Falling for the Pirate (Entangled Scandalous)

by Amber Lin

  “So I’d be confined to your cabin?”

  “I’d take you wherever you wanted to go,” he said.

  Sadness tinged her smile. “And what if I wanted to go home?”

  His chest tightened. Home. Of course she would want her home, her family. Even if she didn’t have a good reason to hate Nate, she would prefer her father and her friends in society. He was keeping her from all of that, in more ways than one.

  Now more than ever he wanted to please her, to give her what she wanted—but how could he, when that would mean losing her. He’d already sacrificed his revenge. How could he also lose the one woman who could fill that void?

  “Ask me anything but that,” he said hoarsely.

  He expected her to denounce him. To demand what he could give her, what he should give her. Instead she seemed to seriously consider his offer.

  “Anything?”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  “How did you come to be a captain?”

  That was an easier question than he deserved. “After I was released from gaol, it was difficult to find work. I was an uneducated brute with no manners or skills. Eventually I found a position at a whorehouse. My job was to make sure the men weren’t too rough…unless they paid the right amount.”

  Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t turn away from him in disgust or fear. Though she might, before the tale was done.

  “One night, a woman died from a bad child labor. Blood stained the walls. I couldn’t stay there any longer. I decided I would rather starve.”

  “That sounds terrible,” she whispered.

  “It was gruesome.” He looked into the sunlight to dispel the shadowed memories. “After I left there, I found work in odd places. But mostly I stayed near the docks and hoped to be selected for a day’s work. A day’s hard labor meant I could eat for days. Though I rarely got called up more than twice a week.”

  She slowly reached for his hand. He let her.

  “There were thousands of men who stood at the gates each morn, hoping to be called by the gangers. Many would sleep on the opposite bank, so commonly used as a bed that the grass had worn away. It was impossible to know each one, but stories would circulate of a gentleman among us. He was noble by birth. He could speak five languages. But he worked and starved alongside us. It was more a matter of curiosity that I sought him out. His name was Adrian Mallory, and he is now the seventh Duke of Sinclair.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “A duke?”

  “Indeed, though that wasn’t his title at the time. His older brother held the title. A dissolute bully who had spent whatever coin his father had not. Adrian had a trust in his name, but it was only accessible after he turned twenty-five. Or by authorization of his brother, but he’d sooner steal it than grant an early release.”

  “So, he worked on the docks until he was twenty-five?”

  “He didn’t have to. His brother died in a curricle race. Drunk, which was apparently his usual state. So Adrian got the trust, but he also inherited a mountain of debt, entailed property in disrepair, and tenants who relied on him. He used the small amount of blunt and the credit on his family name and found himself a poor wreck of a ship, but it floated. Seeing as I’d been friends with him for two years, he let me work the ropes.”

  Actually, Adrian had made him a full partner, along with Hale Martin and Jordan Bradshaw. They each had an equal stake in Fortune Investments. But Nate had always understood his role—not dissimilar to his role at the whorehouse. He was the muscle at the door. He was the one who cleaned up the messes.

  “That’s very impressive.”

  “Yes, Adrian’s accomplished quite a bit.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant you.”

  He sent her a look, doubtful, but she stared back at him with something like awe in her eyes. His stomach sank. She had been raised a lady. She should not be impressed with a mere captain, especially not one of his background. He had done this to her, dragged her down to his depths. There was no way to lower her further—and then there was.

  He leaned forward and kissed her.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, spiking cool air along his lips. He warmed himself against her, taking her heat and giving back rough strokes of his tongue in return. He wanted to kiss her hard enough that she never looked at him that way.

  Or kept looking at him forever.

  Her eyelids lowered, as if she were drunk on the pleasure of the kiss. He was delusional.

  She made a soft snuffling sound. His heart stopped. Because he knew exactly what her moan sounded like, her soft purr of pleasure. The sounds had imprinted themselves in his mind last night, a treasure he’d never trade. But this was new. Was she crying? He yanked his head back.

  She was.

  “What’s wrong? Did I scare you?”

  “No.” She turned her face, squinting into the distance. The wind whipped her tears away, leaving her dry-eyed, but he remembered the tremble of her lips.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Oh, Nate. No. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

  I already have. “Then why are you crying?”

  “I just realized how hard it must have been for you, to send that man away. He’s still so young. Like you were once.” She laid her hand on him, her eyes mournful and sympathetic.

  He recoiled. “Please stop being nice.”

  “All right. I’m sorry.” She tried to compose herself. And failed.

  Really, it was too much. Did she pity him? His body felt as tense as the planks they stood upon, his skin as brittle as the wood railing. He would give her splinters on her soft palm. He would gash her lips, her tongue, with his. If she wanted to cry, she could cry about that.

  But she quieted as soon as he touched her. As soon as his hands gripped too hard and his mouth met too rough. When he assaulted her with his kiss, she relaxed in his arms.

  He kept pushing her, expecting for her to break. Fearing it. But he was the one who splintered apart. He was the one who broke.

  Chapter Eleven

  A mistress.

