The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway (13 page)

That was always the game. That was why he played. He loved the rush. The uncertainty. The challenge.

Much like how he felt around Clara.
 

Warily, he sat down on one of the chairs to remove his boots.
 

She was stretched beneath the covers of his bunk. Lips slightly parted. Fast asleep. He wasn’t certain if the skip in his pulse was a sign of relief or disappointment.
 

He hadn’t lain with a woman since the last time Clara had been aboard his ship. There’d been opportunities—there were always opportunities—but they had filled him with ennui rather than excitement. He hadn’t been saving himself for her, of course. He had never saved himself for anyone, and besides, he’d had no real expectation of ever being more than a specter in her memory.

She was no longer in his memory. Now she was in his bed.
 

He shucked off his coat, his stockings, his waistcoat. There was no cravat to untie. He’d neglected to wear one.

Just like his crew had neglected to properly secure the ship whilst docked at the Port of London. If anything like that ever happened again, he’d sack the whole lot of them.

He crawled across Clara so his back was to the wall and then pulled her into his arms. Her body was soft against his. Warm. Inviting. He should not have touched her. He should have given her the entire bloody cabin and taken a hammock at the bow with the rest of the crew.

Perhaps she
was
a siren. She certainly tempted him to the very limits of his control.

He still could scarcely believe she’d stowed away on his ship. That she’d had the temerity. That it had even been possible. He fought the urge to stroke her hair.

From a certain perspective, he ought to thank her. His men had become cocky.
He
had become cocky. It had been so long since last they were challenged that they’d simply stopped believing it would ever happen.
 

They could not afford to make such foolish assumptions. What if the stowaway had not been Clara, but rather the Corsair and his entire crew?
 

Most of Steele’s men were armed even in their sleep, but a single shot pistol would not have bested a sneak attack by pirates armed with knives and cutlasses. And if they’d been taken by surprise whilst the only thing in their hands was a hunk of bread or a mug of ale…

Clara burrowed her head into Steele’s chest, mumbling in her sleep.

He lay his unshaven cheek against the top of her head and wished he wasn’t tempted to wake her up and give her precisely what she’d been asking for.

Did he want to? Of bloody course. He was testing the limits of his self-control. Despite having no contractual obligation to resist her, she was a respectable woman. Or at least, she had been before he’d brought her aboard his ship.
 

Blackheart was many despicable things, but he was not a despoiler of innocents. Or a defiler of widows. Very attractive, clever, stowaway widows. Who might be foolishly trying to trap the uncatchable into settling down.

He gritted his teeth and prayed for sleep. And strength.
 

Resisting the urge to take what was offered would be the hardest mission of his life.

Chapter 15

Clara did not understand men…but she did understand rejection.

Steele was not immune to her. His kisses, his smoldering looks, the hard feel of his body pressed against her in his bunk—everything pointed toward a shared attraction. Yet although he might want her, he would not consummate their mutual desire.

Fine. He might be the most handsome, charismatic, exasperating pirate captain to cross her path, but he was meant for turning her eye, not capturing her heart. She should take care not to develop a silly
tendre
for the man.

He was not the sort who settled down.

She was the sort who
needed
to.
 

Once this fairy-tale ended and she was back in England, she would focus on the things she could control. The things that mattered. Like finding a cottage of her own. Somewhere close enough to let her visit her daughter without being underfoot—or vice versa.
 

Somerset might be a nice place to start a home. Perhaps some evening, a dashing gentleman with a romantic soul would sweep Clara into his arms for a waltz that would last the rest of their lives. A solid, stable future, where she never again had to be far from Grace or fear for the safety of a loved one. What she’d dreamed of.

A month or two from now, Clara would have completely forgotten any interest she’d once had in Captain Blackheart.

Possibly.
 

And if not, well…she’d have her own space in a pretty cottage with a view of the sea. ’Twas what she had wanted. It would have to be enough.

Her heart clenched. She wouldn’t think of tomorrow. Today was all that mattered.

She was leaning against the mast at the front of the ship when the cry came from overhead.

“Land, ho!”

Nothing but blue waves and even bluer sky surrounded them.

She dashed forward to press herself against the rail, heedless of the spray of saltwater on her face or the way the wind whipped her hair free from its pins to wave behind her like an extra sail.

There. The barest smudge rising from the water blended with the promise of a storm upon the horizon.

An island.

A warm hand touched her back, then just as quickly fell away. Steele stood next to her, gazing out into the ocean.

“Clara.” He turned to face her. “I need you to—”

“‘Stay put,’ as the Americans say.” She kept her eyes on his. “Yes. I know.”

