A Pirate's Pleasure

by Heather Graham

  “Mr. Tallingsworth, Lady Kinsdale. He, too, will be delighted to see to your every comfort.”

  “Yes, milady,” Mr. Tallingsworth said.

  She nodded skeptically and the Hawk continued to lead her upward. The second floor, too, seemed to stretch endlessly. He did not attempt to show her the length of it, but rather paused to the right side of the stairway, pushing open a door.

  It was his room, she knew instantly. The dominant furniture within it was a huge four-poster bed in a dark walnut. Full-length windows lay open to the breeze coming off of the sea, making the room cool despite the heat of the day. There was a huge desk on the other side of the windows, and there were chairs and a daybed in front of a marble-manteled fireplace. In the center of the room was a fine cherrywood dining table, far more intimate than the large table downstairs.

  “Your personal domain?” she inquired. She knew that he was watching her as she studied his room.

  “Umm. Through here,” he said, and he took her hand, leading her to the back of the room. He opened a doorway there and they entered a second chamber, not much smaller than the first. But whereas the larger room had been beyond a doubt decorated for a man, this room was softer. It might have been decorated to resemble a lady’s chamber at Versailles. The delicate, white furniture appeared to be of French design. The drapes at the windows were sheer and trimmed with gold thread, and a gilded mirror hung over the fireplace. There was a card table and a huge wingback chair before the long windows, and the dressing table came complete with a set of silver combs and brushes. The chamber looked almost like a bride’s room.

  “I’m to stay in the room next to yours?” she said. She was not afraid of the situation. At least she did not think that she was afraid. She had spent nearly a week aboard ship in the arms of the man and he had not, in any serious way, brought harm to her.

  Indeed, he had come to her time after time, a bastion against the terrors of the night. She might well miss the security and warmth of his arms.…

  Never! she assured herself hastily. Never …

  He smiled. “The door locks.”

  She cocked her head, meeting his eyes with a cynical smile. “And will I be able to lock you out, Captain Hawk?”

  He did not answer right away, but took her hand within his. His fingers stroked it and his lips touched the back of it in the lightest caress. “Milady, locks lie within the heart or soul, and not upon the material earth.”

  He released her. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to attend to. I shall join you for supper, but it will be a late repast, I am afraid. Your belongings will be brought to you.”

  He paused because she was smiling. He arched a brow. “What is it, Lady Kinsdale, that you find so amusing?”

  “You.”

  He stiffened. “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Your manner, sir. You have dragged me about like a deer carcass at times, and now you are unerringly polite.”

  “One never knows—does she?” he said lightly.

  Shivers danced along her spine as his eyes met hers. No, she never knew. He kept her off balance at every moment. He made her furious, he made her afraid, and then he would whisper to her or touch her and give her sweet comfort. This week he had become her very life, and every other moment before he had swept upon her from the sea paled and faded before him. But it was true; she never knew. She never, never knew. What would the evening bring? Laughter or fury. Would he treat her like fine porcelain, would he drag her mercilessly into his arms …?

  She backed away from him. He said no more, but turned and left her, going back through his own room. The door closed.

  Skye sat upon the bed and trembled. How long would she be kept here in this prison? She was not cast into any dungeon, not beset with hardship.

  This was far, far worse.…

  She leaped to her feet and hurried to the door that connected her room to his.

  Apparently the door locked both ways, for she had been locked out of his chamber. Curious, she hurried to the hallway door. To her surprise, that door swung open to her touch. She stepped out, and then back in.

  What was it of his that he did not want her to find? She wondered. She wandered to the windows and pondered the question.

  She was a captive, she thought, in a most curious place.

  He did not return for supper that night. Her trunks were delivered to her, all of them, and she saw that nothing of hers had been molested. Her jewels were still among her belongings, along with the finest of her gowns—velvets and brocades, gold-threaded linens, silks and satins, all were there. They were delivered by Mr. Tallingsworth and another man, under the direction of Mr. Soames. Later, Robert Arrowsmith came to see her, informing her that the Hawk would not return, much to his regret. Mr. Soames would see that supper was delivered to her room.

