Breaking the Rake's Rules

by Bronwyn Scott

  Kitt stepped close, frustration evident in his eyes. She involuntarily backed up a step. She’d crossed a line with her latest bit of defiance, but she’d not give in. In her gut, Bryn knew she had to win this argument for both their sakes. Kitt was worried for her and that had limited his perception of the options. ‘Bryn, I need you to follow directions. How can I keep you safe?’ he ground out the old argument.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, an idea forming. She spoke quickly, the words coming rapidly, racing against time. ‘You’re only saying this, only acting like this, because I’m a woman. What if I wasn’t?’

  Kitt gave a wide grin, some of the grimness receding from his eyes, his voice full of mischief the way it usually was. ‘Now that would be very disappointing.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  If Bryn didn’t have to be a woman, he didn’t have to be the captain. Of course, in his case, success was less assured. Depending who was on that ship, someone might recognise him regardless of disguise. If it was Devore, as he suspected, Devore would know him. But if it was someone else entirely, or if Devore didn’t board the ship, he stood a chance of escaping detection. Not that it mattered as much for him as it did for Bryn. Bryn’s disguise took away leverage that could be used against him. It ensured her safety. His disguise simply enhanced the element of surprise.

  Kitt rummaged through O’Reilly’s things in the crew quarters, looking for a knit cap. His own soaked and worn culottes would certainly pass muster as crew attire, but he’d been bareheaded and a cap would go far in hiding his hair. Any distraction would help. He had no illusion that pretending not to be himself would resolve this ambush favourably. But it would be a start. There was still the issue of keeping his ship and crew intact and being able to sail away when this was over. For that, he’d need a knife, a nice long sharp one.

  Back up on deck, he gave Passemore a wink and instructions to wave the white flag. ‘We want to be able to sail away when this is done.’ He’d not lied to Bryn. He wasn’t worried about being sunk. But he did worry another volley might render the Queen too incapacitated to sail away in a timely manner and it would be better to get this ruse under way sooner than later.

  His men assembled, waiting in an orderly but dangerous line, for the longboat of invaders to reach them. They knew without being told this was no textbook surrender. They were to be vigilant and wait for their moment. He almost missed Bryn entirely, his eyes picking her out at the last moment. His optimism rose. This just might work.

  A beefy Jamaican was the first on board, a mean, wicked-looking man. The captain no doubt. Kitt narrowed his eyes, keeping his attention on the man who would be his opponent. The Jamaican walked down the line, his voice deep and barking, carrying over the wind. ‘Where is Captain Sherard?’

  Come on, come a little closer. Kitt’s hand closed around the handle of his hidden knife. He wanted to be the one to answer that question, but only when the brute was close enough to seize. Kitt didn’t want the gambit working the other way. He didn’t want one of his men pulled out of line and forced at knifepoint to reveal his identity. He wanted to do all the revealing, all the knife work. Nobody took what was his. This audacious bastard needed a lesson in that.

  When no one answered, the captain stopped by Bryn five men down the line from him. Kitt swallowed. Move away from her. He wondered if he could reach her in time. There would be a mêlée. The captain had not come alone. Kitt counted twenty men in the longboat with him and another twenty were probably on the way. He wasn’t looking for a fight. He was looking for leverage.

  ‘Will no one tell me?’ the captain yelled again, starting to move forward once more. ‘Shall I select one of you to tell me?’ He halted by Passemore standing beside Kitt. The captain turned to call back down the line. ‘I shall start slitting throats, beginning with this one.’ That was his fatal mistake.

  Kitt knew he wouldn’t get a better chance. He grabbed the man from behind, knife at the man’s neck. Anger and rage pulsed through him as Kitt hauled the brute to the rail, his men leaping into instant action, weapons drawn from secret locations on their persons to minimise any heroics on the part of the Jamaican’s crew.

