by Susan Grant
“An exciting debut!”
—Susan Plunkett, 1999 RITA Award finalist
for Heaven’s Time
I BELIEVE I CAN FLY
Carly watched as he searched her face, his eyes intense, mirroring her own passion. He’s a kindred spirit, she realized with a jolt.
“Never in my life have I dreamt so vividly, milady,” he said, using his expressive hands as he spoke. “Until the storm wakes me, I am sailing on the air, faster than any ship I have sailed. The clouds are but an arm’s reach away. Aye, the stars, too. Yet, the sea is far, far below.”
The flickering flame of the bedroom candle imbued his skin and hair with an amber glow, and his robe clung to the hard lines of his powerful body. She watched him in awe, drawn to his confidence and masculinity in a way that left her breathless.
For the first time in her life, Carly understood what it meant to experience desire, true desire. The feelings she’d had before now seemed childlike and insignificant in comparison.
“A wonderfully entertaining
time travel full of excitement, danger
and high seas romance. Set sail for a delightful,
fast-paced adventure with talented
new author Susan Grant.”
—Patti Berg, USA Today bestselling author
of Wife for a Day
Other Love Spell books by Susan Grant:
THE SCARLET EMPRESS
THE LEGEND OF BANZAI MAGUIRE
THE STAR PRINCESS
THE ONLY ONE (anthology)
CONTACT
A MOTHER’S WAY ROMANCE ANTHOLOGY
THE STAR PRINCE
THE STAR KING
SUSAN
GRANT
Once a
Pirate
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
February 2011
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2000 by Susan Grant Gunning
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1169-9
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0968-9
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
I dedicate this book to my children, Connor and Courtney.
Thank you, my loves, for giving my life meaning.
This book is the result of
the encouragement and patience
of many wonderful people: Damaris Rowland,
for believing in me from the beginning; Susan Crosby,
Caroline Fyffe, and Theresa Ragan, for being friends,
critique partners, and so much more; Captain
Wade Biggs, for your expert and enthusiastic
answers to my nineteenth-century sailing
questions; and Chris Keeslar . . . because
undoubtedly “You were right.”
Chapter One
The storm lifted the F-18C fighter jet like a child’s toy, plucking the aircraft from the clouds and tossing it about in the wind. Lieutenant Carly Callahan braced herself. In the space of a heartbeat, the single-seat jet plunged three hundred feet, and her stomach hit her ears.
Exhilaration blended with shock. “You call that turbulence?” Carly bumped the throttles forward and pulled back on the stick. “There. Kid stuff.”
In answer, clouds engulfed the fighter and snuffed out the stars. Rain hissed past in fitful bursts. Carly returned her gaze to the radar display, where pinpoints of light marked the other jets in the VFA-60 squadron, the Jolly Rogers, as they flew toward the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, almost twelve hundred miles off the coast of Spain. Ahead thunderstorms showed up as blurred splotches of yellow and red—if they showed up at all. She’d trust the radar in combat any day, but it sure as heck was a crummy way to choose the best route through the weather.
Nights like this over the Atlantic Ocean demanded stamina, patience, and precision—skills that came easily to her after five years as a navy pilot. But tonight, after only two hours aloft, she was worn out.
The flight surgeon had warned her about this.
And lectured her just last week on the physical consequences of emotional exhaustion. But in the end, the doc had surrendered to her cajoling and cleared her to fly.
The sea was the best medicine.
Mom was gone; Rick, too. For once, Carly looked forward to her mandatory six months of carrier duty. She planned to forget her troubles, lose herself in the busy days onboard the city-sized ship. There’d be plenty of company—male company. Good times . . . but no time to get close. Not what the doctor ordered, but exactly what she needed. It’d be a long time before she allowed a man close enough to hurt her again. The door to her heart was boarded shut. No solicitors.
Trespassers would be shot.
Lightning flashed nearby, painfully intense. Carly blinked away white spots and flickering black specks. Harmless static discharge fanned out over the cockpit window. Eerie and curious, the blue fingers of St. Elmo’s fire crept toward her.
The radar display flickered.
“Don’t do this to me,” she muttered through clenched teeth, staring at the screen. Without radar to guide her, it would be impossible to avoid the thunderstorms. They could rip an airplane apart.
Procedure dictated that she radio her flight leader. Her finger hesitated over the mike button. She detested asking for help. Not because the men in her squadron would think less of her—they’d earned each other’s respect years ago—but because she’d rather rely on herself. There was always less risk when you didn’t depend on anyone else or expect others to keep their word, to follow through—
She gave her head a curt shake. “Jolly Roger One, this is Jolly Roger Four.”
“Go ahead,” crackled the voice in her headset.
“My radar’s acting up. Are you painting anything on yours?”
A static-filled silence, then, “Stay on your heading. There’s one mother of a boomer to the south. After that it’s clear sailing.”
Carly exhaled. “Roger. Thanks.”
