The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway (7 page)

Although perhaps the treasure wasn’t in a secret cove, protected by booby traps and cursed skeletons. On a desert island. Surrounded by an inexplicable amount of sharks.

She grinned at the fantasy. “Why don’t you have a monkey? Or a parrot? You could teach it to talk.”

Mr. Steele cast her a look. “Mrs. Halton—”

“The Crimson Corsair has one. I read it in the newspaper. The gossips say he also has a cave filled with treasure.”

His fingers tightened around the spokes of the wheel. “If he does have such a thing, I will find it and take it from him.”

“The parrot?” she asked innocently. “You can catch one of your own.”

He yanked the cigar out of his mouth and stared at her. “Are you
bamming
me?”

She tried to keep a straight face, but an involuntary twitch of her lips gave her away.

He burst out laughing. “I’d buy every parrot I could find, and I’d make
you
teach them all to speak.”

“In proper cant, I’m sure.” She nodded her approval.

He stroked his beard as if considering the idea. “You’ll have to teach the monkey, too.”

“But of course. I daresay the Crimson Corsair will be terribly jealous. His crew hasn’t got a talking monkey. You could trade it for all sorts of treasure.”

His eyes softened as he gazed at her. His next words were almost too quiet to hear. “I have all the treasure I need right here on my ship.”

Her face flushed. She swallowed, suddenly grateful for the sailing master’s presence. It kept her from making a very foolish mistake. Such as landing in Mr. Steele’s arms.

She turned away to face the horizon, forcing the moment to pass. They would see land soon. Arriving in England meant reuniting with her daughter, her parents. Getting her old life back. A
better
life. A reasonable, respectable, grown-up and stable life.

But saying goodbye to Blackheart meant walking away from adventure. Walking away from a life of excitement and uncertainty. A life she’d never wanted…but now suspected she would greatly miss.

Chapter 7

The soft scent of Mrs. Halton’s hair kept Steele from his slumber.
 

Tomorrow, they would sight land. Perhaps even before dawn. This would be the last time he’d have to share his narrow bunk with the delightful, maddening woman asleep in his arms. The last night they’d have together.

He had been sorely tempted to treat her as more than cargo. To kiss her, to bed her, to answer her questions and her teasing remarks with the honesty and banter that they deserved. But she was a only a job. And he was a professional.

Even if his instructions had not clearly proscribed anything of a physical nature, his personal code of honor would have had the same effect. She was not here of her own free will. She was under his protection. He would not press for liberties.

Instead, he lay motionless as the constellations drifted overhead. If he moved, he might wake her. At least one of them should get some rest. Tomorrow would be a full day. After they secured the
Dark Crystal
at the docks, he was to deliver the package at the agreed upon address, retrieve his payment, ride back to the ship, and divide the bounty amongst his crew.

Under ideal circumstances, Steele would prefer to set sail again immediately, and begin the search for the Crimson Corsair at once. According to the newspapers, the man had been cutting a bloody swath through the Caribbean. Not even women and children were spared from his destruction.

Circumstances, however, were less than ideal. His hunt for the Corsair would have to wait.

Some months ago, one of Steele’s elder cousins had passed, leaving him a small property well out of sight from the sea. The cousin had also left Steele a twenty-year-old ward named Daphne.

The chit, from what Steele could gather, had always been a backwards lass. She tended to spend more time shuttered away in her bedchamber than interacting with children her own age. As she grew older, she began to produce a dizzying amount of correspondence—but never left her home. As far as Steele could tell, Daphne had been so lonely her entire life that she no longer even recognized the sensation for what it was.

She needed a man. A
good
man. One that would care for her and keep her happy, and let her scribble correspondence until her fingers fell off, if that’s what Daphne wished. The girl needed love, or at least an able partner. Someone equally as clever, and who would not allow her to close herself off from the rest of the world.

But because closing herself off was precisely what Daphne did best, the only way she would ever come into contact with anyone other than the servants—much less a marriageable young man to whom even a pirate like Blackheart could give his blessing—was if Steele left his ship at the docks and trekked inland to take control of the situation himself.

Tiresome, to be sure. But a necessary step. The next time Steele set sail, he would roam the seas completely unhindered by ties to anything or anyone.

A soft murmur escaped Mrs. Halton’s lips and she turned to snuggle closer into him.

He tried not to be pleased that she instinctively sought comfort and safety in his arms, even in her sleep. ’Twas of no consequence. Tomorrow night, they would both sleep alone.
 

Steele laid his cheek against the top of her head. She was the very epitome of everything he didn’t want. He was perhaps a fortnight away from severing his last and final tie to land…and Mrs. Halton was on the verge of creating new ones. Her daughter. The parents she hadn’t seen in years. A new home, a new life. All of it chaining her in place.
 

He glanced at her sleeping face and tried not to feel sorry for her. It was the life she wanted. The life she’d been given. She was a woman with hopes and dreams. With a strong sense of family. And strong expectations for the future, now that she realized she actually had one.

Steele had never been good with expectations. He tried not to have any. That was why he avoided romantic entanglements. Why he needed to steer clear of Mrs. Halton. A woman like her would be the opposite of freedom. A leg-shackle of the first order.

