The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  Too late. Too bad. Too everything, it appears.

  I am a sea dog in search of a friend. I am not who I appear to be on any respect. Bronwen was right. I am a fraud. And now a lovely woman has fallen in love with someone who does not exist.

  Kennedy was right.

  I am in over my head.

  And now... now it’s too late.

  ***

  They returned the next morning to Clew Bay. Just prior to docking at Grace O’Malley’s home pier, Quinn went down to the galley so Murphy could check her wound. Climbing on a table, she lay on her stomach while Murphy examined her stitches.

  “Ya healed good, Callaghan. It must be that druid who came ta get ya. Beautiful woman in an odd sorta way. Them druids scare the shite outta me, but their medicines are second ta none.”

  “Aye. She put special unguents on it.”

  “And what a’ the other woman? What did she add ta the healing process?”

  Quinn turned and propped herself up on her elbow. “What other woman?”

  “Ya don’t remember?” Murphy shook his head as he pulled out a thin knife and cut the knot to release the stitches. “Of course ya didn’t. Ya were feverish and drugged up. Again, compliments a’ the druid.”

  “Who was it? What was her name?”

  “I didna ask and she didna offer. She merely pushed her way in. Ya have friends in high places, lad, because she was a woman a’ means, ta be sure.”

  “What... what did she say? What did she do?”

  Murphy snipped the fishing line. “I don’t know, lad, I wasn’t in the room with ya.”

  “How long was she there?”

  Murphy frowned as he pulled the fishing line sutures out of her. “Truly? Ya don’t remember at all? She stayed all night by yer bedside. She finally left come mornin’ when the druid got here. Left with just a ‘thank ya’ fer lettin’ her stay.”

  “All night?”

  “Aye. I pushed in once and she was strokin’ yer head and speakin’ softly ta ya in a kinda motherly voice. Stayed all night she did. I guess I thought ya knew.”

  “No. No, I didn’t, but thanks fer telling me.” Quinn slid off the table.

  “Kin I give ya some advice, lad? There are many things in this world ya canna mix––sea life with land livin’, ale with wine, and us with people a’ means. Nothin’ good can come a’ that.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Besides, dontcha also have a filly at the Galway port?”

  Quinn looked at him.

  He shrugged. “She’s a pretty little thing, Callaghan. Everraone noticed her, but only ya got ’er. She’s more yer type, that one. What was her name?”

  “Becca.”

  “Well then, seein’ as we’re resupplyin’, I suggest ya see this Becca, and get that other woman outta yer heart. But be careful a’ yer wound. The scar is still fresh.”

  With the seed planted, it wasn’t long before Quinn was sitting in the Oxtail Tavern drinking another ale with Connor, Patrick, and Fitz.

  “How do ya do it?” Connor asked. “How does a scrawny thing like ya attract so many beautiful women?”

  “First off, I’m not scrawny. Secondly, a woman likes ta be wooed. She likes conversation. Ya all act like an octopus with eight hands grabbing at them. It’s exhausting ta watch and probably worse ta experience.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s about ya. Not her. Get interested in her. Act like ya give a horse’s arse that she is the one yer with and not just some random piece of tail.”

  “Ya want us ta talk ta ’em?”

  All of the men exchanged glances as if to assure themselves of the ludicrous nature of the suggestion.

  Quinn rolled her eyes. Men were so stupid. “Of course. Trust me on this, fellas: words will get a woman ta bed much faster than yer body”

  “What’s wrong wit’ me body?”

  Quinn groaned. “Connor, look at that woman over there. She is soft, curvy, warm, and beautiful. Now look at ya. Ya are hard, crusty, have hands like rough wood, a beard made of wire, and yer all edges and hair. There is not one thing smooth about ya. Why on earth would a soft, smooth woman want yer callused hairiness pressed against her?”

  The three men looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  “There’s no answer, ya twits! She wouldn’t. That’s the answer. She would not. Ya have ta soften yer harshness with words. Once ya learn ta do that, there will be many women coming ta yer beds without ya having ta tug at their skirts or gawk at their bosom.”

  “Words, eh? But what do you say?” Patrick asked. “We have nothin’ in common.”

