Afterwards, she collapsed onto the narrow bed. Florence hooked her legs up and then stretched out.

  She opened her eyes in darkness. How much time had passed? The ship pitched and rolled. Her stomached churned; she felt unwell and turned to the wall closing her eyes, but it was no good. Hastily, Florence lurched off the bed and wrenched open the commode cupboard, grateful to find the expected pot inside just as her stomach rebelled.

  Later, she opened her eyes after a fitful sleep to find her captor studying her face. She felt too ill for complaint.

  “Water,” she croaked thirstily.

  He reached and lifted her head, holding a ladle to her lips. She sipped, and the man waited for her to swallow. He allowed her to drink her fill before he laid her back down.

  “Try to eat a little,” he advised and left the cabin.

  She listened to the telling sound of a key grating in the lock. A dish had been set on the cupboard beside her. She guessed it contained food which she knew she could not possibly face. Queasy, she turned away and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Florence lay thus for three days, but on the fourth she felt well enough to stand and take a peek through the window slit. All she could see was white-flecked waves scudding over a deep-blue sea; the ship undulated, creaking as she rode the swell. The sound of the grating lock caught her attention, and Florence gazed at the opening door.

  “You feel better, no?” her gaoler asked.

  “I do, yes, thank you. Where am I and why have I been brought here?” she demanded.

  The dark-skinned man grinned, showing a mouthful of gold teeth.

  “The cap-i-tain, he bought you from slave market, and you is his woman now.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I was abducted and taken to the market by mistake. Please go and explain to your captain at once. I must be returned to Kingston. I can pay you for your trouble.”

  He threw back his head and cracked a loud laugh, blackened teeth showing amongst the gold.

  “Tell him yourself. Come, he give order that when you recover I must bring you to him. Come, come now.”

  He took her elbow to lead her out of the dingy cabin, but Florence shook him off and independently followed behind him.

  Chapter 2

  The man who stood before her was not at all what she’d been expecting. He was tall, dark, and disconcertingly handsome. Honey flecks enlivened his deep-brown eyes. He wore his long chestnut hair un-powdered, tied back in a simple queue. A broad chest filled his elegant lawn shirt. He was dressed in the latest fashion and exuded gentlemanly behaviour. He asked her most politely to join him in a glass of Madeira. Pulling out a chair from his large wooden desk with a flourish, he enquired after her health and bade her sit.

  Florence seated herself nervously, waiting for him to pour the fortified wine before she spoke. As soon as he had joined her, she pleaded her cause.

  “I gather there has been some mistake?” she began.

  He cocked his head; a roguish smile lifted his firm mouth. A twinkle glinted in his dark eyes.

  Eyes I could readily drown in if I’m not careful. She quashed the unbidden thought.

  “How so?” he queried, his voice deeply resonant.

  “I had become separated from my chaperone and found myself in the…in the people’s market…”

  “The slave market, d’you mean?” he interrupted.

  She flushed. “Yes. How barbaric. I was abducted and sold in error. My brother will recompense you handsomely for your time when you return me to him.”

  “I have no intention of returning you to anyone, you belong to me now.”

  Her gaze jerked to his in shock. Surely she’d misheard, or perhaps he had misunderstood?

  “I was, am, not for sale, sir. There has been some mistake…” she reiterated.

  He rose and crossed to where she sat. Clasping her chin betwixt his finger and thumb, he turned her face first one way, then the other.

  “You are quite lovely. Flawless, in fact,” he murmured appreciatively. “I bought you in good faith, my dear. I paid more for you than I have ever paid for anything previously and at a very great expense because you are genteel, an English lady. It has been a very long time since I had an actual lady in my bed.”

  Florence panicked. Indignantly, she leapt to her feet, but firm hands thrust her back down onto the chair. She gasped with surprise when his warm palms slid from her shoulders up the back of her neck to massage and caress. She froze at his intimate, unlooked-for touch. Her heart fluttered nervously as his thumbs slowly worked up her nape into her hairline. He spread his hands, his fingers laid loose around her throat, his fingertips rested gently on her vulnerable, tender flesh.

