Stolen by Starlight: A Pirates of Britannia World Novel

by Borthiry, Avril

  He could tell a story, this pirate commander. Amy listened, enthralled, as he proceeded to describe the wonders of that ancient land.

  “I would love to see them for myself,” she murmured.

  “Maybe one day you will,” he answered.

  Unlikely, she thought, but forced a smile as she looked to the shore. “Maybe.”

  Their destination appeared to be a small crescent of sandy beach. As they drew near, the crewman lifted the oars and allowed the waves to do their work, pushing the boat onto the sand.

  It was an unceremonious arrival, the captain once again taking Amy’s hand as they scrambled ashore. He spoke to his crewman for a few minutes, their Gaelic exchange lost on Amy. No doubt it had to do with her fate. She was, after all, at the mercy of these men. Her previous sense of safety evaporated, replaced by a feeling of utter isolation. What if, as she feared, the ransom demand to her mother was not met?

  She refused to think about it. Instead, she chewed on her lip, tugged her blanket tight again, and took the time to examine her surroundings.

  It was a lonely spot, but pretty. A sandy path wound its way up a grassy rise, feeding into a copse of straggly, windswept trees before disappearing from view. Amy couldn’t see what lay beyond the trees and wondered, again, about their final destination.

  She started as the captain’s hand settled on the small of her back. “This way,” he said and steered her toward the path.

  “Is it far?”

  “A short walk.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Are you married?”

  He chuckled. “No.”

  “Do you have a mistress?”

  “I have female acquaintances.” Brow raised, he gave her a sideways glance. “Why do you ask? Has Hell frozen over, by any chance?”

  “No, sorry to disappoint you.” She flashed him a false smile. “I just wondered what a wife or a mistress might think of you bringing a strange woman to her house.”

  “Ah.” They entered the trees, which was actually little more than a patch of hawthorn. “Well, since I have neither, you have no need to worry. Besides, your arrival at Dún Caorthann is likely expected.”

  “But… how can that be?” Amy glanced back at the ship. Had she somehow missed a day? “Did we anchor somewhere else before this?”

  “No.”

  “Then how could you send a message? And to whom?”

  “I have my methods.”

  The mysterious responses irked, but Amy was fast learning that bumping heads with this pirate served little purpose. He was as stubborn as she, if not more so.

  They emerged from the trees atop the rise, and Amy paused to look back across the sea. The twilight had turned the skies to pale violet, the sea beneath to a soft grey. “What’s the name of your ship?” she asked, seeing the vessel still anchored out in the cove.

  “So many questions this evening.” He moved closer, lifted a loose tendril of hair from her cheek, and let it slide through his fingers. “I’m compelled to ask why.”

  She shrugged. “I’m simply curious about the brigand who holds me hostage, that’s all. I don’t even know his name, let alone that of his ship.”

  A slight frown flitted over his brow as he fingered the loose strand of hair again. “There are those who would have taken you, broken you into a hundred pieces, and cast you aside by now,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I’m a merciful man, which is why you remain unharmed. It is not wise, however, to test the limits of my mercy. I thought I’d made that clear last night.”

  Amy fidgeted. “Do you enjoy threatening me?”

  “As much as you enjoy provoking me, mo chailín,” he said. Then, as if to whisper a secret, he bent his mouth to her ear, the warmth of his breath on her neck sending a shiver down her spine. “If I were you, I’d be on my knees at my captor’s feet, praying that my mother will be able to pay the ransom.”

  Amy swallowed. “And if she cannot?”

  “Then I shall be forced to consider other options.” He straightened and turned his gaze to the distant ship. “She is called the Vagabond Queen. As soon as I saw her, I knew I wanted her, so I stole her and made her mine.” Smiling, he regarded Amy again. “We should not linger. It’ll be dark soon.”

  Other options? What did he mean? Was he being serious, or simply toying with her fears? Somehow, Amy knew asking him would serve no purpose. Growing wearier with each step, she followed him along the path – little more than a deer track, in truth – which travelled along the shoreline for a short while before turning inland. By now, twilight had thickened and stars had started to pepper the sky. Ahead lay a copse of trees, surrounding what looked like a house, its roof and chimneys visible.

