MY LADY PIRATE

By

Danelle Harmon

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Danelle Harmon

My Lady Pirate

Originally published in paperback in 1994 by Avon Books

e-version Copyright © 2012 by Danelle Harmon

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~~~~

May, 1802

“It is your sex that makes us go
forth, and seems to tell us, ‘None but the brave deserve the fair,’ and if we
fall we still live in the hearts of those females who are dear to us. It is
your sex that rewards us; it is your sex who cherish our memories; and you, my
dear honoured friend, are believe me, the first, the best of your sex.”

— British
Admiral Lord Nelson, in a letter to Emma, Lady Hamilton

Chapter 1

He was the scourge of the Spanish
Main.

Nearly a century before, the pirate
Blackbeard had taken some sixteen lovers in New Providence alone, and Gray, not
to be outdone, was determined to best that score in the Caribbean that he
now ruled.

Tonight, the lucky lady was one of
his particular favorites—the delightfully wicked, carnally creative, Lady
Catherine Fairfield, daughter of the richest sugar merchant on Barbados.

No pirate who’d ever swung a
cutlass in these lawless waters ever looked more formidable. A hoop of gold
pierced his ear and a patch covered one eye, though there was nothing amiss
with the dark orb it concealed. To his other eye, Gray held his night glass, a
heavy, brass and leather-bound instrument that he steadied against his arm and
now, trained on the blaze of distant light that marked the palatial residence
of Lord Fairfield. . .

And—the pirate smiled wolfishly and
closed the glass with a snap—his beauteous and willing daughter.

The breeze, as warm as the bedmate
who awaited him, as sultry as the charms of that lovely lady herself, frisked
over the dark Caribbean and pushed the little pinnace hard over on her beam.
Waves crested white in the darkness, and the pirate’s long hair rode in the
wind like a wild, untamed banner, black as the night itself.

“Fetch her up a point to starboard,
Bones,” Gray commanded, and the cadaverous man at the tiller did as he was bid,
hiding a smirk as did his mates. Tolerant and loyal tars, they were well used
to their leader’s nightly sojourns. This raid on Lady Catherine’s bedroom would
be the pirate’s last before duty called them all home and the Caribbean was
once again safe from his roguish appetites.

Now, the pinnace skated across the
dancing waves, aligning its nose on that distant mansion of light. The pirate
hooked an elbow around a shroud, propped a foot atop the gunwale, and,
ensconced in this lordly pose, leaned far out over the waves that licked
greedily at the toe of his big jackboot. “Ah,” he murmured, seeing the single
light glowing in an upstairs bedroom, “the prize awaits me. . .”

“Boarding in darkness is never
honorable,” grumbled Bones at the tiller.

“And rousing my temper is never
wise,” answered Gray with a chuckle. “Hold your course, helmsman, or I shall
seize you up to the mainyard ’pon our return and dangle you like a puppet on a
string. Then you may talk to me of honor!”

The boat crew laughed, right along
with him. Their leader was in good spirits, and why not? Soon they would be
heading home, tonight he was going ashore to live his favorite pirate fantasy
and the most wanton lady in the Windwards was standing a secret watch in that
upstairs bedroom.

But Fate has a way of upsetting
even the most carefully laid plans, and on this late spring night in the Year
of Our Lord, 1805, it did just that.

Gray the pirate would never know
what spilled him into the warm embrace of the Caribbean and thus changed his
life forever. A freak wave? A slip of his booted foot atop the gunwale? A shove
from a mischievous spirit? One moment he was the proud commander of a pirate
ship embarked on a dangerous raid; the next, he was the sorry victim of
shipwreck, floundering in heavy seas that threatened to drag him down and lock
him in the hold of Davy Jones forever.

Gray quickly recovered from this
odd mishap. He surfaced, cleared the salt from his eyes, and trod water for a
moment, unafraid of the depths beneath his booted feet nor the embarrassment a
lesser man might have felt after being so disgracefully dumped in the sea in
full view of his subordinates. He heard them calling for him, but the current
was pulling him swiftly away and soon his answering shouts were lost to the
night. The distance between himself and the pinnace grew, and he saw the muted
shape of its sail as a dim glow in the windy darkness. For a fleeting moment he
lamented his sorry situation, but his blood was up, his appetites lusty, and
damn him if he wouldn’t make the raid after all!

But his jackboots—his prized,
precious jackboots— they would have to come off.

The pirate took a deep breath,
reached down, and allowed himself to sink while he tugged furiously at the
boots with heel and toe and, then, frantic hands. One came off. His breath
burst out in a spray of hissing bubbles and he clawed upward, clutching the
boot like a prize and damning it for its weight; a similar maneuver and he made
a prize of the other, too, while his bare feet thrust him back up to the dark
surface.

His head broke water and he blew
air out of his bursting lungs. The breeze was warm, sultry, skimming over the
salty chop and carrying with it the distant, island scents of roasting meat and
blossoming flora. He couldn’t be far from his destination.

But the problem of the boots still
remained.

Sweet Neptune.

He trod water as best he could with
his free hand and strong, powerful legs. His breeches, wicked and daring and
far more boastful of his masculine attributes than his usual attire, fit him
like a second skin. But damn him, he would not part with the boots, even if
they were fouling his progress!

So what if that old London
shoemaker had eyed him quizzically when he’d brought the print of Henry Morgan
to him; he’d certainly paid the man well enough to fashion a pair of boots
after those the long-dead buccaneer had been portrayed in. After the trouble
he’d gone through to get them, he’d be damned if he’d surrender them to the
fish. Ingenious as always, he tore the knife from its scabbard, slashed a hole
in the fine leather at the top of each boot, dragged off his knotted, sopping
sash, and wove it through the holes, effectively snaring both boots before once
more tying the sash around his waist to anchor them.

Now, he was ready to make his
raid, and the devil take any who dared try to stop him!

Grinning heartily, he struck off
with powerful strokes of his muscled arms that drew him closer and closer to
the island, where the twinkling lights of Fairfield’s mansion stabbed the
darkness. Already, he could smell the aromas of roasted pork and beef drifting
toward him on the breeze; already, he could envision the more succulent
delights of the flesh that awaited him in that upstairs chamber. Aaah, the
pleasures of working in the Caribbean! Balmy weather year-round, and free rein
to live his life as he damn well pleased. Savory meals by day, and erotic
pleasures by night . . . the Lady Catherine being his fairest, and most recent,
conquest.

The Lady Catherine. . . She too
would be in proper dress, in deference to his fantasy of taking a lady pirate
to his bed. Catherine, of course, was only a nobleman’s bored and beautiful
daughter, but her carnal appetites were as insatiable and imaginative as Gray’s
own and she was willing to go along with any sexual games he sought to play
with her. He grinned in anticipation. While her papa moved his corpulent bulk
among the revelers at his grand banquet this evening, toasting the king and
damning the emperor, she would be upstairs and waiting in her bed, her decks
scrubbed down and damp, her rigging strung tight, and her entry port ready and
willing to receive him. . .

He couldn’t wait to drop anchor in that
harbor.

And thus encouraged, he put his
mind to the swimming, the current washing his skin, the waves buffeting his
face. The water was obscenely warm; salt stung his eyes and with a curse, he
finally tore the eye patch loose, allowing it to trail from around his neck and
lose itself in the sodden, floating folds of his shirt.

Fatigue, however, was catching up
with him. He paused, treading water while he gave himself time to catch his
breath. Unlike most sailors, he was a good swimmer, and a strong one at that. .
. but surely, he had swum far enough that the shallows should be near at hand.

Blinking, Gray wiped the sopping
hair off his brow, knuckled the salt from his eyes—and saw that the lights of
the island were not growing closer, but moving away from him at an
alarming speed.

God’s teeth and blood.

He was no fool. He was a powerful
man, a good commander—but first and foremost he was a sailor, and as such, he
respected the laws of the sea. To try to swim against the current and toward
the island would only be folly, for his strength, great as it was, could not
hold out forever.

He allowed himself a brief moment
to lament the forfeited rendezvous with the Lady Catherine. Then, motionless in
the water, his keen mind began to plot a strategy, while the receding tide and
swift ocean current bore him away to God-only-knew where.

And still the jackboots trailed from
his waist, heavy, sodden, dragging behind him like a foul-weather anchor.

He did not cut the sash.

The lights of the island dimmed,
faded. The riding lights of his great ship, mounting eighty guns, dropped
toward the horizon, then under it, as the current bore him farther and farther
away.

He was alone.

But still, he did not panic—nor did
he consider loosing the jackboots.

There was nothing to worry about,
really. At dawn, Colin would bring the mighty Triton in search of him.
There would be laughter, some thumps on the back from his men, a few snide and
obscene comments, but nothing more—

Something splashed in the darkness
off to starboard.

Gray froze, all thoughts of the
Lady Catherine instantly vanishing from his mind.

Above, a ceiling of stars. Below,
blackened fathoms. And around him, nothing but the soft wash of tumbling waves
that glittered, diamondlike, in the night.

He began to relax.

And then, the splash again.

Shark.

His hand groped for his knife,
yanking it free of its swollen scabbard. Something passed beneath him, pushing
him upward on a great swell of current; he felt its size, its power, its total
adaptation to a sea on which mankind was only an ill-equipped visitor.

And Gray, in his loose linen shirt,
tight black breeches, kerchief, eye patch, and yes, jackboots—was ill-equipped
indeed.

The creature plunged beneath him
again, and he was dragged downward for a brief instant by the rush of water
that went with it. Flailing to say afloat, he raised the knife, his feet
kicking savagely at the threatening depths.

“Sheer off, you blighty devil, you!”

A fin, glistening in the starlight,
cleaved the surface, circled him, and was gone.

Steady as you go, man, he
told himself, fighting to control his rising panic. Wait ’til it comes close
and then fire as you bear.

The fin broke the water.

It came toward him, the sea parting
from it like the bow wave of a man-of-war.

Closer . . .

He gripped the knife, determined
not to go down without a fight, and shook it at that approaching wedge of
death.

“Come on, you bastard!”

Closer . . .

“Come on, damn you!”

He drew back his fist, and then the
great sea creature burst from the surface, expelling a fountain of misted
breath and water straight up to the stars before plunging gracefully back into
the warm embrace of the sea.

“Bloody hell,” Gray swore,
on a shaky breath.

And then the animal’s wake smashed
him in the face and sent him into spasms of coughing.

Cursing, he grabbed the dolphin’s
offered fin when it came to him again and, shoving the knife back into its scabbard,
allowed the animal to drag him forward through the night.

From around his waist, the
jackboots still trailed.

###

She liked sword-fighting, ships,
and a stout mug of ale. She was suntanned and lean and not above ruthlessness
when it came to getting what she wanted. She loved sharks, fancied herself a
monarch, and now, stood as a reluctant participant to Celtic magic after a
recent prize had yielded an old book of spells that keenly intrigued the lot of
ex-prostitutes, barmaids, refugees, and slaves-turned-pirate-women who stood
with her.

Her hair, caught in a thong of
tough leather at her nape, was heavy and straight and of the darkest shade of
red, a shimmering fall of polished chestnut threaded with strands of ruby. Her
temper was fiery and her stance warlike as only a gleaming dagger, a set of
pistols, and a necklace of sharks’ teeth could make it. Two large hoops of gold
hung from her ears and kissed the bare tops of bronzy shoulders. Her clothes
were garish, her tongue sharp, her face clever, hardened, and deeply tanned
after seven years in the Caribbean sun. But when Maeve Merrick smiled, her
teeth made a startling contrast to such darkness of skin, and her laughter was
full-blown and hearty, as blustery as a reefing wind.

But the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean
was not laughing now. A quick-running tropical storm shook the palms and
slashed against the roof of the abandoned planter’s mansion that was now home
to her and the crew of the schooner Kestrel. It was not the gale that
annoyed her, for she loved storms and could sail her ship through the eye of a
needle, if necessary; the dangerous passage between the coral reefs that
guarded her private lagoon would not have stopped her if she had wanted to go
a-raiding. But the wishes of her crew did, for she was a pirate captain,
supreme in battle but otherwise subject to the rules of majority, and majority
ruled that this unlikely damsel should have what the spell book called, her “Gallant
Knight.”

Gallant Knight, indeed, Maeve
thought.  What sort of spell book was this, anyhow?  Any fool knew that there
were no “gallant knights” beyond the tales of King Arthur.

And yet Maeve couldn't bear to
spoil the fun for Aisling and Sorcha, the two youngest members of her crew. The
Irish sisters had lost their da and mama when their ship had gone down in a
storm a year ago, and Maeve, who had come across the orphans crying their eyes
out in a small boat in the wake of the storm, had a soft spot for the two
girls.  Their little faces were eager, their eyes bright with excitement.
Once, she had been young and foolish and full of romantic nonsense, too. Once,
she had also dreamed of a prince charming to come and sweep her off her feet.

But “once,” of course, was a long
time ago.

Seven years, to be exact.

And so, she sighed with resignation
and allowed them to drag her to the hastily built altar and what would have to
pass as their cauldron—a pot, borrowed from the kitchen and framed on the right
and left by twin pink candles that sputtered and spit in the drafts as though
they, too, held this silly exercise in high contempt.

“Ready, Majesty?” chirped
thirteen-year-old Sorcha, aglow with the innocent enthusiasm of a child who
still believed in fairy tales.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Maeve
said, opening the book of spells and dramatically turning up her nose at the
pungent scent of mold that issued from it.

The girls laughed.  Beyond them,
some of the other crewmembers exchanged smirks.

Aisling, just twelve years old,
handed Maeve her cutlass. “Here, the book says that you have to be the one
holding the Magic Wand when it touches the cauldron, since you're the
one we're going to conjure a Gallant Knight up for.”

Laughing, Maeve handed it back. “Sweeting,
you should hold the wand, not me.  After all, you have a far better chance
of snaring a Gallant Knight than I ever will!”

“Oh, Majesty, everyone has a
Gallant Knight, somewhere! Even you!”

“Especially you!”

“And you shall marry him and live
happily ever after!”

“Bah, I'm too old, too cynical, and
too rough around the edges. Even if there were such things as gallant knights,
I can assure you that they wouldn't be marrying the likes of me!”

The girls were too young to note
the sudden pain in their captain's golden eyes. But Maeve's quartermaster and
longtime friend, Orla, was not, and as a sudden gust of wet wind drove through
the tall, open windows, shaking the giltframed portraits on the walls, she
quietly took the spell book from Maeve's hand, found the proper page, and
handed it back to her.

She alone knew why Maeve did not
believe in Gallant Knights.

And she alone knew why Maeve was
starting to look like a cornered animal.

But the Irish girls were not as
observant, nor did they know the full story of what had brought the woman who
had taken them under her wing to this remote Caribbean island. Now, they
pressed close, and Maeve, with a wry twist of her lips, looked down at the
spell book to try and hide her growing impatience. “Why are you two so eager to
see me married?” she grumbled, tossing a handful of black gunpowder into the
cauldron; some of it missed the pot and trickled down the sides, causing the
crew to cringe, fearing an explosion. “It would mean the end of our life
together. I’ve fought hard to gain respect and independence and a name for
myself in these lawless waters, and I’ve no wish to give it up, or share it
with some sneaking, skulking, dog who’d only want what I have and not
what I am. Marriage? Bah! We have everything we could need or want,
right here on our island. There is no need for me to marry, and nobody who'd
want a sunburnt old maid like me, anyhow.”

“You're not old!”

“You're only three and twenty!”

“And you deserve your Gallant
Knight!”

Maeve laughed, just a little too
loudly. “There are no Gallant Knights, girls, and when you get some age
under your keels you’ll know I speak the truth! Men are all rascally
blackguards, every last one of them, all intent on one thing and one thing
only, and that’s satisfying the itch between their legs! Love? Bah!” She
dismissed the idea with an scornful wave, shut the book, and handed it to them.
“Love is nothing but a cruel hoax played by nature to entice two people to rut
like dogs and so continue the miserable existence of this species. I do not
believe in Gallant Knights, I do not believe in spells, and I damn well
do not believe in wasting time in fruitless nonsense when we could be out stealing
something!”

Her words echoed in the silence,
and no one spoke. The two sisters hung their heads, looking crestfallen.  “It's
just a game, Majesty,.” whispered Aisling.

“Yes, just a game. . . .”

“We're sorry.”

Instantly, Maeve regretted her
harsh words.  She took a deep breath, and laid her hands on the shoulders of
each girl. “I’m sorry, too. You're right. It is just a game.”  She
picked up her cutlass, and gripping the savage weapon that would have to act as
the Magic Wand, mustered a grin. “Right, so, tell me what I'm supposed to do so
we can end this lunacy.”

The crew exchanged glances, knowing
how difficult this was proving to be to the woman who led them. Enolia, her lieutenant,
ebony-skinned and exotic, her tall, lithe form banded with muscle and flattered
by African jewelry. Karena, blonde and blue-eyed and the finest gunner this
side of Jamaica. Tia, the boatswain, sultry, and mischievous, Jenny, the
sailing master, and of course, loyal Orla

“You’re supposed to tell us what
sort of man you want for your Gallant Knight,” Sorcha said, pushing her hair
behind her ear as she peered earnestly down at the ancient text. “Then”—she
frowned, trying to decipher the words—”then, you’re supposed to tap the Magic
Wand against the cauldron three times and—ta da!—your Knight will appear, just
like that!”

‘Ta da, just like that,” Maeve
scoffed.

“Yes, just like that.”

Rolling her eyes, Maeve gazed out
the open window, through the sheets of rain and toward the distant horizon. “Well.
. . He would have to be a sailor,” she mused, her voice softening somewhat, “tall
and lion-hearted, and strong as an oak. He would be a prince of the sea, a
fearless warrior with courage to rule his every deed. . . “

“Yes? Go on!”

She tapped a ragged fingernail
against her chin, her eyes beginning to gleam as she warmed to the impossible fantasy.
“He would be dark and handsome, masterful and brave. Clever. Strong. And of
course,” she added, with a fleeting smile, “he would be an officer. . . a
courageous and noble officer, a worthy man of purpose and honor and decency—”

“A man like your papa, then?”

Abruptly, her smile vanished and a
cloud as dark as the one outside passed over the Pirate Queen’s face. “Aye,”
she said bitterly. “Like my father.”

An uncomfortable silence ensued.
Swift glances were exchanged, and Aisling flushed crimson at her ill-chosen
words as the Pirate Queen turned to stare out the window, her eyes hard, her
mouth an unbending slash of pain. Orla moved forward, but Maeve quickly
recovered. Prideful as ever, and forcing aside the pain of the second, and most
savage, betrayal of her life, she snatched up the spell book and affected an
air of humor that fooled no one.

“Blast it all,” she muttered, “why
do I stand here wasting time? My deeds are too black, my heart too hard, for
such a worthy man to ever take notice of me. Besides,” she added, in the
haughty tone of the All-Knowing, “I had one of my Visions last night. I already
know what manner of man I shall have, and he is no better than I am—a pirate,
a thieving blackguard worthy of the gallows and nothing more.” Her voice rose
with suppressed hurt. “That is what the Sight has shown me, and it is
never wrong!”

“It is sometimes,” Aisling
taunted.

“Well, it’s not this time!” Maeve
snapped. “Enough of this madness, Kestrel has not been out in three days
and my palm grows itchy for want of good, stolen coin—”

“Oh, no, Majesty. We can’t leave
without first completing the spell!”

“Damn the spell!”

“But there are other things that
must be added to the cauldron!”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll add!”
Snatching up a gold drinking cup, Maeve stormed outside and returned, her hair
wet from the rain, her eyes blazing, and flung the contents into the steaming
cauldron. “Gull shit! Add this to the damned spell and see what you conjure up!
There are no Gallant Knights in this world, there is no magic, and there
is no man who will ever love me!”

And with that, the Pirate Queen’s
arm savagely scythed down and cutlass met cauldron with a ringing crash, once,
twice, three times—

The explosion rocked the room. It
may have been a resulting spark and the black gunpowder that caused it; or
maybe it was the spell itself. The cauldron went up in a burst of
pink-and-orange flame, exploding outward with the force of a warship’s
broadside. The crew dived for cover, their captain was slammed backward against
a wall, furniture went flying, and windows blew apart. A piece of metal ripped
the spell book from Orla’s hands and missed hitting her by an inch. Thick slime
blasted against the white walls and trickled down in unholy torrents. And
somewhere amidst this shattering melee of noise and fear, a commotion filled
the doorway and a man was hauled unceremoniously forward by two pirates who
contained him with pistols held at either side of his set and stubbled jaw.

Too stunned to notice, the Pirate
Queen lurched to her feet, her eyes still on the spot where the cauldron had
been, where the two pink candles had stood, where there was now nothing but a
blackened spot of singed flooring and an ugly mess of iron and sludge and
stench. Her hands shaking, she reached up and touched her cheek.

“Orla? Aisling? Sorcha? You . . .
all right?”

But they were all frozen in place
and staring fixedly toward the door, their eyes as round as shot.

Maeve knew, even before she took a
deep breath and slowly turned to follow their gazes, what she would find.

A man. Not just any man, but a
tall, gloriously handsome one whose black hair streamed in rampant disarray
past mighty shoulders and down a broad back; a man whose great hands were
bunched into fists, a man with the devil’s own fury blazing from eyes as darkly
blue as an empty midnight.

Not the gallant officer she pined
for . . .

but a pirate.

Maeve stepped forward, and gathered
herself for a question that needed no answer.

“Who the hell are you?”

His gaze bored into hers. Furious,
he reached up and flung an offending clot of slime from his dripping brow.
Then, he pushed his captors aside and stepped forward, over six feet of
towering male purpose, muscle, and rage.

“Your gallant-bloody-knight!”

Chapter
2

Gray’s advance was halted by the
Pirate Queen’s pointed cutlass against his chest.

Bronzed by the sun, his shirt
gaping, his bare skin sugared with beach sand through which little rivulets of
seawater ran down, his wet and mighty body was like an impregnable fortress—but
even so, he could not walk through a sword.

“Stand aside, woman.” His voice was
steely and hard, its tone dark, dangerous, and commanding.

The slender arm holding the cutlass
did not lower. Neither did the regal nose, nor the glittering gold eyes that
clashed with his. “I am the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean,” she said, her voice
quivering with rage, “and you will address me as Majesty.”

“I,” he retorted, “will address you
as I damn well please.” His gaze insolently drifted down her open vest and
blousy shirt.

“You,” she snarled, “are on my
island, in my house, and barging in on my spell. Therefore, I’d
just as soon skewer you to the wall and feed you your entrails for breakfast as
toss you to the sharks. Do I make myself clear?”

A thick silence followed, the air
crackling with tension.

“I said, Do I make myself clear?”

Gray stared into the golden depths
of her eyes, matching her in fury, matching her in a struggle for power,
matching her in silent, savage combat. This young brat was the Pirate
Queen of the Caribbean, a renowned figure he’d dismissed as an overinflated
legend made large by the same sort who professed to have seen mermaids, sea monsters,
and the ghost of Blackbeard?

Don’t vex me, little girl,
he thought, darkly; and then something tickled his temple and, reflexively, he
swiped at the last of the slime that still dripped down his face. At that
moment the absurdity of the situation struck him with sudden force and the
corners of his mouth began to twitch in helpless amusement, even as his gaze
slid down the graceful arch of her throat, the swell of breasts beneath the
loose shirt, the bare legs and shapely ankles below the baggy, cutoff trousers.
He liked what he saw, and his mouth curved in a slanted, wolfish grin of
appreciation and amusement. But this formidable Amazon was anything but amused.
She glared at him, eyes blazing—and Gray, undaunted, loosened his sash, let the
dripping jackboots fall to the polished floor, and swept her a courtly bow.

“Your every wish,” he drawled,
coming up and making an elaborate, all-encompassing gesture with his arm, “is
my command.” And then, mockingly: “Majesty.”

She was still not amused. Her cohorts
were not amused. Even the parrot that swung on a perch near the window did not
seem amused. The Pirate Queen’s mouth went white with fury and the cutlass
kissed his chest, drawing a bead of blood.

“Kneel,” she commanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said kneel, damn you!”

Deliberately, Gray let his gaze
travel the length of that heavy sword and the arm that held it, until it once
again met her angry gold eyes. He gave a faint smile. She posed him no
particular threat. He could disarm her in a moment, of course; she was only a
woman, and a young one at that. But mercifully, he decided to spare her dignity
in front of this malevolent pack of she-wolves. Pushing the sword away with
casual nonchalance he said, “Dear lady, I kneel to no one.” He then turned on
his bare heel to leave.

A knife hissed past his ear and
impaled itself in the mahogany frame of the door, two inches away from his
nose. And in that moment, he realized that the situation called for a
definite—and immediate—reassessment.

His amusement faded abruptly and he
reached toward the dagger.

“Don't,” came the Pirate
Queen’s voice. “Unless you place no value on your life.”

Yes, a most definite
reassessment of the situation.

The room grew deathly quiet.
Somewhere, someplace, he heard his own thundering heartbeat and, in that
moment, became desperately aware of everything: the greenery, shiny with rain
and thrashing in the storm just outside; the angry bay with its cruising
whitecaps beyond; the warm breath of wind and rain; the sudden sweat on his
brow; the chill of the floor beneath his feet. Then someone jabbed a pistol
against his skull, another into his back, and he was acutely aware of her, coming
up behind him.

Slow, measured, footsteps. The soft
rustle of her clothing. The hot force of her anger as she—the woman
whose existence he now wished he hadn’t discounted, the woman who, if
the tales were to be believed, was as likely to slice off an errant manroot as
cut out a tongue that wagged too much for her liking—came up behind him.

“Imperious dog,” she seethed,
standing on tiptoe to better hiss into his ear. And then that hiss changed to
the roar of an angry lioness: “How dare you come here and insult me!”

It seemed that even the wind
hushed, not daring to intrude upon the Pirate Queen’s fury.

“Gallant Knight, my arse,”
she snarled. “So much, ladies, for your stupid spell! I told you the
Sight foresaw what manner of man I’d have, and it has proved true!”

“’Twas the gull shit that ruined
the spell, Majesty,” someone murmured.

“Silence!”

The pistol thrust against the back
of his skull. “Shall I kill him now, Captain?”

“Nay, Enolia, that honor will be mine,”
the Pirate Queen spat, her breath blasting Gray’s neck like the hot wind of a
close broadside. He could feel her stare burning a hole between his shoulders,
the heat of her lissome body blazing through his damp and clinging shirt. “Lucia!
Jan! Tell me where you found this . . . this dog.”

“Turlough brought him, Majesty.”

“Turlough. I shall have to speak to
that damned dolphin! This time, his penchant for rescuing people has gone too
far.”

Speak to a dolphin? This
woman was not only bloodthirsty, but crazy as well. But Gray’s snort of
derision ended in an abrupt grunt of pain as the pistol was again thrust
against his skull with force enough to make him see stars.

“No one laughs at Her Royal
Highness!”

“Nay, let him be,” the Pirate Queen
commanded on a haughty note of disdain. “He’ll learn soon enough. Lower your
weapons, ladies. I’ve no wish to address this vermin by the back of his
head! Let him turn and face me as a man, and prove to me he can die as
one, too!”

The pistols were withdrawn with
obvious reluctance, but not before the one pressed to Gray’s spine was driven
hard against his vertebrae for good measure. He set his teeth and bit back a
curse.

The cutlass slammed against the
doorjamb, two inches from his face. “I said turn around, damn you!”

Slowly, he turned to face his
tormenter. The cutlass was clenched in her fist as she stared up at him, bare
feet spread in the stance of a warrior, her mouth hard, and her complexion hot
with anger. Fire flashed in her eyes—tiger eyes, he thought—and he saw
her gaze dip, as though she could not help herself, to take in the expanse of
his chest, and follow the spearhead of dark hair that disappeared beneath his
breeches. He didn’t say a word, only letting a little smile play about his
mouth in recognition of and response to her obvious interest.

“Damn you, kneel!” she
raged, and lashing out, drove her hand savagely against his shoulder.

Her action did nothing to budge a
man who had some eighty pounds of solid muscle and sinew on this spitting cat
of a woman. But it shook the Pirate Queen to the very core. She staggered,
dropped the cutlass, and fell back against the wall, her face paling, her lips parting
and going white. Instantly, two of her evil consorts—one a dark-haired sprite
with a Celtic look about her, the other wheaten-haired and garbed in canvas
trousers and a shirt of bright paisley, rushed to her aid.

“Captain!”

“The Sight . . .” she murmured,
staring at him with dawning horror and yes, fear.

They were mad, the whole damned lot
of them, as mad as a compass with the needle pointing south! Shaking his head,
Gray thought of leaving, but something stopped him. It was not the threat of
pistol, cutlass, nor knife. It was not the imperious command of a woman he
could have disarmed in the beat of a moment, nor the horde of female savages
hovering protectively around her.

It was the woman herself.

Supported by her crew, she was
still staring at him, a pulse beating wildly at her throat, her lips—lovely
lips, of the sort to drive a man to madness—parted and trembling.

“You . . .” she whispered, in a
tremulous voice.

And then, without warning, she shot
to her feet, visibly shaken but in command of herself once more. “Who the
hell are you?” she demanded, seizing her cutlass and storming forward.

“Gray.”

“Gray what?”

“Just . . . Gray.”

Twin stains of scarlet flared to
life beneath her high cheekbones. “You’ll be gray and dead if you
persist in this deliberate taunting of me! Don’t think I won’t run you through
and enjoy every moment of it! I asked your name, damn you!”

He shrugged, leaned negligently
against the doorframe, and, with studied nonchalance, plucked the dagger from
the wood and gallantly offered it—hilt first—to her. “And so I have told you.”
He gave a faint smile as she grabbed the knife. “Gray.”

Her eyes narrowing, she thrust the
dagger into the scabbard at her belt. “Your ship, then.”

“Tri-”

He caught himself just in time.

“Try-what?” she demanded,
raising the cutlass threateningly.

He pushed it away. ‘Tri . . . umphant.”

“Bah! I’ve never heard of her, and
I know every ship that plies the waters between these islands. You lie!”

“I do not lie.”

“I do not lie, Majesty!” she
roared.

He smirked. “Aye, you’re right, I
do not.”

The cutlass slashed down three
inches from where his shoulder rested lazily against the doorframe. “Dare you
anger me? You shall regret the day you crossed my bows, damn you! Orla! Enolia!
Seize this dog and throw him in the dungeon! A few days of starvation in
company with the rats will soon teach him to show manners to a lady and
respect to a sovereign.”

“Lady?” he murmured, with a
dubious grin.

This time the flat of the cutlass
slammed against the side of his head, and when Gray awoke, it was to
pitch-darkness . . .

And chains.

###

The Pirate Queen lay naked in her
bed, the sheets flung back as she stared up into the shadowy darkness. Her
hands were crossed behind her head, her body sweating from the island heat.
Outside, she could hear the roar of the sea, the soft, eternal rustle of
breezes moving through the palms.

“Gallant Knight, ha!” she snarled.

But her anger, which intimidated
most in its path, could not scare away the truth, no matter how much she might
have wished it.

There was the Sight. The Vision
she’d had foretelling his arrival. And despite what Aisling had said, she knew
the Sight was seldom wrong. . .

Maeve shuddered, suddenly afraid.

Bah! She was not afraid!

But she was.

He was The One. She knew it in her
bones, knew it in the way she’d responded to his confident virility, even as
she denied it with all her heart. She who had wished for a gallant leader just
like her father, the legendary privateer Captain Brendan Jay Merrick. She who
idolized the brave English Admiral Lord Nelson. She who had (privately, of
course) yearned for a sea officer cut from the same mold as men such as these.
But what had she been given? A pirate. A bloody, useless, pirate with
bad manners, a tattoo on his arm, and an insolence she had yet to see matched.
Oh, she knew his kind; devastatingly handsome, fatally charming, and likely to
break a woman’s heart.

And Gray. What the hell sort
of name was that?

Don’t think about him!

Cursing, she flung herself onto her
side and stared out her window and into the night, her gaze on the starlit
horizon, her heart twisting and turning and reminding her that the object of
her thoughts, and, unfortunately, her desire, was locked up just outside.

Don’t think about him.

She turned her face into the
pillow, pounded it with her fist.

Don’t think about him.

Her heart slowed, became regular
again, and closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe deep and hard,
finally putting that wickedly handsome face out of her mind and replacing it
with older, gentler memories, until at last her anger cooled and her spirit
began to drift back through time. . .

Home. It would be late spring
now. Robins on the lawns, birds’ nests in the trees, lilacs and apple blossoms
bursting with color, and the ice long gone from the river. Fishing boats being
scraped down, greenheads on the beach, a fresh crop of kittens following Mama
from the house to the barn to the pasture. . .

Her eyes shot open.

“No,” she whispered into the
darkness. “Don’t think about that, either. . .”

But it was no use.

Daddy at the shipyard with Uncle
Matt, working on plans for a new brig or a fine frigate, while her brothers and
sisters and cousins played atop the logs that floated in the mast pond; Mama
trying desperately to make a fruit pie and wondering why everyone had an excuse
for skipping dessert . . . ornery old Grandpa Ephraim, surrounded by his
beloved clocks and still fighting with his short-tempered daughter. . .

It had been seven years since she’d
last seen their beloved faces, seven years since she'd allowed herself to cry
over all she had lost, and now the tears spilled over, running silently down
her face to soak the hot pillow beneath her cheek. She dug her nails into her
palms, furious at her inability to quell this womanly weakness, but she had no
more control over the tears than she did the memories that had brought them.

Seven long years. Of watching the
horizon for authorities who would never find her. Of watching the horizon for
rival pirates over whom she must continue to triumph.

Of watching the horizon for a daddy
who had never come.

It was the most heartrending
betrayal of all.

Maeve Merrick—daughter of the most
famous privateer of the American Revolution and now, the undisputed Pirate
Queen of the Caribbean—rolled over in bed and sobbed for all she was worth, for
she didn’t need the Sight to know that the handsome rake chained in the old
storehouse just outside was no Gallant Knight— but the next in a line of men
who would only break her heart.

Chapter
3

In the dark gloom of the dungeon it
took Gray exactly forty-five minutes to work himself free of his bonds, and
another ten minutes to assess the walls that enclosed him. It was no dungeon at
all, but a simple chamber of stone. In other days, it had probably been used to
keep foodstuffs cool; now, it was as empty as the hold of a warship too long at
sea, and smelled no better. Mildew, moss, stone . . . well, perhaps a little
better, he thought wryly.

He’d cursed those rough walls when
he’d awakened—and blessed them when he discovered that, by rubbing his wrists
up and down against the cool stone, he could steadily chafe away the hemp that
bound him. He'd made short work of it, of course.

Now, his hands were free, his
wrists scraped and bleeding. His clothes—especially the snug-tight
breeches—were still damp and now, itchy with salt against his skin. That
discomfort, however, paled in comparison to the loss he felt for his precious
jackboots. They were probably gone for good. And while Gray was not one to
admit defeat by any means, he was certainly ready to call a cease-fire, and the
manacles around his ankles demanded he do just that.

And so he waited.

He looked outside, past a rusty,
iron-spiked door entangled with vines bursting with pink and scarlet flowers.
Sunset blazed on the horizon like a rim of molten flame, turning the serene
waters of the bay orange, the beach pink, and casting the palm trees in
silhouette. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. In that sheltered harbor lay the
finest schooner he’d ever seen in all his thirty-six years.

From its rakishly cunning design to
its ten guns, the vessel looked very well suited for the piratical endeavors in
which it was doubtless employed—and, in that moment, Gray vowed before heaven
and earth that the trim little craft would assist in getting him out of this predicament.

When—he amended, with a
rogue’s grin—he was ready to leave.

His stomach growled with the
ferocity of a tiger on the hunt, and he realized he hadn’t eaten for nearly a
day. Did Queen Maeve—he chuckled at the absurdity of the title—think to starve
him into submission? Submission to what?

Her?

He threw back his head in laughter.
Majesty indeed! She was naught but a she-wolf, an unscrupulous thug who
deserved no more than the loop end of a rope. When he got free, he’d damn well
consider giving her just that for the way she’d treated him!

Escape would not be difficult.
However, wanting to escape was another matter entirely. Gray considered
the lean beauty of his captor’s body, enough of which had been revealed to whet
his appetite to see, touch, and yes, enjoy, more.

No, he was in no particular hurry
to leave.

He had just sat down on the single
item of comfort the room offered—a filthy straw pallet—when he heard the soft
crunch of sand outside, growing louder and louder as the footsteps approached.

“On your feet, dog.”

Gray yawned, hid his hands behind
his back, and did not bother to rise.

“I said, on your feet!”

“I prefer to sit, thank you,” he
drawled. “Especially since you’ve anchored me to the floor. You understand,
don’t you?”

Sure enough, he heard the angry
clang of a key in the old lock, and a moment later the rusty hinges squealed in
protest as the door swung outward. Gray waited, his hands behind his back so
his captor would not see that they were loose and, therefore, quite capable of
strangling her.

But the Pirate Queen was taking no
chances. In one hand she held a lantern, in the other a flintlock pistol. Both
the lantern and the pistol were raised; the one to blind him, the other, if
need be, to kill him.

“Get up.”

He shrugged and got to his feet.

“Make one move and I’ll blow your
damned head off.”

Gray had a whole vocabulary of
smiles. Smiles to tease, smiles to charm, smiles to frighten, smiles to bode
ill . . . smiles to win a female heart.

This last he flashed at her and was
rewarded by a burst of angry color across his captor’s face.

“Blast your eyes, have you no brain
in your head? Are you not afraid of me? I could have you shot! I could have you
nailed to a tree and gutted! I could—”

“Why don’t you, then?” He regarded
her with studied insouciance, his gaze raking appreciatively over her bosom.

For a long, terrible moment she
said nothing, her face a pale oval of anger and disgust. She finally set the
lantern down, flung her hair over her shoulder and spat, “Because you might be worth
something to me.” She turned away to hide her expression, began picking at her
sleeve, and in a sullen voice, added, “Because . . . you’re my Gallant Knight.”

“Your what?”

“My Gallant Knight!”

He shouldn’t have smirked. He
shouldn’t have laughed. But unable to help himself, Gray did both, and the
resultant slap across the side of his face stunned him to silence.

“Do not,” she shouted, “ever
laugh at me again!”

It was all he could do not to reach
up and touch his throbbing cheek, but Gray could not, would not, allow her to
see that he was far from being totally at her mercy. Instead, he drew himself
up and, still clenching his hands behind his back, summoned another smile: this
one reserved for Ladies Who Have Just Been Insulted and Must Be Placated.

“Forgive me, your most Royal
Highness”—bending deeply at the waist, he gave a chivalrous bow—”but I
merely found the idea of a Gallant Knight . . . amusing.”

“You laugh at me again and I’ll
give you nothing to be amused about!”

He bit his lip to prevent such a
possibility, for this spitting cat—armed, thinking herself dangerous, and
setting more than his cheek afire—was amusing him highly. And, if he had his
way, she would amuse him even more before the night was out.

But his silence, and perhaps the
gleam in his roving eye, did Maeve in. She waited for him to say something
more, to further fuel her wrath, but he did not. Instead, he merely looked at
her, his dark gaze wandering suggestively down her bosom in a way that set her
cheeks afire and her body aflame with longings which had been long dormant. His
eyes met hers; one side of his mouth was turned up in a rogue’s grin, and there
was a boyish dimple beneath it. Maeve didn’t care for that smile. She didn’t
care for what it did to her heart nor the temperature of her blood.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she
snapped.

“I cannot help it. You are quite
beautiful.”

She chose to ignore his remark. “Why
did you laugh just now?”

“’Tis my secret.”

“Share it, or I’ll blow your
privates off and leave you squeaking like a field mouse!”

Gray happened to value his
privates. And right now, they were beginning to throb with the familiarity of
arousal. “Well, here you are, so lovely, so serious—and you speak of talking
dolphins, spells, and now, Gallant Knights. Forgive me, Majesty, but I am
utterly charmed and thoroughly taken aback.”

“Charmed? By what?”

“Why, by you, of course.”

Her cheeks went scarlet, as though
his words embarrassed her and made her uncomfortable. She looked trapped;
scared, even. Couldn’t she accept a compliment? Then she turned away, her jaw
hard and angry once more. “There is nothing about me that is charming,
and you’d best remember it!”

“Aye, you’re not of the ordinary
sort, to be sure. But, a delightful change from the plump, peach-skinned, and
ripe.”

“Are you talking about females or fruit?”

He grinned wolfishly. “One and the
same. I happen to enjoy both.”

“And what about me?”

“Oh, I should dearly love to enjoy
you. And I intend to, before the night is out.”

She jerked the pistol up and
pointed it at his heart. “But please,” he continued smoothly, “not here. What
do you say to trysting on the beach outside? Surely, the water lapping around
our flesh will only heighten the pleasure. . .”

“You dog, how dare you speak
to me like that!”

“What, is the notorious Pirate
Queen a mewing virgin and not the spitting tiger she pretends to be?”

“What I am is something
you’ll not find out in a devil’s decade!”

“I beg to differ”—he grinned
rakishly—”madam.”

They stood locked in silent
eye-to-eye combat; finally, his gaze lowered and roamed over every curve, every
hidden hollow that graced her lovely body, the way a sailor might assess a ship
he found particularly striking. Tanned by the Caribbean sun and wearing a
necklace of sharks’ teeth, a blouse with the sleeves ripped off, and trousers
hacked off at the knee to show equally tanned calves and ankles, Queen Maeve
was not quite his idea of femininity.

Nor, he thought wryly, of boredom.

He wondered how much more of
her was tanned, besides what he could see—

—and made the mistake of asking.

Her hand came up to deal him
another stinging blow, but this time his own flashed out from behind his back
and caught it, neatly, effectively, smartly, his fingers closing around bones
he could’ve snapped with one jerk of his wrist.

Their gazes clashed. She smiled
cunningly. And then he felt the prodding nudge of the pistol against those
private parts he would go to any lengths to protect.

“Unhand me.”

With a dramatic, reluctant sigh, he
let her go.

She stared at him, her eyes
glittering, haughty, assessing. He stared back, refusing to be cowed. For a
long moment she said nothing, the very picture of the affronted monarch. And
then, surprisingly, she threw back her head and rich, billowing laughter burst
from her throat. “Ah, pirate, you do not disappoint me after all. Do you think
I’d wish an insipid pup with the blood of a jellyfish for my Gallant Knight?
Bah! Perhaps there’s hope for you after all. A brute you may be, and a rascal
besides, but you have managed to work yourself free, stand your ground in the
face of my fury, and prove yourself more clever than I had given you credit
for. Huzzah for you.”

“What?”

“Do you think us incompetent, that
we’d leave your wrists so tightly bound that you could not possibly escape?”

He stared at her, gaping in shock
and wounded male pride. “You mean, you purposely left my bonds loose?”

“No need to look so downcast,” she
said prettily, her eyes taunting, a playful smile flitting about her hard
mouth. She tossed her head and turned to go. “You may be worthy of me, yet!”

Gray lost his temper. “Like hell!”
he thundered, and in a lightning-fast movement knocked the pistol aside,
grabbed her by the shirt, yanked her up against his body, and crushed her in
his arms.

And then, he kissed her.

Long and hard and without quarter.

He had meant only to prove his
mastery over her.

What it was, and what it became,
was much, much more.

Chapter 4

In that moment, Gray was done in.

It was only natural that he—born
one hundred years too late and obsessed with all things piratical—should find
himself totally undone by the allure of the most legendary she-wolf to rule the
waves since Anne Bonney herself.

Just as it was also only natural
that Maeve—cruelly used by that long-ago French lover, abandoned by a family
that had never forgiven her, and distrustful of any and all males old enough to
sprout hair on their chins—should find herself helpless beneath the masterful
demands of a corsair’s kiss.