  ‘One move and he dies!’ Kitt bellowed, making sure the other ship could see him. He was betting whoever was left over there wasn’t fool enough to fire on the Queen with so many of their own men on board. He was relieved to see the oncoming longboat turn back. There’d be no reinforcements. Cowards and mercenaries, then. Kitt thought. Not a crew like his who had been together, who could rely on one another. He raised a bead of blood to make sure the other ship knew he meant business. He could not afford to bluff, not with Bryn, his crew and his ship depending on him. Truth was, this captain was dead regardless. To let him go gave him a second chance to blow them out of the water.

  ‘You surrendered!’ the captain ground out, starting to sweat. He’d probably just come to the same realisation. ‘You are not respecting the rules of the game!’ It was a desperate plea, one captain to another.

  ‘I ran up a quarantine flag and you did not respect that,’ Kitt growled, pressing his knife tip. ‘The rules had been broken long before now.’ Whatever he did, he’d have to do it soon. It was a dangerous guessing game now. If his men released the crew and allowed them to return to their ship, would they fire on the Queen, sacrificing their captain, or would the captain’s presence be enough to prevent it? Maybe it didn’t matter if the captain lived or died. It was hard to know in what capacity the captain was most valuable.

  ‘Passemore!’ Kitt made his decision. ‘Round up the men who don’t wish to be shot. Take them below to the hold as our prisoners! They will be dealt with in Bridgetown.’ Short twenty men, the ship would be hard pressed to follow them at full speed. ‘Except that one.’ Kitt pointed to a smaller, younger fellow. ‘Have him take a message back. If they aren’t under way in ten minutes, I will execute the captain.’ He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He hoped whoever was on board would understand they were beaten for the day and retreat.

  It was the most important question of the day. One look at the captain’s face told him the man didn’t know the answer any more than he did.

  * * *

  He had eight minutes left to answer and the first mate—the captain’s brother as it turned out—was staring him down. Devore cursed and kicked the table leg with his good foot. Damn and double damn. Sherard had him in a bind. Did he risk firing on the Queen and sacrificing a third of the crew for the sake of a second try? Even then, at such close range, the Queen would be able to fire again. The damage Sherard had already done to the boat was going to cost him. Would the remaining crew follow his orders? He wasn’t the one in charge, just the one paying the bills. If he did let Sherard have his captain, where would he find another one? Captains without scruples were expensive. He’d have to start all over and that would definitely put him behind.

  On the other hand, Sherard’s ship was limping, too. This might be his only chance to take Sherard. It was frustrating to have the man at such close range only to let him slip away. The captain was only one man. If he let Sherard make it back to Bridgetown, the stakes rose substantially. This went from being a personal vendetta to taking on the crown’s banking and legal system. He’d be wanted for fraud.

  ‘What will it be, mon?’ The first mate glared, fingering a wicked blade with feigned idleness. ‘A short life or a longer one? If they do my brother over there, I will do you a minute later.’

  Devore unconsciously fingered his throat. That made the decision a bit easier. ‘We’ll pull away, of course.’ He smiled. ‘A fine captain like your brother would be too hard to replace. Tell the crew to make ready to depart.’

  The first mate gave a cold smile. ‘A very good decision, mon.’

  Maybe not a good decision, but the only decision. Devore helped himself to a hefty serving of the captain’s rum. After all, fraud was fa
irly difficult to prosecute and they’d have to catch him first. Sherard would understand today hadn’t been a victory, it had been a draw. Sherard would have to live with the knowledge that he was still out there, still coming for him and that kind of knowledge made it hard for a man to sleep at night. Oh, no, this was definitely not a victory for Kitt Sherard, but perhaps it was a tiny victory for him.

  * * *

  Kitt’s crew gave a victory cry as the dark ship moved off into the rain. The movement was slow—the Queen’s cannons had done some damage, giving as good as it had got. They were safe now. They could look to mending their own hurts. It would be wet, messy business in the rain. The weather was not pleasant, but thankfully it hadn’tworsened. By morning, the sun would be out, but Kitt didn’t want to wait until then to get under way with twenty prisoners and the enemy’s captain on board. Any sign of weakness could be an incentive for them to attempt a mutiny.