  Juliana had never imagined that would be her fate. Even when her father had been accused and their fortune had fallen, she’d assumed there would be another way. She had been wrong. No one would hire a classically trained penniless girl with scandal tainting her name. And even if they would, she had no means to find them or support herself while she did.

  Her choices were to be his mistress or his charity case.

  I decided I would rather starve, he had said. And she knew he’d meant it. The concept of desperation solidified in her mind, made real by his experience. Starvation became a plausible outcome instead of a murky nightmare. Her virtue meant nothing when weighed against survival. Marriage had ceased to be an option the night she was thrown onto the streets.

  Even before that, when her father had first been accused.

  Candlelight illuminated what the waning sun could not, bouncing off the fine china settings and turning the white tablecloth to cream. Nate must have asked for the candles and china when he’d sent for her clothes. Today’s dress had a peach crinoline and matching stockings tinted green with peaches embroidered up the sides. After the table was set, he’d ordered a hot bath for her.

  Her throat ached. He was trying so hard to woo her, even though he didn’t have to. It made her feel breathless…and ineffably sad.

  At least he’d allowed them to stay on the ship. Despite the cramped quarters, the limited menu, the bustle of boys at work and lessons on the deck, she felt more at ease here. Perhaps because Nate felt more at ease here than on land.

  And besides, this way she was close to Hargate Shipping. If she decided to go back…if she tried again to search for evidence. But that would betray Nate’s trust. It would risk his career. She could never do that. And yet, how could she abandon her father to his fate, without even trying to help?

  A soft knock came from the door.

  She stood, smoothing her skirts. “Come in.”

  Nate open
ed the door, wearing a blue chambray coat that set off his eyes. A white shirt appeared crisp at the collar, contrasting with the deeply tanned skin of his throat. His pale blue pantaloons seemed incredibly formal for a private dinner. His tall boots gleamed. He looked impossibly handsome and well-fitted enough to grace any ballroom she’d ever been in—except for the shadow of hair on his jaw. Too short to be a mustache, too long for any self-respecting valet to tolerate. That hint of disrepute relieved her. He was not a wax replica statue of any other ship’s captain. He was her pirate.

  A playful light danced in his eyes. “Do I meet with your approval?”

  “I’m the one who must please you, Captain, not the other way around.” She was the mistress, and Nate her protector.

  He frowned. “No, Juliana. We shall have supper tonight. Nothing more.”

  Her heart clenched. Did he understand how much he gave to her? His ship carried cannons and explosives to defend itself. She’d seen them on her tour. And yet he made himself vulnerable to her. He insisted on it.

  She stepped closer and placed her hand on his coat. The broadness of his chest made her hand seem small, helpless, but he froze beneath her touch, as obedient as a ship to its wheel.

  “You mistake me. I want to please you.”

  His expression darkened. “Christ.”

  She held his gaze. “And I would never hurt you.”

  Even if she found a way to restore her father’s name. Her righteous fury had evaporated. She could have been satisfied in her new life with Nate, with the comfort of his money and the sustenance of his body. It would have been enough, but old ties, family honor, kept her from committing completely. There was no brother to restore their name or protect her father. Only her.

  Somehow, she would do so, and keep Nate from being harmed in the process.

  “What you do to me,” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.

  She smiled slightly. She hadn’t done much to him yet. That would change. Now that she had her memories back, she remembered everything she’d done with her friend at school. There hadn’t been a male figure, of course. But there had been speculation with a candle.

  A knock came at the door. “Captain?”

  She recognized the voice of the ship’s cook. He had proudly showed her the tiny galley and insisted on making tea with sandwiches. She’d met most of the crew, and despite her gender and mode of dress, they had been gracious and charming. Though, perhaps they just didn’t want to get booted off the ship.

  Nate’s dark eyes never looked away from hers. “Not now,” he called.

  “Uh… I got yer soups.”

  “Leave.”

  Footsteps tromped away. Nate seemed to expand where he stood, filling up on every harsh breath and never releasing, growing tenser, larger, until she couldn’t see the ship—just him. Emotions flickered in his eyes. Doubt. Anger. Affection? But then, she wanted to see that. Her imagination was good at pretending everything would be fine. Even when it wouldn’t.

  “He worked so hard on that meal,” she whispered.

  “We’ll still eat it. Just not right now.” His voice sounded thick, as if he’d had a drink before coming here. But all she smelled was mint and musk. All she felt was heat and man.

  She didn’t have to ask what they would do now. The demand beat inside her own body, pumped through her heart and pulsed to her fingertips. It started a rhythm deep inside her belly, lower, reminding her of what they hadn’t done.

  Her role now.

  She reached for the button on his coat, but he shook his head.

  “No?” she asked.

  “No.”

  He explained what he wanted instead with a gentle hand on her elbow, guiding her to the table. He sat at the chair nearest the door. Did he intend to eat, after all?

  “What are you—oh.” Oh. She landed in his lap roughly, the impact all the more thrilling for his lack of grace.

  Despite his size, he moved carefully. Years of walking aboard a ship, of moving with an unpredictable sway, had made him stealthy. Climbing, too. He scaled the mast with the agility of a child. If it weren’t for his broad shoulders, he could have fit into the warehouse’s chimney as she had.

