My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  “You're not old!”

  “You're only three and twenty!”

  “And you deserve your Gallant Knight!”

  Maeve laughed, just a little too loudly. “There are no Gallant Knights, girls, and when you get some age under your keels you’ll know I speak the truth! Men are all rascally blackguards, every last one of them, all intent on one thing and one thing only, and that’s satisfying the itch between their legs! Love? Bah!” She dismissed the idea with an scornful wave, shut the book, and handed it to them. “Love is nothing but a cruel hoax played by nature to entice two people to rut like dogs and so continue the miserable existence of this species. I do not believe in Gallant Knights, I do not believe in spells, and I damn well do not believe in wasting time in fruitless nonsense when we could be out stealing something!”

  Her words echoed in the silence, and no one spoke. The two sisters hung their heads,

  looking crestfallen. “It's just a game, Majesty,.” whispered Aisling.

  “Yes, just a game. . . .”

  “We're sorry.”

  Instantly, Maeve regretted her harsh words. She took a deep breath, and laid her hands on the shoulders of each girl. “I’m sorry, too. You're right. It is just a game.” She picked up her cutlass, and gripping the savage weapon that would have to act as the Magic Wand, mustered a grin. “Right, so, tell me what I'm supposed to do so we can end this lunacy.”

  The crew exchanged glances, knowing how difficult this was proving to be to the woman

  who led them. Enolia, her lieutenant, ebony-skinned and exotic, her tall, lithe form banded with muscle and flattered by African jewelry. Karena, blonde and blue-eyed and the finest gunner this side of Jamaica. Tia, the boatswain, sultry, and mischievous, Jenny, the sailing master, and of course, loyal Orla “You’re supposed to tell us what sort of man you want for your Gallant Knight,” Sorcha

  said, pushing her hair behind her ear as she peered earnestly down at the ancient text. “Then”—

  she frowned, trying to decipher the words—”then, you’re supposed to tap the Magic Wand

  against the cauldron three times and—ta da!—your Knight will appear, just like that!”

  ‘Ta da, just like that,” Maeve scoffed.

  “Yes, just like that.”

  Rolling her eyes, Maeve gazed out the open window, through the sheets of rain and toward

  the distant horizon. “Well. . . He would have to be a sailor,” she mused, her voice softening somewhat, “tall and lion-hearted, and strong as an oak. He would be a prince of the sea, a fearless warrior with courage to rule his every deed. . . “

  “Yes? Go on!”

  She tapped a ragged fingernail against her chin, her eyes beginning to gleam as she warmed to the fantasy. “He would be dark and handsome, masterful and brave. Clever. Strong. And of course,” she added, with a fleeting smile, “he would be an officer. . . a courageous and noble officer, a worthy man of purpose and honor and decency—”

  “A man like your papa, then?”

  Abruptly, her smile vanished and a cloud as dark as the one outside passed over the Pirate Queen’s face. “Aye,” she said bitterly. “Like my father.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Swift glances were exchanged, and Aisling flushed

  crimson at her ill-chosen words as the Pirate Queen turned to stare out the window, her eyes hard, her mouth an unbending slash of pain. Orla, who seldom spoke, made as if to do so now, but Maeve quickly recovered. Prideful as ever, and forcing aside the pain of the second, and most savage, betrayal of her life, she snatched up the spell book and affected an air of humor that fooled no one.

  “Blast it all,” she muttered, “why do I stand here wasting time? My deeds are too black, my heart too hard, for such a worthy man to ever take notice of me. Besides,” she added, in the haughty tone of the All-Knowing, “I had one of my Visions last night. I already know what manner of man I shall have, and he is no better than I am—a pirate, a thieving blackguard worthy of the gallows and nothing more.” Her voice rose with suppressed hurt. “That is what the Sight has shown me, and it is never wrong!”

  “It is sometimes,” Aisling taunted.

  “Well, it’s not this time!” Maeve snapped. “Enough of this madness, Kestrel has not been out in three days and my palm grows itchy for want of good, stolen coin—”

  “Oh, no, Majesty. We can’t leave without first completing the spell!”

