How To Please a Pirate

by Mia Marlowe

  “There are some men who will not hear a ‘no’ even if it is shouted from the battlements,” she said.

  Her pointed little tongue darted out and swept her bottom lip.

  “Maybe that’s because we’re not the dolts women take us for.” He closed the distance between them, intent on claiming her mouth. “A man can tell when a woman is saying ‘no’ with her fan and ‘yes’ with everything else.”

  She shoved the fan between them right under his nose. It was nine inches long and had ivory spines webbed with stiff, itchy lace.

  “Another improvisation?” he asked.

  She arched a brow at him.

  “You seem to have a gift for it.” He rubbed his upper lip when she finally lowered her weapon.

  “I fear you are not attending, my lord.” She snapped the fan shut and pressed the tip to her left cheek. Her grey eyes flared at him. “What does this mean again?”

  He pulled away from her. Strategic retreat was often the path to victory, the old sea dogs claimed.

  He’d wager none of them had ever crossed fans with Jacquelyn Wren.

  “It means ‘no,’” he admitted.

  “That’s right. Kindly remember it.”

  She held the closed fan away from her body and twirled it slowly, like a witch stirring her cauldron. He had to admit the graceful motion was enchanting. His mouth fairly watered to sample the thin skin at her wrist where the tiny veins showed blue beneath the pale, smooth surface.

  “Now if a woman twirls her fan in the left hand,” she explained, “it means ‘we are being watched.’”

  Gabriel frowned, wondering how such a signal might come in handy.

  “Ah!” He slapped his thigh. “As in, ‘Don’t look now, but my husband is coming this way?’”

  “No,” she said testily. “If a woman is married, she will fan herself slowly.”

  He cocked his head. “A languid movement like that could be considered an invitation, I suppose.”

  “It’s meant as a warning not to pursue a liaison.” Her tone was straying upward, a sure sign she was exasperated. She flapped the fan open and shut with a loud pop.

  “What’s that mean?” he asked.

  “That you are cruel,” she accused.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” she affirmed.

  “I’m not the one shoving ivory and lace up someone else’s nose.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  She unfurled the fan again and snapped it shut, her lips a tight line across her face.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his spread knees. He’d surveyed the feminine battlements and determined there was no way to breach the walls Jacquelyn had erected between them. Maybe it was time to concede defeat.

  “I don’t mean to be cruel, Jacquelyn. Not to you.”

  She laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Then why do you insist on making everything so difficult?”

  “Maybe because it is,” he said to the grass sprouting between his feet. “My homecoming has been nothing like what I expected. I never meant to be lord here, you know.”

  Amazingly enough, he sensed her softening beside him. He glanced at her without turning his head. She unstiffened ever so slightly, her knuckles less white where she gripped her fan.

  Was that the secret to winning a woman’s confidence? All a man need do was confess his doubts? It sounded absurd, but what about women ever made sense?

  He decided to test the idea.

  “And I have no wish to marry, assuredly not like this.” He waved a hand uncertainly. “Under duress, as it were.”

  “It is necessary,” she said with uncommon gentleness.

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it easier.”

  Did he imagine it or did she move toward him on the stone settee just a bit?

  “Why did you come home?” She was definitely leaning toward him now. When he didn’t answer immediately, she prodded. “I mean no disrespect. Please, my lord, I’d like to know.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” Her tone was mere wisp.

  But her question struck close to the bone. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “When I was captain of the Revenge, I was dead to my old life.” He shrugged, in hopes the gesture would render his words of less import. “The longer I was away, the more I came to know a man can’t stay dead forever. At least, not if he would remain himself. I hoped to be my father’s son once more.”

  “And you returned to find him gone,” she finished for him, her tone laced with sympathy.

  Her slim white hand rested lightly on his forearm. He didn’t move lest he scare her off.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

  Slowly, he turned to her. Jacquelyn’s eyes were moist beneath her russet brows. He realized his losses were hers as well. Except she’d actually been here when his family died. Perhaps it had been even harder for her.

  He tried to smile at her, but he found himself adrift in the grey sea of her eyes. Her chin trembled. Without seeming aware of it, she brought the handle of her fan up to brush her lower lip.

  His brows came together. “There’s a new one. What does that mean?”

  Her pink lips formed an ‘O’ and the whites showed all the way around her eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. I . . . what I mean is . . . oh, never mind.”

  “That is a real fan gesture, isn’t it?” He seized upon her gaffe like a deerhound on the last shank. “Surely you wouldn’t withhold such important knowledge from me. Not when it will aid Dragon Caern. Come now. What does it mean when a woman touches a fan to her lips?”

  She avoided his gaze. “It means she wants a kiss.”

  Chapter 6

  She wants a kiss.

  “Does it indeed?” He’d guessed as much, but hardly dared hope. “I begin to see the benefits of this fan language. A man could grow to like it after all. Just to make sure I remember this very important signal, I think you’ve forfeited a kiss to me.”

  “My lord, I don’t—”

  “Like the gentle art of the fan with its multitude of meanings,” he continued, sensing approaching victory, “a kiss may also mean many things. No doubt there’s a proper way to kiss for which my life of piracy has not prepared me.”

