The Pirate's Bride

by Skendrovich, Cathy

  “That’s all for you, Captain Sophie Dubois. As a one, they fought to avenge your death, as well as search for you. I don’t think they’d bloody well do that for me, the saludes."

  She laughed and then waved a hand at the men, inciting a concerted shout in response. Her smile widened. Just then, the little boat bumped the side of the Princess, and someone flung a rope ladder.

  Andre stood, balancing in the rocking dinghy while his coat flapped in the breeze. He looked down into her up-tilted face. “Would you like the chair sent down? I don’t want you exerting yourself, Sophie.”

  “I’m fine, Andre. Really. I just want to get on board.”

  They maintained eye contact when he offered his hand to balance her. Taking it, he felt that jolt of awareness whenever their skin brushed. Seven long, torturous months, and he reacted the same as before. He wondered if she felt it also, if that was what stimulated the return of her memory. If it would always be that way with them. Relinquishing his hand, she reached for the ladder and pulled herself aloft. He followed close behind.

  ~*~

  The clamoring crew surrounded them as soon as they were aboard, cheering and waving their cutlasses. A few even let off their pistols, but a look from Andre had them stowing the weapons sheepishly.

  “Move aside, you pack of jackals, and let me see my daughter-in-law for myself.”

  Sophie swung toward the gravelly voice while the ring of pirates parted down the middle on shuffling feet. Between them appeared the oldest pirate she knew, her second most favorite man.

  Le Commandant Louis Dubois stopped before her, his sharp eyes studying her face. She took in his long, unbound gray hair, the wrinkled face under his large, tricorn hat, and realized he’d aged during her absence. She hated that she was the cause of that aging.

  Taking his gnarled hands in both of hers, she whispered, “Mon beau-père, I never forgot you. Even when I couldn’t remember anything else, I saw your face in my dreams, in flashes of memory along with Andre.”

  He gave her a gentle smile, and then pulled her against him. His voice rumbled under her ear, “Dreams, you say? What kind of dreams are we talking, Madame?”

  She pulled out of his embrace with a giggle, while Andre shouldered between them. “Never you mind, you dirty old man. You probably figure in those nightmares she says she has on occasion.”

  Now she laughed in glee at the familiar banter. As she shot one more look around at all the grinning faces, she couldn’t help but think she was where she truly belonged.

  She’d come home at last.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sophie’s welcome home party had gone on far into the night. Too long, Andre thought as he watched his crew drink, shout, eat, and drink again. He’d been forced to witness her tearful reunion with that salaud of a first mate, Limey, who had held her for longer than necessary. Good thing that sorry excuse for a pirate had fallen for the young Ting back in Formosa. Otherwise, Andre might have to carve him a matching scar on the other side of his face.

  He’d listened to his father recount their attack on Junjie Zheng, where he’d learned that Limey had saved his father’s life. Well, bugger him with a two-peckered goat. Not only did he have to accept the traître as his wife’s one-time first mate, he was beholden to him for his father’s life. The gods were not happy with ole Andre, that was for damn sure.

  Now the moon was riding high in the midnight sky, and Sophie had disappeared into their cabin a short time ago. From the way she’d looked at him through her lashes, and from under that stupid hat he’d taken great pains to save for her, he knew they would be carrying on the celebration in private. His body quickened at the thought of holding Sophie, kissing Sophie. Making love to Sophie, Yet—

  “In my day, mon fils, if my wife looked at me like that, I certainly didn’t make it a habit to keep her waiting. If you do, she just might think you’re not interested. Are you?”

  Andre started, glaring at his father, who’d crept up beside him on stocking feet, it would seem. Merde, the old goat couldn’t keep his nose out of his, Andre’s, private business.

  “That’s none of your concern, you old buzzard.” Andre paused, wondered if he could voice his innermost fear, and wondered if his father would see it as a weakness.

  “She’s not made of glass, mon fils, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  Andre gaped at his father. How the hell had he known? Yet, now that it was out in the open, he figured, what the hell? He took a deep breath. “But Papa, her head. Her memory. Her wound. What if she isn’t ready? What if...I hurt her?”

