The Buccaneer (Pirates of the Coast)

by Barbara Devlin

  “It can also be very lonely.” A hint of sadness marred his handsome countenance. “Such is the life of a sea captain and a pirate.”

  “I would not know of such things, as I was born into a life of servitude, and I suspect that is how I shall die.” She shrugged. “No one expects anything more than that from me.”

  The meal arrived, and she savored the buttery scallops, corn, and lima beans. In a show of polite manners, he requested tea for her, while he drank wine, which fascinated her.

  “Is something wrong, my dear?” How she loved it when he addressed her with a term of endearment. “Is the tea to your liking?”

  “It is delicious.” Safe in his company, she toyed with the stem of his glass. “But I have never tasted wine.”

  “You must be joking.” He made a face, and she shook her head. “Never?”

  “Not even a sip,” she replied.

  “Then let us rectify that sad state, here and now.” Holding the wine glass to her lips, he smiled. “Indulge, fair Francie, and I shall keep your secret.”

  “At what price?” She giggled, as his playful expression declared a naughty intent, and drew a healthy gulp.

  A hint of tart fruit mingled with unknown spices, as she relished the exotic flavors, and she hummed her appreciation.

  “More?” Yes, it was more than a little scandalous that Cager fed her wine from his glass, but she did not care, as she indicated the affirmative. “You are so innocent, Francie.” He furrowed his brow. “Far more than I realized.”

  “Is that bad?” She licked her lips.

  “No.” He stacked their empty plates. “But I would wager you have never been intimate with a man.”

  “You are too bold, Mr. Tyne.” Suddenly warm, she averted her stare. “And you really should not broach such personal inquiries.”

  “But I am correct in my assertion.” He took her hand in his and drew tiny circles on her palm. “How old are you, love?”

  “I am five and twenty, but you should not ask.” In her chest, her heart hammered, as he teased the fleshy spot at the base of her thumb. “And you?”

  “Six and thirty.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “What I would give to make you mine, fair Francie.”

  “Cager, please.” At his declaration, she uttered silent thanks for her chair, as she would swoon were she standing. “Will you not show me the Lady Madalene, given the sun nears the horizon?”

  Without a word, he paid for the meal, and arm in arm they strolled to the docks, where his ship anchored just off the boards. In a small boat, he rowed her to the impressive merchant vessel with a storied history, and every time they touched, however haphazardly, she became keenly aware of some mystical connection that simmered just below the surface of their exchanges.

  “So this is where it all happened?” Standing at the railing, she lifted her chin as the sea breeze whispered and thrummed in her hair. “This is where Mr. Cavalier rescued Mrs. Cavalier.”

  “Indeed.” He pointed. “We were on post at the helm when we spotted the smoke from her ship, which went down mere minutes after Jean Marc plucked her from the poop deck.”

  “How tragic yet exciting.” She bounced. “I know the tales, as Mrs. Cavalier spoke of little else upon her return, and never have I seen her so happy.”

  “I can say the same of Jean Marc, as never have I seen him so settled or content.” With a hand on the railing at either side of her, Cager brushed his lips to her temple. “Would you like to visit my cabin?”

  “No.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, as her body beckoned the opposite response, and she sought a distraction. “How did you meet Mr. Cavalier?”

  “My father sold me to his father, in payment of a debt, when I was but a boy of six and ten. Once I fulfilled the obligation, I took a permanent position on the boat.” Given the gravity of his statement, his casual tone shocked her. “When his sire gambled and lost his ship, Jean Marc was sold to the new owner, and I assumed the role of bosun, to watch over my friend.”

  “And now you have risen through the ranks to captain the Lady Madalene.” She cupped his cheek. “I admire you, Mr. Tyne.”

  “Praise, indeed, fair Francie.” In that instant, he rotated her in his grasp and stole a long, thorough kiss, and she did not resist him.

  Like a wanton woman, she pressed against him, spearing her fingers through his hair, twining her tongue with his, and riding the wave of lust he provoked. Then, to her dismay, he abruptly ended their oh-so-exquisite tryst.