Incredulous, she watched her radar display dim, then go dark. She was flying blind. This is not good, not good.
“Jolly Roger One, this is Jolly Roger Four,” she stated calmly.
A burst of static.
“Jolly Roger One, how do you read? I’ve lost radar, need headings.”
A prolonged sizzle, then a few clicks.
“How do you read?” she persisted, urgency slipping into her tone. “This is Jolly Roger Four. Does anyone read?” She pounded the instrument panel with her gloved fist. St. Elmo’s fire erupted into shards of light within the cockpit and streamed down her arm to her chest. Prickling and burning, it coursed through her. Every hair on her body stood on end.
Her fighter plowed into a raging wall of rain and hail. She fought the bucking jet, using everything she had to keep the wings level until she burst out of the clouds into the stark, starry
night. The silence was overwhelming. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. She listened to her ragged breathing and the pulse hammering in her ears. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Crap. Both engines had flamed out.
She accomplished an emergency restart, moving the throttles to the OFF position and then forward. The balky turbofans did not respond. She eased the jet into a shallow descent and tried again. Nada.
Cold trickles of fear seeped into her. No time to be scared. “Mayday, mayday.”
She got no reply. Carly attempted the sequence for the third time. Start, start, start, please start.
Fifteen thousand feet and dropping.
Dread pooled in her belly. Then anger. This can’t be happening. Why won’t the buggers start!
Eight thousand . . . seven thousand . . .
Start, start, start.
Fury dissolved into grim resignation. She prepared for ejection—stowing loose equipment, tightening her seat harnesses and oxygen mask, lowering her visor, mentally reviewing the ejection procedure, all while dealing with two engines that were deader than a week-old steak.
At least she wasn’t loaded down with armament or missiles. One less thing to worry about when the jet went down.
That is, if she didn’t break her neck on the way out. Punching out of a plane was a risky deed at the best of times. Tonight was not one of them.
One thousand . . . eight hundred . . .
She blinked perspiration out of her eyes and pressed her back into the seat. Now!
She blasted from the jet like a bullet from a gun. The acceleration punched the breath from her lungs.
She met the storm head on. Rain battered her helmet. Icy needles scoured her unprotected neck. The muscles in her back stretched to their agonizing limits. Tumbling, she clutched for a handhold but caught only fistfuls of wind. Then the parachute opened, jerking her upright seconds before she slammed into the sea.
Frigid water sheathed her in agony. Darkness, pressure. Her lungs burned as she fought the almost unbearable urge to inhale. She desperately pedaled her arms and legs, couldn’t tell up from down.
Her panic rose like bile. I don’t want to die.
Then her training kicked in. She forced herself to be still and let her buoyancy bring her to the surface.
She burst through the waves. Her life raft, straining on its tether behind her, inflated automatically with a screeching hiss. She quickly discarded anything that might puncture the raft when she climbed in—her sodden parachute, the notepad she’d forgotten was strapped to her thigh.
Her oxygen mask was filling rapidly with seawater. Gagging, she tore it off and tried to raise her rain-streaked visor. It was jammed. Her throat and nose were on fire. The wind shrieked, mocking her.
Man, if this wasn’t hell, it was a good facsimile.
Gulping cold, rain-splattered air, treading water, she pulled off her helmet, then wished she hadn’t. Rain pummeled her face, half-blinding her, and the frosty wind numbed her ears and cheeks. She groped behind her, clawing the tether into her hand. The ragged end fluttered in her fingers. No raft! Her stomach clenched with fear and frustration.
A piece of timber drifted by, then another. Wood? This far from shore? Well, it beat treading water. She waited for the next one to roll by, then seized the cold, splintery hunk. Grateful for the chance to catch her breath, to gather her wits, she closed her eyes.
But several rhythmic nearby booms jolted her upright. Wind carried the odor of burning wood toward her from where two hulking forms pitched on the waves, ghostlike in the predawn dimness. A green-orange flash arced between them, rocking her insides with another resounding explosion.
Ships! Old-fashioned wooden ships, with tall masts and rolled-up sails. She blinked to focus. The smaller one listed at an impossible angle, its sails engulfed in flames.
She was hallucinating . . . or she’d landed in the middle of a B-rated, 1940s pirate movie.
Either way, your number’s up, Callahan.
Swells pushed her closer. She heard shouts and screams. Male voices. A series of pops sounded suspiciously like gunshots.
Not the kind of rescuers she had in mind, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Help!” she cried, waving one sluggish arm. A swell toppled her piece of wood. Somehow, she hung on. “Help! Please, I need help!” Her head slammed into a whirling chunk of flotsam. She fought an unnerving sensation of falling, but the black void rushed up to meet her and swallowed her whole.
Andrew Spencer froze, cocking his head. “Did you hear that, Cuddy? A cry.”
“My ears ain’t as good as yours,” his first mate replied, following Andrew’s gaze to the battered Merryweather. “From the water, you suppose?”