  He couldn’t mask the quaver in his voice, couldn’t hide the fear as it washed over him in waves. He would gladly live the rest of his life in celibacy if it meant he had Sophie at his side through it all. What he couldn’t face was a future without her. He’d already done that, and gone to Bedlam and back because of it.

  His father spoke, his voice a gentle murmur. “I didn’t raise a coward, especially not one in the bedroom. That woman wants to know you still love her. How you do that is up to you. Just remember—she wouldn’t have survived her ordeal if she wasn’t made of stronger stuff, now would she?” When Andre didn’t respond, his father gave him a nudge with his elbow. “She needs you, boy. Go show her you need her, too. I can take care of these miscreants.”

  Andre blinked at his father’s words, at the kind understanding he saw in the old man’s face. On an uncharacteristic show of affection, he grabbed Louis to him. “I’m glad that traitorous Brit saved your ass, Papa. Just don’t ever tell him so.”

  He set Louis back from him, made a surreptitious swipe at his eyes, and then headed for his cabin, and the most important moment of his entire life. He barely heard his father cackle as he left.

  ~*~

  Sophie stood in the center of the captain’s cabin, wondering when her husband would come to her. If he would. She glanced at the hastily made berth, the bed curtains she’d pulled back, the candles she’d lit around the small space in a weak attempt at romance. Her swallow sounded loud in the hushed room.

  She was in love with her husband, flaws and all, yet she was afraid he wouldn’t want her, need her. After all, it had been seven long months. Perhaps he’d found someone else, slaked his lust in another woman’s arms. She burned for his touch, for his smoldering looks. For his skin against hers once more. Did he feel the same?

  It had been so long, yet the memory of that island idyll seared her brain and scorched her nerves to the point she felt hot and cold inside. The only coherent thoughts running through her mind involved her and her husband doing sensual, sweaty, steamy things to each other for hours on end.

  She caught her breath on a whimper, lifted the heavy hair from the nape of her neck as sweat droplets broke out underneath at just the thought of those sinful pastimes she imagined. She’d changed into the nightdress she’d found still folded neatly in her chest at the foot of the bunk, but even that thin material clung to her aroused body like a second skin.

  A light knock followed by a deep, “Sophie?” on the other side of the door startled her, froze her where she stood. She dropped her quaking hands from her damp hair. Cleared her throat and answered with a wobbly, “Entrez.”Her eyes remained trained on the doorknob of destiny as it turned.

  The door edged inward until her husband entered on cautious, booted feet. Their eyes met across the short distance, awareness sizzling even as he pushed the cabin door shut. She heard the lock snick closed, and her stare dropped to his hand as it released the knob and fell to his side. She lifted her gaze to his.

  Gold-flecked, umber orbs trapped her, asked a silent question. She responded by stepping forward on a shaky, indrawn breath. Then reached up with trembling hands to untie the bow at the neck of her peignoir, and pulled the lacy nothing down her arms to drop upon the floor.

  His eyes widened, flicked down her body encased in only the thin, white, lawn nightdress that left little to the imagination. She shivered as his gaze heated. H
e remained stock still while she floated over to stand in front of him. Her breathing accelerated. Her pulse beat like the wings of a butterfly.

  He inhaled sharply through his nose, allowed his gaze to rove over her. His hands remained stick-like at his sides. Sophie shook with need, with the desire to feel his hands upon her, his body against her, inside her, yet he stood like a statue.

  She would have to be the one to make the first move, the one to break the impasse at which they seemed to hover. Licking her lips, clenching her fingers, she at last broke the silence between them. “P-please, Andre, don’t make me beg. It has been months since we’ve been together as husband and wife. You’ve said you love me, and I love you, but I need more than words. I need to feel your love.

  “I want to make love with you, Andre, to you, like we did on that island. I want to do those things we did, here, now, always. Please, lay with me.”

  Silence, punctuated only by their harsh breathing, permeated the room, threatening to envelop them in its leaden cloak. Her plea hung heavy between them. Her stomach knotted tighter and tighter. At last he moved, turned away while pulling his head kerchief off his mussed hair and tossing it onto the desk.