The pirate’s lips drove against
hers, first with anger, then intent, then . . . then, only sweet rapture that
robbed her legs of bone, her body of will, her hand of the knife that had
reflexively swung up to plunge into his back and now fell, forgotten, to the
floor. A moan escaped her throat; Maeve felt her heart pounding against her ribs,
her pulse echoing in her ears, the silky slide of her hair tumbling down her
back.

Let me go. . . .

But his arm was a stout bulwark
behind her shoulders, his chest a pressing wall of heat and strength, and her
heart was trapped mercilessly between them.

She tried to twist away, but his
arms only tightened, crushing her. Feebly, her palm came up to press against
his chest, and in that moment his tongue plunged into her mouth—

and she fainted.

Gray felt her go limp, her mouth
falling slack from his, her arm tumbling off his shoulder to swing like a
pendulum above the stone floor. At first he thought it was a ploy, and expected
a savage explosion of pain in parts of his body that were now burning with
fever; but then he saw that this formidable woman was dead to the world, at his
mercy, and truly, totally, out.

The gate to freedom was open.

Beyond, that incredible schooner
stood waiting.

And in his arms, the Pirate Queen
lay senseless.

“God’s blood,“ he swore.

Gently, carefully, he set her down
on the floor, spreading limp limbs over cold stone, arranging shiny chestnut
tresses around a face fairer than any that had ever graced a governor’s
daughter, a dignitary’s wife, a willing noblewoman, a skilled courtesan with
the charms of Venus at her beck and call—all of which he’d bedded at one time
or another during the span of his illustrious career. For a moment he stood
looking down at the unguarded beauty of her face and the sheen of her hair,
aflame in the warm, molten glow of the lantern; then, with deft fingers he
plucked the key ring from her waist and unlocked his leg shackles. As he did
so, he glanced once more toward the sleek little ship anchored out in the bay .
. . but even he, skilled mariner that he was, could not sail her to freedom all
by himself.

Patience, good fellow.

There was little recourse for him,
really. And so he did what any red-blooded sailor in his advantageous position
might do; he crouched down, slid one arm beneath the Pirate Queen’s body and
the other behind her neck, seated himself on the floor, and pulled her up
against his chest, cradling her in his arms and positioning her so that her
gaping shirt revealed parts of her body that made his prison seem like
paradise.

She was beautiful.

She was perfect.

And, she elicited a rush of tenderness
in his heart that surprised him as much as the idea that he might ever fall in
love.

Love?

It was suddenly hot and stuffy in
the little room, and he tore at the lacings at his throat, exposing his flushed
skin to the breeze whispering through the doorway.

Love at first sight?

A ludicrous notion, that! But even
as his mind rejected it, his heart didn’t. He stared blankly at the wall,
hearing nothing but the sudden, tumultuous thundering of his pulse.

“God help me,” he said softly.

Why not? She was, after all . . . a
pirate. A real one. His fantasy in the flesh.

“Dear God, help me!”

Out in the darkness, the tide swung
the schooner toward him, and he had the unsettling feeling that the little
vessel was laughing.

The Pirate Queen stirred. Her arm
jerked against his chest, then her fingers curled, childlike, in the soft hair
there, pulling hard enough to make him gasp even as she raised herself up and
her cheek fell against his shirt and the tight, brown bud of his nipple
beneath.

“Damn you,” she murmured, and then,
with pure fury, “bloody bastard!”

“I beg your pardon, madam—”

She raised her head and roared, “Majesty!”

“I beg your pardon—Majesty—but
women don’t usually swoon when I kiss them. I wonder if I should take offense?”

“’Twas the Sight,” she muttered.

“The Sight,” he said flatly. Of
course.

“What, you think I jest?” She
pushed herself away from him, her eyes hard and angry. “I have the Sight, the
Irish gift to predict the future, to read meaning into Signs and Events, to . .
. to . . . sometimes even communicate with the Dead. At least I think
they’re dead; I’ve never met these people before and they come to me in dreams
and such. . . .”

“I see.”

“Do you?” She leaned back and
stared up at him, then frowned as belatedly, she realized she was in his arms. “I
doubt that you do, pirate,” she said sharply, and let her gaze rake him from
chin to chest as though she could, just by that imperious look, command him to
release Her Royal Person. “Suffice it to say that I have Visions, and the
strong ones render me helpless, where I see the most vivid things.”

He would’ve given his precious
jackboots in wager that two minutes ago she hadn’t seen a damned thing.

“And what causes these . . .
visions?” he asked, with the fond grin of a man who finds himself thoroughly entranced
by a woman. His gaze roved over the enchanting view of upthrust breasts beneath
her gaping shirt and he had a sudden urge to explore them with his hands, his
mouth, his tongue. . .

She caught the gaping fabric and
yanked it up to the base of her throat.  “A touch. A written word. A particular
object. Spiced food and going to bed on a full stomach.”

“And . . . what did this, er, vision
that you’ve just had tell you, hmm?”

“Stop leering, you vile pig.”

“What did it tell you?” he
persisted.

She released her collar and stared
hard at him, as though daring him to insult her by looking down Her Royal Shirt
once more. “That you are my Gallant Knight, whether I want you to be or
not, and that makes no sense at all because in the Spell I asked for something
entirely different!”

Gray’s lashes lowered once more,
and he made no pretense of looking anywhere but where his manly appetites led
him. She did not move, though her breathing grew heavy, and her body tensed
with wariness. His hand came up, touched the closure of her shirt, and pulled
the fabric there together, as though he was a chivalrous gentleman intent on
preserving her modesty—when in fact his strategic mind was plotting the defeat
of her haughty defenses, and his sole intent was merely to get his hand on her
skin. Under the guise of closing her shirt, he now had only to let his fingers
stray innocently to the base of her throat, her collarbone, and then, of
course, to the dark valley between those lovely breasts. . .

He wondered just how far he’d get
before she’d come to her senses and put a violent stop to his intentions. “And
what, Majesty, did you ask for?”

“A noble and gallant sea officer. .
. An honorable warrior.” Her mouth tightened. “A hero.”

“Well then, allow me to pretend,”
he murmured, his fingers inches from those tempting breasts.

“But you’re a pirate!”

“And a good one, too,” he added,
grinning wolfishly and letting his fingertips slide beneath her shirt. He
leaned forward, kissed her brow, felt the flames beginning to lick at his
groin. Control, Gray, he thought, don’t rush her. . .

Too late.  Knocking aside his hand,
she lunged to her feet. “Not so good after all,” she said, glaring at him.  “My
affections are one thing you won't be stealing.”

“A pity, that.  A kiss then,
Majesty, for your Gallant Knight?” he asked, looking up at her through his
lashes in the manner that had devastated many a heart before hers. “Surely, you
can grant me that. Or will such an act put you in irons once again?”

She stepped backward, her eyes
flashing, frightened, one fist bunching the fabric at her throat into a knot of
strangulation. “Damn you, try it and I’ll topple your mainmast and shove it up
your—”

“Madam,” he interrupted, allowing
his eyes to widen with feigned affront, “although I am a sailor, I must take
offense at your harsh language! Surely a lady of royal blood does not
demean her person by indulging in such . . . coarseness. “

Her face turned a brilliant scarlet
beneath the hard tan. Her mouth opened, shut, went tight with indignation. She
glared down at him, her hands fisted at her sides. “I am queen here,”
she said, recovering. “This is my island and I’ll conduct my speech in
the manner I damn well wish!”

“Aye, I’m sure you will,” he
returned, offhandedly. “But as this is my prison cell, I’ll thank you to
talk like a lady while you’re a guest here”—he flashed another roguish smile—”though
I beg of you, not to behave like one.”

“Guest! This is my island,
and as such this prison is mine!”

“Very well, then. If it is yours,
perhaps you should like to inhabit it? With me, of course.” He winked suggestively.
“We can always engage in some royal encounters in the palatial comfort
of yon lousy pallet . . . It grows lonely, don’t you think?”

“Shut up!” she snarled. “I don’t
have to stand here and listen to your sly innuendos!”

“Sly? Forgive me. I thought I was
being quite direct. Allow me to steer a more . . . decided course.” He
rose to his feet, towering over her, and, with a mocking sweep of his arm
around the dark cell, the stone floor, the filthy mat said, “Perhaps you will
join me for a bout of lusty coupling upon the forgiving comfort of—”

“Silence, damn you! You make
yourself very clear indeed! And now I wish you to make something else very
clear, because if you do not, I’ll cut out your tongue and use it to stir my
drink!”

Gray threw back his head in rich
peals of hearty laughter—

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re
in the Royal Navy?!”

—and abruptly froze.

“I asked you a question,” she said
coldly, displaying a dagger that appeared in her hand as though by divine
magic.

“How did you—”

Her hand lashed out, ripping apart
the lacings at his throat and tearing the shirt down and apart with one angry
jerk of her hand. There, proudly tattooed into the bronzed flesh of one
shoulder, was the unmistakable anchor insignia of the Royal Navy, and beneath
it, the name of his ship.

“You lied to me,” she hissed with
savage menace. “You told me your ship was Triumphant. I knew there was
no such vessel in my waters! Your ship is Triton, the flagship of
Admiral Falconer, the commander in chief of the West Indies Fleet!”

Gray’s heart missed a beat and,
casually, he pulled the torn shirt up to cover the damning evidence. She must
have discovered the tattoo while he’d lain senseless in her clutches. “So I was
in the navy once,” he said offhandedly, leaning his weight on one hip and
crossing his arms over his chest. “What of it? Most pirates have been,
at one time or another.”

“And what are you up to now, eh?
Admiral Falconer’s ship has only been in these seas for two years! Which means your
departure from the navy must’ve been a damned recent one!”

“What, is the navy after your hide,
Majesty?”

“I’m asking the questions
here,” she snapped, thrusting the knife under his chin and holding it against
his throat. “And I want to know why you left the Royal Navy!”

“What makes you think I’ve left it?”

She shoved herself away from him. “Look
at you!” she cried, pointing to his pirate clothes, his earring, the eye patch
around his neck.

“Well, I was . . . He paused; he
could not trust her with the truth, of course, could not disclose anything for
fear of what she could do with the information. Oh, he was in dangerous waters,
indeed. “I was—”

“You were what?”

“I was on leave,” he finished,
lamely.

She stared at him; he saw the
corner of her mouth trembling, jerking, then splitting apart in a wide, raucous
howl of pure laughter the likes of which old Morgan himself could never have
matched for gusto and glee. “Liar!” she cried, flinging her hair over her
shoulder. “Do you think to bluff me into letting you go? Ha! You’re a pirate,
nothing more, nothing less. You can’t fool me with such a sorry claim as
that!”

“I do not bluff.”

“And I do not release my captives
unless I have a damned good reason to do so, especially a deserter who might be
worth something to me. That’s what you are, aren’t you? A deserter!
Vile, dishonorable snake. I'm sure Admiral Falconer would pay dearly to
have you back, and believe you me, I won’t think twice of collecting the
highest price he’ll pay for you if only to see you swing from his flagship’s
yardarm!”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He was rewarded with the smile of a
barracuda. “Oh, I just might!”

Gray, desperate, raked a hand
through his hair. “Very well then, belay that. You want the truth, I’ll ram it
down your pretty throat! Yes, I jumped ship, and if the navy finds me here, my
life is ruined.“

Humor flickered in her eyes. She
studied him, trying to fathom a lie. Then she raised the knife, proceeded to
trim a broken fingernail, and looking up, gestured with the savage little
weapon for him to continue.

“You spin a fine tale, pirate. Too
bad I don’t believe you for one moment. Explain to me why someone like you even
went into the navy.”

“You have the Sight,” he shot back.
“You tell me.”

She swung the dagger toward his
throat. “I’m warning you, pirate!”

Holding her gaze, Gray reached up,
grabbed her wrist, and held the knife away from his neck. “I entered the navy
because of a lady,” he said acidly.

“Of course.”

“Aye”—he grinned—“of course.”

“And?” she demanded, jerking her
arm free.

He shrugged, smiling faintly at the
distant memory. “Like all youths, I had a natural curiosity about the female
anatomy . . . in this case, the curiosity extended to Lord Rathfield’s
daughter, who, I’m afraid, was as curious about my person as I was about hers.
During one of our, er, voyages of exploration we fell afoul of her
father, who took the matter to mine, and, well, here I am!”

She ignored the blitheness of his
tone, the smile playing about his lips. “And how old were you?”

‘Twelve.” Again, that challenging,
wolfish grin.

“A mere brat! Well this time your falling
afoul of the wrong person is about to land you back in the navy! I
may be a pirate, but I come from a decent and honorable family and I have no
stomach for deserters. Nor do I have the stomach for men who insult me, force
themselves upon me, and pretend to be something that doesn’t exist, a Gallant
Knight!’’  She spat the words with contempt. “Tomorrow, I take you back to
Admiral Falconer and Lord Nelson!”

He threw back his head in laughter.
“Lord Nelson? Lady, you have the wrong ocean. Lord Nelson is in the Mediterranean,
not the Indies.”

“Lord Nelson is on his way to the Caribbean,
pirate, and in a day or two you’ll see the sails of his fleet as it approaches Barbados!”

Gray couldn’t have been more
stunned if he’d been hit by a falling block in the heat of battle. Nelson? In
the Caribbean? He stared at her, feeling the blood draining
from his face in a rush of sick dread that left his skin cold and damp and
prickly.

“L-Lord Nelson?”

“Aye, Lord Nelson! Where the hell
have you been, eh? Trysting with a lady? Bah, you are a
waste of my time, of my words, of my spell!” She tossed her head, sending her
glorious tumble of hair flying over one shoulder. “Nelson is indeed on his way
to the Indies, and heading for Barbados as we speak.”

“What?”

“Aye, Barbados. Don’t tell me you
haven’t heard? What England has been dreading since the war began has finally
happened—a giant fleet of French and Spanish warships under the command of the
French Vice-Admiral Pierre Villeneuve escaped Lord Nelson’s blockade of Toulon,
and he’s chased them clear across the Atlantic and into our waters in
hopes of bringing them to battle here. I don’t know much about naval strategy—I
am, after all, a mere pirate—but from what I've heard, if enough of
Napoleon’s squadrons manage to escape the British blockade of Europe’s ports,
and rendezvous in some far-off place—in this case, here in the Caribbean—the
French will be able to sail back across the ocean as a mighty force, crush the
Royal Navy’s defenses of the Channel—and invade and conquer England.”

Gray was staring at her,
thunderstruck and speechless.

“So you really haven’t
heard, have you? Well, the news is quite fresh; I only learned of it myself
just this morning.” She grinned and folded her arms, her eyes taking on a
distant, dreamy look. “Oh, what I wouldn't give to meet Lord Nelson . . . pride
of the Royal Navy, the hero upon whom Britain has pinned her hopes of salvation
from that monster, Napoleon Bonaparte. Nelson, the bravest, most famous, most
decorated sea-officer in the world . . . I wonder if he'd give his autograph to
someone like me?”

“What?”

“Yes, pirate, he's on his way to Barbados,
and he has the Mediterranean Fleet with him—nine heavy ships-of-the-line, and
three frigates. Oh, to meet Lord Nelson, who destroyed the French at the
Nile—on the same day I ran away from home, mind you!—and smashed the Dutch into
submission at Copenhagen. When he catches up to Villeneuve, we’ll see a battle
that the world will never forget.”

“Dear God,” Gray murmured. It was
suddenly impossible to stand, and he leaned heavily against the stone wall,
trying to collect his thoughts. How could he not have known? The wind. Damn it,
the wind, blowing contrary as usual; that, and the pressing business he’d been
attending to in Jamaica, as well.

The Pirate Queen narrowed her eyes.
“What’s the matter, pirate?”

But Gray's mind was awhirl with the
incredible news he had just heard.

“Damn you, I asked—”

“Nothing ails me!” he hurled back,
and drove a shaky hand through his hair, even as cold sweat broke out the
length of his spine.

Nelson was in the Indies.

He swallowed once to moisten his
throat, twice because he couldn’t, and then spilled out a string of curses so
blue they made even the Pirate Queen raise a brow.

“Pirate?”

He had to get out of here!

“Don’t you up and die on me,” she
commanded in her imperious tone. “The Sight said that you are my Gallant Knight
and I can’t have you dying when you just might be my only chance at
happiness—”

He seized her shoulders, his eyes
maniacal, and in a black fury spawned by dread and anger with himself, roared, “How
do you know Nelson is in the Indies? He has no reason to be here! Where did you
come by such information and how the bloody hell do I know you’re telling the—”

“Now, see here!” she stormed,
drawing herself up with regal hauteur. “I am royalty, and you must first
request permission to touch me—”

Gray grabbed her by the throat, cut
his hand on her necklace of shark’s teeth, and cursing, hauled her up to within
an inch of his face. “Answer me!”

Maeve looked up into that dark
visage, those fathomless eyes just two inches from her own—and smiled, for her
pirate was turning out to be a dangerous man. She liked dangerous men. Respected
them. A thrill of excitement shot through her blood.

“I know everything,” she said
haughtily, with a lofty turn of her chin. “I have the Sight, remember?”

“Answer me!”

He jerked her forward. Glittering
gold eyes clashed with wicked indigo ones. She felt his knuckles against the
pulse beating rapidly at her throat, the heat of his breath against her face,
the merciless pressure of the sharks’ teeth driving into her nape. He glared
down at her. She glared back. Then her gaze went, deliberately, to the angry
slash of his lips, and with a preoccupied smile, she reached up to touch his
mouth.

This time, there was no flash of
insight, no Vision, nothing, and she felt vaguely disappointed. “No,
pirate, you will answer me. You see, I want to know why you’re in such a
damned hurry, all of a sudden, to leave. Do you fear the mighty Nelson as the
French Admiral Villeneuve does?”

Gray released her abruptly and
stood staring as she reached up to massage the spot where the necklace had
pricked her throat.

“What, do you think I lie?” she said
prettily. “I have my own deeply personal reasons for hating the French. And as
for Nelson . . . the French are not at Tobago, as he will be led to
believe. What a pity, that the noble admiral will go chasing after wild geese
when the real fowl are nesting at Martinique—”

“How do you know this?!” he
thundered.

“You needn’t roar, pirate. I can
hear you just fine. But since you are so keen on knowing . . . Tavern talk.
Swifter than the wind, it is, and far more dependable. I heard the news from
some of my most-trusted crew members who heard the news on a neighboring
island.”

“Bloody hell.” Gray slammed
a fist against the stone wall so hard he nearly broke every bone in his hand.
The French were in the Caribbean. The zealous Nelson had come chasing after them.
And he—despite the Pirate Queen’s charms, despite his vow to have her—had to
get out of here. Duty came first, and the fate of his nation could very well
rest upon whether or not he escaped her clutches! But could he tell her who he
was? Could he trust her? For God’s sake, she was a pirate!

He turned, faced her, and said
desperately, “You must release me.”

“Why should I?” Again, she fell to
paring her nails with the knife, slanting an amused look at him from beneath
her long lashes. “You have an excessive amount of fear of Nelson . . . it makes
me ponder the real reason you jumped ship and deserted your navy. . .”

A cold chill seized Gray’s heart.

The Pirate Queen gave him another
sidelong glance. “Makes me wonder, perhaps, if you’re not merely a deserter,
but a traitor . . . You see, I loathe traitors even more than I do deserters.”
The knife’s motion stopped and she raised her head, staring hard at him. “You’re
not a traitor . . . are you?”

He swallowed thickly.

“Are you?”

“Now Majesty—”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she cried
suddenly, slamming the knife into the scabbard with violent fury. “You were
selling out to the French! To Villeneuve! Spying for them! No wonder
such fear of Nelson! No wonder such sudden desperation to leave here, so you
can go off and tell Villeneuve everything I just told you about Nelson!” Her
eyes blazed, as though he had betrayed not his country, but her. “You are
despicable, you know that? Despicable!”

“Please,” Gray said, dropping to
his knees before her, bowing his head and showing her the respect her
self-proclaimed sovereignty demanded. The French, the English . . . either navy
would pay handsomely for him, but if he ended up in the hands of the wrong one
. . . Dear God above. But how to play this hellcat? Which would serve him better—the
truth, or a lie?

He made an instant decision.

“For the love of God,” he said
shakily, and looked up at her, “I implore you, Majesty, please, do not bring
me to Nelson!”

“I will bring you to whoever pays
the most for you!”

“The English will not pay you!
They’ll merely seize me and hang me from the yardarm without benefit, even, of
trial!” He got himself under control, knowing he was playing a dangerous game
indeed. “I beg of you, Majesty . . . please, don’t turn me in! Don’t bring me
to Nelson, he will certainly hang me—”

‘Traitor, you deserve to
hang!”

“But I am your Gallant Knight,
remember?”

“I never said I wanted a
Gallant Knight! And such an idea is naught but rubbish, anyhow. There are no
Gallant Knights, at least not for me, and as for you, you’ll do nothing
but break my heart. I wanted an honorable man, someone I could admire, a
handsome, decorated sea-officer, but there’s not a heroic bone in your
body. Not one!” She was scarlet with rage, her eyes bright with sudden,
unshed tears. “You hear me? Not one! You’re nothing but bilge rot, a vile,
wretched traitor with as much honor as a slinking eel! Tomorrow I
bring you to Nelson!”

And with that, she spun on her
heel, stormed across the room, and damning him to hell and beyond, slammed the
gate in his face.

Chapter 5

He was forty-six years old and
going blind. He loved little children. He’d lost an arm at Tenerife, the sight
of an eye at Calvi, and had his brow laid open to the bone at the Nile, where
the destruction of Napoleon’s fleet had earned him a barony and the love and
adoration of his nation. Constant anxiety had taken its toll on his body, two
years of blockading the French off Toulon had left him haggard and ill, and
now, fears of failing the England that entrusted him to save it brought
him nothing but anxiety and distress.

Mighty Britannia’s confidence
rested on small shoulders that seemed barely wide or strong enough to support
the glittering gold epaulets that rode atop them. He was a little man, with a
pale and sensitive face, a pointed chin, a compassionate mouth, and once-brown
hair that had faded to gray. His good eye shone with fervor and intelligence,
his nose was strong and bold. Slight in stature, kind of heart, irascible in
temper, and suffering from all manner of illnesses both real and imagined, he
did not evoke the image of a national hero, for the Right Honourable Lord
Viscount Nelson—Knight of the Bath, Duke of Bronte in Sicily, Knight of the
Great Cross of St. Ferdinand and of Merit, Knight of the Order of the Crescent,
and of the Illustrious Order of St. Joachim, Vice Admiral of the White and
Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in the Mediterranean
Station—was no bigger than a schoolboy. Yet there, beneath the empty sleeve
pinned so carefully across a chest ablaze with the decorations of valor, lay
the heart of a lion, the fierceness of a tiger—and a burning hatred of the
French.

But Horatio Nelson did not look
fierce at all this morning, as H.M.S. Victory drove toward Barbados with
the might of the Mediterranean Fleet spread in glorious array behind her. He
had invited his little midshipmen to breakfast with him after they’d come off
their watch, and on this bright morning in June, he was sharing in their
childish, giggling jokes and behaving with youthful abandon, when calls from
the masthead—and moments later, the appearance of his flag-captain, Thomas
Masterman Hardy—brought him news that the returning frigate Amphion was
hull up on the horizon and closing fast.

Nelson, ecstatic, set down his tea
and leapt to his feet. “Now, my young gentlemen, we shall learn what Captain
Sutton has found out about our friend Villeneuve”—he pronounced it Veal-noove,
for Nelson may have won mastery over the French fleet but never their language—“and
whether or not he is indeed here in the Indies! May we bring the French to
battle at last!”

Cheers, all around the polished
mahogany table, from a circle of children and a grinning admiral whose height
could not rival the shortest of them.

He saw the wild eagerness in their
eyes. “Dismissed!”

They fled topside, but a sharp
reprimand from Captain Hardy reminded them to walk like young officers and not
undisciplined children.

It was all Nelson could do not to
go charging up after them. He began to pace, and by the time the frigate was
hove to under Victory’s lee and her grave-faced captain, soaked with
spray and flushed with news, piped aboard and brought to his cabin, the admiral
had worked himself up into a state of high excitement and agitation.

“News, Captain Sutton!” Nelson said
anxiously, seizing the officer’s arm and pulling him into the cabin. “You have
news of the Combined Fleet, of Villeneuve?”

Sutton looked at Hardy, and then at
his admiral, and swallowed tightly. “I spoke with the governor of Barbados,
milord, and delivered your dispatches to him.”

“And?”

“Our pursuit has not been in vain,
sir.”

“See, Hardy!” Nelson exclaimed,
flushed with triumph. He pounded his single fist down on the table for
emphasis. “By God, the French are here and I shall have them yet, you may depend
on it!” He swung anxiously to the somber-faced captain. “And Admiral
Falconer—he is prepared to assist me, I hope?”

Sutton looked away, suddenly
uncomfortable. He glanced at Hardy, as though for reassurance, but caught
Nelson’s sharp and questioning look. Slowly, he said, “Admiral Falconer has a
squadron at Barbados, sir, as well as a sugar convoy assembled there that is
ready to sail for England. He has a frigate patrolling the Windwards, another
stationed off Antigua, several seventy-fours at Jamaica—”

“Thank God Falconer has the safety
of that island in mind!”

“Indeed, milord. Admiral Falconer
had the safety of all his islands in mind.”

Had?

Nelson’s keen mind did not miss the
implication of that single word. He saw the grave look on Sutton’s face, and
felt the blood going cold in his heart. “What do you mean, had?” he
demanded.

The unhappy captain shuffled his
feet and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. Admiral Falconer is . . . dead. I went
aboard one of his ships at Barbados and spoke to a Captain Warner, who
confessed it was the result of a duel, sir.” Sutton paused, as he saw the look
of shock and horror washing over his beloved leader’s face. “Falconer’s
flag-captain has been assuming the admiral’s duties until a new commander in
chief can be appointed in his place. He—he sends his regards, sir.”

The words devastated Nelson. For a
full minute, maybe two, the little admiral stood staring at the hapless Sutton
as he tried to absorb the shock. His single hand reached for the back of a
chair, gripping it as though it was all that kept him on his feet. Without
speaking, he turned toward the window, his slight body looking very frail in
its glittering uniform, his face in profile, his lips pursed in visible pain,
and only his throat moving, up and down, up and down.

The cabin grew deathly silent.
Hardy glanced worriedly at his admiral, and Sutton developed a sudden,
embarrassed interest in his coat sleeve. “Captain Warner said the duel had
something to do with . . . um—with a woman . . . sir,” he added, lamely.

Nelson took a deep, shuddering
breath, his excitement about the French fleet suddenly forgotten. Turning from
the window, he bent his brow to his hand and collapsed in a chair. He was aware
of Hardy and Sutton moving protectively toward him; darkness swam before his
eyes and he took a deep, shaky breath to ward it off. “Damn you, Falconer,” he
cried suddenly. “Damn you and your confounded philandering; I warned you
it would come to this!”

“Sir?”

“I suppose the duel was fought with
cutlasses, wasn’t it, Sutton?!”

“Captain Warner did not say, sir.”

Nelson raised his head, his cheeks
streaked with tears he made no effort to control. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely.
“I wish to be alone.”

Sutton beat a hasty exit, but Hardy
lingered a moment. He reached out, tried to lay a comforting hand upon the
admiral’s shoulder; but Nelson got to his feet once more, moving to the great,
panoramic windows and staring out at the bleak expanse of the endless sea. He
remained there for a long time. Then he turned, his face melancholy. “Forgive
me, Thomas. You would think that after having so many friends fall in battle,
such things would grow easier to bear, but they never do. . .

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hardy said. “I
know he was a friend to you.”

“He was a friend to England.
What a shame. What a goddamned, bloody waste.”

“Such is war, sir.”

“Aye, such is war. You lose your
arm, you lose your life, you pray God someone remembers you back home. But do
they, Thomas? Do they? Or does anyone really care?”

Hardy looked down at his big hands,
at a loss for words. “I am confident, sir, that when you catch up to Villeneuve
you will give him the thrashing he—and Napoleon—deserve. And,” he added
solemnly, “a victory for England that will never be forgotten.”

###

Shouts, cheers, and dancing figures
on a lantern-lit deck; curses, harsh breathing, steel ringing against steel,
and the singing whoosh of thrusting, slashing cutlasses. The sounds
cleaved the night as Enolia—once a planter’s concubine until her master’s ship
had fallen afoul of the Pirate Queen’s—practiced her fencing skills with her
formidable liberator.

The two were well matched, both
honed with muscle and sleek with sweat, and while rapiers would have been far
more manageable than heavy cutlasses, neither captain nor lieutenant was willing
to make the trade. Slash and parry, thrust and pivot and slash again: fencing
with cutlasses was an exercise in strength and endurance, essential qualities
for lady pirates wishing to hold their own on a lawless sea ruled by men.

“Captain, I know he angers you”—Enolia
swung her blade, had it deflected upward as the Pirate Queen expertly parried
her attack—”I know he’s a deserter, a traitor, a spy, but before you go rushing
off to Nelson with him, think about what you’re doing.”

Cheers erupted from the pirate crew
at their captain’s expert defense.

“I know what I’m doing!”
Maeve cried, the sweat sheening her brow. She swung for Enolia’s unprotected
ribs and, at the last moment, the other woman danced away, the tip of Maeve’s
cutlass catching her shirt and tearing it from waist to shoulder. The hit
decided the match, and Maeve, her lungs heaving, tossed her damp ponytail over
her shoulder, saluted her lieutenant, and then clashed her cutlass against
Enolia’s in a handshake between steel. “Besides, he’s no Gallant Knight; he
proved that to me when I visited his cell.”

Breathing hard, she tore the
kerchief from her brow, mopped her face with it, and strode to the rum barrel,
her shadow long and black in the orange glow cast by the flickering lanterns.
She filled her tankard, downed it. Filled it again. Drank the sweet fire more
slowly this time, letting it filter down and out into every cell in her body.
Her pounding heartbeat begin to steady, and she felt the trades kissing her hot
and sweaty skin, drying her face and arms and torso beneath the loose shirt she
wore.

“Good match, Captain. I thought she
had ye there,” Karena remarked, drawing her knife and paring a mango.

“And here I had my money on Enolia
tonight.” Tia flung a coin into a wooden bucket. “Should’ve known better!”

Maeve’s lips curved in a grin. “What,
you think I’ve lost my touch, Tia?”

“Nay, captain, merely your heart to
that handsome rake. I knew we should’ve shot him the moment he crawled
onto our beach!”

Tia’s observation hit too close to
the bone. “Have a care for what you’re saying,” the Pirate Queen growled, “or
you’ll be the next one I challenge to a sword fight.”

“Well then, in that case—”

“Belay it, Tia,” Maeve said, waving
her off. “I’ve had enough for one night.”

Tia, her eyes dancing, gave an
elaborate sigh, for she, like her crewmates, considered it a privilege to duel
with their formidable leader. After all, the Pirate Queen had learned to fence
under the tutelage of her father, and seven years in the Caribbean had only
honed her natural aptitude for the skill into one that few men dared
challenge—let alone survived.

But sword fighting was the last
thing on Maeve’s mind. She sat down on the deck and leaned against the truck of
a cannon, feeling her little ship rising on a swell, settling, rising again
beneath her. Even the fierce energy she’d put into her match with Enolia had
failed to drive the image of the pirate’s face—or the memory of his kiss—from
her mind. She quaffed the rum in fierce, angry swallows, seeking to drown her
torment in tipple instead.

“That black-haired devil again?”
Orla asked quietly, discerning the reason for her captain’s sour mood.

Maeve stared mutely out into the
darkness without answering.

“So, he tried to take some
liberties with you,” Karena said. She stabbed the mango peelings with her
dagger and flung them over the side. “What man hasn’t?”

“Aye, you’ve got to give ’im credit
for trying,” Jenny pointed out.

“He’s your Gallant Knight,” young
Sorcha cried, from her seat atop one of the guns. “I’m sure of it!”

“Aye, Majesty,” her sister echoed, “your
Gallant Knight!”

“He is not my Gallant
Knight!” Maeve retorted, slamming her mug onto the varnished deck and staring
down each face in turn. “My Knight—God, how I loathe that word—will be a
brave, noble officer, someone honorable and upstanding and good. This ‘Gray’ is
naught but a traitor and a spy, the both of which I have no use for! Besides,”
she added, glaring sullenly off into the night, “he’ll only break my heart.”

“But Majesty, he’s not like those
other men who’ve tried to court you, can’t you see? None of them were worthy of
you.”

“He’s a spy!” Maeve cried,
in frustration. “He’s a traitor! He deserted his navy!”

Only Enolia, leaning calmly against
the rail and backhanding the sweat from her brow, seemed to be on her side. “And
if he could desert his navy,” she said pointedly, “he could desert you. “

No one spoke. They all knew their
captain had been deserted enough. She was not to be blamed if she didn’t
trust men. She was not to be blamed for not trusting this man, with his
wicked smile and dangerous charm. And she did have the Sight—who could
know what it had shown her?

Enolia stalked to the barrel, drew
a hefty measure of rum, and, lifting it to her lips, faced the crew. “I’m with
the captain,” she said. “Let’s bring him to Nelson. The British’ll pay a hefty
sum for him, if only to keep him from spilling his guts to Villeneuve.”

“And we can do far more with
British money than with a British deserter,” Maeve added, in triumph. But it
was an empty triumph, for, deep down inside, she did not want to relinquish her
captive. Despite his treatment of her, despite the fact he knew just how to
raise her ire and seemed to delight in doing it, he had made her feel like a
woman again, not the hardened pirate she was.

Imagine, chastising her for her
unladylike language!

But no. She had learned her lessons
too well. He would only break her heart, and it was better to get rid of him
now.

Gaining her feet, she put her mug
down and went to the rail, there to stare down at the waves curling against Kestrel's
black hull. Turlough was down there, drifting on the surface. She could see the
dolphin’s pale belly as he floated on his side, one flipper free of the water
as though waving at her. Then he dived beneath the schooner and emerged on the
other side, blowing out his breath on a rush of sound that was melancholy in
the darkness.

She gazed across the water, the
beach, and toward the old storehouse, barely discernible in the gloom—where he
was.

Then she shut her eyes, and, as her
father had once done in another time and place, quietly placed her hands on the
rail of her ship, listening. But Kestrel was unusually silent, and
instead, it was her father’s presence that Maeve sensed. She could almost feel
the warmth left by his hands, as though he had stood here just moments before
and not all those years ago; she could almost hear his voice again, his
laughter, as he’d taught her to sail this very schooner. Her father, her
beloved daddy, the dashing privateer captain who’d become legendary in the
American Revolution . . .

“Point her up into the wind,
lass, a bit more! Faith, she’s no square-rigger, you know! Let her fly!”

“But Daddy,” she’d cried, in her
eight-year-old voice, “she’s already pointed as high as she’ll go! She’ll be in
irons!”

“Faith, lass, I designed her;
d’you think I don’t know what she can do?’’  His laughter—rich, merry,
Irish laughter—had mingled with the wind before he’d come aft to wrap his hands
around hers, steadying them upon the tiller, teaching her about ships and
sailing, wind and waves and weather. . . “Now, listen to your ship, and she
will speak! Always listen, daughter, for she owns the wisdom of the sea, and
the day you forget to listen is the day the sea will do you in . . .”

The memory dimmed, faded, was lost
to the silence of the night. Maeve bit her lip and swallowed hard against the
sudden lump in the back of her throat. High above, a million stars twinkled and
winked in celestial abandon; she gazed up at them, wondering if those same
stars stood watch over her father now, more than a thousand miles away in New
England.

Then, as she had done every day
these past seven years, she lifted her gaze to the dark horizon. But there were
no lights out there from any incoming ship. It was empty, just as she’d known
it would be. Her father was not coming for her. Her mother was not coming for
her.

No one was coming for her,
because no one cared.

“Captain?”

Quickly, she swallowed the hot lump
in her throat. At least she had Kestrel, and all the memories that could
never be taken away.

“Captain? You all right?”

“Aye, of course I’m all right!” She
spun to face them, affecting a hard smile that forbade further comment. “I’m
just thinking, ’tis all. My mind is made up. We’ll go find Nelson, but without
our prisoner, so that we may bargain. If this man Gray is so blasted valuable
to both the British and French navies, I intend to play one off against the
other so we’ll get the most money for him.”

“Oh, Majesty, that is brilliant!”

She shrugged and turned away, her
heart aching.

“But what if the admiral doesn’t
believe we even have such a man in our possession?” Sorcha asked,
swinging her legs to and fro as she sat astride the big gun. “He may think
we’re bluffing!”

“I cannot risk bringing him along,”
Maeve said firmly, refilling her mug from the rum barrel. “Not yet, anyhow.
Lord Nelson is supposed to be a decent man, but he may view our captive as
Royal Navy property and therefore refuse to negotiate. Our captive is our property,
and as such, we should get paid for him. And believe me, if the British want
this traitor so much, they’ll pay grandly to get him back. Especially if I let
it be known I have no qualms about selling him to Villeneuve!”

“I think we should bring the
prisoner to Admiral Falconer instead,” Sorcha said, with wisdom beyond her
years. “He may pay us more than Nelson. After all, it was from his flagship
that our pirate escaped.”

Maeve expelled her breath on a hoot
of jeering laughter. “What, that scoundrel? Graham Falconer’s naught but
a rake, with his brains firmly entrenched in his breeches and standing ever at
attention! He’s too busy ruining female reputations to give us the time
of day!”

“Harsh words, Majesty. You’ve never
even met Sir Graham.”

“I’ve no need to. His amorous
exploits are no secret, and the stories about him are richer than Morgan’s
gold.”

“Well, he has turned a blind
eye to our activities.”

“That’s because I have never
attacked an English ship. Nor do I intend to.” Maeve tossed down her ale, gave
a very unladylike belch, and grabbed up her cutlass once more. “Invitation or
not, we will find and board the Victory,“she declared, “where I shall
personally confront the celebrated Lord Nelson! Now, who’s coming and who’s
not?”

A chorus of excited “ayes” rose on
the night. Moments later, provisions were brought aboard, the windlass was
cranking, the anchor was coming up, and the schooner Kestrel was turning
her face toward a future that was hidden from even her mystical captain.

###

The pirate crew saw the lights of
the British fleet as a rim of scattered stars hull up on the horizon and rising
as Kestrel slid through the night. It had rained earlier, and now the
air was fresh-washed and clean, tangy with the smell of salt and wind. She
might have been a ghost ship, the schooner; the Pirate Queen had ordered all
lanterns doused, and all commands spoken in a whisper. She was not taking any
chances on losing her element of surprise. Kestrel was a formidable
little vessel but she was no ship-of-the-line, and Victory's massive
cannon could easily send her on a quick journey to the bottom.

Maeve took the tiller herself as
they drew closer. “Bring in the main!” she hissed, watching the lights of the
fleet rising higher and higher on the horizon. She drew her night glass and put
it to her eye, feeling her hair tickling her cheeks as the gentle breeze tossed
it about her face. It was hard to make out much in the darkness, but the
starlight favored her situation, and she was soon able to pick out the mighty
flagship of the famous English admiral as Victory led the fleet on a
southerly course toward Tobago.

Excitement tingling through her
blood, she snapped the glass shut and handed it to Orla. “Ha! The admiral must
be in one hell of a hurry to reach Tobago!” She crossed her arms, threw her
head back, and planted her feet on the deck, looking every inch the Pirate
Queen she was. “Well, I’ll just have to tell him his search of those
islands will be a fruitless one. Now, we cannot risk sailing in any closer.
Dark as it is, all sailors have good night vision and I’ll not risk having Victory
blow us out of the water. Let’s get far ahead of the fleet, then heave to.”

“What do you plan to do, Captain?”
Orla asked.

“The only thing I can do,” she
returned. “Swim.”

“What?”

“I’m a pirate, do you think they’ll
just allow me aboard? No, what we must do is get well ahead of the
fleet—where you and I will leap overboard and wait in the water. We’ll let the
current carry us toward Victory while she drifts down toward us.
There’s hardly any wind, those ships are barely moving—’twill not be so
difficult to haul ourselves up onto Victory's rudder chains, gain the
quarterdeck, hide on the mizzen chains, then sneak through a gunport and down
into the admiral’s cabin. Now let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”

###

Nelson was usually in bed by nine,
but tonight he was up later than usual, concluding his interview with Sir
Graham Falconer’s flag-captain, Colin Lord, while Victory plowed an
unerring course toward Tobago, Trinidad, and—Nelson hoped—a glorious battle
with the French fleet that would immortalize him forever in the eyes of
England, Lady Hamilton, and of course, posterity.

The Fleet had found nothing in Barbados
except Falconer’s handsome flagship, the sugar convoy he was to have escorted
back to England, and information from a brigadier general named Brereton, who’d
sighted Villeneuve’s mighty fleet off of St. Lucia. General consensus on Barbados
held that the enemy had gone to attack Tobago and Trinidad, though why
Villeneuve would bother with coal when the diamonds of Jamaica and Antigua were
at hand was a puzzle that Nelson could not solve. His every instinct told him
the information rang false, but an officer on Barbados, assuring him Brereton’s
word was sound, had lent him some two thousand of his own troops in support of
it, and now, less than twenty-four hours after anchoring in Carlisle Bay, the
Mediterranean Fleet was headed south in hot pursuit of the enemy.

Dinner had long since ended, and
now Nelson and Colin Lord sat in the quiet splendor of the cabin, sipping champagne
and indulging in a fine white cake while Nelson’s beloved Emma Hamilton looked
down at them from her portrait on the bulkhead.

Nelson, of course, had positioned
himself so that the portrait was in direct line with his eye; he had only to
look above the top of Captain Lord’s fair head to see it.

In his mid-twenties, the young
officer was tall, spare, and steady as a first rate in a gale. His cheeks were
round in the English way, his brow intelligent, his eyes sensitive and of the
clearest shade of purple-gray. The barrage of questions Nelson had fired at him
was enough to shake even the stoutest of hearts—but the captain, son of an
admiral himself, seemed well used to the demands of authority and did not quail
beneath Nelson’s penetrating eye, answering his queries in a frank, forthright
way that brought a twisted smile of approval to his lordship’s tired face.

“I’m grateful for the truth, Colin,”
Nelson said, shrewdly watching the man across from him. “I did question Captain
Ben Warner upon reaching Barbados yesterday, but had a feeling that he, in his
eagerness to protect Falconer’s name, was not being quite honest with
me.”

Carefully, Captain Lord said, “Admiral
Falconer created his own Band of . . . uh, Brethren, sir. We were all
very loyal. Warner is not to be blamed for trying to protect our admiral’s
reputation, if I may be so bold as to voice my opinion.”

Nelson looked at him sharply. Brethren,
the captain had said, not brothers. The significance of that fact
did not escape him.

He smiled wryly. “Any commander who
earns the love and loyalty of his men is to be praised. Your Admiral Falconer,
eccentric as he was, was a fine sailor and a fierce fighter, and that is all
that matters to me. I care not what he did in his spare time, but should
the gossips in England get wind of this, they’ll have a fine day of sport
indeed. Damn them all to hell. Damn them all to hell and beyond!” The
solitary little fist crashed down on the table. “Upon my life, Captain, this
shall go no farther than this cabin!”

The younger man flushed beneath the
sudden outburst and gazed down into his glass.

“Besides,” Nelson snapped,
petulantly tightening his mouth, “my own conduct has given the gossips enough
fuel for their damned fires. D’you think I intend to give them any more? By
God, I shall see that your admiral’s name suffers no tarnish, and that he will
be remembered for his achievements, his duty to his country, and, of course,
his bravery under my command during the Battle of the Nile! Furthermore—”

He paused, the color high in his
face, his fist poised above the table.