  “Ask questions. Be interested in her: her life, her story. How hard is it ta ask a damn question?”

  Becca caught Quinn’s eye and flowed over to her. “Don’t be drinkin’ so much ya canna perform tonight, lover. These scalliwags have a way a’ passin’ clean out, and I’ll not have that.” She leaned forward to kiss Quinn, and as she did, her ample bosom fell forward, nearly all the way out of her bodice. “I have plans fer ya this night.” With that, Becca flounced away.

  For a moment or so, no one spoke. Finally, when someone did, Fitz said, barely above a whisper, “I want them plans.”

  Quinn threw her head back and laughed. “Then start using yer words, gentlemen. Otherwise, order another round and enjoy the drunkenness––but me? I’ve got my own plans, and they don’t include enna of ya.”

  Three hours later, those plans were being carried out with Quinn’s head between Becca’s legs once more.

  “I... I’ve never been with a man who knew what... what he was doing down there.”

  Quinn looked up at Becca’s heaving chest. “I just pay attention, sweet girl.”

  Becca gently pushed Quinn’s head back between her legs. “Well then, keep payin’ attention.”

  Becca’s orgasm was loud and exquisite as she held Quinn’s face between her legs, arched her back and released a very loud, growling noise.

  When she finally let go of Quinn’s head, she pulled her on top of her and kissed her hard and deep. “No excuses this time, lover. Tonight, I am goin’ ta make ya forget all the other wenches in all the other ports.” Becca started with Quinn’s buttons, but Quinn gently took Becca’s hands in hers and kissed them.

  “Not tonight, love. I can’t strain myself because I was stabbed clean through and––”

  Becca sat up. “What? Where? Are ya all right? Oh my goddess, and here I’ve made ya do all this work.”

  Quinn smiled and pulled her back down. “There was no ‘work’ involved, and I am fine. I just had my fishing line removed, so the scar is too fresh fer me ta overly exert myself. I... I apologize fer––”

  “Apologize, nothin’! I am the one who is sorry. Are ya all right? Did ya nearly die? Does it still hurt?” Becca gently rolled Quinn onto her back. “Show me. Please.”

  Quinn gently lifted her jerkin and her shirt up just enough so Becca could see the red, puckered scar.

  “Oh... oh my.” Becca pressed her hand to her chest as tears came to her eyes. “It looks painful.”

  “It was. Not enna longer. Just a little tender.” Quinn reached up and lightly caressed Becca’s face. “I’m fine, lass. Truly.”

  Becca gently ran her fingers over the scar. For the longest time she said nothing. “I don’t want ta care about ya, Kieran, I truly don’t. Knowin’ what ya do, how dangerous it all is, makes me know that lovin’ a man like ya is a fool’s mission.” Leaning over, she kissed Quinn. “But I have discovered that I am a fool, and I do care, and everra time I hear that Grace’s ship has docked, my heart pounds, and I start lookin’ fer ya.”

  Quinn pulled Becca’s face to hers and kissed her deeply, her hands in Becca’s soft hair.

  “Ya are right about it being a fool’s mission, Becca. Lovin’ a pirate can only lead ta heartache and tears. It is verra dangerous out there, especially now that Captain O’Malley has decided ta run off the English ships.”

  Becca looked
away. “I see. Ya do not feel that way fer me.”

  Quinn thought of Fiona, of the impossibility of that union. She thought about Patrick’s words, and her own personal mission to bring Shea back. This woman, this sweet, kind woman wanted something from Quinn she couldn’t really give. “Becca, I would if I could, but I am a man in search of a childhood friend who was abducted by a ship with this figurehead.” Quinn pulled her drawing out. “I can think a’ nothing else until I find the ship and the man responsible fer taking her.”

  Becca studied the drawing. “Her. So she is... special ta ya.”

  “She is my oldest friend, if that is special, and we swore an oath. I must stay true ta that oath until I find her. As much as I want ta love, I cannot until I have done everrathing in my power ta bring her home.”

  “And then? When ya find her?”

  Quinn traced Becca’s eyebrow with her fingertips. “Then and only then will I allow myself ta feel my true feelings and love someone back.”