  “I believe you have seen enough, and it is getting late.” He tugged at his cravat. “We should return to Beacon Hill.”

  “As you wish.” What had been a relaxing jaunt became rife with tension, as he rowed her back to the docks and then walked her to the curricle. “Mr. Tyne, did I do something wrong?”

  “I prefer it when you call me Cager.” He frowned and then came alert. “Oy, Timothy.” To Francie, Cager said, “I need to speak with the dock agent. Wait here, as I will only be a minute.”

  “Of course.” Lingering in the shadows of a mountain of wooden crates, she pulled on her bonnet and tied a bow beneath her chin. As Cager chucked the shoulder of the dock agent, she smiled and gave her attention to the bays.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” A disheveled and dirty stranger grabbed her arm, and she wrenched free. “Aw, do not be afraid, dove. I only want to sample your wares.”

  “Let me alone, sir.” In haste, she retreated into one of the horses, which whinnied in protest. “Keep your distance.”

  “Give me a taste, and I might let you pass.” The rogue leered, bearing a toothless grin, and then he lunged.

  “Touch her, and it will be the last thing you do on this earth.” Cager caught the miscreant by the throat. “Give me another reason to choke the life from you, and I will break you like a twig, as I have yet to kill anyone this day.”

  “It was a misunderstanding.” The wretch sputtered and coughed. “Let go, and I will leave in peace.”

  “Get out of here.” Cager shoved hard and kicked the louse in the arse. But when he faced Francie, his demeanor immediately softened. With outstretched arms, he flicked his fingers, and she flung herself at him. “It is all right, Francie. I am here, and I will never let anyone harm you.”

  THE BUCCANEER

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was late, as Cager tossed and turned in his bed, and sleep would be hard won given the events of the day, because he could not quiet the thoughts swirling in his mind. But the rising tide of emotion, unyielding feelings he thought long dead, left him shaken and vulnerable.

  In the soft saffron glow of flames from the earth, he sat upright and stared at his reflection in the long mirror. What he glimpsed he scarcely recognized.

  “Francie called me her hero.” Throwing off the covers, he scooted to the edge of the mattress. From the footboard, he grabbed his breeches, stood, and dressed.

  How many nights had he tortured himself with his failure to save Adele? Too many to count. But that evening he found a measure of redemption, because he rescued Francie from a would-be assaulter. He was there when she needed him, and she thanked him with the sweetest, most tender kiss he had ever been gifted, and in that seemingly inconsequential gesture she branded him hers.

  Even in that moment, he could close his eyes and revisit the untutored but achingly endearing charm of her efforts, as she trembled in his arms, alive, uninjured, and demonstrably grateful.

  Exhaling, he smiled and shook his head. “I need a drink.”

  In a handful of strides, he exited his chamber, sans shirt and boots, marched into the hall—and ran straight into Francie.

  “Mr. Tyne, I am so sorry.” Garbed in naught but a nightgown and a robe, with her long blond hair draped about her shoulders, she clutched her throat. “I did not expect anyone to be up and about at this wee hour, else I should have stayed in my quarters.”

  “Neither did I.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his bare feet. “I
was just—”

  “Perhaps you might—”

  He cleared his throat. “You first.”

  “No, you first.” She wrapped her arms about herself, and he tried not to notice her ample bosom. “I insist.”

  “I was in search of brandy.” As an addled schoolboy, he struggled to form a coherent sentence. “I cannot stop thinking about today.”

  “Neither can I.” She stepped in his direction, and he mirrored her movement. “How it is possible to know someone for more than a year and so completely misunderstand them? They are the thorn in your side or the fly in your cherry compote, and then, in a singular fragment in time for which you have no explanation, they become the most important person in your life?”

  For several seconds, they just stood there and stared at each other, in some sort of erotic impasse, and he would wager his gaze manifested the same desire unmistakably evident in hers. “Say my name.”

  “Cager.”

  It came to him as a whisper. A sultry summons impossible to deny, so he reached for her, she reached for him, and they ignited as soon as they touched.