  Skye thanked Robert Arrowsmith, keeping her eyes lowered. She was alarmed to discover that it was much to her regret, too, that the Hawk would not be returning.

  Robert had been given careful orders, she thought. He walked about the room lighting lanterns until all was aglow. She thanked him quietly, and he left her.

  She slept well that night.

  In the morning she awoke to the sounds of laughter. Carefully opening her eyes, she gasped in astonishment. The pretty Irish lasses, Tara and Bess, were standing before her, and looking none the worse for wear.

  “Bess! Tara!” she cried, pushing up in amazement.

  Tara plopped a tray upon her lap. “Aye, Lady Kinsdale!” A shimmer of tears touched her eyes. “We’re so grateful to ye, lady! Ye stepped in ta save us, ya know.”

  Skye blinked. “I didn’t save you from anything! We’re captives of a pirate. They dragged—”

  “They dragged us into the second mate’s cabin, and treated us with more kindness than many a mistress I’ve known,” Tara said. Skye stared at the girl. She was very young, barely sixteen, but she spoke with a startling wisdom.

  Skye’s eyes narrowed. “You were not … you were not bothered in any way?”

  Tara shook her head. “Not at all. Oh, we were deeply afraid when the commotion began at that other island! I thought that someone would come to burst down the doors! But nothing bad happened to us, and then we were brought here!”

  “And it is paradise!” Bess cried.

  Nibbling upon a piece of bread, Skye eyed her suspiciously. Her brow arched. “And how do you know that this is … paradise?”

  Tara stared at Bess and shrugged. “Why, we’ve seen much of it, milady. Near the dock there’s a few fine houses and stores and the like. Any seaman who chooses to do so may build himself a home. There’s a freshwater lagoon inland, and deep into the cove there are soft sand beaches protected by rocks and shoals and the water is the most beautiful color you’d ever want to see, milady!”

  “Oh?” Skye murmured.

  Tara flushed crimson. “There’s a man. A Mr. Roundtree, milady. He took us riding there in his little pony trap when we arrived.”

  “A man?” Skye said. “Oh, Tara. A pirate!”

  Tara shrugged, then lowered her head in shame. She looked at Skye then with a sheepish smile. “Milady, there’s even a chapel here! And a minister from the Church of England.”

  Skye swallowed some coffee then offered the tray back to Bessie. “I see. And when Mr. Roundtree was finished showing you this paradise, he took you to church services?”

  Bessie flushed radiantly this time. “Well, no, but Lady Kinsdale, he did point out the chapel to us.”

  “A pirate’s priest,” Skye muttered. “What next?”

  What next indeed?

  Having given back her breakfast tray, she pattered to the pitcher and bowl left upon a small stand and washed her face, appreciating the coolness of the water against her flushed skin. While she toweled her skin she decided to test her freedom. She turned back to the girls. “Bessie, would you find my riding habit? I should like to view this—paradise.”

  Bessie and Tara obligingly set to w
ork. It was fun to have them back. They chattered nonstop, and even if their chatter was all about Mr. Roundtree and his friend, Simon Greene, it brightened her spirits tremendously. That the girls were alive did not surprise her, for she knew that the Silver Hawk was not a bloodthirsty murdering pirate.

  That they were happy as larks did startle her, however, for she could not forget those first moments when the Hawk had wrested the ship from One-Eyed Jack, claimed her for himself—and cast the girls to their fate among his men.

  The Hawk was, indeed, a most exceptional man.

  Dressed handsomely in a riding suit of brown velvet, Skye left Tara and Bessie. Her skirt was full and sweeping with yards of fabric, while the jacket much resembled a man’s frock coat. She ran down the stairway, seeing no one, and when she came into the front hall, she heard voices. There was a group of men in the dining room, she realized. She headed for the doorway, but before she could peek in, Mr. Soames appeared, closing the door behind himself. “Good morning, Lady Kinsdale,” he said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Soames.”

  “Was your breakfast satisfactory, milady?”

