Once a Pirate

Home > Romance > Once a Pirate > Page 13
Once a Pirate Page 13

by Susan Grant


  She started at another sharp bang, and forced her mind away from Andrew’s grim reply. “The ‘long nines’ are the smaller guns, aren’t they?”

  “Aye.”

  “They sure don’t sound small.” She ought to be used to the noise of cannon fire—she’d been through dozens of gunnery drills since coming aboard. But when the cannonballs were aimed their way, it was a different sound entirely.

  Again the crack of distant guns echoed.

  “Milady, ’tis time.”

  She glanced up at Andrew’s words. “The cabin already? I’d rather stay and fight.”

  Andrew wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. He swallowed, then exhaled slowly. “Mr. Egan, I need a moment with the lady, if you don’t mind.”

  “Understand, sir.” Cuddy tucked the telescope under his arm and left them.

  Andrew lifted one arm as though to touch her. Catching himself he clenched his hand into a fist and let it fall to his side. Like her, he tried not to display their growing closeness in front of the crew. “We have been over this time and again. There will be no more discussion on the matter. You have disobeyed me in the past. Do not do so today.” Though the words were harsh, his tone was gentle, almost pleading. “I do not want to see you killed.”

  For a brief moment, they stared at each other as though nothing existed but the two of them. His gaze was unguarded, exquisitely tender, revealing the depth of his feelings for her.

  Her chest squeezed tight. What if this was the last time they saw each other? A wave of light-headedness hit her as she tried to catch her breath. She wanted to throw her arms around him, beg him to be careful, tell him she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. There were no antibiotics; he could catch a fever and die from a cut or a broken bone.

  “Go on,” he coaxed.” ’Twill be over soon.”

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll hold you to your word, Captain.”

  Andrew’s eyes glinted strangely. Turning away, he called to a group of men nearby. “Booth!”

  She stiffened, heat flooding her face.

  “Escort the lady to my quarters. Ensure that she bolts the door.”

  Black Beard looked as though he’d just won the lottery.

  “No!” Carly blurted, drawing Andrew’s astonished stare. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure Mr. Booth is quite busy with his other duties.”

  “Yer a more important duty,” Booth drawled, offering her his arm. She drilled him with a touch-me-mister-and-you’re-history stare.

  His eyes turned dead cold.

  Apparently, none of it was lost on Andrew. “On second thought, return to your duties, Booth,” he said, eyeing Carly curiously.

  Booth hesitated. “Cap’n?”

  “Go. I want you manning your gun.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “Before you do . . . I have a bit of strategy to discuss.”

  Booth trailed Andrew just out of earshot. Uneasy, Carly watched the two men converse. Booth’s face turned crimson. But Andrew appeared calm. The only words loud enough for her to hear were: “—not a request, Booth. An order.”

  Glowering, Booth returned to his cannon.

  Carly wondered what had transpired between them, and immediately thought of Theo’s safety. Maybe it was time to tell Andrew what had happened between her and Booth. For Theo’s sake, anyway. But now was clearly not the moment.

  Andrew cupped his hands around his mouth and called for Cuddy to take her to the cabin. She and the first mate walked side by side in silence. Before stepping inside, she looked over her shoulder for Andrew. Immersed in his own thoughts, his hands clasped behind his back, he faced the sea. She said a silent prayer for him and the others, then squeezed Cuddy’s arm. “Good luck.”

  “Superior skill and preparation, not luck,” Cuddy reminded her with a grin.

  “I’ll pray for all three, then.”

  Cuddy walked away only after she’d slid the bolt in place. Sighing, she leaned tiredly against the door and faced the empty cabin, which no longer resembled a cabin. To her right, where there used to be a wall, was the shadowy interior of the ship. Before today, she’d never known that the wall was hinged, allowing it to be raised and hooked to the ceiling in times of battle. To further reduce the chance of injury, the furniture and the glass panes from the windows were stowed in compartments below the waterline. Unlike the missiles she had fired from her jet, cannonballs did not cause fire when they hit. They plowed through wood and masts and fragile sails like wrecking balls. She’d learned from Andrew that most injuries and deaths in a sea battle weren’t from the rounds themselves, but from splinters hurled like spears.

