Stolen by Starlight: A Pirates of Britannia World Novel

by Borthiry, Avril

  Jake moved closer. “How do you think I see you, Amy? Tell me.”

  Tears filled her eyes again. “As plunder. You said it yourself just yesterday.”

  “Yesterday was a day from Hell. Things were said and done that should never have been said and done. Plunder? No, mo chroí, I don’t see you that way at all, and I never asked you to be my mistress.”

  A frowned settled on her brow. “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t. Think back. You just assumed that’s what I was going to say. You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Then, what were you going to say?”

  “I was going to ask you to marry me.”

  Her jaw dropped and she stared at him for a moment. “Marry you?”

  “Aye.” He grimaced. “I realize being married to a pirate may not be your idea of a happy ending, but then again, it might not be so bad. There are lots of benefits to consider. Travel to exotic lands, for one. Then there’s the endless supply of stolen gifts. And lots of free time for yourself, since I might be gone quite a bit.” He frowned and cleared his throat. “Perhaps the most important thing to consider is that this boorish pirate loves you, Amy. Very much, as it happens. I would be honored to have you as my wife. Will you at least give it some thought?”

  There. He’d done it. Opened his heart and shaken out its contents at Amy’s feet. He waited, watching emotions flare in her eyes. It was like observing a storm at sea; dramatic and unpredictable, wondering which way the wind might blow.

  At last she made a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and dropped her face into her hands.

  Jake fidgeted. “Is this a rejection?”

  Hands still covering her face, Amy shook her head.

  “So, you’re saying yes to my proposal?”

  Eyes shining, she lifted her head and looked at him. “Yes,” she said, on an exhale. “Yes, Jake.”

  “The saints be bloody praised.” Jake grabbed her hand and headed for the door. “Come with me.”

  Amy laughed. “Where are we going?”

  “To get married.”

  “Now?” she squeaked

  “Aye, now.” He pulled her up the stairs. “Where is that poxy priest? Ahoy, Padre!”

  Amy laughed again. “But you’re only half-dressed.”

  “That’s all right, mo ghrá.” Jake paused, cupped her face, and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “There’ll be less for me to take off later, when I’m loving you. Padre, get your holy arse over here now! Oh, and I need a ring. Someone find me a ring.” He kissed Amy again. “I’ll get you a proper one later, I promise.”

  * * *

  Jake closed the cabin door, muffling the rowdy chorus of bawdy songs still ringing out on deck. Odd that he should feel so nervous. He’d lost count of the women he’d bedded, yet he’d never felt what he was feeling now. Ah, but this was no tavern wench, no harbor hussy. This was his bride. The woman he had just pledged to love faithfully, till death parted them.

  Amy stood by the window, facing him, her chin tilted slightly. A touch of pink graced her cheeks, her eyes shone, and a faint smile played on her lips. She was, as always, quite magnificent.

  Jake moved toward her. “I realize this probably isn’t the kind of wedding you imagined for yourself,” he said, stroking his knuckles down her cheek. “I promise I’ll—”

  She placed a finger over his lips. “It was perfect, Captain. Absolutely perfect.” She regarded her wedding band – a small hooped earring that had previously hung from Fingal’s earlobe – and then glanced at the bed. “And I do believe it’s a cold day in Hell today.”

  Understanding her meaning, Jake chuckled. “I’m glad,” he said, “because my cock is misbehaving again.”

  Amy laughed and then her expression sobered. “I’m ready, Jake, truly. I want this. I want you.”

  “Ah, mo chroí.” As he had once before, he traced his fingertips over the contours of her face. “What a priceless treasure you are.”

  He undressed her with restrained reverence, caressing her with kisses and words as he uncovered her beauty. It pleased him that she showed no sign of nervousness or resistance, but rather welcomed his explorations with fervor and passion. Even so, a slight doubt plagued him, for although Amy had vowed to love him as they’d wed, she had not actually professed her love in so many words. Jake wanted to hear it from her lips, without prompting.