  “Damn the spell!”

  “But there are other things that must be added to the cauldron!”

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll add!” Snatching up a gold drinking cup, Maeve stormed outside and returned, her hair wet from the rain, her eyes blazing, and flung the contents into the steaming cauldron. “Gull shit! Add this to the damned spell and see what you conjure up! There are no Gallant Knights in this world, there is no magic, and there is no man who will ever love me!”

  And with that, the Pirate Queen’s arm savagely scythed down and cutlass met cauldron with a ringing crash, once, twice, three times—

  The explosion rocked the room. It may have been a resulting spark and the black gunpowder that caused it; or maybe it was the spell itself. The cauldron went up in a burst of pink-and-orange flame, exploding outward with the force of a warship’s broadside. The crew dived for cover, their captain was slammed backward against a wall, furniture went flying, and windows blew apart. A piece of metal ripped the spell book from Orla’s hands and missed hitting her by an inch. Thick slime blasted against the white walls and trickled down in unholy torrents. And somewhere amidst this shattering melee of noise and fear, a commotion filled the doorway and a man was hauled unceremoniously forward by two pirates who contained him with pistols held at either side of his set and stubbled jaw.

  Too stunned to notice, the Pirate Queen lurched to her feet, her eyes still on the spot where the cauldron had been, where the two pink candles had stood, where there was now nothing but a blackened spot of singed flooring and an ugly mess of iron and sludge and stench. Her hands shaking, she reached up and touched her cheek.

  “Orla? Aisling? Sorcha? You . . . all right?”

  But they were all frozen in place and staring fixedly toward the door, their eyes as round as shot.

  Maeve knew, even before she took a deep breath and slowly turned to follow their gazes,

  what she would find.

  A man. Not just any man, but a tall, gloriously handsome one whose black hair streamed in rampant disarray past mighty shoulders and down a broad back; a man whose great hands were bunched into fists, a man with the devil’s own fury blazing from eyes as darkly blue as an empty midnight.

  Not the gallant officer she pined for . . .

  but a pirate.

  Maeve stepped forward, and gathered herself for a question that needed no answer.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  His gaze bored into hers. Furious, he reached up and flung an offending clot of slime from his dripping brow. Then, he pushed his captors aside and stepped forward, over six feet of towering male purpose, muscle, and rage.

  “Your gallant-bloody-knight!”

  Chapter 2

  Gray’s advance was halted by the Pirate Queen’s pointed cutlass against his chest.

  Bronzed by the sun, his shirt gaping, his bare skin sugared with beach sand through which little rivulets of seawater ran down, his wet and mighty body was like an impregnable fortress—

  but even so, he could not walk through a sword.

  “Stand aside, woman.” His voice was steely and hard, its tone dark, dangerous, and

  commanding.

  The slender arm holding the cutlass did not lower. Neither did the regal nose, nor the

  glittering gold eyes that clashed with his. “I am the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean,” she said, her voice quivering with rage, “and you will address me as Majesty.”

  “I,” he retorted, “will address you as I damn well please.” His gaze insolently drifted down her open vest and blous
y shirt.

  “You,” she snarled, “are on my island, in my house, and barging in on my spell. Therefore, I’d just as soon skewer you to the wall and feed you your entrails for breakfast as toss you to the sharks. Do I make myself clear?”

  A thick silence followed, the air crackling with tension.

  “I said, Do I make myself clear?”

  Gray stared into the golden depths of her eyes, matching her in fury, matching her in a

  struggle for power, matching her in silent, savage combat. This young brat was the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, a renowned figure he’d dismissed as an overinflated legend made large by the same sort who professed to have seen mermaids, sea monsters, and the ghost of Blackbeard?