  A hammock and mattress-padded corner had been prepared for her protection.

  Just like Savannah.

  Sitting cross-legged in her odd nest, Carly removed the handgun she’d hidden in the thigh pocket of her flight suit. She ran her thumb over the cold steel. Sleek, almost futuristic in appearance after so many months, the gun was out of place in this world. She turned it over and over in her hand until she’d reacquainted herself with its weight and feel.

  Six shots.

  If she was to fire, she’d need to choose her targets wisely. And quickly. She leaned back against the padded wall and took deep breaths.

  By the time evening fell, she was stiff, and her legs were cramped from heat and dehydration. The darkness was almost suffocating without candles or lamps to illuminate the now cavernous room. Sea battles, she’d been told, were fought in daylight, and, clinging to that thought, she allowed herself to relax somewhat.

  Around midnight, she guessed, Gibbons brought her dried beef and a flask of beer before leaving to rejoin the men. With the food and beer filling her stomach, she could no longer fight her drowsiness, and she surrendered to exhaustion soon after.

  She slept poorly. Twisted visions and bits of restless dreams mingled, whipped together, and spun around like dead leaves on an autumn wind. Fitful and perspiring, she hovered between wakefulness and sleep.

  She thought she was still dreaming when the first war cries tore through the predawn silence.

  She bolted to her knees. There were more shouts, followed by the popping of pistols and the firecracker smell of black powder. This is no dream.

  Ignoring Andrew’s earlier warnings, she crept to the side window. Two unfamiliar longboats were docked alongside the Phoenix, and one more was coasting up. Crap.

  They were under attack.

  Apprehension uncoiled inside her as dozens of soldiers clambered aboard; it was a raid to weaken the Phoenix and her crew before the sun rose and a full-fledged battle began.

  The crew met the onslaught with chilling howls. Carly steeled herself. Her years of training for war came back with startling clarity. She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. Then she closed her hand around the gun.

  More men scrambled over the side of the ship. Some were cut down instantly by cutlasses, axes, and clubs. Pistol-fire flickered like an army of flash cameras at the scene of a horrific accident.

  The screams of the wounded were the hardest to take. Her prayers flowed faster than her lips could form them.

  Haze and smoke drifted across the deck where pistols exploded and blades glinted. She saw Theo run past, wild-eyed with fear and excitement, his red hair poking up in all directions. “Oh, God,” she said softly, and bit the inside of her lower lip.

  Amid the confusion, Andrew’s purposeful stride caught her eye. He’d shoved his pistol into his belt, and now gripped his cutlass with his right hand. His hoarse voice rang with authority and purpose as he pointed feverishly in one direction, then the other, shouting orders to his men.

  Carly’s heart sank. There was blood smeared across his forehead, and more trickled from his matted hair.

  Something, or someone, slammed into the cabin door behind her. She whirled to face the sound, aiming her gun as she did. Her heart pounded frantically.

  She waited for what seemed like an eternity.


  The door handle turned.

  Another thud . . .

  The bolt held firm. She heard a curse and whoever it was moved away.

  The sound of feet running drew her attention outside, just as sunlight burst over the horizon and fanned out over the calm sea. Two of the enemy longboats were on their way back to the man-of-war, no doubt to deliver the news that she wasn’t aboard. The few soldiers left onboard the Phoenix were desperate, slicing and shooting their way to the one remaining longboat. Now that it was full daylight, and Amanda hadn’t been found, the real sea battle would begin. Knowing that their presence would hardly keep the larger craft from firing as soon as it got into range, the trapped soldiers fought viciously to escape.

  Andrew jogged past the window. Carly ducked. He didn’t see her. Gulping smoky air, she peered over the window ledge once again.

  Andrew had run to a man writhing in agony. Cutlass in hand, shoulders heaving, he hunkered down next to him. Jonesy! The helmsman’s shirt was soaked with bright red blood. Andrew was talking to him, patting him on the cheek to keep him conscious.

