My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  “I know it’s not on the damned chart!” Gray flung up his hands. “Just get out. Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

  The hapless officer nodded and beat a hasty retreat. Colin Lord, however, never flinched.

  “Really, sir,” he said calmly, “I’m sure we will find the island.”

  “As though I have all the time in the world! The convoy’s already waiting for us at

  Barbados, assembled and ready to go. I’m already late; I don’t have time to go looking for uncharted islands!”

  Very carefully, Colin said, “No one said you have to, sir.”

  Gray whirled, eyes blazing. He started to say something, to rebuke his captain for his

  impudence; then, he sighed and turned away, raking his hand through his hair. Colin did not deserve his anger. The sailing master did not deserve his anger. No one did.

  “Forgive me, Colin,” he murmured, and strode to the panoramic stern windows. He rested

  his hands on the brocaded bench seat. “I am not myself.”

  His gaze moved far out over the blue sea. In his mind's eye he saw Maeve’s lean body

  beneath him, her eyes beautiful and trusting as he entered her and made her his own. Again, he felt the tender warmth as she’d confided in him, let down her guard, confessed her fears and hopes and cried for the loss of her family. And again, he felt the searing, horrible ache at what he’d had to do in order to facilitate his return to the British Navy.

  “If I may speak, sir?”

  Gray said nothing, merely looking down as he traced a pattern on the sunlit brocade with his finger.

  “You’re in love with her . . . aren’t you, sir?”

  Gray never moved. He felt the sun burning hot against his face, his hands, the wind

  sweeping through the open windows and playing with his hair. He gazed out to sea once more, and his shoulders settled with something like defeat beneath the glittering epaulets that capped them.

  “I don’t know, Colin.” He looked out at the distant horizon. “Maybe. Hell. Yes, I guess I am. Christ. ”

  The flag-captain’s voice was steady, reassuring. “We’ll find that island, sir. It may not be on the charts, but surely, someone in these waters must know of it. In fact, when we arrive at Barbados—”

  The thump of the marine sentry’s musket just outside interrupted him. Both officers turned.

  The door opened, and a young lieutenant stood there, his hat in his hands.

  “Mr. Stern’s respects, sir, and one of Lord Nelson’s frigates is closing fast on us from the north’rd. It’s Amphion. ”

  “Amphion?” Colin Lord exchanged a puzzled glance with Gray. “Didn’t Lord Nelson take the Mediterranean Fleet to Antigua in search of Villeneuve?”

  “Aye—but perhaps he has found his nemesis and requests our assistance . . .”

  Colin grabbed his hat. “Excuse me, sir. I must go topside to receive Amphion' s captain.”

  Gray sighed and watched the two officers leave. There was nothing he could do but wait for whatever urgent news Amphion's captain had brought.

  And think.

  You’re in love with her, aren’t you, sir?

  He smiled.

  Yes. I guess that maybe I am.

  And then he heard the side party being mustered, the pipes shrilling, footfalls echoing on the deck just outside his quarters. He sat down at his table, the picture of unruffled calm despite the turmoil that buffeted his heart from all directions. A moment later, the marine sentry was rapping his musket against the deck and announcing Captain Sutton of the frigate Amphion.

  “I come with grave news, sir, but his lordship wanted you to know.” Captain Sutton pulled a sealed missive from his pocket. “It concerns the Pirate Queen. She’s been hurt and he thought—”

  Gray was on his feet and across the cabin before the startled captain could even hand the missive over. He snatched it from Sutton’s hand and hastily scanned Nelson’s scribbly words, the blood draining from his face.

  Colin was there, steady and true and dependable. “Your orders, sir?”

  “Put the ship about and lay a course back toward Antigua.” Gray crumpled the note and

  shoved it into his pocket. “Now!”

  ###

  Pain. A dull ache in her head and fire pulsing in her ribs . . . a sensation of metal digging and poking her flesh . . . nothing . . . Admiral Nelson’s voice, low and mild and kind, drifting in . . .

  drifting out . . . his hand on her wrist. Don't leave me, Admiral . . . snug pressure around her ribs as a surgeon, yes, he must be a surgeon, bound them tight, tight, tighter . . . the admiral squeez-ing her hand . . . please, milord, don’t abandon me! . . . darkness . . . Daddy— Gray.

