The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines)

by C. B. Halverson

  “Anything!” I gasped, heat blazing between my legs as I moved my hips in rhythm to his fingers, so rough and furious against my delicate skin.

  “Will you obey me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I moaned, the flames rising in my core. “I’ll follow your orders. I’ll do what you ask.”

  “Then come for me,” he breathed, his tongue brushing against my earlobe. “Come for me right now.”

  My body burst in an explosion that left me blind, a bright white light filling my vision for a moment before I collapsed against the table, burying my face into my elbow. His strong arm held me up, bracing me against the side table as I gasped and hiccupped for air.

  Minutes passed, maybe hours. I couldn’t tell in the long silence stretching out between us. Finally, he slipped his fingers out and turned me around, bringing them to my lips. I tasted my own essence, salty and musky, and I opened my mouth wider, sucking on them, wishing they were Grant’s cock instead. He stared down at me with his piercing blue eyes and studied me as I sucked harder, turning my tongue over the callused pads of his fingertips.

  He brought his hand away, and I let out a small sound in the back of my throat, the need for him to fill me somehow, somewhere, overpowering.

  “See, boy?” he said in a calm voice. “You can follow orders.”

  He turned and stalked out of his chambers, leaving me breathless and shattered against the side table.

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t see Captain Grant for several days after that, except for a few seconds in the morning when he growled at me not to wait up for him. A menacing scowl seemed glued upon his rugged face, and from my nest in the pantry I often heard him at odd hours tromping around and arguing with the quartermaster and various other officers. There was trouble with the ship, it seemed, but I couldn’t tell you what it was or what Grant was doing prowling around the blasted thing to try to fix it.

  As for myself, I tried to keep my head down as best as possible, my days filled with never-ending tasks of tidying up and sorting the Captain’s things, and whatever new torture the quartermaster invented for me on deck. But as I became faster and more efficient at my tasks, a sense of freedom filled me, an open, endless sensation brought on by the vast ocean surrounding us, the brilliant sky overhead. The tether attached between me and Dunraven began to wear and snap with every giant gust of wind, every blast of ocean spray on my face.

  I maintained the ruse of cabin boy well, especially after the fiasco with McGregor. I kept my guard up and my voice low, my baggy clothes and cap hiding any vestiges of my femininity. And yet, the small glimpses of the Captain on deck or rushing through his quarters sent my heart pounding, my core coiling tight with memories of his hand between my legs. Sometimes when I hunched over my work, tying knots or scrubbing the deck, the skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I would look up and catch him staring before his eyes darted away.

  And then I realized.

  He was avoiding me.

  That night, I brought in his supper tray and jumped when I saw him already seated at the table. Documents were scattered across the surface, and his elbow rested on the edge as his fingers massaged his temples. He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and then quickly averted his gaze.

  I set about serving his meal, scurrying to the corner as if feeding a wild animal in a cage.

  “Sit,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  He waved to the seat across from him. “Sit down.”

  I crept up to the table, sidling into the chair.

  “Help yourself.” He nodded to the steaming plates of food. “There’s enough to feed an army here.”

  “Or a navy.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me and then returned to his papers.

  My stomach growled, and I scooped up some of the salted pork and potatoes and dropped them on an extra plate. I had existed on the Captain’s discarded leftovers and whatever the cook threw at me the past week, and I resisted the urge to shove everything into my mouth at once. We ate in silence, the sound of chewing the only thing to break the tension between us.

  “Are they treating you well on deck?” Grant still held a document in his hand, his eyes tracing the same lines over and over again.

  I snorted into my napkin, recalling the colorful names the quartermaster enjoyed calling me. “As well as can be expected, sir.”

  “And you do not mind the hard work?”

  “Never minded hard work, sir.”

  Grant set down his paper and peered at me from across the table. “And what did you do before?”

  “What did you do before, sir?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I asked you a question. I demand an answer.”

  “I did what women do. I sewed, cooked, cleaned.”

  “You are being intentionally obtuse, boy.”

  “I have my reasons, sir.”

  “I am sure you do.” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine, studying me over the rim of the glass. “But you are not gentry. You are educated, but not wealthy.”

  “You’re a great judge of character, sir.”

  He took a long draught and set his glass on the table with a thud. “And you are not in any woman trouble. So how is it that you are affianced to Lord Jonathon Brighton? And why is it you would travel so far to find him?”

  I didn’t answer but moved my potatoes around my plate with my fork.

  He leaned in. “Are you in love with him?”

  I paused for a moment, and that was all it took for my movements to betray me.

  “You are not in love with him,” he confirmed.

  I threw down my fork, and it clattered against the porcelain.

  “Of course I am.”

  He shook his head. “No, you are not.”

  My cheeks flamed, and I hid my trembling hands beneath my thighs. How dare he accuse me of such a thing? Sure, it wasn’t the kind of love the poets sung about in books, but it was good enough for a steward’s daughter from the backside of the bogs outside of Dunraven. He was a decent lad. Of course I loved Johnny. Of course I did.

  “And what would you know about it?” I spat.

  “I know a woman in love would never let another man fuck her with his fingers.”

