Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  “You may be right, and I will confess to a lingering fondness for pirates myself. But I still consider a kick up the arse to be in order. And I shall administer it, as soon as I am able to do so without ending up flat on my back like an upturned bug.”

  “What an intriguing image.”

  Both women turned to regard their husbands as the men entered the drawing room.

  “Whose arse are you considering for such treatment, my love?” Raven dropped a kiss on Paulette’s curls, while Will tipped up Elisabeth’s chin to slant his lips across hers.

  “His,” came the reply. “Elisabeth is enceinte, and he will not marry her.”

  “The cad,” Raven agreed. “I shall be delighted to kick his arse on your behalf, my darling.”

  “There will be no arse-kicking, at least, not in my drawing room,” Elisabeth declared. “This porcelain has been in my family for generations, and I will not have it reduced to smithereens. Monsieur Levant would never countenance such behaviour.”

  “You are quite right, my love. We cannot risk the porcelain,” Will said, “nor Monsieur Levant’s wrath. I wonder, will this serve to stave off those dire threats?” He produced a small velvet bag from his pocket and offered it to Elisabeth.

  She took it and loosened the ties, then tipped the contents onto the palm of her hand. A ring tumbled out. “A ruby,” she breathed. Then she fixed him with a stern look. “Did you steal it?”

  “A ruby seemed fitting,” Will acknowledged. “And no, I did not. I am a reformed character, or so André Hêrbert insists. It was my mother’s engagement ring, and now, I hope, it will be yours.” An anxious expression flittered across his handsome features. “You do not want me to go down on one knee, do you?”

  “No, I—”

  “Well, she may not, but I think you should,” Raven drawled, now lounging on the sofa opposite. “It’s the least you can offer, after all that dithering.”

  “I was not dithering,” Will snarled. “Can you not simply congratulate me, or better still, mind your own fucking business?”

  “Looked like dithering to me. Glad you’ve seen the light at last, and without me having to resort to violence after all, though apparently my wife is not entirely of the same mind.” Raven grinned at Paulette. “Let it never be said I did not marry well.”

  Will let out a sound which put Elisabeth in mind of the grumpy old mastiff her father once owned, though Raven was, as ever, undeterred.

  “And who is to say congratulations are in order anyway? She has yet to accept you. If the lady has any sense, she will tell you to fu—”

  “I will.”

  Her three companions fixed their collective gaze on her.

  Elisabeth reddened and continued. “I accept your proposal. I shall be delighted to marry you, Captain Falconer. Will,” she corrected. “Now please, be seated before the three of you reduce my drawing room to rubble.”

  About Ashe Barker

  Ashe Barker whiles away her time in the wilds of Yorkshire, England, writing smutty books and drinking Earl Grey tea. She loves writing historical stories and has a particular passion for masterful, take-charge heroes.

  When not writing Ashe enjoys digital photography, reading erotic stories, pole dancing (though not especially well), and listening to Bon Jovi. Loud.

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  The Dark Heart of the Sea

  by Celeste Barclay

  Chapter 1

  Ruairí MacNeill opened the door to the Three Merry Lads and tried not to curl his nose in disgust. The stench of too many bodies, stale beers, and burned food created a cloud of stench inside the tavern. Ruairí scanned the crowd as he stepped inside and immediately noticed that many members of his crew were already settled, a pint in one hand and a woman in the other. His ship, the Lady Charity, had docked an hour earlier. With their most recent bounty already stored in the nearby cave, Ruairí had granted them shore leave. He nodded his head once to his first mate, Kyle, who was the only sober one in the lot. Ruairí made another visual sweep of the room, checking whether there were any other sailors who might be less enthused to see him come ashore. When he was satisfied none of his rivals were waiting to stab him, he attempted to make his way to the bar. As he pushed through the standing-room-only main room, he noticed a tavern wench attempting to carry a tray of empty mugs to the bar. She was a sturdy sort, but short when compared to the mountainous Highlanders and Hebrideans who made up the patrons of the Lads. Ruairí could not help but smile as she tried to twist and shoulder her way past men who blocked her on purpose to give themselves more time to ogle her body.

