Pirates, Passion and Plunder
Page 91
A blast of air swept under the door, hitting his back, and Marie shivered. Enough, they needed their rest. Jack removed the plate to his desk and pushed his trousers over his lean hips. He approached the bed, and Marie watched him through half-closed eyes. He waited for her to protest when he slipped in beside her. She didn’t. Instead, she did the complete opposite to what he had expected. She curled into the curve of his body, her head resting on his shoulder, and incredibly, Jack’s throat tightened. He buried his face in her mass of hair and inhaled sharply. He had missed this, holding her in his arms; he had never thought to have this again. He stroked her back and shoulder, and she snuggled closer to him; he fought to remain still and not flinch away from her cold flesh. But with them together, warmth built between the sheets. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand what had happened to her, but her soft breath indicated she was asleep. Though his body was exhausted, he hadn’t slept since before the raid on the Swallow, his mind consumed with every possible explanation as to why Marie was alive but had not sought him out. That scar on her side was just another piece of the puzzle. What had happened to her? He burned for answers.
Jack looked down at her face, which was innocent and relaxed in sleep, her eyelashes sooty smudges against her cheeks. It confounded him that anyone could have mistaken her for a lad. Marie sighed and rubbed her cheek over his shoulder, and something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. If his crew could see him right now, they would think him fit for nothing. Only Marie had ever provoked such a reaction from him. How could he explain that this small woman made him weak?
Marie stirred, her muscles loose and relaxed and too comfortable by far to be in her hammock. She became more aware of her surroundings, realising that she was pressed against a hot body. Her eyelashes fluttering open, her gaze arrested on Jack’s sleeping face. Sleep had chipped away the ruthless mask. He wasn’t classically handsome with his sharp cheekbones and narrowed nose, but his undoubtable masculinity called to her on a base level. He had grey smudges under his eyes, and she wondered when was the last time he’d slept. Jack drove himself hard and on occasion struggled with sleeping. It hadn’t been uncommon for Marie to wake and find he had been up hours before her.
She took this rare opportunity to scrutinise his features unhindered. Streaks of silver were beginning to appear at his temples, and there was the odd new line on his face, a few more scars upon his body, telling the story of his harsh life, but other than that, he was quite unchanged. She traced a scar with her fingertips, starting at his shoulder and down to his flat right nipple. As she drew towards the end of her trail, the flesh under her fingertips jerked. She jumped back and found a pair of shining mahogany eyes watching her intently, on fire with undisguised wanting. Her breath caught in her throat, and she trembled. He was here. He was real. Her defences wavered. Jack was so close after being parted. Before she could second-guess the action, she lowered her head and slanted her lips. Gentle and tentative, they moulded over his, and Jack groaned into her mouth. His hands brushed her flanks, encouraging her to straddle his waist, and the whisper of skin brought a delightful shiver. It was a soft, questing exploration, with none of the unbridled ferocity that usually graced their bed play. The firm pressure of his mouth, the scent and taste of him, it bound her tighter than fetters and chains. The weight of his body reassured her, and she kneaded the muscles under his skin, revelling in the knowledge that his strength would protect her. He sucked the tip of her breast into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth, and she arched her back in a silent plea for more. Her other nipple did not remain neglected for long; he rolled it between thumb and forefinger. It stood proud and tall, begging for attention.
This was neither a hurried nor demanding joining. It was like their bodies were gradually awakening from a long, deep sleep, each touch soft and coaxing a reaction.
Marie ran her fingertips up the underside of his shaft, and it twitched at the contact.
She encircled him in her fist.
“Marie,” he choked out, shuddering in her grasp.
Marie’s lips pulled into a taunting smile.
“You make me weak, woman.”
She lazily pumped her hand up and down, and Jack drove his hips up, eager and greedy for more of her touch. His breathing becoming laboured, he gripped her hips and tumbled her beneath him, pressing little kisses to the corners of her mouth, along her collarbone and down between the valley of her breasts. Jack’s talented fingers found her bud, and under his teasing ministrations, she grew wet for him.
“I need more, Jack,” she murmured in his ear, nibbling on the lobe.
She parted her thighs in a silent invitation, and he slid into her, his hips resting flush against her. He groaned into the crook of her neck, teasing the sensitive area with soft vibrations. Jack kissed her brow, brushing her unruly hair away from her face, and she was captured by the look in his eyes. Desire was certainly there, possession, hunger…and something else she couldn’t quite recognise.
He rocked in and out of her, loving her with languorous thrusts. Jack held her gaze, and the rest of the world faded into insignificance—there was only the two of them. The flicker of pleasure across Jack’s face in time with each slow, leisurely retreat and surge, fed hers. She felt every inch of him moving in her, moving over her with sweat coating their skin. She was claimed, connected to Jack in the most primal way, where the two of them became one, and yet it wasn’t enough. She raised her legs, tilting her hips to take him deeper, and closing them around his lean waist, clenching him tight.
Jack braced his weight on his forearms, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, his crisp chest hair rubbing over her nipples.
“Gods, I have missed you, Marie,” he bit out on a ragged breath, the raw words shredding her defences to ribbons.
