Capturing The Captain (American Pirate Romances Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

  “Did it take you so long to recognize we were making port?” She thought he might have been teasing, but couldn’t be sure.

  “Disembarking isn’t something we did often,” Abi pointed out. “A ship full of wanted men, you know. It could mean…” She drew a finger across her neck and mimicked a deathly choking sound, wobbling on her legs. It was rather exaggerated and, to her surprise, made the captain smile.

  She was caught off-guard to discover how much she liked it when he smiled like that—genuine, not smug or cheeky. It softened his whole face, to the corners of his eyes, making him look a far warmer, friendlier man.

  Abi looked away to study the rim of green toward which they were headed. It looked as though they would reach it within a few hours. Anticipation swelled within her. If they were stopping on land, perhaps it would be her one opportunity…

  Without pardoning himself, Captain Morrow left to oversee the rest of the ship. And that was very well, thought Abi, who held her focus on the land ahead. She had her own plans to oversee.

  The sunlight lasted late in that early summer season, and by the time evening finally descended, Abi felt the ship beginning to slow. She joined the others who had eagerly congregated to watch the ship-dotted port. Her heart drummed in her breast. This was it, her chance. She had thought of a million ways to conceal herself, to slip away, flee, once on land. And when she tired of dwelling there, in whichever of the Colonies they found themselves that night, she could seek her father’s friends or sneak aboard a more hospitable ship, to be reunited with him, eventually.

  As well, Abi knew of one other, special location to which her father would invariably return. She could find a way to get there—it couldn’t be terribly far from where she was—and simply wait there for The Succubus.

  The crew made way for Captain Morrow as he passed, distributing orders to those docking the ship. He stopped at Abi’s side. Beyond the lowering gangplank, the quay swarmed with passersby and other seafaring folk.

  “I wonder how I’ll manage on solid ground with these sea legs,” Abi said with a grin.

  “You?” Morrow fired her a sharp glance. “You are not leaving this ship.”

  Abi gave a start. In an instant, all of her hopes came crashing down. That wasn’t the response she’d been expecting, not at all! What of the escape she’d been devising? “But I want to go on land,” she protested.

  “Mr. Calahad,” barked Morrow. The older gentleman stepped forth, ever wearing his benign expression. “Please escort Miss Clear to my quarters at once, and ensure she stays there for the duration of our visit. In exchange, I shall bring you from Boston anything you desire…within reason.”

  “Aye, sir.” His first mate bowed respectfully.

  “B-but, Mr. Calahad,” Abi sputtered, latching onto his arm. “Don’t you wish to accompany your fellows to port? You don’t want to stay behind with me.” She attempted a self-deprecating simper, trying to think of anything to change the men’s minds.

  Calahad’s eyes twinkled with all the patience of a man his age. “Captain’s orders, miss.”

  “It’ll be his pleasure to supervise you, I’m sure,” drawled Morrow, the words dripping with sarcasm. “I hope you can find it in yer good heart to forgive me,” he added to Calahad, loud enough for Abi to hear as he handed his first mate the key to his cabin.

  “I insist,” Abi stamped her foot, “I want to leave the ship!”

  “I don’t doubt you do,” Morrow muttered.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’,” came a snarly voice. Abi recognized the bristly chin and greasy gray hair of the man called Pengley. He was the one who had captured her. Since then, he and Abi had kept their safe distance, seeming to share a strong, requited dislike for one another. “But why d’ye let her mouth off an’ carry on the way she does?” Pengley frowned. “Oughn’t she to be treated like the prisoner she is?”

  The crew’s eyes fell upon their captain, waiting to see how he’d respond to such a challenge. Abi suspended her breath.

  “Fine point, Pengley,” Morrow finally declared. Gruffly, he seized Abi by the wrists. She gasped as he locked her arms behind her back. “If my cabin ain’t good enough for ye,” he said to her, “then you can stay down in the brig. Is that better?”

  Abi thrashed, but his hold only tightened. “No,” she cried.

  “Then I’ll permit you to reconsider,” he hissed, “just this once.”

  “Fine, I’ll stay in your bloody cabin if you let—go—of—me!”

