Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  Flynn was a feast of masculinity. He’d removed his long coat with its fashionable brass buttons and unwound the purple sash that was wrapped around his neat waist. The sleeves of his shirt were finished with embroidered cuffs, and the flamboyant ruffle collar was unbuttoned and open. The silk cravat, so gracefully knotted earlier in the day, was nearly undone. His brow glistened; his eyes—such dazzlingly displays of richness—sparkled. He was breathing as heavily as her, and his lips were parted a fraction. Now he was as she wished him to be—focused on her, and only her.

  There was something undeniable happening to her tormented body, and the flurry of senses that came with the pain and humiliation was not the root of what afflicted her. Confused by the plethora of both physical and emotional responses, she started to weep.

  Flynn drew her to her feet and turned her around. She flopped into his muscular arms. Eventually she stopped crying, and he eased her up and away from him.

  “You can stay on board,” he said abruptly, as if he was thinking something through. “But only as a hostage to my needs. In return, you can watch me, learn from my pirating ways. If that is what you want.”

  “I do,” she said clearly. “I want to be a pirate, a buccaneer even, for I am sure there is gold on those Spanish ships that the British attack. Teach me how to navigate these waters, how to sword fight and fire a pistol. Let me prove to you I can be just like those men out there.”

  “But not in here.” He brushed a loose lock of hair off her hot forehead.

  She swallowed hard, understanding the significance of his request. It reached into her core, the lowest point of her belly, and ignited a fire. Rob Sanders would have to wait. For now, Flynn Bartoc was her master. One day, she’d resolve the dilemma. It wasn’t as if she wanted to love two men, only one, but which was the man she was really falling in love with—Rob or Flynn?

  “You won’t cast me off at the next port?” she asked, her gaze on his face.

  He lowered his lips onto her mouth. The taste of last night’s rum lingered, but he wasn’t drunk—his eyes was sharp pinpricks. Lower down, he was firming up in other ways. She pressed her body against his, allowing her diminutive form to nestle in the embrace of his powerful one. He reached around and clutched her two tender arse cheeks. She gasped.

  “Only if you remain my personal hostage. Indefinitely, and do so without resistance.”

  She paused to think. Saying yes was too easy, and not the Esme she wanted him to know better. She would prove to him she had the same courage as any other man on the Flying Cutlass. If he wished it, she’d show him that she could take whatever he wanted from her and enjoy it, too. For all those wasted evenings spent in taverns, she’d wished at least one of those young beaus who desired her had an inkling of her plans. Reticent in their approach, she’d not found one of them satisfactory. She’d rejected many simply for fawning over her. Only two men had been allowed to bed her, and both of them approved by her mother as potential husbands. But she never wanted to marry a carpenter or a customs officer. Neither of them had anything to offer her. She’d let her mother think for a while that one or the other stood a chance, but really, she’d had no intention of letting them propose. Gently, she’d spurned them with a pretence at weeping and a pitiful excuse about never marrying.

  As for what her suitors had achieved in the bedroom, under the covers, she was surprised how little it took to bring a man to conclusion. It was nothing like what she expected. From then on, she stopped frequenting the taverns for husbands and focused on her scheme to climb aboard ships in search of the one man who had successfully ignited her passions, a man who had no idea that she coveted him so much.

  “Esme?” Flynn asked again. “I’m waiting for your answer.”

  “Fuck off,” she growled.

  So unladylike and uncouth. His cock twitched and hardened. So delightful, too.

  “Fuck is the correct word. Kindly avail yourself and make ready.”

  She turned, flounced to the table, and bent over it. “Do so, for your pleasure then, I do not care. I’m hardly a sweet-natured woman, or a tart, I might add. Nobody has ever paid me or forced me. You’re the first to bargain their way into my nethers.”

  “I do like a good bargain.” He lay the dagger to one side and undid the belt of his sword scabbard. Walking to the side of the table, he raked his fingers through her hair and tugged on the ponytail. He released his stiff cock and brought it level with her pert nose and rouge lips. “Open up. A little extra wetness will do you a favour, or would you prefer me to plunder your arse without it?”