  It was rare that Ruairí felt mercy, sympathy, or compassion for anyone, let alone a woman, but there was an odd twinge in his heart as he watched her try to maintain her smile as she became more frustrated. The woman swatted away a hand that dared come too close to her modest neckline. That observation caused Ruairí to quirk a brow and inspect the woman. She had on a clean white blouse–a rarity in this tavern–and it fit loosely over her entire bust. It left much to the imagination, and Ruairí found his was alive and well. Her skirts reached her ankles instead of hiked up on either side like the other women who worked in the tavern. From what Ruairí could tell, she looked more like a farmer’s wife than a tavern wench. She did not fit in.

  Ruairí’s sense of compassion grew alongside his annoyance at not being able to make his way to the bar. He began to elbow men around him, and the crowd parted. Between his size and reputation, Ruairí MacNeill was a hard man to ignore. He grasped the top of the woman’s hips and propelled her forward. She attempted to look over her shoulder, but she could not make out the man who was either her captor or her protector. When they made it to the bar, the woman set her tray down and spun around.

  Senga MacLeod could not believe the man who stood before her was real. He was more Adonis than man. Her eyes swept over his sun-bleached blond hair, taking in his broad shoulders, the ring in his ear, and the cornflower-blue eyes. He was not the largest man she had ever seen; after all, she lived near the Highlands. But he was somehow the most imposing, which made him the most impressive. There was a smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth as he watched her assess him.

  “Am I not what you expected, lass?” The deep timber felt as though it vibrated through every fiber of Senga’s body, wrapping around her like a warm woolen plaid on an icy winter morning. “Or am I just what you hoped for?”

  His second question snapped Senga out of her glazed stare. She frowned as she appraised him. “You are exactly what I expected, and far less than I could hope for.” She exchanged the dirty mugs on her tray for full ones.

  “How could you have known what to expect when you couldn’t see me?” Ruairí asked, amused.

  “A man who assumes he can put his hands on me and do as he wants with me? Shockingly unexpected. An arrogant pirate with an earring, even more surprising.” Senga once again turned away.

  “You seem to know me so well, lass, but you are an enigma to me.”

  “An enigma? A pirate who can do more than curse. You are full of surprises.”

  “And you are as prickly as a thistle, but then, they are among the most beautiful flowers.”

  Senga turned to stand facing Ruairí once again. “If I am prickly, it is because I’ve learned to take everything men say here with a barrel of salt,” she huffed out. “But I can at least be gracious enough to say thank you for helping me through the crowd. I wasn’t making any progress on my own.”

  Senga lifted her tray and dove back into the crowd as Ruairí watched her waist-length black braid swish close to her backside. He could not help it when his eyes were drawn to her trim waist, broad hips, and ample bottom. He had already noticed her eyes were a deep shade of brown shot through with light green lightning
strikes. It made her eyes luminescent, and he suspected they would change color with her mood. A consuming desire to discover what hue they became when locked in the throes of passion heated his bollocks.

  Ruairí watched her throughout the evening as she wove her way through the crowd, avoiding clawing hands that tried to roam over her or attempted to pull her onto the lap of a drunkard. Each time he was ready to stand and come to her defense, but she would pull a drying linen from the waist of her apron and snap it across those daring hands. All the while, Senga served the men with a smile plastered to her face, but even from a distance, Ruairí could see the strain around her eyes and how her smile stretched her cheeks taut. He admired her calm and patience, but his blood boiled as he watched patrons manhandle her. He could not understand where these feelings of sympathy and possessiveness came from. When he initially approached her, he found her form appealing. When she faced him, he was interested, and when they matched wits, he was intrigued. It had been a long time since any woman intrigued him past what she could do in bed or against a wall. He found he wanted her to come back so they could talk again, but she never did.