  He released her, and Abi stumbled aside, rubbing her wrists with a scowl. “Mr. Calahad,” he announced pleasantly, indicating the defeated girl before them. “If you will.”

  Chapter 8

  Abi had grumbled the whole degrading walk down to the captain’s quarters. She could hear the others’ rowdy voices as they disembarked, off to do God-knew-what—she could only guess it involved loose women and hard drink—at the dark and busy port of Boston.

  Once in James Morrow’s spacious cabin, she had tried every tactic she could to either bore or irritate Mr. Calahad into abandoning her. But the older man took it all in stride, proving impossible to perturb. When at last he’d suggested a game of cards and pulled a worn deck from his pocket, he’d won her over. Abi had missed cards. She couldn’t refuse.

  They entertained one another with Faro and Lanterloo, adjusting the rules to suit two players—and playing without coin, of course. When Abi grew weary of those, Calahad taught her a new game called Bone-Ace, though after several hours, that, too, became tiresome.

  The night felt quite late by the time she laid her hand to rest on the dining table. “What dire punishment the captain inflicts upon his most faithful matey,” she prodded Calahad’s arm, “to be stuck in my company all eve, whilst your friends are likely throwing dice, downing pints, and bedding maids ashore.”

  “I’ve no use for dice, pints, and maids,” replied Calahad mildly, “and Captain knows it.”

  Abi quieted, reflecting on her own words. While it had never fazed her what her father’s men—or any man, for that matter—did in privacy, she found herself wondering how Captain Morrow was occupying himself that night, while she’d been relegated to card games in his room, tended by an aging crewman like a pesky child left in the care of an elder. Was the captain among his men, growing tipsy and eyeing common ladies for hire to quench his urges?

  She recalled the way he had looked at her the night she’d first come into his cabin, with marrow-deep craving in his fathomless eyes. She pondered his intimate invitations, his shameless grip at her hip when she’d bent over the wash bucket. For some reason, the thought of him doing the same to any other woman brought Abi’s insides to a harsh boil. Why, the very idea of him mingling with some trollop at a seedy tavern, murmuring lusty verse into her ear in his low, gruff voice and slipping his wide, rough hand down the bust of her gown to fondle her breasts made Abi feel as though she might be sick.

  She marveled at herself, the fact that she was so bothered by the scenario playing out in her mind, of James Morrow in the arms of another. What was the strange possession she was suddenly sensing over him? When and how had it occurred in just a handful of nights, without her realizing it? It was almost as if she saw the hands that might have groped her, the mouth that could have kissed her, the man who seemed to want her…as her own.

  But he’s only been pretending, she scolded herself.

  …And yet, had he been pretending the day before, when he’d threatened to bathe her in his washtub? And what if she had let him? Truly, would he have unraveled the clothes from her skin, lowered her into the lapping bathwater, rubbed his calloused hands all over her body…?

  Abi tugged at the neck of her blouse. If she wasn’t careful, she would begin to sweat. Mr. Calahad was busy shuffling and packing up his cards, unaware of the conflict raging within her. Once his cards were tucked away, the old man pulled out a briar pipe and lit it on the candelabra.

  Abi examined her hands. Either way, James
Morrow was despicable, she decided, her heart clenching like a stone. She hadn’t given in to him, and so he was, most assuredly, rolling about in defiled linens that very moment, feeding that strong, muscular physique of his to some slovenly harlot whom he’d never meet again.

  In that case, Abi hated him. How could she have thought herself jealous of the wenches he bedded? Why, she should be relieved—overjoyed—not to be one of them. She congratulated herself for her resistance, resolving never to accept another of his supper invitations. She wasn’t falling prey to that brooding, brown-eyed stare, or the temptation to permit one of those weathered hands to roam her. Not when it was clear that he wished only to use her.

  A fist met the door in two curt raps. Calahad looked up from his pipe. Whoever had knocked didn’t await a reply before entering.