She sucked in a breath, pulling him down to her, and buried her face into his shoulder, muffling her mewing cry. Her release rippling through her like soft waves upon the sand. Jack followed her soon after, his masculine groan filling her with feminine satisfaction.
That she had brought her man pleasure, that she…
Marie froze, her body locking up.
Her man? Tears pricked at her eyes. Dear God, her heart ached. That had been… That was… She swallowed hard.
“Marie?” Jack asked, his voice roughened. “What is wrong, sweeting?”
“Nothing,” she choked off, her shoulders shaking, her fighting back tears at the horrible realisation she still loved him.
“Marie,” he growled in warning, and usually she would have smiled to hear the frustration in his voice, but not this time. “What is it?” Hands that had just wrung gentle pleasure from her turned her to face him.
Marie ducked her head, and her hair veiled her face from his shrewd eyes.
She had wanted to hate him; she couldn’t open herself up to that sort of pain again. She bit the tip of her tongue to keep back the words fighting to be free and tasted blood. I love you.
“I said nothing!” she snarled, twisting away from him to rise from bed, taking the sheet with her.
Clearly unconcerned by his nakedness, Jack pulled himself up to the top of the bed, his back supported by the headboard, his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him.
“We need to talk, Marie,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. “Tell me what happened, why I found our home burned to the ground and you gone?”
Though he had phrased it as a question, the tone was a command. Marie wrapped the sheet around her, clutching it to her chest, hoping it would shield her from his far too perceptive gaze. She ignored him, playing for time, busying about the cabin, returning the items that had been dislodged by the storm to their proper place.
Behind her, Jack bit out a sigh. “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
And she heard the bed shifting, signalling Jack had exited it.
Her heart heavy, Marie knew what she needed to do. She had to set him free and, squeezing
her eyes shut, whispered, “Put me ashore at the next port, Jack,”
“No.” The harsh word lashed out, and Marie’s eyes snapped open. A hard hand grasped her shoulder and twirled her to face him. His mouth dug down in a harsh line, his fingers dug into her flesh. “You are my wife,” he growled.
“No,” she whispered, the hole in her middle growing, the edges burning and curling back. “I am not.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. “I was a convenient distraction while you were ashore until you answered your true love’s call.”
“What bilge is this?”
“Oh, Jack.” She smiled sadly. “There was always three of us in our marriage—you, me, and the sea. I decided to give you the freedom you craved.”
Marie did not tell him of her illness or their child she had failed to carry to term. How could she forgive him for leaving her when she could not forgive herself?
“It was not your decision to make, Marie. I have put myself through years of hell—”
“You’ve been in hell?” Hot, fiery rage slashed her, brilliant and bright, banishing the darkness that had grasped her. Anger she could use; pity would do her no good. She seethed, spinning so suddenly Jack took a startled step back. “You know nothing of the word,” she spat with dripping disdain.
He raked his hand through his black head of hair. “Because you won’t tell me!” he roared, frustration getting the better of him.
She sucked in breath, trying to calm her racing heart and force a careless shrug. “It doesn’t matter, too much time has passed. I don’t love you anymore, Jack.” She was proud that she had managed to speak that untruth with a stone face. It was far from the truth. Yes, she still loved him, but too much had happened, too much resentment on both sides. It would never work.
“Horse shit!” He bit the air, his eyes blazing. “I could always tell when you are lying to me, Marie.” His voice was barely more than a growl, and he advanced on her. “I never tolerated it then, and I don’t intend to now.” He was nose to nose with her, his breath fanning her cheek.
“What happened, why didn’t you come to me?” He fixed that stern gaze on her, his hand caressing her cheek.
The feel of the calluses she had committed to memory thrust her into the past, those wretched feelings threatening to burst free. She pinched her lips into a mutinous line.
“What happened to you?” His raw, intoxicating masculinity beat upon her resolve.
She swallowed down the lump in her throat and walked to the opposite side of the small room, deliberately putting distance between them. She rubbed her arms, a chill entering her flesh, and whispered, “I will disembark at your next port of call.”
“Land sighted off the port bow!” The words punched through and shattered the tension binding them. She held her breath, waiting for Jack to leave, just as he always did. But she was shocked to see the indecision in his eyes, his gaze flicking between her and the door. They both knew how this would play out: The needs of the ship always outweigh the needs of a wife.
Marie raised her chin and with a voice cold enough to rival a frozen tundra, she told him, “Go.”
Jack didn’t move from his spot, and her nostrils flared. The call from the deck came again, heaping on the urgency.
“GO!” she snarled.
Spewing a vile oath, Jack spun smartly on his heels and left. But before he exited, he turned to her, eyes blazing. “This is not over, wife. Once my business is complete, I will have my answers, come hell or high water.”