Which was a blessing, really. His horror of a life of domesticity ensured he’d keep his distance better than any threat the Earl of Carlisle might lay upon him.

Because he was watching her, he noticed the very second her large green eyes fluttered open. They widened at the realization that she was not just in his arms, but with her legs entwined with his. And that he was fully awake to see it. To enjoy it. Even in the moonlight, he could see the telltale flush of her cheeks. Yet she didn’t withdraw from his touch.

Good.

Terrible
.

Steele couldn’t pull away if he tried. His back was to the wall and his arm was trapped beneath her head. It had gone numb hours ago, but she looked so peaceful as she slept… Now that she was awake, he had even less reason to wish to jar her. She was in his arms. The night wouldn’t last forever. Even if he suddenly wished it could.

“You’re awake,” she said softly. It wasn’t a question. She was gazing at him in half-lidded wonder, as if she’d expected to wake up to discover the entire trip a dream.

He pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

“I don’t think I can.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I keep worrying about tomorrow.”

He nodded. That was the problem with ties to people or places. One couldn’t help but worry about them. That was why he strove to never have ties of his own.

“What would you do if you weren’t a pirate?” she asked softly.

Steele didn’t have to think twice about the answer. “Die.”

Simple as that. He loved being captain of his own ship. He was living the life he’d been born to lead.

Ten years ago, he’d been a simple barrister. No—not a simple barrister. A
great
barrister. His name alone shook fear into those who would argue against him. Law was his life. His steady, predictable, respectable, unremarkable, utterly boring life.
 

Until the day he’d found himself in a spot of fisticuffs at a dockside tavern. Two ruffians had instigated a fight with the protective brother of a barmaid. Steele had finished it. As he’d stepped out of the tavern, a bag had covered his head and he was immediately knocked to the ground whilst multiple assailants bound his hands and his feet.

When the ropes were untied, he was miles from shore—and one of a new batch of sailors in the King’s Royal Navy.

Much like a privateer’s legalized piracy, “pressing” unwilling or unsuspecting men into service was the most effective way the Navy had to recruit new sailors.
 

Despicable. And life-changing.

As much as he’d hated being pressed and resented being stripped of free will, life at sea was more excitement than he’d had in years. He’d always loved a challenge. The first was how to turn the tables, how to be the one with the power instead of at his captor’s mercy. From the moment his limbs were cut free from their binding, he’d vowed to be his own man again and to
never
give that up.

“Being Blackheart isn’t my job,” he said quietly. “It’s my life. It’s who I am. It’s freedom.”

She bit her lip, then nodded. “I did get that impression.”

“You’re a clever woman.” The words were flip, but he meant them truly.

Something in her eyes indicated she must have realized it, too.

She reached up and stroked a finger against his beard. “It’s getting longer.”

His heart raced at her touch. “I may have to change my name to Blackbeard.”

“That’s been taken.” Her lips curved.

“Then I’ll be ‘Salt-And-Pepper Beard.’” He massaged his jaw. “Although it perhaps doesn’t have the same ring.”

Her eyes crinkled. “It is quite unfashionable. You’d certainly be barred from Almack’s.”

“I barred myself when I learned they didn’t offer rum.” He caught her hand in his and placed her palm against the side of his beard. “Do you hate my whiskers?”

She shook her head. “I like them far more than I should.”

His body heated at the idea. “Oh?”

She licked her lips. “I like
you
more than I should.”

He swallowed the urge to give her even more reasons. Or meant to.

These were dangerous waters. His favorite kind. The wild impetus that sent him flying off a swinging rope onto a neighboring ship was the same impetus that had him stroking her soft cheek with the rough pad of his thumb and lowering his mouth to hers.
 

He should stay far, far away. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His heart thumped in anticipation.
 

She parted her lips the moment his touched hers.

His kisses were demanding. Possessive. She twisted her fingers in his hair and met him kiss for kiss. Just as hungry. Just as demanding. He slid his hand down her back, down the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.
 

Her breathing was as fast as his. Faster. Her fingers reached the waistband of his breeches right as he was bunching up her nightrail in his fist, raising it ever higher. Seeking to feel her hot flesh beneath his palm.

He lifted her leg, hooking her thigh over his hip. Tempting both of them.

No touching,
he told himself urgently. Just another kiss or two. Nothing more.

But her kisses were intoxicating. He was drugged; he was helpless. Hungry for more.

He forced himself to sink his fingers into the silk of her hair, rather than bury them elsewhere. He could stop this kiss anytime he wanted. Maybe. But he didn’t wish to. Ever. He wanted her to feel the scratch of his beard against her breasts as his mouth sought her nipples. Feel it brush between her thighs as he sought something more. As he gave her release. Oh God, did he ever want release. If they could just—

“Land ho!” came the shout from above the skylight.

In one swift movement, Steele yanked the hem of her nightrail back down to her ankles and leapt off of the bunk as if it were about to burst into flame. It had been close.

He looked away. Caught his breath. Meant to catch his breath, anyway. There was no hope of calming his racing heart while his pillow still smelled of her perfume. While his fingers still tingled with the knowledge that if he’d wanted to…
she’d
wanted to. With the knowledge that his crew was on deck—and likely peering down the skylight, the bastards—and they’d be docking any moment and then she’d be gone. Forever.