“Milord?”

Nelson was frowning, cocking his
head and listening intently. “Did you hear something, Captain?”

“No, sir.”

“Age. It must be age, then, what
else could it be? I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, and now I’m hearing things that
go bump in the night! By God, I sometimes think I am losing my mind, as indeed
I shall if I do not find that damned Veal-noove and bring him to battle!
How I long for peace! How I long for battle! How I long for my dear Lady
Hamil—oh, never mind! Instead, let us discuss you, Colin, and the convoy
you shall be escorting home to England—”

He never finished.

At that moment, a window imploded
in a shatter of glass, a figure fell sprawling to the deck, and the
admiral—darling of the British Navy, Victor of the Nile, and nemesis of the
dreaded Napoleon—shot to his feet.

“Great God!”

The intruder picked herself up,
brushed off the bits of glass, and dripping seawater, flung a long tail of wet
auburn hair off her shoulder. In her hand was a dagger, and this she touched to
her brow in a jaunty salute.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she
said brightly, as another, smaller figure crawled through the window after her.
“I am Captain Maeve Merrick, and this, my quartermaster, Orla O’Shaughnessy.”

Nelson stared, his mouth falling
open.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said with a
mischievous grin. “Perhaps you’ve not heard of me? I am the Pirate Queen of the
Caribbean.” She swept a jaunty, ludicrous bow. “Welcome to the Indies, milord!”

Chapter 6

“Sentry!” Nelson roared,
recovering. “Sentry!”

Captain Colin Lord dived
protectively in front of the admiral as the door crashed open and a surprised
Royal Marine charged in.

Maeve’s sudden shout pierced the
air.

“No, milord! I bring you news of
Villeneuve!”

Stepping impatiently around Colin,
Nelson raised his hand to stay the marine. He stared at Maeve with an
expression of fury and disbelief.

“What did you say?”

“I said, I bring you news of
Villeneuve!”

Tense silence. The sigh of wind
around the stern. The stamp of feet as more marines came running, an outcry of
voices, shouts . . . and the slow, stealthy movement of Captain Lord’s hand
toward his sword before Orla’s dagger impaled the carpet two inches from his
foot.

The admiral gave an agitated jerk
of his head. “Leave us,” he snapped. “I am sure that Captain Lord and I can
handle this situation!”

One by one, the marines filed out,
leaving the two to assess each other; the stiff little admiral and the savage
pirate queen, each taking the other’s measure like two fleets squaring off
before a battle.

Nelson saw a wild, wet, untamed
beauty with gold earrings tangled in hair the color of fire; a face tanned to
bronze, glittering gold eyes of sunlight and sin, a graceful neck ringed by a
choker of sharks’ teeth; he saw elegant hands, long coltish legs, bare feet,
frayed and soaked trousers cut off at the knee, and a purple blouse tucked into
a leather belt.

And Maeve, looking at this
schoolboy-sized admiral whose height rivaled that of her chin, saw the total
antithesis of what she had expected—and the smile faded from her lips as raw
disappointment swept in to take its place.

So much for heroes, she
thought, feeling somewhat cheated. These days they must’ve gone the way of
gallant knights. This one stood fiercely erect which did nothing to accentuate
his height, and had a pale, sickly little face unremarkable in aspect, save for
the bold nose and penetrating eye, out of which glowed a fire that even
approaching blindness could not dim. The admiral’s features were open, honest,
earnest, energetic, vulnerable, anxious, and melancholy all at once. She saw
suffering in his eyes, in the lines of his cheeks, in the rough scar that
cleaved his right brow. The armless sleeve was pinned carefully over a chest
bedecked with enough medals, stars, and orders to make the heavens look dim and
deprived in comparison.

Surely, this small fellow
could not be the hero proclaimed in broadside and ballad? Surely, this little
gamecock was not the sailor who was the subject of newspaper jibes and huzzahs
alike, paintings, poems, and sculpture, with everything from flowers to plants
to streets named after him? Surely, this slight man could not be the
dread of the French, the pride of the British Navy?

Another fairy tale, blown to hell.

“Captain Lord! Do you know this
woman?!”

Maeve’s attention swept to the
handsome, fair-haired officer held at bay by Orla’s sword. His face was
carefully schooled into calmness, but his color was pale and she guessed he had
indeed heard of her. “Aye, sir,” he answered, staring at her as though she was
something out of his darkest nightmares. “Or shall I say, I know of her .
. . She’s a pirate operating out of the Windwards—”

Nelson roared, “Ever prey upon an
English ship?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir—”

“Ever plague English shipping?
Annoy English convoys?”

“No, sir—”

“Ever irritate His Majesty’s
vessels, officers, or seamen in and around the Indies?”

“No, sir, but—”

The admiral swung fiercely on
Maeve. “Sit down!”

“Thank you,” she said archly, “but
I prefer to—”

“I said, sit down!” roared
the little lion, and Maeve, her belief in heroes happily restored, did so with
a huge smile curving her lips.

He came right up to her, the stump
of his arm jerking beneath his sleeve in agitation, his eyes fierce and angry. “You,”
he said sharply, slamming his hand on the table and leaning down to glare into
her face, “have just damaged Crown property and your reason for doing so had
better be a damned good one, so help me God!”

She laughed, her heart singing. This
was the Nelson of song and legend, this was the hero she’d long dreamed
of meeting, this was—'

“Answer me!”

Still smiling, Maeve leaned over
the table, plucked an apple from the silver bowl there, and bit into it with a
loud crunch that shattered the strained silence of the cabin. The
admiral bristled. The handsome officer went a shade whiter and found a sudden
interest in a small cut on his knuckle.

Another man, wearing a captain’s
uniform, stormed into the cabin, pistol primed and ready and pointed directly
at Maeve’s heart.

“For God’s sake,” Nelson
said curtly, “I do believe I have the situation under control. Pray, sit down,
Hardy, this beauteous female is about to reveal to us the whereabouts of
Veal-noove.”

She took another bite of her apple
and looked up. “Ah, Nelson’s famous flag-captain.” Maeve munched, swallowed,
and grinned. “Don’t doubt me, milord. I have the Sight.”

“The what?”

“The Sight.” She took another bite
and, with the point of her knife, pried a sliver of apple out from between her
front teeth. Nelson narrowed his eyes. Hardy, now seated, looked shocked. The
fair-haired Captain Lord—still staring intently, unnervingly, at her— flushed
with embarrassment, his cheeks pinkening in a way that was almost endearing. “It’s
the Irish gift of being able to see the future,” she said casually. “Predict
events. Interpret meaning in signs and symbols. You see, I was born with the
caul over my head and I am all-knowing.”

“Balderdash!” Hardy exclaimed. “You
don’t even sound Irish!”

“I’m American.”

“You’re mad. “ Hardy stood
and pivoted on his heel. “I shall call the guards!”

“No, Hardy, I wish to hear what she
has to say about Veal-noove.”

“Surely, sir, you would not believe
the word of this—this pirate?”

“My mind is an open one, Hardy. I
shall hear her out. Captain Lord? For God’s sake, do sit down, you look fair to
fainting!”

“I er, cannot, sir—”

The tip of Orla’s sword was pointed
at his groin, and held so close to the stainless white breeches that the
captain could not move without risk of injury.

Maeve plucked the folds of her wet
shirt from her body, smiled, and took another bite of her apple. “Be easy,
Orla.” Crunch. “Let the poor man sit down, as His Lordship says.” She
watched in high amusement as Captain Lord, who was still staring at her, moved
warily to a chair. “Now that we are all happily seated, let me state my
business.”

“Yes, please do,“ Hardy
growled, clearly annoyed.

“Damn your business,” Nelson said
anxiously, “just give me news of Veal-noove!”

“Villeneuve,” Maeve said, casually
motioning with her apple, “has been at Martinique, where he joined forces with
the Spanish admiral, Gravina. I knew that already, of course, thanks to tavern
talk, and had it confirmed while speaking a ship on my way to find you. As we
sit here talking, the Combined Fleet is passing Dominica on a northerly course.
You’d do well to come about and steer after them, milord. There is nothing for
you at Tobago, nor Trinidad.”

Nelson looked thunderstruck. He
glanced up at Hardy.

“Folly, sir!” the burly captain
exclaimed. “General Brereton insists the French are at Tobago! I urge
you to think carefully before considering the words of a pirate.”

“But Hardy, her words are in
keeping with my own hunches!” Nelson cried, thumping his fist against his
chest. “And when have they ever steered me wrong? What if she is right and the
French are indeed heading—oh, dear God—toward Antigua?”

“What if she is lying, sir, and we
come about, steer north, and find afterward that Brereton’s information was
right? You will be the laughingstock of the Fleet, of England,
for heeding the advice of a soothsayer.”

“’Twould not be the first time I
believed such advice, Hardy, indeed it would not!” But then Nelson looked at
Maeve, and the wisdom of Hardy’s words sank in. Could he risk his career,
indeed, England’s safety, on the word of a pirate?

Maeve held out her apple and
perused it for a moment, then took another bite. “Funny thing about apples,”
she soliloquized. Then she turned the half-eaten fruit toward them, exposing
its pale flesh, the pocket of seeds. “Did you ever stop to consider, when you
eat an apple—or an orange, or any other fruit, for that matter—that what you’re
looking at is something no other person on earth has ever looked upon before?”

They stared at her, each and every
one of them.

“Think about it,” Maeve continued,
still holding the apple up. “No one else has ever seen the inside of this
particular piece of fruit. Therefore, it is a blessing, and a gift, given from
God just for us.” Crunch. “Think about it next time you peel a banana,
or bite into an apple.”

“Get her out of here,” Hardy said,
in disgust.

“No, no, that is quite an
extraordinary observation! My own father was of the clergy, Captain Merrick,
and I’m sure he would have appreciated your wit and insight, as do I. Now tell
me”—Nelson’s voice grew a shade harder, and she realized that the mind working
behind that penetrating gaze was a sharp one, indeed—“you must have a reason
for bringing me this information about Veal-noove in person.”

“I wanted to meet the Hero of the Nile,”
she said mildly.

“And how do I know you are not
betraying me?”

“I hate the French as much as you
do, milord—and wish to see you destroy them. Which you will do, of
course.”

“She has the Sight,” Hardy drawled,
by way of explanation.

“Yes, yes, of course!” Nelson said
excitedly.

“However, the primary reason for my
visit is of a slightly different nature.” Still chewing her apple, Maeve looked
up at him through her lashes, her eyes bright with playfulness. “I came to
demand payment.”

“Payment? For what?”

“You see”—crunch—”I have in
my possession a certain English sailor who has professed to be a deserter and a
traitor, now spying for the French. I thought you might like to have him back.”

“A deserter?” Nelson cried, in
sudden disappointment. “By God, I care more for news of Veal-noove!”

“Milord, I’ve told you all I know of
Villeneuve. He’s off Dominica and headed north. What more can I say? Believe
me, I’d like to see you give the French the drubbing they deserve, but this
English sailor, this deserter, well”—crunch—”he has really been a burden
to me, and I would like to be rid of him. However, I can’t let him go for free;
I am a pirate, you know, and even pirates have to eat. . .”

“Guards! Remove this woman!” Hardy
yelled.

Maeve held up her hand. “Oh, don’t
be so hasty to dismiss my offer, gentlemen. He really is a fine-looking
prisoner, and shall make a fine-looking corpse at the yardarm of your Victory.
In fact, I would’ve strung him up from my own little Kestrel but I
thought he’d be worth more to you than to me—”

“I said, remove this woman!”
Hardy shouted.

“Sit down, Thomas,” Nelson said. “Please.”

Maeve ignored both Hardy and the
very discomfited Captain Lord—funny, but didn't she have an English cousin
whose surname was Lord? It must be a common surname—and twirled the apple by
the stem. She looked at Nelson, and smiled playfully. “Ah, milord . . . you
don’t realize what you’re passing up. I mean, what use do I have for a
roguish devil with a pierced ear, a roving eye, and the audacity to wash up on my
island, only to insult me, attack me, and then try to pass off an obviously
made-up name like Gray—oh, never mind.” She rose to her feet, a regal
queen despite her wet and bedraggled state. “If you don’t want him, I’ll just
offer him to Villeneuve instead. . . ”

But the admiral had gone stiff, and
Captain Lord as white as his breeches.

Maeve tossed the apple core out the
shattered window with a haughty flick of her wrist. “It really has been
a pleasure to meet you, milord. It’s not every day that a person gets to meet a
real hero! May you find Villeneuve and give him the thrashing he deserves. I
hear you prefer the word, annihilate? Oh, and please accept my sincerest
apologies about your window . . . I would send payment for it, but I do believe
my information regarding Villeneuve should take care of that—”

“Wait!”

Maeve smiled, a slow, cunning
smile, and turned to face him.

Nelson shot a glance at the very
pale Captain Lord, then looked at her, his eye sharper than an eagle’s and just
as piercing. “Captain Lord . . . I seem to recall you recently had a deserter
from your Triton . . . did you not?”

“Aye, sir,” the young captain
murmured, as he glanced from Nelson to Maeve and back again to Nelson, “I did.”

“A tall, knavish sort—black-haired,
I believe, with rather unusual . . . obsessions?”

“Uh . . . yes, sir. Indeed, that
describes him perfectly.”

Nelson narrowed his eyes. “Does
your prisoner answer this description, madam?”

“Aye, milord,” she said, grinning
in triumph, “that he does.”

Nelson’s mouth curved ever so
slightly, and that was all that he would allow in terms of a smile; but it was
enough, and Maeve was hard-pressed not to rub her hands together in glee. She
saw him glance at Captain Lord, and the silent words that passed between them.
How valuable this deserter, this traitor, must be, to warrant such
interest! And how proud her father would be of her, if he could see that she’d
outmaneuvered an English admiral!

Nelson drew himself up, his
shoulders stiff and erect beneath his epaulets. He was smiling, faintly, and
the tense lines about his mouth had relaxed, lending him a look of boyish good
humor. He put out his hand toward her.

“Ah, dear lady . . . you have
indeed done our navy a great service,” he murmured, eloquently. “And I wouldn’t
dream of allowing you to sell this deserter to the French! I must, of
course, heed my prior intelligence that Veal-noove is at Tobago, you do
understand, don’t you? But if you do indeed have this Sight, you will
know where to find me. Bring me your pirate, this vile deserter, and by
God, I shall see that you are paid twice what Veal-noove or any damned
Frenchman would offer you!”

Maeve smiled back, quite proud of
herself. “Indeed, milord. I shall have him for you when you return from Tobago,
for you will not find the French there.” She saw a shadow pass over his face,
and remembering that she was the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, put out her
hand for him to kiss its Royal Knuckles.

But as Nelson took her hand and
raised it to his lips, she faltered and nearly fell, her face going white with
horror.

The admiral straightened up,
frowning. “Madam?”

She was staring at his coat, that
glittering, decorated, medal-festooned coat, encrusted with lace, stars,
orders, and glory—

Horrified, Maeve backed away.

“That—that coat, milord . . . She
looked up at him, her eyes huge and full of fear. “It shall be the death of
you.”

And with that, the shaken Pirate
Queen moved to the window, and, with Orla behind her, disappeared into the
night.

Chapter 7

The pirate was justifiably proud of
himself for the clever way he had tricked Queen Maeve—but then, he hadn’t
reached his current position of authority and respect by being stupid.

The little ship had no sooner
weighed anchor than Gray had stepped out of the shackles and, using the key
he’d stolen from the Pirate Queen, calmly let himself out of his prison. He’d
spent the night sitting on a rock and looking out to sea, damning the winds
that had prevented his knowledge of both Nelson and Villeneuve in the Caribbean,
thinking about the pirates who had once sailed these waters, and comparing his
captor to the inestimable Anne Bonney. Making love to Anne Bonney was, of
course, an impossibility—that formidable sea-queen had been dead for nearly a
century—but the she-wolf who captained Kestrel was surely a worthy
substitute.

Gray smiled, already envisioning
that smooth, hard body writhing in delight beneath him. He’d long had a fantasy
of taking a lady pirate to his bed, and if he had his way—which he
would, of course—that fantasy would become reality before his little sojourn on
this island came to its necessary end. As for Maeve’s meeting with Nelson—he
exhaled slowly and dug at the sand with his toe—he could only hope it had gone
as he predicted it would. After all, he had taken one hell of a gamble. .
.

He looked out to sea. The stars
were setting, the eastern horizon glowing above the palms, the sea beginning to
turn from black to dove gray. Soon, it would be dawn. But what would this day
bring?

Nelson was in the Indies.

The pirate stared off into the
dawn, his smile fond as he remembered those long-ago days when he, as a young
midshipman, had first served under the cocky, overzealous Captain Nelson of the
twenty-eight-gun frigate, Albemarle. And who else but the
intrepid little admiral could have taken the British fleet right up to the
anchored French one at the mouth of the Nile, pounded the stuffing out of it,
and left Napoleon Bonaparte and his army stranded in Egypt? The victory had
earned him a barony, the love of Emma Hamilton, the status of hero, and the
mainmast of the French flagship, L’Orient, after that ship had blown up
at the climax of the spectacular night battle; now, what remained of the
mainmast was carved into a coffin which Nelson vowed he would someday inhabit.

Gray picked up an old conch shell
and, tracing its smooth whorls with his thumb, watched the sun coming up as a
giant ball of red-orange brilliance. The Pirate Queen had said the admiral was
here in search of an enemy squadron that had escaped his blockade of the French
port of Toulon. Nelson was the commander in chief of the Mediterranean
Station, three thousand miles away. Under whose authority had he deserted his
post and chased the French all the way across the Atlantic?

More than likely, Gray thought with
a wry smile, no one’s but his own. And—he swore and tossed the conch shell into
the breaking waves—the admiral would be looking for him.

Well, he was stuck here, with
nothing to do but await the return of his savage captor. He might have escaped
his restraints, but without a boat there was no way off the island. He rubbed
at his stubbled chin, first with thoughtful detachment, then with awareness of
the chin’s state itself. His mouth curved in a rakish grin. Another few days
without a razor and he’d be well on his way to looking like Blackbeard, and the
thought so filled him with boyish delight that he got down on his hands and
knees beside a tide pool and, using it as a mirror, surveyed his appearance
with anxious hope.

The smile faded somewhat. Well,
maybe he’d need more than a few days. . .

The sun climbed higher, painting
the bay in bright, luscious tones of pink and gold. He rose, letting the tide
lap around his ankles and his imagination wander where it might. Pirates.
Had Morgan ever visited this island? Had Blackbeard ever careened his sloop on
this very beach? Had Bellamy ever marooned some poor traitor on this forgotten
shore? Gray smiled faintly, wishing he could go back in time and lift a mug or
two with his long-dead idols. If only he hadn’t been born seventy years too
late. . .

He stretched and yawned. It was
growing hot now, the morning sun toasting the air and making the water sparkle
out on the silvery bay. He pulled his shirt off, reveling in the feel of the
breeze kissing his skin, the sand squishing between his toes. Then he stepped
out of his breeches and tossed them away. For a moment, he stood glorying in
the morning, his naked body bared to the sun and gilded with light, the
incarnation of some Greek sea-god of classic proportions. With easy, natural
grace, he strode along the frothy edge of the sea, moved into the surf, and
dived beneath the waves.

He swam with strong, powerful
strokes, as comfortable in the water as any creature born and bred to it.
Surfacing, he filled his lungs with air, dived again, scraped his skin clean with
handfuls of sand until it was raw and tingling, and then whiled away his time
exploring. He saw a vivid, orange starfish nestled within the waving vegetation
carpeting the seafloor, and rippled globes of coral, peppered with little fish
of every color. Strangely, the dolphin that had brought him here was absent. No
doubt, it had gone with the little schooner . . . or in search of another
hapless sailor pretending to be a pirate.

Pirates.

He dived again, swimming through
the patterns of sunlight that slanted through the depths and shimmered upon the
sand, the coral, the fish themselves. But there were no pieces of eight left by
some long-dead buccaneer, no bejeweled daggers gleaming from behind a burst of
pink coral, no bleached skulls, no treasure chests, and no ancient ribs that
had once shaped the hull of a long-wrecked pirate brig. But it was fun to
pretend, and when he finally grew bored he surfaced, floating on his back,
blinking in the sunlight, and lazily propelling himself with gentle kicks. He dived
once more and then, naked as a babe and feeling vigorously refreshed, strode
out of the water and onto the beach.

He dried himself with his shirt,
slung it and his breeches over his shoulder, and, wearing nothing but the
piratical hoop of gold in his ear, sauntered up the beach and toward the house,
his stomach growling.

###

“Captain Lord here to see you, sir!”
the marine standing guard just outside Lord Nelson’s great cabin aboard H.M.S. Victory
announced.

The door was opened by the admiral
himself. “Ah, Colin!” he said, smiling warmly and ushering him into his richly
furnished quarters. “Do come in—I trust you have recovered from our unexpected
visitor last night?”

“Indeed, sir, that is what I’ve
come to talk to you about.”

Tucking his hat under his elbow,
Captain Colin Nicholas Lord stepped into the huge, sunlit dining cabin that
stretched from port to starboard and, together with the adjoining day cabin
just aft of it, took up the entire stern of Victory’s upper deck and
made up the admiral’s private domain.

“Please, have a seat, Colin. Some
wine?” Nelson offered, closing the door behind them. “Cheese?”

“No, thank you,” Colin said, but
Nelson was already waving him toward a small, roundtop table beneath the
panoramic stem windows, where a tray of refreshments waited. Colin was not
hungry, but to be polite, he pulled out a chair and took a glass of port.

“So,” Nelson said, seating himself
comfortably in a heavy, padded leather chair. He smiled and regarded Colin
patiently. “What is it you wish to talk to me about, Captain?”

Nelson’s gray eyes were kind, his
smile genuine, and Colin suddenly felt ashamed that he’d been dreading this
interview. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come to you earlier about this, sir,” he
said, lamely. “In fact, I feel rather foolish coming to you even now, but I
thought you should know—”

“Nonsense, Colin,” Nelson said,
leaning over to take a bit of fruit. “I would be much aggrieved if you did not
come to me with a problem. Pray, what troubles you?”

“It concerns the Pirate Queen, sir.”

Nelson could not prevent an
involuntary glance at his newly repaired window. “Yes?”

“After she crashed in here last
night, sir, I got to thinking. Though I had my suspicions, I didn’t want to say
anything at the time—but now, in the light of day and after much thought, I
have come to the conclusion that Maeve Merrick is . . . well, someone who is,
uh . . .”

“Yes?” the Admiral prompted,
kindly.

“Related to me.”

Lord Nelson raised a brow and
leaned back in his chair.

“You see, sir,” Colin continued,
obviously ill at ease, “my mother has a cousin named Brendan Merrick. He
emigrated to New England some thirty years ago, and made quite a name for
himself in the American War—on their side, I’m sorry to say—with a
little schooner named Kestrel.”

Both of the admiral’s brows were
raised now. “Kestrel . . . wasn’t that the name of the Pirate Queen’s
vessel?”

“Yes, sir, it is. And Merrick
is the surname of the Pirate Queen.”

“Aha!”

“At first, I didn’t put two and two
together when she came to us last night,” Colin went on. “It wasn’t until she
mentioned the name of her schooner, sir, that I realized just who she is. By
God—this is most embarrassing, sir. . .”

“No, no, do go on!” Nelson’s eyes
were gleaming; obviously, he was getting far more enjoyment out of this extraordinary
tale than Colin was in telling it.

“Well, my mother and her cousin in
America, Brendan, write to each other quite frequently, sir, and while I have
never been to New England, and never met her relations over there, I do
remember her saying something about how one of Brendan’s children, a girl, had
some uncanny ability to predict the future and see visions of what was to come.
My mother—she’s Irish, you know—called it the Sight.

“They had a lot of trouble with the
girl,” Colin continued. “Apparently she was quite willful and uncontrollable, a
real handful. Seven years ago, now, she fell in love with a French sailor her
parents disapproved of, stole her father’s schooner, and off the two of them
went. Her father chased her all the way to Florida, where he was told of a ship
that wrecked in the Keys during a hurricane, a vessel that, according to those
who’d seen it go down, answered Kestrel’s description. The girl hasn’t
been seen or heard from since, and her family has long since given her up for
dead.”

“By God! That is quite a
tale, Captain Lord!”

“Yes. I’d forgotten the incident—at
the time it happened, I was a young commander and, being at sea, was not around
my own family enough to have it more firmly ingrained on my mind; indeed, I
learned of the girl’s disappearance and death via letters from my parents.
Thus, it did not immediately occur to me that the girl who ran away from home,
and the woman who crashed into this cabin last night, are one and the same.”

“So, the Pirate Queen is your
cousin.”

The young captain looked at the
freshly repaired window, and nodded with embarrassment. “Yes sir,” he said
slowly. “I’m afraid so.”

###

Gray had reached the Pirate Queen’s
house. On the veranda, he found wicker chairs strewn amidst pots of flowering
hibiscus. He stood there for a moment, his hair hanging down his back and
dripping water down his spine, his backside, his legs, while he watched the sun
dance across the cool stone steps in lazy patterns of shadow and light. A bird
sang in a nearby tree, and butterflies flitted over a little garden just beyond
the lawn. Gray yawned, stretched, and smiled. Beauty certainly existed in the
most savage of places.

A thought that could certainly be
applied to Her Royal Highness herself.

He grinned, wiped the sand from his
feet, and stepped inside. The house was quiet, still—and apparently, empty. Sea
breezes wafted through open, louvered windows, playing with gauzy curtains and
sweeping the rooms with the fresh scent of flowers, vegetation, and the ocean.
Gilt-framed portraits hung upon the walls, and pots of bright red bougainvillea
were set in the corners. The ceilings were high, the floors of polished
hardwood, the furnishings rich and elegant and gleaming. Obviously, whoever had
once lived here had been more than affluent, and he wondered what had happened
to drive the former owner away; but then, ruined finances, fever, and a host of
other misfortunes could well break a man.

Ah, well, it was not worth his
speculation. Dismissing the thought, he continued on, and his growling stomach
led him to the dining room. It was dominated by a mahogany table set with
silver candelabra, a vase of flowers, and a bowl of fruit. His mouth watering,
Gray sat down and proceeded to help himself.

Outside, the sun rose higher and
the heat came with it.

He ate until he was full, happy,
lazy, and content. Fruit juice was sticky between his fingers, and he licked
each one in turn as he rose and, taking one last orange padded through the
house, poking into a corner here, peeking into a room there, nonchalantly
tossing the orange up and down as he explored. A grand, Turkish-carpeted
stairway led to a second floor, and this he climbed with all the spirit of
Captain Cook on an exploration into the unknown.

The unknown turned out to be a
long, airy hall and a host of bedrooms.

Gray grinned, wolfishly, and began
to push open each door. There was one room decorated like a ship’s cabin,
complete with swinging hammock . . . another, with the lace and frills and
ribbon trimmings a young girl might favor ... another, in deep shades of gold
and crimson, another with clothing thrown over chairs and chests, on and on
until he came to the last, set far down the hall and apart from the others.

There was a toothless shark’s skull
mounted on the door, and he knew without question that this room belonged to
the Pirate Queen.

Still holding the orange in one
hand, Gray pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It was an immense, airy room,
dominated by a huge bed with four mahogany posts, over which was draped a netting
of gently swaying gauze. Thick pillows of dark purple satin were piled at the
headboard, and a tasseled, cream-colored spread made a delicious expanse of
softness over the high mattress.

He pictured the Pirate Queen’s
lithe body spread invitingly on that spread and felt a quick stab of heat in
his loins.

He stepped forward, put the orange
on a bedside table, and trailed his hand over a sea chest of lignum vitae. It
was carved with figures of sharks, and upon closer examination, he realized
that the shark theme was carried throughout the room; there were china sharks
on the dresser, wooden sharks guarding the door, paintings of sharks on the
wall; and yes, upon closer inspection, even the finials of that huge bed were
carved with open-jawed sharks.

Gray stood for a moment, thinking.
He reached out and moved his hand over a pillow, feeling the silky satin
catching in the calluses of his palm. He smiled, a slow, conniving smile. His
belly was full. The play of sunlight and sea breeze against his bare skin was
making him drowsy. He heard a bird chirping just outside the open window, the
soft hiss of the trades through the palms, the distant, soothing music of the
sea.

What the hell.

Yawning, he tossed his clothes over
a chair, peeled back those luxurious spreads, and, naked as the day he was born,
promptly fell asleep in the Pirate Queen’s bed.

###

“Majesty!” Aisling and Sorcha came
running from the abandoned storehouse, their hair flying behind them. “Majesty,
come quick! The prisoner’s escaped!”

Maeve had left her crew to see to Kestrel
and was halfway up the beach when the two girls, who had run ahead, nearly
collided with her. “What?”

“He’s gone! We just checked the
storehouse and he’s gone!”

“Bloody hell.” Drawing her pistol,
Maeve raced up the beach after them. Sure enough, their makeshift gaol was
empty, the pirate gone. Only loose shackles and the pallet rested on the floor.
Fuming, she kicked at the old bedding, then leaned against the cold stone and
passed the back of her hand over her brow.

“Now what, Majesty?” Aisling cried,
tugging at her arm.

Maeve kneaded her aching brow. “He
cannot have gone far,” she muttered, wishing for nothing more than a dark room
and an hour’s rest. Of all the times to have to face a problem like this. “There’s
no way off this island, and if he’s fool enough to wander into the forest, then
I should think him smart enough to come out.”

“What if he’s armed?”

“And dangerous?”

“And waiting to ambush us?”

Maeve gave a hoot of laughter and
slammed out of the gaol. “For his sake, he’d better be armed. Now
come on, we have work to do. When Nelson finds he’s been duped by this General
What’s-his-name, he’s going to come hightailing it back here in a fine rage,
looking for me, because I was right. And as for our traitor . . . he’ll
show, have no fear of that. He no doubt fled because he knows I’m going
to turn him in, but when his stomach gets hungry he’ll come slinking out of
wherever he’s hiding, the blasted coward.” She spat the word with all
the vileness she could command. “And then—”

“And then, Lord Nelson will
annihilate him!” Sorcha cried.

“Aye, he’ll string him up from the Victory’s
foreyard!”

“Can we stay and watch, Majesty?
Can we?”

Young Aisling, echoing her sister,
began jumping up and down in the hot sand. “Can we? Can we? Can we?”

They didn’t notice the shadow that
passed over Maeve’s face. “By God, you two make Grace O’Malley look tame,” she
muttered, referring to the notorious sixteenth-century Irish pirate queen from
whom she was supposedly descended. “Go help the others secure the boat, and
when you’re through we’ll wash down Kestrel's decks.”

“Majesty, you look pale. Are you
all right?”

“My head is killing me,” she
admitted, as indeed it had been since Lord Nelson’s lips had touched her hand
and the Vision—God, she didn’t want to think of what it had revealed—had hit
her with the force of a warship's broadside.

That coat will be the death of
you.

She should never have spoken the
thought aloud, for she’d had the most uncanny feeling he’d been able to look
inside her mind and see what she had seen; battle with the French at last.
Victory! And the little admiral, falling to his quarterdeck with a bullet in
his spine, there to lie drowning, dying, in his own blood—

“Well, you go rest then, Majesty,”
Aisling said, steering her toward the house. “We’ll see to Kestrel.
Maybe tonight we can have a bonfire and a pig roast, and tap into the wine we
stole from that Spaniard off Guadeloupe!”

“That should draw our pirate
out,” Sorcha sniffed.

Maeve, pressing her fingers to her
throbbing temples, was in no mood to argue. “Very well, then. Maybe I will
go lie down for a few minutes. . . The devil take this blasted sun, this heat—”

“What about the prisoner?” Sorcha
called, as Maeve trudged up the beach.

“I’ll find him, damn his scurvy
hide, and when I do. . .”

Leaving the rest unsaid, she walked
toward the house, drooping like a flower in the heat and wanting nothing but
the blessed sleep of oblivion.

Chapter 8

Maeve pushed open the door to her
room, tossed her scabbard into a chair, and saw the pirate sprawled on her bed,
fast asleep and naked as a newborn babe.

She froze.

Then, holding her breath, she slunk
backward, flattened herself against the wall outside, and, shutting her eyes,
leaned her head back against the wall, the image of that virile man stamped
indelibly on her brain.

Fury at his insolence . . . shock
at discovering him in her bed—her bed! . . . joy that he hadn’t
fled like the coward she’d thought him to be . . . excitement at the sight of
that handsome body. . .

And terror of the broken heart she
knew he would give her.

Maeve’s first instinct was to kill
him. Her second was to slip into bed with him and have her way with that
splendid male body. She decided instead to creep back into the room and stare
at him until she decided between the first and the second.

She found him awake and sitting up,
reposing against the pillows heaped at the headboard with his hands linked
behind his head and his black hair in disarray across his brow, his arms, her
pillows. His shoulders were dark against the lavender satin, his chest a
formidable expanse of darkly tanned muscle. His manhood was bared to the world,
his amused gaze challenged hers, and there wasn’t the least shred of modesty in
those wicked indigo depths—only ripe humor and bold, blatant invitation.

“Care to drop anchor beside me,
lass?” He grinned, wolfishly. “Morning is the fairest time for a tryst, you
know.”

For the first time in her life
Maeve Merrick was at a loss over what to say, do, think. She stared at him,
unable to tear her eyes from that magnificent male body that lay so dark
against the creamy sheets and violet pillows, her creamy sheets and her
violet pillows—

She grabbed up her cutlass and
pointed it at him, accusingly. “You—” Her hand was trembling, and she saw humor
dancing in his eyes as he looked at the jiggling sword tip. “You escaped.
. .”

“Aye.” He gave a lewd, suggestive
wink. “Proud of me?”

“Proud?”

“Aye. Your pirate here is smarter
than you give him credit for.” He tapped his temple and grinned. “I merely plucked
the key from you when you lay senseless in my arms. You really didn’t expect me
to berth on that filthy pallet, now, did you?”

Her mouth fell open and she could
only stare. The rogue! Her skin flushed hot and feverish, flushed hotter still
as she noticed that he was beginning to swell and rise and stiffen. Her palms
grew sweaty, and she tightened her grip on the sword hilt and forced herself to
meet his eyes, admiring his courage and yes, even his insolence. No coward, this
man!

“So,” he drawled, taking advantage
of her stunned silence. “Did you have a nice meeting with the admiral?”

His words jolted Maeve out of her
shock. “My meeting with Lord Nelson is none of your blasted business!
And if you think to change my mind about handing you over to him”—she stormed
to the window to escape the temptation his virile body offered—“you’re wasting
your breath.”

“Ah . . . so you did meet
him,” he murmured from behind her. “Quite a remarkable little fellow, isn’t he?”

“In spirit,” she allowed, “but not
stature. I make two of him.”

She was staring out at the turquoise
sea, gripping the cutlass so fiercely the wire-bound hilt drove itself into her
palm. Then she swung back, not liking the feel of that amused gaze nailing her
between the shoulder blades, of having her back to an enemy, of knowing his
eyes were sliding heatedly over every inch of her spine, her rump, her legs,
her bare calves. . .

“So, you failed to convince him of
your mystical powers, eh? Is his lordship’s course a southerly one, after all?
Hmmm?”

“I will not answer that. You’re a
spy and therefore I shall disclose no information about the British Navy
to you.”

“Why this apparent loyalty to the
British Navy, eh? By your speech, I’d have thought you an American.”

“I am an American. But I
detest the bloody French as much as the British do. And as for Nelson, he’s not
only a hero, but the finest sea officer in the world and I happen to admire
him, all right? Now shut your damned mouth before I lose my temper and flay
that tongue of yours into ribbons!”

His lips twitched, and she bristled
at the thought that he was inwardly laughing at her. “Well, you can’t blame a
body for trying,” he said mildly, his gaze sliding down the front of her shirt
with enough heat to burn the fabric right off her skin. Maeve slapped the flat
of the cutlass across her chest, but the action only called further attention
to that part of her anatomy. “And Villeneuve? Surely you can tell me about him.
. .”

“Villeneuve is north, and that’s
all you need to know.”

“Aah, but does Nelson know
that?”

“Aye, I told him.”

He smirked. “And did his Lordship
believe you?”

“No,” she admitted, her mouth
tightening in an angry line. Unbidden, her gaze flickered to his masculinity
before she glared up into his smug, amused face. “Damn you, do you have to lie
there, all exposed?”

“It’s . . . hot.”

“There’s a fine breeze blowing!”

“I wasn’t referring to the weather.”

In one quick motion, Maeve drew her
dagger and flung it at his head, satisfied to see him jerk away so that the
vicious blade impaled the wall just above and behind him. “You are disgusting,
despicable, and totally without pride!”

“On the contrary, madam.” Without
blinking an eye, he reached up, pulled the dagger from the wall, and plucking
an orange from the nightstand, began to use it to peel the fruit. “I am quite
proud of it, thank you.” Still holding her gaze, he popped a section of the
orange into his mouth, eating it with slow, suggestive motions that shortened
the breath in Maeve’s lungs and made her realize that he was not the only one
who was hot. Her temper and her temperature were rising as well. Had she
had her pistol, she probably would’ve shot him. Probably. Maybe. Maybe . . .
not.

Her gaze darted from him to the
window. From the window to him. From him to the window . . . and each time she
looked at him, she saw that he was watching her, fully enjoying her discomfort.

He grinned, and suggestively licked
at the juices trailing from the sweet fruit, letting his tongue wrap around
each section and making sure she saw him doing it. His eyes were dark,
laughing, and half-veiled by heavy, thick lashes that did nothing to conceal
the wicked expression that lit them.

The suckling noises increased.

“Stop it!” she hissed.

He dropped the orange section into
his mouth, licked his lips with a slow, languorous, circular motion, and slowly
peeled off another.

The heat rose in Maeve’s blood.

“Would you like . . . a taste,
madam?”

She raised her cutlass. “I’ll give
you a taste—”

“No decisive battle was ever fought
from afar,” he interrupted on a low murmur, still grinning. “Nay, two vessels
must lie alongside of each other in order to best bring their guns to bear.” He
bit into the orange, making lewd, evocative noises as the juice trailed from
the succulent flesh and dribbled down his chin. There was a dimple in that
chin, and Maeve felt her heart skipping, staggering, faltering. “We have a
signal for such an engagement in the navy. ’Tis called close action.”

“You are no longer in the
navy, and I am not a ship!”

“Nay, you are not . . .” His voice grew
low, dangerously seductive. “But I like the cut of your jib, the taut trim of
your sails”—the dark gaze slid over her breasts, the gentle flare of her hips—“the
shape of your hull.”

“Get out of my bed.”

“Why? I really am most comfortable.
Not as comfortable, of course, as I would be if you were to drop anchor beside
me. . .”

Her skin tingled and flushed
crimson. “I said, Get out of my bed!”

He suckled the juice from his
fingers. “What, would you prefer to do it on the floor?”

“I’d prefer that you shut your
mouth before I shut it for you!”

“Now that, “ he said,
wickedly, “could be interesting.”

“Damn you, I’ve had it with your
sly innuendos!”

“Now, Majesty, “ he
murmured, affecting a look of mock hurt. Putting the dagger down, he sat up,
swung his handsomely muscled legs off the bed, and sat looking at her,
charmingly boyish, alarmingly dangerous, and shamelessly naked. “Don’t go
getting your guns all primed. I am just a sailor . . . and what sailor doesn’t
lust and pant after a beautiful woman? I find you beautiful, and”—he let
his gaze rake over her breasts, her hips, her bare ankles—“I want you.”

Maeve swallowed hard.

“Come, now, dear lady.” His hand, a
broad, and callused hand—a man's hand—slid over her silky sheets in a
way that was calculated to suggest that same masterful hand roving over her
equally silky flesh. He gave a slow, heated grin that sent the temperature of
her blood soaring to new heights. “Don’t make me come over there and get you .
. .”

His body seemed relaxed, but she
sensed the raw power underneath, the ability to spring, wolflike, and bring her
down like a helpless hare.

The Pirate Queen took a step
backward.

“You fear me,” he murmured, his
eyes glinting. He spread his hands, as though in truce, and again she was
struck by the power, the strength, in those broad palms, those beautiful,
tapered fingers. Shivers coursed through her. She had no trouble imagining them
around her throat. No trouble imagining them crushing the life out of her.

And no trouble imagining them
caressing her heated flesh.

“I fear nothing!” she
snapped, defiantly. “D’you hear me? Nothing!”

“No? Your lie is thoroughly
unconvincing, I’m afraid. I think you fear me very much.” Rising to his feet,
he took a step forward. Another. “You see, Majesty, I have waited all night and
half the morning for you. I have waited . . . all my life. Now, be a good lass,
and let me pleasure you. . . Love you. . . Stroke your sweet flesh into flame
and fire. . . After all”—again, he flashed that disarming grin—“we have so little
time left together. . .”

He took another step forward but
Maeve stood her ground, gripping the raised cutlass, her gaze locked with his
and every muscle in her body strung shroud-tight—

“I’m warning you, pirate!”

Sweat ran down her spine as he
moved closer.

“Stay away from me!”

“So little time,” he said
again—and reached for her.

With all her strength she swung the
cutlass, and he expertly ducked the blow that would have taken off his head.
The momentum spun her around, the sword smashed into the bedpost, and Gray was
on her before she could even think to go for the dagger on the nightstand,
seizing her wrists, jerking them above her head, and slamming her belly up
against the doorjamb so hard the breath exploded from her lungs.

“Back off,” she snarled,
through clenched teeth.

“Nay. You, madam, should
have had the sense to do that when you first entered this hallowed chamber.”
The silkiness was gone from his voice, the playful teasing replaced by a hot,
sexual carnality that made her tremble. His chest drove against her back, his
arousal against her backside, and she felt totally helpless. And with her body
crushed against the doorframe, she could do nothing but shut her eyes and steel
herself against the ripples of desire as she felt his breath against the curve
of her neck.

“All my life, I’ve fantasized about
making love to a lady pirate,” he murmured, his deep voice sending tremors down
her spine. “At last, that fantasy is about to become reality. . .”

“Over my dead body!”

“Oh, I hardly think so, Majesty.
In fact, I shall take great delight in making that body of yours come alive.”
His hand slid up her forearm, over her shoulders, caught the thick fall of
her hair and lifted it off her neck. She felt his lips against her nape, his
breath fanning the damp skin there, and still, his big body pinned her
helplessly against the doorjamb.

“I’ve heard the tales about you,
but they do not pay tribute, nor do justice, to such a fair and fiery maiden .
. . I think I am in love . . . Do you believe in love at first sight, Maeve? I
never did, but I do now.”

“No, I don't believe in love at
first sight, and indeed, I don't believe in love at all!”

“Now that is truly a pity.”

“What is a pity is that if you so
much as touch me, you won't live to tell about it, damn your eyes!”

“Ah, such pluck, such fire! Indeed,
madam, I will touch you . . . but were you to go down without a fight, I
should be sadly disappointed. . . So, indulge yourself, Maeve, and”—his fingers
caught her collar and pulled it downward, exposing her neck and shoulders to
his mouth—“fight.”

She felt his lips moving against
the back of her neck, nibbling, kissing, feathering, his tongue tasting the hot
skin and drawing little circles in the downy hair at her nape. Her senses swam
and she caught her breath.  She tried to struggle, but he only pushed himself
against her all the harder, crushing her, pinning her, rendering her more
helpless than she already was.

“Do you know your body is already
answering mine, Majesty?” His hand caught in her hair and pulled off the leather
thong, and she felt his fingers trailing through the long, silky tresses,
smoothing them, stroking them, separating them. “Don’t deny me, sweetheart.
Don’t deny yourself, for there's something between us and you know it as
well as I do. Let me take you in my arms, carry you to your bed, and make
delicious, savage love to you. . .”