  Don’t vex me, little girl, he thought, darkly; and then something tickled his temple and, reflexively, he swiped at the last of the slime that still dripped down his face. At that moment the absurdity of the situation struck him with sudden force and the corners of his mouth began to twitch in helpless amusement, even as his gaze slid down the graceful arch of her throat, the swell of breasts beneath the loose shirt, the bare legs and shapely ankles below the baggy, cutoff trousers. He liked what he saw, and his mouth curved in a slanted, wolfish grin of appreciation and amusement. But this formidable Amazon was anything but amused. She glared at him, eyes blazing—and Gray, undaunted, loosened his sash, let the dripping jackboots fall to the polished floor, and swept her a courtly bow.

  “Your every wish,” he drawled, coming up and making an elaborate, all-encompassing

  gesture with his arm, “is my command.” And then, mockingly: “Majesty.”

  She was still not amused. Her cohorts were not amused. Even the parrot that swung on a

  perch near the window did not seem amused. The Pirate Queen’s mouth went white with fury

  and the cutlass kissed his chest, drawing a bead of blood.

  “Kneel,” she commanded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said kneel, damn you!”

  Deliberately, Gray let his gaze travel the length of that heavy sword and the arm that held it, until it once again met her angry gold eyes. He gave a faint smile. She posed him no particular threat. He could disarm her in a moment, of course; she was only a woman, and a young one at that. But mercifully, he decided to spare her dignity in front of this malevolent pack of she-wolves. Pushing the sword away with casual nonchalance he said, “Dear lady, I kneel to no one.”

  He then turned on his bare heel to leave.

  A knife hissed past his ear and impaled itself in the mahogany frame of the door, two inches away from his nose. And in that moment, he realized that the situation called for a definite—and immediate—reassessment.

  His amusement faded abruptly and he reached toward the dagger.

  “Don't,” came the Pirate Queen’s voice. “Unless you place no value on your life.”

  Yes, a most definite reassessment of the situation.

  The room grew deathly quiet. Somewhere, someplace, he heard his own thundering

  heartbeat and, in that moment, became desperately aware of everything: the greenery, shiny with rain and thrashing in the storm just outside; the angry bay with its cruising whitecaps beyond; the warm breath of wind and rain; the sudden sweat on his brow; the chill of the floor beneath his feet. Then someone jabbed a pistol against his skull, another into his back, and he was acutely aware of her, coming up behind him.

  Slow, measured, footsteps. The soft rustle of her clothing. The hot force of her anger as she

  —the woman whose existence he now wished he hadn’t discounted, the woman who, if the tales were to be believed, was as likely to slice off an errant manroot as cut out a tongue that wagged too much for her liking—came up behind him.

  “Imperious dog,” she seethed, standing on tiptoe to better hiss into his ear. And then that hiss changed to the roar of an angry lioness: “How dare you come here and insult me!”

  It seemed that even the wind hushed, not daring to intrude upon the Pirate Queen’s fury.

  “Gallant Knight, my arse,” she snarled. “So much, ladies, for your stupid spell! I told you the Sight foresaw what manner of man I’d have, and it has proved true!”

  “ ’Twas the gull shit that ruined the spell, Majesty,” someone murmured.

  “Silence!”

  The pistol thrust against the back of his skull. “Shall I kill him now, Captain?”

  “Nay, Enolia, that honor will be mine,” the Pirate Queen spat, her breath blasting Gray’s neck like the hot wind of a close broadside. He could feel her stare burning a hole between his shoulders, the heat of her lissome body blazing through his damp and clinging shirt. “Lucia! Jan!

  Tell me where you found this . . . this dog.”

  “Turlough brought him, Majesty.”

  “Turlough. I shall have to speak to that damned dolphin! This time, his penchant for

  rescuing people has gone too far.”

  Speak to a dolphin? This woman was not only bloodthirsty, but crazy as well. But Gray’s snort of derision ended in an abrupt grunt of pain as the pistol was again thrust against his skull with force enough to make him see stars.

  “No one laughs at Her Royal Highness!”

  “Nay, let him be,” the Pirate Queen commanded on a haughty note of disdain. “He’ll learn

  soon enough. Lower your weapons, ladies. I’ve no wish to address this vermin by the back of his head! Let him turn and face me as a man, and prove to me he can die as one, too!”