  “That’s a certainty,” she said, some of her old vinegar returning.

  “Then perhaps that’s a bit of my training you’d care to take upon yourself.”

  “Well, we mustn’t have you embarrassing the Caern with improper and indiscriminate kissing,” she admitted. “If a lady signals that she wishes you to kiss her, you might frighten off a perfectly good prospective wife if you fail to do it in a seemly manner.”

  “Then let us begin. Shall I try another kiss on your hand?”

  That was a tactical blunder. Her cheeks flamed with remembrance of the deeply sensual interplay. For a brief moment in the solar, when he’d slid his tongue into the crevice between her fingers, it was as if he’d invaded another far more intimate cleft. Her discomfort now proved she’d been as moved by that sinful kiss as he. It might be time for another judicious retreat.

  “No matter. We seem to have covered hand kissing with thoroughness. But suppose I should kiss you like so—”

  He moved toward her, but she straight-armed him.

  “Trust me, Jacquelyn. It’s not a kiss you should fear.”

  She relaxed slightly while he cradled her cheeks and planted his lips on her forehead.

  “There,” he said as he released her. “In the language of kisses, what does that tell you?”

  “That you think I’m a child who needs consoling.”

  “In need of consolation maybe for I know you fear to spend time alone with me,” he said. “But I’d never think of you as a child.”

  “What a ludicrous idea. I have no fear of you, my lord.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  She slanted a look at him. “At least your kiss showed respect.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “But
surely there are other kisses which also qualify as respectful.”

  “Do you think so? Truly?”

  “I do. Truly. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  She didn’t move when he pressed a lingering kiss on the hollow of her cheek. He didn’t even think she breathed.

  “There,” he said when he strained to pull back. His insides rioted, but he forced himself not push forward. “What do you suppose that kiss meant?”

  She turned her lips inward for a moment as if to hide them from him. “It felt as if . . . as if you wished to give to me. Not take.”

  Surprised, he realized she was right. With everything in him, he wanted to give her pleasure. He wanted to give this woman the sweetest kisses the world had ever known.

  “Then let me, Jacquelyn.” He cupped her cheek. “Let me give to you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes enormous in the soft light of the garden. Her little tongue traced her top lip this time, but she didn’t say a word.

  He took her silence as consent.

  He brushed his lips on her temple and her eyelids fluttered shut, the thick lashes trembling on her cheekbones. Feather-light, he kissed her just below her brow.

  “Repectful?” he asked.

  “Mmm,” she murmured.

  He dropped a playful peck on her slightly upturned nose.

  She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. Who’d have thought he could bring the woman who’d set out to kill him not long ago to genuine laughter?

  He pressed his lips to the corner of her upturned mouth. It was such a sweet spot, half smooth warm skin, half moist intimacy, he lingered, inhaling her fragrance as he kissed her. Her breath hitched and her lips parted, but she didn’t resist.

  He drew back to look down at her. Dewy and soft, she was a feast a man might never tire of sampling. His cock swelled to life. His pirate’s heart would have him plunder her mouth. To thrust in with fierceness, demand her surrender and give no quarter.

  She opened her eyes and held his gaze. The fragile trust he read in them made him hold himself in check.

  Slowly, with as much care as if he was piloting his ship up to an unfamiliar dock, he closed the distance between their mouths. He stopped a finger-width from his goal.

  She swallowed hard and amazingly, her eyes closed in submission.

  A plainer invitation than a fan signal and one he recognized in a blink.

  He covered her lips with his, holding steady for a few heartbeats. Then he slanted his mouth over hers, delighting in her moist sweetness. She was all that was soft and pliant and woman.

  And she made him desperately hard.

  He slid one hand behind her head to steady her and prevent her escape. But Jacquelyn didn’t seem to want to escape. She turned her head so their lips slanted the other way, almost as if his mouth was a new garment and she was testing the fit.

  Gabriel slipped his fingers under the mobcap to bury them in her thick tresses. Gently, he kneaded the nape of her neck.

  Her lips parted under him but he didn’t rush in. Instead he took her lower lip between his and sucked once before releasing it. When he did it again, she reciprocated with his top lip. He stifled a groan.

  Lust roared more urgently in him, demanding release. He wanted to pull up her skirt and find her slit, wet and swollen with need. He wanted to yank down her bodice and suckle her nipples till she pleaded for him to take her.

  He wanted to rut her blind.

  Instead, with Herculean effort, he released her mouth and pulled back from her. Another strategic retreat, but it cost him dear.

  His cock throbbed in protest, the pleasurable ache blurring toward shrieking pain.

  Jacquelyn opened her eyes, searching his face for a moment. Then to his surprise, she palmed his cheeks and brought his mouth back down to hers.

  Wonder of wonders.

  She kissed him.

  Chapter 7

  Jacquelyn knew the exact moment sanity deserted her. It was when she saw her own reflection in his dark eyes—all flushed and wanting and unable to care about the things she was certain were so terribly important, but at the moment wouldn’t spring to mind.

  She tumbled with him into the void.