  “Arse?” Her eyes widened into moons. “No man has ever… That is…you can’t mean…”

  “I do. And I shall. Quite frankly, my dear, it is the best way. You’ll find out. It’s the best for pleasure and for ensuring no patter of small feet will ruin my carefree ways. Now part your legs and start sucking hard, or else this might not bode well for you. When I pillage, I do so for my advantage, not for the one I capture.”

  She lay her tongue flat and opened her throat to receive him, and took him with a splutter.

  “You’ve done this before, wench.” He chuckled. “Keep that going.”

  The sweetest sensation was what greeted him in the depths of her mouth. Her eyes watered, and he used them to judge her endurance. When they splashed tears, he withdrew and allowed her to snatch a few breaths, and if her eyelashes fluttered, she teased him with her tongue, and he dallied. Occasionally, she whimpered and wriggled her bottom. Her sucking drew him deeper into her throat, while her bare teeth reminded him that she was obliging his behest under terms that were negotiable. Those sharp teeth would make their presence felt if he caused her distress. The little vixen was quite the adversary when she chose to fight, but in his cabin, she submitted beautifully. What a discovery he’d made, and just as enlightening as the first time he’d heard about Esmeralda. Her reputation had preceded her.

  The flutter of her tongue sharpened his senses. His cock signalled its readiness, the sooner the better, and speed was of the essence. He withdrew from her mouth, leaving her gasping for breath, and shifted to stand behind her. He judged the sheen on his cock to be insufficient. He had the right kind of perfumed oil in a bottle somewhere. He hunted about the chests, found it, and removed the cork with his bare teeth. The pop woke her from her brief trance. She blinked at him, her lower lip suitably trembling, and she measured his cock with her beady eye. He loved the tremulous anticipation.

  He yanked down her sea-splattered breeches and exposed the cleft of her red bottom. The spanking had warmed her a fair degree beyond the natural. He stroked rosy globes and the two lines where the belt had breached the protective layer of her garment. Each was a delicate weal, and the pair marked her, a genuine illustration of the humility that he desired from her. With no more than a flick of his wrist, he swiped his hand across her buttocks. The sound resonated around the small cabin. A delectable slap, and he repeated it with flamboyance and a devilish grin. Back and forth, he singed her heated moons, deepening the colouration. She was close to matching the Red Ensign flying on the pursuing frigate.

  What pleased him the most was her quiet fortitude. She merely mewled. He ceased spanking and focused on the furrow between her hot cheeks. He picked up the uncorked bottle and poured a generous helping of the liquid along the groove. She giggled and squirmed but said nothing. It was as if her tongue was cleaved to the roof of her mouth and words had no purpose.

  With one hand on the back of her neck, keeping her locked in position, he sought out the nook he wished to plunder with the other. Pressing his finger against the button, he ringed the slick entrance while waiting for it to open.

  “Now, for a little jiggle.” He slipped his finger inside until it disappeared to the knuckle. “Excellent.”

  Grasping a generous arse cheek in each hand, he spread them apart, then he eased the head of his cock into the puckered hole. She winced, tensing slightly, and her hands reached out and grasped the edge of th
e table with white knuckles. The smoothness of her unprotected skin, the glistening folds of her exposed sex, was a wonderous sight. The bush he’d not take to if it remained. There were ways to deal with such infringements. A pair of clippers and hot wax would aide him.

  “Keep still, naughty wench. This will be over quickly and—”

  There was a knock at the cabin door.

  “Capt’n?” a wary Darius called through the oak.

  “What?” Flynn straightened up.

  Esme sighed heavily, and Flynn was in no doubt it was in frustration and not relief. She wanted him to loot her virgin hole…assuming she wasn’t lying about that, too. A more detailed interrogation would be necessary at a later occasion.

  “The frigate is nigh on upon us, sir. We’ll not make the straits if we don’t change sail.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Aye, aye. But which way shall we tack? The coxswain is a-dither.” The coxswain preferred the open waters and not the narrow channels of the straits. The old man knew his charts, but only those on paper. Flynn had plenty of charts stored in his head.