  Senga felt overheated and could feel her shirt sticking to her back. Her backside was sore from an overly firm slap. She forced herself to continue smiling, but her cheeks ached along with her head. Senga never acclimated to the noise and smells of the tavern, and she left every night with a sharp headache. She was relieved when her uncle sent her to get two pails of fresh water from the well. Senga moved into the kitchen and grabbed the buckets before making her way to the side door. She sensed the pirate’s attention all night, but he did not seem as lecherous as the other men. Instead, he seemed almost protective, which she found puzzling. She chortled to herself as she thought about their brief exchange. He had frightened her when she first felt his hands grip her waist, but his touch had been gentle even as his stride was determined. It was the first time since she began working at the tavern that she could make it to her destination without being stopped or pawed, and the men had made no lewd comments. She had to admit she appreciated it, but the man’s attractiveness had stunned her too much to remember her manners. Then he spoke. His arrogance raised her hackles even though she could tell his comments were made in jest. She could not keep her eyes from shifting back to watch him as she worked the thirsty and rowdy crowd.

  The fresh air was a balm to her sweaty skin. She gulped a breath of unfettered air as she flushed the tavern funk from her airways. She looked to the well and picked her way along the uneven path.

  Ruairí watched Senga walk out the back door of the tavern. He scanned the crowd as his senses fired. These were the same instincts that kept him alive throughout his years of sailing and pirating. He watched three men elbow one another before they made for the side door. Ruairí was on his feet, but the tavern was even busier than when he arrived, and not as many people were willing to clear a path for him. Some did not care; others had nowhere to move. He walked past his crew’s table but shook his head when several slammed their mugs on the table and began to stand. Ruairí made his way through the crowd, even throwing two punches when a man had the audacity to smirk. He barreled through the door just in time to see Senga pressed against the wall of a nearby building. She swung an empty bucket against the ribs of one of her assailants as she tried to knee another, but her skirts kept her from connecting. Her other hand scratched at anything it could reach as she headbutted the man in front of her. She was quick to duck when a fist came at her, forcing it to smash into the brick where her head had been only a moment ago. A hand attempted to go over her mouth, but she snapped her teeth onto the fingers coming toward her. The man howled and wrapped his hand around her throat.

  Ruairí catapulted himself across the open space and launched himself at the men. His shoulder collided with the first man, and the momentum knocked the other two over. Ruairí was swinging his fists before he was on his knees.

  “Run!” he called out to Senga. He heard her scramble away as he rained down several more blows before rising to his feet.

  “Do you know who I am?” His voice was soft and menacing as he glared at the men still on the ground. “I am Ruairí MacNeill,” he bellowed.

  Senga paused when she heard the name of one of the most feared pirates to sail the Hebrides. He and his cousin, Rowan MacNeill, were infamous for their bravery and their cruelty. She tucked herself behind the corner of a building and leaned around to watch. She was in awe as she watched the men scramble backwards on their hands and backsides as they tried to get away. Clearly, they recognized the name too.

  Ruairí took one step forward and placed his hands on his hips as he bent over them. “Don’t touch women who aren’t willing. There are plenty of whores inside to keep you going for a month of Sundays. You don’t need to force the only one who clearly isn’t a whore.”

  “But Captain, that’s what makes her even more appealing. She isn’t used up like the others, and she taunts us with her smile and hints of a body made for sin. It’s not our fault.”

  Ruairí roared as he lifted the man by the collar of his shirt and shook him like a rag doll before tossing him aside. “Consider her under my protection. Do. Not. Touch. Her.” He punctuated each word with a hiss.

  Ruairí watched as the men stumbled away from him and from the tavern. He hoped they had learned their lesson, at least for that night. There was not much he could do once he sailed out of port, but he could save her this evening. He turned back to the tavern, but he knew he would not make it all the way back without stopping.

