The Pirate's Bride

by Skendrovich, Cathy

  “Good. That’s good. Then you know...um...that the first time for a woman hurts a little. Or, so I’m told. I...um...don’t have a lot of experience with women such as yourself. I’ll try to prepare you, but the fact is...I’m probably going to enjoy this first time a damn sight more than you.”

  He lay down on his side next to her on the ivory counterpane, reaching out one tanned hand and placing it on her chest. With that same hand, he peeled the blanket down past her waist little by little, revealing her upper body in its thin chemise. She fought the urge to push it away, clenching her fingers as his hand slipped into the neckline and touched her breast. She jolted.

  Spreading his fingers, he kneaded her breast, skimming along its sides, over its center. She scrunched her eyelids shut against his ministrations. Her stomach muscles tightened. Then those fingers brushed the strap of her chemise aside, and she ground her teeth as he laid bare more of her flesh.

  Before she could get used to her near nakedness, his lips clasped onto one breast, and she nearly jumped off the bed. He sucked deep, a slight groan escaping his throat.

  Curious stirrings built deep within her center. He began to swirl his tongue around her nipple, followed by scraping teeth, and her face burned with embarrassment as the nub hardened in response. What Andre Dubois was doing bore no resemblance to her previous experience. Contrary to her fear, she found this almost pleasurable.

  Butterflies released in her stomach and lower, fluttering in time to the pull and draw of his mouth at her breast. She rolled her head on the pillow, restless though not knowing why. His other hand slid the opposite strap down her arm while that velvet mouth continued to suckle. God help her, she didn’t want him to stop. Then he ruined it by taking hold of her nightshift and pulling it down to her feet in one fluid movement.

  She squawked in a high, thin voice, gaze latching onto his. She scrambled to pull the material up, to cover her breasts, torso, and femininity. He held her hypnotized, while his one hand remained splayed across her stomach. “Call me uncivilized,” he said calmly, “but I don’t ascribe to the belief couples should make love with their clothes on.”

  Her pirate husband lowered his mouth to hers, and sucked on her lower lip much as he’d done to her nipple. When he pushed his tongue past her swollen lips, she gave a gasp of surprise, which allowed him further entrance. His tongue swept her mouth before colliding with hers. He growled at the contact, and then rolled his tongue along hers. Against her wishes, she sighed.

  Mon Dieu, she’d never been kissed in this way, hadn’t known people kissed like this. It was decadent, wicked...delicious. Moreover, when she experimented by moving her tongue against his and he moaned, Sophie felt a sudden power she’d never experienced before.

  He ran his hand past her belly, and slid one slim finger into her very center. She bucked wildly. He grinned against her lips at her unschooled reaction. “Shhh. I’m just preparing you. It won’t hurt as much this way.”

  He slipped another finger in and this time she whimpered, shifting her arms and legs amongst the bedclothes, reaching for something she didn’t understand. He moved his fingers inside her and she arched and bowed in time to that wicked rhythm. And, when he removed his hand, she gave a sound of protest. He chuckled as he rose above her, wild hair falling about his face like a dark angel’s halo. In the next second he pulled his nightshirt up and off, leaving him as nude as she.

  She maintained his eye contact, not curious at all, how he looked farther down his body. He positioned himself above her, his manhood straining at her entrance. All the wonderful sensations she’d been feeling evaporated as he slowly began his invasion of her body, pressing that one part of him into her inexorably. Once again, she was in the gazebo at home, reliving the event that dwelled in her mind as The Occurrence.

  ~*~

  Gilbert Harrington was the first man to stir eighteen-year-old Sophie’s interest past sailing ships and into affairs of the heart. They’d danced at various soirées, and he’d called on her at home, and had taken her walking. She’d even allowed him to kiss her chastely on the lips. On that spring night, when he’d invited her out to the gazebo in her garden, she’d gone willingly.

  Apparently, proper young ladies didn’t do such things, though Gilbert grunted an approval against her lips. His masterful kisses drugged her against any doubts she may have harbored. His hands roamed over her back, smoothing along the pearl buttons of her dress. He attempted to pull them apart, saying fervently against her mouth, “Let me see you, just a little, Sophie. I promise I’ll just look.”

