A Pirate's Wife for Me (30 page)

He sat down on the bed, his hip nudging hers. "For five years after, I thought I would have been better off if I'd lost that fight."

"Don't say that."

"Of the twenty-seven sailors who manned the ship when I started, only eleven of them are alive. The rest were killed in battle or died of starvation or went crazy for lack of water or were whipped to death or were murdered for a whim. Captain Valentine was the meanest son of a bitch that ever ran a ship — and that's saying a great deal."

"Were
you
beaten?"

"Beaten? Yes." Standing, he stripped off his shirt and bared his back to her.

His skin was a mask of crisscrossed lines.

Last night, in the dark, she had run her fingers over those marks, but she hadn't thought… she had refused to think what they could mean.

"Shot?" He turned, pulled down his waistband and showed her an old, white scar on his hip. "In battle." He pointed to the still-healing wound on his arm. "And by you, my darling wife. Stabbed?" He pointed at his ribs. "Once or twice. But those stab wounds were worth it. They won me a hammock, by God."

She swallowed. For a hammock? He was in a knife fight? "My poor, dear Taran."

He stared at her in astonishment, and laughed. "By the time I got the hammock, I'd been aboard two years. Do you know what it's like to sleep for two years on a damp wooden floor with no blanket? No, that hammock was worth every drop of blood." He changed from laughter to somber intensity. "I think you were asking if I was raped, though."

She didn't dare move. She didn't dare speak. The horror of his world held her frozen.

"That first night. I had knife wounds. Captain Valentine told the sailors they'd better not let me die, because I'd cost him three good fighters. Blowfish was there, God bless him. He doused me with salt water."

She winced, imagining the pain.

"He let me have a blanket. I had broken ribs. I found filthy rags and wrapped them around myself. I kept two knives, the one I'd fought with, and one I'd stolen off one of the sailors during the bout. I put one up my sleeve and one in my boot. Huddled into a corner and woke with every sound. Killed a man that night. No one tried again." He squinted as if looking back in time. "Four men. I killed four men before the sun rose. No one tried again."

"You
didn't
kill
all of them." And she wished she didn't feel so warmly compassionate toward him.

"One way or another, I caused their deaths." He pulled on his shirt, tucked it into his trousers. "It was them or me. That's the way the ship ran."

Why hadn't she noticed the marks on his body?

She had, but only to note his masculine beauty. She'd deliberately shied away from examining him, from actually seeing him, because then she would have to deal with the issues of the past, and she didn't want to do that. She wanted only to move on as quickly as possible. Now he forced her to face the reality that, after he left her alone in Scotland, she
hadn't
suffered the worst fate. He had suffered torture. He had killed and almost been killed. Worst of all, he had been torn from his home, from his family.

She didn't want to know any of this, but it was far too late now.

His shirt tied at the throat, and before he could close it completely, she reached up and touched the scar at the base of his throat. "This … this looks like you ran into the end of a burning stick." She looked closer. "It has the shape of a lion's head."

He stood preternaturally still, as if her touch wounded him. "Does it?"

She looked more closely. She could clearly see the lion's piercing eyes, the pouty cheeks, the catlike snout. "It's almost regal."

"Yes. The lion is the symbol of kingship," he said in a flat tone.

She didn't know what to think, how to respond to his refusal to acknowledge her compassion. "You got this in battle?"

"A sword fight. I lost."

"You fought in many battles?"

"Battles. Yes. We went to the Caribbean first, raided a few ports, boarded a few ships, ran away from the American Navy, the British Navy, and some angry natives. 'Stay alive to fight another day,' Captain Valentine said." Taran nodded. "That was the most useful advice he gave us. But I almost didn't make it around the Horn. A giant wave damned near washed me off the deck."

If that had happened, she would never have known the truth.

"Every day, every fight, every battle, I thanked Kiernan for all that he taught me. I'm alive today because of your brother."

"Well … good. He would be proud. Of you."

"He would be glad that I lived. He would not be proud of my career as a pirate."

No. He would not. "How did you go from cabin boy to captain?"

"About two years in, some of the men attempted mutiny. I was still too cowed to help. Captain Valentine killed them all. It taught me a valuable lesson about meticulous plotting. My mutiny didn't fail." He waved a hand around. "You want me to stay in this room. No. I cannot. This room reminds me of the coffin."

"The coffin?"

"It was really more of a closet below decks, below the waterline in the center of the ship. No light, of course. Stout beams running across the ceiling, with finger holds gouged out. You found out what they were for fast enough." For the first time, she saw in his gaze a total stranger, a man who had lived in hell. Who still lived in hell.

She didn't want to know. She did
not
want to know. Yet at last he had opened himself to her, and so she had to ask, "What were they for?"

"When you failed to do your duty, or Captain Valentine disliked you, or if he wanted to instill fear into the crew for no reason, he had you thrown in the coffin. You always went down when they were using the bilge pumps, pumping the water out that leaked through the seams and the wood into the bottom level of the ship. Captain would stop the bilge pumps, and the water would creep up. There was no place to sit except on the floor, so your arse got wet. You could stand, and your feet got wet. When your arse was so damp the skin was puckered and your toenails were rotting off, you could dig your fingers into the holds on the beams and hold yourself above the water … until your arms gave out. Then you were back in the bilge, stinking, dirty, salt water sloshing around your ankles and filling your crack. Rats swimming past taking a bite. No food. And the worst mockery of all — no fresh water. Water everywhere, and nothing to drink. Some of the men went mad and drank the water. It takes a long time to die that way."