  “It was perfect, Mr. Soames.” She smiled. There was something about the way that he guarded his master’s door that reminded her that this was no English manor. “I would like to ride, Mr. Soames. Would that be possible?”

  “But, of course, milady. We wish to afford you whatever pleasures you desire. Come with me, please, I will take you to Señor Rivas. He is the horsemaster here at Bone Cay, and will be your delighted servant.”

  They left the house by the rear and came instantly to the stables, whereby Skye learned how the Hawk had made it back to the house so quickly the night before.

  They entered into the shadows, but Skye quickly saw that there were at least twenty stalls, and that the stables were kept as neatly as the Hawk kept his ship. A tall, lean, dark-haired man stepped forward. He was Señor Rivas, and Mr. Soames quickly left her in his care. Skye realized that she was waiting for someone to leap out and stop her, to tell her that it was an absurd joke and she was insane to think that she might have the freedom to ride. But no one appeared and Señor Rivas drew a dapple gray mare from a stall and saddled and bridled her. He led her from the stables and to a block so that Skye might mount easily, then he stepped away. “Good day, Lady Kinsdale. Enjoy your ride.”

  His soft Spanish accent again reminded her that this was the New World, and that she was in a most uncivilized part of it at that. Spaniards and Englishmen mixed easily enough here now, for Spaniards and Englishmen had become pirates together,preying upon one another. The wars might be over now, but piracy was not.

  Certain pirates were flourishing!

  Skye turned the mare toward the docks and rode back the way that she had come. Barefoot children upon the sandy streets greeted her with bobs and curtsies. Small craft lay moored by the docks, too, and fishermen dragged in nets full of fish. Near the Silver Hawk’s sleek dark pirate ship Skye paused. Some of the crew remained upon her, repairing rents in sails, unloading cargo, scrubbing down decks, running new lines. She watched for several moments. Men saluted her, but none of them spoke to her, and none questioned her. She turned the mare about at last, and in a fit of aggravation, set her to galloping.

  She raced with the wind past the fine brick walls and the pirate’s house. The land was nearly flat; sand and scrub fell away beneath her, and then the foliage began to thicken and it seemed that the trail began to rise over a mountainous terrain. At length, she reined in. She heard a rush of water, and she wandered further along a pine path and then came upon a startling and glorious sight. A deep blue pool lay before her with the water splashing over pebbles and rocks, and falling from a cliff high above in dazzling spurts of silver foam.

  Skye dismounted from her horse and walked along the water’s edge on the clean, hard-packed sand. She did not sit, but stared over the water. Flowers surrounded the small pool with a burst of color, which followed the route where the water trickled into a brook and disappeared into the trees. It was, she thought, a startling paradise.

  Standing there, Skye at last looked across the water to the shore beyond. Her hand flew to her mouth and a gasp escaped her. He was there, the Hawk, upon his white horse, watching her from the foliage. He had not been hiding; he merely sat so still atop the snow-white stallion that she had not seen him in the profusion of color.

  He lifted a hand to her and urged his mount forward. The white stallion stepped into the cool water without hesitation. The water rose higher and higher, past the stallion’s flanks, and still he proceeded without fear. Like his master, the stallion moved purposefully. The water began to fall away, and the magnificent creature rose out from it, bearing the Hawk ever closer to her. She looked at the man. He was wearing a loose white shirt, black breeches, and his boots. His hat lay low over his eyes, the plume dancing, shadowing his eyes and whatever secrets lay within his heart. He looked like a true rogue, reckless, careless, ever the adventurer.

  He came toward her, and she did not move, but held her position upon the shore. Still in the shallow water, he dismounted several feet from her. He was silent, watching her. She heard the soft music of the water as it cascaded from the cliffs and danced below in the sunlight. The breeze was light and soft and cool, and just whispered a tropical cadence as it rustled through the flowers and foliage.

  For the longest moment, for eternity, Skye felt that her eyes were caught by his, and that his soul laid claim to her own. Locks lay upon the heart, he had told her. Not upon the material earth. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was no way to guard herself from the man.