  Becca stared into Quinn’s eyes a long time before sighing. “Leave it ta old Becca ta fall in love with the only pirate in Eyre who has morals.”

  Quinn chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Can I keep this drawin’? Perhaps I can ask around about it.”

  “Thank ya, but I wouldn’t want ya ta do that. I understand it was probably corsairs who took her, and they would slit yer throat as soon as look at ya.”

  Becca took the drawing anyway. “Trust me. I know my way ’round pirates... corsairs or otherwise. Ya just haven’t given me the chance ta show ya.”

  Quinn pulled her closer, and they kissed long and hard for several minutes before Quinn finally pulled away. Her heart yearned for Fiona. Her loins ached for something she could never see happening. But this? This was something real she could do in the meantime. Becca was someone she could spend soft, warm time with. “Someday, I will give ya that chance.”

  Becca grinned. “I’ll look forward ta it then.”

  ***

  After the resupply, everyone returned to the ship. Some had more coin on them, others had less. Some had lascivious smiles on their faces, others were clearly frustrated, but all were happy to be back on board the Malendroke.

  There was a definite shelf limit for the amount of time a sea dog could stay on land comfortably. With the salty sea water coursing through their veins, the water was the only place where the crew of the Malendroke truly felt at peace.

  Quinn was beginning to understand that. The men returned to the ship less edgy, less tense. They bored quickly on land. Apparently, a man actually could tire of wine, women, and song.

  Quinn was happy just to be back in the hunt. She could not move on with her real life as long as Shea was missing. As long as––

  Her real life.

  Standing at the very tip of the bow as the ship slowly left Clew Bay, Quinn wondered what her real life really was. A female dressed as a male pirate? A noblewoman pretending to be a subordinate? A woman who loved other women and had no idea what to do about it?

  Who was she really?

  As the salty air caressed her face, she felt like more questions than answers were buffeted across the wind.

  Had she truly fallen in love with the sea? Had she become so comfortable in male clothing that she could never go back to wearing a dress again? Or was she just some kind of deviant who felt more like a man on this ship than she ever felt like a woman on land?

  And what if that answer was yes? What then?

  Feeling someone stand next to her, Quinn opened her eyes, half-expecting Murphy to be standing there with an orange.

  Instead, it was Grace.

  “I often come here when me mind won’t still,” Grace said in a voice Quinn had never heard before. “The sea is our beloved mistress, and we return ta her bosom ta replenish our spirit, our hearts, our energy. That is what yer feelin’, Callaghan––the mistress’s tender touch upon yer soul. It is life-givin’ and inexplicable.”

  Quinn could only nod as she kept her eyes on the horizon.

  Who was Grace O’Malley that she could so easily read another person?

  “Ya hadna expected ta fall in love with her, had ya?”

  Quinn shook her head, uncertain of whom Grace was speaking.

  “Some men are born ta it. Others, like myself, are drawn ta it... and when we get here, we are finally home.”

  “Home.”

  “Then there’s the crew. Crew’s just another name fer family.” Grace stared straight ahead as she spoke, almost as if she wasn’t even aware of Quinn’s presence. “Knowin’ a man’ll gut yer attackers like a fish if they get too close, or twistin’ yer back ta a bloke ya know would take a dagger fer ya. There’s no greater bond than a fightin’ man’s bond. And it creeps up on ya. Before ya know it, ya’d die fer the man fightin’ next ta ya. That’s family.”

  Quinn nodded, but she found herself unable to speak. Grace was handing out sage advice, and she didn’t want to miss a word.

  “Whether it’s the wind or the water, the men or the mayhem, there truly isn’t a better life than this one we’re livin’ right here, right now. So if yer askin’ yerself what happened––if yer wonderin’ how all a’ this seeped into yer life, Callaghan, just know, the sea calls who the sea calls. Not everraone answers, but those who do are in fer a life unlike enna other.” Grace turned and walked away. “I suggest ya accept it fer the gift it is.”

  When Grace was gone, Quinn suddenly felt lighter, less troubled than before. With all of the changes that had happened to her, Grace had managed to clear up any of Quinn’s questions.

  The sea had called, and she had answered.