  Yellow-gray smoke floated at knee level across the deck, imparting to the scene an eerie, nightmarish quality. Something caught her gaze: a movement, to the left.

  A shadowy, pistol-toting figure slowly closed in on the pair.

  Horrified, she swerved her attention to the men. Didn’t anyone see him? Jonesy’s head had sagged to one side, and Andrew was so immersed in loosening the man’s collar that he did not notice the would-be assassin.

  She raised her handgun. “Andrew, turn around,” she urged under her breath, but he he simply stood and wiped sweat and blood from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  The soldier’s hand raised, but Carly fired first.

  Blood sprayed from the soldier’s head. Andrew wheeled around, yanking his pistol from his belt. The mortally wounded man advanced still, but with a strange, wobbly-legged gait. Before Andrew had time to shoot at the odd sight before him, Carly fired a second shot, hitting the soldier in the neck. His pistol discharged harmlessly in the air as he fell face-first with a dull thud.

  Andrew gaped at the fallen man, then looked incredulously across the deck to where she stood at the window.

  Overcome by the enormity of what she’d done, Carly staggered backward. The gunshots and her heartbeat rang in her ears. Strange emotions swirled through her. She had killed a man—and saved Andrew’s life. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cheer, cry, or be sick.

  “Amanda!” Andrew pounded on the door like a madman. “God’s teeth, woman. Open the bloody door!”

  Her hands shook as she released the bolt. He crashed inside, almost knocking her down. His breath hissed in and out as he bolted it closed.

  “Andrew. You’re hurt.” She reached up to push his bloody hair off his forehead.

  He reared back.” ’Tis a scratch.” He was taut, gruff, and had the wild eyes of a warrior in battle. “Where is the weapon?”

  “Jonesy. Is he dead?”

  “No, he is not! The pistol. Hand it to me.”

  She placed the still warm gun in his palm. He gingerly turned the weapon over, looked inside the barrel, sniffed at it. “I have never seen workmanship such as this. Who built this? Where did you purchase it?”

  She answered the easiest question first. “It’s a Glock 26 handgun.”

  His head jerked up. “I have never heard of ‘Glock.’ ’Tis not at all a conventional pistol.”

  “It sure as hell was conventional in my time.”

  He lowered the gun. “Your time . . .”

  “Yes. Almost two hundred years from now.”

  His inner struggle was evident in his distracted gaze. He paced several steps and stopped. Exhaling a rough breath, he turned to face her. “You are not Lady Amanda.”

  “You believe me!”

  He nodded.

  Joy and relief surged through her. She clutched her hands, fought to keep her breathing even. “Had I known the gun would convince you, I’d have shown it to you long ago.”

  With bloodshot eyes, he contemplated the weapon in his hands.

  “Would you like to see how it works?” Tapping the gun with one finger, she raised her brows in silent entreaty. The ammo was precious, but it was worth a bullet to ensure her victory.

  “Aye.”

  Cautiously, she covered his hands with hers. Standing beside and somewhat behind him, she gently guided his fingers around the gun. “See? Not so different than your pistol.”

  His dark brows drew together. He lifted the weapon, pointing it out the window that faced the stern.” ’Tis prepared?”

  “No powder,” she told him. “Now all you do is fire.”

  A muscle ticked above his stubbled, sweaty jaw. He aimed steady and true, then fired a single shot out to sea.

  “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered. Holding his arm rigid, the gun firmly in his grip, he closed his eyes. “It has the gentle kick of a babe,” he said finally.

  “Compared to your pistols, yes.”

  “No powder is required?”

  She shook her head. “It’s inside the individual bullets. The rounds.”

  “Hide it.”

  She stepped back. “No. Keep it. Please. You’ll need it out there.”

  “No!” he snapped. “No one must see this. No one must know. Swear to me you will not show any man this weapon.”

  “I swear. I—” He was regarding her in an odd, intense way. “Andrew?”

  Something inside him seemed to snap. He hauled her up against him so fast that her feet came off the ground. His mouth came down hard over hers, and he kissed her with a possessiveness that had not been there before. He smelled of gunpowder, tasted of battle—of salty sweat, the metallic tang of blood. He was impatient, almost rough, and there was both fury and frustration in his muffled, drawn-out groan.