She waited for his lips to touch
the soft hollow between her shoulders; then, catching him off guard, she jerked
her arm down and out of his grip, and drove her elbow brutally into his chest.
But he was quicker than she, and far stronger, spinning her around and backing
her spine against the wall so fast the room twirled around her. He caught her
wrists, dragging them up over her head; furious, she looked up into his face,
met his eyes, and drew her lips back in a feral, savage snarl.

“Let—me—go.”

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I want
you too much to let you go.”

Then he smiled. Disarmingly.
Devastatingly. Knowingly. Something melted inside her. Her knees went weak and
her breathing quickened. He moved back, ever so slightly, pressing his bare leg
against her thigh and allowing her to feel his heat, his power. He dragged his
foot up the side of her calf, his knee trailed toward the junction of her legs
with agonizing slowness. There it pressed, burning through the loose trousers
and making her long to thrust herself shamelessly against that sweet pressure.

“When I get free,” she managed to
say weakly, “I swear to God I’ll stab you so full of holes you’ll look like a
damned fishing net.”

“My dear madam,” he murmured, still
holding her arms high while he nuzzled her ear and branded her neck with warm,
searing kisses, “any stabbing to be done is my delightful
calling, not yours. Relax, Majesty, and give in to your deepest desire.”

“My deepest desire . . . is to sink
my dagger into your heart and watch you . . . die.”

“And mine is to sink my
dagger into your sweet woman’s flesh and watch you writhe with pleasure.” His
lips were moving lower, toward that creamy swell of flesh above the closure of
her shirt. Maeve’s heart began to pound, and the room was suddenly too hot, far
too hot. “Shall we have a contest to see who wins?”

His knee continued to press, to
rub, against her throbbing junction. Then his hand followed, touching her,
stroking her, caressing her through the thin barrier of fabric. She felt a rush
of pleasure and dampness, and sank against his hand, knowing, even as a sob
caught in her throat, that he would win, indeed.

There was no fight left in her.
None at all.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, faintly.

His face loomed above, his eyes
wicked with challenge and desire, the dimple in his chin the last thing she saw
before her eyes drifted shut.

“I’m going to kiss you . . .
everywhere. I’m going to kiss you until you swoon with pleasure, until you melt
like sugar beneath my lips, until you cry out my name in the throes of passion.
I am in love with you, Pirate Queen, whether or not you believe in the notion.”
She turned her head, and her cheek came up against the hard bar of his arm,
smelling of salt and warmth and clean, scrubbed skin. His fingers captured her
jaw and gently forced her head back around, and she knew then that she wanted
this as much as he did.

God, help me, she thought,
faintly—

And was aware of his mouth lowering
to hers . . . an inch away . . . a hairbreadth. . .

Touching.

Sinking, sweeping abandon . . . joy
. . . surrender.  She tasted the sweetness of oranges on his lips, on
his tongue, felt the rough press of his thumb against her jaw, and sank beneath
a feeling of being swept away, carried away, overpowered, ravished. Her
legs buckled and with his knee positioned strategically between her thighs, he
held her up against the wall. She moaned deep in her throat and his lips ground
against hers. Her head swam and she felt his hand pushing up the loose fabric
of one pant leg until it was bunched around her upper thigh and her skin was
bared to the harshness of his palm.

No God, I take that back. . .  Don’t
help me. . .

The kiss deepened. Her nipples
hardened, ignited, tingled against her shirt. She sighed deeply and pressed
into him, even as he slid his fingers up her arm and brought her wrists down
with them.

“Love me, Maeve.”

She needed no urging. Hooking an
arm around the back of his neck, she drew him close, and felt his kiss become
savage, plundering, demanding. . .

A pirate’s kiss.

Hard male muscle imprinted her
body. His hands fitted easily around her waist, positioning her more firmly
atop his hard thigh, and she leaned back against the wall, gasping as his
fingers found the bud of her desire and gently stroked it through her trousers.

“Oh,” she managed, trying to find
anger, trying to find control, and finding neither.

But he only laughed, caught her jaw
once more and forced her mouth against his. She drove upward to meet it,
panting hard and greedily taking his tongue into her mouth. Again, the tangy
sweetness of citrus; again, the hot flush of sensation through every nerve in
her body. Her legs went limp, her mind reeled. She felt herself growing hot,
growing wet, growing . . . impatient.

And then he drew back, breaking the
kiss. Her eyes opened to regard him dazedly.

“I may take a prize,” he said
huskily, his thumb clearing the hair from her damp cheek, “but I never plunder
it unless invited aboard.” Hot fingers dragged down her throat, circled her
breast, dragged across a hardened nipple. “I can let you go now, Maeve, to
continue on your set course . . . or you can indulge your wish to be . . . plundered.”

She closed, then opened her glazed
eyes, her heart beating wildly in her breast.

“What shall it be?”

Did she have a choice? Let him,
her mind pleaded. What ill can come of it? When will you ever have such a
dangerously handsome man as this in your bed, ever again?

As long as she did not let herself
fall in love with him, she was safe. Unable to be hurt, deserted, abandoned—

Her silence was answer enough. She
collapsed even as his strong arms scooped her up and carried her easily to the
bed.

He held her for a long moment,
relishing the feel of her in his arms before lowering her to the soft expanse
of silky sheets and tasseled pillows and feather-down mattress. She lay on her
back, staring up at him; then he stood, tall and strong and virile, his gaze
raking over her body.  She flushed hotly. Their eyes met, and he smiled a long,
slow, smile before easing himself down beside her.

Melting inside, Maeve trembled as
he began to undress her, carefully, skillfully, expertly. Masterful hands
skimmed over her belly, grazing the skin there, igniting her blood. She lifted
her shoulders so he could draw the shirt over her head. The warm trades kissed
her . . . he kissed her, with lips burning against her neck, her
collarbone, trailing lower to claim one hard, aching nipple, then the other.
She moaned as his tongue circled the soft pink areola, the tightened bud,
sucking at it greedily, even as his hand found her belt and slowly slid the
leather through the buckle and drew it off. Instinctively, her thighs clamped
together before his hand gently slid between them and coaxed them apart.

“Maeve, my Queen,” he murmured,
dropping kisses between her breasts as he drove his hand beneath the waistband
of the cottony trousers and dragged them down her hips. She felt every acute
sensation; the hair of his arm grazing her legs, the warmth of his skin against
her own. “I have lived for this moment all my life.”

“You . . . you probably say that to
every woman,” she whispered, faintly.

“Aye, but I have never meant
it as I do now,” he murmured, his breath warm against her breasts. His hand
moved lower, pressing once more against the junction of her thighs. “Open for
me, Maeve. . . Let me explore you . . . cherish you . . . love you.”

The last of her apprehension fled
in the face of what he was doing to her, and she couldn’t have disobeyed him
even if she wanted to. Sighing, Maeve opened to him, shivering with delight,
anticipation, and longing as his fingers moved lazily through the curls at her
inner thighs, stroking her until she was wet and gasping and arching
shamelessly against his hand. Then there was only cool air against her wet
nipples as his head moved downward, his lips skimming over her belly, his
breath hot against her navel . . . her thighs . . . her—

She started to sit up, but his hand
was there against her chest, his thumb circling one nipple as he pushed her
gently back down to the thick stack of pillows.

“Enjoy your desire, Maeve. Let me
savor every blessed inch of you.”

She lay back, trembling, seeing the
ceiling, the top of his head, through half-closed eyes. He was easy with her.
Patient. His hands were hard and strong against her thighs, gently coaxing them
further apart, and she felt his breath against her thighs, her sex, his fingers
holding her inner folds apart, his thumbs stroking the swollen bud of her
desire until it was no longer his thumbs there, but his mouth.

“Oh, sweet heaven—” she sobbed, at
that first wet thrust of his tongue against her flesh.

He raised his head, his gaze soft
and tender. “Relax, my sweet. I’ll never hurt you. Trust me on that.”

Relax. It was a command, and
dazedly, it came to her that he was a man who was well used to issuing them. A
dangerous man . . . a man of power, a man of authority.

But she was in no position to
ponder that further; not in the midst of such overwhelming sensation. She gave
herself up to the pleasure, and when it became almost unbearable, she pushed
him away, rolled onto her side, and, drove him onto his back. His eyes gleamed
as he guessed her intent. Wantonly, she moved atop him, straddling him, her
palms flat against his chest to brace herself as she began to ease herself down
atop his rigid staff.

It had been a long time since Maeve
had last known a man, and the years had rendered her tight and narrow. But she
welcomed the pain, gazing down at him and relishing every delicious moment,
every sliding inch of wet sensation, the feel of his huge and swollen arousal
filling every inch of her, stretching her, almost to the point of pain. He
grinned confidently up at her. His eyes were glowing, drifting shut with
desire, then open, the thick lashes half concealing irises of a shade mirroring
the deepest blue of the sea. Again, that wolfish smile; again, the dimple in
his chin; again, that quiet amusement. He was a man in control, a man who was
dangerous no matter how disarming that smile. Her heart fluttered and she bent
down, heatedly kissing his lashes, his nose, his mouth. His hands drove up
through her hair, thumbing her jaw, holding her mouth to his; then he released
her and Maeve, sighing deep in her throat, sat back and took the final inch of
him into herself.

Sweet, savage impalement.

“Ah, love,” he said gently, his
eyes dark with desire. “Ah, dear, sweet, love . . . I have lived for this
moment with you all of my life.”

He cleared away a tumble of hair
that had fallen over her shoulder, then pulled her down and kissed her. Deep
and long and hard, even as his hands strayed down her body, finally clasping
her hips and moving her against himself to begin a rhythm.

The kiss deepened. His hands pressed
against her hips, guiding her movements. Sweat began to trickle down her back.
The bed rocked beneath them. The motions came faster. Their breaths mingled,
hot and damp.

“Damnation,” she moaned, into his
mouth. “Oh, God, pirate. . . Take me . . .”

“I will take you, dearest,
to the stars and back, as many times as you’ll let me.”

Dampness sheened their straining
bodies. Her senses reeled, climbed, peaked—

“Oh . . . Oh, yes!” she
cried.

And then he drove savagely upward
into her. She felt the warm spill of his seed at the same time she found her
own release. Her head fell back and she cried out in sweet agony, her senses
exploding in a shower of glittering light. Sobbing, she collapsed atop him, her
lips falling against hot, salty skin, her heart pounding a tattoo against her
ribs.

She lay there, tears of joy and
happy defeat rolling down her cheeks. At that moment her heart filled with
something huge and warm and inexplicable.

Something she hadn't felt in a very
long time.

His arms came up to wrap
protectively around her shoulders, clasping her hot body to his. She heard his
pounding heart just beneath her ear, and it was a long time before she could
speak.

“Pirate?”

“Aye, Majesty?”

His fingers drifted through her
hair, and she kissed his damp chest. “I . . . I don’t believe I’ll kill you,
after all.”

She felt him smile against her
forehead.

“Maybe you really are my Gallant
Knight,” she murmured, and on that thought, drifted off to sleep.

Chapter
9

The fate of England was of little
consequence to Maeve Merrick as she lay dozing in the arms of her handsome
lover. She may have the Sight—present at times, absent at most—but even such a
gift could not have foretold her how important she and her prisoner were to
Lord Nelson’s hopes for saving England.

And at the moment, Maeve would not
have cared.

Outside, the sounds of her crew’s
laughter could be heard as they built up the bonfire and cracked open another
barrel of Jamaican rum. At any other time, she would be down there with them,
the first to hold her cup beneath the spigot, the first to partake of the
excessive revelry, the first to damn the world and everything it contained to
hell and beyond.

But not this time.

Young Aisling had come earlier,
knocking urgently at the door to report that the captive was still missing, and
her shrieking retreat when Gray himself had answered her summons had brought
the rest of the crew charging into Maeve’s bedroom with knives, pistols,
blunderbusses, and swords drawn. But her pirate had handled this
life-threatening situation with fearless, unruffled aplomb.

“Why don’t you ask Her Majesty if
she wishes to send me away, eh?” he’d asked, calmly pushing Enolia’s dagger
away from his throat and turning with an elaborate, encompassing, sweep of his
arm to indicate Maeve—lying in bed with the sheets pulled up to her chin and a
guilty blush spreading over her face.

It had been a rather mortifying
scene, to say the least. Now, Maeve sighed contentedly and forcing open her
sleepy eyes, rested her head in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. His
heart beat steadily beneath her ear, slow and rhythmic in sleep. Stretching,
she let her hand rove over his broad pectorals, touching one hard little
nipple, absorbing his heartbeat through the flat of her palm. Then she moved
her head and kissed the warm, salty skin.

What on earth are you doing,
Maeve?

Taking advantage of a gift from
the sea, she answered herself. Allowing myself to experience the thrill
of having a dangerously handsome man tell me he wants me, and then proving it
to me in the deepest, most meaningful sense of the word. But Maeve did not
believe in love at first sight. True, she had lain with, admired, and enjoyed this
pirate’s body, but she had held back a good part of her mind, a good part of
her heart, and certainly all of her wary soul. She had been hurt before.
Badly. She would not be hurt again.

Yet her heart, wretched organ that
it was, could not remain still, and like a current beneath the surface of a
calm sea, stirred and ached and moved restlessly. She felt wantonly reckless
for allowing this stranger to make love to her when there was nothing between
them except carnal lust. She felt ashamed that she had used his body for the
sole sake of physical enjoyment, and that she had let him use hers. And then
she felt guilty that she wasn’t as ashamed as she ought to feel. But no,
she was the Pirate Queen, and there was nothing wrong with taking a lover.
After all, it was a sovereign’s right. But deeper down lurked feelings of
unsettlement, anxiety, and foreboding, for this man had an air of intrigue
about him, of authority and command that both drew and fascinated her; he was
dark, he was dangerous, and she had no doubts whatsoever that it would be
perfectly possible—if not likely—that she could fall in love with him.

She trembled, despite the warmth of
the day.

I shouldn’t have lain with him.
I should have kept fighting him, as I had been wont to do. Then, at least, my
heart would be safe.

My heart is safe.

She touched the anchor tattooed on
his big shoulder, her gaze moving over his chest, the flat slabs of his ribs,
the taut indentation of his belly, the trail of dark hair leading to his cock,
now lying in repose within its bed of soft, black hair. The sight of it, and thoughts
of the pleasure it had brought her, caused her to flush and squeeze her legs
together against the sudden ache there. God, he was a handsome devil. Perfect.
Bold, charming, and magnificent. He was all she had ever dreamed about,
all she had ever prayed for, and despite the fact he wasn’t a decorated hero,
he was, perhaps, her Gallant Knight.

Yet who was he? What did she know
about him, except that he was a skilled, imaginative, and attentive lover, that
he’d once been in the Royal Navy—and that Lord Nelson would pay anything to get
him back?

He had said it was love at first
sight for him. Yet, it was ridiculous to think he could love someone like
herself. She was hard-bitten, hard-used, the antithesis of femininity,
softness, and charm. She fought with swords, stole from ships, commanded a crew
of women plucked from slavery, indenture, prostitution, and the tyranny of
abusive mates. She didn't know much about him, but it was equally true that he
didn't know much about her, either.

Would he, too, desert her, as her
long-ago lover had, as the world had—as her family had?

The brief joy fled her heart like
sunlight behind a cloud, turning chill and cold and damp. Perhaps Mama,
spirited and fun, might have found her roguish lover charming, but her
fine, upstanding father would never have approved of this piratical spy who had
ravished her so relentlessly. But then, he hadn’t approved of his errant
daughter herself, nor her wicked, wanton ways, either.

He’d sure as hell proved that
when he never even bothered to come looking for her after she’d run away from
home seven years past.

Sudden tears stung her eyes. But
I was only sixteen years old, she thought. Young and silly and foolish.
I thought I knew best. I thought I knew everything. Don't all of us at that
age? Her throat tightened. Why didn't you come looking for me, Daddy?
Is forgiveness so hard for you? For you, Daddy, of all people?

Maeve’s chin came up and a sob caught
in her throat.  She slammed her palm over her mouth to stifle it, feeling the
hateful tears running warmly over her fingers, down her arm. Grown women didn’t
cry; tough, hardened, pirate queens didn’t cry. Damn her eyes, what the
hell was wrong with her?

Her lover stirred—and Maeve froze.

Dark azure eyes opened, and he
looked lazily up at her through his lashes.

“There now, what’s this? Did I do
something wrong?” He sat up, and tried to reach for her. “Say something wrong?”

But she only leapt up and off the
bed, putting distance between them.

Gray swung his legs off the bed and
watched her in some confusion. Her color was high, her eyes wild, and her feet
were planted in a warrior’s stance. She looked frightened. Angry. Beautiful.

“It’s not you,” she said sharply,
then turned and faced the window, her hair streaming in rampant glory down her
back. He saw the scar of a knife high on her hip, the tautness of hard muscle
beneath her golden skin. He saw pain and anger and betrayal in her stance, and
everything about that stance warned him to back off.

Everything about that stance
invited him to challenge it.

“If not me, then,” he asked,
gently, “then what has brought you to tears, Maeve?”

“Tears? Bah, I'm not crying. Pirate
Queens don't cry.”

“Of course they don't.”

Silence. It went on for several
moments.

“Of course, if you were, indeed,
crying, it would concern me deeply.”

“Why?”

“Because I care.”

“Care? Why should you? I mean
nothing to you.”

“If you meant nothing to me, we
would not be having this conversation.”

“You just want to get me back in
bed with you.”

“Trust me, madam, I could get you
back in bed with me very easily. But I want more than just your body—I'm
beginning to realize I may want your heart.”

“What to conquer?” she said,
lifting a scornful brow.

“No, to love.”

“Love,” she spat. “The most
absurd and empty word in the entire English language. There's nothing bothering
me.  Nothing that needs concern you, in any case.”

“Well, if you don't want to tell
me, I understand.” He would, of course, find out one way or another just what
was bothering her; if not from the Pirate Queen herself, then from one of her
pack of she-wolves. After all, his position in life required that he be a
master at extracting information. Obviously, there was more here than this
formidable young woman was willing to admit, and by God and the devil, he would
get to the bottom of it before his business on this island was up.

She turned and looked at him for a
long moment, absently chewing her bottom lip, her eyes calculating.  “I don't
make it a habit to talk about my past with people I don't know,” she said. “But
I confess, there's something about you, pirate, that makes me want to trust
you. I don't trust you, of course. I don't trust anyone.”

“I give you my word, that your
heart is safe with me.”

“My heart is a castle, and there's
a deep moat around it with no way across.”

“I'll bet a determined and gallant
knight could cross that moat,” he said, with a little grin.

“I can't let the drawbridge down.
It's not in my nature. Besides, you're no knight. You're a pirate.”

No knight?  He grinned,
secretively, to himself. How wrong you are, madam.

“Oh, blast it,” she said, finally.
“What difference does it make whether or not you know? It's certainly not going
to change anything.” She turned away, looking suddenly vulnerable and young,
despite her air of forced insouciance. “Aye, I was crying.  And you're thinking
it's another man, aren't you?”

“Well . . . was it?”

“No.” She gave a bitter little
laugh.  “It’s my parents.”

He raised a brow.

“Surprised you, didn't I?”  She
made a scoffing sound. “Not a man. My parents. I miss them.”

“I'm sorry . . . how long have they
been dead?”

“Dead?”  She laughed, just a little
too loudly. “They're not dead. To me, maybe, but not the world. At least, I
hope they're not.”

He looked at her, waiting for her
to continue.  She turned her back on him and went to the window, where she
placed her hands on the sill and looked out over the bay. A little breeze came
up, pushing at her hair.

“My father was a famous privateer
during the American War of Independence,” she said at last. “My mother was the
best gunner on his ship.” She looked down, and began to kick at the rug with
her bare toe. “And I was the apple of my daddy's eye.”

Even from this distance, he could
see her fingers tightening upon the sill.

“We lived in a small New England
seaport, a close community that neither welcomed, liked, nor trusted strangers.
So when Renaud sailed into town—he was a boatswain on a French merchantman—my
parents were instantly disapproving of him, and, the interest he took in me.
Not . . . that I didn't encourage him. He was a handsome rake, charming, had
been all over the world.  He used to tell me stories about exotic places, and
promise to take me anyplace I wanted to go if only I'd run away with him. . . “

“Sounds like a typical sailor,”
Gray said, already guessing where this tale was headed.

“Of course, I fell in love with
him. Mama and Daddy knew Renaud for what he was the moment they met him, but
oh, not me. The more their disapproval grew, the stronger my feelings for him
became. Oh, how blind I was, how stubborn, how stupid. I spent too much
time damning them for being hard and unfair, and not enough time trying to see
Renaud for what he really was—a deceitful, lying vagrant, who saw in me enough
innocence and naivety to get him just what he wanted.”

“Which was, I imagine, getting you
into bed with him.”

“Aye, that and more. So convinced
was I of his feelings for me, so cow-eyed was I over his promises, that one
day, when he invited me to run away with him to a tropical isle, I went.”

“And probably broke your parents’
hearts,” he murmured, softly.

“Broke their hearts? Ha! They were
well rid of me, I'm sure. Not only did I steal my father's schooner to make our
getaway—he designed and sailed her himself, you know, made her famous during
the war—but I also took my maid, Orla, and the money that Mama used to keep
hidden in a big jar in the kitchen. I left in the middle of the night, and
without so much as a good-bye. And they've never forgiven me for it.”

“Never?”

She turned and glared at him, her
eyes strangely moist and hard with challenge. “Well, they never came looking
for me! Never made the slightest attempt to find me! Oh, no, pirate. They
deserted me, left me to die in this God-forsaken hellhole of a place, never
forgave me for my mistake in judgment. And I damn well wasn't going to go
running back to them. I was too ashamed, because they were right about Renaud
all along.”

“Let me guess. He left you high and
dry. . .”

“He did indeed, after we got all
the way down here and he realized it wasn't so easy to make off with my
schooner in the dead of night.”

Gray set his jaw, feeling an
inexplicable urge to find this Renaud and run him through with his sword.  “Now
I know why you dislike the French so much,” he said wryly.

“Aye. But what was done was done. I
was too ashamed to go home, so I stayed here. I had my schooner, and my maid,
Orla. I was young and clever and could fight my way out of any scuffle—my
father had taught me fencing, and my brothers, how to use my fists. I learned
early in life how to take care of myself, and those skills stood me well in
those first years here; they stand me well now. I built a crew for myself, and
now, they are my family.”

Very calmly, Gray let out his
breath. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and comfort her
in the best way he knew, but something warned him against it. Hugging her would
be like embracing a thorn bush.

“And when did this all happen?” he
asked.

“Seven years ago.”

“Seven years is a long time,” he
pointed out. “Perhaps you could write to your parents, explain the folly of
your youth, ask for forgiveness—”

“Write them? Why should I?” She drew
herself up, her eyes blazing defiance. “They don’t give a damn about me. Why
the hell should I make the first effort?”

“Well, someone has to, otherwise,
things will not change.”

Her eyes were unnaturally bright,
glassy, and gold. “Well, it's not going to be me.  If they care, they'll come
looking for me.”

She turned back to the window,
stiff and angry once more.

Gray sat there, studying her.
Finally, he got up, padded across the room, and joined her at the window. Out
in the distance, he could see a squall building, hanging black over the
darkening bay. Carefully, he reached out, and took her hand.

Surprisingly, she allowed it.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You've
suffered much pain in your young life.”

He glanced over at her, but she
refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she remained staring out the window, and he
saw that her eyes had grown luminous beneath a fresh welling of emotion.
Something tore at his heart as he considered this courageous little pirate
queen who wasn’t quite brave enough to allow herself to be vulnerable to more
hurt by taking the first step in repairing her past—and he felt a rush of
warmth for her. It was more than lust; it was more than admiration for a woman
who was proving to be the embodiment of his every fantasy; it was affection and
concern, protectiveness and caring for another person, and Gray—raised in a
gentle, loving, family—was not afraid to allow himself such feelings.

For he, unlike the formidable woman
at the window, was not afraid to let go of his heart, or, his pride.

“I will not desert you,” he vowed,
and meant it, even if it meant coming straight back here after she returned him
to Nelson.

“No, of course you won't,” she said
sarcastically, but he saw her throat move, and her eyes seemed to float in a
pool of building moisture.

Without saying a word, Gray pulled
his hand from hers, and gently slid his arm around her waist. She said nothing,
and just stood stiffly against him while they both watched the storm clouds
moving rapidly closer; she stood like that for a long moment, then, the tears
spilled over and began to drip quietly down her cheeks.

Without a word, he pulled her
close, rubbing her back as she buried her face against his chest and quiet sobs
shook her.  Then he lifted his gaze and looked out to sea—where the wind raced,
where the horizon stretched empty, and where somewhere, a grieving father was
surely missing his capricious daughter.

Chapter 10

The night was hot with the sultry
kiss of the trades, the breezes scented by bougainvillea, vegetation, and the
heady tang of the sea. The aroma of freshly roasted pork lingered near the
glowing coals of the bonfire, and out in the bay, moonlight glazed Kestrel's
dark hull and glinted off her spars and sharply raked masts.

Maeve had not sent her pirate back
into the “dungeon” to spend the night. Her every instinct told her to keep her
distance, to not let herself be seduced by the idea that he was different from
Renaud or anyone else she'd ever given her heart to, but she was having a hard
time listening to the wisdom of her head.

You don't even know him, her
head warned. You know nothing about him.

I know that I enjoy his company,
retorted her heart. I know that he makes me laugh. I know that he makes me
feel safe. Secure. Happy in a way that I haven't known for a very long time.

But he was a deserter. Being a
pirate was one thing, but a deserter? Where was the honor in that? A
deserter—someone who had abandoned his career. There was that terrible word
again.

Abandoned.

And if he could abandon his career,
he could abandon her.

“Maeve? Are you cold?”

“No, of course not,” she said. But
she trembled nonetheless, and her heart was filled with confusion.

Maybe I’m no better, she
thought.  After all, I am the one who will be abandoning him—to Lord
Nelson. And to certain death. What kind of person does that make me?

Warm sand crunched beneath her feet
and the endless sound of the waves against the beach made her feel suddenly
melancholy.

“Gray,” she said, with a glance up
at his tall form beside her, “I have told you much this evening about me, but I
know nothing, really, about you but your first name.”

“Why ruin a good thing? Let's enjoy
our stroll, Maeve, and then . . . then I think I would like to ravish you in
the waves. . .”

“You're being evasive.”

“Aye. You might not like me anymore
if I told you more about me. Why risk it?”

“But I want to know about
you, Gray—” She pushed him away as he stopped and tried to claim her lips. “I
want to know when you were born . . . where you were born . . .how many
brothers and sisters you have . . . what your father and mother are like. . .”

He laughed, his teeth white in the
darkness. “I have six sisters and no brothers, my parents live in Surrey, and I
was born in Penzance on the fourteenth day of August, in the year of our Lord
seventeen hundred and sixty-eight.”

And I’m a Knight of the Bath
whose head is going to roll, he thought to himself.

“And your father and mother?”

“Good parents. My father . . . owns
land.”

“In Surrey?”

“Aye.”

He paused, stepped out of his
clothes, and waited while she did the same.  Then he slid a hand beneath her
bottom and in one quick moment, hoisted her in his arms. Her skin tingled with
anticipation. She smiled and placed a palm against his chest, reveling in the
feel of his muscles as he walked, carrying her as though she weighed no more
than the foam that rolled in on the gentle breakers.  “What else, Gray? Tell me
everything.”

“And why do you want me to do that?”

“Because I’ve changed my mind.” She
reached up and ran her finger over his smile, feeling a sensation curling hot in
the pit of her belly as he gently pulled her finger into his mouth and lightly
nipped it. “You see”—she flushed, excited by her sudden decision—“I’ve decided
to keep you, and not sell you to Nelson after all.”

He went stiff. In the darkness, his
face looked suddenly very pale.

“Gray?”

“Why, that is . . . why, that is,
uh, wonderful, Maeve.”

“You don’t sound very happy about
it,” she said, frowning. “Don’t you want to stay here and be my Pirate King, my
Gallant Knight?”

Recovering, Gray continued walking,
then leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Of course I want to stay here with
you,” he assured her while he cursed himself for the trouble he’d gotten
himself into this time. Neptune's balls! This was a development he
hadn't anticipated, and one that he certainly didn't welcome. Christ, the whole
British Navy was probably searching for him and she wanted to keep him
in this Garden of Eden?

Tell her.

He nearly laughed aloud at that
totally ludicrous thought. The fate of nations could depend on her reaction—a
reaction he didn't even dare consider or contemplate.

“Gray?”

Worried that she could sense his
growing alarm, he set her down, took her hand, and resumed their walk, his mind
racing.

“I know you’re afraid Nelson will
be looking for you,” she was saying, “but you’re safe here. After all, no one
knows where the Pirate Queen has her lair, and not even your own Admiral
Falconer would know where to find me.”

That was for damned sure.

“I will shield you with my
reputation, guard you with my life,” she vowed, tossing her head and sending
her hair flying over one shoulder. “And as for Nelson . . . well, I simply
won’t go to meet him. You have come to mean too much to me. Besides, he’d
probably rather spend his money on his ‘dear Lady Hamilton’ than on a traitor
he’d just as soon hang, don’t you think?”

“You are most thoughtful, Majesty.”

“Thank you, Gray. No one’s ever
told me that before, you know.” She bent her head, her hair falling down over
her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically shy. “You
know, maybe there really is a future for us.” She paused and faced him,
her eyes full of childish hope as she looked up into his eyes. “Think of it,
Gray,” she said, her fingers playing with a soft whorl of his chest hair. “We’ll
sail the seas together, plundering and pillaging and stealing! We’ll become as
famous as Calico Jack and Anne Bonney, and sailors the breadth of the Spanish
Main will come to fear your name as much as they do mine!”

He gave a little laugh, for such a
fantasy was of course, an impossibility. Slowly, he said, “Er . . . yes, Maeve.
Though I fear my blackened blood is not royal enough for a Pirate Queen.”

“Nonsense.” She smiled, stood on
tiptoe, and kissed him hard, her hand drifting down to touch that part of him that
had gone temporarily dormant and now, at her soft caress, began to stir once
again. “You are my Gallant Knight,” she declared, with a touch of hauteur and a
defiant lift of her chin. “I have already decided that!”

Obviously, she had decided a few
other things, as well.

“Gray?”

As much as he would have liked, he
could not stay here. And now, with her decision to keep him here on this
island, he had to think of a way off of it—and quickly.

His mind had always been at its
best when his body was active. Grinning, he scooped her back up and carried her
purposely toward the surf.

Chapter
11

Maeve's skin prickled with
anticipation, for she was thinking about being “ravished” in the waves. But
even the thought of ravishment could not quell the sudden unease she felt at
her pirate's odd reaction to her change-of-heart when it came to returning him
to Lord Nelson.

Even now, he looked mildly
distracted. Troubled. Something didn't quite add up, and she couldn't put her
finger on it.

They were splashing into the waves now,
and she determined not to think about things that didn't make sense. Instead,
she twisted in his arms, straddling his hips with her thighs and hooking her
arms behind his neck.

He moved his hands to support her bare
bottom and gazed down at her, his eyes dark with desire, a wolfish smile
lighting his face in the darkness.

Maybe she’d just been imagining his
strange reaction. He certainly seemed happy enough, now, didn’t he? She kissed
his face and neck and lips until she felt his arousal pressing hot and hard against
her womanhood. At last, a man who wasn’t afraid of her, who was her equal in
every way. He was strong, virile, and everything she ever dreamed of finding in
a lover, except he wasn’t a gallant officer.

But the spell had been fouled,
after all. Damned gull shit. What could she expect?

In the darkness, she saw the white
glint of his teeth, of starlight in his eyes, his hair tumbling and tossing in
the wind. She placed her hands against the wide breadth of his chest, feeling
his heart thudding against her palm. For such a tall and
powerful man, he moved with easy grace and a gait she was well familiar with.

It was the gait of a sailor.

“Don’t worry, Gray . . . I told
you, Nelson will never find you here,” she said, to reassure him.

“I know that, dearest,” he
murmured, but something like pain flashed in his dark eyes and quickly
disappeared before heat, desire, and dark promise burned in them once more. He
slowed as he went deeper into the surf, and she felt the warm, gentle kiss of
the sea against her heels, and now, her bottom. She looked up, seeing his face
dark against a thousand stars; with his earring, he could have been a savage
buccaneer captain in the manner of Henry Morgan.

But tonight, he was her
pirate.

“Are you going to ravish me?” she
asked, with false innocence.

“Aye, wench,” he growled in his
best buccaneer’s voice. “Here and now.”

“Well then, what are you waiting
for?” She gave him an equally hot glance, and boldly reached down between her
own legs to touch him.

He smiled down at her, and it was a
cunning, wicked smile.

“Gray, don’t,” she warned,
already guessing his intent.

He chuckled blackly, never taking
his dark eyes off her.

Finally he stopped . . .and began
to lift her up, up, like a sacrifice to the gods.

“Gray, no!”

He laughed.

“Gray, no!”

She shrieked, but he had already
tossed her high, laughing in pure delight as she flailed and swore and hit the
sea with a resounding splash. Coughing and choking, she thrust downward, trying
to find her footing, but the movement only plunged her head under again.
Cursing, she broke the surface, found a foothold on a shelf of coral, and
slashing her cupped palm over the waves, sprayed him with water.

“Snake!” she cried, as his rich
laughter rolled through the night. She sprayed him again. “I’ll get you for
this, you treacherous rat!”

He folded his arms across his
chest. Dark eyes challenged her. “Be my guest, madam.”

But his grin was infectious, and
even mock anger could not be sustained. Maeve thrust her hand up, shot him an
obscene gesture that was challenging of its own accord, and without waiting for
his reaction, turned and made a clean, perfect, dolphin dive, allowing him a
taunting glimpse of her bare backside before the sea swallowed her up.

Behind her came the splashing
thunder of roiling water, and with a swift kick, she angled her body down,
down, down, swimming with sure, easy strokes, and unable to see a thing in the
darkness. But she knew every finger of coral, every bed of seaweed in this bay;
knew them as well as she did every spar and line and gun aboard Kestrel.
Hands spread before her, her hair streaming sensuously against her spine and
backside, she felt her way over sharp ridges of coral and out into deeper
water. Then she kicked her legs and angled upward, breaking the surface thirty
feet from Kestrel's dark hull.

Treading water and breathing hard,
she blinked the salt from her eyes and felt the night wind sighing over her wet
hair and face.

Her pirate was nowhere to be seen.

A shiver danced through her, and
instinctively, she drew her legs up toward herself, strangely thrilled and
excited and nervous all at once. Although she knew he was down there, in the
darkness, the idea of his grabbing her legs and pulling her under was
unnerving.

She waited.

Nothing.

“Gray?”

Again, nothing. Only the ominous
sigh of the breeze making the palms crackle and hiss.

Maeve took a deep breath and dived,
swimming back toward the beach. Halfway there she paused just beneath the
surface, listening to the underwater sounds. She could hear the muffled thump
of the anchor cable against Kestrel, the distant, high-pitched clicking
of Turlough, and the dreamy, contained rush and swell of the sea.

And nothing else.

Growing nervous, she surfaced.

“Gray?” she called, frantically.

Nothing.

The wind soughed through the trees,
and alarm rose in her breast.

“Gray!”

Panicking, she turned and slammed
right into his chest.

“There ye be, my pretty!”

“Damn you, you scared the living daylights
out of me!”

He roared with laughter and,
yanking her up against his chest, crushed her to him. His mouth drove savagely
against hers; his tongue forced its way between her teeth and dueled with her
own, swirling, tasting, exploring, conquering.

She moaned, sagging against his
hard strength and lost in a rushing flood of erotic sensations . . . Wet skin
against wet skin, sealed by the heat of their bodies; waves lapping around her
waist; the bottom sand giving away beneath her heels and toes; the tropical
breeze against her wet skin.

He broke the kiss and began
nibbling her throat. Her head fell back, offering the pale flesh to his hungry
lips, and she felt his broad hands close around her ribs, her waist, her hips.
He lifted her high, and instinctively her legs wrapped around his torso and she
pulled herself toward him, searching, seeking, wanting.

He laughed in triumph, hooking an
arm behind her nape and tipping her backward until her hair fanned out just
beneath the waves like a dark, undulating mermaid’s pillow. His gaze raked over
her throat, her ripe breasts, bared to the stars like some sacrifice to the
gods; she melted beneath that primal gaze, feeling the currents kissing her
back, swirling over her belly, and probing her womanhood, now shamelessly bared
to the sea’s kisses between her open legs. His hands caressed her breasts,
first one, then the other, until her nipples grew hard and pebbly. He took one,
rolled it gently between his fingers until she was sighing with pleasure; then
he was lifting her, his lips against her breasts, kissing, suckling,
plundering, until they tingled with the combined sensations evoked by wind and
wave, hot mouth and tongue. She gave herself up to the erotic pleasure, her
hand anchoring in his wet hair as his fingers drove downward and underwater, spread
the soft folds of her femininity and slipped inside.

She gave a throaty sigh, helpless
against the building waves of pleasure. “Oh, Gray . . .”

His fingers probed deeper, his
thumb rhythmically stroking the hard bud buried between her folds until she was
gasping for air. She tried to drag herself up but his lips were there, pushing
her back, his arm like a rock behind her shoulders, the heavy wetness of her
hair pulling her head down and back.

“Oh, Gray,” she managed, her breath
coming faster as waves of sensation built within her.

He bent his head, and as the sea
swirled around her breasts, he took one of them into his mouth and suckled her
hard, even as his thumb and fingers continued to massage her beneath the warm
water.  Oh, heavens, oh, sweet torture, oh . . . oh . . .

With a cry, she came against him,
wave after wave of searing pleasure that left her shaken and numb. Then, ever
so slightly he tipped her up, then groaned deep in his throat as her fingers
reached for, then closed around, his arousal.

They stayed like that for long
moments, she breathing hard as her spasms finally quieted, he large and hot
within her hand.

Slowly, she ran her thumb over his
swollen head.

“Sweet Neptune,” he gasped, sucking
in his breath as she squeezed and stroked him as mercilessly as he had her. He
went rigid and pulled her back up, but she only increased the pressure, ringing
him with thumb and forefinger until he was groaning, thrusting, gasping.

“Heave to, lass,” he ground out,
through clenched teeth, “heave to, or by God, you’ll have me on a lee shore—”

His grip on her slipped, and he
almost dropped her. Mercilessly, she let her thumb rove over the velvety tip of
his shaft until his head fell forward, his breath warmed her shoulder, and in
her hand, he began to quiver, to throb. . .

“By all that’s holy, woman—belay
this torture, I beg of you—I . . . can’t . . . wait . . . any . . . longer—”

He didn’t allow her to tantalize
him any further. Shoving forward, he plunged himself deeply into her soft,
welcoming recesses, groaning with pleasure and dropping fevered kisses on her
neck, her cheek. She felt him stumble beneath her, recover, gain his rhythm,
then his pace, as he began to pump savagely, almost angrily, into her, the
movements oddly slowed, deliciously thickened, by the dragging pull of tide and
seawater and current.

She met each hard thrust with blind
abandon. Her nails bit into his wet back, her arms clung fiercely to his neck,
and still he strained, pumping, slamming, driving himself harder and harder,
deeper and deeper, until the gathering waves began to build, to pulse, to soar,
to come together with an explosive, blinding violence once more.

The force of it rocked him like a
ship’s broadside even as she closed around him, cried out, and began to climax.
He drove into her, wanting only to make it lasting and beautiful for her.

“Gray,” she cried, gasping, “Oh, Gray!”

She lost herself to him, crying out
as wave after wave tore through her until at last she lay spent and drained
against him, his big, strong arms tight around her back, the sea swirling around
their hot flesh. He shut his eyes and held her, lovingly, tenderly, loath to
let her go, loath to do what he now knew he must.

Betray her.

For as much as he desperately
wanted to, he could not trust her enough to tell her the truth about himself.
She was, after all, a pirate, and despite his own intuition about where her
loyalties would lie, he could not gamble the fate of his country on it.

His heart ached.

“Duty,” Nelson had once told
him, “is the great business of a sea officer. All private considerations
must give way to it, however painful it is.”

His hand drove upward, tangled in
her wet hair and pressed her head against his chest. His heart was hammering,
and he wondered if she could sense the inner turmoil there, the angst and the
agony, if she could see into his mind and know what he was thinking, plotting,
planning—dreading. But no. Her legs tightened around his torso, her arms around
his neck, and he felt a gentle, feathery sensation against his nape, then his
earlobe.

He shut his eyes, his lips a grim
slash of pain.

“You are everything I ever hoped
for in a Gallant Knight,” she murmured. “You may be a pirate but I would not
change anything about you.”

God help me, he thought,
sick at heart. Why had he ever let himself seduce her, be seduced by her?
But he hadn't counted on her sudden change of plans to keep him here. What else
could he do?

He stared bleakly out at the darkened
schooner, thinking himself the most wretched of creatures. Get it over with.
Gray, he thought. Get it over with now.

He couldn’t.

But there was Nelson. There was
Villeneuve. There was his country.

He had no choice.

She pulled back, her eyes reverent
and adoring as she gazed up at him. Harden up, man. But doing so was the
most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Do you believe, Gray . . . that we
could ever have a future together? That you could ever lo—I mean, have feelings
for—a hardened pirate queen like me?”

He looked at her and forced a smile
that tore at the deepest part of his heart. “You mean, love you?”

She looked away afraid and unable
to meet his gaze and face a possible rejection. “Aye.”

“I am already in love with you,
Maeve,” he murmured, steeling himself. “. . . Though I can’t say my mistress on
Barbados will be very happy about it. . . .”

He caught himself, trailing off as
though he hadn’t made the mistake on purpose. If he could have spared her, if
he could have afforded to take the gamble of confiding the truth to her, if he
could have lain down and died—he would have.

But he couldn’t. All he could do was
wait for his deliberately cruel words to pierce her to the very center of her
heart and bring about the effect he desperately needed.

Her lips froze against the side of
his jaw; then, she pulled back as if stunned, as if someone had just slapped
her across the face.

“What did you say?”

He felt himself breaking up inside,
all of his hopes, his dreams, falling to his feet like a shower of lifeless
ashes. She was everything he’d ever wanted; she had trusted him, and now he had
to betray her.

And desert her.

His throat constricted and the
blood ran cold through his veins, sieved through his heart like ice water. If
only he hadn’t seduced her, begun to fall in love with her . . . but dear God, she
'd said she was taking him to Nelson! He hadn’t thought she’d end up wanting to
keep him here . . .

“Gray—” her voice was a bare
whisper. “Did you say what I think you just said?”

“’Twas nothing, madam,” he said
lamely, and looked away, as though unable to meet those stricken, shocked eyes.
“Merely a slip of the tongue . . .”

“A slip of the tongue?” She
stared at him, her face paling to white in the darkness. Already, she was
pulling away. Already, the fragile threads of trust and hope had been severed,
irretrievably broken. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Gray?”

He shrugged. “All men keep
mistresses,” he said, blithely.

“Well, I hope to God you don’t still
intend to keep one after”—smudges of color stained her white cheeks—“. . .
after this!”

“After what?” he said, with forced
innocence.

She stared at him, disbelieving. “After
. . . making love to me . . .”

“So. What difference does that
make?”

She flinched as if struck, too
dazed by his callousness to find the anger he prayed would come, the anger he
was depending upon to get him off this damned island and back into the service
of his country. “Doesn’t what we just did mean anything to you?”

“Look, Maeve—”

Her voice rose. “Doesn’t it?”

He heard the waves lapping against
the schooner, her schooner, and felt more wretched than he’d ever been
in his life. The night was suddenly too big, too cold, too empty, and it grew
more so as she unfastened her arms from around his neck, slipped down into the
water, and began to put distance between them.