  Swiveling back around, he glowered at her with blazing eyes. “God, I want you, Sophie. I’ve waited for this moment for so long. I died a little bit every day when I thought you were dead. I went to hell and back during those months. Ask the crew. Ask my father. I was a demon in danger of exploding my wrath and helplessness upon the world because I’d lost you.

  “I had no reason for living except to avenge your death. I became a cold-blooded killer that culminated in Zheng’s death. Then, I lost my reason for living because his death didn’t bring you back. Until I was told about your existence. Until I was given that kernel of hope.”

  His eyes shimmered with an uncharacteristic wetness, but he wasn’t finished speaking. “I want nothing more than to shower you with kisses, cover you with my body and pour my love into you, night after night, day after day.

  “What I can’t sacrifice, mon amour, is you. I’m terrified, Sophie. So terrified. If I do something to hurt you, to cause you pain, I will die. I know that. It’s simple.” His voice had softened, gaze drifting over her face while one trembling hand rose to caress her hair. And then dropped to his side.

  Seconds ticked by.

  He was afraid. Sophie couldn’t believe it of her brave, buccaneer husband, but it was true. He, Captain Andre Dubois, most feared pirate of the Caribbean, was afraid he might hurt her, his wife. The knowledge made her love him more.

  She cupped his cheek, and watched his lashes drop over his anguished eyes. Felt the breath he expelled at her touch waft over her face. She whispered, “You will never hurt me, mon mari. Only if you cease to love me. I think I managed to survive because deep down in my heart, I knew you loved me, and had to be ready for you to find me. Now that we are reunited, all that is left is the loving. So please, Andre, please make love to me.”

  She felt the tears welling, cursed her feminine weakness as she waited.

  His self-control snapped. On a hissed “Merde,” his hands came up to frame her face as he lowered his head, lips crashing against hers. He held her steady during this onslaught, the kiss punishing in its intensity, teeth scraping, nipping, lips bruising.

  Sophie welcomed the ferocious embrace, cleaved to his hard body, her hands still covering his. Her teeth grazed his lips in response, the muttered words of “I love you” passing between their mingled, heaving breaths.

  With a growl of defeat, he scooped her up into his arms and strode to the bed, laid her gently in its middle. Sparing a glance and tight smile at the flickering candles on either side, he gazed down into her face.

  He paused, half bent over her and she stretched her arms above her head. Her position invited him to unwrap her, but he seemed frozen with one knee upon the bed. She sat up, nearly cracking him under the chin in the process, and pressed open palms against his shoulders. He raised one questioning brow.

  “Allow me, Husband,” she ordered. “I am no longer a wounded young debutante. I am a woman, a pirate captain. Your wife and, I should hope, your equal. Allow me to seduce you.”

  ~*~

  Andre stared at this new Sophie as he stood beside the bed. This bold Sophie, and his pulse began to quicken. His mind raced. The erotic images evoked from her words within his much more debauched brain set his blood to simmering, his cock to hardening, until he remembered her fragile state. It was getting more difficult to do so however, when she rose to her knees and began unfastening his baldric with fumbling fingers, managed to drop it to the floor in her nervousness.

  When she paused, looked up into his face, he waited for her to make the next move. Her hesitation lengthened, as if she were running different scenarios through her head.

  “Sophie?” he queried. He was torn between sinking his hands into her thick hair and once more plundering her tremulous mouth with the most erotic, wet kiss he could deliver, or peeling that transparent nothing of a gown off her luscious body.

  The choice was taken out of his hands. She reached for him, took hold of his loose shirt and pulled it up out of his breeches, breath hitching at each expanse of skin she revealed. He raised his arms for her to drag the shirt over and off him, and then stood bare-chested before her while her gaze coursed over every inch of his skin. His body responded to her perusal.

  He longed for her to lean forward, to kiss the skin above his heart. When she looked upon his scars and old wounds, he fought the urge to beg her to touch each one of them, first with fingers, then with her tongue.