  She heard the deep baritone of his voice as he talked to the admiral and knew then that she was dead, because he was dead, Lord Nelson had hanged him, she had killed him . . . Killed him. . . She was hot, so hot, sweating . . . feverish . . . movement . . . being lifted up, being carried . . . darkness.

  Killed him.

  Someone plaiting her hair with gentle, loving fingers . . . Time, passing. Darkness. Voices.

  She opened her eyes, but it took too much effort to keep them open, so she lay there

  miserably, sweating in the intense heat and unable to move.

  She tried again. Shadows. Light. A quiet room, lantern light, soft pillows under her head, a light sheet over her body. Oh, how her head ached. Agony sliced across her ribs with every shallow breath.

  Don’t breathe and it won’t hurt.

  “Breathe,” a voice commanded, and that voice was Gray's.

  But Gray was dead. She didn’t want to breathe. She wanted to sink down, down, down, to

  where he was . . . She wanted to give up. She wanted to be with her Knight, her pirate; she wanted to die.

  She stopped breathing.

  “Breathe, sweetheart.” A warm palm cupped her cheek, lips touched her brow. Gray. He

  wanted her to breathe. He was ordering her to breathe, and she hadn’t the fight in her to refuse him. Yes, for him, she would breathe . . . Air moved into her lungs and she whimpered with the pain of it. Dizziness swept over her and sweat ran down her temples and into her hair. She felt sick. Spent. Weak as dishwater.

  Breathe.

  Oh God, it hurt.

  Breathe! the voice commanded, again.

  She moved her head, the slightest fraction of an inch, and felt a damp lock of her hair sliding down over her brow, over her eye, dragging the lid shut with it. A hand, broad and strong and tender, was there, brushing it back, the thumb lingering lovingly at her temple, caressing her cheek.

  Someone came into the room. She heard footsteps, sensed someone looming over her,

  peeling back the sheet to take her pulse and check the bandage.

  “She may not make it, sir.”

  “She damn well will make it if I have to cross into the hereafter and drag her back!”

  Through the slit of one half-opened eye she saw shapes and shadows and colors. White that was crisp and clean like fresh snow. Gold that appeared to be buttons and lace, and blue fabric, lots of blue fabric. The colors and the buttons were fuzzy, blurred, sharpening now into distinct lines and folds and patterns—becoming a coat, like Nelson’s.

  But the voice was not Nelson’s, it was Gray’s—and Gray was dead.

  “Blast you, is there nothing more you can do for her, Ryder?”

  “No, Sir Graham. With a head injury, one can never tell the extent of damage until the

  patient awakens. Nelson’s surgeon has already done all that man can do. The rest is up to God.”

  “Very well then. Kindly leave us.”

  Maeve lay still, listening to the fading footsteps, the perspiration tumbling down her brow, soaking the sheets beneath her back. She sighed, wishing she had strength to move her head, to fully open her eyes. She saw one of the buttons on Gray’s coat. That was all. It was gold, highly polished, with the Royal Navy anchor in raised re
lief upon it.

  Like Nelson’s.

  “But you’re dead,” she whispered.

  He didn’t hear her. She wasn’t even sure she heard the words herself or just merely thought them. She tried to move her tongue. It was thick, swollen and dry, filling her mouth. She didn’t even have enough saliva to moisten her lips. Then the sofa moved as Gray stood up. The button soared heavenward, out of her sight, followed by another, another, another, all gold, all glittering, all with that same anchor on them. Her head rolled on the pillow and through the slit of her eye she saw his immaculate white breeches, the fine, snowy stockings that hugged his calves, a sheathed sword at his hip, peeping out from beneath long, navy blue coattails.