  He put Passemore in charge of repairs and gestured for O’Reilly to join him. It was time to get some answers. He allowed himself to seek out Bryn with his eyes. She’d dedicated herself to cleaning up the deck. Her face was white, but stoic, as she worked. He wished she was in the cabin, getting warm and dry, but he understood why she wasn’t: too much adrenaline. He could no more expect her to sit than he could expect it of anyone else right now. Men needed to work after a battle, needed to have purpose. He wanted to go to her, but there was no time and this was not the place. He had to be the captain first and there was still a job that needed doing, further testament Bryn could not be part of his life.

  He drew a breath for fortitude. ‘Come on, O’Reilly, let’s go see our guests.’ But O’Reilly had seen the direction of his thoughts. The big man clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Your woman did well today.’ O’Reilly’s face split into a grin. ‘I doubt many women could have pulled it off. She didn’t flinch when the captain stopped right in front of her. Of course, I was next to her and I wouldn’t have let the captain touch a hair on her head.’

  ‘Thankfully it didn’t come to that.’ Kitt smiled politely. O’Reilly meant well, but that was the problem. Bryn made men feel chivalrous. Men would fight for her, die for her whether she wanted them to or not.

  He could not have that, not for himself or his crew. Today had gone right by luck. There was only so much he could control. He couldn’t control where the captain stopped along the line. He couldn’t control who the captain picked as a first victim. If O’Reilly had been forced to protect Bryn, there would have been blood spilt and quite a lot of it. Bryn stripped away all objectivity from a situation. He couldn’t have it, he simply couldn’t have it.

  Down in the hold, Kitt gave O’Reilly his instructions. ‘I want to know who was behind this ambush today. Remember, you’re the ship’s doctor. You’re supposed to patch people up, not rip them open,’ he cautioned O’Reilly when the big man cracked his knuckles with a bit more glee than Kitt would recommend from a physician. ‘We’re going to play nice.’

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ O’Reilly said respectfully. ‘And if that fails, we have plan B.’

  * * *

  Her plan had worked brilliantly—so brilliantly, in fact, that she’d never been so scared in her entire life! Bryn slipped out of the oilskin slicker, having finally allowed herself to seek the sanctuary of Kitt’s cabin. She was cold, something she’d thought she’d never be in the Caribbean with its sticky, underwear-forgoing heat. Her teeth were even chattering.

  Bryn carefully peeled the wet clothes from her skin. She’d borrowed some of Kitt’s since Passemore’s had obviously done little to hide her more feminine assets. Kitt’s clothes had been far larger, though, and she’d had to make liberal use of rope to tie up his pants. Now, all that extra cloth was haunting her. Her cold fingers fumbled on the extra fabric, her tired legs threatened to tangle in the legs of his culottes. At least, the effort kept her mind from wandering down less pleasant paths.

  Finally, she was free of the wet clothes. She wrapped a blanket about her, letting warmth start to creep into her skin, but thoughts began to creep in, too, images of the day and with them came the horrible ‘what ifs’ she’d not dared to dwell on as the events had unfolded for fear they would steal her courage. But now, there was nothing left to restrain them, nothing left to keep them at bay and they came, in floods and in torrents.

  Always Kitt was at the centre of those images. The desire to see him, to assure herself he was safe, or maybe it had been the desire to assure herself she was safe, had driven her on deck. Her eyes had known where to look for him. He’d been everywhere, shouting orders, lending a hand where it was needed and he’d saved her from her own careless foolishness when the cannon ball had whined overhead. He’d been vibrant and alive in those moments. But that man had also been a stranger.

  She did not know the grim captain who had argued with her to seek the safety of the cabin. He was so different than the laughing, cocksure Kitt she knew, to whom everything was a game, even life itself. That had not been the case today. Today had been serious business.

  She understood why. This ambush had not been a game to the captain who’d boarded them. When he’d stopped in front of her, it had taken every ounce of her bravery to see those moments through. He could hardly have stood there more than a few seconds, but it had seemed an eternity. The only thought she’d been capable of thinking in the interim was that he’d not been bluffing. He would have killed to get his answers. He was a brute. But when Kitt had drawn his knife, she’d known Kitt would have, too. She’d hardly recognised the ferocious man who’d leapt into action five men down from her.