  “Damnit.” Flynn tucked his erection out of sight in his pants and patted her bare back. “Another time, my love.”

  She slumped across the table, and her knees sagged as if they harboured her despondency.

  Chapter 2

  The chase lasted days. Throughout, Esme kept herself busy in the galley doing as Ned asked with as little fuss as possible. The long hours took their toll. She emerged hot and sweaty from the lower deck and sought out the fresh air, only to be met by the impossible heat of the day. There was no escaping the constant demands of life on board. Every man had his role, his daily tasks, and the pattern only deviated if Darius had other orders to carry out.

  Flynn remained on the quarterdeck, his spyglass and quadrant to hand, the ship beating from one horizon point to another. When the night fell and the air temperature plummeted, she joined him in his cabin, but only to sleep. Both were too exhaust for any kind of intimacy. She hid her disappointment. Flynn’s priority was the ship and crew, not her. She slept on the cot, and he on a hammock, which one of the crew had slung between the rafters.

  The biggest problem was the rumourmongering. Why was the captain entertaining a young man in his cabin? Ned was the first to be suspicious, especially when she had to leave the room to seek her relief. Most men peed upright, but not her, so she had to find somewhere out of sight. He questioned her feminine habits and expressions, and she tried to come up with suitable excuses.

  “I had six older sisters,” she claimed. “Six of them, dressing me up in clothes and making me play with their dolls.”

  Flynn said nothing to his crew about her nightly visits to his cabin. Darius put it about that Esteban was his cousin and the captain was carrying out his aunt’s wishes by keeping a close eye on the rascal.

  “He’d be making mischief if left to his own devices. A thief at night, philanderer and trickster. It’s why Esteban has been kept aboard. The cap’n is tasked with disciplining the knave. So any cries you might hear, is the whip upon his back and legs. The cap’n will string him up if necessary. The galley is as hot as hell, which is where the young scallywag deserves to be.”

  The story, although not endorsed by Flynn himself, worked. The men took pity on Esme, even helping her carrying buckets and barrels. As she dished out the food on the deck—there was no room down below to feed so many men—they thanked her and offered their commiserations at her treatment.

  “He’s been known to judge men hard if they deserve it. The cap’n has his reasons, no doubt, Esteban,” Barnaby said. He was her newest admirer. “Maybe he’ll soon let you sleep with us below and no more punishments.”

  She played along, limping a little or groaning and rubbing her back. “Me ma sent him a message before I came aboard; it was a trap, I’m sure of it. The two of them have plotted to bring me misery.”

  Barnaby dipped a ladle into the pot—salted pork stew, one of Ned’s specialities and the only edible thing on offer, according to most of the crew. “It was a fine scam you had going. How much money was in it for you?”

  She lied and made up amounts. None of the pirates would ever believe she did it for the sake of those beggars and convicts. After all, a life as a pirate, although short-lived, brought more prizes than one in the navy, where discipline was harsh and pay frugal. And as for her true mission, claiming the heart of Rob Sanders, progress was on hold while the frigate chased them. She dared not approach him. It wasn’t appropriate.

  After two weeks, the situation on board the Flying Cutlass deteriorated.

  “The victuals suffer,” Ned told Darius, who informed Flynn.

  The captain visited the stores and looked inside the barrels and sniffed the water. He wrinkled his nose. “We need fresh water.”

  Darius agreed. Esme, sitting in the corner, chopping onions for soup, listened as they debated the best course of action.

  “The frigate is probably a day’s sail behind us. They called in at port, probably to collect letters.” Flynn twirled his fingers through his beard. It had grown, and he’d tied the end of it into a tail with hemp. The point sharpened his features further. “So, we make anchor.”

  “Where?” Darius asked.

  Flynn smiled. “I know where. Tomorrow we’ll set a new course.”

