Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  From beyond the door, footsteps approach. My captain jerks a look to the door and at the last moment tugs the blanket over me, covering my nakedness.

  A knock at the door and Mr Bowers enters, carrying a tray. “Your coffee, captain. Beggin’ your pardon, but I couldn’t find young Parsons…” He stops, gaping at me, the blanket tugged up to my neck, my face flaming.

  The captain speaks as though discussing the weather. “Just put it on the table, Mr Bowers.”

  “Yes, sir.” And he reverses out at speed.

  The captain scratches at his chin, pulling fingernails across blue stubble. “Well, that's the cat out of the bag.”

  I hunch back against the headboard. “Perhaps he won't say anything.”

  He huffs a laugh. “Josephine, I guarantee that by the time you are dressed and step through that door, every man on board will know what our ship’s cook just saw.”

  Something inside me curls up, cringing. “What do we do?”

  He cocks a brow at me. “What one should always do in a tight spot, madam. Be brazen. You are mine now. And I will have the crew know that.” He strides to the door, shouting out. “Mr Bowers… More coffee and another cup.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Chapter 10

  Clothes

  At breakfast, my captain is relaxed and cheerful. Over salt pork, eggs and coffee, he says, “When we make port later today, Josephine, we will be remaining there for three days…”

  “Three days?”

  “Or thereabouts.” He rocks his hand back and forth. “There are some minor repairs needed to the hull and, I’ll admit, I find the timing convenient. We will address the matter of your attire.”

  I look down to my shirt and the canvas sans-culottes. “They may not be a delight to the eye, Master, but I can at least perform my work.”

  He sniffs, raising brows. “I believe we can improve on them. Your appearance reflects on my own and I will not have you dressed in such a manner. It was necessary for you when you first boarded. It is not so now. You were then trying, unsuccessfully I might add, to be something you are not. Not so now. The clothes you currently wear are… unflattering. They displease me.”

  “But, sir… Master, I cannot perform my duties aboard wearing skirts, hoops and petticoats.”

  His smile is thin. “Indeed you cannot. And I was not suggesting such a thing. As you say, you could hardly be a crew member on a ship such as this wearing the so-called fashionable clothes of a lady.” He snorts. “A single one of those crinolines so favoured by society ladies would overfill my cabin, and I doubt you could climb the rigging in hooped petticoats.”

  “What then? Silks and jewels really do not have a place on board a ship.”

  He slices an egg in half, scooping it onto his fork. “You think not? That I cannot dress you as befits your station? Or that it is inappropriate to do so? My own garb…” He waves across to his waistcoat, hanging from the gard-robe, flamboyant with colour… “… does not prevent me from fulfilling my role.”

  He eats his egg with obvious relish then, waving the fork at me as he punctuates his words, “On that, madam, I will correct you. I suggest a basic wardrobe of shirt, breeches and boots, well-fitting in plain colours. Over that, you can wear corset and coat in such peacock colours as please both you and me.”

  I take a deep breath, then another. “Master, how do I scrub decks in such apparel?”

  He blinks, staring at me. “My dear Josephine, you will be scrubbing no more decks.”

  I won’t?

  “What then? As ship’s boy…”

  “Have I not made it clear already? You have both the aptitude for the skills needed and the appetite to learn them. You will train along similar lines to any other officer, commencing as a midshipman. Along with your current studies in navigation, you will learn also of the marine environment, seamanship, strategic studies, and basic sea survival. You will, under me, take and be required to pass the examinations any other such officer would.”

  “Sir… the crew…”

  “The crew…” He jabs the fork towards me… “… will come to respect you when they realise that you must meet the same stringent requirements as any other officer. You have already demonstrated your courage. That, in itself, earned their esteem. I believe Mr Filchby intends to hone your skills in swordsmanship.” He cocks a brow. “Yes?”

  My smile blooms. “Yes, Master.”