  The pistols were withdrawn with obvious reluctance, but not before the one pressed to

  Gray’s spine was driven hard against his vertebrae for good measure. He set his teeth and bit back a curse.

  The cutlass slammed against the doorjamb, two inches from his face. “I said turn around,

  damn you!”

  Slowly, he turned to face his tormenter. The cutlass was clenched in her fist as she stared up at him, bare feet spread in the stance of a warrior, her mouth hard, and her complexion hot with anger. Fire flashed in her eyes —tiger eyes, he thought—and he saw her gaze dip, as though she could not help herself, to take in the expanse of his chest, and follow the spearhead of dark hair that disappeared beneath his breeches. He didn’t say a word, only letting a little smile play about his mouth in recognition of and response to her obvious interest.

  “Damn you, kneel!” she raged, and lashing out, drove her hand savagely against his shoulder.

  Her action did nothing to budge a man who had some eighty pounds of solid muscle and

  sinew on this spitting cat of a woman. But it shook the Pirate Queen to the very core. She staggered, dropped the cutlass, and fell back against the wall, her face paling, her lips parting and going white. Instantly, two of her evil consorts—one a dark-haired sprite with a Celtic look about her, the other wheaten-haired and garbed in canvas trousers and a shirt of bright paisley, rushed to her aid.

  “Captain!”

  “The Sight . . .” she murmured, staring at him with dawning horror and yes, fear.

  They were mad, the whole damned lot of them, as mad as a compass with the needle

  pointing south! Shaking his head, Gray thought of leaving, but something stopped him. It was not the threat of pistol, cutlass, nor knife. It was not the imperious command of a woman he could have disarmed in the beat of a moment, nor the horde of female savages hovering protectively around her.

  It was the woman herself.

  Supported by her crew, she was still staring at him, a pulse beating wildly at her throat, her lips—lovely lips, of the sort to drive a man to madness—parted and trembling.

  “You . . .” she whispered, in a tremulous voice.

  And then, without warning, she shot to her feet, visibly shaken but in command of herself once more. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, seizing her cutlass and storming forward.

  “Gray.”

  “Gray what?”

  “Just . . . Gray.”

 
Twin stains of scarlet flared to life beneath her high cheekbones. “You’ll be gray and dead if you persist in this deliberate taunting of me! Don’t think I won’t run you through and enjoy every moment of it! I asked your name, damn you!”

  He shrugged, leaned negligently against the doorframe, and, with studied nonchalance,

  plucked the dagger from the wood and gallantly offered it—hilt first—to her. “And so I have told you.” He gave a faint smile as she grabbed the knife. “Gray.”

  Her eyes narrowing, she thrust the dagger into the scabbard at her belt. “Your ship, then.”

  “Tri-”

  He caught himself just in time.

  “Try -what?” she demanded, raising the cutlass threateningly.

  He pushed it away. ‘Tri . . . umphant.”

  “Bah! I’ve never heard of her, and I know every ship that plies the waters between these

  islands. You lie!”

  “I do not lie.”

  “I do not lie, Majesty!” she roared.

  He smirked. “Aye, you’re right, I do not.”

  The cutlass slashed down three inches from where his shoulder rested lazily against the

  doorframe. “Dare you anger me? You shall regret the day you crossed my bows, damn you!

  Orla! Enolia! Seize this dog and throw him in the dungeon! A few days of starvation in company with the rats will soon teach him to show manners to a lady and respect to a sovereign.”

  “Lady?” he murmured, with a dubious grin.

  This time the flat of the cutlass slammed against the side of his head, and when Gray awoke, it was to pitch-darkness . . .

  And chains.

  ###

  The Pirate Queen lay naked in her bed, the sheets flung back as she stared up into the

  shadowy darkness. Her hands were crossed behind her head, her body sweating from the island heat. Outside, she could hear the roar of the sea, the soft, eternal rustle of breezes moving through the palms.

  “Gallant Knight, ha!” she snarled.