  “Dún Caorthann,” the captain said.

  Amy opened her mouth to ask what it meant but changed her mind. It seemed her host didn’t like being questioned, and she no longer had the desire or the energy to argue with him.

  “Dún means fort,” he continued and Amy almost laughed. It was uncanny how he seemed to read her mind. “And Caorthann is the Irish name for the Rowan tree. The house is less than a century old but sits atop the ruins of an ancient fortress.”

  Under different circumstances, such a tale might have stirred Amy’s interest and imagination, but his commentary was nothing more than a description of her prison. A mild but persistent throb tapped at her temples, and her eyes felt as though they had sand in them. Stifling a yawn, she remained silent, aware of the captain’s scrutiny but resisting the temptation to look at him.

  “I realize you’re tired,” he said. “Probably hungry too.”

  For some reason, his apparent concern served only to grate on Amy’s shredded nerves. “As if you care,” she retorted

  “I care very much, Amy,” he said, after a moment, “and will continue to do so as long as I believe you to have some monetary value.”

  That stung. Tears pricked at the back of Amy’s eyes, but she blinked them away and paused to study the house.

  It stood two storeys high, had a central portal, ivy-clad walls, and a slated roof. Though of a decent size, it was no mansion. It exuded, however, a regal air, one that hinted at history and longevity. Its circle of protective trees no doubt kept the winds at bay. The gardens, even in the failing light, appeared to be well kept, and the sweet scents of lavender and roses teased her nostrils. The lamplit windows were inviting, suggestive of shelter and comfort. The tableau was, actually, quite beautiful.

  And desolate.

  “The nearest village is five miles that way,” the captain said, pointing his chin. “So, when you attempt to escape, and I’m certain you will, that would be the way to go. If you happen to reach the village, which is highly unlikely, you might find it difficult to explain your situation, since no one there speaks English. Folk might be a little hostile as well, once they realize you’re a sasanach, which means English, in case you didn’t know.”

  Amy felt a sudden weight pressing on her ribs. Despair, perhaps. “Um, I’m rather tired.” She tugged her blanket tighter and didn’t even try to control the tremble in her voice. “I also have a bit of a headache. Do you think we could go in now? I would really like to rest.”

  The smirk on his face slid away. “Of course.” He placed a hand in the small of her back as they walked up to the front door.

  It opened before they got there, and a woman stepped over the threshold, releasing a cry as she did so. Her hands flew to her face for a moment, and then she held them out in welcome as she stepped forward to greet him. “Jacob,” she cried, followed by some further exclamations that left Amy at a loss. But the name, she had understood.

  Jacob.

  “Móraí.” Jacob, as Amy now knew him, took the woman in his arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Conas atá tú?”

  They exchanged more words, their fondness for each other obvious. The woman’s lined face betrayed her advanced years, as did her diamond-white hair, which had been coiled in a haphazard, yet attractive fashion atop her
head.

  Despite her age, the woman was obviously spry. Petite and fine featured, she held herself well, with a straight spine and slender waist. She pulled away from Jacob and regarded Amy through dark eyes that sparkled even in the dusk.

  “This is she?” she asked, in English.

  “It is.”

  The woman looked down her nose. “And I trust none of your men are responsible for that bruise?”

  “Of course not,” Jacob replied, and gave Amy a sober glance. “Amy, this is my grandmother, Imogen McNamara.”

  Amy’s eyes widened as she gazed at the woman. “Your grandmother?”

  “Aye.”

  Amy shook her head. “Does… does she know why I’m here?”

  The woman raised her brows. “I am neither deaf nor mute, my dear. You may address me directly. And the answer is yes, of course I know why you’re here. Now please, come in. My old bones get chilled very quickly, and you must be exhausted. Hungry, too, I should think. Bridget has made a lamb stew.”