  “I want you.” Painfully aroused, he cupped her bottom and buried his face in the swanlike curve of her neck. “Please, Francie.”

  “My room.” When he lifted her, she twined her arms about his neck. “Hurry.”

  “Hold onto me, sweetheart.” In a clumsy dance, he wobbled and staggered, until he gained the relative privacy of her chamber; as she nibbled on his ear, and he kicked shut the door.

  In a slow and intoxicating maneuver, he eased his hold and let her slide down the front of him, and he knew the instant she detected his healthy erection, as she favored him with a gasp.

  Swift and sure of his objective, he untied her robe and stripped the heavy garment from her. With hands at her hips, he lifted her to the bed, and she shimmed to the center. But what Francie did next stole his breath and so much more.

  Uninhibited in her determination, she grasped the hem of her night rail, wiggled, drew the fine lawn over her head, and dropped the gauzy material to the floor. Then she reclined and flicked her fingers.

  Nervous for some reason he could not comprehend, his hands shook as he unhooked the placket of his breeches and inched the wool to his calves before stepping free and joining her.

  “Are you frightened?” With his knee, he nudged her legs apart.

  “A little.” Still, she hugged him about the shoulders, as she refused to meet his gaze.

  “Lift your ankles, love.” Summoning patience, he guided her, as he set his hips to hers. “That is it. Now, if you trust me, and relax, you will avoid virgin’s pain.”

  “All right.” As he positioned himself at the juncture between her thighs, she flinched and stared straight at him. “I am ready.”

  “Kiss me, Francie.” Yes, he should have delayed, should have taken the time to prepare her for his invasion, but, heaven help him, he was hungry. Thus he pushed forward, flexing his spine and thrusting, and claimed her most intimate gift.

  And so began one of the most incredible nights of his life, as again and again he took the delicate woman who had occupied his dreams since their introduction. While the mantel clock counted down the hours, he threw himself into the passionate storm, surrendering to the fire that burned in his veins, that seared his muscles, and that ravaged his senses, until he lost all track of sense and space.

  While a more sensible man might have given her a brief respite to adjust to the breach, he paused only long enough to recover, as he simply could not stop himself, and she was right there with him, spurring him on, beckoning him to ravish her, and heralding her release with an achingly tender cry that well nigh brought him to tears.

  It was not until the last of the flames guttered in the hearth, and Francie slept beneath him, that he realized the significance of their wild couplings and the price owed. Indeed, she was no short-heeled lass or three-penny upright, yet he could not pay in the coin that she deserved, else he risked destroying her.

  In the quiet aftermath of their lovemaking, he withdrew from her warm and soft body, pulled the covers to her chin, and collected his breeches. At the door, he looked back on her inviting form and resisted every urge to return to her, because he might never muster the strength to leave her. Somehow, someway, he would make amends. Until then, a single refrain tormented Cager’s conscience.

  What had he done?

  ~

  The clatter of dishes from the kitchen drew Francie from a rather startling dream, as she rolled onto her side and winced. Sore in places she had not thought it possible to be sore, she moved slowly and gingerly. Light from the narrow window shone on the floor, and she rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  Then a series of salacious images flashed before her.

  Cager.

  The torrid exchange. The heated clinch. The raw lust. The warmth of his strong body as it covered hers. The indescribable sensation of his flesh buried deep within hers. The mind-numbing release.

  More than anything, she cherished the acceptance.

  Cager knew who she was, what she was, and still he wanted her. Never in her life had she thought it possible, to marry and have a family, but he gave her hope for something she never dared consider.

  Stretching, she hummed a flirty little ditty, touched her taut nipple, and imagined his mouth waging sweet torment. Naked, she flung aside the sheets, leaped from the bed, stripped the dirty linens from the mattress, and danced to the washstand.

  After a good and thorough cleaning, she styled her hair in a tight chignon and snickered, as she wagered what Cager would make of that, given his fascination with her long locks.

  Garbed in a modest dress of pale blue cotton, she donned her pristine white apron and marched into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mabel.”

  “You are in a fanciful mood, Francie. And your cheeks are rosy.” The cook snorted. “Have you been nipping at my sherry?”