  Biting my lip, I looked down at my lap, taking in a deep breath. The muscles between my legs clenched, and a fluttering started deep in my abdomen. I tried to conjure up visions of Johnny, of his sweet smile and gentle voice, but all I could think about were Grant’s hands on my flank, his hot breath against my neck.

  I lifted my gaze to meet his. “And are you an expert on love, sir?”

  A sly smile crossed his hard face. “I am an expert on many things, boy.” He pushed his chair back and waved across the table. “See to these things and attend me in my chambers.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I hesitated in front of the door and raised my fist in the air, hesitating before knocking. My mind screamed at me to run, find some excuse to stay away from him, but my body hummed beneath my clothes, desire building between my legs with every movement. I scrubbed and cleaned, trying to extinguish the flushed, feverish feeling in my mind, but all I could think about were Grant’s hands on my skin, his fingers slipping inside me. The need to know the limits of his particular expertise sent me into a spiral of frustrated longing, and I had no choice but to enter his lair, discover his secrets. I stretched my palm on the oak planks, cool and a little damp to the touch. Letting out a deep breath, I knocked.

  “Come in,” he called in a clipped voice.

  I opened the door a crack, my hands shaking.

  Grant’s long legs were stretched over the length of the bed, a book propped in his hand. A single oil lamp burned at his bedside, casting deep shadows across the lines of his face.

  Closing the door behind me, I lingered by the wall, my hands pressed against the paneling to prop myself up. His face arrested me with its hard beauty, his brown hair slightly curled against his cheek. I stole a glance at the small volume in h
is hand. Wordsworth and Coleridge. Lyrical Ballads. Raising a hand to my face, I coughed, suppressing the slight smile tugging at my lips. I didn’t take Grant for a romantic fool.

  “You enjoy poetry, Captain?”

  He snapped the book closed and threw it to the side. “I enjoy many things, boy.”

  I swallowed hard, my hand sliding down to my neck, brushing away the cold sweat breaking out on my hairline. “I don’t see why you need to maintain the pretense here, sir. No one is watching us.”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “We’re on a ship with over seven hundred sailors. Someone is always watching.”

  Letting out a long exhale, I walked to the edge of the bed, my fingers slipping on the binding of the book, the title glittered gold beneath my hand. “What was it like when you were a cabin boy?”

  “What do you want to know?” he said in a low voice.

  “Were you punished?” I raised my eyes to meet his. “Were you punished in the way you punish me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you bend yourself over for your Captain?”

  “I did everything he asked of me,” he said. “Such punishments were commonplace, but it did not matter. I would have died for him.”

  “And how did you serve him?”

  He smiled, his blue eyes smoldering. He knew what I was asking, but he refused to submit the information. Instead, his hand slipped across the smooth sheet and covered mine, his thumb moving softly across the ridges of my knuckles. The tingling sensation racing up my arm nearly sent me to my knees.

  “He taught me to read,” he said. “And as I got on with my letters, he liked it when I read to him.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

  He smiled slyly, taking the book from beneath my hand and offering it out to me, nudging my chest with the spine. “Do you read, boy?”

  “Which language? Latin? Greek? French? Irish?”

  He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged.

  “Hedge school learning,” I said. “I could recite some Ovid in Latin if you like.”

  He frowned. “Can you read English?”

  “Ah, ’tis English you’ll be wanting…” I smirked. “The language of commerce. Not even your Coleridge could make it sing.”

  He licked his finger and turned a page. “Could you make it sing for me?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Are you partial to my crass Irish brogue?”

  “My eyes are tired. Read for me.” He patted the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

  I perched on the edge of the bed, the book in hand. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his wandering hand retreating back to his chest.

  I opened the first page, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the single oil lamp at his bedside.

  “It is an ancient Mariner,” I began, my thumb rubbing the smooth surface of the page.

  “And he stoppeth one of three.

  “‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

  “Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

  I looked up, laughter bubbling up in my throat. “You can’t be serious with this flowery treacle. Honestly, sir. Do you have some Homer? Or maybe some Goldsmith?”

  He opened one eye. “Read, boy.”

  I sighed, starting again.

  “He holds him with his skinny hand,

  “‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.

  “‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’

  “Eftsoons his hand dropt he.”

  “Eftsoons? Goodness, are you sure this is English?” I shook my head, tilting the book sideways.

  The Captain’s eyes snapped open, and he made a low sound in his throat. “Read.”

  “Aye, sir.” I nodded, beginning again, hunching over the volume and bringing it closer beneath my gaze.

  As I continued speaking, he sat up and massaged the back of my neck. His touch sent bolts of lightning down my back. My mouth fumbled over the words, my sight blurring, and I gasped as the tension in my muscles released.

  “Keep reading,” he breathed in my ear as his fingers inched up my shirt.

  “Your attentions are quite distracting, Captain.” I coughed. “I’m not sure Coleridge would approve.”

  “Keep. Reading.” He found the tight little knot binding my breasts, and slowly began to unwind the thick gauze holding them in place.

  “Sir…” I whispered.