  Senga tried to sink back into the shadows of the building as Ruairí walked toward her. He had told her to run, and she had, but she knew he meant back to the tavern. His manner of fighting did not give rise to fear; rather, his ferocity eased the terror she experienced while the men attacked her. However, now a bone-deep sense of trepidation came over her as Ruairí prowled toward her.

  “Come out, lass. I know you are hiding.”

  Chapter 2

  Senga took a deep breath before squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. She stepped out of the shadows and rushed into a wall, one that happened to be broad and made of muscle. Ruairí’s hands shot out to catch her as she stumbled backwards, but he pulled a little too hard, and she tilted back toward him. They stood there, with Senga’s cheek against Ruairí’s chest and his arms wrapped around her. Neither of them moved as they took in what was happening. Senga could hear Ruairí’s steady but rapid heartbeat, and it soothed her in a way she had not been calmed in many years. Ruairí held her, and for once wanted to console rather than seduce. Senga’s hands crept to his waist, where she held onto his billowing leine before easing her arms around to hold him too. He kissed the top of her head, and she was sure she would dissolve right where they stood.

  “You were supposed to go back to the tavern. Believe it or not, you would be safer there. Why didn’t you listen?”

  “I was going back, but then I heard your name, and well, I--” Senga stammered and squeezed her eyes shut, chiding herself for sounding addlepated.

  “And what did you think when you heard my name? Did it freeze you and frighten you into hiding? Is that why you’re still out here?”

  “No. It made me curious. I never would have thought you the type to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  “No, I wouldn’t say I am. Admittedly, I haven’t met many damsels in distress, but I had a sick feeling when I saw those arses pass through the same door I’d seen you use.”

  “I count my blessings you were watching me. It might have embarrassed me earlier, but it saved me.”

  Ruairí kissed the top of her head again as he stroked her hair. He could not remember ever being so gentle with a woman; the last time he had been so tender was when he cared for his younger sisters. That was half a score of years ago. There was something about this woman that brought out every protective spark within him, even though her attempts to defend herself impressed him.

  “You fought valiant
ly, and had there only been one or maybe two, you would have gotten away,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps.”

  They stood in silence for a long time before Senga pulled back and looked up at Ruairí. His face was cast in the moonlight, and she reached up to caress his angular jaw. “Thank you, Ruairí,” she whispered and pulled away.

  Ruairí caught her hand before she stepped around him. “You know my name, but I haven’t a clue about yours. I never heard it inside.”

  “Senga. Senga MacLeod.”

  Ruairí could not hide his shock, and his face revealed it because Senga laughed as she darted back to the tavern. “Which ones?” he called after her.

  She paused at the door before calling back, “Lewis.”

  She ducked inside, and Ruairí stood there shaking his head. Of course, the woman who mesmerized him would have to be from not only a neighboring clan, but from the rivals to his own clan. Ruairí grew up on the isle of Barra, where men and women were born to the sea. Their Viking heritage showed both in their looks and in their innate ability to sail. Ruairí grew up sailing with his father as they traded along the coast, and he was captaining a boat by the time he was four and ten. He was tall and strong for his age, so none of his clansmen questioned his ability to sail, and he was a natural leader. His neighbors, the MacLeods of Lewis, were as renowned for sailing as the MacNeills of Barra. They were rival merchants and, at times, raiders.

  Ruairí puzzled over how Senga came to be on the tiny isle of Canna. There was not much here other than caves below Carn a Ghaill, or the Cairn of the Stranger, where pirates often hid their smuggled and stolen treasures. Ruairí weighed anchor there just after sunset, and his crew unloaded the hold before they sailed around to Suileabhaigh, the wide bay near Sanday. They came ashore here and made their way to the Three Merry Lads, which Ruairí now entered for the second time that night. He once again watched Senga navigate her way through the hoard of men, who were drunker than when they stepped out not even a quarter of an hour earlier. He wondered again how a MacLeod of Lewis ended up working in a tavern on one of the smallest Hebridean isles.