“Look, Maeve,” he began again. “I’m
just a sailor. God knows, I want you, yes, but I”—he steeled himself to utter
the cruel words—“I like variety. You understand, surely?”

She shook her head disbelievingly. “I
can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

Get angry, he thought,
desperately. For God’s sake, don’t make me hurt you more. “Doing what?
There’s nothing wrong with keeping a mistress, most men do . . . Look, if it’ll
make you feel better, I’ll keep my activities with her a secret—”

“How can you be so vile, so
wretched, so cruel? Damn you, I—I trusted you!”

He grinned, although the gesture
cost him another shred of his heart. “Really, my dear, why are you so vexed?
She’s just a dalliance—”

“A dalliance? Is that what you
think of me? A dalliance? ”

“Now, Maeve, darling—”

“Don’t you now Maeve darling
me!” she cried and swung her open palm against his jaw with all the force in
her body.

He stood there and allowed her to
slap him. He saw the fire blazing now in her eyes, hot angry fire that burned
him to the core.

“Did you feed her with pretty
words, too? Did you worm your way into her bed and play her like a violin and
then betray her, too, you slimy bastard? You vicious dog! You deceitful,
cunning, filthy blackguard—”

“Maeve, you’re being
unreasonable,” he said, grabbing both her wrists. Her knee came up, and if not
for the drag of the water, would’ve damaged him beyond repair. “I can’t see
what you’re getting all upset about; it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to
keep a mistress—”

“It’s not acceptable to me!”
she raged, tearing free of his grip. “I knew you were too good to be true! I
knew you couldn’t be what I wanted you to be, what you seemed, no matter what I
wanted to believe! Why the hell didn’t I listen to myself?”

Unexpectedly, her other hand came
up and slammed against the side of his jaw hard enough to make him see stars.
He staggered and she yanked herself free. “Bastard!” she cried. “May you rot in
hell!”

She struck off, not for the shore
as he would have expected but for the schooner, as though it was her only
friend, her only comfort. Shaking his dazed head, he dived after her, but she
had a head start on him, and moments later was scaling the vessel’s side, her
hair streaming down her bare back, her legs flashing white in the darkness. He
was a scant five feet behind her. Lunging upward, he grabbed the rope ladder and
began hauling himself up the side of the ship, the water rushing down his own
naked shoulders, his back, and into the sea.

Her feet pounded hollowly over the
deck above him. “Get away from me, you snake, and get the hell off my
ship!”

She half dived, half fell down the
hatch, just as alarmed voices rang out from the shore.

“Captain?”

Splashes, curses, lights, shouts,
and from the beach, the crack of a pistol, shattering the night.

Gray lunged over the gunwales and
onto the deck.

He had no time to survey the double
rows of guns, no time to admire the neat readiness in which she kept her
vessel, no time to examine this singular little warship from up close, for at that
moment his quarry came flying up from the hatch, a blunderbuss in her hands and
pointed straight at him.

She fired.

The explosion blew the night apart,
brilliant orange-and-blue flames roiling from the lock and a split-second
later, the barrel. How she missed him at such close range Gray never knew, and
he had no time to ponder it as he dived for cover, landed on his elbows, and
crashed heavily against the stout carriage of a cannon. His mind screamed with
pain, and then there was nothing but a horde of dark shapes above and around
him, and an array of swords, rapiers, knives, and cutlasses all pointed at his
heart. He rose up on one elbow, cursing under his breath, and supporting
himself with one hand. Someone kicked him in the ribs; someone else slammed a
foot into his shoulder and shoved him onto his stomach with enough force to
knock the air from his lungs. A bare foot drove between his shoulder blades,
and he heard the sounds of a gun being loaded, felt the cold press of its
gaping mouth as the Pirate Queen jabbed the blunderbuss hard into his spine.

He let his forehead rest against
the deck and shut his eyes, his lashes brushing the varnished planking.

From above came an ominous click as
she drew the weapon to half cock, and the tight, choking sounds of her harsh
breathing.

She brought the gun to full cock.

“Don’t, Maeve,” a voice said quietly.
“You’ll regret it.”

“The only thing I regret, Orla,
is—is—that I even l-let this d-d-dog near me.”

The blunderbuss was withdrawn.
Another foot slammed into his ribs.

“Get up.”

Slowly, he did so, acutely aware of
his own bare state. His ribs, his back, his elbow ached, but nothing could
match the anguish in his heart over what he had done, what he had had to
do.

A dozen angry women faced him,
cutlasses drawn, pistols leveled, eyes fierce. Their bold eyes raked his
nakedness and dismissed it with contempt. He saw the small, spritely Irish
woman with the elfin face shielding Maeve’s naked body with a piece of
sailcloth.

Then the tall African stepped
forward, majestic, fierce, angry. The others gathered behind her, watching her.
Her skin was darker than the night, her eyes blazing. She let her gaze roam
contemptuously over his nakedness, but he drew himself proudly up, refusing to
quail beneath the savagery in her eyes.

“Whatever you did to her,” the
woman said in a dark, ugly whisper, “believe me, you’ll pay for it. ” She
jabbed a pistol into his chest and shoved him roughly toward the bow. “Move,”
she ordered, with the authority of a general. Gray obeyed, aware of her eyes
nailing him between his shoulders; he felt the press of her pistol in the small
of his back and knew she would like nothing better than to blow his kidneys
out. Had he gone too far in trying to enrage the pirate queen? Would he pay for
this with his life?

He walked toward the bow and when
he could go no farther, paused, standing straight and tall and silent.

He did not turn to face them.

“On your knees!”

Eyes straight ahead, he muttered, “Go
to hell.”

Her booted foot drove into the back
of his knees. He crumpled, falling against the windlass and gritting his teeth
against the pain. One of the pirates held a cutlass against his throat, and
unable to move, he could only lie helpless as they lashed him so tightly to one
of the bow chasers that blood rose from his wrists and trickled down his arms.
Someone hurled his clothing, picked up from the beach, at him. Then they stood
back, and Gray, grimacing in pain, looked up to see the Pirate Queen standing
above him.

She had dressed. Trousers, a loose
shirt, a leather vest, and a cutlass completed her attire. Her hair was wild,
her eyes blazing with hatred and betrayal.

“Bastard,” she snarled.

He waited. Silence all around as
she contemplated his fate.

One of the two little Irish sisters
tugged at her sleeve. “What are you going to do with him, Majesty?”

“What I should’ve done from
the very first, feed him piece by piece to the fish. But I will take him to
Nelson and let him do the honors.”

She stared down at him. Then she
turned away, calling for the anchor to be weighed and leaving him to his own
misery.

Take him to Nelson.

He’d gotten what he wanted. But it
was a hollow triumph, and as the anchor came in and he lay soaking in the brine
and seawater the incoming cable brought with it, he could only wonder if such a
victory had been worth the price.

Chapter 12

Draped with a blanket, his small
fist curled around the miniature that hung slackly from his neck, the exhausted
admiral lay in his swinging cot, dreaming.

The mighty, thirty-five-hundred-ton
Victory swung gently beneath him, the tallest of her three masts reaching
two hundred feet into the heavens to scrape at the twinkling stars, her massive
decks piled tier upon tier above a waterline that lay stories beneath her poop
deck. But her admiral was no longer the debt-plagued, guilt-ridden, haggard
hero, hope of a nation and pride of a navy; he was the intrepid,
twenty-three-year-old captain of the dashing frigate Albemarle,
and he still had both his arms, the sight in both his eyes, and a terrified new
midshipman who was balking at a lieutenant’s orders to go aloft.

They were in the North Sea and the
lad, thirteen years old and the newest addition to that cheeky group, stood
huddled in the shadow of the mainmast, his expression miserable, his mouth a
taut slash of terror in a face that was pale with seasickness. He was trying in
vain to look brave in front of his peers, but it was a blustery day, with a
fast-running sea and a stiff wind to make the twenty-eight-gun frigate jump and
lunge like a racehorse. Captain Nelson glanced at the new midshipman, the
youngest of his “children,” as he liked to call them, and took pity on him.

The poor lad. This one was too
tall, even, to huddle. Cheerfully swinging his spyglass, he walked up to the
wretched boy and touched his shoulder. “Such a woeful face, my fine fellow!
Might I ask the cause for it?”

The boy’s throat worked and he
turned frightened blue eyes upon his captain. Tears swam there, but his jaw,
too young to even meet a razor, came up and his eye never wavered. “Homesick,
sir. And . . . and—” Admitting fear of going aloft, of course, was not a manly
thing to do. And poor little Gray, fresh from the weepy good-byes of six
adoring sisters and his parents, in his very first ship on his very first
voyage, was trying very hard to act like a man.

Tall, gawky, and all arms and legs,
he towered over his captain by at least a head. Nevertheless, Nelson placed his
body in front of the wretched boy’s and turned him so that his tears would be
shielded from the possible malice of the other youths. Gray sniffled and looked
up, his face going paler still at the sight of thick, boiling clouds sailing
above the snapping pennant at the mast.

“I can’t do it, sir,” the young
voice quavered, “I want to but I’m”—he looked away, his features flushed with
shame—“I’m scared.”

Nelson smiled. “Well now, my good
fellow! I would not ask you to do anything that I wouldn’t instantly do myself.
What do you say we go up together?” He grinned, pretending that he had only
just hit upon this idea of challenging a young recruit to go aloft when in fact
it was a method that he often employed, and with unfailing success. “We shall
call it a race. Yes, a race! Whoever gets to the top first, wins.”

The boy’s dark eyes widened. “But
sir . . . you’re the captain! You’re not supposed to climb aloft!”

“What I am supposed to do,
my good man, is my business. Now, do we have a race or do we not?”

The lad stared at him.

“Well?”

The lad gazed up at the tall masts,
the bulging sails, the streaming, snapping pennants. “Sir . . . do you think
that pirates”—he said the word with awe, and a peculiar reverence—“used
to go aloft very much?”

An odd question, Nelson thought,
taken slightly aback. He pursed his lips and gave the matter some thought. “Indeed,
young man, I’m sure they did.”

The lad reflected on this for a
moment, obviously torn between the challenge his captain had issued and his own
fear of those dizzying, swaying heights. The dark blue gaze, determined now,
swung to Nelson’s once more. “Very well then, sir,” he said solemnly. “I will
race you . . . But would you mind very much if we took the mainmast?”

Nelson raised a brow. “The
mainmast, my good fellow? And why is that?”

“It’s the tallest of the three,
sir. If I’m going to go aloft, I should wish to defeat the strongest enemy
first. Then, the others will seem insignificant in comparison.”

Nelson, infinitely pleased, threw
back his head with rare laughter and clapped the boy between his sharp, angular
shoulders. “Very well then, Gray, the mainmast it shall be!” He gave his sword
to a lieutenant, slung his telescope over his shoulder, and strode to the lee
side, his body easily absorbing the roll of the deck. “Ready, young man?”

From the weather shrouds—safer and
easier to climb in a stiff wind than the lee shrouds Nelson had discreetly
chosen—the lad faced him, pale-faced and terrified but determined to measure up
to the proud uniform he wore. “Aye, sir. I am ready.”

“Well then, let us be about it!”

Nelson vaulted atop the gunwales
and seized the tarred shrouds. Cheers erupted from the deck below, for him, for
his determined opponent, and hand over hand he climbed, his watchful, paternal
eye on the youth ascending the shrouds, some thirty feet away and directly
opposite him. The boy’s smart uniform was already streaked with tar, his unruly
black hair standing out like wings beneath his hat. They climbed higher, and
the wind got stiffer, colder, biting through Nelson’s uniform and chilling him
to the bone. The boy was still with him. Nelson slowed, pretending to tire, for
it would not do to arrive at the maintop before his young protégé. They lost each
other behind the great maincourse, then emerged above its yard; calling
encouragement, and now so high above the plunging deck that the steeply angled
shrouds were nearly apexed, Nelson glanced down. Sure enough, there was the
customary sea of upturned faces, drifting in and out of the shadows of clouds.

He glanced to windward and paused,
pretending to wipe nonexistent sweat from his brow. The boy was almost there . .
. A few more feet . . .

And then—

“Beat you!” the lad yelled
triumphantly, scrambling through the futtocks and appearing in the maintop just
above him. Nelson clapped his hat firmly down and tilted his head back,
hard-pressed to conceal his own grin of triumph. The youth’s face was flushed
with pride, and he was breathing hard; but he had conquered his fear and made
the climb, and for Nelson, that was all that mattered.

“So you did, young man!” he
exclaimed, laughing, and pulled himself up to sit beside his happy charge. “By
God, I am only ten years your senior, yet you make me feel like an old man! Huzzah
for you, my good fellow, I am thoroughly embarrassed!”

In effect, he was thoroughly pleased,
and proud.

“Thank you, sir! You were right,
there is nothing to it!”

“Indeed, young fellow. How a person
must be pitied who fancies there is any danger in making the attempt!”

Moments later, the lad was on his
way back to the deck, where he was met by a triumphant circle of grinning peers
who clapped him on the back, punched him in the shoulder, and huzzahed him to
the sky . . .

The memory faded, the years folded
beneath themselves, and other remembrances drifted into the admiral’s dreaming
mind . . . Gray, no longer a tall and gawky midshipman, but a lean young man,
glowing with triumph after passing his lieutenant’s exam . . . Gray, now in the
bright new uniform of a post-captain, bursting with ambition and pride as he
escorted Captain Nelson on a tour of his own first command . . . Gray, in
trouble over a scandal with an admiral’s wife and fighting a duel not with
pistols but with cutlasses—cutlasses!—but sir, they're what pirates would’ve
used! . . . Gray, wounded at St. Vincent . . . Gray, now one of Nelson’s
famous Band of Brothers, snugging his two-decker alongside a Frenchman and
pounding the stuffing out of her as the sun set on the glorious Battle of the Nile.
. .

Memories.

Nelson saw a commodore’s flag grace
his protege’s mast now, saw him knighted for his bravery at the Nile, saw him
transferred to the West Indies Station . . . and hadn’t seen him since.

What would he see when the Pirate
Queen brought that same man to him?

Horatio Nelson sighed softly in his
sleep, his never-resting mind moving as swiftly in his dreams as it did when he
was awake . . . to annihilating Napoleon’s fleet . . . to retirement at Merton,
his home . . . to Emma, dear, beloved Emma! . . . to Horatia, his sweet little
daughter . . .

Emma . . .

A hand touched his shoulder and he
jerked awake. He looked up and saw the Pirate Queen.

“Good evening, milord.”

“By God, how did you get in
here?!” he cried, bolting up in the cot and shielding himself with the blanket.

“Not by invitation, I can assure
you.” She moved away, allowing him time to recover, and stood quietly in the
shadows, her back toward him. She was dressed pirate-style, in a purple gown
clewed up at the hips to permit free movement, and a choker of sharks’ teeth
ringing her lovely throat. She held a cutlass, and he wondered at the strength
this lean woman must possess to wield such a weighty weapon with apparent ease.
“Take your time, milord,” she said, her voice oddly devoid of spirit. “I will
await you in your day cabin.” She sauntered off, quietly, leaving him to stare
after her in shock and puzzlement.

“Madam, this is most unseemly!”
Thank God he was in his nightshirt. “I do not allow women aboard this vessel; I
made a solemn vow to my dear Lady Hamilton that I would not—”

“Milord.” She turned then, a stray
beam of moonlight from the distant windows slanting across her face. In the
dusky gloom he saw that her eyes were haunted with pain, her mouth tight and
unsmiling. “I did not come here to try to steal you away from your precious
Emma. So please, do not distress yourself. I only bring you your traitor, as
promised.”

“My traitor? What traitor? . . .
Oh, yes, my traitor, that traitor!” Fumbling in the gloom, he fastened
his breeches, the act taking twice as long as it might have had he two hands
instead of one.“And here I thought you had news of Veal-noove, you
don’t, do you? Oh, please, tell me you do, I was a fool, a fool for
disregarding your word before; oh, never mind, I will catch up with him and
when I do I will thrash him soundly!” Nelson hurried out into the huge and
shadowy dining cabin. “Where is my traitor, madam? I don’t see him!”

“Still on my schooner. My
second-in-command is having an argument with your officer of the watch about
bringing him aboard. Pardon my unseemly intrusion, milord, but I thought I
would personally prevail upon you to set the matter straight.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course!” Nelson
cried, in high excitement and agitation. He threw himself into a chair and
tugged his shoes on over his feet, but when he went to don his frock coat,
emblazoned with ribbons, orders, and stars, he gave a helpless exclamation of
dismay and, peevishly, flung it over the sofa.

Maeve looked at the coat, and with
a rather distant look in her eye, murmured, “Surely, a traitor is not deserving
of such respectful dress, milord.”

“He is not just a—oh, can I tell
you? Can I? No, never mind, now is not the time and if he wanted you to
know, he would have told you, such is not my business and I will not interfere,
but oh, my heart, my head, what this does to me! I am in a fever, a turmoil—by
God, where is my servant? Damnation, there are some things a one-armed man
simply cannot do—”

“Milord?”

He came up short in the middle of
his tirade and glared at her. She thought of how he’d been just minutes ago,
asleep in his cot, legs drawn up to his chest and his one hand curled around
the miniature of Emma Hamilton like a child with a favorite toy. How oddly
vulnerable he had looked.

And how sad it was that he, the one
man, the only man, who’d been able to stop the dreaded Napoleon
Bonaparte, couldn’t even put on his own coat.

She put out a hand, deliberately
touching his severed stump through the empty shirtsleeve. Bleak eyes turned to
her, brimming with pride, defiance, anger, and humiliation.

She smiled, for the first time. “I’d
be honored, sir, if you would let me assist you.”

“I cannot, my dear Lady Hamilton—”

“—would probably be grateful for
this small favor to you . . . and England.”

He stared at her, fighting an inner
battle of conscience and need. Finally, his spine went stiff and wordlessly, he
thrust the coat into her hands.

The minute her fingers touched it,
Maeve was jolted by an awful, sweeping premonition of violent death. She gasped
and dropped the coat as if it had burned her, then, red-faced under the admiral’s
piercing, eagle-eyed stare, picked it up off the deck. She was shaking. It was
only a coat, a blue coat with white lining and gold lace and decorations of
valor. God, it was the orders, the stars! that the sniper would see to
target the admiral for death. It was all she could do not to heave the coat out
Victory’s stern windows and into the sea. Her hands trembling, she held
it out while Nelson turned his back to her and slipped his arm into the sleeve,
then tossed his proud shoulders to settle the coat snugly in place. Murmuring
an embarrassed thank-you under his breath, he stole a guilty glance toward the
pastel portrait of Emma Hamilton that hung on the bulkhead.

“My being here,” Maeve said,
ignoring his long-suffering look as she straightened the tasseled epaulets atop
his stiff, erect shoulders, “is merely to return the traitor to you. Surely,
your Emma will forgive you my assistance in such a noble matter.”

Nelson stared at her, amazed that
she had read his mind, astounded at the education and upbringing reflected in
her speech. But no. Captain Colin Lord—her cousin, by God—had told him
all about her, this proud daughter of a New England hero. She was no mere
pirate, but a misguided young girl who had run away from home and had likely
learned some very harsh lessons in her life.

“I know what you’re thinking,
milord,” she said quietly, “but no, I cannot read minds, only predict the future
with occasional frequency.”

She smiled then, a sad, lonely
smile that was instantly quelled by a tightening of her lips and a quick
blinking of her eyes. If her demeanor wasn’t so fierce, he would’ve sworn she
was, or had been, crying. He frowned, his brows lowering, as he considered that
Gray might be the source of those tears. “Come, milord,” she said, tugging at
his empty sleeve. “Let’s get this unpleasant matter over with. The sooner this
bast—I beg your pardon, the sooner this traitor— is out of my sight and
delivered into your justice, the happier I’ll be.”

She strode toward the door, her
spine stiff with pride, her hair tumbling down her back in tangled glory.

“Wait.”

She paused, and he saw her pass a
knuckle under one eye, then the other, hastily, in the hope he wouldn’t notice.
His suspicions burned like acid in his breast and he fixed her with his most
penetrating glare. “Has this traitor hurt you, madam?”

Her chin jerked up and she gave a
defiant, unconvincing hoot of laughter. “Hurt me? No one can hurt me, milord, I
passed beyond that realm of feeling long ago. Now do you want him or
not?”

He guessed that Gray had indeed done
something to hurt her, and Nelson, who was well aware of that rogue’s
philandering ways, had a damned good inkling of just what it had been. His jaw
went tight and fuming, he turned, fumbling in his desk. “Payment,” he snapped,
unable to keep his anger with his former midshipman from his voice, “you must
have payment for rendering this service to my country—”

“Keep your money, Admiral. I do not
want it.”

“No, no, I must insist—”

“Please.” She held up her hand. “The
only payment I expect is for you to take him off my hands. I hope to God I
never set eyes on him again.”

She opened the door. A marine stood
outside, and he gaped at the sight of her, made as if to grab her arm, and
shrank back at the blistering look she gave him. Head high, the Pirate Queen
strode past him and out of the cabin, leaving Nelson staring after her with no
small degree of dismay and concern.

Damn you, Gray!

Snatching up his hat, the furious
little admiral strode swiftly from the cabin.

Chapter
13

Gray stood on the broad quarterdeck
of H.M.S. Victory, bound at the wrists and watching the schooner melt
off into the night with a wistful, calculating look in his dark eye.

He was going to catch hell for this
one, that was for damned sure. He was wearing snug black breeches. His hair was
wind-tousled and far too long, trailing partway down his back. His feet were
bare, his shirt smeared with blood, his jaw cloaked with a rough mat of black stubble,
and his ear pierced by a very piratical-looking hoop of gold.

It was no way to appear before an
admiral, and he instantly set about deflecting the impending attack. Tearing
his gaze from the sea, aglitter with waves caught in the glow from Victory’s
stern lanterns high above, he turned, met Nelson’s furious gaze—and grinned.

“So, sir. Are you going to hang me
now?”

Nelson’s lips thinned out, his eyes
flashed, but the quick movement of his throat betrayed his emotion. “You ought
to be damned ashamed of yourself!”

“I know.”

“You, a King’s officer and Knight
of the Bath, going about dressed as a goddamned pirate! By God, now
I know why you so desperately wanted the West Indies command, so you could play
out your fantasies and pretend you’re the scourge of the Spanish Main, am I
right?”

“But sir”—Gray’s dark face split in
an innocent grin and he held his wrists out so that a midshipman, at Nelson’s
impatient beckoning, could cut him loose—“I am the scourge of the Spanish
Main. Ask any lady in the Indies and she will tell you so.”

Their eyes met. Nelson swallowed,
hard. Gray’s grin faded. The years fell away, and they were again as they had
once been, as they had always been. Gray saw the emotion in Nelson’s eyes,
emotion he had never been able nor willing to hide, emotion that even here, on
the decks of the mighty Victory in full view of Hardy, his lieutenants,
and several hundred watching men, he was not ashamed to show. His throat
worked, and, as though not trusting himself to speak, he reached up, put his
hand on Gray’s shoulder—and embraced him.

Then he drew back and, turning
smartly, beckoned Gray to follow.

The crew watched them go, their
famous admiral and the dark pirate, both radiating the power of command but so
drastically different from each other in appearance and manner as to make the
crew exchange excited whispers, comments, and speculations. Who was this
mysterious stranger brought to them by a comely pirate wench? Who was he that
he could address their beloved admiral as though the two stood on common
ground? Who was he that their poor Nelson had nearly wept upon embracing him?

Hundreds of eyes flashed to Captain
Hardy, whose face was shadowed from the glow of the deck lanterns by the brim
of his hat. Hardy knew. They could tell just by the way he suddenly looked down
and scuffed his toe against Victory's deck planking. Then he glanced up
and, frowning, barked out an order to trim the main course.

###

Gray, walking with the easy grace
of a man long accustomed to the sea, followed the stiff-backed admiral down the
hatch and to his cabin. He was no stranger to ships-of-the-line, and his eyes
glowed as he admired Victory’s gleaming paintwork, her neat rows of
guns, the detail and workmanship that had gone into every beam, every carving,
every turn of wood that made her the formidable machine of war that she was.
Magnificently beautiful, the proud first rate was the best the Royal Navy had
to offer its most famous admiral, and Gray felt a warm glow of approval on
behalf of his friend and mentor.

“Victory,” Gray said softly,
running his fingers over a paneled bulkhead. “It’s about time she wore your
flag.”

Nelson paused outside his cabin. “Yes,
and she will be the one to carry me to triumph and immortality.” He
impaled Gray with a penetrating stare that was zealous, determined, and
defiant. “Mark me on that.”

Gray smiled sadly. “Let us hope,
sir, for your sake and our country’s that such a fate does not come about too
soon.”

Nelson shrugged. “I am in debt. My
body is a shattered and pitiful carcass. I am racked by guilt, grief,
persistent spasms in my chest, and God knows what else. Far better to be done
in by a Frenchman’s guns than my own poor health. After you, Gray.”

Nelson. Ever the fatalist, ever the
romantic, still expecting to die in every battle and live forever as the immortal
savior of his beloved country. Gray wondered if he still kept his coffin—carved
from the mainmast of the French flagship he’d defeated at the Nile—in his
cabin. Even now he could remember the morbid delight Nelson had taken in
showing off the grim masterpiece to anyone who cared to see it . . .

But no, as they passed through the
palatial dining cabin with its long, mahogany table gleaming beneath the
swinging lanterns, its chairs lined neatly around it, Gray didn’t see the
coffin—though Emma, of course, was in her usual place on the bulkhead. He saw
Nelson’s eyes flash to the portrait and was happy to know the fire still burned
between them.

Gray thought of his last glimpse of
Kestrel, melting into the darkness, and felt pain washing over his
heart.

Nelson waved him toward a chair. “Some
champagne perhaps, after your little excursion?”

“Rum, sir, if you have it.”

“Of course. How could I have
forgotten? Blackbeard’s favorite drink.”

Gray smirked, dropped into a chair
just beneath the black, mirrored row of Victory’s stern windows, and
leaned his head back against the soft padding. Aah, it felt good just to
sit. With assessing eyes, he watched his friend pour the drinks, and
frowned with concern. Nelson’s hand was shaking and he did not look well. The admiral
was pale and wan, his cheeks sunken with stress and his respiration marked by a
persistent, deep-rooted cough. But there was nothing amiss with his stare, and
it was this penetrating eye that he turned on Gray as he handed him his glass
and toasted Emma, King, and Country.

Emma, King, and Country.
Nelson’s three reasons for life, service, going into battle, and, no doubt, for
death. No, his friend had not changed at all. A little older, a lot wearier,
perhaps a bit calmer, but the same obsessions still drove him. Gray lifted the
glass to his lips, let the sweet-harsh liquid burn its way down his throat,
and, with an effusive aaah! to signify his approval, balanced the glass
on his drawn-up knee.

Nelson was staring at him, his eye
shrewd, penetrating, questioning, appraising. Gray’s answering gaze was casual,
patient, relaxed—humorous.

Nelson slammed his glass down atop
the table. “Well?”

“Well what, sir?”

“By God, Gray, just what do you
have to say for yourself?”

So much for pleasantries and
fond reunions, Gray thought, wryly. He draped an arm over the back of the
chair. “Say for myself? Well, to start with—damn, it’s good to see you again
after all these years, sir. You really should come visit more often.”

“Hang it, Gray, you know very well
what I meant! Here’s Bonaparte poised to attack England, Veal-noove and
the combined fleet romping through the West Indies, and you’re off
carousing with Maeve, the Pirate Queen! You know, you put me in the most
distressing position of having to play along with your little game! Do you
thing that makes me feel good in here?” He pounded his fist to his
chest. “Do you think I enjoy having to lie for you? This had better be a damned
good story, Gray!”

Gray smiled, looked heavenward,
and, spreading a hand over his chest, gave a theatrical sigh. “And here, sir, I
thought you’d applaud my cleverness, my shrewdness . . .”

“I will choose whether or not to applaud
it after you explain what you’re doing dressed as a pirate—”

“Making a raid upon a Barbados
beauty,” Gray countered, smoothly.

—”flying a damned Jolly Roger
from a King’s ship—”

“A pirate-aspirant must display a
suitable flag.”

—“and concocting this ridiculous
story about being a traitor, just to fool Captain Lord’s poor cousin!”

Gray sat straight up. “I beg your
pardon?”

“Maeve Merrick, Pirate Queen of the
Caribbean. Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you? Your own flag-captain
didn’t know and he’s been in these waters as long as you’ve been! Don’t look so
damned shocked. She and Captain Lord are cousins.”

Nelson tightened his mouth,
obviously enjoying the fact he had, as usual, the element of surprise.

“Well . . .” Gray raked a hand
through the damp, glossy waves of his hair, his thoughts awhirl. Maeve was
Colin’s cousin? “That is indeed a shock! How did you, sir, of all
people, learn of such a thing?”

“Captain Lord told me. He
recognized her name, and her schooner’s, when she crashed in here several
nights ago and announced she had a deserter she wanted to sell to me! Seems the
girl ran away from home seven years ago and no one’s seen her since. Her
parents have long given her up for dead.  Damn you, Gray, what am I to do with
you?”

Given her up for dead? Gray
felt the shock hit him squarely in the gut. If they’d given her up for dead,
then, contrary to Maeve’s beliefs, they must have been searching for
her! Somehow he had to find her, tell her, take her away from that damned
island and set things aright—not only between Maeve and her parents, but Maeve
and himself.

“Damn it, Gray, I asked you what
I’m to do with you!”

Gray was swift to recover. “If I
could impose upon you, sir, to have Captain Hardy signal Triton—yes, I
saw her sailing in consort with you—so that Colin may come collect me? I have
some important business to oversee, sir, before I go home on leave.”

“How good of you to think of that now.
A convoy to meet and escort back to England, I believe?”

“Aye, if it has not already left.”

“Indeed, it has not. It is anchored
at Barbados, where Captain Young of His Majesty’s frigate Cricket is
waiting, and rather anxiously, I might add, for his commander in chief
to arrive.”

“Young is a patient man,” Gray
said, and absently swirled the rum in his glass. “Besides, what’s another day
or two, eh?”

Nelson exploded. “Damn it, Gray,
must you be so damned blithe? Do you know what angst you have caused me
these past few days, worrying about you, what absolute hell you have put
me through? I swear, you have taken ten years off my life! Men of your rank do not
act out their pirate fantasies and then expect no repercussions from them!”

Gray grinned, embarrassed. “You
know then about my . . . um, acquaintance with Lady Catherine?”

“I know about Lady Catherine, I
know about Mistress Delaney, I know about General Walsingham’s wife, I know
about the Somersby sisters, and I have a feeling I know about Maeve
Merrick! And don’t look so damned surprised,” he added, tartly. “Your faithful
Captain Warner was willing to lie through his teeth to protect what reputation
you have left, but Captain Lord, bless his soul, is honest to a fault. It
distressed him to have to tell me the truth, but tell me he did!”

“Poor Colin. I hope you went easy
on the lad.”

“By God, Gray, how could you
neglect your command when we are in such a state of crisis, of peril?”

Gray’s teasing humor instantly
evaporated. “Sir, I can assure you I have not neglected it. I have
frigates strategically stationed and a suitable squadron patrolling the
Windwards to ensure their safety. Contrary winds, and the fact I was conducting
some business with the governor of Jamaica, kept me damnably ignorant of both
your and Villeneuve’s arrival, who, by God, will have a hard time
causing any trouble in my waters, I can assure you! And as for the
women?” He relaxed, grinning once more. “Why, sir, I am a sailor . . .
with sailorly appetites, I might add. They are nothing but . . . amusements, as
I am to them, and they know it as well as I. Things get boring out here in the
tropics, as you well know.”

“The Pirate Queen did not seem amused.
I hope you intend to bring that poor girl more happiness than it appears you
have already brought her!”

“Have no fear of that,
milord. Following my business with you, and my fleet, I’ll have Colin take me
to her island so I can claim her and rectify the situation immediately.” He raised
his glass and gave a sly grin. “Her days of plundering the Spanish Main are, I
can assure you, about to end.”

“I should damn well hope so,”
Nelson snapped. “Should the Admiralty in London learn of your antics, it’d
be disastrous enough, but if you were to involve yourself with a pirate, they’d
waste no time demanding your resignation regardless of how many laurels your
career boasts.”

“All the more reason to put an end
to Her Majesty’s piratical pursuits, now.”

“Well, for your sake I wish you
luck. I may be going blind, but my sight is not yet so hampered that I missed
the very obvious animosity the lady bears you. If I may offer a suggestion, it
is that you tell her the truth about who you really are.” The feisty little admiral
tightened his lips and shot Gray a condemning look. “A traitor,” he
spat. “I’ve never heard of anything so damned preposterous in my life.”

“Well, caution was in order. Had
she known my real identity, she might’ve sold me off to Villeneuve. I was not
about to take that risk, so I bluffed her into anger, and bringing me to you.
I’m sure that Monsieur Villeneuve is a most gracious host, but I’ve no
desire to partake of French hospitality firsthand, thank you.”

“Yes, as always the dice
fell in your favor.” The admiral sipped his champagne, his sharp gaze studying
Gray over the bold bridge of his nose. His expression was grudging, perhaps
even admiring. “Well, run your command as you wish, Gray, you’re more than
competent, but in future I beg of you, please employ more discretion concerning
your piratical romps. God help you and the Navy should word ever
get back to London.”

“Have no fear of that, milord. My
men are loyal to a fault and rather enjoy the diversion my er, antics,
afford them. They would not dare breathe a word of it. But enough of me. You
did not put three thousand miles under your keel to seek another bout with malaria,
or to pay a mere social call to the commander of the West Indies Station.”
Tossing down his rum, Gray rose from the chair. He refreshed their glasses and
took a seat across from the admiral, his jaunty insouciance gone, and in its
place the focused sharpness that had won him the order of Knight of the Bath,
the accolades of his men, the respect of his peers, the position of high
command that he now so enjoyed. “We have maybe another hour before my captain
arrives? Enough for you to fill me in on what circumstances brought you out of
the Mediterranean and across the Atlantic. Pray, let’s use it to discuss how
we’re going to find this French fleet you have chased three thousand miles into
my waters!”

Their gazes met. The admiral looked
at his companion, so calm, so cool, so utterly at ease with himself and the
situation. The confident officer across the table from him had come far since
that blustery day he’d been a terrified young midshipman. Nelson sat back, and
released a heavy sigh of relief. Then he looked up, and met the steady,
challenging gaze of the man who had once been his student.

The man who was now his peer.

Nelson smiled, feeling his troubles
dropping away into the wind. “I thought you would never ask.”

Chapter 14

Dawn found Kestrel on a
northerly course, the breeze thrumming through reefed topsails and over
spray-flecked decks. Her crew still slept, but Maeve had spent a restless night
on deck, watching the miles widen between her little command and the British
fleet, now a line of twinkling, distant lights stretching along the horizon.
She’d seen the stars go out one by one, and the sky fading from black to indigo
to a deep, brooding gray. By the time the sun hauled itself out of the sea in a
fiery sphere of blazing crimson, Lord Nelson’s mighty force had disappeared
from sight completely.

The admiral, if he had not done so
already, would be rigging the halter from Victory’s lofty foreyard now,
and Gray, she thought sadly, would be standing on deck, waiting for the
Articles of War to be read, waiting for the noose to be placed around his neck,
waiting to die.

She took a deep, shuddering breath
and ripped her gaze from the horizon, empty now and bleak as her heart. She
felt lonely. Deserted. Abandoned. Her teeth bit savagely into her bottom
lip. Do not think of him, she told herself, and gripped the tiller so
hard her fingers went numb. He was a traitor to his country. He was a
traitor to his navy. She swallowed the lump in her throat. He was a
traitor to you.

The wind strengthened. She lashed
the tiller and strode forward, the mild, salty breeze tearing at her tangled
hair and sending it streaming out behind her. She felt it caressing her skin, sending
her clothing rippling against flesh that he had touched, kissed, loved.
She walked faster, as if she could banish the memory, and went forward to haul
over the jib. But as her hands closed around the salt-stiff, thrumming line and
hauled it tight, her gaze fell upon the sad coil of rope nestled in the nook of
the bow, dark with blood that was drying in the fronds of golden hemp.

She shut her eyes, trembling.

Maeve stood there for a moment,
torn and miserable. She glanced around, guiltily, assuring herself the deck was
still empty; then she ducked into the bow, leaned down, and picked up the
bloody rope with which they had bound her pirate lover. Her fingers closed
around it, feeling the blood, his blood, sticky against her hand.

Anguish tore at her throat. Her
fingers bit into the hemp. She raised her arm, pulled it back, and gathered her
strength to fling the bloodied rope far off into the sea.

She couldn’t do it.

Clenching the rope in her fist, she
stormed back to the tiller and stared off over the tossing, brilliant waves.

In another hour Gray—the
traitor—would be dead . . .  thanks to her.

She squeezed the rope until the
harsh fibers pricked her palm. Then she dropped it beside the tiller and wiped
her blood-smeared hand on her skirts. The stain was embedded. She wiped harder,
cursing the stain, cursing him, and fighting to keep her emotions in check. She
flung her hair over her shoulder and turned to haul in the mainsheet, her lean,
muscled arms bringing the boom swinging back to centerline and then arcing out
over her head. Kestrel tilted upright, then onto the opposite tack as
Maeve pushed the tiller over. Spray dashed over the weather bulwarks, streamed
in bright, glistening trails down the varnished deck. Maeve turned to follow Kestrel’s
swirling wake through the lively swells, tracing her course back to the pure,
cloudless horizon . . . to the British fleet . . . to Victory—

And to Gray.

She shut her eyes. She could see
it, even now . . . Lord Nelson, condemning the traitor to death for selling out
to Villeneuve . . . Lord Nelson, standing imperiously on the massive
quarterdeck of Victory as Gray’s lifeless body swung to the roll of the
ship, his black hair moving in a macabre death dance on the wind . . . Lord
Nelson, snapping out the order for the corpse to be cut down and dropped into
the sea with curt finality.

No!

Kestrel hit a swell and
spray dashed over the gunwale and through the weather shrouds, slapping Maeve’s
face, trickling down her cheeks, dampening her tangled hair. Her throat constricting,
she shut her eyes and ran her tongue over her lips, tasting salt water that,
far, far over the horizon, already embraced her Gallant Knight in death.

But no, he was not her
Knight, he was nothing but a scoundrel, a traitor, a rogue!

“I should’ve listened to myself,”
she muttered, and swiped angrily at her eyes with the heel of her hand, her
fingers tightening around the tiller until her knuckles threatened to split. “I
should’ve listened and not let myself open my heart to him! I wanted a
fine and gallant officer for my Knight . . . an officer . . .  like
my father.

More spray dashed against her face,
trickling down her brow, her cheeks, her lips.

“I should’ve known better than to
accept anything less than the real thing.” She picked up the blood-soaked rope
and drove her short nails into it, feeling the hemp stabbing painfully into the
quicks. “Oh . . . what am I to do?”

Go back for him.

But no, it was too late. He would
be dead by now, and she had killed him.

“Captain?”

Her head jerked up, and she saw
Orla standing there with a tankard of coffee in her hand. Maeve dropped the
bloodstained rope and swiftly kicked it aside, her face flaming.

“Are you all right?” Orla asked,
handing her the coffee.

“Of course I’m all right. Why the
hell shouldn’t I be?”

Black eyes met gold. “I’m sorry,
Maeve, about the pirate.”

“Yes, well. . .” Maeve’s foot drove
against the rope, savagely, desperately, angrily. “He meant nothing to me
anyhow, was just a scoundrel like all the rest. By now he’s probably naught but
a corpse on Nelson’s foreyard and good riddance to him!”

She looked down, pretending to
study the compass and blessing the curtain of chestnut hair that fell, swirling
about her face. She blinked and a fat tear splashed onto the glass. Angrily,
she dashed it away, and, feeling the rope pressing against her toe, finally
shoved it brutally away in a fit of temper.

“Blast it to hell, why did he have
to wash up on my shore?”

Orla watched the proud shoulders
crumple in defeat, saw the tears that leaked silently from beneath Maeve’s
clenched fingers. Quietly, she took the tiller and corrected the schooner’s
course, then reached out to put her arm around her captain’s shoulders, hugging
her in friendship and understanding.

“Such things are not always ours to
decide, Maeve.”

“I killed him, Orla.”

Orla bit her lip, her eyes tragic.

“I should have been more forgiving!”

“You did not cause him to
desert the Royal Navy,” the other woman gently reminded her. “And if Nelson has
executed your pirate, that was his decision, not yours.”

“I know but—” She shook her head,
recovering, and dashing the tears from her eyes. “Oh, blast it all! Put the
damned ship about, I’m going back.”

“It’s probably too late, Maeve.”

“I don’t bloody well care, I’m
going back!”

“Captain!”

It was Aisling, racing up from the
hatch, barefoot and waving a straw hat.

Maeve spun around. “Hell’s teeth,
Aisling, you scared the bleeding devil out of me—”

‘Captain, I went into your cabin to
steal a piece of paper—you don’t mind, do you?—and I looked out the windows and
guess what I saw?”

But before Maeve could vent her
irritable response, Aisling was excitedly pointing to the cluster of islands in
the distance, mere splotches of purple and green crowning a turquoise sea. “Look!”
The girl thrust a spyglass into her hand, and jumped up and down in excitement.
“See? A merchant ship, Captain! Crippled and ripe for the plucking!”

Maeve put the glass to her eye.
Distant reefs, no more than purple smudges on a ruffled, blue-green sea, filled
the spherical field. Waves paraded toward her, disappeared beneath the bottom
edge of the glass. The shoreline of an island hove into view, a glittering expanse
of blinding white sand crowned with fringed palm and pine. Beneath her feet, Kestrel
surged up, surged down—Maeve steadied the glass against the pit of her shoulder
and looked to see the fat merchantman Aisling had sighted.

“D’you see it. Captain?”

Oh, she saw it all right. A
merchant ship, hove to in the lee of a tiny island, with a black flag of pirate
ownership streaming from the only one of its three masts to still remain
standing. El Perro Negro's flag, she thought, on a note of savage,
reckless malevolence. The merchantman was obviously his prize. But The Black
Dog's infamous brig itself was nowhere to be seen, and the big merchantman,
conquered, crippled, and shot through with holes, was unguarded and as
vulnerable as a sheep that had strayed from its flock and now found itself
facing a lone and ruthless wolf.

The Pirate Queen’s eyes narrowed,
and her lips curved in a dark smile. El Perro Negro. Her rival, her enemy, one
of the vilest pirates ever to sail the Caribbean; their hatred of each other
was mutual and deep, seeded the night Maeve had found his skulking brother
raping a helpless young barmaid in a Barbados tavern while a hundred men
cheered him on. Her own shouted challenge, a quick fight between cutlasses, and
Maeve had run the scoundrel through, inheriting both the barmaid as a
crewmember, and the lasting enmity of el Perro Negro.

“You have damned good eyes, girl,”
she said, slamming the glass back into Aisling’s hand just as her crew came
running up from below.

“Don’t I?” Aisling grinned, her
face bright in the sunshine. “Enolia tells me that all the time! Are we going
after her, Captain? Are we?”

“Aye, let’s steal her from the
bleeding bastard before he comes back!” cried Tia.

“Then skewer him to his own
gunwales and feed him his guts on a fork!”

Maeve threw back her head and gave
a hearty guffaw. But then she thought of Gray—wickedly sinful, darkly
handsome—Gray, and the dreams she’d had of plundering the seas with him at her
side. What a thrill it would’ve been to have him with her now . . .

But no. Gray was dead.

Her laughter died abruptly, to be
replaced by a raw, choking ache that manifested in a blind need to fight, to
maul, to steal, to kill—

“Shall we go after her, Captain?”
Aisling prompted.