  The world he led her to was a slick, wet place, far different from the kisses he’d forced upon her that first day they met. A warm, sweet rush of mingled breath and soft gasps, of little nips and harder love bites, of dueling tongues and hands that roamed forbidden places. Pleasure pressed at her from all sides, more than she could take in at once.

  The pleasure demanded she give as well. She responded with joy. He groaned into her mouth when her hand slipped inside his jacket and discovered the hard expanse of his chest. When her fingertips dipped lower to his belly, she was rewarded with a feral male growl.

  Instead of scaring her, his involuntary response sent a thrill of power surging through her. Warmth settled between her legs and smoldered, ready to burst into flame.

  She suckled his tongue. He stole her breath.

  Here was a world where anything was possible and the only law was delight. He made her want so many things for which she had no name. This was madness, of course, but somehow he’d wrapped her in a space that made the insanity safe.

  Here she might be more than Mistress Wren, the keeper of the keys and chatelaine of Dragon Caern. In the world of Gabriel Drake’s kiss, she soared free, giving and receiving this strangely pleasing ache without care.

  And wasn’t that the oddest thing? How could a dull throb feel so good? It must be part of the madness of the place, she reasoned dimly.

  In the circle of Gabriel’s arms, Jacquelyn might be anyone she wished. A lady of noble birth, someone’s beloved, someone’s naughtiest dream, or all three at once.

  She’d seen it in his eyes.

  She tore her lips from his and looked at him again.

  For a blink, Jacquelyn was sure she saw her mother’s reflection. Isabella Wren smiled back at her with kiss-swollen lips.

  Reason rushed back into her. There was no magic here. Only animal lust.

  And the betrayal that follows in the wake of its satisfaction.

  “No,” she gasped.

  Jacquelyn tore herself from his arms and ran from the garden.

  * * *

  “Jacquelyn, wait.” Gabriel stood and took a step after her. Then he stopped himself. What was he going to do? Force her.

  Yes, damn it! his cock demanded.

  Everything was going so well. Far better than he’d hoped. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to set her off, but he’d give anything to call the moment back.

  Anything but his pride.

  Gabriel sank back onto the bench with an explosive sigh. If she didn’t want him, he bloody well wasn’t going to chase after her.

  The deuce of it was, he was sure she had wanted him. Wanted him very much. What on earth had he done to change that?

  He clenched his fists and studied the silver buckles on his shoes for the count of ten. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand the dizzying fizzle that went on in a woman’s brain. He dragged a hand over his face and looked up.

  Into the faces of five women in miniature.

  Five pairs of green eyes that looked suspiciously like feminine versions of his brother’s. They all stared at him accusingly.

  “Ah,” he said in sudden comprehension. “The Misses Drake, I presume.”

  His nieces stood in a semi-circle before him, arms crossed over their girlish chests, pale brows lowered. From smallest to tallest, they formed a neat staircase of feminine disapproval.

  “Why you bite Miss Jack?” the littlest one demanded. Clear-eyed and toe-headed, she couldn’t have been much more than four years old. “Mrs. B. tan your bottom if you bite somebody.” She rubbed a hand on her own posterior as if it still stung from some paddling she’d received for an infraction of the ‘no biting’ rule.

  “Hush, Lily,” the tallest hissed.

  She leaned down to frown at th
e child, then straightened to her full height to glare at him. The crown of her head probably wouldn’t reach Gabriel’s armpit, he decided. Her little bodice was snug over breasts like ripe figs. More than a child, but not yet a woman, her oval face held the promise of beauty. She’d be a handful in a few seasons for whoever was responsible for guarding her purity.

  With a start, Gabriel realized that ‘whoever’ was him. As baron of Dragon Caern, he was in charge of his nieces’ upbringing, making sure their education and accomplishments matched their station. Ultimately, he’d have to see them wed. These girls were under his protection now. Short of locking them in their chambers when they began attracting men, he had no idea how to go about it.

  The oldest one looked down her pert nose at her siblings.

  “He wasn’t biting her,” his niece explained. “He was trying to ‘com-pro-mise’ her. That’s what Mrs. Beadle would call it.” She narrowed her eyes at him in a perfect imitation of the housekeeper at her scowling best.

  Perhaps he’d lock this one up sooner.

  “You think you know so much, Hyacinth,” the second tallest jabbed her older sister with a sharp-looking elbow. “Just because you caught Timothy with the dairy maid when they didn’t know you were in the loft. If you hadn’t interrupted them, you’d have learned far more. For your information, his lordship would have to do a good bit more to compromise Mistress Jacquelyn than kiss her.” She tapped her pointed chin with her finger. “Looked to me like they were just dallying a bit.”

  “Dallying? Daisy, where did you hear such language? As if Miss Jacquelyn would stoop to willingly consorting with a pi—“ Hyacinth stopped herself, her face reddening. “He was kissing her to beat thunder and she had to run off to get away from him.”

  “He wants a paddling,” Lily said with a pout.

  “He shouldn’t be paddled.” Hyacinth shook her head. “He should be horse-whipped.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be fair. I think Miss Jacquelyn liked his kisses,” Daisy said, her lips screwed to one side as if she were considering the evidence. “In fact, it looked like she was kissing him back, too. For a while, at least.”