  Aghast, Amy stumbled up the steps into a dimly lit hallway, her nostrils instantly assaulted by a melange of beeswax, wood smoke and, she assumed, lamb stew. Her stomach clenched in protest.

  “But… but surely you cannot condone what your grandson is doing,” she said, following the old lady down the hallway. “He’s holding me hostage. I’m here against my will.”

  “I’m aware of what he’s doing, and of course I condone it.” She paused at a doorway and smiled at Amy. “I would have done the same.”

  Incredulous, Amy gaped at Jacob. “Would have done the same?”

  He chuckled. “My grandmother is the original Vagabond Queen,” he said. “My ship is named for her.”

  “A pirate?” Amy gaped at the elderly woman in disbelief, who merely smiled and passed through the doorway. “Your grandmother was a pirate?”

  “She still is,” Jacob replied, cupping Amy’s elbow and steering her over the threshold. “Her days of plundering might be over, but she will always be a pirate.”

  Chapter Five

  “Speak your mind, Móraí.” Jake regarded his grandmother over the rim of his whiskey glass. “I’m tired of trying to make conversation.”

  “I’m waiting for you to get to the point, Jacob.”

  “I have no point to make. It seems you do, however. So make it.”

  “Very well.” Imogen leaned forward and fixed him with a hard stare. “You have grown fond of her.”

  “And you are mistaken.”

  “More than fond, I fear.”

  Jake gave a soft laugh. “I have known her but two days, Móraí, which is not long enough to feel anything other than some lustful attraction.”

  “Oh, I must disagree.” Imogen shifted in her chair. “Kindred hearts recognize each other instantly. I knew the moment I saw your grandfather that I wanted him in my bed.”

  Jake scoffed. “I will not deny that I want Amy in my bed. Anything beyond that, however, is not something I have considered.”

  “It went beyond lust,” she continued, her gaze shifting to some indefinable spot behind Jake. “I wanted him as my lover but also my companion for life. My confidante in all things. I wanted total intimacy with him, and he gave it to me. We gave it to each other.”

  Jake rolled a mouthful of whiskey around his tongue, frowning as he swallowed. For some reason, the liquor tasted somewhat bitter tonight. “The lass will be ransomed, Móraí. The process has already begun.”

  “It is not too late to change your plans.”

  He huffed. “I have no bloody intention of changing them. You said yourself, you’d have done as I am doing. This display of clemency surprises me, frankly. It’s not like you. Have you become soft in your old age?”

  “I spoke in ignorance earlier, Jacob. I had not seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you.”

  “You’re imagining things,” he retorted. “The lass hates me. I’m not paying court to her, Móraí. I’m holding her hostage, in case you’d forgotten.”

  Imogen waved a hand. “You saved her from a far worse fate, and you have not harmed her in the least. No, she doesn’t hate you. She resents that you push her away and refuse to reciprocate her feelings, even though you share them.”

  He met his grandmother’s bright gaze. “I share nothing of the sort. Besides, the Amy DuBois you saw tonight was merely a shadow of her usual self. The wench has some admirable physical assets, but she’s about as amenable as a cobra and could curse the hind leg off a carthorse.”

  Head cocked, his grandmother regarded him for a moment. “Sometimes, we find a treasure that is not meant to be bartered,” she said, at last. “If you proceed with this ransom plan of yours, you’ll lose her forever. I suggest you think hard about what you are doing.”

  He downed his whiskey. “I have thought about it.”

  “Then think about it some more.” Imogen rose to her feet. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, a stór.”

  “Goodnight, Móraí.”

  “You should get some sleep, too.” Her knuckles brushed his cheek as she passed. “You look tired.”

  Instead, Jake rose, poured himself another drink, and went to stand by the window, seeing nothing but his reflection in the glass. Two days ago, his life had been a lot less complicated. Two days ago, he had been unaware of Amy DuBois’ existence.