  Too enamored of his attention as well as of all the new sensations, Sophie allowed Gilbert the liberty, but the buttons wouldn’t come loose. They continued kissing, until she felt his hand rove up under her skirt. That’s when cold reality set in, and she reared her head back. “No, Gilbert.”

  He didn’t listen, or didn’t hear. Eyes glazed over, he pushed her roughly onto her back while she began shoving his shoulders in a panic. He climbed on top of her. His weight was too substantial, his hand under her skirt rough. She began crying, realizing too late the danger she was in.

  Into the silence burst a ripping sound as he successfully tore her bloomers apart. “You know you want it, Sophie,” he panted. “You’ve let me get this far. I’ll make it good for you. Don’t be a tease.” Then his hand touched where no man had ever touched.

  She sobbed in earnest, understood this was no longer a lover’s quarrel, but a violent crime against her, one that would change her life forever. She beat his shoulders in rising panic, but he ignored her. In fact, he seemed to become more aroused, lowering his mouth to her throat and sucking while his other fumbled at his breeches. Tears poured down her face as she pleaded for him to stop. She tried to roll out from under him, clutching at his shoulders, knowing that in a moment it would be too late.

  And then, it was.

  Releasing himself from his breeches, he shoved his straining manhood into her unready body, ripping through her barrier. He covered her scream of pain with his free hand as he slammed into her repeatedly.

  “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he grunted against her neck as she reeled from his assault. “God, you feel so good, so tight.” He suddenly stiffened above her, swore vilely while she felt a warmth flood into her. At last, he collapsed upon her with his limp body, a dead weight, ignorant of her tears and shock.

  She lay in a stupor, aware of him finally leaving her, felt him pull her skirts over her exposed limbs. Heard him say as if from a distance, “That’s what you’ve been missing, Sophie. I’m glad it was me who drew first blood. I’ll always remember your gift.” He chuckled as he stepped away, straightening his clothes as he left the gazebo.

  For some time after the attack, Sophie remained on the bench. She stared up at the roof of the gazebo, thoughts orbiting around in her head with no gravity. When she finally dragged herself inside the house, she bribed her lady’s maid into not telling her father. Unhappy with the situation, the maid nevertheless did as she was bid, down to burning the clothing Sophie had worn.

  Gilbert left town the next day, and somehow Sophie’s father found out what had happened. Sophie believed her maid to be the gossip, though she swore not. Anton Bellard vowed to find his daughter’s attacker and kill him. While he gathered a pirate crew to search for Gilbert, Sophie pleaded with him to leave well enough alone. She didn’t want anyone knowing about her violation. Reluctantly he acquiesced to her frantic tears.

  Sophie and her father waited anxiously through the next month in hopes she would not be with child. God had seen fit to spare her that humiliation.

  ~*~

  Propped on now-trembling arms, Andre looked into his wife’s face, tamping down his desire at seeing her lying back on the pillows in the first throes of passion, eyes closed, jaw set, hair spread across the pillow like a chocolate waterfall. He wanted nothing more than to sink his hands into its thickness and bring it to his nose, to breathe deep the scent that he already assoc
iated with Sophie Bellard Dubois. He felt his manhood twitch. He was more attracted to his new bride than he’d thought.

  When she appeared at the entrance of the salon for their wedding, shimmering in that shiny dress and looking every bit like the lamb to the slaughter, Andre almost felt sorry for her. He wanted to whisper to her that all would be well. That tender reaction toward her surprised him.

  Now that tenderness had evaporated, replaced with a cock stand worthy of a horse, and the stamina to go at her all night, he should have made use of one of madame Thibodaux’s whores first. Mon dieu, this was exactly the reason he never bedded virgins. One had to take into account their delicate sensibilities, introduce them gently art of making love, while Andre preferred hard, fast and inventive. well, he’d just have rein himself in, starting now.