  When her eyes followed the trail of hair that arrowed past his breeches, he felt his cock jerk. It took all his will power not to take command of her planned seduction. As if reading his mind, she tipped forward and did what he’d hoped, prayed—she began to taste him with her tongue.

  His skin shivered as her mouth left a trail of dampness in its wake. With growing confidence in her ability to seduce him, she slid questing fingertips along his ribcage, lowering her mouth to kiss each rib she felt. She returned to lap at his chest, to trace his wounds and scars with the tip of her tongue. Nipped and licked, as he would have done.

  Unable to remain still and silent any longer, he began spewing forth French epithets toward the ceiling in whispered huskiness while his heartbeat thundered under her delicate touch. He grabbed her hands away from his feverish skin and held them still between their bodies. “You win, ma sorcier séduisante, you win. I am no match for your machinations.”

  He climbed onto the bed, pushed her back onto the pillows, half covering her body as he surrendered to the inevitable. He was totally, inescapably in love with his wife, and was compelled to show her how much, no matter the outcome. His body demanded it. She required it.

  Craning her neck upwards, lips scant inches from his, she whispered into his mouth, “I love you, cher mari. I have missed you so. Make love to me.”

  She closed the remaining distance before he could respond. He felt his head grow dizzy when she teased his lips open with her tongue, swept his mouth with moist precision, until he was sure he would lose all control. He pulled his head back, opened heavy lids to look at her flushed and beautiful face.

  “You tease remarkably well, ma chaton, and now that’s not enough. Mon Dieu, I need to feel you, skin to skin.”

  Suiting actions to words, he levered off her enough to run one hand down the front placket of pearl buttons on her nightdress, opening them with alacrity. In just as much of a hurry, she reached for her hem. On a bark of amused laughter, he came to her aid, and between the two of them, they removed the offending garment.

  For the first time in close to a year, he looked upon his beloved wife. His heart somersaulted in his chest. She was so beautiful. All creamy, dewy skin, with those rounded breasts begging for his attention, watering his mouth.

  She shifted her long legs upon the bed. Behind all her seductive bravado, she was still his shy bride.
Right down to her fluttering hands covering an ugly, nasty pink wound, still puckered in relative newness as it marred the skin of her stomach, remarkably close to that other, older scar.

  He scowled, his attention diverted. With one, gentle index finger, he traced the scar from Luis’ attempted murder. “I came so close to losing you, ma trésor. If I could, I would kill him again,” he whispered.

  He bent his head, touched his lips to the scar, and swirled his tongue around it, laved it as though he could wash its very existence off her flesh. Her body quivered under his ministrations, and she dropped back onto the counterpane, fingers twisting within the material as he continued to lap over her skin.

  He licked up her abdomen, nibbled when he felt the urge, until he reached those delectable, pink-tipped mounds. His mouth covered first one, and then the other, drawing deep upon each nipple until she produced the keening sound he’d thought he’d never hear again, the response for which he strove in all he did to her, with her.

  He continued, hands skimming over her body, gliding over legs and thighs, belly and breasts, ghosting along shimmering skin sensitive to his every touch, his every pressure. Her body became the taut musical instrument from which he coaxed the lightest, most expressive aria imaginable simply by using fingertips, lips, and tongue. Until kissing and touching was no longer enough.

  Abruptly he stood, shucking his boots and breeches amidst her mewls of protest, before he returned to the bed. Sapphire eyes clouded with desire met his. She lay spread before him, loose-limbed and flushed from his caresses.

  She licked her lips while he crawled up her body. Bridging her with his arms, he looked down into her expectant face. “Are you sure, Sophie? Please...are you sure this is the time?” He couldn’t hide the trepidation in his tone.

  Her gaze softened. “I’ve never been surer, mon amour. Please, don’t make me wait longer. I want this. Now.”

  Her arms snaked up and around his neck, drawing his head down so that once more their lips crashed together, open-mouthed, wet, rapacious. They devoured each other where before they’d been sipping, reigniting the appetite he’d curbed when he’d left the bed moments earlier.