  At last she lay with him, naked and vulnerable. Trusting. Jake knew he was her first, and the realization humbled him.

  “You do me a great honor, mo ghrá,” he whispered, feathering kisses across her breasts, as his fingers sought out her core. “I shall always endeavor to be worthy of you.”

  “And I you,” she said, closing her eyes as he caressed her. “Oh, Jake.”

  “I didn’t realize,” he murmured, as much to himself as to her. “I didn’t realize what I had.”

  He positioned himself and entered her in a slow, single thrust, her innocence surrendering to him with little resistance. “Dear god,” he muttered, a shudder of pure pleasure rippling through him. He withdrew halfway and then pushed into her again. Amy drew a soft breath and moved beneath him.

  Jake groaned. “I’ll not last long if you keep doing that,” he said. “’Tis a torture beyond sweet.”

  “Should I stop?” she asked, staring up at him, wide eyed.

  “No, mo chroí.” He pressed a kiss to her throat. “Don’t stop. It feels like heaven. Touch me. Move with me.”

  He fastened his mouth on a rosy nipple, suckling the sweet bud as he quickened his thrusts. Writhing beneath him, Amy dug her nails into his shoulders and released a soft mewl of delight, a sound that pushed Jake to the edge of climax.

  A moment later, as Amy tensed and cried out, Jake tumbled into paradise. In the midst of his pleasure, with the throb of his heart heavy in his ears, he heard Amy speak. “I love you,” she said, breathless. “I love you, Jake.”

  Epilogue

  Dún na Séad Harbor,

  Roaring Water Bay

  Thursday, September 19th, 1720

  The Vagabond Queen stole out of Roaring Water Bay at daybreak. Like a seabird, she held her course steady over the waves, gliding past the islands of Sherkin and Cape Clear before hitting open water. Once there, the crew trimmed her new, white sails to better capture the wind.

  Black sails, for this particular trip, would simply be asking for trouble. That said, they’d been stashed in the hold, just in case an opportunity to steal something by starlight happened along.

  Jake stood by the helm and filled his lungs with the salt air that never failed to intoxicate his blood. It was a fine day to set out on a voyage. The sails snapped as they billowed, and the deck shuddered beneath his feet as the Vagabond Queen lifted her oaken skirts to skip over the sparkling waves.

  “How does she feel?” Jake asked.

  “She feels wonderful, Jake.” Amy bounced on her toes as her hands grasped the wheel. “I could get used to this.”

  “Er, no, you couldn’t,” Jake said. “Padre, the Queen is yours. You know the heading.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Padre took the wheel “Ye’re a natural, lass,” he murmured to Amy, and winked.

  Amy laughed as Jake grabbed her hand and led her to the deck rail. “Egypt,” she said, “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Well, now, that’s providing I deem it safe,” he said, wrapping his arm around her. “We’re heading into some dangerous waters. The French and Spanish pirates are a ferocious bunch. Some nasty storms through Biscay, too. In fact, dear wife, maybe we should put back to port where I can keep you safe.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to lose your reputation as a fierce marauder.”

  “Never.” Jake nuzzled Amy’s ear. Three weeks had passed since he’d married the lass, and it seemed he loved her more with every passing day. “In fact, I feel like doing some plundering right now. Want to join me?”

  About the Author

&
nbsp; Avril was born and raised in the beautiful and historic region of Cumbria, northwest England, but now resides in Ontario, Canada. A lover of history, legend, and romance, her books embrace those elements. Her Celtic roots also weave their way through much of her writing, and she does have a wee bit of a dark side too, which sneaks out now and then.

  She also has a pretty amazing family, some fantastic friends, and a very cute pooch.

  Feedback on her books is welcome, and replies to emails (providing they make it safely into her inbox) are guaranteed.

  Visit Avril at: www.avrilborthiry.com

  Also by Avril Borthiry

  The Cast of a Stone

  Triskelion

  Beyond Reason

  The Wishing Well

  Isolated Hearts

  The Sentinel

  Matthew’s Hope

  The Christmas Orange

  Legends Series (boxset)

  Coming soon: The Sword and the Spirit. (Ewan, Gabriel and Jacques in the Knights Templar series).

