A Pirate's Wife for Me (15 page)

Finally it was her turn. She curtsied to Quicksilver, placed her hands on her hips, and capered with him down the aisle formed by the clapping pirates.

White and dark, tall and short, young and old, these men were her friends. She knew what it meant to them, to give up women on one of their precious nights in port to celebrate with her before she left.

Once, they liked her because she'd had the audacity to shoot their Cap'n.

Now, they liked her for herself.

The lines broke up as restraint broke down. The squeezebox squawked and the violin moaned, and each man danced his own dance, occasionally hooking arms and swinging each other around so aggressively the dances became wrestling contests.

Cate didn't care. She spun alone, her hands over her head, more and more of her hair falling around her shoulders.

The pirates whistled as they watched, singing vulgar songs she didn't want to know the words to.

Mr. Cleary returned from the kitchen and assumed his place behind the bar.

When she finally stopped and held the stitch in her side, laughing, the pirates passed her a mug of ale and she swallowed it down. Then she twirled back onto the dance floor – and came face to face with Taran.

Taran, tall, dark and bearded, his arm freed from its sling. He extended that hand to her. "May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

The noise around them faded. Conversations died as the men watched Cate watching Taran.

She considered him and his invitation.

In these days of preparation and waiting, she had studied her mission. The layout of the palace. What to look for. How to fight if necessary. But she was a creature of emotions as well as of thought, and always beneath the concentration was an awareness of Taran. He was here. He was alive.

She wanted him.

Funny, the way a woman's heart worked. There was no sense to it, no logic, but her body operated on a primal level. He had abandoned her all those years ago. Yet still she longed for him. He was her mate, the man who should father her children, sleep beside her every night, fight with her and feed her and care for her.

Moreover, she didn't doubt that he also wanted her. He wanted her the way most men wanted a woman. Lewdly, without affection or care. With Taran there would be no children, no sleeping, no fighting or feeding or caring. He'd proved he could walk away from her and never come back. Moreover, he was dangerous, a man without emotions, a man who would do his duty even if it meant sacrificing his most beloved possession — for he did not love.

No one had to tell her. She already knew. He had never loved her, but now the years of separation and experience rose between them like icy mountains, and she would freeze to death if she tried to cross them.

Moreover, he would let her freeze.

Yes, he wanted her. Every day he watched her, his dark eyes hungry. The tension wound around them, strangling them with need. Now he wanted to touch her hand, to lead her in a freewheeling dance guaranteed to free their inhibitions and leave them … breathless.

So be it. She had things to show him. Things like control, defiance, and the intelligence that kept her from stepping in the same trap twice.

He might entice, but she would not respond.

With a superior smile, she curtsied and put her hand in his.

He led her into the intricate steps of the Highland Fling.

Of course. She'd taught him the steps, and he wanted her to recall what they had in common. He wanted to share the movement, the joy, the pleasure of a dance shared.

And they
were
good together. The men stopped to watch them, clapping in time to the music as they bowed and stepped high, gamboling around each other like lambs in the spring.

A competition developed.

The accordion and the violin kept playing faster and faster, following each other through frantic rhythm.

Cate and Taran danced faster and faster, their eyes flashing, their feet leaping, and all the while watching each other in challenge. Finally, just when she thought she would gasp her last, Taran wrapped his arms around her waist and swung her around and around until she ached with dizziness and laughter.

He swung her up against the wall and leaned her there.

The music stopped.

The men cheered enthusiastically.

She saw two dozen smiles flash beneath two dozen scraggly beards. Then they turned back toward the bar, leaving their Cap'n and Cate in relative quiet.

When she had caught her breath, she said, "They're good men."

He leaned against the wall beside her, a smile as sharp as a razor playing on his lips. "The best. They're putting their lives on the line for this job. If it succeeds, if Davies is caught and we rescue Cenorina, they'll get a pardon from England and all their crimes against the crown will be forgiven."

"Is that why they're doing it?"

"No. It's an adventure. They love adventure. And they're doing it for me." Turning his head suddenly, he caught her watching him. "Bless them. I needed them, and to a man they said
aye."
He used charm like a knife and authority like a bludgeon.

She had forgotten how the movement of his lips fascinated her, how every time he spoke she dreamed he put those lips to her skin and caressed her with them. Mayhap part of his danger rested in, not his coldness, but the heat he could generate. He used touch and memory like flint and steel, igniting a spark, one that burned her with desire, but could never give off warmth.

"We'll be done, one way or the other, by Michaelmas."

In four weeks or less, they'd have found the evidence which would convict Sir Maddox Davies — or they would have failed and possibly died.

Her smile didn't falter.

Bless the pirates, indeed, for showing her a good time before she faced the deadly business ahead. "Aren't you going to try and convince me not to go to Cenorina?"

"No. You were right. I can't learn to pick a lock in less than a week —"

She could be gracious. "It would be a rare man who could learn how to pick a lock in such limited time, much less a leader with so much to do with the planning that will ensure the success of this mission."

He waited until she finished before he added, "— any more than you can learn to kill a man."

She stiffened. "Blowfish told you?"

"I remember you and your aversion to killing." He touched her cheek.

She jerked her head away.