“Aye, why not?” she muttered,
buckling on her sword belt and flinging her ponytail over her shoulder. She
drew her cutlass and flexed her arm, letting the blade sing through the air
with quick, vicious strokes. “I’m in the mood for a good fight. Now, aloft with
you, Aisling, and give a holler if you see el Perro Negro’s brig returning.
We’re going in.”

Grabbing a pistol, the girl bounded
up the shrouds and soon appeared in the crosstrees, a slight figure stamped
against the mast, a network of angled lines, and a cerulean sky devoid of
cloud.

“Your orders, Captain?” Enolia
asked, as the crew ran to their guns and sail stations.

“Run up the flag, and ready about,”
Maeve commanded, and a moment later, the little schooner was coming across the
wind, her long bowsprit aligning on the crippled merchantman.

###

“Ship comin’ around the island, an’
closin’ fast. It’s the Pirate Queen!”

El Perro Negro's brig was well-hidden
behind the pines of the island’s headland, and with the blazing sun behind it,
there was little chance of Kestrel's sharp-eyed lookouts spotting the
ship. But his men had no such encumbrances—and had certainly seen Kestrel
the moment the schooner had come into view.

Now, in the wake of the lookout’s
shouted warning, el Perro Negro’s crew—a scanty one, what with the fact that
half of them had been left aboard the crippled merchantman until they could
return with enough men to sail both ships back to port—raced to the rail.

“She’s after our merchantman prize,
I’ll wager,” snarled Renaldo, the first mate. He smashed a fist against the
rail. “The bitch!”

“Well, she ain’t going to get it!
That whoring slut owes me. In fact, I think I’ll add her pretty schooner to my
collection, as I’m feeling the need to play admiral today.” Stuffing a
fistful of half-cooked chicken into his mouth, el Perro Negro wiped a hand
across the back of his lips and belched, dispelling fumes of rum and stomach
rot. “Given that we have such an abundance of almirantes in these waters
lately, that is. Get the tops’ls up, Renaldo, triple shot the guns, and put a
fire under your ass, I’m in no mood to tarry, ye hear me?”

The ship hit a jarring swell and
from belowdecks came an agonized cry.

“What the hell was that?”

‘The merchie’s captain,” the mate
growled, in disgust. “Took a ball in his gut durin’ the fight so we brought him
off the merchie and stuck him below. Ain’t naught but a pup, must be all of
twenty summers by the looks of ’im. But ye know these English—start ’em young,
they do.”

“Kill him then, and put the son of
a bitch out of his misery,” el Perro Negro snarled. “That noise is giving me a
damned headache!”

Renaldo, dagger in hand, went
below, and a moment later the young English captain’s cries of pain crescendoed
into a high scream of agony that abruptly ended. El Perro Negro smiled.
Throat-slitting was Renaldo’s specialty. Well, he had his own specialty, and it
involved blades of a far different order.

The trees of the island still
shielded the Pirate Queen’s ship from his own deck-level eyes, but in a moment
they would burst around the headland and surprise would be theirs. In his
mind’s eye he pictured her schooner, swooping down on the merchantman prize, his
prize, with the wind in her topsails and the spray bursting from her
bows. The Pirate Queen. Trying to take what was his. El Perro Negro spat
a wad of phlegm on the deck and ground it in with his shoe. That thieving puta
would get her due today, by God—

“All done, Capitan,”  Renaldo
said, joining him once more and wiping the flat of his bloody knife on his
trousers.

“ldiota, have Jacky and
Pig-Eye throw him overboard! I don’t want his carcass fouling my decks, ye
hear?” Moments later, the young man’s corpse was hauled topside, blood still
dripping from the slashed throat, the gentle eyes open, staring, accusing. El
Perro Negro spat on the deck once more and turned away as the body was heaved
overboard with all the ceremony of slops into a pig trough.

“Any more trash to be
disposed of, Renaldo?”

“That’s the last of ’em, Capitan.
And if ye ask me, ’tis better off we are for killin’ ’em. Should Admiral
Falconer get wind of this, our asses would be—”

“I didn't ask you, so keep your
damned opinions to yourself.”

“Aye . . . sir.”

“Are the guns ready?”

“Aye, Capitan.”

“Good. Now heave to, and let’s give
Her Majesty time to get her claws into our merchie. I want to catch her
by surprise, away from her own ship and on our prize’s decks.” Thick lips
curved in a black, evil smile. “I never thought I could use a captured merchant
ship as a lure. But without that schooner under her, the Pirate Queen doesn’t
have a chance.”

He ran his tongue over his greasy
lips in anticipation. He’d long had an itch to get his hands on that incredible
schooner—and her notorious lady captain. Thoughts of the latter thought
brought saliva welling into his mouth, and a stiffness to his groin that only hardened
as he watched the schooner’s mastheads, their tips just thrusting above the
tree-tops, come to a slow, graceful stop.

Shouts, calls, gunshots, the boom
of a cannon—she would be boarding the prize, now . . .

“Come on, my pretty,” el Perro
Negro murmured, reaching down to stroke his swelling penis through his
trousers. He thought of her as he’d last seen her, beautiful, savage, standing
proudly at her helm with her hair blowing out around her. The memory alone made
him ache with lust, and he shivered in anticipation of her lying beneath him,
beaten, while he pumped and slammed and drove into her. Soon, he vowed, she’d
be warming his own bed, crying out in passion and pain, yes, pain,
before he plunged a knife into her heart and sent her the way of the dead
English capitan—

From beyond the trees of the island
he heard the boom of another gun, female shrieks of bloodlust and challenge,
the furious shouts of the handful of men he’d left to guard the merchantman,
and now, the distant ring of steel against steel as Maeve Merrick and her band
of she-wolves boarded his captured merchantman. The Pirate Queen, apparently,
was wasting no time.

“The insolence of the bitch!”
Renaldo snarled indignantly. “Doesn’t she realize the Black Dog wouldn’t
stray far from ’is prize?”

“Maybe the bitch wants to be
bred, eh?”

Renaldo’s eyes turned sly. “Aye,
well they don’t call ye the Black Dog for nothin’!”

El Perro Negro threw back his
filthy head and laughed. “Aye, and now, I think, it’s time for this dog to go
a-ruttin’. Ready about, Renaldo, and let’s go in.”

The Spaniard grinned as the brig
fell off into the wind and far beneath him, water began to sing against the
hull. And then he reached down, pulled his pistol from its scabbard, loaded it
with ball and powder—and waited.

###

One salvo from Kestrel's
starboard guns had sent the few men el Perro Negro had left aboard the captured
merchantman scurrying for cover, and, in the ensuing melee, the Pirate Queen
brought her schooner right up to the crippled merchantman, grappled her ship to
it, and, cutlass in hand, led her yelling, whooping, shrieking crew over the
side.

The first man came for her as Maeve
leaped onto the merchantman's deck, and she saw only the black mouth of his
pistol before a ball from Enolia’s own weapon felled him.

“To me, ladies!” she cried, and
whirling, met the next charging shape, a heavy, bearded wretch with sores of
disease clinging about his lips.

She thought of nothing but swinging
her cutlass . . . her daddy . . . revenge upon the fates that had stolen her
happiness . . . and Gray as she whirled to meet her opponent’s savage thrust—

Gray.

The clattering blow sent pain shooting
the length of her arm, but she was strong, lithe, and able; spinning, she
pirouetted, her bare feet light and graceful, the smoke stinging her eyes and
burning her nose. The pirate swung for her. She feinted, and sent her own blade
chopping viciously into his ribs. Blood sprayed up and out, and he fell,
screaming, to the deck. She dived for the next filthy wretch and hacked her
sword against his arm as he tried to jerk a pistol up into her face; it exploded
near the side of her head, numbing her ears, bits of black powder hitting her
cheeks and stinging her eyes.

Gunfire, screams, curses, the
stench of sulfur and sweat, spilt blood and the stink of fear. Back and forth she
swung, blindly, savagely, angrily, the sweat running down her cheeks, the scene
fading into a thick and smoky din through which she caught only glimpses . . .
of Tia, ramming a boarding pike into a pirate’s gut, of Enolia, beating back a
huge wretch with a missing ear, of Aisling and Sorcha fighting back-to-back,
pistols blazing—

A man came for her, his dagger
arcing down toward her shoulder, and he fell as a volley from Lucia’s
blunderbuss caught him in the back. Out of the smoke came another . . . another
. . . another . . .

Gray . . . oh, Gray .
. . Tears now ran freely down her sooty cheeks, and she didn’t care, didn’t
care any more if she lived or died, didn’t give a damn about anything, except
what she had lost.

“CAPTAIN!”

She whirled and saw el Perro Negro
himself charging through the smoke. Instinctively she lunged forward to meet
his attack—and felt her feet go out from under her on the slick and bloodied
deck.

The Pirate Queen went down, and the
last thing she saw before her head cracked against the gunwale was fire,
flashing from his pistol . . .

Then, all went dark.

Chapter 15

Gray had departed for H.M.S. Triton,
leaving Lord Nelson's Mediterranean Fleet, baking under the hot Caribbean sun, to
thread its way north through the jewel-like West Indian islands in a desperate
search for the elusive combined Franco-Spanish fleet. The sea begged tranquility,
but there was no rest for the anxious English admiral who had crossed an ocean
to find—and fight—that missing enemy.

Now, Nelson was pacing his quarterdeck,
thinking of Emma, the coffin he’d left back in London, and the new battle plan
he’d worked up to annihilate that fellow Veal-noove, when a cry
from the masthead broke his obsessed reverie.

“Deck there!”

Captain Hardy stood with the
sailing master at the massive, double-spoked wheel. He glanced at Nelson, took
off his hat to dab at his sweaty brow, and squinting against the blazing glare,
looked aloft. “Report, masthead!”

“Sail closing fast to windward!
It’s a schooner, sir!”

Snapping his fingers, Nelson called
impatiently for the nearest midshipman. He plucked the lad’s spyglass from his
hand and raised it to his good eye, identifying the little vessel at the same
time that Hardy voiced his thoughts.

“It’s the Pirate Queen’s ship—by
God, what happened to it?”

Cursing the milky film that glazed
his sight, Nelson stared hard through the glass until the eye watered in pain
and protest. “She’s been hit, and hit hard,” he said worriedly. “Heave to,
Captain Hardy, and prepare to receive her commander.”

Moments later, the little schooner
was safe in Victory’s lee and swallowed up by her massive shadow. Nelson
strode to the rail and looked down to the deck far beneath him. He saw
shot-torn sail, broken spars, and a mere stump where the topmast had been, not
unlike the useless remains of his right arm.

A fair-haired girl scurried out from
beneath the shadow of the schooner’s torn and flagging mainsail. “Admiral Lord
Nelson! Please, sir, you must help us!”

He grabbed a speaking trumpet from
Hardy and crawled atop one of Victory's massive cannon so he could lean
far out over the nettings. He felt Hardy’s steadying hand on his arm, sensed
the protective press of his officers surrounding him. But before he could respond,
the girl, no more than ten or twelve summers by the look of her, burst into
tears. “Do you have a good surgeon aboard, milord? Our captain’s been hurt and
I think . . . I think she’s dying!”

###

Victory, June 10th, 1805, off  St. Lucia

Dear Captain and Mrs. Merrick:

Lord Nelson paused, pen in hand,
staring at the sheet of vellum on the desk before him. He brushed his chin with
the end of the feather, then jabbed the quill back into the inkwell and began
to scribble.

It is my most woeful duty to
inform you that your daughter, Maeve, has been seriously injured in
hand-to-hand combat with a Spanish pirate. Although you may take comfort in the
knowledge that she fought most gallantly, as of this writing my surgeon is
working desperately to save her life. Should she live, she will remain the
guest of the British Navy until my fleet can return to Europe,
where I will personally ensure that she reaches the safety of England.
It therefore is my wish to—

He paused, pondering Colin Lord’s
words. The young captain had said the girl had run away from home, that her
grieving parents had thought her dead; what if she recovered, and hated him for
his interference in matters between herself and her parents? Nelson shrugged.
The boldest measures were always the safest. He dipped the pen into the inkwell
and continued:

—invite you to Merton, my home
in Surrey, England, where your daughter will be
under the care of Lady Hamilton. Godspeed.

I am, most respectfully,

Nelson and Bronte.

Bronte was the name of the dukedom
given him by the grateful King Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies—it still seemed
odd, sometimes, to use it as part of his signature. Leaving the letter on his
desk, Nelson nodded to the marine who stood guard outside his cabin, and, purposefully
made his way down through the decks.

“Afternoon, milord.”

“Blessings, sir.”

“We’ll catch that bugger Villeneuve
soon, sir, an’ that’s no mistake!”

Nelson nodded in his kind and quiet
away, acknowledging the humble greetings of the seamen who spent their lives
packed like sardines on these crowded gundecks, the sons of England who were
all that stood between Britain and Napoleon’s tyrannical ambitions. He
continued downward. A ship’s boy, carrying a pail, passed him, nodded
reverently, scurried off into the darkness.

“Easy there, young fellow.”

He kept going. He felt the ocean
pounding against Victory's massive timbers, then there was only muffled,
shadowy gloom as he descended down past the waterline and entered the grim
domain of the surgeon.

“Dr. Beatty.”

“Sir.”

“How is your patient?”

“Holding, sir.”

Nelson nodded quietly. The girl had
been bloody and unconscious when Victory’s seamen had carried her aboard
and down to the surgeon’s area, where Dr. Beatty and his mates had spent the
last two hours desperately trying to save her young life.

She was only a girl. Nelson
clenched his fist in helpless rage. Just a girl, by God.

He began to pace, his face anxious
as he passed in and out of the dim glow of a lantern. “Is she going to live,
Beatty?”

“I don’t know, milord. The wound
itself is not serious, as the ball merely pierced her side and went clean
through—but it’s the head injury that concerns me most. Granted, she’s a game
little thing, but one can never tell with these sort of injuries—”

“That is not what I asked you!”
Nelson snapped. “Is she going to live?”

“Prayers, milord, would not do her
any harm.”

Nelson continued to pace. He tried
not to look at her, but the soft fall of red-chestnut hair spilling over the table
beckoned his eye. She was just a girl who had run away from home on the same
day the Battle of the Nile had been fought, a girl who had brought Gray back to
him, a girl who had done the navy a greater service than she might ever know.

A girl who deserved to live.

He went up to her, and stared down
at her face, pale with shock and loss of blood. He had seen death too many
times in his life not to recognize the signs. The shallow, labored breathing.
The faint blue tinge to the lips. The pale, ethereal skin that looked more
fragile than tissue paper.

The girl’s lashes fluttered. He saw
a tear welling up at the corner of one closed eye, seeping out from beneath the
fringe of dark lashes to begin a halting, rolling path down one cheek. Her lips
moved. Another tear followed the first, this one tumbling down the opposite
cheek.

“Milord . . .” Her voice was the
merest whisper, but she knew that he had come, knew that he was there. “Please
. . . don’t leave me. . .”

Something caught in the little
admiral’s throat. He swallowed hard. Then he reached out to take the girl’s
hand.

It was dry, callused . . . cold.

Like death.

“Please . . . don’t leave me,” she
repeated. “I don’t want to die alone . . . ”

“Damn me if I’ll let you,” Admiral
Lord Nelson snapped, and squeezed her hand.

“I tried . . . tried so hard to . .
. survive . . . you’ll tell my father, won’t you? I want him . . . to be proud
of me . . . ”

Nelson’s mouth tightened. He looked
down at the lovely, still face that now, unguarded, looked all of ten years
old, the hair, matted with blood, sweeping in damp, sweaty tumbles off her forehead.

Hardy entered, stooping almost
double to fit beneath the gloomy deckhead beams. The admiral glanced up and
bestowed upon his flag-captain his most penetrating glare. He placed the hand
he held under the blanket and, with an impatient gesture, led Hardy out of the
range of Maeve’s hearing.

“Thomas.”

“Sir?”

“There is a letter lying open on my
desk. Seal it and put it with the rest of the mail to be delivered at the next
landfall we make. And is Triton still within signaling distance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then please dispatch our fastest
frigate to recall her. Tell Captain Colin Lord to bring his admiral back to me,
immediately. The girl is dying, and there is only one man who has a prayer of
saving her. One man who might convince her that life is worth living. One
man, by God, who has the power to command her to live when I cannot!”

Hardy’s eyes searched the anguished
face of the little hero. “Sir?”

But Nelson, tight-mouthed, was
looking at the girl.

“Her pirate,” he said softly. “Rear
Admiral Sir Graham Falconer.”

Chapter 16

H.M.S.Triton’s grandest
cabin did not belong to its captain, but to another, more powerful man, who
outranked not only Colin Lord but the thousands of men in the more than forty
ships that made up the Royal Navy’s West Indies Fleet.

That man sat in the cabin now, a
chart of the Windward Islands spread out before him, the ship’s sailing master
and captain looking over his shoulder and glancing bleakly between themselves.

On a black snarl, Gray shoved the
chart away and sent his fist crashing down on the table. “Bloody hell, that
damned island is not even charted!” he raged, lunging to his feet and
pacing the sunlit chamber with the restless energy of an angry panther. “By my
reckoning it’s near Barbados. Barbados!” He glared at the frightened
sailing master. “You mean to tell me you don’t know of one miserable, stinking
island a stone’s throw from Barbados?”

“Sorry, sir. As you can see, it’s
not on the char—”

“I know it’s not on the damned
chart!” Gray flung up his hands. “Just get out. Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

The hapless officer nodded and beat
a hasty retreat. Colin Lord, however, never flinched. “Really, sir,” he said
calmly, “I’m sure we will find the island.”

“As though I have all the time in
the world! The convoy’s waiting for us at Barbados, assembled and ready to go.
I’m already late; I don’t have time to go looking for uncharted islands!”

Very carefully, Colin said, “No one
said you have to, sir.”

Gray whirled, eyes blazing. He
started to say something, to rebuke his captain for his impudence; then, he
sighed and turned away, raking his hand through his hair. Colin did not deserve
his anger. The sailing master did not deserve his anger. No one did.

“Forgive me, Colin,” he murmured,
and strode to the panoramic stern windows. He rested his hands on the brocaded
bench seat. “I am not myself.”

His gaze moved far out over the
blue sea. In his mind's eye he saw Maeve’s lean body beneath him, her eyes
beautiful and trusting as he entered her and made her his own. Again, he felt
the tender warmth as she’d confided in him, let down her guard, confessed her
fears and hopes and cried for the loss of her family. And again, he felt the
searing, horrible ache at what he’d had to do in order to facilitate his return
to the British Navy.

“If I may speak, sir?”

Gray said nothing, merely looking
down as he traced a pattern on the sunlit brocade with his finger.

“You’re in love with her . . .
aren’t you, sir?”

Gray never moved. He felt the sun
burning hot against his face, his hands, the wind sweeping through the open
windows and playing with his hair. He gazed out to sea once more, and his
shoulders settled with something like defeat beneath the glittering epaulets
that capped them.

“I don’t know, Colin.” He looked
out at the distant horizon. “Maybe. Hell. Yes, I guess I am. Christ.”

The flag-captain’s voice was
steady, reassuring. “We’ll find that island, sir. It may not be on the charts,
but surely, someone in these waters must know of it. In fact, when we arrive at
Barbados—”

The thump of the marine sentry’s
musket just outside interrupted him. Both officers turned. The door opened, and
a young lieutenant stood there, his hat in his hands.

“Mr. Stern’s respects, sir, and one
of Lord Nelson’s frigates is closing fast on us from the north’rd. It’s Amphion.”

“Amphion?” Colin Lord
exchanged a puzzled glance with Gray. “Didn’t Lord Nelson take the Mediterranean
Fleet to Antigua in search of Villeneuve?”

“Aye—but perhaps he has found his
nemesis and requests our assistance . . .”

Colin grabbed his hat. “Excuse me,
sir. I must go topside to receive Amphion's captain.”

Gray sighed and watched the two
officers leave. There was nothing he could do but wait for whatever urgent news
Amphion’s captain had brought.

And think.

You’re in love with her, aren’t
you, sir?

He smiled.

Yes. I guess that maybe I am.

And then he heard the side party
being mustered, the pipes shrilling, footfalls echoing on the deck just outside
his quarters. He sat down at his table, the picture of unruffled calm despite
the turmoil that buffeted his heart from all directions. A moment later, the marine
sentry was rapping his musket against the deck and announcing Captain Sutton of
the frigate Amphion.

“I come with grave news, sir, but
his lordship wanted you to know.” Captain Sutton pulled a sealed missive from
his pocket. “It concerns the Pirate Queen. She’s been hurt and he thought—”

Gray was on his feet and across the
cabin before the startled captain could even hand the missive over. He snatched
it from Sutton’s hand and hastily scanned Nelson’s scribbly words, the blood
draining from his face.

Colin was there, steady and true
and dependable. “Your orders, sir?”

“Put the ship about and lay a
course back toward Antigua.” Gray crumpled the note and shoved it into his
pocket. “Now!”

###

Pain. A dull ache in her head and
fire pulsing in her ribs . . . a sensation of metal digging and poking her flesh
. . . nothing . . . Admiral Nelson’s voice, low and mild and kind, drifting in
. . . drifting out . . . his hand on her wrist. Don't leave me, Admiral .
. . snug pressure around her ribs as a surgeon, yes, he must be a surgeon,
bound them tight, tight, tighter . . . the admiral squeezing her hand . . . please,
milord, don’t abandon me! . . . darkness . . . Daddy—

Gray.

She heard the deep baritone of his
voice as he talked to the admiral and knew then that she was dead, because he
was dead, Lord Nelson had hanged him, she had killed him . . . Killed him.
. . She was hot, so hot, sweating . . . feverish . . . movement . . . being
lifted up, being carried . . . darkness.

Killed him.

Someone plaiting her hair with
gentle, loving fingers . . . Time, passing. Darkness. Voices.

She opened her eyes, but it took
too much effort to keep them open, so she lay there miserably, sweating in the
intense heat and unable to move.

She tried again. Shadows. Light. A
quiet room, lantern light, soft pillows under her head, a light sheet over her body.
Oh, how her head ached. Agony sliced across her ribs with every shallow breath.

Don’t breathe and it won’t hurt.

“Breathe,” a voice commanded, and
that voice was Gray’s.

But Gray was dead. She didn’t want
to breathe. She wanted to sink down, down, down, to where he was . . .
She wanted to give up. She wanted to be with her Knight, her pirate; she wanted
to die.

She stopped breathing.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” A warm palm
cupped her cheek, lips touched her brow. Gray. He wanted her to breathe. He was
ordering her to breathe, and she hadn’t the fight in her to refuse him.
Yes, for him, she would breathe . . . Air moved into her lungs and she whimpered
with the pain of it. Dizziness swept over her and sweat ran down her temples
and into her hair. She felt sick. Spent. Weak as dishwater.

Breathe.

Oh God, it hurt.

Breathe! the voice
commanded, again.

She moved her head, the slightest
fraction of an inch, and felt a damp lock of her hair sliding down over her
brow, over her eye, dragging the lid shut with it. A hand, broad and strong and
tender, was there, brushing it back, the thumb lingering lovingly at her
temple, caressing her cheek.

Someone came into the room. She
heard footsteps, sensed someone looming over her, peeling back the sheet to take
her pulse and check the bandage.

“She may not make it, sir.”

“She damn well will make it
if I have to cross into the hereafter and drag her back!”

Through the slit of one half-opened
eye she saw shapes and shadows and colors. White that was crisp and clean like
fresh snow.  Gold that appeared to be buttons and lace, and blue fabric, lots
of blue fabric. The colors and the buttons were fuzzy, blurred, sharpening now
into distinct lines and folds and patterns—becoming a coat, like Nelson’s.

But the voice was not Nelson’s, it
was Gray’s—and Gray was dead.

“Blast you, is there nothing
more you can do for her, Ryder?”

“No, Sir Graham. With a head
injury, one can never tell the extent of damage until the patient awakens. Nelson’s
surgeon has already done all that man can do. The rest is up to God.”

“Very well then. Kindly leave us.”

Maeve lay still, listening to the
fading footsteps, the perspiration tumbling down her brow, soaking the sheets
beneath her back. She sighed, wishing she had strength to move her head, to
fully open her eyes. She saw one of the buttons on Gray’s coat. That was all.
It was gold, highly polished, with the Royal Navy anchor in raised relief upon
it.

Like Nelson’s.

“But you’re dead,” she whispered.

He didn’t hear her. She wasn’t even
sure she heard the words herself or just merely thought them. She tried to move
her tongue. It was thick, swollen and dry, filling her mouth. She didn’t even
have enough saliva to moisten her lips. Then the sofa moved as Gray stood up.
The button soared heavenward, out of her sight, followed by another, another,
another, all gold, all glittering, all with that same anchor on them. Her head
rolled on the pillow and through the slit of her eye she saw his immaculate
white breeches, the fine, snowy stockings that hugged his calves, a sheathed
sword at his hip, peeping out from beneath long, navy blue coattails.

Behind him, the room. No, not a
room. A ship’s cabin. A very grand ship’s cabin, with a huge cannon
snugged into place, rich furniture arranged in a pleasing fashion, and on the
bulkheads, woodcuts and gilt-framed portraits of fierce men dressed in clothes
that had gone out of fashion long ago, men with savagery in their eyes, men
wielding pistols, cutlasses, swords, men who were—

Pirates?

Her head hurt. It was all too much
to absorb.

She felt his hand against her
cheek, and something hard and slippery touching her lips. A glass. Water. But
she couldn’t move her mouth. She tried to turn her head on the pillow, but
didn’t have the strength. Her eyes slitted open again, and she felt her breath
whispering against his fingers, smelled his clean, male scent, saw the dark
hairs springing up on the back of his hand.

He was sitting with her again. He
touched her mouth, then dipped his finger into the glass, spreading moisture
over her parched lips with the gentle caress of a lover.

If she was dead, then she had gone
to Paradise.

The water was soothing, his
movements slow and infinitely tender. She heard his voice above her head, then
close to her brow.

Felt his lips, touching her
forehead.

“You’re not going to die, Maeve.
You’re not going to die, because I am not going to let you die. Do you
hear me? And if you give up and abandon me, so help me God, I shall
never forgive you.”

Some of the water trickled into her
mouth. Her tongue moved, absorbing it with the thirst of a sponge. She felt
tears gathering in her eyes, in her heart, and wished he would put his arms
around her and tell her she was going to be all right.

I am not going to let you
die.

He touched her jaw, his fingers
warm and strong as he tilted her head up. She felt the rim of the glass against
her lips, and water, no more than a teaspoonful, seeped into her mouth. His
thumb brushed her throat.

“Swallow.”

“I can’t,” she croaked.

“Swallow!”

She tried to turn away but he held
her firmly. Water trickled down her throat and she swallowed, coughed, greedily
tried to take more of it—but he held it back, cruelly, not allowing her any
more.

A wrenching sob broke from her.

She heard the thud of the glass
hitting a table, and then he was embracing her, unabashedly, wholeheartedly,
murmuring gentle words of love and encouragement into her hair. Something
cracked inside her; her own tears came flooding out in force, tumbling down her
cheeks, soaking his fine clothes. She cried because she lacked the strength to
hug him back. She cried because she was dead and so was he. She cried because
he cared so much for her whereas she had abandoned him, turned him over
to Nelson for execution, and she cried because one of those glittering gold
buttons was pressing into her cheek and it hurt.

He rocked her, back and forth, back
and forth, for a long time, just holding her, just stroking her hair until she
quieted. Then he set her back, and she managed to open her eyes. He was looking
at her, and never, in anyone’s face, had she seen such raw anguish, such all-consuming
love.

Not since she had been a little
girl and the apple of her father’s eye, had anyone gazed at her with such tender
adoration—and Maeve did not know how to react to it.

“Maeve, my love . . . I’m sorry.
Everything will be all right . . . You’re safe now. I promise. I’ll not let
anything happen to you . . .  Ever . . .

He laid his palm against her cheek,
cupping it lovingly, tracing its curve, its shape, through the wetness of her
tears. His eyes were dark blue, the exact shade of his coat.

“But you’re . . . dead . . . I'm
dead!” And indeed, she must be, because here she was, dreaming, certainly, with
the man she’d sent to his death sitting on the bed with her and looking for all
the world like someone straight out of the Royal Navy, not just any
someone but an important someone; complete with rich, tasseled epaulets
and stars atop each shoulder; complete with a medal, not just any medal but the
medal of the Nile, hanging from a ribbon around his neck and against that white
waistcoat; complete with—

Earring?

“No,” he murmured, gently, thumbing
her cheek and wiping the tears away. “Not dead.” He bent his head, his glossy
black hair caught at his nape and trailing down his back—no wonder she could
see the earring, but important people in the Royal Navy didn’t wear earrings,
pirates weren’t important, traitors were executed, Gray was dead—

He must have seen the question in
her eyes. He must have read her confusion, for he smiled gently, folded her
hand in his, and raised it to his lips.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he
said softly, looking at her from over the top of her knuckles, “but you see,
Maeve—I am you Gallant Knight after all. I fulfill every blasted one of
your criteria.”

There had been only one that he
hadn’t fulfilled, one miserable, wretched one.

For the first time she realized
just what that uniform—that gilt-laced uniform, the burst of white lace at his
throat, the stiff, high coat collar framing his neck, his jaw—his clean-shaven
jaw—meant.

“This must be my eternal
punishment,” she managed to say as she struggled to raise herself. “To see you
as the man I always dreamed of having and to not be alive to enjoy it.”

He eased her back down and then turned
her palm up, pressing his lips there, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Sweetheart, you are alive. I am
alive. And since I cannot be the pirate I always dreamed of being, I fell in
love with one instead. I am not a traitor, I am not a deserter, and in time I
will explain it all to you. For now, just trust that I am your Gallant
Knight.”  He smiled. “Your officer.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“My friends call me Gray. My men
address me as Sir Graham. And the rest of the world knows me as”—he smiled a
sheepish, charming grin that pushed a dimple into his chin—“Rear Admiral Sir
Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath and Commander of the Leeward Islands
squadron of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station. My flag is hoisted on His
Majesty’s Ship Triton, and we're on our way to Barbados to pick up a
convoy of merchant ships to escort back to England, where I shall enjoy a
long-deserved leave with you as my wife, if you’ll have me, before duty returns
me to my post. Maeve?”

Her eyes were slipping shut.

“Maeve?”

But the shock was too much for her.

The Pirate Queen had fainted.

Chapter 17

Admiral Falconer leaned down, slid
his arms behind her shoulders, and cupping her lolling head in the palm of his
hand, pulled her gently, tenderly, up against his chest. Her hair was soft against
his newly shaven jaw and she felt fragile in his arms, vulnerable. Resting his
cheek atop her hair, he took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and
cursed himself roundly for his impatience in confessing the truth about who he really
was.

It was brutally hot in the cabin,
and her body was a damp, sweat-drenched furnace that made the folds of her
nightshirt cling to her every curve. The feel of her molded so intimately
against himself did nothing to cool his blood. But, wrapped in his cottony nightshirt
with her hair caught in a long braid, she looked more like a little girl than a
hardened sea-queen, and Sir Graham felt only a fierce sense of protectiveness as
he held her so tenderly in his arms.

God, how he had missed her.

But it was no excuse for being
impatient. He could have stripped down to shirt and breeches, if only to lessen
the shock when she awoke. But no. Instead, he'd been so desperate to prove to
her that he did indeed fulfill that final requirement of hers—that of being a heroic
officer—that he'd been thoughtless. He'd been so eager to show her that he was
indeed no deserter, no pirate, but an actual knight, indeed, that he'd sat here
sweating in his finest dress uniform waiting for her to regain her senses.

He had wanted to impress her.

Surprise her.

Instead, he had shocked her into
oblivion.

Such behavior was highly
uncharacteristic of him. He was an admiral, a man who was supposed to display
patience, forethought, intuition, discipline, and purpose. To think he’d
neglected all that in his boyish eagerness to prove himself worthy of her
affection and ideals.

He felt like a wretch.

Well, he would make it up to her.
Somehow, some way. He held her close, smoothing the long braid that hung down
her back and letting his fingers drift to her side, where he could feel the
bandage beneath the thin, damp nightshirt. Although the ball had only nicked a
rib and exited without damaging anything vital, the wound had bled with
shocking intensity, and he shuddered at the memory of her still body as he’d
carried her off Victory and onto his own flagship.

Dear God, he'd come so close to
losing her. Too close. The very thought of how near she'd come to death was
enough to take years off his life. Well, no more. He vowed that once he married
her, all piratical activity on her part would come to an abrupt end. She could
play the Pirate Queen in bed, but beyond that, she would be Lady Falconer,
pampered, cherished, adored, and living the life that he, as the most senior
officer in the Caribbean, could well afford to give her.

He buried his face against her
hair, overcome by the depth of his feelings for her. “I am sorry for deceiving
you, Maeve, and I know you'll hate me for it. ‘Twill be a tough road, teaching
you to trust again after what I have done, and if there had been another way,
I'd have taken it.  But there was not. I love you, dearest. I will endeavor to
be all that you ever desired . . . and God strike me dead if ever I allow a single
hair of your head to be harmed.”

Just then, the marine sentry outside
the door thumped his musket on the deck. “Flag-captain to see you, sir!”

Gray sighed and stared up at the
deckhead, which danced with refracted sunlight. “Come in, Colin.”

The door opened and Captain Lord
entered, the ship’s cat trailing in his wake and rubbing herself affectionately
against his ankles. But then, all animals seemed to gravitate toward Colin, a peculiarity
Sir Graham had noted and often wondered about. The flag-captain, more sensible
than himself in this wretched heat, was stripped down to shirt and breeches,
and his hat was tucked smartly under his arm. Despite the fact that the fair
hair at his temples was dark with sweat, his manner lacked none of its usual
aplomb and only his eyes revealed his concern.

“How fares my cousin, sir?”

Gray gave a snort of self-disgust. “She'd
have fared far better had I kept my damned mouth shut.”

“Sir?”

“I told her the truth and it
shocked her insensible,” he admitted, sheepishly.

“I see.”

“Perhaps I should not have told her
which admiral I am; the knowledge probably did much to upset her, given
my er . . . uh—”

“Reputation, sir?”

“Uh, yes, Colin, that is a good
word for it, is it not? But oh, no matter,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal
of the idea, “my pillaging and plundering days with regard to the fair sex are
over. I have found my treasure, at last.”

Colin hid a grin. His stare, keen
despite the deceptive softness of his lavender-gray eyes, settled on his admiral
as he held the girl so tenderly in his arms. Sir Graham loved women, yes, but
never had Colin seen him treat one with the sort of obsessive, worshipful
devotion he’d bestowed upon Maeve Merrick from the moment he'd brought her
aboard. He’d made a bed for her on the sofa tucked beside the starboard
bulkhead, bathed her damp skin, and braided her hair to get the hot, heavy mass
off her neck. He’d flung open all the stern windows and gone into a rare fit of
temper when the tropical breezes had dimmed and the air grew sultry, hot and
still. His demands had sent the harassed Dr. Ryder running for the escape of a
rum bottle, a midshipman into tears, and the company into hushed and strained
eagerness to obey every order relayed through the lieutenants’ speaking
trumpets. And to top it all off, Sir Graham had had a blazing argument with
Maeve’s formidable lieutenant, Enolia, over who would get custody of the
convalescing Pirate Queen.

Despite the fact the warrior-woman
had pulled a gun on him, there was, of course, no arguing with an admiral.

Sir Graham had got his way.

Was his philandering superior
finally and truly in love? Well, given Sir Graham’s obsession with pirates,
Colin was not surprised. It would only stand to reason that he would fall in
love with his very own Anne Bonney; God only knew what had happened on that
island of hers! Picking up the worshipful cat, Colin turned to go.

“Did you want something, Colin?”

The flag-captain paused. He looked
at Sir Graham, sitting on the sofa with the girl held protectively in his arms,
and wished that he, too, had someone to love and cherish. But Colin was a
private person, and accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself. “Aye, sir.
The masthead has just raised Barbados.”

“And?”

“We should close with it by
nightfall, sir. The convoy is assembled there and waiting for us to escort it
home.”

“Very well then, Colin. The sooner
we’re out of the Indies, the better. Escorting a damned convoy of merchant
ships back to England is a duty I'd sooner not have to undertake. We shan’t
dally, though, and will make quick work of getting underway tomorrow. After that
. . .

He trailed off, looking at Colin
with a smile in his eyes.

“After that,” the flag-captain
finished, quietly, “England.”

The two exchanged glances. England.
How nice it was to be going home again.

###

It was the unbearable heat that
woke her. Perspiration that pasted the nightshirt to her skin. A wall of flesh,
hard and solid against her own, suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe, she
couldn’t even sweat. She opened her eyes, panting. The body against
hers, she realized, belonged to Gray.

No, not Gray, she corrected
herself, but Admiral Sir Graham Falconer—the most notorious profligate in the
entire Caribbean.

“Ah, love, you’re awake!”

She pushed hard against him, ignoring
the sudden sharp pain in her side. “Dry up and die, you deceitful bastard.”

“Would you like a sip of water,
dearest? Some lemonade?”

“Only to dump it over your head.”
She glared up at him as he rose to his feet, gently tucked her against the
pillows piled against the arm of the sofa, and pulled up a chair. Sunlight slanted
through the panoramic stern windows and gleamed against the gold tasseled
epaulets on each shoulder; oh, to think she’d felt guilty over sending
him to his “death!”

“What can I get you, Maeve?”

“Not a damned thing.  You tricked
me. You made me look like a fool—”

“The lemonade would probably be
better, I think. Here, let me help you to sit up. I have some all poured and
ready for you.”

He pressed a glass to her lips. He
was smiling, his eyes twinkling, but she felt the determination, the strength,
in the hand he held against her jaw, forcing her head in one place when she
would have turned away just to spite him.

She was no match for it.

“Now Maeve, sweetheart, do not be
difficult,” he chided, tipping the glass, still holding her jaw so she couldn’t
turn away, and watching her like a hawk to make sure she drank. “I dosed it
with plenty of sugar. You’ll find it sweet and tangy, just like you.”

“If you knew what I wanted to do to
you right now, you wouldn't be thinking me so sweet, you snake.” Glaring at him
from above the rim of the glass, she shut her mouth, refusing to swallow, and
the lemonade ran down her chin, her throat, and onto her sweat-drenched
nightshirt.

The dark blue eyes narrowed. “Drink.”

Such a sudden change of manner
caught Maeve completely off guard and she drank.

The admiral was smiling again.

He made her finish the glass. Every
last, tarnal drop of it, until there were only a few pale shreds of lemon on
the bottom. She swallowed the last mouthful and her eyes slipped shut. “You’re
a miserable wretch,” she accused, too weak to even wipe the tangy drops of
juice from her chin.

He set the glass down, dipped a
cloth in a bowl of water, and gently dabbed the lemonade from her parted lips. “I
know.”

“I think you’re a vile son of a
bitch.”

He wiped her chin, his touch
achingly gentle. “I know that too.”

“I’ll see you dead.”

“Someday, perhaps. But not now.” He
dragged the cool cloth over her neck, her throat, the soft swell of her
breasts, refreshing it with water and wiping up the spilt lemonade. “Maybe in thirty,
forty years or so . . . depending on which one of us outlives the other.”

God, she was too tired, too
weak, to fight with him. She tried to glare at him, but her eyes fell shut
of their own accord and she lay there, lacking the strength to even clench her
fists in fury as the cloth moved soothingly over her hot skin.

“Where is my ship . . . my crew?”

“Your schooner is in company with
us, sailing just to leeward under a fine press of sail. As for those vicious
she-wolves you call a crew, they are all safe, so do not distress yourself.
’Twas only by their quick thinking that you even lived to wonder about them,
for it was their idea to bring you to Nelson.”

“Nelson? Why Nelson?”

“He has a surgeon.” The cloth moved
over her mouth, and the dark blue eyes above it were gentle, concerned. “You,
on the other hand, did not.”

“What of that pig, el Perro Negro?”

The admiral grinned at the venom in
her voice. “Your crew wished to kill him, of course, but decided instead to
save him for your—mercy, I believe they called it. Not that he shall
ever see it, of course. As we speak the Spaniard is locked below, deep in the
hold, where he shall remain until I can bring him to England, trial, and
probable execution.”

“Probable?” She tried to sit
up, her jaw falling open, only to have him push her gently back down. “You let
that bastard live, after he took an English merchantman and killed her captain?”

“Aye, but he also professes to have
a French letter of marque issued by Villeneuve himself, which means that I have
no honorable choice but to treat him as a prisoner of war. Have no fear, dear
madam. I doubt he’ll be able to produce such a paper, and you’ll probably see
him swing, yet.”

“I’ll slit his damned throat!”

“No, you will not.”

“Don’t you dare think to tell me
what to do, you blasted son of a—”

“Your mouth cries for a good bar of
soap, madam. Please refrain from such tawdry language, as I do not like it.”

“I don’t give a bloody damn
what you do or don’t like, you cad!”

Refusing to be goaded, he dropped
the cloth into the bowl of water and leaned forward, his eyes hard, intent,
determined. “I said, enough.”

She set her lips and glared mutely
up at him.

“I am going to marry you, you know,”
he announced in the same tone he might’ve used to proclaim the state of the
weather. But beneath it was a tough note of steel, a steadiness of purpose that
was not to be questioned. “You shall be Lady Falconer. There is no use fighting
it, Maeve.”

“You have no right to determine my
future, and I’ll fight you ’til the day I die.”

“No. You’ll fight me until you
learn to trust me. And trust me you will, as God is my witness.”

“You, of all people, are the last
person on earth I’d ever trust!”

He pulled his chair close. Leaning
forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, put his chin on the heels of his
hands and looked at her, studying her, his face just inches from her own. She
shut her eyes to that handsome visage, wishing she could block him out
as well. “I know you’re furious with me for deceiving you,” he said gently. “And,
I’ll allow that you have every right to be. Shall I even try to defend my
actions? No. Let it be said, though, that I am as devoted to my country as
Nelson is, and I acted as I saw fit.”

“I don’t recall asking for your
explanation or your apologies.”

“Could I have trusted you? Could I
have been sure you wouldn’t have turned me over to Villeneuve instead?” He went
on as though she hadn’t spoken, a habit she found intensely infuriating. “Surely,
even you will agree that the French would have liked nothing better than to
have a powerful British admiral fall into their hands.”

“An admiral,” she spat, twisting
her head on the pillow so she wasn’t tempted to look into that handsome face. “A
bloody admiral. Just my luck, isn’t it? I didn’t wish for anything more
than a captain; hell, I would’ve even taken a lowly lieutenant, and what do I
end up with? The highest-ranking officer in the Indies, a bloody admiral.”

He grinned. “One must take what one
can get, Majesty.” He clapped a hand to his chest in a gesture of dramatic
eloquence. “I am an admiral, yes, but I am your admiral. And I, dear
sovereign, am at your command.”

“My command is for you to get the
hell out of my life. I’ve heard all the stories about you! You’re a rake and a
libertine! You’re a wenching womanizer with a reputation from here to Jamaica!”

“That was before I met you, love.”

“But you’re too young to be
an admiral!”

“Why thank you. How nice to know
that at thirty-six, I am still considered ‘young.’” He gave a charming, dimpled
grin that made her heart flutter in her breast despite the fact she was
positively furious with him. “Suffice it to say that I’m considered to be a
very good commander. My promotions came swiftly. More lemonade, my dear?”

“But you don't act like an admiral!”
she raged, as though shouting the words would make them believable. “Admirals
aren’t supposed to go about with gold earrings and pirate clothes and carrying
cutlasses instead of dress swords! Admirals aren’t supposed to associate with
pirate queens and seduce women when they’re trying to weave spells to net Gallant
Knights! Admirals aren’t supposed to submit to rough treatment at the hands of
a crew of pirate women—”

“I love rough treatment. Especially
at the hands of pirate queens.”