  Excerpt from THE SEA DEVIL

  by Eliza Knight

  Enjoy this except from Book 3 in the Pirates of Britannia series…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  1445

  Though he wasn’t drunk, he was perfectly willing to let every other buffoon in the tavern believe it were so.

  Thor, Captain of The Sea Devil, and longtime second-in-command to the Prince of the Devils of the Deep brethren, often played this game.

  The thing was, when a dunce believed Thor to be deep in his cups, he often joined him, and when a man was liquored up, his tongue became loose as a tavern wench in need of coin. And that was how Thor often found out about treasure that needed saving, or heads that needed bashing. Verily, the usual squealers were the swain with enough ale or whisky in their bellies to widen their jaws and wag their tongues.

  As it happened, right now, a very intriguing conversation was taking place a few tables away. Talk of pirates and gold—two things that were liable to interest anyone in the tavern, not just Thor.

  Letting out a belch loud enough to shake the rafters, Thor tapped his mug on the table rather obnoxiously and shouted, “Another! And shome for my”—he waved his hands in the air and pretended to tip back on his chair, balancing mid-air before righting himself with a snort of fake laughter—“all my friendsh.”

  The men in the tavern let out a loud round of whoops and hollers, clicking their mugs as the wenches scurried to fill them with ale up to the rims and collect the coin from Thor before he changed his mind. On the far side of the tavern, men broke out in song, boot heels tapping against the sagging wood of the floor. The torches danced precariously in place where they hung on the walls. One of the drunkards picked up a set of bagpipes and began to play a rather dismal and shameful rendition of a Highland ballad.

  Well, that wouldn’t do. Thor charged across the tavern, making certain to bounce against a few backs, spilling his ale and appearing unstable as he made his way there.

  “That ish not how ’tish done,” he slurred. “Let me show ye.”

  “Ye?” the buffoon laughed. “Another round says ye fall on your arse when ye blow.”

  Thor grinned. “And if I do, I’ll shtill keep on playing.” Lord, help him, but he hoped the men discussing gold and pirates fell for his act.

  Thor grabbed the pipes, settled them against his shoulder, left hand holding the chanter, right hand on the bag. He blew into them, and the squealing sound that issued was enough to have the men falling over laughing. But once he had a handle on the pipes, he played a haunting melody he’d penned on the high seas. The men of the tavern couldn’t hear the words he’d created to go with the song. No one would ever hear them twice, for he changed them in his mind each time.

  When he finished the song, he dutifully fell to his arse with a laugh, tossing the pipes back to their owner.

  “Impressive, ye drunk bastard,” said the man as he caught the pipes.

  “No matter how drunk, a man always knows how to play his pipes,” Thor said, bringing out a round of laughter from the men. “Drinks on my friend here!”

  As the wenches moved to refill the cups, Thor climbed to his feet, glancing out the side of his eye toward the men he’d been spying on earlier. They were still there, still talking in hushed tones. They’d stopped while he played, mesmerized as everyone else was by Thor’s sea song.

  He wagered the time to be nearing midnight, and most of the rapscallions in the place had been splashing ale and whisky down their throats for the better part of several hours.

  Thor staggered around the tavern, pretending to drink his empty cup of ale and slapping random men on their backs. To keep his ruse going, he shared a juicy tidbit about a wench he’d bedded the day before—a total lie—but it drew him closer to the table huddled in the corner, which was what he wanted. Thor didn’t bed women simply to brag about it, but for some reason, bawdy jests and innuendo always seemed to open men up, and so he’d use that to his full advantage.

  “Aye, he’ll be paying a hefty sum in gold,” said the man farthest at the table from Thor.

  Thor listened to their conversation as he continued being rowdy with the men at the table beside them.

  “How much?” one whispered.

  “I heard tell it was an entire chest of gold. A king’s ransom.”