  Behind him, the room. No, not a room. A ship’s cabin. A very grand ship’s cabin, with a huge cannon snugged into place, rich furniture arranged in a pleasing fashion, and on the bulkheads, woodcuts and giltframed portraits of fierce men dressed in clothes that had gone out of fashion long ago, men with savagery in their eyes, men wielding pistols, cutlasses, swords, men who were— Pirates?

  Her head hurt. It was all too much to absorb.

  She felt his hand against her cheek, and something hard and slippery touching her lips. A glass. Water. But she couldn’t move her mouth. She tried to turn her head on the pillow, but didn’t have the strength. Her eyes slitted open again, and she felt her breath whispering against his fingers, smelled his clean, male scent, saw the dark hairs springing up on the back of his hand.

  He was sitting with her again. He touched her mouth, then dipped his finger into the glass, spreading moisture over her parched lips with the gentle caress of a lover.

  If she was dead, then she had gone to Paradise.

  The water was soothing, his movements slow and infinitely tender. She heard his voice

  above her head, then close to her brow.

  Felt his lips, touching her forehead.

  “You’re not going to die, Maeve. You’re not going to die, because I am not going to let you die. Do you hear me? And if you give up and abandon me, so help me God, I shall never forgive you.”

  Some of the water trickled into her mouth. Her tongue moved, absorbing it with the thirst of a sponge. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, in her heart, and wished he would put his arms around her and tell her she was going to be all right.

  I am not going to let you die.

  He touched her jaw, his fingers warm and strong as he tilted her head up. She felt the rim of the glass against her lips, and water, no more than a teaspoonful, seeped into her mouth. His thumb brushed her throat.

  “Swallow.”

  “I can’t,” she croaked.

  “Swallow!”

  She tried to turn away but he held her firmly. Water trickled down her throat and she

  swallowed, coughed, greedily tried to take more of it—but he held it back, cruelly, not allowing her any more.

  A wrenching sob broke from her.

  She heard the thud of the glass hitting a table, and then he was embracing her, unabashedly, wholeheartedly, murmuring gentle words of love and encouragement into her hair. Something cracked inside her; her own tears came flooding out in force, tumbling down her cheeks, soaking his fine clothes. She cried because she lacked the strength to hug him back. She cried because she was dead and so was he. She cried because he cared so much for her whereas she had abandoned him, turned him over to Nelson for execution, and she cried because one of those glittering gold buttons was pressing into her cheek and it hurt.

  He rocked her, back and forth, back and forth, for a long time, just holding her, just stroking her hair until she quieted. Then he set her back, and she managed to open her eyes. He was looking at her, and never, in anyone’s face, had she seen such raw anguish, such all-consuming love.

  Not since she had been a little girl and the apple of her father’s eye, had anyone gazed at her with such tender adoration—and Maeve did not know how to react to it.

  “Maeve, my love . . . I’m sorry. Everything will be all right . . . You’re safe now. I promise.

  I’ll not let anything happen to you . . . Ever . . .

  He laid his palm against her cheek, cupping it lovingly, tracing its curve, its shape, through the wetness of her tears. His eyes were dark blue, the exact shade of his coat.

  “But you’re . . . dead . . . I'm dead!” And indeed, she must be, because here she was, dreaming, certainly, with the man she’d sent to his death sitting on the bed with her and looking for all the world like someone straight out of the Royal Navy, not just any someone but an important someone; complete with rich, tasseled epaulets and stars atop each shoulder; complete with a medal, not just any medal but the medal of the Nile, hanging from a ribbon around his neck and against that white waistcoat; complete with— Earring?

  “No,” he murmured, gently, thumbing her cheek and wiping the tears away. “Not dead.” He

  bent his head, his glossy black hair caught at his nape and trailing down his back—no wonder she could see the earring, but important people in the Royal Navy didn’t wear earrings, pirates weren’t important, traitors were executed, Gray was dead— He must have seen the question in her eyes. He must have read her confusion, for he smiled gently, folded her hand in his, and raised it to his lips.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly, looking at her from over the top of her

  knuckles, “but you see, Maeve—I am you Gallant Knight after all. I fulfill every blasted one of your criteria.”