  “No, I have not.” Indeed, she nipped at something far more decadent, and her face burned at the memory. “Have you decided on the menu for dinner?”

  “Not yet.” Mabel set a bowl of oatmeal on the table. “Would you like some raisins?”

  “Yes, please.” A wonderful idea formed, and Francie glanced at Cager’s empty seat. “I had thought I might prepare a savory scrapple, for dinner, and perhaps an apple pie for dessert.”

  “Two of Mr. Tyne’s favorites.” Mabel chortled. “You know what they say, the way to a man’s heart is through his belly.”

  “I know no such thing.” Francie pretended indifference, but she clenched her thighs as she thought of her naughty sea captain. “By the by, has Mr. Tyne taken his breakfast?”

  “I have not seen him.” With a towel, the cook cleaned spilt cream. “He may have had one of his late nights, and I should not expect him to make an appearance until noon, if that.”

  Oh, he had a late night, all right.

  After emptying her bowl, and inhaling two additional slices of toast to quell her unusually robust appetite, Francie cleaned and stowed her dishes and ran into the garden. In the clear blue sky, she noticed the moon had yet to set, and she smiled.

  “I thank The Great Mother for her wisdom, blessings, and protection of this day.” Then she hiked her skirts and giggled, as she collected a posy of herbs, lavender, violets, and daisies, for her man.

  In the pantry, she located a small glass jar, into which she arranged the bouquet. Summoning courage, she peered left and then right and navigated the corridor to his room. Biting her lip, she second-guessed herself but persevered. With her knuckles, she rapped on the oak panel.

  “Mr. Tyne, are you there?” Holding her breath, she awaited his answer, but none came, so she turned the knob.

  Surprised to find the bed empty, as she assumed he retired to his quarters to protect her reputation and gain some much needed rest, she shook off the chill of unease and set the posy on his bedside table. At the narrow window, she drew back the drapes and opened the portal, to properly
air his accommodation.

  “He must be at the docks.” Francie marveled at his stamina, as she was exhausted.

  On a wall peg, a coat hung, and she paused to press the wool to her cheek and inhaled Cager’s signature sandalwood scent. Resolved to begin her workday by giving his room a thorough cleaning, she marched to the pantry, to collect her mop, bucket, and feather duster.

  Whistling as she labored, after she completed her tasks in Cager’s chamber, she tidied the back parlor, washed the dirty laundry, hung the sheets on the line, stacked wood in the kitchen, for the firebox, and gathered the ingredients for the pie. As she peeled the last apple, the nanny strolled into the kitchen.

  “Francie, Mrs. Cavalier requests your presence in the nursery.” Mabel doffed her apron and deposited an untouched dish of shortbread on the table.

  “I shall go to her, at once.” Francie wiped her hands on a towel, stood, and skipped up the back stairs to the second floor.

  In the main hall, she headed straight for the fourth door on the right. As Francie entered the babe’s room, Madalene pressed a finger to her lips and drew a blanket over a sleeping Patience.

  “In my suite, please,” Madalene whispered.

  “Are you unwell, ma’am?” Patience trailed in Madalene’s wake.

  “Not exactly.” In the master bedchamber, Madalene stood before the long mirror and turned aside. “But I need you to quietly summon Dr. Gideon.”

  “Mrs. Cavalier, you concern me.” Francie swallowed hard. “What is wrong?”

  “My feet are swelling, my breasts are tender, and my belly has been downright temperamental, in the morning, of late.” Then, to Francie’s confusion, Madalene rotated, held a palm to her gut, and smiled. “I suspect I am with child, but I do not want to tell Jean Marc until I am certain.”

  “Oh, ma’am, this is wonderful news.” Francie clasped her hands, and Madalene shed a happy tear. “Let me fix you a nice pot of chamomile tea, which should set you right in no time.”

  “I was hoping you might do that for me, as I rely on you.” Casting a watery gaze, Madalene laughed. “This is such a blessing, as I long to give Jean Marc a son, and I pray it is a boy.”