“Aye.” Andrew shielded his eyes against the rain and urgently scanned the swells.” ’Tis her. She’s jumped ship. But I cannot see fifty paces.”
Again he cursed the poor light. The Merryweather rolled to her side, her flames turning the swells the color of blood.
Blast its crew for attacking, giving him no choice but to return fire. Now his prize, Lady Amanda, had fallen into the sea. Bloody hell. If he were to kill an innocent, he would be no better than the duke.
“Please, I need help!”
Andrew swerved his gaze toward the faint, unmistakably female cry, his heart leaping. “There!” Just off the bow, a small body clung to one of the timbers rising and falling on the waves. “Have the men hold their fire, Mr. Egan,” he said, wrenching off his boots.
“Hold fire!” Cuddy shouted. “Hold fire!”
Andrew tossed off his coat, his cravat, and his gloves. Then he sucked in a mighty breath and dove into the sea.
Surfacing, gasping from the cold, he grabbed hold of the timber. “I’ve got you, milady. ’Tis far too stormy a night for a swim.” He wrapped one arm under her chin and drew her close. Weighed down by wet clothing, her limp body offered no resistance.
Dread shoved aside the triumph, the relief he had felt upon spying her from the deck. “Come on, stay with me!” He could not afford to lose her. Urgency drove him toward his ship with powerful one-armed strokes.
Breathing heavily from his dangerous ascent up the rope ladder, he allowed two men to haul him the last few feet to the deck.
Cuddy steadied him by gripping his shoulder. “Is she dead?”
Blinking seawater out of his eyes, Andrew scrutinized the pale, shivering girl in his arms. Blood trickled from a cut just above her right ear. As he scanned lower, expecting to see twisted, sodden skirts, he found trousers and boots. “No, she’s alive,” he said, admiring the soul who had thought to disguise her as a man. The stinging rain kept him from further inspection of her odd attire. “I’m bringing her inside straightaway. Keep watch for Paxton’s other ship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Andrew bellowed across the deck to his steward, “Mr. Gibbons! My quarters!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
Andrew held Amanda close to his chest to shelter her from the curious stares of the crew. Some men snickered as he passed by. He could hardly blame them, considering her grotesque black boots and the odd-looking flag and snippets of fabric sewn to her short brown leather coat. Wherever had she obtained such garments?
He kicked open the door and strode through his makeshift study to the aft bedchamber. Gibbons’s heavy footfalls sounded behind him as he gently settled Amanda on his bed. Andrew inspected her injuries, probing cautiously for broken limbs.
Gibbons’s dark brows lifted. “I’ll fetch clothing and blankets. Bandages?”
“Not necessary. There’s a scrape and a small lump, nothing more, thank heaven. I’ll need fresh water to clean the wounds.” Andrew straightened, massaging the sore muscles on his forearm. “And I could use a brandy, if you would be so kind.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Something was tapping her cheek. Carly flicked her hand in the air as though shooing off a fly. “Go away.”
“I think not, milady,�
�� rumbled a deep, rich voice.
Pain streaked across her scalp and lodged behind her right eye. She felt weak, nauseated, and her stomach lurched ominously. Moaning, she brought her fists to her forehead. Nightmarish scenes roared through her mind. The storm, the ejection. She’d fallen into the sea—
“God’s teeth, woman. You had me worried.”
Slowly, she lowered her hands and opened her eyes. A broad-shouldered man leaned over her, concern evident in his blue-eyed gaze. He must have pulled her from the ocean. Even with hair hanging over his forehead and water dribbling down his nose and chin, he was a hunk. Well, she thought, if you had to be rescued, it might as well be by Adonis himself.
“You saved me,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
“Are you back with us, then?”
She nodded, smiling. An English accent, too. Boy, this was getting better by the minute.
Cupping her chin with a callused hand, Adonis turned her head one way then the other, his expression of vague amusement transforming into a dark and calculating scowl. Sudden awareness of her vulnerability ignited her fear. “What’s wrong?” she blurted.
He lowered his hand. “I’d imagined a different wife for Richard.”
Richard? He couldn’t possibly mean her ex-fiancé Rick Harwood, grade-A jerk.
“You’re a little long in the tooth for the duke,” he went on. “I was told you were fifteen, which, as it stands, is years older than his fancy.” He shrugged indifferently. “No matter. You’re an acquisition, a pawn in his chess game. Once Richard acquires your fortune, your looks will mean little to him.”
What fortune? What was he talking about? A queer edginess forced her mind back to survival. She gave the dimly lit, stuffy room a quick and thorough scan. There was an open door opposite the bed. It led to another shadowy cabin. A possible escape route, should she need one. The furnishings were antique—lanterns, a bolted-down brazier, and an old clock. The bed was attached to the ceiling with ropes, allowing it to swing as the ship rolled.
Everything resonated with an inexplicable familiarity. Which made sense. She’d seen similar pieces in the maritime picture books she compulsively collected.