"How many times were you locked in the coffin?"

"Twice. The first time I drank the water. The second time … when I got out, the captain did. His salt water was cleaner than bilge, though. I fed him to the sharks."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Taran watched the emotions change
on Cate's face, like the sunrise on the ocean, like clouds fleeing before the storm. Late last night, when lightning and desire had burned away pride and all that mattered existed in the slide of skin against skin, in hurried breath and heated blood, in possession and submission and the slow, sure knowledge that in this moment, they lived forever … he had wrung a confession of love from her. Words whispered in the dark…
I love you. I have always loved you.

But she had believed him to still be the boy she had known, and until this moment, she had not absorbed the reality of him. Now she knew what drove him — revenge — and she truly understood what he was capable of — theft, mutiny and cold-blooded murder.

He watched as she came to grips with the truth: last night's passion and this morning's confessions had bound her to a ruthless stranger. She was uncertain of him; of course she was. But he would not allow even the tiniest bit of fear to change her mind.

Leaning close, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and tilted her face to his. "I will never harm you. I will never betray you. My men trust me implicitly. I promise, you may trust me exactly so."

She lifted those glorious eyes to his and with a bite in her voice, she asked, "Are you saying you will give me the same level of loyalty and protection you give your men?"

There was a trap in the question. He could see it, but he couldn't avoid it. "Yes. But I will give you more."

"Intercourse."

"Passion."

"Aren't I just the most privileged member of your crew?" She sat up fast enough to make him jump back. She threw back the covers and rose, long-limbed, gloriously naked and brazen, and strode to the washbasin. He watched as she leaned over — at the sight of that rounded bottom, he wanted to groan — and washed, then visited the cupboard and gathered her clothes.

Fear him? No, she did not fear him. He was foolish to entertain such a development. But he did not know what she was thinking. Would he ever understand the maze of her mind? She had told him so much about her life after he left; he knew that fury, guilt and vengeance drove her. Yet every time he thought he understood her, she removed another mask and showed him a different face.

She was always and forever a mystery.

Cate dressed severely, in black, like every housekeeper he had ever met, and pinned her hair tightly, erasing the memories of the night's dissipations. Or so she might imagine.

"Caitlin," he said.

She jumped. "What?"

"Come here to the window."

She eyed him, then with a swish of skirts, she joined him.

He put his hands on her rigid shoulders. "Davies the usurper will soon arrive, and we are in position to discover his plans and overthrow him. He has his mercenaries. I have my sailors. There will be fighting. Men will be hurt. If plans go awry, or I am unable or otherwise occupied, there are two tasks I ask that you accomplish."

"In addition to finding Davies's papers and stealing them?" she asked tartly.

"In addition to that."

"Of course. What do you need me to do?"

Ah, that was his Caitlin. Give her a job, and she was steady as a rock. "See the beacon pinnacle? There will be kindling and oil there. When it's time, the beacon must be lit to bring my men in from the sea, and Harkness is too old."

"And too drunk."

"Not anymore."

She looked at Taran in surprise.

"Last night, I accomplished more than a wild loving."

In the aftermath of passion, she hadn't thought to ask him what he was doing in the middle of the night. "I will do everything in my power to make sure the beacon is lit. After all, the pirates are my salvation and my way home."

Taran tightened his fingers.

She smiled, pleased to have irritated him. "What other task do you want from me?"

"The queen must be freed from prison. She must not be held in that miserable fortress any longer, and you are the only one I know with the ingenuity and the lock breaking skills to free her."

Cate turned to him. "I will get the lady out."

He leaned his forehead to hers. "I am not happy about having you here performing tasks better suited to a warrior, but at the same time — I find comfort in the knowledge you are noble and trustworthy and the person I want by my side in these perilous times."

For a moment, her eyes softened. Then she straightened. In a voice brisk and dismissive, she said, "I shan't be back until this evening when my day's duties are over. I do not know what you intend to do this day — sleep, I suppose — but if you do come down, please take care to be seen only in costume."

He followed her to the door, waited until she had walked into the corridor before he said, "I do indeed intend to come down, and when I do, I will show you the room where Davies has hidden his papers." He shut the door. And he locked it.

Not that the lock would keep her out for long, but seeing the expression on her face kept him smiling as he settled down on the bed to catch up on his sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

In late afternoon, Taran at last
made his appearance in the kitchen on Gracia's arm. "Mrs. Tamson, I found your husband groping around the entry, lookin' fer you." The girl sounded faintly accusatory, as if she thought Cate had deliberately neglected him. In fact Cate had taken time out of a busy first day to twice go upstairs to see if he was dressed and ready to come down. The first time she'd had to pick the lock. Both times he had been asleep on the bed, snoring loudly.

She had been tempted to put the pillow over his face and press. Only one thing had stopped her; he would wake, then she would be flat on her back, the pillow behind her head, and she had far too much to do today for
that
.

Cate rose and left her well-deserved tea unfinished. "Thank you, Gracia, for caring for my poor, wounded, blind warrior." She put enough tenderness and gratitude into her voice that Gracia was appeased.

Beneath the bandage, Taran managed to look soulful.

Fraud. She knew he'd heard the sarcasm beneath her words. And if he thought she was going to spend tonight fluffing the covers with him, he had another think coming. She had spent the day blinking the sleep from her eyes and, for reasons she did not want to remember, trying not to groan when she bent or knelt.