  When we pull into port, I have no option but to face the crew. Nonetheless, the experience is brief, the captain taking me by the elbow to steer me gently but irresistibly out from his cabin, up on deck and off the gangplank.

  Eyes follow me as we pass, hands touching foreheads to the captain. The crew do not appear unfriendly, but I do hear muffled laughter from behind. As we depart the ship, my captain mutters something to Mr Bridges who merely nods, sucking in his cheeks.

  It is with some relief that I leave the Albatross behind. “Where are we going, Master?”

  “I am taking you to be fitted for your new clothes. After that, we shall enjoy an evening’s shore-leave together.”

  The clothes fit me well; disgracefully well. The seamstress stands back, eyeing her handiwork with an expression beyond unreadable. However, my captain appears pleased.

  “Sir, I cannot dress in such a manner in public. Anyone can see that I am...”

  But he is smiling, devilment skipping a rouge’s jig behind his eyes. “Female? Yes. Josephine… Beyond doubt, you are of the female persuasion.”

  “But these garments are… scandalous…”

  “You have opted for a scandalous life, madam. This has been your choice.” At my continued hesitation, his smile fades, his brow wrinkling. “Josephine, if you attempt to duck and hide, to pretend you are something you are not, the crew, and others, will first mock you, then ignore you. At no point will they respect you.”

  He looms close. “If you wish to live a scandalous life, then wear your scandal like a badge. Now...” He tilts my chin in that way of his... “... Look in the glass and tell me, truly, if you are displeased by what you see.”

  The reflection looks back at me; both strange and familiar.

  Gone are the form-hiding sans-culottes. The breeches are cut to fit, highlighting my feminine contours. The sheen of the satin fabric only highlights the effect and is further reinforced by the knee-high black boots. The plain white shirt is full and loose, although cut lower than my captain’s, emphasising my décolletage. The overlying bodice is drawn tight at my waist, again emphasising the curve of my hip to thigh.

  I twist, trying to see myself from behind. The seamstress adjusts a second mirror, allowing me a rear view. My rump is plainly outlined, the globes of my buttocks prominently displayed.

  “Sir, I can’t…”

  The seamstress interrupts, her hands outheld, making extravagant gestures over my posterior. “Você tem uma bunda muito atraente, senhora.”

  “What is she saying?”

  My master’s eyes glitter with laughter. “That you have a most attractive arse, my sweet. And I for one, am disinclined to correct her.”

  “Arse?” Shocked, I whirl on him. “Is that the word she is using?”

  “Well, the local version of it at least.” He scratches at an ear. “You will discover, Josephine, that the Mediterranean peoples are somewhat less retiring in their attitudes than the English.” He pins me with his eye. “You did state that you wished to see new places. Learning the ways of the people of those places is part of the experience. Do you wish to reconsider?”

  I droop, my head lowering, then remembering myself, lift my chin to look him in the eye. “No, captain.”

  “Good.” He runs fingers through the unstyled mop that is my boy’s hair. “A shame about that…” he comments… “… It is a remarkable colour, but doubtless your hair will grow again. I look forward to seeing the result. Otherwise…” Gripping me at the shoulders, he turns me this way and that, looking me over. “… these garments will do very
well for everyday wear.”

  My confidence wilts. Without meaning to, I lower my face. “Sir, you are certain this attire is not too immodest?”

  His voice sharpens. “Yes, madam, I am certain. And I will not have the woman that is mine hang her head.” He stands beside me, regarding my reflection beside his own. “You will bend the knee to no-one, Josephine...” He leans close, then whispers... “Except me...”

  “Bend the knee, sir?”

  “I have another new experience awaiting you.”

  “When we return to the ship?”

  “No. For this, we require a little more privacy than my ship’s quarters permit. I have hired us rooms for the evening.”

  He turns to the seamstress. “That is all very satisfactory. You may forward the other items to my lodgings. As they are completed, kindly package the remaining garments and have them delivered to the Albatross as per my instructions. I assume you have prepared an account for me?”