  “How fast your pulse races; perhaps you are afraid of me?” he suggested in husky tones.

  Florence gulped. Words deserted her. She realised her initial assessment of this man had been utterly mistaken. His manner of dress had deceived her, for he was certainly no gentleman.

  “You are acting under a misapprehension, sir. I am no light-skirted female. I am a married woman and I demand that you release me back into the care of my husband or my brother.”

  He chuckled, the rich sound reverberated about the cabin.

  “Enough prevarication. Surely you are not so naïve that you don’t know what to expect?” he asked.

  Unsettled by such bold words, Florence darted upright. She moved rapidly away from her tormentor. He clicked his tongue.

  “Such a nervous female; come, tell me your name, sweetheart.”

  Florence lifted her chin defiantly. “I do not think, sir, that you have the right to command me. I am not your sweetheart, nor have we ever been introduced.”

  He threw back his head, giving a deep-throated laugh. His insouciance incensed her. She dashed forward with her hand raised and struck his cheek. His arm shot out and grasped her wrist. Spinning her about, he twisted her arm behind her back and hauled her up against his chest.

  “Have a care, milady,” he warned. “Should you ever strike me again, be aware that I shall slap your derriere at least twice as hard.”

  She struggled. His other arm snaked around her waist, holding her secure. Heat from his body seared her from shoulder to thigh.

  “You are a beast,” she sneered.

  “You have no idea,” he agreed affably.

  His hand shifted to cup her breast, massaging the soft mound with his large palm. Her nipples pebbled at his touch.

  “Please,” she beseeched, mortified by such intimate and licentious behaviour.

  “Aye, I hope to please you. Tell me, does your husband satisfy you, milady? Does he take the time to see to your pleasure before he parts your lily-white thighs and thrusts up into your silken quim?”

  She shrank at the obscene question.

  His hot breath stirred the loose curls that hung beside her ear, tickling and irritating her, adding to her discomfort.

  Dear Lord, I am about to be raped!

  “You are afraid that I will take you by force, perhaps?”

  Florence gasped at his perception. Once again, he gave a rich chuckle. She shivered.

  “I shall ask you but once more for your name, my beauty.”

  She ignored him.

  There was sud
den ache in her breast. Squealing, she looked down to find the source of her pain. His fingers had slipped beneath her gown into her décolleté. He had trapped a nipple betwixt his finger and thumb. Florence winced as she watched him twist her vulnerable nubbin.

  “Your name, my sweet,” he purred, increasing the intensity of his torture.

  “Florence, my name is Florence.” She whimpered, unable to hold out any longer.

  He let go of her nipple. She subsided with relief.

  “There now, that was not so difficult. You may call me either sir or captain; any other name will find you face down across my knee with your skirts over your head and my palm pounding on your delicious rump.”

  “What is it you want of me?” she wailed uncomprehendingly.

  “Why, your body beneath mine, while you beg for my cock,” he answered.

  Desperate, and full of panic, Florence foolishly leant forward and sunk her teeth hard into his wrist. Immediately, he released his hold she dashed to the door. Frantically, she tugged but to no avail, it was locked. She slumped, resting her forehead on the wood. Fat tears of frustration spilled down her cheeks.

  His hands grasped her shoulders as he turned her to face him. A hand whipped up and grasped her chin. He lowered his face to hers.

  “I like a woman with spirit, Flory.”

  She opened her mouth to refute his use of the pet name, but he silenced her by placing a finger over her lips.

  “Hush, I have decided to call you Flory. Do you wish to argue the point with me?” he asked, eyes narrowed, his voice deceptively gentle.

  Recognising the threat he posed, Florence shook her head negatively. He moved his finger and pressed it firmly to the seam of her lips. He pushed with enough pressure to force the digit into her mouth. She stared up at him, bewildered.

  “Suck, my dear,” he ordered with quiet authority, “and no biting unless you want to feel the sting of my belt across your pretty arse.”