“And admirals aren't supposed to
show interest or declare their love for ruthless outlaws like myself!”

“I have never considered myself to
be conventional.”

“Just get out, Gray! Or are you Sir
Graham now? Admiral Falconer? Just get the bloody hell out, so I can think, so
I can fathom my situation, so I can—I can—” She took a deep breath and
exploded, “So I can take a damned PEE without you hovering
over me like a bloody nurse!”

“Dearest, you should have told me
you have bodily functions you are anxious to address.”

“Get out!”

“Really, Maeve, I shall not suffer
you to try and stand all by yourself. You hit your head when you fell, you are
weak, you may be unsteady on your feet.” He pushed back the chair and stood,
his face grave. “Here, allow me to help you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I absolutely forbid you to get out
of that bed unless I help you.” Before she could protest further, he slid his
arms beneath her hot and sweaty back and lifted her up off the sofa. Pain lanced
her side, waves of nausea assailed her, and a fresh tide of sweat broke out
along the length of her spine. Weakly, she clutched at his lapels, her cheek
falling against the fancy gold lace, the cool medal of the Nile that lay
against the crisp, white-ruffled folds of his neckcloth.

“Put me down.”

“But you have bodily functions to
address, my dear.”

“For God’s sake, Gray, I have my
pride,” she wailed. “Can’t you understand that?”

He stood holding her, appearing to
think for a moment. Then he carried her across the cabin and stopped before a
fancy commode. It concealed a porcelain chamber pot and this, he pulled out
using his foot. Then, he carefully eased her down until her feet, bare beneath
the hem of his nightshirt, rested on the cool floor.

“Go ahead.”

She looked up at him with miserable
despair; then she bent her head and bit down savagely on her lip. “I can’t . . .
not with you standing here.”

“I'll turn my head.”

“Please,” she pleaded. “I’d rather
you leave.”

“I cannot.”

He pulled her up by the wrists.
Humiliation and despair burned in her eyes. The worst of it was, he was right;
she was so weak she couldn’t have supported herself in a squatting position for
all the money in the world. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled, hanging from his
grasp and leaning her cheek against the inside of her elbow. “Don’t help me.
Just get the hell away from me and leave me to myself!”

She hung there, shaking, sweating,
and dizzy, running hot and cold and trying valiantly not to be sick, not to
faint, not to show weakness, not to let him help her in any way, shape or form.
She twisted in his grip and kicked him in the shin, hard, and reluctantly, he
let her go. Immediately, the floor rushed up to meet her, and he caught her
before she would’ve fallen.

“You see, dearest, I cannot leave
you alone for a moment.”

“Go away,” she cried, wanting to
die. “For God’s sake, just leave me alone . . . ”

He set her down in a chair. Her
chin fell to rest on her chest, and great tears of helplessness and fury flowed
down her cheeks and dropped into her lap. She put her hands over her face and
sobbed bitterly, her hair lying in a thick braid over one shoulder, her wet
shirt swallowing up her body.

Gray stood looking down at her.
Then he knelt down before her so that his eyes were on a level with hers. He
put a finger beneath her jaw, and slowly lifted her chin until the anguished
golden eyes met his.

Her misery nearly broke his heart. “Maeve,
my dear,” he said gently. “I have seen many things in this life, and I shall
see many more before I depart it. I will not be shocked by the necessity of a
very seriously injured young woman having to relieve herself. But should my
presence disturb you so very much, I can send for one of your crew to be your
nursemaid. However, I warn you that your Kestrel is a good cable’s
length to leeward of my flagship, and it would take a fair amount of time
before she could be up with us. If you can wait that long, then by all means,
do so. If you cannot, then pray, take my hand and let me support you. I promise
you, that on my honor I shall not look.”

“Bloody right you won’t look,
because I won’t do it!”

He put his hands beneath her arms,
pulled her up, kicked the chamber pot against her feet and, true to his word,
turned to look out the window, beginning to whistle a British sailor’s tune she
recognized as “Hearts of Oak.”

Humiliation and mortification
burned through her that she was incapable of performing even this simple task
by herself. Yet there was no recourse. Dizzy, nauseous, and faint, she was
helpless and at his mercy, and he knew it. The tears came faster, harder,
burning twin rivers of shame down her cheeks.

The whistling became humming, loud,
annoying, obnoxious.

Maeve eyed the chamber pot at her
feet and sniffled loudly. Oh God, why didn’t he think beforehand to send one of
the girls to attend her, why did he insist on putting her through this embarrassment,
this humiliation—

The humming became singing, the volume
loud enough to be heard two decks above, if not in the main top itself.

“We ne’r see our foes, but we wish
them to stay! They ne’r see us, but they wish us away! If they run, why, we’ll
follow, and run them ashore, for if they won’t fight us, we cannot do more!
Hearts of oak, are our ships, jolly tars, are our men! We always are ready,
steady boys steady, we’ll fight and we’ll conquer, again, and again! Da dum da
dum da dum da dum, da dum, da da da!”

He had a rich, deep baritone voice,
and he knew how to use it. To drown out all thoughts. To drown out other
voices. To drown out sounds that she didn’t want him to hear, to drown out
sounds he knew she didn’t want him to hear—

And suddenly she realized why he’d
taken to singing so lustily, so loudly—so she could do what she must without
suffering the embarrassment of him hearing her do it.

Maeve held up the hem of her
nightgown, and did what she had to do.

And when she had finished, she
squeezed his hand and without pausing in his singing, the admiral swept her up
into his arms, kissed her cheek, and gently deposited her back onto the sofa.
He peeled off the sodden nightshirt, and with an almost clinical detachment for
the womanly charms so blatantly revealed to his gaze, put her in a new one that
was dry and clean and comfortable. And then he kissed her again, straightened
her braid over one small shoulder, and stood gazing down at her, his eyes fond,
admiring, soft.

“No matter what you think,” he said
gently, and took her hand, “I love you. Now, always, and forevermore. Nothing
you may say or do will sway my affections, for they're as constant as the swing
of the tides, the rise of the moon and stars.” The dark navy eyes gazed down at
her with quiet adoration. “I love you, Maeve.”

He raised her hand to his lips,
kissed it, and replaced it tenderly at her side. And then he stood, just
looking down at her, while a fond smile curled his mouth.

“Now, go to sleep.” He strode to
the door, pausing only to point a finger at her in warning. “And that’s an
order.”

Chapter 18

El Perro Negro, locked in a small,
choking hold deep in the bowels of H.M.S. Triton with the six surviving
members of his bloodthirsty gang, woke at about the same time the Pirate Queen,
several decks above him, did.

He might have slept forever and
died in his own blood, had Pig-Eye’s ministrations not penetrated his
unconscious haze.

“Capitan!”  There, the voice
again, drifting into his swimming senses, and a slow awareness of pressure ringing
his arm as someone drew a bandage tight. Ah, yes, he remembered, now. The
merchantman . . . the schooner . . . a savage fight between pistols and cutlasses
. . . and the African, charging out of the smoke and cutting him down as he’d
emptied his pistol into her captain. At least he’d had the satisfaction of
seeing the disbelief on the Pirate Queen’s face, extinguished by that one
savage blast, before his own world had gone dark . . .

He hoped she rotted in hell, the
whoring bitch. Cursing, he clawed himself up through sheets of pain and opened
his eyes.

“Ah, Capitan, you are awake!
Thank God!”

It was Pig-Eye, his face barely
discernible in the thick gloom. “Idiota!” el Perro Negro snarled, for
with consciousness came a deep, searing agony in his left arm that spread fire all
the way up and into his shoulder. “Why didn’t you just let me be, you stupid shit?”
But even as he sat up, tugging at the too-tight bandage the faithful wretch had
made from strips of his own shirt, he realized he was in a grave situation and
his survival instincts, honed by years of running from the law, took over.
Shoving Pig-Eye aside, he pulled himself to his feet, stumbled over a sprawled,
groaning body, kicked it in fury, and groped desperately at the seams of a shut
and locked door.

“It is no use, Capitan,”
Pig-Eye said, dejectedly. “We have already tried to escape. El almirante
is no fool. Not only is the door bolted shut, but he has placed a marine guard
outside to make sure we . . . behave. There is no way out.”

“What do you mean, there’s no way
out? What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re prisoners, Capitan,”
he said, nervously. “After you shot the Pirate Queen, her crew snatched her up,
fled back to the schooner, and loosed a broadside into us that killed most of
our crew. We may be fine fighters, but we are only flesh and blood—no match for
a cannon shot. Next thing we knew, they’d overpowered those of us who were left
and dragged us off to Nelson—”

“Nelson?!” El Perro Negro
snared Pig-Eye’s filthy collar and yanked him savagely forward, nearly snapping
the man’s neck. “We’re on Nelson’s ship? You damned fools, why didn’t
you tell me?”

Pig-Eye shrank back, his eyes white
in the darkness, the sweaty stench of his terror ripe and hot against a
background of other, fouler smells—bilge water, damp wood, and closer, the
stink of vomit and blood. “I did not say we are aboard Nelson’s ship, Capitan,”
he gasped, trembling. “We are on the ship of el almirante, aye, but this
admiral is not Nelson—”

Which admiral is it, then?”
he roared, heaving Pig-Eye backward. He heard the man hit a bulkhead and fall
on a cry of pain.

Frightened silence. And then:

“Sir Graham Falconer.”

El Perro Negro went stiff. Fear
crept up his spine, and he dragged a hand over his face, smearing sudden, cold
sweat over skin that had gone dry and waxy. Falconer. The English
admiral would make short work of him, especially after he’d so ruthlessly taken
the merchantman that had been destined for the convoy Sir Graham would be
escorting back to England. Not to mention the fact he’d killed its crew,
including the young capitan. But yet—

But yet, he was still alive.

Why?

Jack, seeming to read his mind,
spoke from the darkness of a corner. “You can thank Renaldo for the fact we’ve
been spared, Capitan. He told el almirante we hold a letter of
marque from the French Admiral Villeneuve back on our brig, right, Renaldo?”

The sprawled figure that el Perro
Negro had kicked earlier, rolled into an upright position. “Aye . . . and he
believed me, too.”

El Perro Negro let out his breath
on a shaky sigh, and released a short, hysterical burst of laughter. “Well,
well, Renaldo, you never fail to surprise me.” He moved to the mate, reached
down, and hauled him roughly to his feet. “Perhaps you have bought us some
time, after all.”

“I’ve bought nothin’,” Renaldo
said, bitterly. He rubbed at the spot in his ribs where his captain had kicked
him. “Once Falconer learns we ain’t got no letter of marque, and thus, ain’t
entitled to any rights as prisoners of war, he’ll hang us for sure.”

“Not if I can help it,” el Perro
Negro said softly, and moving back through the darkness, sat down on the damp
floor amidst his little circle of followers. “For you see, my good piratas,
I have a plan. I have already killed an English capitan; why not an
English almirante as well? After all, we have nothing to lose. We shall
bide our time—and then, we’ll act. And when we do . . .”

“Yes?” they cried, excitedly.

“And when we do, escape and freedom
shall be ours.”

###

It was sunset, and the clouds were
on fire above a molten sea. Barbados, dark against the blazing sky, was speared
on Triton’s massive, thrusting bowsprit and growing larger by the
minute, and Nelson’s fleet had fallen beneath the horizon several hours past.
Now, a fine wind had sprung up to fill Triton’s huge courses and royals,
spread to catch every hint of the breeze that had been stingy and soft for most
of the day.

The quarterdeck of any warship is
the domain of its commanding officer, and even the captain trod that sacred
place lightly when it was occupied by an admiral. Tonight was no exception, and
the brilliant sunset found Sir Graham pacing thoughtfully back and forth, quite
alone, quite preoccupied, his tactical mind mulling over pursuit, strategies,
the chase—conquest.

Maeve.

His rank make him as far removed
from his men as a king from the common people, and those on watch regarded him
with no small degree of awe and respect as they went about their work. What
military secrets, what thoughts that could potentially shape history, went
through the mind of a man as highly placed as their admiral? From the seamen
hauling on braces to bring the huge ship onto the opposite tack, to Captain
Colin Lord himself—who had a better idea than most as to just what had his
admiral so preoccupied—nearly eight hundred sailors watched him and wondered
why their commander looked so lost in thought.

Sir Graham made another turn, hands
behind his back, head bent, walking forward, walking aft, walking forward . . .

Thinking.

He paused only to gaze thoughtfully
at the little schooner Kestrel, keeping station just to windward of the
mighty battleship. Then he looked to the north, where Nelson had taken the
Mediterranean Fleet.

Two admirals, both on a desperate
chase. One after a Frenchman’s fleet—and the other, after a Pirate Queen’s
heart.

###

“Sir Graham!” the voice outside the
flag-captain’s door announced.

Colin Lord was making a notation in
his log when the unexpected thump of Sergeant Maitland’s musket against the
deck outside jarred him from his thoughts. Taken off guard by his admiral’s
unannounced visit, he leapt to his feet and snapped off a stiff salute.

“Be easy, Colin, this is nothing
official,” Gray said mildly, putting his hand on the younger man’s arm. “May I
come in? There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

“By all means, sir. Pray, please
do.” The flag-captain gestured to a chair, brushed a wrinkle from his shirt,
called for a servant to bring tea, and led the way to his fine mahogany table,
the surface of which glowed warmly beneath the lantern that swung from the
beams overhead. The log lay open on his desk and he snapped it shut, his
habitual neatness evident even in this small action. “With the wind as it is,
we’ll anchor in Barbados by midnight, Sir Graham. The master assures me that we
should be on our way out of the Indies with the convoy by tomorrow afternoon at
the latest—”

Sir Graham nodded, and moved with
easy grace across the cabin. He settled himself in a chair, deliberately
affecting a relaxed pose, one arm lying across the chair’s back, legs crossed,
and a pensive look about his swarthy face. Then he spotted the ship’s cat,
sprawled lazily in the sun streaming through the stern windows; he bared his
teeth and made a face, the cat fled, and the admiral burst out laughing.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Sir Graham
coaxed, scowling playfully at the cat, who now glared at him from beneath the
safety of Colin’s desk. A loud, angry hiss met his summons, and, again, the
admiral’s rich, booming laughter filled the cabin.

The servant, looking harried,
brought a silver tray in and set it down before the two officers. Colin picked
up the teapot. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

“No, just rum.”

“Just rum, Martin. As the admiral
likes it.”

The servant returned with plates
and a fine lemon cake frosted with sugar. Colin poured the admiral’s tea, added
the rum, and, lifting a steaming cup to his lips, eyed him with wariness.

And then he saw the thoughtful
crease in Sir Graham’s brow, the determined but preoccupied look in his eye,
and knew.

The Pirate Queen.

“Colin, my lad . . .” the admiral
began, and the flag-captain braced himself.

“Sir?”

Sir Graham took his time about it.
He sipped his tea, pushed the crumbs around on his plate, fixed Colin with his
dark stare. “I have a scenario for you.”

Colin set down his tea. Here we
go, he thought.

The admiral looked out the opened
stern windows and thoughtfully tugged at his earring. “If,” he said slowly, his
gaze distant, preoccupied, “you were to find yourself in say, a small frigate,
confronted by a squadron of enemy ships-of-the-line, and, given that just
one—one, mind you!—of the ships that said squadron was protecting—we shall make
it a merchantman, for the purpose of this discussion—was rich enough to enable
you to live out the rest of your life in relative happiness—given this
situation, Colin, would you let that mighty fleet and its rich merchantman
alone, or would you attack and risk all, even though the odds were surely
against you?”

Colin looked at him, wondering what
his shrewd superior was leading up to. That it was a test, he had no doubt—the
admiral often engaged such methods to keep him sharp, to teach him, to prepare
him for his own promotion to flag rank some day—but Colin knew that this was
more than that. And he would have wagered the lace from his coat and both
epaulets off his shoulders that Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer was not talking
about ships . . .

“Well?”

Colin answered carefully. “Why, I
would attack and risk everything, sir . . . of course.”

“Of course. You are an Englishman,
after all.”

“As are you—sir.”

“Very good. Point established. Now
tell me, my dear Colin, how, given this situation, you would go about defeating
this formidable enemy whose guns are run out, this enemy who is determined not
to let you get close enough to board and take him?”

“Every vessel has a vulnerable
area, sir,” Colin said, moving his chair back slightly so the poor, harassed
cat could jump into his lap. He stroked the feline’s back, choosing his words
with care and precision. “As you well know, both bow and stern have
comparatively insignificant firepower and are therefore quite vulnerable to
attack. Or, one may consider the structural weaknesses of a particular design,
or vulnerable areas provided by nature herself, such as at the waterline, or
below it if one happens to be to windward of a ship that is heeled hard over on
her beam.”

The admiral smiled, his dark eyes
gleaming.

“And where, Captain, would those
weaknesses be in a mighty warship? How would you go about quelling her
into submission . . . without damaging her timbers or sacrificing one jot of
her spirit?”

The admiral was watching him
intently, too intently. Carefully, Colin said, “I would range around her stern,
sir, out of the reach of her big guns and broadsides, where she would be most
defenseless. I would rake her, cripple her steering by taking out her rudder,
and then, once having annoyed and distracted her thus, I would fall off, and
try to get in another shot, perhaps in her bows . . .”

“And if that method was to fail,
Colin?”

“We are considering that surrender
to the enemy is not to be considered?”

The admiral smiled. “It is not even
an option.”

“Well, then, I say there is no
other recourse, sir, but to confuse her, get to windward of her, grapple . . .
and board her”—Colin smiled sheepishly—“in the smoke. Works every time . . . sir.”

Sir Graham finished his rum-laced
tea and set the cup down on the table. “Very good, Captain. I am delighted to
see that our great minds think alike.” He grinned, his eyes alight with the
anticipation of challenge, his jaw dimpling boyishly. Then he rose to his feet,
and still smiling, strode for the door.

“Sir?”

The admiral paused, arching one
black brow.

Colin flushed. “Good luck.”

###

Maeve awoke to suffocating heat,
the glow of a lantern over her head, and a single, perfect red rose on the
pillow beside her.

She reached out and with an angry
motion, swept it to the floor.

Oh, how he had played her. Fooled
her. To think he'd allowed her to believe he was a traitor, of all
things; to think she had cried over his supposed death! He, Admiral Falconer,
one of the most renowned flag officers in the British navy and surely, the
worst libertine to hit the West Indies since—since Blackbeard. And she
had lain with him, given her heart to him. He must think her a damned easy
conquest. How he must be laughing! And Nelson! He was no better, a slinking dog
in the guise of a hero, a wretched, insufferable little peacock totally
undeserving of his laurels, his titles, her respect. It was a cruel betrayal,
an ugly realization, and she felt sick. Nelson. She couldn’t even trust him,
the gallant, honorable Nelson!

Her curses pierced the stillness of
the cabin. Men! She hated them all, trusted none of them, and after this
she’d never trust another again.

She couldn’t, wouldn't, stay
here, to be made a fool of again. Clutching the side of the sofa,  Maeve dragged
herself to an upright, sitting position. She swayed dizzily, and felt the snug
press of a bandage around her waist.  Blast it, no wonder she was so hot, no
wonder she couldn’t breathe—and what the devil was this wet garment that had
tangled itself around her body?

Vexed, she gazed down at the
sleeves that ended several inches beyond her fingers, the seemingly yards of
excess material that had twined and bunched and wrapped itself around her
torso, and realized she was not in her own clothes, but a soft, fine nightshirt
that must surely belong to Sir Graham himself.

Cursing, she plucked at the fabric,
pulling it away from her damp skin. Even that simple exertion tired her, sickened
her, and made her dizzy. Oh, would this humiliation never end? Had he stripped
her clothes away as she’d lain senseless? Touched her body, invaded her person,
taken liberties that she would never let him take again?

Blast him! Her strength was
failing her, but with every gasping breath her resolve mounted. Her body
screaming in pain, in protest, Maeve pulled herself up and stumbled across the
cabin. Nausea rose in her throat and sheer will alone kept her from vomiting.
The cabin spun about her, the paintings of the long-dead pirates with it, and
she made a wild dive toward the bulkhead, where an ancient cutlass rested beneath
a portrait of Sir Henry Morgan, the undisputed King of the Spanish Main nearly
a century and a half before—

She missed, her nails gouging into
the wood, her fingers hitting the sword and knocking it from its precarious
perch. It struck her heavily on the shoulder and Maeve fell with it, feeling
the wound open beneath the bandage as she hit the deck, where she lay gasping
with fury, pain, and the refusal to admit defeat. The sword lay several feet
away, just out of reach; she dragged herself across the deck on her belly,
pulling her body with her arms, pushing herself with her feet, the nightshirt
tangling around her body, suffocating her. The sword, just out of reach, was
now in her hand . . . oh God, could she lift it?

Desperate, groping fingers closed
around the ancient hilt and pulled the heavy blade toward her, inch by
torturous inch.

“I’ll make you pay, Sir Graham . . .
so help me God, you’ll pay . . . no one makes the Pirate Queen look like a fool
. . . damn your eyes . . .”  With the last of her strength she pulled the sword
up and under her breast and fell atop it, her brow touching the deck, her lips against
the old metal. There she lay panting, her eyes clenched against her reeling
vision, her arms folded beneath her, the sweat racing down her heaving sides to
soak the bandage around her waist. But there was more than just sweat running
beneath that bandage, she knew there was more than just sweat running—

I’m bleeding, she thought,
and raised herself on trembling arms. Her hair hung in a mussed braid over her
shoulder, her face dripped sweat, and beneath her, the sword caught her
tormented reflection.

Thick, ugly warmth spread from her
waist, and she tried not to panic.

I'm bleeding. Dear God, I’m
bleeding to death. She shut her eyes, wrapped her fingers around the sword
hilt, and felt the blood running from her side, now soaking the nightshirt
wrapped around her waist  Dizzily, she raised her head once more. Gained her
knees. Fell. And on her elbows, began to drag herself back across the deck
flooring to the dining cabin.

The door was only ten—twenty?—feet
away, but she knew she would never reach it. Try, Maeve. You can do it. . .
She paused, pushed the sword ahead of her across the carpet, followed it,
cursed, struggled, bled.

Oh God, help me . . . I just
need to reach the door . . . just help me get to the door, God, that’s all I
ask—

It opened and the admiral walked
in.

“Maeve!”

He saw a trail of blood, and Maeve,
his beloved Maeve, wrapped in his nightshirt like a little child and lying
helplessly on the floor, head drooping, forearms digging into the rug, pulling
herself along by her elbows and leaving a slick crimson ribbon in her wake.

He dived forward, caught her as she
collapsed, and swept her up into his arms. Without breaking stride he pounded
from the cabin, nearly knocking over the sentry outside, and raced down
companionways, through deck after darkened deck, in his blind haste to reach
the surgeon.

Chapter 19

She’ll be fine, Sir Graham,” the
surgeon said, as he bound Maeve’s ribs with a fresh bandage by the light of the
swinging lantern above. He worked swiftly, for the admiral was pacing
frantically, beside himself with worry, and the young woman’s blazing glare,
hot enough to blister the skin off a seaman’s hands, followed him back and
forth.  The surgeon was not anxious to be caught between the broadsides of the
two of them. In fact, the sooner he could finish his task, the sooner he could
get to the bottle of rum hidden beneath the bench in the corner—

“Well, thank God for that,”
the admiral exclaimed. He took the girl’s hand, his thumb caressing her palm
before raising it to his lips. Her eyes flashing, she opened her mouth to
deliver a scathing rebuke that the admiral effectively cut off: “I daresay, she
has taken a decade off my life with the amount of worrying I’ve done about her.
Do be careful there, man. She’s to be my wife, you know.”

“Like hell I am,” Maeve snarled.

“She’ll not bleed anymore, I trust?”

“She may, sir,” the surgeon
replied, working faster now, as nervous sweat began to stream from his brow, “but
not to worry. Wounds of this nature often do, especially under exertions that
you, young lady, should not be engaging in. My orders to you—”

“The devil take your orders!”

“I'll hear you out, man,”
the admiral commanded, irritably. “She’ll answer to me.”

“I don’t answer to deceivers.”

“You were saying, Doctor?” Sir
Graham prompted, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

The surgeon’s hands were
fluttering, his heart racing. “My orders to you, Captain Merrick, are
complete bed rest for the next several days. Sir Graham, a bit of air would not
do her any harm either; perhaps you could have your captain rig an awning on
the poop deck to shade her from the sun so that she may sit out—”

“Yes, by all means, I will have
that attended to immediately.”

“And I would advise no exercise
yet. And no exerting yourself, madam.”

“I want to return to my ship.”

“She will not exert herself,
Doctor, you have my word on that—”

“I want my crew.”

“And also, Sir Graham, the wound
must be kept clean and dry—”

“I want my blasted freedom!”

“Watch your mouth,” the admiral
chided mildly. “You’re in mixed company, my dear, and the good doctor deserves
some respect.”

“You and the doctor can both go
straight to hell where I hope your balls burn off and your—”

“Really, Doctor, should it be
wrapped so tightly? I don’t think she can breathe.”

“She can breathe.”

“Can you breathe, dearest?”

“—cocks smolder away into ashes! I
hope you all rot in hell forever, do you hear me? I hope—”

“Yes, Doctor, I fear she can
breathe very well. Wrap it tighter, if you please.”

“Ouch!” Maeve gasped, feeling the
pressure.

“Not that tight, damn you!” Sir
Graham snapped.

“Damn you—“

“Ease up there, yes, that’s better.
Is that better, my love?”

“I’m not your love, you
blackguard.”

“Is that better my love?” he
repeated, firmly.

“Yes,” she bit out, from
between clenched teeth.

“Very well then. A fine job,
Doctor. I must remember you in my report tonight. Oh, bother, I hate reports. I
shall recommend it to Captain Lord, he doesn’t mind paperwork in the least.
Should’ve been a barrister, damn his eyes. Maeve? Maeve, sweetheart, can you
sit up now? No, your shirt covers you, no need to blush, here, take my hand—”

She tried to jerk away from him.

“Maeve, dear, I said, give me
your hand.”

“I’ll give you a knife to the gut,
you snake. Get the hell out of my life; just go away and leave me alone.”

“Women!” he exclaimed, with a smile
that drove a boyish dimple into his jaw. Black lashes, almost feminine in
their thickness and length, swept down to conceal the twinkle in his eyes. “Really,
Doctor, why do they insist upon giving us such a devil of a time? I’ve
instructed the cook to prepare something light and nourishing for you, my
dear, and he also makes frightfully good lemonade. Why, we’ll have you back on
your feet in no time, if I do say so myself.”

“Aye, that we will, Sir Graham,”
Dr. Ryder said hurriedly, sweating harder now, and obviously ill at ease in
the presence of one so highly ranked as Admiral Falconer.

“You’ve done a splendid job, as
always, Ryder. Huzzahs to you, she looks as right as rain. Ready, love? No,
don’t even try to stand up, I won’t allow it. Has anyone ever told you
how lovely you look in braids? So innocent and sweet; no, don’t scowl, it
doesn’t become you at all! Up we go!”

“Got her, Sir Graham?”

“Of course I have her, you fool,”
the admiral said, but good-naturedly. Above Maeve’s head, he shot the surgeon a
wink, then kicked the door open with his foot. “Damned comely burden, if I do
say so myself. Hold that door for me now, will you, Doctor? Yes, thank you.
You’re a fine man, Ryder, a fine man. Splendid work!”

“Thank you, sir,” the surgeon said,
beaming.

“Pray, go reward yourself man, you
deserve it. In fact, Ryder, why don’t you have an extra tot from that bottle
you’ve got hidden beneath the bench? Rum, is it not? I say, ’twas Morgan’s
favorite beverage!”

The surgeon blanched. “B-but sir, how
did you know that I . . .”

But Sir Graham had already swept
out of the room, leaving the surgeon gaping in disbelief, for surely, the
admiral could not have known he had that bottle hidden there!

He remembered Captain Lord’s
warning, spoken so many times:

Never underestimate Sir Graham.

One of these days, he’d remember
there was more than just charm and good looks to the man in charge of the Royal
Navy’s West Indies Station.

And so, he predicted, would the
Pirate Queen.

###

Humming as though he were a common
seaman on his way to grog, Sir Graham carried her up through the decks, his
shirt smeared with her blood, the waves of his black hair caught in the gleam
of swinging lanterns as they passed beneath them. She saw the fury in the
tightness about his mouth, felt it in the tenseness of his arms beneath her
back.

“You scared me, Maeve. I know I
hurt you, but believe me that I would cut off my right arm before I would hurt
you again. Evening, Lieutenant Pearson, carry on, carry on!” He paused beside a
bulkhead and without warning, exploded, “But so help me God, if I catch you
with so much as a FOOT out of bed against doctor's orders again,
I’ll personally blister your damned hide, do I make myself clear?”

The breath burst from her lungs on
a loud guffaw—

“Hang it, woman, do I make
myself clear?!”

She met his blazing eyes, smiled
malevolently, and spat, “Very.”

He stared at her for a long moment;
then he sighed and to her surprise, crushed her fiercely to his chest, burying
his face against her hair and tightening his arms so hard about her that she
couldn’t draw breath. “I love you,” he murmured, his body shaking beneath and
around her. “By all that’s holy and all that’s not, I love you.” He held her
for a long, long moment, then raised his head and said hoarsely, “Don’t ever
do that to me again.”

Then, as though the outburst had
never happened, he relaxed his death grip on her and resumed his brisk pace.

She was too stunned by his
unguarded display of emotion to remark upon it, and instead, maintained a sullen
silence as he carried her up through the hatch to the next deck. A myriad array
of feelings tore through her, not the least of which was guilt. She swallowed
hard. His behavior when she’d awakened to find him hovering anxiously over the
surgeon, alternately pacing, slamming his fist against a bulkhead, inquiring
after her prognosis, declaring his love for her in one breath and damning
himself in the next for having left her alone—could not have been more genuine.

Don’t let yourself be fooled, she
told herself. He'll  only hurt you. Betray you. She tightened her arms
protectively over her heart. Abandon you. He’s a rake for God’s sake!

A very handsome rake. And in that
glittering admiral’s uniform—

She shut her eyes, feeling the heat
of his body against her own, his muscles moving smoothly beneath her as though
she weighed no more than his hat and coat.

“I love you, Maeve.”

“Really? Well I love you, too.
About as much as I do el Perro Negro.”

“Maeve, that hurts. I know you’re
angry, and you’ve a right to be. But if you’re trying to get a reaction out of
me, I fear you must work harder. When you’re well again we can fight all you
want.”

She tilted her head back to stare
up at him. “How can you be so nice to me after what I did to you?”

“Pray, what did you do to me?”

She thought of the bloodstained
hemp aboard Kestrel with which they had bound his wrists, the dank cell
they’d kept him in, the cruel treatment he had endured at their hands. Shame washed
through her, deep and biting and sharp.

“Maeve?”

She looked down. “Never mind.”

“Oh, you must be referring to my,
er, captivity while on your island? Your ship? Dear lady, do not trouble
yourself over that; it was indeed an adventure. Why, ’tis not every day
that an admiral who wishes he was born a pirate gets to be captured and held
prisoner by a whole gang of them! Indeed, it will be something to tell our
children about.”

“Tell your children about,”
she corrected him.

“Oh, no, Majesty. You will marry
me. I vow it.”

“Over my dead body.”

As usual, he continued on as though
he hadn’t heard her. “We’ll have fine, strong sons, and daughters as lovely as
you. You’ll have to give up your piratical pursuits, of course—I’ll have no
wife of mine risking her neck by sailing the seas as a pirate, no matter
how charming I might find the notion!—but oh, think of what children we shall
have; why, I hope they get your hair, have I ever told you how beautiful it is?
I had a most wonderful time braiding it. Come to think of it, I’ll wager that
the formidable Anne Bonney’s was of a similar shade—”

“I want to go back to my
ship, Gray.”

“However, her beauty and fire would
not have held a candle to yours. I am the lucky one, am I not? My God, I can’t
wait to get you to England, and show you off to my sisters, my family, my
peers, my friends at Portsmouth . . .  How they shall envy me!”

“I—want”—she ground out
through clenched teeth—“to go back to my ship.”

“No doubt you do, and then you’d be
away from me and leading me a merry chase. Ah, yes, where was I? England. We’re
going there, you know. The Admiralty has granted me some leave time and so
we'll be escorting a fleet of merchant ships back home. They can use all the
protection they can get, what with the damned French running around loose. And
Nelson, he is in awe of you. Do you realize how much favor you have won with
him for your bravery, for returning me to him, and, of course, for telling him
where the French had really gone? He was most impressed, dear lady, most
impressed; why, he has invited us both to his home, Merton, upon our arrival in
England, where he wishes you to make the acquaintance of his dear Lady
Hamilton. You will like her, Maeve, she is a true sailor’s woman, full of bawdy
humor and ribald fun, a real gem if I do say so myself.”

“I don’t want to meet Lady
Hamilton, I don’t want to go to England, I don’t want to suffer your
intolerable company another blasted minute; I JUST WANT MY SHIP!”

They had arrived at the door of Sir
Graham’s quarters, where a scarlet-coated marine, assigned to guard the life of
the most valuable man in the fleet, snapped rigidly to attention.

“Evening, Sergeant Handley,” Gray
said brightly. “Breeze is getting up, I fear!”

The guard, staring straight ahead,
did not shift his gaze, did not crack a smile, did not move anything except his
lips. “Sir.”

“We shall have a blow by daylight,
eh, Sergeant?”

Maeve’s temper exploded. “Furthermore,”
she raged, “I will not marry you and spend my days as a—”

The admiral clapped his hand over
her mouth. She bit him. He never flinched, only grinning and pushing his palm
harder against her teeth to smother her snarls of fury.

The marine’s gaze moved, briefly,
to take in the struggling girl in Sir Graham’s arms, and he caught the gleam in
the admiral’s eye. He stared again over Sir Graham’s shoulder. “Er, yes, sir.
If I, uh, do say so myself.”

“Pay it no heed, I shall set storm
sails to ride it out. Carry on, Handley!”

The admiral pushed open the door of
his cabin and kicked it shut behind him.

“I have no intention of being your
Lady Falconer,” Maeve exploded, the moment he released her mouth. He carried
her through the dining cabin and past the paneled bulkheads with their pirate
paintings and crossed cutlasses. “I have no intention of giving up the sea, my
ship, or my life, so I wish to hell you’d quit telling everyone otherwise.
Furthermore, I will not stay near or with you one moment longer than I have to
and I’ll never help the British Navy again, because you’re all a bunch of
arrogant blackguards with no thought for anyone else and nothing but betrayal
and conquest in your foul hearts. I hate you, I hate your navy, and I hate
Nelson!”

“Maeve!” He halted, looking
properly shocked, but whether it was genuine or not, she could not tell.

“What?”

“How could you hate Lord Nelson?
Whatever has he done to you to make you say such harsh things about him?”

“He lied to me,” she said,
sullenly.

“Did he, now?”

“Well”—she faltered, suddenly
ashamed—“he went along with your lies!”

“Pray, with enthusiasm or
annoyance? I should think it the latter, as we had a bit of a tiff about that,
he and I, and it was my impression that his lordship was not at all
happy about having to play along with my game.”

“I’ll bloody bet.”

“Indeed, dear heart, he was not.
Took me quite to task, and it was only after I assured him of my intent to
marry you that he left off.”

“I will not marry you, d’you
hear me? I—will— not—marry you. Period.”

“So anyhow,” he continued, once
again ignoring her outburst, “I think you’re being terribly unfair to poor Lord
Nelson.” Still holding her in the curve of his arm, he bent to tidy the pillows
on the sofa. “After all, you have him to thank for your life. If not for
his quick thinking—and that of your crew, I might add—you would be dead. Now,
where would that put you, if you were dead? I cannot bear the thought of it!
And to think that he even allowed you aboard the Victory—he does not
allow women aboard his ship, you know, does not suffer himself even to touch
one unless she answers to the name ‘Emma Hamilton.’ More jealous than a
school-lad, that one, and she no better besides! But oh, it suits them. A
better-matched couple I’ve yet to imagine, although I must admit that you and I
will have a fine go of it once the squalls leave off.”

He talked too much. And yet Maeve
sensed it was not chatter, but merely a buffer, a way of glossing over some
shrewd intent, some hidden motive, a way of lulling an adversary into letting
down his—or her—guard. Falconer was no fool. She had already seen the
swift direction his thoughts could take, the sudden turn of his temper, the
rapier-sharp intellect behind the navy blue (and what a damned appropriate
color) eyes. He knew how to put a person off guard, then slam in for the kill.

She must be on her toes. He was
shrewd, this admiral.

She must be more shrewd.

“So really, Maeve, I beg of you, do
not harbor such anger toward poor Nelson; he did all in his power to help you.
He is a kind man, blameless, much loved by his sailors, his officers, the Fleet,
and everyone who knows him.” Lowering himself to the sofa, he settled her
across his lap, cradled her shoulders within the curve of his arm, drew the
sheet up over her breasts, and smoothed the fringy end of her braid. His touch
aroused a hot wash of desire in her blood and she bit her lip, hard, hoping the
pain would distract her.

“Furthermore,” he said, lifting a
glass of lemonade to her lips and tilting her head forward so she wouldn’t
choke, “he is very anxious about your health, and I’m really the only one to
deserve the heat of your anger—”

“Fine, dammit! I forgive him, all
right? I FORGIVE HIM!”

“Good. Now that that’s
settled, I should like to re-braid your hair and then strike a bargain with
you,” he continued, not missing a beat. He turned her onto her side and she
felt his fingers smoothing the hair back from her temples, sliding along the
length of the thick plait. Mutinously, she stared at the windows directly
across from her, then the grinning countenance of Henry Morgan. The admiral’s
knee was hard beneath her cheek, but not uncomfortable; his hands were sliding
through her hair now, gently loosing the tresses from their mussed-up braid.
She shut her eyes. It felt good. If this was how he gained his victories, no
wonder he was an admiral at such a young age.

“You are enthralled by officers; I,
by pirates,” he murmured, from above her head. “What say you and I share
bedtime stories? You tell me a story about pirates, I’ll tell you one about my
adventures as an officer. Do you wish to go first?”

“No.”

“Very well, then. Allow me . . .”
And as she closed her eyes and allowed him to brush out her thick tresses, her
anger faded to wariness, her wariness to acceptance, her acceptance to
exhaustion. His voice faded in and out, and she knew only the feel of his
hands, gently tugging and pulling on her hair, slowly plaiting it in a long,
thick braid. He took his time about it, apparently enjoying the task as much as
she did, telling her about the ships he’d captained, the places he’d gone, the
thrill of having the King knight him for his bravery at the Battle of the Nile
as one of Nelson’s “Band of Brothers.” He told her about his sisters—all six of
them—and how much he loved them, he told her about his home in England, he told
her about his Cornish ancestors—“pirates, Maeve! I had pirates in my
background!”—and his own since-boyhood obsession with the buccaneers who’d
carved a bloody, romantic path through the Spanish Main nearly two centuries
before . . .

The braid was finished, and now
there was just his fingers, gently stroking her cheek. “Am I boring you, love?
Are you comfortable?”

She lifted eyelids that felt like
fishing weights. “Huh?”

“I said, are you comfortable?”

Comfortable . . . She was
more than comfortable, though she’d never admit it. She felt . . . safe within
the admiral’s protection. Cherished.

Loved.

It was frightening, letting go and
allowing herself to feel such things normally reserved for weak and insipid
people. She fought against them. Felt herself losing the battle.

Allow it, Maeve.

“Aye,” she murmured. “I’m . . .
comfortable.”

“Well then, I think that is all for
tonight’s bedtime stories. You will sleep now.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Oh, but you will, there was
laudanum in that lemonade you’ve been drinking. But have no fear, sweeting, I
shan’t leave you until it takes effect.”

“You’re . . . despicable.” She
dragged open her eyes, trying to be angry with him for this latest manipulation,
but it was hard to summon fury when he was being so damnably nice, so
damnably caring, so damnably gallant.

He eased himself out from under her
and with tender care, pulled the sheet up to her chin. His fingers brushed her
shoulders as he tucked her in, his lips grazed her temple. Stay, she
wanted to say. Don’t leave me. But her eyes slipped shut before her
heart could betray her, and she lacked the strength to force them back open.

Her lips moved against the pillow. “And
where are you going, Admiral? . . . Don’t you ever sleep?”

She sensed him kneeling down beside
her, felt his breath on her cheek as he lovingly absorbed every detail of her
face and smoothed the wispy hair that had come loose from the braid. “Sleep?
Not when my lovely Queen is under my protection. I am an officer, Majesty, and
I have my sworn duty.”

An officer. Guarding the
lives of those he loved.

“I love you, Maeve,” he said
softly, and kissed her.

She sank, down through warm,
comforting darkness, his words following her, wrapping around her, infiltrating
her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her.

I love you.

Chapter
20

“You did what, sir?”

“Now Hardy, don’t give me that
look; I only did as I saw fit. Besides, I’ll answer to any ill consequences
that come out of it.”

“Does Sir Graham know you wrote
this letter to her parents?”

“Of course not, this is no one’s
business but my own. And I don’t want his flag-captain to know of my meddling,
either—the fellow is the girl’s cousin, you know, and of course she
cannot know, because what if her parents really don’t show up? No, no,
they shall come, I am sure of it, Hardy. No parents would abandon their
daughter like that, and besides, didn’t Captain Lord himself say they think her
dead?” Lord Nelson waved his hand, fussily dismissing the matter and snatching
up a telescope from the rack. He strode to the side, climbed up onto a cannon,
and pushed the long instrument through the shrouds to balance it. “Now I don’t
wish to hear any more on the subject, Thomas! Just get me to Antigua, where I
hope, no, pray! to receive word of my friend Veal-noove. Oh, the
thought of returning to England empty-handed does not bear thinking about!”

“The nation will still love you,
sir.”

“Will it, Hardy? Will it?
Oh, if I fail to find the enemy—oh, Hardy, pray God we receive word at Antigua!”

Raising the telescope to his good
eye, the admiral trained it on the dark sea, as though he could summon his
nemesis from the waves themselves.

But it was empty, and even Lord
Nelson could not know that the panicky Villeneuve had already received word of
Nelson's pursuit and, against Napoleon Bonaparte’s orders, was fleeing the
Caribbean as fast as the wind could take him.

###

Miles away, Sir Graham Falconer’s fleet
was also preparing to leave the Caribbean.

The convoy that he was taking back
to England with him was—as it had been for a week—waiting at Barbados when
H.M.S. Triton had finally arrived and dropped anchor there several hours
after sunset. Now, the following morning, 130 merchant ships of every size,
shape, and degree of seaworthiness were hastily preparing to get under way.
From the massive 1200- and 800-ton Indiamen and three-masted ships down to the
brigantines, barkentines, schooners, and sloops, the convoy made an impressive
sight beneath a pale morning sky smeared with haze. Three smart and dashing
frigates from Sir Graham’s fleet of warships, commanded by equally smart and
dashing young captains vying with each other to impress him with their prowess,
cruised between the merchant ships like sheepdogs rounding up a flock, and
towering protectively over the entire armada of fighting and merchant ships
alike, her gunports open to catch every lazy bit of breeze, was the powerful
flagship of Sir Graham himself, H.M.S Triton.

For some—the young flag-captain
Colin Lord, the homesick men of the fleet, and the admiral himself—the
several-hour stop at Barbados to pick up the convoy was far too long. Most of
them had not seen their beloved Britain for years, and were impatient to gaze
upon those misty shores once more.