  In stepped Captain Morrow, holding a pile of brown paper parcels tied in jute string. He cast a brief glance about the room, as though taking inventory to ensure all was still in order. Abi gazed up at him wordlessly, the stiff columns of his legs, the neat press of his waistcoat, and plain breeches displaying nary a wrinkle. It certainly didn’t appear as if he’d removed any of his clothing that evening. Actually, it didn’t look like he’d been about anything unsavory at all.

  When he spoke, Abi caught not even a vapor of liquor on his breath. “Mr. Calahad, you’re relieved of yer vigil. I thank you.”

  Calahad rose, puffing his pipe. “Nay—thank you.” He gave Abi a friendly wink. “The pleasure was mine.”

  “Speaking of pleasure,” Morrow nudged the older man as he approached in a plume of smoke, “you’re welcome to join the others at port.”

  Abi’s stomach rippled uncomfortably.

  “I appreciate the thought, Captain, but it’s long past my hour to retire. Goodnight, Miss Clear,” Calahad bade her. “Captain,” he saluted him, disappearing out the door.

  Abi cautiously got to her feet. “Good evening, Captain Morrow.”

  “Evening.” Something tinted his voice—something she’d not heard from him before. Was it…nerves? “I’ve, er…brought you these.”

  Abi blinked, nonplussed, as he lumbered to the table and set down his armful. “Go ahead and open ’em, then.” He sighed, sounding as though this was something he should rather like to get over with.

  Abi pulled on the jute strings, having no notion what to expect. She’d never been given a gift before. Was that what this was? She unfolded the brown paper to find a bright cream tunic with fluid, puffing sleeves. She ran a hand over the fabric, trembling at the softness of it. This, for her?

  “There’s more,” said the captain, setting the tunic aside to reveal the other parcels beneath it. Abi unwrapped them, one by one. There was a beautiful country bodice the color of sapphires, which laced in both front and back, and a flowing, pleated skirt that hung to the ankles and shone greener than the sea. A pair of thick, black hose rested at the bottom of the package, beneath the skirt.

  “I know it’s not trousers, but a lady deserves to be dressed proper. These’ll fit ye, I think,” Morrow grunted, his eyes flickering uncertainly between her and the garments. “The colors, I thought they’d compliment you. The green of yer eyes, an’ all.”

  Abi found that her throat had gone dry. When she spoke, she was hoarse. “Is this what you were doing…tonight at port?” She looked up at him. “Purchasing clothes for me?”

  She would never have imagined the brawny man capable of such sheepish stammering. “W-well, I…” He coughed, evading an answer, and indicated the last parcel, at the very bottom of the stack. “There’s one left.”

  Abi unwrapped the final item and unfolded the fabric within. It was the loveliest petticoat dress her hands had ever touched, scarlet but for a bust of white lace, ruffled in the back with a dramatic bell to the sleeves. “Oh, Captain,” she mumbled, astonished. She thought she might swoon. She had never held a gown like this, let alone owned one.

  “Do ye like it?”

  He asked the question with such trepidation, Abi burst into a most unladylike laugh. Concern lined the man’s brow, but she assured him, “I love it. All of it.” She refolded the gown and set it gingerly back upon the paper wrappings. “Truth be told, I know not what to say. No one’s ever presented me with garments such as these before.”

  “Say you’ll keep ’em, and wear ’em. I’d like to see how they look on you. ’Specially the dress. Red, like yer pretty hair.”

  Stars pulsed in Abi’s stomach—a whole entourage of shooting stars.

  “Will you wear it here, to my quarters tomorrow,” he took her hand, “when you join me for supper?”

  Yes, her heart cried. Yes, it burned for her to shout. But Abi possessed both a heart and a head. And her head was preoccupied throwing caution to the wind, reminding her of the vow she’d made to herself, no less than an hour before.

  “Captain Morrow, I…” She looked down at his hand holding hers, unable to meet his eyes. “I want to. But if your condition for my accepting these, and joining you for another supper, is that I’ll be expected to divulge…information to you, then I’m afraid I’ll have to decline…all of it.”

  She rued the prospect of rejecting the only gifts she’d ever been given—and what fine gifts they were. But if they’d only been offered with ulterior motives, then they weren’t really gifts. Rather, strings intended to bind her.