  “Sim senhor. E aqueles?” She nods down to where my old shirt and the sans-culottes lie in a jumbled heap on the floor.

  “You may burn them, Senhora.”

  Chapter 11

  Master

  Accompanying my captain to the inn where he has arranged our lodgings, we stroll through narrow streets lined by whitewashed houses, their windows trailing bright flowers and laundered clothing. Wearing a long cloak to conceal my attire, for the moment at least, my modesty is protected.

  The tavern he has chosen is noisy, the early evening crowds already milling, raucous and merry with drink.

  “Could we not go somewhere a little quieter, sir?”

  My master speaks blandly. “I have chosen this establishment because it is noisy, madam.”

  I struggle with his meaning. “Sir, I don’t…”

  He flashes a sidelong glance at me. “I wish the crowd to be noisy because you are going to be noisy…”

  My heart makes a great leap behind my ribs. “Sir?”

  His mouth twitching, he says nothing, simply gesturing me up the stairs.

  The room is pleasant enough, overlooking the busy street. A fire burns in the hearth. Lamps are already lit, casting a glow over dark timbers and low beams. By the window, chairs frame a wide table, substantial and solidly constructed. Atop the table rests a silver tray bearing glasses and a decanter of wine. A dress-mirror occupies one corner; a small gard-robe the other.

  The principal item of furniture is a huge four-poster bed. On it lies a large package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The captain sees my curious glance. “A change of apparel for you…” he explains... “… for the morrow.”

  “Will what I am wearing now not suffice, Master?”

  He slants me a long look from those dark eyes. “I think not.”

  My captain pours the wine, a deep and velvet red, handing me a glass. “Drink.”

  Anxiety needles me. As I drain my glass, just as on our first night, he refills it.

  “Another glass, sir?”

  “Drink it down, Josephine. I suspect you are going to need it.”

  What is he going to do?

  Or expect me to do?

  My disquiet grows. “Why am I going to need it, Master?”

  “Because we are going to explore some more of those avenues of adventure we discussed previously.” His eyes pass to the bed. It takes little to deduce his meaning.

  Or so I think.

  “Do you wish me to disrobe, Master?”

  He raises a forefinger. “A moment, if you please.” From its corner, he takes the dress-mirror, moving it to stand by the table. Head cocking, he assesses its angle then adjusts the position. “That will do.”

  Confused, I shake my head. “Master, what is the purpose of the mirror?”

  He steps forward; close enough that in the mirror, I see us together. His reflected eyes meet mine. “We make a handsome couple would you not say, Josephine?”

  “I would, sir, yes.”

  Seeing us together like this, his attire is not so dissimilar to mine. He wears his customary linen shirt and white breeches. His waistcoat, lavishly embroidered, counterpoints my bodice.

  My captain is so much taller than I and I cannot fail to notice the direction of his gaze, down the valley of my breasts. He runs a finger over the smooth pale domes which press up and above the corset, rising and falling with my breathing, vibrating with my accelerating heartbeat.

  “I do not wish you to disrobe. I shall remove your clothing myself, but first…” He takes the wineglass from my hand, placing it aside. “How fares your sense of adventure, Josephine?” Stooping, he brushes my lips with his.

  So small a gesture… His skin barely touches mine, but the contact is warm and soft, so intimate. And I scent him, that aroma of his: a heady mix of musk and masculinity. Desire sparkles through me. I want him to touch me again. I want the kiss again. I want… I want…. more…

  He remains close, his face an inch or two from mine. “Well?”

  “My sense of adventure? It… fares well, Master.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” But he does not attempt to kiss me again. Instead, he hovers near, as though waiting…

  For what?

  And then… I understand what he wants...

  … and I move towards him, meeting his lips with my own. As my flesh touches his, his mouth opens over mine. His fingers curl into my hair but the other hand is behind my shoulders, pulling me tight, controlling me. He presses against me, his chest against my breasts, the hardness of his manhood tight to my body. My breathing judders and my body quakes.

