Looking for a Hero (17 page)

K
ate punched, clawed, and jabbed, trying to free herself of her captor's arms, but her battle was useless. If only she could open her mouth and scream, the guard would come running and she'd be safe, but the hand clamped down too tightly. Somehow, she had to work her way out of its grasp.

Again she struck backward with her foot, hitting something hard, and heard a short, teeth-clenched gasp. The blasted hand loosened on her mouth, not a lot, but enough that she could work her lips and teeth apart, and then she attacked,
chomping down on the vile appendage that threatened to cut off her air.

There was no gasp this time, just a hiss, and a threatening whisper. “
Damnation, woman! Stop your struggling before you bring the bloody guards down on us.
”

“Morgan?” she mumbled through the warm hand clapped over her lips.

“Who the bloody hell do you think it is?”

“I bloody well thought you were a murderer. Now, let me go!”

She stomped down hard on his booted foot, and took advantage of having the upper hand, even for just one moment. Spinning around, she punched him hard in the stomach, which didn't seem to faze him a bit. Fighting back the urge to scream out loud, she stretched up on tiptoe and got within inches of his face, letting her words seethe out, very low and very dangerous. “You touch me like that ever again, and so help me, Morgan Farrell, I'll get that damned cutlass of yours and run it through your scurvy hide.
Do you hear me?”

His lips slanted into a grin. “I hear you, Katie,” he whispered, caressing a strand of hair away from her mouth. “'Tis an angel you are, to fill my ears with such sweet affirmations of your devotion.”

She gritted her teeth in anger-filled frustration and jerked her head away, but Morgan's finger touched her chin and tilted her face so she could
see nothing but his hot blue eyes lowering ever so slowly toward her.

“
She had emerald eyes,
” he said softly, as if he were telling a story, and his voice once more captured her in his spell. “
Her hair was the color of honey, her voice sang with the sound of a fine golden harp, and he knew she'd been sent to him from heaven.
”

And then he kissed her, sweetly, tenderly, his fingers at the nape of her neck, inching their way through her hair. She could feel his hand at the small of her back, dragging her against his strong, hard body. She could feel his heart beating in time with hers, and oh, God, it felt so good.

Hesitantly she opened her lips, wanting the kiss to deepen, wanting his mouth to linger, their tongues to mingle in a dance she'd almost forgotten.

He drew back just long enough to smile, just long enough to sigh, to whisper, “Ah, Katie. For many a day and many a night I have longed to know the taste of you.”

Her heart boomed hard, heavy, as he captured her lips again, and breathed a bit of his life into her. With one powerful arm he lifted her feet from the deck till only her toes touched the wood, then even they left their connection to earth. She was suspended in his arms, held tightly, and all she could feel, all she knew, was this man from another world who had blown into her life in the midst of a hurricane and had wreaked havoc on her soul.

Her fingers, which until now had done nothing
but dig into the muscles of his arms, slowly slid across his shoulders and into his magnificent hair. Like threads of the finest silk, she drew the long waving strands about her shoulders, making herself a part of him. And then she found herself whispering words she'd never thought she'd utter, words that sounded foreign to her ear. “Make love to me.”

He pulled away, and suddenly she felt herself sliding down his body until her feet once again touched the deck. Fear raced through her. Had she asked too soon? Did he think she was far too forward? Was making love the last thing on his mind?

She didn't want to open her eyes, but she couldn't prolong the agony of seeing the disgust on his face.

But he kissed her eyelids, and when she opened them she saw a sparkle in his eyes, a gentle smile on his lips.

He put a silencing finger to his mouth and whispered, “Follow me.”

Holding her hand tightly, his long, strong fingers woven with her smaller ones, he drew her through the shadows, down a darkened hatch, and along a narrow, even darker corridor. Pushing open a door, he led her into a magnificent room lined with rich wooden bookshelves and cabinets, all subtly lit by a hint of moonlight and nothing more.