  Curbing his body’s eagerness, he began to press into Sophie, amazed at the sensations he experienced. She was so tight, her channel so snug, he thought she’d milk him before he was ready. That was the bonus for bedding a virgin.

  Yet, when he looked down into her face, he realized tears seeped from her eyes. He halted his advance. Christ, was he causing that much pain? The whores and women from his past all said he was well endowed, but he didn’t think to the point he’d bring his wife to tears. He’d readied her as much as he could, hadn’t he?

  “I’m sorry, Sophie. I wish this time didn’t hurt. It will be better soon, I promise,” he whispered. “Hold on, my sweet, and it will be over quickly.” He thrust into her to the hilt, closing his eyes as he did so.

  No barrier.

  No hesitation.

  He was seated deep within her and there’d been no obstruction.

  His eyes shot open. He stared down into her scrunched up face, his member throbbing within her, eager to finish the act.

  His sweet, innocent wife wasn’t a virgin. She hadn’t come to their marriage bed unspoiled. She’d given her maidenhead to someone else and was covering the fact by marrying him. She might already be with child, hoping to pawn it off as his.

  Andre saw red.

  Furious, he pulled out of her, the physical pain of unreleased sexual tension staggering him. He waited for her puzzled gaze to meet his. “Chienne bitch, he hissed. “You thought you’d pass your bastard off as mine, did you? well, there won’t be any consummation of this marriage with me, putain. I will not be your cuckold. If you grow heavy with child, we both will know it is not mine. In the meantime, you are dead to me. Adieu and good riddance.

  With a nude, mocking bow, Andre left the bed and strode to his clothes laid out on the dressing table chair. He dragged his breeches on even as she remained prone on the bed, head turned toward him. She said not a word as he slammed out of the room, and out of her life.

  Andre’s anger propelled him all the way to the church where the priest who’d married him to that strumpet resided. Slamming through the front doors, his cutlass raised and glinting in the light from flickering wall sconces, he immediately spied his quarry. The religious man knelt at the altar, but now struggled to his feet in response to Andre’s invasion.

  “The church is closed, sir,” the man stammered, retreating until his back bumped against the altar. Andre curled his lip and continued his advance.

  “I didn’t know God closed shop, Father,” Andre sneered. By now, he stood right before the round, little man, who quaked in his sandals. Recognition flickered in the priest’s eyes, and Andre knew he remembered marrying him to Sophie. The memory of that romantic little ceremony, as well as that moment when he discovered she was not pure, had him pointing his sword under the Father’s trembling jowls.

  “I see you remember me, Father,” he continued, pacing around that man, who turned with him in their frightening dance. “I find I’m having second thoughts, mon ami, and I want my marriage annulled. Now. By you.

  “But...but...these things take time.”

  “Time is what I don’t have, monsieur," Andre said in a guttural voice. the meek little man cowered.

  “But...your bride—”

  “She is the reason for this, you cur.” The poor Father nearly melted from fright where he stood. Andre fought to reign in his temper by taking a deep breath. “She is the purpose for my change of mind, and the reason I want you to keep the annulment a secret. It will be my little surprise for the conniving wench. Savvy?”

  Andre grinned now, for secrecy was the key. If he was the only one who knew he wasn’t married, Bellard’s extortion would still be halted, his father’s position would be safe, and he, Andre, would be free to plunder women just as always. And only when that scheming little chienne bore her child would he divulge the fact that baby was a bastard. nearly rubbed his hands together in devilish satisfaction at how things were turning out.

  While the well-fed priest stared at him in confusion, Andre pulled out from his coat pocket his money-purse. He shook it before the man’s gimlet eyes, which were now trained on that object. Andre’s grin widened. Even religious men had their price.

  “In return for your...silence, you will be rewarded. Handsomely.” When the Father reached for the purse, Andre pulled it up and out of his reach. “But if one word slips out that I am no longer married,” he cautioned, “you will be meeting your Maker much sooner than you planned.” He motioned across his throat with his cutlass. The priest’s eyes bugged and his Adam’s apple bobbed before he nodded his agreement. Andre smiled his approval.