  “For a wee bairn?”

  A wee bairn… What in the bloody hell kind of treasure was that? What pirate wanted to deal with a child? Thor could barely stand the adolescent lad he’d helped his pirate prince Shaw “Savage” MacLeod rescue just a few months ago. The lad followed Thor around like a puppy. Well, until Thor snarled.

  “Well, ’tis not a bairn no more,” they continued, and Thor let out a loud belch to his newfound friends, which inspired a round of who could belch the loudest.

  “How old?” The men looked about, none of them seeing Thor’s side-eyed glance.

  “He said twenty or so.”

  What in Hades were they talking about? Thor resisted the urge to knock their heads together and insist they spit the information out faster.

  “Lad or lass?”

  “He’s not sure.”

  “Ye mean to tell me, Santiago Fernandez put out the word that he’d pay a king’s ransom for a bastard he got on a Scots lass two decades ago, but he’s not certain if it be a lad or lass?”

  Whoa now… Thor almost choked on his empty mug. Santiago… Had he heard that correctly?

  “Aye. A Scots whore. Santiago’s got a bastard running around if ’tis still alive.”

  An icy chill rushed through his veins at the mention of Santiago Fernandez.

  Thor growled, letting out a low curse, which startled his new friends.

  “I need more ale!” he shouted, pretending that was the reason for his outburst.

  A wench was by his side in less than a second, filling his mug as she rubbed her ample bosom against the front of his shirt. He winked at her, made to reach for one of her breasts, but she playfully batted his hand away. The men at his table laughed, but Thor felt no humor. Rather, he was seething inside at what he was hearing.

  Captain Santiago Fernandez was his mortal enemy. Hate didn’t even begin to explain how Thor felt about him. He loathed the man. And for good reason. The first time Thor ever laid eyes on him was when the Spanish pirate stood over the body of Thor’s mother, laughing. The bastard had killed her. Murdered her in cold blood and left her bloodied and battered body on display for everyone to see, including Thor when he was just a lad. Santiago was the reason Thor had become a pirate two decades before. Five years ago, he’d thought the day of reckoning was at hand, but the bastard leader of Los Demonios de Mar had outmaneuvered him, then captured and tortured him. But that didn’t mean Thor was going to give up. Their parting words all those years ago had been Thor’s vow to see Santiago dead.

  “Where’d ye hear it?” one of the scheming swain asked.

  “From one of his crew
. They were bragging about how they’d be the first to find Santiago’s offspring.” He leaned closer. “So I shanked him.”

  A plan started to formulate in Thor’s mind. A crazy idea.

  If these men were willing to kill for the information, the promise of a king’s ransom had to be accurate. Why else would they gut each other for it? Aye, they were all a bunch of scoundrels, but they didn’t kill just to kill, not without cause.

  How many years had Thor waited to exact his revenge on the bastard? Was it just coincidence that the perfect opportunity had just presented itself? Or was it fate?

  Thor didn’t believe in fate. Nor did he believe in coincidences. But he did believe in luck, and today was turning out to be his lucky day.

  A slow grin covered his face, and he pretended to throw back another swig from his empty cup—the contents of which he’d surreptitiously poured into each man’s cup as he clinked mugs with them. He tossed the barkeep a sack full of coins, which he always did to maintain the secrecy of his identity, then waited outside the tavern until the three men who’d been whispering about Santiago’s bairn stepped through the door.

  Thor wasn’t a small man. Even as child of ten, he’d been taller than most men in his mother’s clan. She was a MacLeod, and after his bastard Viking father left his mother to the care of her family, Thor had repudiated any connection to the whoreson—but he couldn’t deny it when he glanced at his reflection. For a long time, he’d shaved the wheat-colored hair from his head, only recently growing it out because he realized how much more savage it made him appear. Being a pirate was all about appearances. The only physical trait he’d inherited from his mother was her blue eyes. Thank God for that, because it meant when he did peer at his likeness, he could still make eye contact with himself, for he saw her instead of his traitorous father.