  There had been only one that he hadn’t fulfilled, one miserable, wretched one.

  For the first time she realized just what that uniform—that gilt-laced uniform, the burst of white lace at his throat, the stiff, high coat collar framing his neck, his jaw—his clean-shaven jaw—meant.

  “This must be my eternal punishment,” she managed to say as she struggled to raise herself.

  “To see you as the man I always dreamed of having and to not be alive to enjoy it.”

  He eased her back down and then turned her palm up, pressing his lips there, his gaze never leaving hers.

  “Sweetheart, you are alive. I am alive. And since I cannot be the pirate I always dreamed of being, I fell in love with one instead. I am not a traitor, I am not a deserter, and in time I will explain it all to you. For now, just trust that I am your Gallant Knight.” He smiled. “Your officer.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “My friends call me Gray. My men address me as Sir Graham. And the rest of the world

  knows me as”—he smiled a sheepish, charming grin that pushed a dimple into his chin—”Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath and Commander of the Leeward Islands

  squadron of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station. My flag is hoisted on His Majesty’s Ship Triton, and we're on our way to Barbados to pick up a convoy of merchant ships to escort back to England, where I shall enjoy a long-deserved leave with you as my wife, if you’ll have me, before duty returns me to my post. Maeve?”

  Her eyes were slipping shut.

  “Maeve?”

  But the shock was too much for her.

  The Pirate Queen had fainted.

  Chapter 17

  Admiral Falconer lea ned down, slid his arms behind her shoulders, and cupping her lolling head in the palm of his hand, pulled her gently, tenderly, up against his chest. Her hair was soft against his newly shaven jaw and she felt fragile in his arms, vulnerable. Resting his cheek atop her hair, he took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and cursed himself roundly for his impatience in confessing the truth about who he really was.

  It was brutally hot in the cabin, and her body was a damp, sweat-drenched furnace that made the folds of her nightshirt cling to her every curve. The feel of her molded so intimately against himself did nothing to cool his blood. But, wrapped in his cottony nightshirt with her hair caught in a long braid, she looked more like a little girl than a hardened sea-queen, and Sir Graham felt only a fierce sense of
protectiveness as he held her so tenderly in his arms.

  God, how he had missed her.

  But it was no excuse for being impatient. He could have stripped down to shirt and breeches, if only to lessen the shock when she awoke. But no. Instead, he'd been so desperate to prove to her that he did indeed fulfill that final requirement of hers—that of being a heroic officer—that he'd been thoughtless. He'd been so eager to show her that he was indeed no deserter, no pirate, but an actual knight, indeed, that he'd sat here sweating in his finest dress uniform waiting for her to regain her senses.

  He had wanted to impress her.

  Surprise her.

  Instead, he had shocked her into oblivion.

  Such behavior was highly uncharacteristic of him. He was an admiral, a man who was

  supposed to display patience, forethought, intuition, discipline, and purpose. To think he’d neglected all that in his boyish eagerness to prove himself worthy of her affection and ideals.

  He felt like a wretch.

  Well, he would make it up to her. Somehow, some way. He held her close, smoothing the

  long braid that hung down her back and letting his fingers drift to her side, where he could feel the bandage beneath the thin, damp nightshirt. Although the ball had only nicked a rib and exited without damaging anything vital, the wound had bled with shocking intensity, and he shuddered at the memory of her still body as he’d carried her off Victory and onto his own flagship.

  Dear God, he'd come so close to losing her. Too close. The very thought of how near she'd come to death was enough to take years off his life. Well, no more. He vowed that once he married her, all piratical activity on her part would come to an abrupt end. She could play the Pirate Queen in bed, but beyond that, she would be Lady Falconer, pampered, cherished, adored, and living the life that he, as the most senior officer in the Caribbean, could well afford to give her.

  He buried his face against her hair, overcome by the depth of his feelings for her. “I am sorry for deceiving you, Maeve, and I know you'll hate me for it. 'Twill be a tough road, teaching you to trust again after what I have done, and if there had been another way, I'd have taken it.