  ***

  They had relentlessly pursued an English ship for hours, fighting gusting winds and torrential downpours. But the moment Grace O’Malley looked through the spyglass at the horizon, she threw her head back and laughed before commanding everyone, “Heave-ho!”

  One thing Quinn had learned in her time with Grace O’Malley was that the captain had an amazing, if not altogether uncanny, way of predicting the weather. It was the greatest singular reason why Grace’s father had allowed her to start sailing with him; she could do what her half-brother could not—and she was doing it now: reading the weather ahead.

  “They’re headin’ right into a storm!” she yelled gleefully. “Hard ta port, McAdams! Hard ta port! Bring ’er ta rest in the safety a’ that cove! We’ll wait ’er out.” Grace O’Malley fairly cackled. “That storm’ll blow ’em right back ta us or sink her where she lies!”

  Quinn feverishly worked her rope to help turn the Malendroke to the left toward a cove that no one else had seen except Grace.

  The rain battered the deck of the ship as the sea roiled beneath them, angrily rising and falling in utter indecision. Every crewmember up top worked zealously to keep the sails billowing without breaking the masts, turning without tearing. And as the huge ship finally negotiated the turn, it slid almost effortlessly into the protected cove, where the wind seemed uninterested in following.

  “Hold!” Captain O’Malley ordered, and to a one, they released their tied-off ropes before collapsing on the deck.

  “She’s trapped us in ’ere,” Connor whispered as he leaned against the side of the ship next to Quinn. “This is madness.”

  “I’m betting she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

  Connor looked dubious.

  Grace stared up at the sky, looking for something no other man could see. “Don’t rest on yer laurels, lads; there’s a change comin’! We’ll turn her about and take that rat-bastard ship from the aft side. Everraone on deck!”

  Quinn had forever been astonished by how quickly the Malendroke’s crew was always ready to fight. It was as if they lived for these moments... as if pirating was more about the fight and less about the rewards of winning one.

  “Me arms feel like oak trunks,” Connor said, rubbing his biceps.

  “Well, get ready fer more pain, because we’re gonna have
ta get her turned.”

  Connor rose and looked over the side. “I don’ know, Callaghan... I don’t think she left enough room.”

  “Man yer stations, lads! It’s comin’, and it’s comin’ hard and fast!” Grace’s voice held a tautness to it, sprinkled with a bit of glee. It was strange how she rose to these challenges with such fervor. Quinn rightly admired her for it but also found it a bit disconcerting.

  Quinn looked at Connor. “What’s coming?”

  “Steady,” Grace commanded. “Keep her steady fellas.” She spoke while her eyes never left the sky. “Steady.”

  Quinn had her hands around the rope and glanced at all the others who worked the masts, the oars, the wheel, and the rudder. She had to agree with Connor. It did not look like there was enough room to negotiate the tight turn.

  “Pull! Harder!” Grace yelled. “Harder, ya soft-skulled dimwits! Pull!” She suddenly turned about and stood as if sniffing the air.

  Out of nowhere, as if the wind had come up and over the cliffs and directly into the cove, the sails blossomed and billowed as the Malendroke leaned toward the port side in an attempt to turn.

  Grace laughed.

  The wind grabbed the sails and the aft side of the ship and pushed them to the point of capsizing before Grace yelled, “Harder! One more time. Give ’er all ya got, boys!”

  With every ounce of energy she had left, Quinn pulled on her rope, straining against the wind, against the sail, against the fatigue in her body and, sure enough, the Malendroke made the turn and now faced the opening of the cove. The wind had held precisely as Grace knew it would.

  “Hold!”

  Once again, they tied her off and waited, chests heaving from the work of it.

  “And that would be why she is the captain,” Quinn said softly.

  “Aye ta that,” Connor said, wiping the rain from his face. “But what now?”

  Now, they waited.

  As quickly as it had come, the wind was gone, and Grace ordered fresh men to the oars. “Yer gonna hafta put yer backs into it, boys. When I give the order, ya row like yer verra life depends on it.” Then Grace strode quickly among the remaining soldiers, giving them each their orders.

  They said her organization was what made her such a successful pirate. Quinn could not disagree.