  There were people who claimed they’d kill for something, but those were just words. Worse, in her own bloodlust, in her own desire for safety, she’d wanted him to do it. She’d wanted him to kill the man and put an end to her fear. Kitt had proven better than that, though. He’d seen the long-term advantages to keeping the captain alive. He was below deck even now, interrogating the captain for information. What did that make him? Was Kitt a brute just with better looks? No, that was unfair and she knew better. She’d made quite a discovery today. Deep down, hidden away beneath the armour of his carefree nonchalance, Kitt was loyal to the bone.

  Today, Kitt had protected his crew, his ship and her by any means possible. He’d not hesitated to draw blood to see it done. All of which pointed to the reality that this, or things like this, had happened before. She’d not missed the fact that his crew had taken each progression of the battle in stride. They’d fired cannons with efficiency, they’d been prepared to flawlessly enact the mock surrender without giving away their captain’s identity. Flawlessness required practice. Proof enough, these things not only happened, but they happened with frequent regularity. Today, she’d had a glimpse into the real life of Kitt Sherard. This is what he spent his days doing, this was how he’d built his fortune.

  It was, admittedly, quite a lot for a girl to take in. Although, why she should find it shocking escaped her. You knew. You’ve known from the start. Good men don’t climb balconies. Good men don’t roam beaches in bedsheets. Good men don’t make love as if they won’t see tomorrow. She had known. She really had. But as the saying went, seeing was believing.

  The door to the cabin flew open, helped by the wind. Kitt stepped inside, all dripping, soaking, six feet of him. Every inch of him a man against all, a man who had won. Bryn’s pulse raced, her eyes unable to look away from the sheer attractiveness of raw, potent male on display, a man fresh come from battle.

  ‘Bryn!’ The hoarse word ripped from Kitt’s throat as he crossed the room.

  She rose, dropping the blanket, meeting him halfway. She was seeing, and heaven help her, she was believing.

  Chapter Twenty

  Heaven help him, he could not be gentle. Kitt pulled her to him in a rough embrace, his mouth ravaging hers in his need, his wet, soaking body pressed t
o her naked one, selfishly drinking in her heat, her life. How he’d wanted to do this for hours! How he’d wanted to wrap his body around hers, wanted to immerse himself deep inside her, to assure himself she was safe.

  Bryn’s hands were frantic on him, tugging at his wet clothes until they had him out of them, his body as naked as hers. ‘Are you cold?’ She was managing a one-sided, breathless conversation between kisses. ‘Come to bed, I can warm you better there.’

  Kitt bore her backwards to the blankets. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He followed her down with a laugh, feeling alive, feeling the fear that had gripped him the last hours effectively banished. Her legs were open to him, welcoming him into their cradle. His erection, already full, surged pikestaff-hard at first contact with her soft flesh. This would not take long. Three thrusts, maybe four and he’d be spent. There was no finesse as he entered her hard and fast, primal thrust after primal thrust as he buried himself inside her.

  He found her ready for it. Her legs wrapped about his hips, taking him deep, her core wet and slick, ready to accommodate his rough entry, even revel in it. Beneath him, her body arched, bucking in the hasty pleasure of their coupling, her climax as feverish, as intense as his when it came. This was not about first times or last times, lucky guesses or second chances, this was about drinking the ambrosia of life.

  He lay embedded inside her long afterwards, reluctant to leave the shelter of her feminine harbour. They were entwined completely, intimately. When at last he moved, it was to roll on his side and take her against him, her buttocks curled against the curve of his groin. Consummation and comfort; he craved them both. He’d had his consummation, wild and ferocious, but he still sought the comfort of holding her close, the assurance that she was there, whole and safe. ‘Bryn, I nearly lost you today. I’m so sorry.’ It was easier to talk without seeing her face. She was warm against him. It felt good, it felt right. Moments of happiness are not sustainable, he reminded himself.