  He used his size now to move her, lifting her legs clear off the floor. A lurch of the ship would have sent her flying, but he held her the way he might a pillow—placing it where he wanted it to go. Which happened to be flush against his torso, her breasts fighting his chest for space.

  Her legs straddled his, and at their cores, heat to heat, hard to soft. His arms curved around her, holding her in place. Too firm, as if he thought she’d fall. Or flee. She wouldn’t do either.

  She kissed him.

  He startled for a second, growing still. She traced the edges of his lips with nibbles all the way across. She drew the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips. He shivered beneath her.

  “Be careful.” The warning seemed ripped out of him, torn and jagged.

  His eyes were hot, needy. Be careful. A fair warning in light of her current predicament. She couldn’t afford to sink any lower.

  She couldn’t afford not to.

  …

  Nate was on the verge of something, but he didn’t know what. It swam beneath the surface, dark and menacing, scenting blood.

  Lust, probably.

  A wild, unpredictable lust he had never experienced before. He wanted to pounce on her. To unfold her limbs, to pry her open, and fuck her into tomorrow. So he kept his coat on, as if the stiff fabric could bind him. He kept his boots on, as if they could manacle him to the floor. He could return to that place, bound and helpless, if it meant keeping her safe.

  Her eyes were luminous and inviting. She had no idea of the danger she tempted. Whatever she had done with her friend, it hadn’t been like this. Not ravenous for her. Not plundering.

  He grasped her hips, and further back, to the plump swells of her buttocks. Even through the layers of cotton and crinoline, he could feel her warmth. Could imagine pulling her onto his cock, again and again. Instead he pushed her away. He set her on the table, sitting her on the edge, her legs dangling off. God, those legs. With her skirts rucked up to her waist, he had full view of the slender shapely calves, at the pale thighs peeking over her stockings. He wanted to bite her. Through the stockings.

  He was a savage. He shouldn’t be allowed around civilized people—and her least of all.

  “Here?” she asked.

  She thought he was going to fuck her on the table. Her first time, and she thought he’d rut with her against the table. Which he would.

  But not with his prick.

  He put two fingers to her chin and lifted. Her eyes searched his.

  “Anywhere I say.”

  “All right.” She sounded breathless. “I just thought we should move the china. Before it breaks.”

  “So wise,” he said mockingly. “We wouldn’t want anything delicate to become damaged.”

  “I’ll be gentle with you.”

  He laughed. He had done that more in this week with her than he could ever remember. It still felt strange, like forcing rusted gears to turn. But maybe a little easier each time.

  He did move the china. Because if a dish did shatter on the floor, her feet might get cut. And also because she’d asked him to. He found every request she made, every whim she expressed, strangely compelling. He hadn’t seen her attach the strings to his hands and feet. He didn’t even know he was under her control until she made him move.

  And when he had finished clearing the table, he forced her to lie down so he could remove her drawers. Slipping his fingers through the slit wouldn’t be enough for what he had planned. He needed unfettered access to her. He needed to hear her gasp at the chilly air, at his gently probing fingers, at the swipe of his tongue.

  “Nate,” she moaned. Her voice came out mournful, and lost, and that should have bothered him. No good man would let a lady feel confused or helpless, especially not one he…had come to care about.
r />   But he’d never been a good man, and he wasn’t going to change with the heady scent of her arousal filling his nostrils, with the salt-sweet taste of her on his tongue. He pressed a finger into her, to help ease her climb. Swollen tissues clenched around him, making him grit his teeth.

  He wanted to be inside.

  No. Everything in him revolted at the idea of ruining her. Ridiculous, since he had already done so. Whether or not she retained her maidenhead, whether she’d had his cock inside her, she was no longer pure. He’d accomplished his goal, and yet he took no satisfaction.

  It would make no difference whether he made her climax or fucked her—not to society. She was already ruined, just by being in his home, on his ship. He felt ruined alongside her, devastated. He couldn’t, he couldn’t.

  “Bend your knees,” he said dispassionately.

  She whimpered but did as he bade her. Her fingers gripped the sides of the table. Her knuckles turned white. And when he bent his head and circled her nub with his lips, she bucked her hips.

  “Ah ah. Keep them down, love. And keep your hands where they are, holding the table, whatever I do. Understand?”

  A shiver ran through her, head to toe. He saw it first, in the convulsion of her throat, in the movement of her breasts. He felt it in the clench around his finger.

  “Please,” she said. Her voice was as low as he’d ever heard it, and more needy. She hid this part of her, this vulnerable place. His passion had teased it out, his own hunger reflected back.

  He lapped at her folds, savoring every taste, somehow made new with each languid caress. He curved his finger inside her, seeking a place that would make her—ah, there. She let out a low keening sound, and even though his cabin was in a different place than the crew, they might be heard. That wouldn’t do.

  Only he could hear her like this.

  He tugged his neck cloth off and rolled the end into a ball. Her eyes widened as he leaned across her body. Surprise. Curiosity. But no fear. That was good. He pressed the bundle of cloth into her mouth. He could have tied it around her head, but this would muffle the sound better.

  “Bite down.”

  She obeyed, the graceful line of her jaw moving in response to his order.