  She locked her arms behind his neck, pressing every inch of herself to him. Growling deep in his throat, he dragged his open mouth from her lips to her cheek, her ear. His hot breath sent streaks of pleasure up her spine, raised goose bumps on her arms and legs.

  He gasped, “Carly . . . oh, Carly.”

  Carly.

  Uttering a soft cry of joy, she clasped her fingers behind his head, forcing his mouth down to hers to taste the sweet sound of her name on his lips.

  Mumbling something about wanting more than kisses, he pushed her backward to where the hammocks padded the wall. In one swift motion, he caught her thighs and hoisted her up. Molding his hands over her buttocks, he lifted her atop the hard, thick bulge between his thighs.

  He buried his face between her shoulder and neck and rocked his hips as though he was already inside her. His whiskers scoured her neck, his hands covered her breasts, and his breathing grew harsh and uneven. Reaching between their bodies, he fumbled with the buttons on his pants.

  Driven by the lingering adrenaline from the battle, he intended to take her hard and fast against the wall, so unlike her fantasies, where he’d made slow and exquisitely tender love to her. Yet her need for him was so intense, she’d do anything he wanted.

  “Yes, my sweet girl, my fire.”

  Anything.

  “Amanda—”

  “Carly,” she corrected breathlessly.

  He gaped at her blankly, as though he’d woken up to find a stranger wrapped around him.

  “What is it, Andrew?”

  Anguish flashed in his eyes. He made a choked groan and went rigid. Carly’s thighs slid down his legs, and her booted feet hit the planked floor with twin thuds.

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I made a big deal out of it. I expect it’ll take a little while to get used to calling me Carly.”

  “‘Used to’?” He slammed his open hand against the wall.

  She flinched.

  “Where is Amanda?”

  “How am I supposed to know where she is? I don’t even know how I got here.”

  “You don’t know,” he
repeated in a monotone. Abruptly, he turned his back to her and buttoned his pants. Then he crossed the room to the door.

  “A good-bye would be nice.”

  “Do not seek to detain me, milady.”

  “Afraid if you stay that you’ll soil the cargo?” she quipped nervously in hopes of defusing whatever had gotten him so riled.

  He said nothing.

  A few steps brought her next to him. “Andrew?”

  The veil of icy remoteness that had so characterized his behavior in her early days onboard the ship had returned to his eyes.” ’Tis the way of it, aye.”

  As if deflecting a blow, she brought her hands to her stomach.

  “I don’t understand,” she persisted, hating the quavering of her voice. “I don’t belong to the duke. I don’t belong to anyone. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. She saw him clench his jaw. “I must see to my men.”

  “Talk to me, Andrew. Don’t do this.”

  “No?” he bellowed. “What would you have me do? You have proven your identity, have you not? And now you want me to act as though I am pleased? God’s teeth, woman!” The very air in the stuffy room vibrated with his rage. “What the bloody hell am I supposed to tell my crew? That I’ve risked their lives for naught? That instead of the duke’s betrothed I’ve snared some apparition from the future? ‘ ’Twas a slightly muddled kidnapping, Your Grace. Please accept my apologies.’ Oh, bloody hell, I can hear Richard laughing now.”

  “Damn it, Andrew. Let him laugh! Who cares?”

  He glowered at her. “I do.”

  “I see. Well, I’m glad I found this all out now. Before we . . . you know.” Tears stung her eyes as she waved her hand at his crotch.

  “Milady, I will say this but once more. I cannot dally, tempted though I am by your, ah, sweet invitation.”

  “How dare you!” She lifted her hand, wanting to slap away his insolence. Instead, she curled her hand into a fist and pressed it to her thigh. His nostrils flared as though she had indeed struck him.

  He looked almost apologetic as he reached for the bolt. “Stay back.” He opened the door, then peered cautiously outside, his cutlass poised and ready. “The skirmish has ended. The day, however, is far from over. Stay inside. That is an order, be there any doubt on your part.”

 

‹ Prev