  His fingers paused and then wandered up the nape of my neck, settling there with a delicious heaviness. “Do you want me to stop?”

  I bent my head over the book in my lap, defeated against the aching need in my belly, the way his fingers sent sparks down my spine. “No.”

  “Then keep reading,” he said. “The sound of your voice pleases me.”

  His hands slipped back down to my binding, and he began unraveling again, the long strip of linen winding around and around his fist. I stole a glance sideways at him and nearly moaned at the sight of his perfect face. He looked like a boxer about to pounce, his blue eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.

  I stumbled over the words of the poem, the lines and stanzas mixing together in a jumble of letters, something about an icy sea and some dumb bird. My mouth moved mechanically, but my blood pounded in my ears, drowning out the sound of my own voice.

  His hands drifted over my back with each rotation around my body, and finally, he collected the bindings, snapping it tight in his hands to test out the strength of the material.

  “Stand up,” he commanded.

  I tripped over my words. “What?”

  “Do not say ‘what’ to me, boy.” He breathed across my neck as he nuzzled me, the coarse hair on his jaw scratching my skin. “Stand up.”

  I did as he demanded, my knees wobbling as he towered over me. With one quick movement, he snatched the book from my hands, his thumb resting between the pages.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  The thin fabric was over my head and drifting to the floor before I could even think, and my nipples hardened from the cool air. I glanced at his hands, clenched tight and wrapped in gauze. My breasts felt heavy, full, and I longed for him to touch me, cup my flesh in his wide palms. I struggled to swallow, gasping and panting, trying to catch my breath.

  Without breaking my gaze, Grant placed the book back in my hands, settling my fingers against the page.

  “Keep reading.”

  I wet my parched lips and squinted at the blurring text.

  “In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

  “It perched for vespers nine;”

  Grant knelt down before me, his hands running up my loose-fitting trousers. His fingers settled on the makeshift drawstring, and he bent down, his hair tickling the lower muscles of my abdomen. I sucked in my breath, gasping as he broke the string with his teeth.

  “Jaysus,” I cried out, almost dropping the book.

  “Keep reading,” he growled.

  My voice quaked.

  “Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

  “Glimmered the white Moon-shine.”

  He remained kneeling before me, his fingers drifting up and down my thighs, lingering at the V between my legs. Every brush of his hands was a brand to my skin, and my heart raced, the pages fluttering as I turned them.

  “With my cross-bow

  “I shot the ALBATROSS.”

  I read the line again.

  “I shot the ALBATROSS.”

  “Bloody hell…” With a sharp click of my tongue, I lowered the book and stared down at Grant. “He shot that bird? What in the devil’s name did he do that for?”

  The Captain bolted to standing and grabbed my hand, leading me to the chair.

  I shrugged him off, flashing him an annoyed look. “What did that albatross ever do to him? It seems like a cruel thing to do—”

  Grant planted his lips on mine, nearly knocking me over with the force of his hungry kiss. The shock blinded me, and my spine stiffened, my heart jumping into my throat. He placed one heavy hand against the small of my back,
and with the other he clasped me behind my neck. Like a bridled horse, I relaxed under his commanding touch, bending against him.

  His kiss deepened, and he made a low sound in his throat as his tongue slipped across my lips. I parted them, and he invaded me, the forcefulness making me retreat, back away, but he held me firm. His fingers massaged the back of my neck, and succumbing to the languid movements, I opened my mouth wider, finding a sweet rhythm to the kiss. I forgot my nakedness, that bloody albatross, even my own name. All I knew were his lips, his tongue, the rough gasps of his breath against my cheek.

  He broke off first, and I panted, my head reeling.

  “You stop reading again, and you will pay for it,” he growled.

  I nodded, all my words escaping me.

  He cupped my breast, and a white sheet of lightning swept across his eyes. I sucked in my breath as his fingers spread across the soft flesh, and he pressed harder, almost bruising. “I want you to sit in that chair.”

  “Yes, sir.” My voice sounded hoarse and far away. I took a tentative step back and slid into the seat.

  He knelt in front of me, his blue eyes studying the length of my legs, the gentle swell of my breasts.

  “Come forward.”

  “Sir?”

  Grant grabbed hold of my hips and slid me to the edge of the chair.

  I grabbed hold of the armrests, the book flopping onto my lap. He picked it up leisurely, flicking through the pages until he found my place.

  He handed me the book. “Continue.”

  I nodded, diving into the sanctuary of the poetry, the words echoing back to me in the quiet room.

  Grant unraveled my bindings from his wrist and grabbed my ankle.

  I let out a yelp as his thumb dug into the delicate skin.

  “Is there a problem, boy?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Keep reading.”

  I resumed the poem while Grant twined the linen around my ankle, tying one against the leg of the chair with a firm knot. Fear fluttered in my belly, but I shifted in my seat, wetness dripping between my legs as he tightened the binding against the other leg of the chair. Holding the book closer to my flaming face, I glanced down between the pages to see myself completely exposed to him, my folds slick and glinting in the candlelight. Swallowing hard, I returned to the book, but Grant remained kneeling in front of me, his index finger traveling up and down my leg, a thoughtful look on his face.