Beneath her feet she felt the gentle rocking of the ship, a lulling motion that eased the built-up
tension in her body. Slipping away from Morgan's hand, she wandered about the room, wanting to explore the place that seemed so much a part of him. The shelves were lined with leatherbound books, with tankards of hammered gold, with ornate pistols and daggers. Vivid red velvet drapes hung at the corners of the massive bed, which was piled high with pillows of silk, velvet, and satin.

Kate ran her fingers over a blanket of thick, plush fur, and a shiver of fear mixed with desire trickled from her throat, to her stomach, to the intimate depths of her very lonely body.

Behind her, she heard Morgan closing the door, heard the click of a lock, and then the sound of his footsteps moving toward her.

Gentle hands slipped over her arms, dragging her easily against his chest. “Is this what you want, Katie—when you know I must leave?”

She swallowed her nagging apprehension. “I don't want to think about tomorrow, I just want to think about tonight, about being with you.”

There was no turning back when his fingers combed through her hair, exposing her neck to the warmth of his breath, to the heat of his lips. Tender. So very, very tender. His strong hands swept away her sweater and rested on her upper arms, while his mouth, his tongue explored her shoulder, the sensitive hollow below her ear, her temple.

Dear Lord, this was what she'd been dreaming of for days. This was how she wanted to spend the long hours of night, every night.

Or just this night, if that was all she could have.

But all too suddenly he pulled away, and she could hear his heavy sigh, his quick pace across the floor.

She spun around. “What's wrong?” she asked, when she saw only his back.

“We have much to talk of, Kate Cameron. You do not trust me. You believe I am more corrupt than I really am. I believe, madam, that it is far too soon for us to consider making love.”

“Too soon?” she asked incredulously. “Wasn't making love what you had in mind when you tried to hypnotize me on my front porch?”

“I had seduction in mind, I will not deny it. But you brought that to a very sudden halt.”

“Oh, so turnabout's fair play?”

He lifted a decanter of liquor from the table in the center of the room, removed two cut crystal goblets from inside a glass-fronted cabinet, and poured a healthy—or near deadly—amount of liquor in each. He took a short swig, then walked nonchalantly toward the window.

“'Tis not often—no, that is not true. I have never, madam, told a woman that I would miss her. I have never before suggested that I would have a woman, let alone a beautiful firebrand, sail at my side. Yet I opened myself up to you, thinking there might be one ounce of tenderness in your heart toward me. And, madam, you chose to take my heartfelt words and toss them to the wind.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You called me a thief. A murderer—”

“You said that word. Not me.”

“But you were thinking it, Kate, at the same time you were yelling at me like an old sea hag.”

“That's not the way I yelled.”

He grinned. “Very well. Perhaps I exaggerate your berating tone. Perhaps you did not yell, but you did not tell the truth, either. You said I was trouble.”

“You
are
trouble.”

He tilted the glass once more to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. “Was I trouble when you shaved my face? When you ran a finger over the scar on my cheek, thinking I was asleep? And what of the time when you stripped away my undergarments? Was I trouble then, Katie?”

“I didn't look.”

“Ah, but you did. I could feel the heat in my loins, I could feel your cool fingers trailing over the scar on my hip, I could—”

“Okay,” Kate stammered. “I looked…but not for long.” She grabbed one of the glasses he'd filled and took a quick swallow. The liquor set fire to her tongue, burned all the way down her throat, and flamed in the empty pit of her stomach.

She tilted her head toward him and smiled. “I looked,” she said, her eyes fluttering down to the zipper of his jeans, then back again to meet his steady gaze. “I liked what I saw. After all, I'm only human.” She swallowed another big gulp of liquor and waited for the burning to stop before
she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “That,” she said, pointedly looking once more at his zipper, “is the only reason I'm here now. You got me all fired up, had the nerve to run off, and now I fully aim to finish what you started.”

His laughter filled the cabin.

“'Tis an angel you are, Katie. And I am the devil himself.” He tossed down the rest of his rum, then went back to the table and filled his glass again. “Before you give me the pleasure of making love to you, I suggest you know who it is you are allowing to touch you.”