His jaw hardened. “More than stay behind. You may need to hide.”

“I’ll lock myself in your cabin if necessary.”

“No. Somewhere else.” His expression was hard. “The cabin is the first place they’ll look.”

She frowned. “The first place
who
will look?”

“Whoever is on that island.” He turned his gaze back to the horizon.
 

The jut of land and trees grew more distinct with each passing moment. Clara presumed she should be scared, but instead she felt invigorated. She’d thought cleaving to humble anonymity was what had made twenty lonely years bearable, but she’d been wrong.
 

This
was living. Her hair in snarls, her dress whipping behind her, her heartbeat racing as the schooner sped toward shore. She’d lived more in the past few months than she had in the past two decades.
 

It wouldn’t last. Nothing this exhilarating possibly could. But
oh
how she enjoyed being along for the adventure!

She turned toward Steele.
 

He captured her face in his hands and crushed his lips to hers.

Pleasure rushed through her as she surrendered her mouth. Her heart. The man drove her half mad with frustration and want, but his kisses were positively divine. She rose on her toes to press against him more fully.
 

If the wind was still ice cold, she could no longer feel it. No longer taste the salt or smell the sea. Every inch of her body was warm. Heated. All she could smell was his masculine scent. All she could taste was his tongue on hers, teasing her so thoroughly that she felt every stroke as if his mouth was between her legs.

She slid her hands across the rough stubble on his jaw and sank her fingers into his hair. It was too long, she supposed, too wild and untamable, but so was the man—and she liked him that way. His wildness made her feel wild. Made her feel free and reckless and powerful. He felt it, too. That’s what made it too dangerous for them to give into temptation.

“Stay here,” he whispered hoarsely between kisses. “Stay safe.”

She gripped his hair in her fists and kissed him as though tomorrow would never dawn. “Come back to me, or I’ll kill you.”

He grinned against her mouth, then suckled her lower lip between his teeth. “Can’t kill me if you can’t find me.”

“I’m obviously quite good at finding you.” She nipped at his mouth. “Don’t test me.”

The ship gave a slight jerk and stopped moving.

“Anchor’s down, Cap’n,” came Barnaby’s voice from somewhere behind them. “Should I lock the siren in your cabin?”

“She knows what to do.” Steele cupped a hand to her face for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then strode off without a backward glance.

This time, Clara wasn’t fooled by his apparent indifference. Steele didn’t stride off without a word because he didn’t care about her.

He didn’t trust himself with words because he
did
.

Chapter 16

Clara watched the first scouts lower a rowboat to the water and head for shore.

She watched as they returned, bubbling over with excited babble, and declared the island free of men and full of treasure.

She watched as Steele helped his crew lower an even larger rowboat from the middle of the main deck. The rest of the men set off for the island to help cart back the treasure.

She was still there, watching, when the sun began to sink behind the darkening clouds. In a few more hours, it would set completely. But darkness was the least of her worries. The first scouts had returned within minutes. Where was Steele? Why hadn’t he—or anyone!—returned to the ship, with or without the blasted gold?

The young swabs who had stayed on deck to help haul up the spoils leapt to their feet, pale-faced and sweating. They rushed to one of the remaining rowboats and began lowering it to the water.

Clara’s heart thudded in panic.
 

“Where are you going?” she stammered. “Aren’t we supposed to stay on the ship?”

“Something’s wrong,” one of the swabs replied.
 

“H-how do you know?”

“They’re not back,” another swab said ominously. “They always come back.”

Cold fear ripped through her and she clutched one of the swab’s arms. “I’m coming with you.”

He shook his head. “You stay here. We’ll be right back.”

“What if you can’t come back?” Her hands shook. “What if no one does?”

“Then lock yourself into a cabin with as much ammunition as you can find,” said the other swab. “If the Corsair finds you…”

She swallowed. If the Corsair found her, she’d be dead.

“What if the bullet misses its mark?” she asked desperately.

“Keep a pile of loaded pistols,” suggested the first swab.

“Don’t miss,” said the other.

Clara bit back a hysterical laugh. If the Corsair and his crew commandeered the Dark Crystal, it wouldn’t matter how much ammunition Clara had managed to hide herself with. It took several moments to load each bullet. Moments a terrified stowaway would not have.

“Bring him back,” she ordered the swabs as they lowered themselves into the rowboat. There was no need to speak his name. “We need him.”

They nodded. “That’s why we’re going.”

Clara took a deep breath and raced to the gunroom before their rowboat was out of sight. They’d left her alone, but not without artillery.