  He breaks away. “Yes, I believe you are ready for more.”

  “More?

  “Previously, I had your maidenhead.” His dark eyes wander over me. “Now, I will have all of you.”

  “That was not all of me? I do not understand your meaning, Master.”

  “You will.” His eyes drop to my bodice, and he plucks at a lace, tugging it until the bow unravels. Then, the ends dangling, he hooks a finger under the topmost crisscrossing of the ribbons, drawing it open. “Before we proceed, you should understand,” he says, “that I will not truly harm you…” His gaze rises to mine, a brow cocked. “You must not be afraid of me.” His fingers curl tight into the bodice.

  “I am not afraid of you, Master.”

  “Good. I do not wish that. This may be an… agreement… between us, but I would, at the least, have your affection.”

  And I do understand. My master’s manner is different from the first occasion. Then, I felt that he was giving. This time, he means to take. My heartbeat flutters and deep inside, already I am liquefying.

  “Good.” He moves down, easing loose the next of the lacings. “Whoever invented these…” He draws out a ribbon… “… had red-blooded men in mind...”

  I swallow hard, conscious of the perspiration beading my neck and chest, the flush of heat which rises from my breasts.

  And with that, he hooks hands into the bodice, between the lacings, right and left. Then with his man’s strength, he pulls, tearing at the garment, ripping it open.

  For a moment, the corset resists, twisting and straining. Then with a pop, the first of the metal eyelets springs free from its setting. The lace it houses bursts loose and, to the wheeze of whalebone, the fabric rips and tears.

  I gasp and between my legs, something gushes hot, juices trickling down inside my thighs.

  But my master continues tearing at the straining fabric, yanking it open. Laces stretch, then break, ripped asunder.

  My breasts, abruptly freed from their constraints, contained now by no more than the loose fabric of my shirt, swing freely, their tips hardening by the moment as systematically, my master works down the front of the bodice, tearing open the fastenings.

  As the last of the lacings surrenders, he yanks away the panels, tossing them to one side and my shirt billows free. The bottom of the shirt, tucked between my legs, is becoming quite damp, scraping and sucking at the tender skin o
f my inner thighs.

  And now, to my gasps, with both hands, he rips into the front of the shirt, tearing it asunder, the linen shredding under his grasp.

  Through what remains of my shirt, my nipples are nubbed and stiff, and he grips one ‘twix thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting. Pain sparkles through me, darting down inside, igniting my sex for my master and for his violence-that-is-not-violence.

  A sound purrs out from his throat, the low growl of the predator, and he grasps either side of my waist, squeezing and kneading, palms pressing hard until, with a grunt of impatience, he seizes the limp remains of my shirt, tugging it from shoulders and arms leaving me bare-breasted and ready for him.

  His glance is savage as he works his hands over my ribs, then slides one around my back, the other up to a breast. The hand to the fore continues its work, squeezing and plucking at the nipple. The hand to the rear slips up my spine, settling between my shoulders, digging nails into my flesh, one at a time and in turn, in a rhythm of skittering pinpricks.

  It should hurt. It does hurt. But I want more. My breathing is becoming unsteady and between my thighs, a hot trickle bathes my skin.

  “Good?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You want more?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  That purr again, then his mouth fastens to my neck, heated and wet. He plucks at the skin with his teeth, biting to deliver more of his pinprick pain. Releasing my breast, his fingers slip down, the nails scraping at me, gnawing a line into my skin as they descend.

  As they reach my waist, he steps back, releasing me. Without hesitating, he pulls at my belt, unfastens the buckle and pushes the breeches down to my ankles. He makes no secret of looking at me, his eyes raking over my body.

  Abruptly, I want to cover myself and hide. Ducking my head, I cross my arms over my breasts, but he takes me by the wrists, pushing them to my sides.

  He hisses, “We have a bargain do we not?”