  He stepped back suddenly, casting a foot upon a rock, crossing his arms over his chest. “Good morning, milady,” he said, his rakish gaze sweeping the length of her and breaking the curious spell. “How do you find this place?”

  “A prison, sir, for all its beauty.”

  “I see,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps I have not had the time to show it to you properly. This is a place of most exquisite beauty. And unique, although much of the island of Jamaica is similar.”

  “Why is this island so unique?”

  “Why? Ah, Lady Kinsdale, this island is mine. That in itself makes it unique.”

  He caught her arm, drawing her forward. “This water is fresh, not brackish. We never want for pure sweet water to drink. See the cliff and the flowers, and the radiant burst of color. This is soft here, while not a mile away lies the tempest of the ocean. Storms rage here, wild and free, embroiling the ocean. Yet the reefs protect us, for only an accomplished sailor would dare to risk my shores!”

  He stood beside her, his arm touching hers, and she felt keenly how very much alone they were, the delicate rhythms of the moving water and the whispering wind their only company beside that of the waiting horses. He smelled of cleanliness, of soap, and of polished leather, and beneath it all, she felt a haunting pulse, the essence of the man, calling upon something within her that had little to do with life as she knew it. In a place like this, it was easy to forget the boundaries she had always known.

  Easy to forget innocence.

  She pulled away from him, crying out hoarsely. “Why are you always here? Always near me! I came to ride alone, and you are here! I never turn that you are not there, endlessly, always, there! Leave me be! I cannot abide you! Don’t be polite, don’t be courteous! You are a pirate, sir, and I despise you!”

  She flung around in such fury that she startled the mare. Skye set about to leap upon her, but the creature snorted and reared, frightened. Her hooves rose high, scraping the air. Skye watched in fascinated horror as they danced above her.

  “Skye! Damn you!”

  He was upon her in an instant, bearing her swiftly up and out of the way. The speed and the force with which he moved sent them both flying down to the soft sand.

  The mare’s hooves struck the earth, just inches away. Sand blew past them. Skye strained to sit up, but he was over her, his eyes on fire, his arms hol
ding her tightly. Muscles clenched and unclenched within his face and throat and shoulders, and he railed against her. “Why, lady, are you always such a fool! You would cast yourself into any danger in order to get away from me! So you would not have me courteous, for I am a pirate still. Then, madame, let me play that pirate, and be damned with it all!”

  “Bastard, let me up!” she cried. “You should have—”

  “Aye, I should have! I should have given you free to One-Eyed Jack, and I should have let Logan take you and be damned with you then. Blackbeard could have been plagued with you as his prize, and I damned well should have let the horse mar your beauty forever, that you might haunt no other man with your glory and your fire. But you would have a pirate, lady, a rapist, a rogue, and never a gentleman. Then let’s have it, for, lady, I am done skirting the thorns of your temper!”

  She opened her mouth to scream and gasp in terror, for she had never seen him so angry. No sound left her, for his mouth ground hard upon hers with a punishing power. His tongue ravished her lips and teeth, forcing them apart. She gave way to breathe, and then felt the startling warmth as he filled her with the heat and lightning and intimacy of his kiss. She longed to fight, to twist. She had no power to do so. His fingers curled within hers, his weight bore her down upon the earth, and the passion and the savagery of his assault were stunning. She lay there and felt the ground, and it seemed to tremble beneath her. She heard the soft sound of the water, but it was no melody within her ears, it was a rush, a flow, a cascade. It mingled with the searing flow of her blood. She did not fight … she felt his lips, and the hardness of his body. She felt the sun, and the taste of the man, and the tempest of him.

  And felt that tempest sweep into her being.

  His hands were upon her, stroking the length of her, fire through fabric. They touched the bare flesh of her thighs, and she gasped, unable to breathe, for his lips burned their fiery path against her throat. They fell to the rise of her breasts, and still she did nothing but stare at the sky above her, beset by soft, flowing clouds. She felt the sun, but the sun had lost its heat, for fire burned deep, deep inside of her. It came where his lips seared her, where his fingers stroked her flesh, where the very hardness of his body drove her down to the earth.