  The night brought the stars and a full moon. Darius escorted her from the galley to the cabin, and she made a show of dragging her heels while he nudged her back. The farce of cousins in dispute continued. Inside the cabin, Flynn pored over the sea charts, making marks and measurements. He sipped wine from a pewter beaker. She wasn’t allowed anything but beer or brackish water.

  “Where are we going?” she asked politely, hovering by his shoulder.

  “Here.” He pointed at a small island.

  “That means doubling back on ourselves.”

  “Well spotted. We’ve been giving the frigate the runaround for days. They’ll grow tired of it, or the admiralty will send new orders for them. However”—Flynn drummed his fingers on the table—“the men grow restless. It’s been some weeks since we went a-looting.”

  “How do you do it?” she asked. “Do you pound them with cannons or ram them?”

  Flynn laughed. “What good is it to destroy a schooner? It’s best to bargain first before unleashing a lethal barrage. We fire off a warning shot across the bows, run out the guns, and look menacing. Nothing like a hundred pirates lined up on the deck waving cutlasses and pistols to bring a captain to his senses. If they’ve got any sense, the merchant will send over a boat for us and we get the pick of the cargo, otherwise, we board and threatened to burn the ship if they don’t surrender. Guns, I take, gunpowder, too. I sell that to my pirate friends, those I trust. It’s the rum, sugar, and silk that sells a pretty price on the black market.”

  “And gold?”

  Flynn lay down his ink pen. “Aye, gold is the best booty. The only one worth fighting over, and I have killed to take it, I admit, because it’s rare to find coin. Mostly, the threats work. I says me name, and they cower.”

  She sidled up to him. “Am I gold?”

  She expected more laughter, but instead, his features shifted into a serious expression. “Aye, you’re gold, Esme.”

  “Then plunder me,” she said, weaving her fingers through his.

  He wore the look of contemplation heavily, clearly burdened by the responsibility of captaincy. The youthful vibrancy that she knew was there was marred by tired lines of sleepless nights. Close up, she spotted a thin white line at the top of his forehead. A scar that he hid. Was that part of his secret past, too? How would anyone know given he maintained a convincing, enigmatic persona. She would like to be the one who opened up his heart and exposed the real Flynn Bartoc. She might need to give him an excuse to act, though. She was growing weary of waiting for him to ravish her.

  The ship listed, and the chart slid along the table.

  Flynn cocked his hea
d. “Damn. A storm is brewing. If I don’t move us to calmer waters, we’ll crash against the rocks if we stay here.” He rolled up the map.

  “Oh,” she said mournfully. Tonight would pass by like the others—lonely and achingly so.

  “Go to sleep. No storm will harm us. Tisn’t the season for the bad ones. But the rain will make the deck slippery, so stay here until I return.”

  She woke hours later. She clung on to the edge of the cot as the ship pitched and rolled. Her stomach lurched in time to the waves, and the nausea was unbearable. Lying there, she waited for it to end, for the wind to stop howling and the rain to cease drumming on the decking. Finally, close to dawn, the ship righted itself. Slipping on her boots, she ventured out onto the main deck. The crew had lashed down most things, although the rigging in places was tangled and one sail was torn.

  Flynn hurried over to her. “I said stay in the cabin.”

  “The storm is over.”

  “Aye, but the conditions are not good yet. Go back in there, Esteban, now.” He raised his voice.

  The nearby Barnaby despatched her a sympathetic frown.

  She curled up on the cot, and when the sun hit the horizon, she fell asleep.

  Chapter 3

  Flynn was snoring. He was swinging gently in his hammock, his tricorne hat hiding his face, and his scabbard hung by his side. Esme tiptoed past him and helped herself to a tankard of water. Voices called to each other. She checked the makeshift corset and bindings were intact, that her hair was suitably dull and limp, then, covering her head with a galley cap, she went onto the deck.

  Darius was in charge. The ship was heaving to, the sails nearly all furl, and a few men were busy preparing to drop a rowing boat over the side.

  “What’s happening?” she asked Barnaby.

  “We’re going ashore to fetch water.” He pointed to the cove. “The stream runs behind the beach.”