Chapter 5
That…that woman! Jack stalked the deck of the ship, grinding his teeth, in a foul mood, and the crew kept themselves at a distance. They scurried out of his way or feel the sharp edge of his tongue. Jack raked a hand through his hair. It didn’t make sense, the woman he’d known was still there, he had seen it. They had slipped into their old roles, sharing and giving advice, her quick mind assessing their problems, him taking care of her, her fearless spirit that had first made him fall in love with her coming to the fore. Jack shook his head; he still couldn’t believe she’d climbed the rigging in that storm but shouldn’t be surprised. She’d been working on the merchantmen, and she’d travelled with her father when she was younger, until it started to become obvious she wasn’t a boy but a young woman. Marie was more than capable of working on a ship. Then his happy little world had come crashing down, his relaxed and giving mood blighted when Marie had seen fit to deny him—no, deny them. For one perfect moment, everything had been right between them—she was beneath him, accepting him and the fact they could go back to the way it was.
He gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white, and stared out as the helmsman guided the ship to the small cove on the coastline, no more than a couple of leagues away from St George, though the suspiciously well-maintained dock was kept up by his buyer. It was ideal for their purpose, the deep water protected from all directions by ragged reefs. There was only a single channel through that allowed for safe passage, and even then, it was too shallow for larger ships to navigate.
“There’s only one reason why a man could have a face like he was suffering from gut-rot when a handsome payday is in sight,” Grayling said conversationally, stepping up beside him. “It’s got to be a woman.”
Jack scowled at him, and the other man remain utterly unaffected.
“Mind your damn business, Grayling,” he barked.
He would hand over the cargo, distribute the proceeds among the crew, and then he could dedicate his full attention on the little bundle of trouble that was his wife, and he would get down the bottom of it. He glanced at his hands, and his lips twisted grimly. One way or another.
“A quarter less than six!” came the shout from the man on the prow who was measuring the depth of the channel, forcing Jack to concentrate on getting the ship safely into the natural harbour.
“A quarter to the right,” Jack grunted, and the helmsman adjusted his course.
“A quarter, six!”
Jack closed his eyes and nodded with satisfaction. That was better. They were guided into the sheltered inlet and the rough, makeshift harbour. It wasn’t anything grand, just a single deck that allowed the cargo to be unloaded before being transported to the governor’s warehouses. It was so that Pulleine could keep his less-than-legal activities quiet. After all, he couldn’t have a pirate ship sailing into the St George’s harbour and have a hope in hell at explaining it away. The Sirène docked without incident and was secured.
“Bring the cargo up on deck!” Jack shouted.
The crew, swarmed to life, acting as one unit. Each man knew their duty, and they crawled over the deck and into the hull, pulling the hogshead barrels and bales containing their ill-gotten gains with each journey. Jack folded his arms and leant his rump against the rail, watching with an eagle eye, impatient for this to be done with.
The sound of horses and wagons, the jiggle of a harness, and Jack shifted from his position and uncrossed his long legs. Pulleine was on time. Good. “Prepare to allow the governor on board.”
A man of unremarkable height set foot on the deck. With his powdered wig, frock coat, and cane, he couldn’t have looked more out of place on the deck of a pirate ship if he tried. All the fine trappings declared him to be a gentleman, the silk stockings and fawn knee breeches encasing spindly legs.
“Hunter.” He deigned to acknowledge Jack’s presence with a disdainful sniff.
Jack ground his teeth. With supreme effort, he resisted the urge to plant his fist in the pompous ass’s face and, assuming a neutral expression, nodded.
Jack gave an equally curt greeting. “Governor.” It was the safest of the names he labelled the man, others being rat, snake, and a puss-filled boil on the Devil’s bollox.
Pulleine’s piggy eyes ran over the crates on deck, and Jack decided to prod him.
“We’ve had good hunting; I just hope you’ve brought a big enough purse to cover it.” The underlying message being that they would not be short-changed.
“Of course. What have I acquired?”
Jack nodded to Benton, the clerk, and read off the cargo and the prices of each. “…Nineteen barrels of rum, one hundred an’ eighty pounds, thirty hogheads of tobacco, four hundred an’ ninety pounds, one an’ twenty barrels of sugar, five hundred an’ seventy pounds, bringing the total to one thousand, two hundred an’ forty pounds.”
“Agreed,” Pulleine grunted.
Jack raised his head from the exchange and stared at the man. Pulleine was a miserly toad, he never agreed to a price without trying to drive it down first. Where were the protestations that the cotton’s quality was poor or the tobacco was damp?
Jack pushed his unease aside and, with a flick of his fingers, the rest of Pulleine’s men were allowed to board and shift the cargo to the wagons.
The hair on the back of Jack’s neck prickled, and he flexed his fingers. There was enough tension coming from the governor’s men to cut it with a knife. That instinct that had kept him alive was going off like a warning bell.
“I want payment before that cargo is loaded into the wagons, Governor,” Jack forcefully reminded him.
Pulleine’s smile became sharp and pointed, in a striking impression of a circling shark.
“Of course.” He turned back to his men and shouted, “Take them!”
A powerful blow to the back of Jack’s head, and his knees hit the deck. When his vision cleared enough, he was staring down the barrel of a flintlock, the second time in as many days. His hands were bound behind his back, the tight knot cutting into his wrists. He was forced to watch his crew receive the same treatment.