His hand dropped to his side. "You used to turn green when Kiernan and I brought in a dressed deer."

"Years and events might have changed my predilections."
"Nay. Thank God." His gray eyes watched her from beneath lids made heavy with dark lashes. "There are still a few things I can depend on."

Some subjects she would be smart to let drop, and this was one of them. "Good. I'm glad you've decided to be reasonable about my part in this mission. I'm capable and I'm intelligent, and I'll find those letters." She smiled with determined amiability.

His mouth, so plush, so made for passion, did not smile. "I'm going with you."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She straightened away from the wall.
"What do you mean, you're going with me?" Her voice rose.

The conversations at the bar faltered.

She used her firmest tone. "You most certainly are not. As you yourself pointed out to me, until the plan comes to fruition, you are needed here."

The pirate captain, the ruthless gentleman, was much in evidence with his quiet tone and his uncompromising gaze. "If you're going, I'm going."

"How? As my half-witted brother?"

"Not as your
brother."

The way he said that … the way his stare swept her …

She froze. He didn't mean … it had been three days, and he hadn't … but, oh Lord, she'd been afraid of this every moment of every day. Her blood cooled to shards of ice, and she pointed her finger at him. "You had better not be thinking what I think you're thinking."

He caught her finger. He shaped her hand into a fist, then clasped it in both his hands. "As your husband."

"No." She had sworn she would never let him into her bedchamber again. If she let him do this, he would have succeeded by stealth — by making her bedchamber his. "No!"

"I am not leaving you alone, not even for a moment."

"No." She tried to yank herself free of his grip.

He held her easily, dragged her toward him.

She resisted every step. Her husband! He would tell everyone he was her husband! The scent of his body brought forth memories she wanted buried, and his heat warmed her when she would remain cold. She pressed her free hand against his chest to hold him off, and desperation made her thoughts leap to a logical argument. "What explanation would I have for dragging my husband along to my position as housekeeper? There was no mention of a husband. A housekeeper doesn't suddenly acquire a husband."

Throughout her speech, he shook his head implacably.

She cast about in her mind. "Your presence will endanger the mission. Davies will be suspicious."

"He will not recognize me."

"Why not?"

"I have my ways." His assurance was absolute.

The men surreptitiously watched them fight.

She glared at them until Blowfish picked up his accordion again. "Let's dance some more, lads!" he shouted.

Maccus picked up his violin. The men gave a cheer, and the dancing started once more. This time, they carried their mugs and slopped ale onto the floor. They'd drunk enough that they sang louder and sounded more like the braying of donkeys, but her affection was unchanged — for them.

For Taran, she felt only a burning in the gut. In a low, disgusted tone, she said, "You're from Cenorina, you said. Won't you be recognized?"

"I have taken that into account."

"No." She stomped her foot in frustration, then groaned at her own impetuosity.

He
brought it out in her. Taran Tamson, with his perilous gaze and his absolute pronouncements, carried her to the edge of passion. This would never do, but — it felt good, this once, to let go, especially when she knew she was right. She stomped her foot again. "No, no, no! What right have you to jeopardize the mission because you believe me to be an incompetent? I'm not."

"You're not. I agree. But you're going with me as your husband, or not at all."

"But —"

"With me as your husband, or not at all," he repeated, and she thought he would repeat it over and over until she heard it in her sleep.

She tugged at her hand again, and this time he let her go. She made the pronouncement. "I am not sleeping with you."

"Do you think I still want you?"

"You do."

"You can tell by your feminine intuition."

"I can tell because your trousers fit too tightly. And you are conceited. You think, because I adored you before, that I can be made to adore you once more. It won't happen." She was so angry, she shook from head to toe. "I won't be used again."

"Maybe not. Maybe I can't make you adore me again, maybe I can't make you love me again —"

Oh, why did he have to use the word
love?

"But you're right about one thing." He leaned his arm against wall by her head. His lips barely moved as he spoke, but his eyes gleamed with a blatant assurance. "I want you in my bed all the time. I'm not going to force you. I don't have to. Our flesh almost sizzles when we stand close, and one night soon you'll come to me and offer yourself."

"Nay."
Nay
. She wanted to cover her ears. He was saying exactly what she feared.

"Every moment, every day, every time we see each other, the craving grows. You won't be able to resist for much longer. I'm going to have you again, Cate. You're going to give yourself to me as freely and as generously as you did at the hut in the Scottish mountains."

"I'm … not!" He wasn't doing anything. Just standing, leaning close, looking down at her, but her breasts grew heavy and the lace of her chemise seemed tight and scratchy.

He moved closer, crowding her with his scent, his strength, his heat. "Think of it, Cate, you and I sweaty and passionate, our naked bodies moving together in a dance without music."

She lifted her fist, ready to punch him in the shoulder.

He blocked her blow, grabbed her hand, and leaned close enough to speak right in her ear. "We'll spend days in bed, nights in bed."

"I don't need you." She sagged against the wall.

…She wanted to kiss him right now.

His breath caressed her neck and his lips moved across her skin as he spoke. "I'll worship your body and you'll worship mine. I'll taste you and you'll taste me." He caught her other hand and kissed the back of her fingers. "And it's right and proper, is it not? For in truth, darlin', I remember the day. I remember the hour."