“Well, since I foolishly begged you to make love to me in the heat of some totally impulsive and quite unexpected passion, and since you've managed to douse the flames of whatever it was that overcame me, I guess…I guess I'll let you tell me about yourself.”

She held out her glass and suffered the rise of his questioning eyebrow as he filled it again. Then, quite dramatically, she flounced to the bed and made herself comfortable, sitting cross-legged in the very center. “Make it fast, will you?” she said, taking a tiny sip. “It's late and I have to work in the morning.”

Morgan sat down in the heavy leather-and-mahogany armchair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. He took another sip of his drink, watched her mimic his action, and wondered just how long it would be before she keeled over from the potent rum.

He should take the liquor away from her. Bloody hell! He should have tossed her on the bed, stripped her clothes away, and tasted every inch of her body. But beneath the guise of a pirate there lurked a gentleman who longed to tell her of his life, who had a need for her to know the truth of what he was, and why. He laughed to himself. He longed to tell her one truth while he lied about another.
Satan's Revenge
had been repaired. He would be gone tomorrow, but he could not tell her now, for if she knew, she might run away.

And he needed her to stay. God, how he needed her.

He swirled the rum, watching Kate over the top of his glass.

“Where would you have me begin? Before I became a pirate, or after?”

“I want to know it all, but give me the condensed version—please.”

“I wasn't always a pirate.”

“You mean, you didn't pop out of your mother's womb with a scar and an eye patch?”

“No, madam. I popped out with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth, in a glorious room, in a great house, on one of the finest estates in Kent.”

He watched the slant of her doubting brow, but didn't give her time to dash off a flippant comment. He had to hurry, lest she drink too much of the rum. A moment ago he believed he should tell her his story, thought she should know him better before they made love, but as he looked at her
beauty, as he saw the fire radiating from her, he realized he needed her now, and wished that he'd waited until later to tell her so many things that needed to be shared.

Being a gentleman was a bloody nuisance!

He tossed down a swallow of rum and then another to control his desire.

“My grandfather was a wealthy man, a merchant who was a favorite of the king. There is no need for me to give you a history lesson now. Suffice it to say, I had money, stature. I traveled throughout Europe as a young man, studying the arts, and spending many nights and many days amongst scholars who talked of what life could be in the future, if only man had the knowledge and the power to dream.”

“You were a scholar?” she asked, stretching out on her side on the bed, looking lovelier by the moment, with the rum tingeing her cheeks a delightfully rosy pink.

“I had a desire to write great books.”

“Like Shakespeare?” she asked, kicking off her shoes and sending them flying across the room.

“I did not wish to be a playwright, but a novelist, like Cervantes. My father, God rest his soul, was the second son, and as he did not inherit my grandfather's estate, and only a portion of his wealth, desired a home of his own. So my mother, my sister Melody, my father, and I sailed for the West Indies. There would be no time for books and writing there, not at first, but I shared my
father's ideals, and had great visions of a powerful sugar plantation.”

“Then why did you become a pirate?”

That was always the hardest part of the story, the part he'd never told a soul, the part he'd relived again and again in his dreams.

“The voyage to Jamaica was not a successful one. Our ship's captain, Thomas Low, was much more than he appeared. He was a rich man—a pirate, some would call him. A privateer, others would say, awarded with commissions that gave him the right to steal from the enemy, as long as his profits were shared with the Crown. Sometimes he used his power against those who were not enemies of the king—like my father. Sometimes he used his power to steal from wealthy men—like my father. And most of the time…he killed.”

“Your family?” she asked.

“Aye. Like fools, we believed Captain Low to be a gentleman of the highest order. Again like fools, we loaded great riches onto his ship. I remember full well the servants packing my mother's cherished wedding presents, her plates and cups of gold, her sparkling crystal, her linens and lace. I remember the chests of priceless jewelry, and those of gold, the fortune that would turn the bare land we had purchased into the finest estate in Jamaica.”