  The man’s thumb rode down the top of her hand before letting go. “Nay, Abigail.” He smiled slightly, then it faded. “They are yours, without condition.”

  Abi gathered up her new wardrobe, struggling to register that she truly owned it. “Thank you, then.” She gave him a grateful parting glance, making her way to the door.

  Captain Morrow held it open for her as she stepped out. “I’ll see you tomorrow at sundown.”

  “I won’t be late,” she promised.

  ***

  Twenty-four hours. The length of a single day. And it wouldn’t even be that long, Abi assured herself yet again. Still, she had never known the minutes to pass more tediously.

  She’d been admittedly excited to don her new skirt ensemble, and had waltzed about the ship the whole day long in it, feeling rather like a new soul. But she hadn’t run into the captain. Not once. He’d made it clear that he wished to see how his new selections fit her. Yet, as the day lagged to meet its end, Abi realized there would be no chance to show him.

  However, the evening promised their reunion. She would wear the red gown, as he’d so requested. She could hardly wait to feel the cloth on her skin, to test the fit of the seams. She hadn’t even tried it on yet, so careful as she wished to be, to keep it pristine for her first wear.

  She went to her cabin early that evening, with more than an hour to spare. For a time, Abi sat on her mat, admiring the way her skirts sprawled out over her legs and the quilt. The black hose were warm for the weather, but comfortable. She would wear them tonight too.

  She stroked the fabric. She was still coming to terms with the fact that the captain had spent his excursion at port selecting these beautiful garments—for her. And there she’d been, despising him for the assumption that he rollicked in the embraces of someone else. Why, he’d been thinking only of Abi.

  She was touched. And though part of her still humored a needling remnant of suspicion, she believed him when he had promised the gifts were unconditional. Dared she trust it had nothing to do with who her father was…and possibly, more to do with who she was?

  When the hour was nigh, Abi changed into her new dress. Something within her was changing too. She slid her arms through the sleeves, knowing she wanted to thank the man who gave it to her, but would words be enough? She straightened the hem, marveling at how it fell. Her chest gave shape to the lace front, and the prominence of the scarlet petticoat accentuated the trimness of her waist.

  She combed her hair and pinched her cheeks to rouge them. From the shelf, she lifted the little glass saucer and studied her reflection. She no longer looked anything li
ke the wayward urchin Pengley had abducted from The Succubus. Would her papa even recognize her if he saw her now?

  Indeed, she hardly recognized her own self.

  She sighed, tilting the saucer to another angle. She was about to find herself alone with Captain Morrow, again. In his cabin. The last time she had joined him there for supper, he’d fixed to bed her. He was a stranger to her then; of course, she wouldn’t have let him touch her. But, although it had only been a matter of days, he no longer felt so strange to her now. If he tried anything again, Abi wasn’t so sure if she would have the heart to put up the same fight.

  Still, she wouldn’t give herself all the way, mind you. But maybe…maybe as far as she could take it. A kiss, an embrace. If he wished to hold her, she’d be held. If he wished to fondle her…

  She clutched the wall for support, suddenly breathless. Though her body begged for contact with the captain, her mind tolled a warning bell. Enemy. Enemy. Enemy.

  She wouldn’t betray her father. But softening—just a hair—toward the privateer captain who was after him wasn’t exactly betraying him. Right?

  And what if Captain Morrow had begun to kindle similar feelings for her too? That would be ideal, wouldn’t it? For it was Abi’s intention all along, since her talk with Mr. DuPont on her first night, to bring James Morrow to like her well enough that he might end his pursuits against her.

  Abi faced her glowing reflection with a resurgence of determination. It may have appeared she was the captive, but she was going to capture the man’s heart and change his stubborn mind. She opened the supply room door and strolled out into the hall, where moonlight budded through the portholes. It would begin that evening, with her in a red dress. She’d make herself captivating, irresistible. Captain Morrow couldn’t stay her enemy for long.

  She didn’t fuss with knocking when she reached his door. With gusto, Abi barged in, purring in her most seductive tone, “What say we abandon our supper for your bed this evening, Cap’n?”