  “Good. Now, be so kind as to make out the necessary document.”

  ~*~

  Gaining the deck of the Princess some time later, his written prize secreted away on his person, Andre strode across the boards and shouted in his most commanding voice, “All hands on deck. Wake up, you scurrilous dogs. Last one topside swabs it.”

  In no time, his crew stood before him, some swaying, and many yawning, all in one form of attention or another. His first mate, the Spaniard de Gallo, hustled to his captain’s side, tucking in his shirt in the process.

  “Capitán, we did not expect you on your wedding—"

  “Obviously.” Andre studied his men, a sorrier lot he couldn’t ever remember. They had anticipated a night without his leadership, and it showed. “Plans have changed. We sail at dawn. Do we have provisions enough, Master G?”

  “Oh, aye, Capitán, aye. Cook went out the last two mornings to market. We’ll be eating like kings this voyage, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but where are we going time?

  “To the Orient, Master G. Or as close as. I have a hankering for silk, and what’s in it.” As well as a need to erase a creamy-skinned, sapphire-eyed beauty from his memory, though this last thought he kept to himself.

  ~*~

  Her husband of one day had sailed to parts unknown. This Sophie discovered by the simple expedience of sending a footman to the harbor to find out where he’d gone.

  Sophie departed for the courtyard and its soothing fountain, where she found her father watering the wisteria and humming tunelessly. He turned at her approach, puzzlement crossing his countenance when he looked into her face.

  “Mon amour, why do you look so sad? did not your bridegroom treat with respect?"

  “He discovered I was not a maid, Papa. How do you think he reacted? He has left me. He sailed on the morning tide, telling me any bastard child I bring into the world will not get his name or protection. I never got a chance to explain.”

  She glanced away, embarrassment heating her cheeks. After all, this was her father with whom she was discussing marital intimacy. Even if they had talked about The Occurrence at length when it happened, it remained an uncomfortable subject.

  Her father looked down at his empty watering can and nodded. “Well, my child, Dubois will have to return at some point, and when he finds his wife not with child, the tide will change again. Time will tell. Be patient, my love.”

  Her father put an arm around her, pulled her into his body for a comforting hug. They were alone again in their house, it would seem. Once more, a man had left Soph
ie after intimate relations. She had yet to discover the attraction of the sex act. It had only ever brought her pain, confusion, and fear.

  How ironic it was when, three weeks later, her father walked out into the garden one morning and promptly fell to the ground, dead from a massive heart attack. With all his planning and attempts to protect her, he ended up leaving her more alone than ever before, married to a man who didn’t love her, had forsaken her, and who was now in possession of both the Caribbean and Sargasso Seas, thanks to her papa’s own machinations.

  The tide had indeed changed again.

  Chapter Three

  “I want my own ship.”

  Le Commandant Louis Dubois turned from the closed French doors of his office toward the speaker. Ah, his lovely daughter-in-law.

  Immediately he schooled his face into sadness, stepped around the massive desk to take Sophie Bellard Dubois’s hands in both of his. “I am so sorry about your father, my dear. Please accept my condolences. You did receive my flowers, did you not?”

  What did she mean, she wanted a ship, Louis thought, as he studied the young girl, noting her pale skin, tired eyes, and overall thinness. However, he also observed the determined tilt of her head, the steel in her eyes, and backbone.

  She seemed the perfect match for his son, but for some reason Andre had repudiated her and scattered to ports unknown. Louis didn’t know where, but he regretted the thought that perhaps Andre was the cause of her melancholia.

  “Why, yes, thank you. However, sir, I want to become a pirate, me comprenez-vous? My father was a pirate captain under your leadership. I want to replace him. there is nothing left for me at home, thanks father’s death, husband’s desertion, and lack of children. repeat, own ship.

  Louis swallowed his disbelief. She was daft if she thought she could become a pirate and sail the seven seas like all the legends proclaimed. Pirating was an art, albeit a dying one. No little girl waltzed in demanding pirate ships like party dresses.