  His grandmother had always been shrewd, able to see behind the fictitious façade of a person to what lay within. But she had surely been mistaken in her analysis of Jake’s heart. Any feelings he had for Amy emanated solely from his cock. Jake wanted the lass naked, crying out his name as he joined her in climax. Perhaps he should simply seduce her, play out his fantasy, and find some kind of peace.

  “Shite,” he muttered.

  The details of Amy’s ransom had yet to be finalized. Strategies had been decided, and the nets were being cast even now. He simply had to wait to see what they hauled in. Despite her promise, he knew Amy had not told him everything, and specifically about her mother. Jake wasn’t sure what she’d held back, but he knew an ex-courtesan would not normally be in any position to pay a substantial ransom demand. No, the ransom, without doubt, would have to come from the girl’s father.

  Which meant giving Amy back to an unscrupulous man. Any feelings of sympathy for the lass had to be set aside. Jake was a pirate, not a philanthropist. Amy was ship’s plunder, no different to the silks or the brandy or the Madeira.

  Yet, the more time he spent with her, the harder it became to remain unaffected by his conscience. He looked up at the ceiling, his imagination allowing him entry to where Amy slept. She had not been herself after arriving at Dún Caorthann. Subdued at dinner, she had eaten little and said less, her usual forthrightness muted. Afterwards, he had shown her to her room, receiving only some mumbled thanks before she’d closed the door in his face. Since then, he’d not heard a sound.

  He blew out an exasperated breath and lowered his gaze to the window once more, his heart grinding to a shuddering halt at the sight of a pale face behind his, reflected in the glass.

  “Jesus Christ!” He spun round. “What the bloody hell…?”

  “Sorry,” Amy said, looking sheepish. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Damn it, Amy. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

  She blinked. “You sneak up on people for a living.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “I said I’m sorry.” Her mouth twitched. “Do you need to change your drawers?”

  “No, and I’m glad you find it amusing,” he said, trying to sound gruff even as a bubble of laughter lodged in his throat. “My bloody heart almost gave out.”

  “Actually, it was rather funny. You should’ve seen your face.”

  He capitulated to a guffaw. “Don’t do it again,” he said, raking an appreciative gaze over her. The lass looked deliciously unkempt, almost as if she’d been thoroughly bedded. Her eyes were wide and soft. The sharing of levity had brought a sweet flush
of color to her cheeks, and unruly tendrils of hair had escaped her braid to form a rebellious halo of curls around her face. Only that damn bruise spoiled the overall effect. And what, in God’s name, was she wearing?

  She obviously read the question on his face.

  “I think it’s a man’s nightshirt,” she said, peering down at herself. “Your grandmother left it on my bed. It’s rather large, but its clean.”

  Rather large? She looked utterly lost in it, every one of her lovely curves hidden beneath yards of white linen. She’d rolled up the enormous sleeves too, creating fat cuffs at her elbows. The ugly thing fell to mid-calf, which was something of a redeeming quality, since it exposed her slender ankles. Flattering it was not, yet for some reason, Jacob found it incredibly arousing. Then again, he’d seen some of what lay beneath.

  “It would make a good sail,” he said. “It probably belonged to my grandfather. He was a large man. My grandmother will tell you she only wears a smile to bed, which is likely why she can’t lend you anything of hers to sleep in. Why did you leave your bed? You couldn’t sleep?”

  “I slept a little.” She lowered herself onto the settee, tucked the shirt around her legs, and stared up at him. “But I can’t stop thinking about everything. I’m a prisoner here, Captain. At your mercy. Believe it or not, that doesn’t exactly enthrall me.”

  “I can’t think why.” Jake sat beside her. “It seems to me you’d be in worse trouble right now had the Vagabond Queen not happened along.”

  “Maybe, but I’m still in trouble nonetheless.” She cast a glance around the room. “No matter how pleasant my prison, I remain a hostage uncertain of my future. You mentioned considering other options if my mother can’t pay your ransom. What might they be?”

  “I’m sure she can pay something. I’m open to negotiation.”

  “And if she can’t?”

  Jake scrutinized her. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No, I’ve told you everything. It’s just that my... my mother is not as wealthy as my father.”