Their course was already plotted.
They would use the westerlies, turning their prows northward, swinging in a
long, gentle curve parallel to the North American coast, before crossing the Atlantic
and going on to England. Sir Graham anticipated no trouble—though he, like most
navy men, detested the laggardness of the merchant ships and the characteristic
sloppiness and disregard for sailing efficiency for which their captains were
noted.

Now, with most of the convoy safely
clear of Barbados and a lieutenant waiting to carry his dispatches off the
ship, Gray was still below, finishing up official business. He hated writing,
and his penmanship—a long, sloping scrawl that looked like waves parading before
a storm—reflected it. Indeed, he was the only one who could read it, but then,
there was a reason that admirals were afforded a secretary and several
clerks—to do the pen-pushing for them.

His secretary, Shoesmith, looked
up, his eyes pedantic behind his tiny spectacles. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No, one more memorandum,
Shoesmith.” Sir Graham had been walking back and forth, thinking on his feet,
dictating his wishes aloud for the past two hours. Since arriving in Barbados
the night before, he’d dictated a letter of farewell to the governor of
Barbados, settled a dispute between two of his captains, answered a request
from a commander on Antigua for additional marine support, dispatched two
frigates to investigate reports of French harassment of fisherman off one of
the Leewards, declined an invitation to dine with the premier planter on
Barbados, declined another to attend a ball given by a Lady Sarah Wanderley,
responded to another flag officer’s request for supporting warships, made a
report to the Admiralty in London, ordered some flowering plants and a dozen
roses to be brought aboard his flagship, and sent a polite note to Lady
Catherine terminating their brief but passionate affair.

An average day in his life as an
admiral. Thank God he was going home for a while after two years of continuous Caribbean
service.

He dictated one last memorandum
giving final instructions to the senior captain he’d be leaving behind and
dismissed the loyal Shoesmith. After seeing his dispatches delivered to the
waiting lieutenant, he donned his coat and hat and, nursing a headache brought
on by the series of mundane matters in which he'd spent his morning, went
topside.

A blazing sun beat down on the
deck. The convoy was still filing out of the harbor to the tune of foc’s’le
chanteys and fiddles, the shouted commands of captains and lieutenants alike;
capstans heaved and groaned, men sweated, anchors were catted, and boatloads of
fruit merchants and prostitutes, lavishly dressed ladies and dapper gentlemen
went to and fro and lined the shore.

Someone coughed, and the officers
on the quarterdeck snapped to rigid attention at Gray’s appearance.

“Sir!”

He found Colin near the helm,
anxiously watching each ship make her laborious way out of the anchorage and
into open sea. The flag-captain looked up and touched his hat. “Any change in
formation, sir?”

“No, Captain Lord,” Gray responded,
formally. “If we can keep this miserable lot in something of a rectangle, with
our three frigates ahead, astern, and on the wings of it, I shall be most
happy. A devilishly impossible wish, of course, but see what you can do.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Signal the frigates Harleigh
and Cricket that I'll want them ahead and to windward of the weathermost
column of the convoy, so they can quickly run down to wherever they may be
needed. Damn this sun, it’s hot.”

“And the little Kestrel,
sir?”

“Eh?”

“The Pirate Queen’s schooner . . .
I’m sorry. You wouldn’t know. She sent one of the Irish girls to me an hour ago
and volunteered the ship for our use since Kestrel is to accompany us
back to England. I—uh, already gave them a copy of the signal book.”

“Surely, you’re not serious.”

Colin shrugged and looked at him
patiently.

“Very well then. If they want to
play navy, signal them to run up British colors. Whose idea was this, anyhow? I
cannot, for the life of me, imagine Maeve allowing the crew of that little toy
to assist me in any way.”

“With all due respect, sir, then
perhaps you should ask her. She and the two Irish girls are on the poop deck,
er, watching you.”

“Is that so, now?” Sir Graham
grinned and drew himself up like a rooster thrown amidst a flock of hens. “And
who’s commanding the schooner?”

“Her lieutenant, sir. I tried to
explain to my cousin that this is not how the navy operates, but . . . ”

The admiral shook his head. Now
that the paperwork was out of the way, his headache fading, and most of the
convoy clear of the harbor, he could afford to feel obliging and tolerant. “No,
it’s not, but I will make an exception in the interest of . . . amusing her. Especially
since she’s a convalescent and quite unhappy about it. Advise that she-viper she
left in command of the schooner to station herself just to windward of Captain
Warner’s Harleigh, where she might find a use for herself in acting as
lookout. That ought to keep her out of trouble, harm’s way, and my hair.”

Colin nodded formally and kept his
eye on Sir Graham, looking resplendent, capable, and yes, annoyed, as he
watched a brigantine struggling to set her mainsail.

The admiral thinned his lips and
turned away from the sight. “I would like to see topsails up shortly, if you
please.”

“Aye, sir.” Colin turned and
stiffly barked out the order. “Topmen aloft!”

“Topmen aloft!” the first
lieutenant repeated through his speaking trumpet, and moments later, a swarm of
men were leaping up the shrouds and streaming out along the yards. Gray, his
hands behind his back, nodded in quiet approval as bright curves of sail came
spilling down, arcing to the wind and thundering with power and anticipation.

Forward, the anchor cable was
vertical and taut, the lieutenant there turning to signal to Captain Lord that
the mighty ship was ready to show her heels to Barbados.

“They’re watching you, sir.”

“Really, now?” His face instantly
brightening, the admiral turned aft to face the poop deck, swept off his fancy
gold-laced hat, and saluted the Pirate Queen.

Beneath the awning, Her
Majesty—wearing the admiral’s long nightshirt and wrapped in a light blanket—sat
in a chair flanked by two of her ladies-in-waiting, Aisling and Sorcha.

“The admiral just saluted you,
Majesty.”

“The admiral can go to hell.”

“He’s very nice, Majesty. Do you
know what he did?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“You should care, Majesty, after
all, he did send that note over to Kestrel inviting us aboard to
keep you company.”

“How magnanimous of him.”

“Do you want to know what else he
did?”

Maeve yanked her straw hat down so
she could gaze at Sir Graham without him taking note of her perusal. But he had
caught her stare, and even from this distance she could see his smile, the
devilish glint in his eye. “No. And I don’t want to know.”

Obviously, Aisling was determined
that she would know, whether she wanted to or not. “He sent over a
shipment of pistols and gunpowder to Enolia and Orla. And he gave me this—” She
angled her head to the side and showed her very annoyed captain the mermaid
charm that rested on a rope of serpentine gold around her neck. “Isn’t it
pretty? He gave Sorcha one too. Show the captain yours, Sorcha.”

“Mine’s a seahorse.”

“Lovely,” Maeve said, acidly.

“And he was worried about how few
people we have to crew Kestrel, so he had his captain send over some
seamen under the command of a lieutenant with a front tooth missing. Is Captain
Lord really your cousin, Majesty? He’s so handsome!”

“Sorcha’s in love with Captain
Lord! I saw the looks she was giving him!”

“And you’re sweet on that toothless
lieutenant, Aisling.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Sir Graham was grinning, looking
her way.

“Stop it, both of you,” Maeve said,
irritably.

“I think you should be nicer to Sir
Graham, Majesty,” Aisling declared, and sat down on the deck beside Maeve’s
chair. “After all, he did give you these roses.”

“And that pretty dress.”

“And that poem on your breakfast
tray.”

“I think he wrote it himself. He
did, didn’t he, Ash?”

“Oh, he must have. We should ask
the flag-captain. You should ask the flag-captain, Sorcha, since you’re
so in love with him.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Maeve was getting a headache. “Leave
Captain Lord alone; he’s busy getting his ship under way.”

“Sir Graham says we’re going to England.
El Perro Negro’s going to go on trial there, but I’ll bet Sir Graham hangs him
all the same. At least I hope he does!”

Maeve said nothing, for she had
plans of attending to the Spaniard’s disposal herself.

‘I’ve never been to England, have
you, Majesty?”

“No. And I have no desire to go to England.
If Sir Graham, damn his arrogant eyes, wasn’t forcing me to stay on this ship,
I wouldn’t have had to volunteer Kestrel’s service just to keep her with
us. I’ll be damned if I go anywhere without her or my crew.”

Above, wind thundered in sails that
waited impatiently to be sheeted home. Instinctively, Maeve glanced up at the
mizzenmast, where a white flag emblazoned with a red cross streamed proudly in
the wind.

Aisling followed her gaze. “I’ve
never seen so many flags in my life. What does that one mean, Majesty?”

“That an admiral is aboard this
ship.”

“Why’s it white?”

“Because Sir Graham is an Admiral
of the White.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The Royal Navy is divided into
three squadrons, blue, red, and white. Don’t ask me any more because I don’t
know and I don’t care to know.”

“So, you mean that when the admiral
is aboard, his personal flag goes up? What if he goes aboard another ship?”

“Aisling—”

“The English have flags for
everything, don’t they? And speaking of England, Majesty, why don’t you want to
go there? Just think, all those princes and kings and lords and ladies—”

“Because he’s going to be
there.”

“He told us he’s going to marry
you. You’ll be Lady Falconer! Doesn’t that sound grand?”

“It sounds vile,” Maeve muttered,
and shut her eyes.

“But why, Majesty? Think of what a
fairy-tale life that will be!”

“Playing host to a bunch of
gossiping naval wives, attending stupid balls, dressing in restrictive clothes
and watching my husband go off to sail the seas while I’m forced to stay
home and breed babies is not my idea of a damned fairy tale! Now leave me
alone, I’ve got a headache.”

The girls giggled and turned back
to stare at Sir Graham and the handsome young Captain Lord, their youthful
chatter drifting in and out of Maeve’s attention. From beneath the shadow of
her hat, she watched the activities on the quarterdeck, saw the two officers
striding back and forth in quiet conversation. In their fine blue-and-white uniforms
and cocked hats, they looked tall, competent, and handsome, and despite herself,
a thrill shot through her at the thought of the admiral, her admiral,
being in command of all these ships and sailors—and these were just the
ones she could see. Sir Graham also commanded a fleet of over forty battleships
and frigates, most of which would remain here in the West Indies during his
leave of absence. To think that their every movement, every action, was done in
direct accordance to his orders, his wishes . . .

Stop it, Maeve.

She put her hands over her eyes and
bent her head.

“Majesty? Are you all right?”

“No,” she murmured, and sagged
forward, even as dizziness and darkness swept in and the Vision seized her . . .

Guns crashing around and about
them, ships fading in and out of the smoke, cannons booming, men dying, masts
falling across shattered decks, into the sea, musketfire—open sea, run, run,
run, get Nelson and bring him back!

“Maeve?”

Hurry, find Nelson and bring him
back!

“Maeve!”

Confused and blinking, she opened
her eyes and saw Barbados moving away from them, turquoise sea around them, and
Sir Graham kneeling down before her, his hand on her wrist, his fingers beneath
her jaw, his eyes dark, concerned, anxious, afraid. He was breathing
hard, and Maeve guessed he had run all the way from the quarterdeck, where even
now, her cousin had turned to watch them with stiff attention.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shakily. “Just
. . . a Dream.”

“Get her some water,” the admiral
commanded, and the girls ran off to obey.

Frowning, he looked into her eyes. “What
did you see, sweeting?”

Her eyes were huge and frightened. “Enough
that I can tell you not to make this journey. A sea fight. Death,
gunfire, the French Fleet—”

“The French Fleet?” The
admiral laughed and waved his hand in dismissal. “Yes, yes, of course, my dear.
There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Gray, I’m telling you—”

“Dearest heart,” he said patiently,
“what you no doubt saw was Nelson finally catching up to Villenueve’s
fleet and drubbing the hell out of it. That’s what I think. And you know
what else I think? That you’ve been far too long out in this heat. I shall
bring you down to the quarterdeck and set you beneath the shadow of the poop
deck; ’tis much cooler there, and I can keep a better eye on you.”

“Gray, you must believe me!”

He paused and his face grew
serious. “Maeve, I don’t doubt that what you saw seemed real, but I can’t
change our charted course, or Nelson’s, based on a Vision. I’m sorry. I can
only proceed as planned and hope that God will be with us.”

An hour later, they were well clear
of Barbados, and the convoy—130 merchantmen guarded by three frigates and the
mighty ship-of-the-line H.M.S. Triton—was heading steadily
north-northeastward, baking beneath a blazing sun, driving along under set
stuns’ls, and happily oblivious to the fate that the Pirate Queen of the
Caribbean had seen for them.

Chapter
21

Plan I—Plying the Enemy with
Flowers and Gifts—was not working.

Plan II—Bringing Aboard the Enemy’s
Crew— seemed to be failing miserably.

It was time to put Plan III—Enticing
the Enemy Out of Port—into action.

As soon as Barbados was well astern
of them, the convoy herded into a lumbering, barely manageable pack, Sir Graham
left the deck to Captain Lord, went below, and summoned the two Irish sisters,
Aisling and Sorcha, to his quarters. Turning on every ounce of his considerable
charm, he plied them with lemonade, biscuits . . . and feigned despair.

“You’re so nice to invite Sorcha
and me aboard, Sir Graham!” piped young Aisling, happily munching a biscuit.
She, like her sister, was dressed in shirt and trousers, with a dirk at her
waist and her hair scattered in a bright cloud about her shoulders. “We’ve
never seen a mighty ship of the line get under way! Even Her Majesty was in
awe, and it takes a lot to awe her, right, Sorcha?”

“Huh?”

Aisling kicked her sister under the
table. Sorcha was gaping at Sir Graham in his handsome uniform, her eyes
starstruck.

“I said, even Queen Maeve
was in awe!”

“Oh, yes . . .”

Sir Graham walked to the window,
very aware of two worshipful pairs of young eyes on his back. He knew well how
to make himself noticed; he knew well how to draw a lady’s eye, and with this
in mind—and despite the heat—he had purposely and cunningly exchanged his
seagoing frock coat for his finest full-dress uniform. The dark blue coat was
carefully brushed, with bright gold bars of lace at sleeve and lapel, more lace
at collar, cuffs, and pockets, and the epaulets with the single star winking
proudly from each shoulder; the waistcoat and breeches were snowy white, and a
cocked hat was framed with even more gold trim. Uniforms—especially full-dress
ones usually reserved for formal occasions—were a sure bet for winning female
hearts and with this in mind, the admiral turned just so, knowing that the
sunlight would—move a little more to starboard, Gray—he heard one of the
girls gasp—yes, that's it—touch upon the gold fringe of his epaulets
with blinding brilliance. With a private, wicked smile, he struck a deliberate
pose, relaxed yet commanding all at once; and then, affecting a great sigh, he
stared out at the flagship’s swirling wake, placed his hands on the sill, and
murmured, “Queen Maeve. I fear that my efforts to soften her are failing
miserably, ladies.”

“Keep trying, Sir Graham. She’ll
come around.”

“But how the devil am I to win her?
I need your help, I think,” he mused, deliberately drawing them into his plans.
“Tell me . . . what is her favorite meal?”

“New England fare. Boiled.”

“With apple pie for dessert.”

Sir Graham reached up to rub at his
handsome jaw. “Apple pie . . . Very well then, I shall see that my cook
prepares some tonight.”

“Do you want to know her favorite
color, too?” Aisling prompted, slyly.

“By all means.”

“Blue.”

“Damn,” he said, frowning, “and here
I have been sending her red roses—”

“Roses don’t come in blue, sir.”

“Indeed, they do not. Dear me, that
does present a dilemma . . . I shall have to see what can be done to
make up for it.”

“She likes sharks, too.”

“And ale.”

The admiral was still standing at
the windows, the hilt of his sword barely showing above the fine scabbard of
black leather at his left hip. He was resplendent, glittering, like a tall and handsome
prince, and the intended effect was not lost on the girls, who stared at him in
awe, their eyes wide, the biscuits temporarily forgotten.

His deep voice broke the spell. “So,
what do you suggest I do, ladies?”

He stared out to sea, knowing very
well what he would do. But he wanted to involve these two youngsters, win them
over to his side. Draw the enemy in. Drag them over to your camp, until
their commander finds herself alone and unsupported . . . vulnerable.

“Do? Um . . . I don’t know. Sorcha,
give me another biscuit.”

“Get it yourself!”

The admiral turned. “Perhaps if I
invite her to dine with me tonight,” he mused, tapping his chin in contemplation.
He moved away from the windows, poured himself a glass of lemonade, dosed it
with rum and allowed a pensive expression to steal over his face. “Tell me,
ladies, has she had any . . . er, suitors, since this Frenchman she once loved?”

“A few,” Aisling piped up, “but she
didn’t care for any of them. Said none of them were as fine and good as her
papa, so she sent them packing.”

“I see.” He took a sip of his
lemonade. “And what is her papa like?”

“We never met him, Sir Graham. Orla
has, though. She said he was very gallant, right Sorcha?”

“And very handsome.”

“Smart, too.”

“Just like you, Admiral.”

He heard the quick thump of a heel
hitting flesh. “Ouch! That hurt, Ash!”

“You’re not supposed to say things
like that in front of a person, don’t you have any tact?”

“More than you!”

Suppressing a grin, Sir Graham
began a slow, thoughtful walk, back and forth in front of his windows. “Tell
me, then,” he said carefully, “more about what she thinks her father did to
her.”

“You mean, why she ran away from
home?”

The admiral paused, angled his
head, and bestowed upon them his most devastating grin. “Aye.”

“But I don’t think she’d like that,
Sir Graham . . .”

“Ladies,” he said smoothly, and
picked up a biscuit, “do you want me to win the heart of Her Majesty or”—he
took a bite—”do you want me to fail?”

“Oh no, Sir Graham!” they cried, in
chorus. “We would like nothing more than to see you win her heart, and her to
become Lady Falconer and live in fine, grand style—”

The admiral munched his biscuit,
loudly. Crumbs broke off and fell, speckling his jaw, his lips, his neckcloth,
the front of his coat. He made no attempt to wipe them away. Instead, he took
another bite, his absurdly long lashes sweeping down to mask the expression in
his eyes, apparently unaware of the total mess he was making of his fine
appearance. The girls giggled and exchanged swift glances, thinking him
amazingly boyish, youthful, endearing . . . one of them.

A partner in crime.

He reached for another biscuit. “Very
well, then. I shall ask her myself. Perhaps over dinner.”

“Oh, yes, Sir Graham! You must ask
her to dine with you!”

He turned, clasped his hands behind
his back, and gazed out the windows, hiding his grin. “And,” he mused, “what do
you two ladies think I should wear for such a . . . formal occasion?”

Again, he knew very well what he
would wear, to tempt the heart of this distrustful Queen who pined for a fine
and gallant officer. . .

“Oh, Sir Graham, you must
wear that uniform you’re in now!”

“Aye, Her Majesty won’t be able to
take her eyes off you!”

He turned, and put his arm out in
front of him, pretending to examine the handsome laced bars at his cuff. “Really,
now? You don’t think all this splendor is a bit . . . much?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Her Majesty
has always adored men in uniforms. She loves sea officers, you know.”

He frowned.

“But don’t worry, she didn’t fall
in love with any of them, and she loves you, Admiral! She just won’t
admit it to herself because she’s too mad at you for deceiving her. But her
temper’ll blow itself out, you just watch!”

He smiled faintly, looking at his
sleeve and pretending to be engrossed in studying the fine lace. “Next,” he
murmured, evasively, “you’ll be suggesting I wear my Order of the Bath . . .”

“That’s right! You’re a real
knight, aren’t you?”

“Of course he’s a real knight, you
idiot!” Aisling chided. “Why do you think he’s called Sir Graham?”

The admiral executed a courtly,
elegant bow that elicited excited squeals from both girls. “Yes, ladies, I am
a knight. The king bestowed the Order on me following my actions at the Nile.”
He gave them a secretive, wicked look from beneath his long lashes. “Surely,
now, you’ll not suggest that I don my Order, too?”

“You mean you have it with
you?”

“Oh, Admiral, yes, I think you
should definitely wear your Order!” Aisling cried.

“Well, I—”

“Please, Sir Graham?”

“Pleeease?”

He shrugged, the deliberately
dropped hint succeeding as he knew it would. “Very well then. I will wear it . .
. if you think it will do any good.”

“Where is it?”

“In my wardrobe,” he said,
pretending indifference. The two scurried to his wardrobe, oohing and aahing
over each glittering uniform, each snowy-white shirt, until they found what
they were looking for.

“Oh, my! Sorcha, look at this!”
Reverently, Aisling lifted it out, and carried the Order and its red sash
across the cabin as though they were the Crown Jewels. Gray bowed his head, and
Aisling carefully slipped the broad scarlet sash over his right shoulder. He
watched Sorcha from beneath his long lashes as she reached out to touch the
elaborate, star-shaped badge that was the Order itself.

“You look grand,” she whispered,
her eyes huge. “Her Majesty will be completely undone.”

“You think so, now?” He turned his
head, looked at the brilliant red sash that made such a resplendent contrast
against the gold bullion of his epaulets, the dark navy blue of his coat. “I’m
nearly at my wits’ end, trying to devise a way to win your captain’s heart . . .”

“Well, first let us make you presentable.”

“Eh?”

“Biscuit crumbs, Sir Graham,”
Sorcha said, blushing and giggling.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He raised
his chin, allowing the girls to brush the crumbs from his neckcloth, then stood
back to survey himself in the mirror. He straightened his neckcloth, touched
his clean-shaven jaw. His men were going to think he’d completely lost his
mind. Such a full rig was reserved for the most formal of occasions, interviews
with high-ranking superiors, and audiences with royalty.

Royalty.

A smile curved his mouth, and the
dimple appeared in his chin.

“You look grand, Sir Graham,”
Aisling said, clasping her hands in front of her.

He turned, and bestowed upon them
his most winning smile. “Grand enough to pay court to the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean?”

“Grand enough to marry her,
Sir Graham! Now, let’s get you on deck so she can see you.”

###

He had gone. Thank God.

The effort of keeping Sir Graham at
bay—and her heart protectively locked up—was growing too wearisome for one who
had fought Spanish pirates, death, and the admiral’s affections all in the
space of a few short days. Maeve pulled off the straw hat, closed her eyes,
leaned her head back against the chair, and felt the smooth, easy movements of
the mighty warship beneath her, a warship that dwarfed her own Kestrel
many times over, a warship that was a floating battery of firepower and majesty
and brutal, smashing force. The gentle winds tickled the thick hair lying
against her damp neck; sunlight bounced off the sea, warming the backs of her
eyelids, creating dancing patterns of stars and speckles, warming the side of
her cheek as her head lolled to one side.

Maeve drifted, drowsing and healing
and dreaming . . . of her father . . . of Gray the pirate . . .

Of Sir Graham the admiral.

A shadow fell across her, and she
opened her eyes, blinking.

It was he.

“Go away,” she murmured.

He knelt down, and put a flower
under her nose. She turned away. He tickled her under the chin with it. “Stop
it.”

“It is for you.”

“I don't want it.”

“Ah, Maeve, you wound me. It’s just
a poor, innocent flower. To think that its very existence, its very life, was
ordained so that it could be presented to you . . . that its very life was cut
short so that it could bring a smile of delight to your lovely lips—and now,
you don’t want it.” He put his hand to his heart and affected a hurt look. “Dear
God, if I were that flower I would be sorely crushed, and go to my death
drowning in tears of bitterness and rejection and hurt and abandonment—”

“Oh, give me the blasted thing!”
she cried, and snatching it away from him, held it protectively against her
breast.

Sir Graham smiled, his eyes
twinkling.

“Why do you torment me so?” she
muttered, looking away.

But he noticed that she clutched
the stem of the rose as though it were a lifeline.

“Because I love you.”

“I don’t want you to love
me.”

“I cannot help my feelings, Maeve.”

She moved her head and looked at
him. Her eyes widened as she noticed his resplendent attire, then narrowed in
suspicion. Sparks ignited the catlike golden depths and she met his eyes. “So,
why the glittering uniform, Admiral? Expecting somebody important?”

“Very.”

She made a sound of derision.

“Actually,” he said, squatting down
so that he was on her level, “I’ve come to ask you to dine with me. Is that an
unreasonable request?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. Consider it an
order.”

“Order refused.”

“Oh, Maeve. You hurt my feelings,
truly you do.”

“And you annoy mine,” she said,
trying not to look at him, for he was far too handsome, too dangerously handsome.
A man of contrasts, he was dark hair and swarthy skin against snowy
smallclothes and a blindingly white grin; he was all that represented good in
the resplendent uniform and all that represented wickedness in the gleam of his
eye and the piratical earring. Damn him! Was this another calculated attempt to
win her over?

Gray saw her indecision and pressed
his advantage. “I confess that I’ve been interrogating your crew. I managed to
learn what your favorite dish is. Really, Maeve, my poor cook went to such
pains to prepare it for you.”

She set her jaw.

“Surely, you cannot keep up this
pretense of anger forever, can you? My hull is tough enough to handle your
wrath, but my poor cook . . . think of his feelings, Maeve.”

She shut her eyes. “Why do you do
this to me?”

“Because I love you.”

He saw her throat moving, a muscle
tensing in her jaw. “But I am . . . unlovable.”

“I love you,” he repeated,
firmly.

Her fingers tightened around the
stem of the rose. She bent her head and clutched the blossom to her breast, as
though it was the only thing she dared to trust.

Sir Graham reached out and gently,
lovingly, tipped her chin back up. Her eyes were miserable, her face wretched
with pain. A bit of hair had come loose from her braid; he cleared it off her
cheek, and tenderly smoothed the soft skin with his thumb. “Will you dine with
me, Maeve?” He smiled gently. “It would make me very happy.”

Her nod was barely perceptible, a
mere jerk of her head before she turned her face away, unwilling to let him see
how much his kindness was affecting her. He scooped her up. And then, her bare
feet dangling, her hot, weak body wrapped safely in his arms, the Gallant
Knight carried her belowdecks and into his cabin.

Chapter 22

Sir Graham strode aft toward the
spacious, grand cabins that were his floating headquarters, nodded to the
rigid-backed sentry posted just outside—who still managed to keep his eyes
straight ahead—kicked the door shut behind him, and carried the Pirate Queen
aft into his day cabin.

“My lady,” he said, and belatedly
Maeve realized her arms had been locked in a death grip around his neck.
Embarrassed and angry with herself for this small victory she’d allowed him,
she let go, and, with a charming grin, he gently, carefully, lowered her into a
chair.

It was then that she saw the table,
all set and ready for a meal.

The tablecloth was blue. The
napkins were blue. The lovely porcelain plate in front of her was an Oriental
design of white and blue. The flowers that made up the centerpiece were blue,
the vase they reposed in—blue.

Sir Graham grinned at her, and she
saw a devilish, wicked gleam in his—also blue—eyes before his long lashes swept
down to hide it. “You are pleased, Majesty?”

“What the hell is all this . . . blue?”

“The Irish sisters told me it is
your favorite color before I sent them back to Kestrel, which, as you’ll
see if you glance out those windows yonder, is keeping station just off to
windward.”

She bit her lip, trying not to
respond to the earnest look in his eye, the eagerness in his teasing grin. Don’t
let him know that he’s gotten inside your defenses, she thought, and looked
down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, so that he wouldn’t see the
fleeting smile she was helpless to prevent. “You . . . try too hard,” she said
finally.

“Am I succeeding?” He picked her
up, chair and all, and set her closer to the table.

Maeve grabbed the table’s edge to
steady herself. Then she looked away as he strode around the table to take his
own seat. Her eyes hopeless, she stared out the huge, sweeping windows at the
broad expanse of the sea.

It was blue.

“Am I, dearest? Pray, tell
me that I am and I shall be the happiest man alive.”

Color swept over her face, ripe,
frustrated, hot. She looked down, wishing he would stop this relentless pursuit,
yet praying that he would not, wishing she could only dare to open up, to
believe in him, to trust him. It was getting too blasted hard to fight
him, to fight herself.

“Maybe . . . maybe just a little,”
she allowed, her tone defensive, angry.

“Ah, splendid! I daresay, there is
hope for me yet! Shall we eat, then?”

She shrugged, glanced at him for
the briefest of instances, and then back out the window. She could just see Kestrel,
driving along with a stiff breeze filling her fore and main, her lee rail
buried in washy foam.

The admiral seated himself across
from her and, as though by magic, two servants hustled in, carrying steaming
platters and covered dishes. The service was finest silver, the wine goblets of
crystal, and it occurred to her that he must be a terribly wealthy man—or, in
debt up to his epaulets. She glanced up at him. He was watching her, as fixedly
as a wolf that has cornered its prey and waited for the kill.

“Comfortable, dearest?”

“Quite,” she muttered, and looked
away.

He lifted the cover from a dish and
said smoothly, “I am holding a conference with my officers and frigate captains
here in my cabin tonight. You are, of course, invited to join us.”

“Why?” she asked, guardedly.

He looked up, smiling patiently. “Because
I consider you to be one of my captains, too. Especially as I have commandeered
your little Kestrel and employed her in scout duty.”

“I am not in your navy,” she
declared, rising.

“No matter. Your ship is, at the
moment. Sit down.”

“Does everything you say have to be
an order?”

“No. Consider it an invitation,
if you wish.”

She set her jaw, suddenly
regretting her offer to let him use Kestrel. So much for her own ploy to
keep her crew out of trouble and her ship close by.

The servants set the last platter
down on the table and quickly left. An uncomfortable silence ensued. Maeve
glanced out the window at Kestrel; she glanced at the bulkhead beyond
Sir Graham, and found herself looking into the savagely grinning countenance of
Sir Henry Morgan, Pirate King; she looked down at her plate, back up, and her
gaze collided with the admiral’s.

His eyes gleaming, he lifted the
cover from a dish. “Some chicken, my dear?”

Without waiting for an answer, he
reached across the table, picked up her plate, and piled several tender slabs
of choice white meat on her plate.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you
prefer white meat or dark?”

“White.”

He nodded in self-satisfaction and
plucked the cover off another dish. “Some potatoes?” He spooned some onto her
plate, then uncovered another dish. “Turnips? Ah, what have we here . . . carrots.
Will you have some, dearest?”

“Please.”

“And what is this—ah, cornbread!”

Maeve’s head jerked up. “Cornbread?”

“New England fare, is it not?”
Again, that swift, disarming grin, that wicked sparkle of challenge and
amusement in his eyes. “I thought you’d find it . . . agreeable.”

She stared down at her plate as he
set it before her. Steam wafted up, tickling her nose and moistening her
cheeks. The food, so carefully arranged on her plate by Sir Graham himself,
blurred, wavered, rippled behind sudden tears.

Cornbread.

Like home. . .

She picked up her fork, felt
pressure on her wrist, and looked down to see his tanned fingers resting
lightly atop her hand.

“Maeve?” he said, tenderly.

She jerked her hand away. “You did
this on purpose!” she accused, hotly.

“Did what?”

“Had this meal made up so it would
remind me of home. You . . . you knew.”

“I would be a liar to claim
otherwise,” he said softly, and reached across the table to take her hand once
more. This time she did not jerk away. He tried to draw her hand to his lips,
but the distance between them was too great; and so he stood, tall, resplendent
and handsome, and leaning over her hand, bestowed a single, loving kiss atop
her knuckles.

Maeve shuddered, and bit her lip to
keep it from trembling. And then the admiral slowly released her hand, regained
his seat, and sat gazing at her from across the table, across the steaming
plates, across the tray of yellow cornbread.

She didn’t like the way he was
looking at her. Assessing her. Gauging his success, looking for a chink in her
armor. He gazed at her for a long time and she stared back at him, her own eyes
challenging, angry.

And then he made a fierce face at
her, took up his knife as though it was a pirate’s dagger, and baring his teeth
in a manner meant to be threatening, growled, “Aaaaargh! Eat yer dinner, matey,
before I carve out yer liver and feed it to the sharks.”

She stared at him, her jaw falling
open.

He stared back, the corners of his
mouth twitching, his face deceptively little-boy innocent. “What?”

“You’re . . . deranged,” she
murmured.

“No, merely hungry. For you. Hurry
up and get better so we can make savage, uninhibited love.”

Maeve couldn’t help it. She
laughed, a coarse, full, hooting guffaw that she quelled with a palm slammed
quickly across her mouth.

The admiral laughed with her.

She looked up and their gazes met.
Swift color flooded her cheeks. His eyes warmed. And then the servant was back,
handing a bottle to the admiral, and something was gurgling in her mug,
something fizzing and dark, and brown. Ale. She watched it foaming up to the
rim, her gaze traveling up the admiral’s fine hand as he poured, past his
decorated sleeve, up his arm to his shoulder, his stand-up collar, his earring—

His face.

He was looking at her. Grinning.

The beer foamed over the top of the
mug and with a start, he jerked back.

“Dear me, look what I’ve done! Maeve,
I swear, you have me consistently backing my topsails.”

She laughed again, for he really
did look quite ridiculous, all a-splendor in that magnificent uniform with the
red sash of knighthood across his shoulder, the table laid as though for a nobleman’s
dinner, everything perfect and splendid—

—and ale moving across the
tablecloth in a rapidly spreading stain.

She plucked her napkin from her lap
and began to sop it up.

“Oh, no, allow me.”

“I can do it.”

“Yes, but I spilled it.”

“No, really—”

His hand closed over hers, warm and
strong. “Maeve.”

He left it there for a moment
longer than necessary, then let her go. She grabbed her fork and began nervously
to push her food around on her plate.

The admiral didn’t move. “You’re
very beautiful, you know.”

She pushed the food faster.

“I’ve always loved red hair. It
indicates a woman of fire and spirit. I wonder if you might allow me to brush
it out for you, later?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“That’s not a very good reason.” He
buttered a piece of cornbread. “Give me a better one.”

“It’s good enough for me.”

“But not for me, and I’m
admiral here.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re an
admiral or King George, you’re not touching my hair again.”

He smiled at her, took a bite of
his cornbread, chewed, swallowed, and dabbed with gentlemanly grace at his
lips. Then he carefully folded his napkin, put it beside his plate, rested both
elbows on the table, and leaned toward her, looming, powerful, threatening,
heart-devastatingly handsome. “Maeve.”

She drew back, away from him.

“I will not hurt you—ever again. I
will never give you reason to distrust me, ever again. I never wanted to hurt
you or give you reason to distrust me in the first place, and I regret that you
do, but I wish you could find it in your heart to understand why I had to do what
I did. Please forgive me, Maeve.” His voice softened, became almost desperate. “What
must I do to win you back to me? What must I do to regain that magic we so
briefly shared, to win your hand in marriage?”

She flung her fork down and leapt
to her feet, jerking her hand out of his grasp. “There is nothing you can do.
Nothing! My heart is my own, has been my own for seven years, and shall
be my own for the rest of my life. You don’t understand that, do you? And as
for marriage—bah! You fantasize about making love to a pirate queen but did you
every stop to consider the consequences of marrying one? That’s just
what your king needs, to have the wife of one of his admirals sailing the Spanish
Main as a modern-day Anne Bonney! Never stopped to think about how that
would look, did you?” Her voice turned bitter. “Just as I never stopped
to think about how utterly whimsical my fantasy was of marrying an officer.”

“As my wife you would no longer need
to be a pirate.”

“I will never give up the sea,
Gray! Don’t think it for a damned minute! I worked too damned hard for all that
I am, to give it up for you or any man. And I’ve learned my lesson, the hard
way, about trust!”

He put down his fork. “But Maeve, I
am different—”

“You, different?! You, the
worst of the lot. The notorious Admiral Falconer! Ha, you think you can have
any woman you want but I tell you, you shall not have me, not now, not
tomorrow, not ever again! You ask me to trust you! Why the bloody hell should
I? Do you think I was born yesterday? Do you think I haven’t heard the stories
about you, and your string of paramours stretching from Jamaica to Tobago? Your
doings are a shame to your navy! How poor Nelson must blush for you!”

She expected anger, fury, a
reaction. What she got was just one of his wicked, dimpled smiles and a
thoughtful tugging at his chin.

“Well . . .” he murmured, on an
expulsion of breath.

“Well?” She stared at him. “Is
that all you have to say?”

“What would you wish me to say? To
deny my reputation would make me a liar. I will not lie to you. I have . . .
sampled the charms of many women. But!”—he raised his hand, staying her angry
words— “that only makes me all the more sure I have found the one I want to
marry. I never realized what it meant to love a woman until I met you.
Yes, there have been many women in my life, but none of them were the woman of
my dreams.”

“And neither am I.” Maeve rose to
her feet. “I’m merely your fantasy, nothing more!”

“Oh, you’re more than that, Maeve,”
he countered smoothly.

She stood frozen, her hands
gripping the back of her chair, her eyes blazing with anger and defiance. But
he merely picked up his fork and knife again and began to eat. “To begin with,
you’re a piratess. In case you haven’t noticed, I have a certain fondness for
pirates.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said
acidly.

“Secondly”—he speared a small mound
of carrots with his fork—“I happen to admire you. For your spirit, your
courage, your seafaring ability, and . . . your tenderness. For the reputation
you’ve managed to carve out here in the West Indies, which, I’m delighted to
discover, has no bearing in truth at all.”

“My reputation?”

“Aye.” He lifted the fork to his
mouth, chewed, wiped his lips. “Do you think I would’ve waited so long to find
you had I known you were anything but the sour-toothed, wretched old hag
of questionable sexual preferences that legend had it you were?”

“What?!”

“So you see,” he said, mildly, and
raised his glass to her, “one cannot always place stock in a reputation.”

Stunned, she sat back down in her
chair, her fingers clutching her napkin. Sour-toothed hag? Questionable sexual
preferences?!

“What about your reputation,
then? Are you saying that yours is false, too?”

“On the contrary.” He looked up and
gave her his wicked, charming grin. “I’m every bit the blackhearted rake you’ve
heard that I am. I eat ladies’ hearts for supper and spit them out in the
morning. More cornbread, my dear?”

“No!”

“Very well, then. Where was I? Ah
yes, your attributes. Number one, you’re a pirate queen. Number two, you’re
fiery and spirited and a true seafarer. Number three, you’re dangerous and
beautiful, in a savage, exciting sort of way. Number four, you are leading me
as merry a chase as Villeneuve is Nelson. Number five, and most importantly, I
find myself in love with you. My most demanding task, at the moment, is making
you see and believe the truth of that.”

“I see and believe nothing but
clever manipulations enacted by a master manipulator!”

Very softly, he asked, “Do you love
me, Maeve?”

His unexpected and sudden switch
from blithe insouciance to studied focus caught her off guard. She sat there,
her mouth slack, the napkin growing warm in her hands and now, twisted into a
ball in her lap. “I—”

He smiled, gently. “Do you?”

She raised her chin and looked him
straight in the eye. “There is a difference, Sir Graham, between love and trust.”

“Do you love me then, Maeve?” he
repeated, softly.

“I . . . I don’t know what I feel
for you.” She picked up her napkin and put it down on the table, rising to her
feet at the same time and thinking only of escape before she could admit
something she’d later regret. “But what does it matter? I don’t trust
you and never will. You deceived me, Gray, you made me look foolish in front of
my crew, you made me the laughingstock of your navy and God knows who else, you
made me feel like an idiot for falling for your stupid story about being a traitor,
and now you expect me to trust you?”

“Do you love me, Maeve?”

She turned away, clenching her
fists at her sides.

“Do you?”

Whirling, she yelled, “Yes, damn
you!”

“There now. That wasn’t so hard to
admit. Now that we have that cleared up, please sit down and finish your
dinner.”

She stared at him. He was eating,
just as calmly as before, looking down at his plate with those ridiculously
long black lashes veiling his eyes, lying against his cheeks. He glanced up,
stopped chewing for a moment, glanced pointedly at her chair, her plate, and
inclined his head to indicate that she should sit down.

Maeve sat. Or rather, fell into the
chair. Now that she’d said it, admitted it, she felt foolish, ridiculous—conquered.
It was not a comfortable feeling, and she shot back to her feet, feeling
trapped and humiliated.

“Sit down.”

“Stop telling me what to do, I hate
it!”

“Sit down.”

She sat glaring at him, wanting to
bolt.

He glanced up, grinning. “I am
your Gallant Knight, you know.”

She looked away, her mouth severe
and hard, her hands fisted in her lap.

“Your heart has been sorely
wounded, Maeve.” She heard the scrape of his chair as he pushed it back and
came around the table toward her. She felt his presence behind her, felt his
hands touching her hair, then resting lightly upon her shoulders. It was a
gentle touch, a possessive, protective one, and beneath the weight of it she
melted inside. His thumbs grazed her nape, eliciting an involuntary shudder;
his breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned down and kissed her temple.

“I love you, Maeve.”

She clenched her hands together
fiercely, her nails biting into her palms.

“I love you so much I would give my
life for you,” he continued.

Her fists buried themselves in the
folds of the blanket, and the nightshirt just beneath.

“I love you so much I would marry
you tonight, if I could. But I shall wait, because I would have your father’s
consent on the union.”

“My father,” she snarled bitterly, “has
washed his hands of me. Disowned me. Forsaken me as his daughter. Abandoned
me.”

“Your father,” he responded, his
voice deep and soft just above her head, “has, for the past seven years, believed
you to be dead.”

Gray, standing above her, felt
every muscle in her body go rigid.

“D-dead?” Slowly, she
twisted around in the chair to face him, all chalky face and chestnut hair and
a lost-child look that drove a fierce urge to protect her, to shield her, into
his heart. “What do you mean, he thinks I’m . . . dead? How would you know such
a thing?”

“My flag captain happens to be your
cousin. He realized who you were the day you burst into Lord Nelson’s cabin the
first time,” he said softly. “He told Nelson, and Nelson told me, and now, I’m
telling you.” He gazed deeply into her eyes, and stroked her cheek. “Your
father did not abandon you, dearest. He’s spent years thinking you are dead.”

“You lie!”

“No, Maeve. I do not. Ask Colin if
you don’t believe me.”

She went very, very still. Her eyes
fell shut, and her body began to tremble violently. “Oh . . . my God . . . ”

He said nothing and merely stood
beside her, being there for her, at this moment of horrendous discovery.

“You mean . . . you mean, all these
years I’ve thought he’d disowned me, when all the time he thought I was dead?”
She looked up, stunned, her face frighteningly pale. “But why? Why? Why
would he think that?”

“According to Colin, your father
went after you as soon as he discovered you had run away from home, Maeve. He
got as far as Florida, where he was told by some Bahamian fishermen, and then,
the captain of a French merchantman, that a topsail schooner had wrecked on the
reefs off one of the Keys.” He took her hand. “The schooner answered Kestrel’s
description, Maeve.”

“And he believed that?”

“Apparently not. He searched for
weeks for you. And returned home brokenhearted. I am not a father, but I can
well imagine his grief, and his anguish over the fact that his headstrong young
daughter had met her end because of a silly argument over what he, in his love,
thought was best for her. Perhaps he went on denying her death—but since he
never heard from her, ever again, he must’ve had no choice but to accept the
apparent truth. How awful it must’ve been for him, and your family, to bear.”

“Oh, my God,” Maeve whispered. “Oh,
my God . . . To think that all these years . . . to think I
believed the worst of him—I—” She put her head in her hands, then shot to her
feet and stumbled dazedly to the windows. “I’m so ashamed. . .”

He moved to stand beside her.

“To think that he, too, probably
watched the shore every day in the futile hope that I would return . . .
to think he probably stood at the waterfront every single night, every awful,
single night, staring at the horizon and wishing he could turn back the
clock and change things. Oh, God”—she felt him gathering her close, and didn’t
pull away—“Oh, God, what am I to do?”

“You’ll do, dearest, what your
heart tells you to do.”

“But it’s been seven years, Gray,
seven years!”

“In the scope of eternity, that is
but the blink of an eye.”

“I know, but I’m—I’m so ashamed!”

He held her protectively against close.
“Whatever you do, Maeve, I love you, I will stand beside you, I will even take
you home to New England myself if you wish me to—and I hope you do. Whatever
you decide to—”

A musket thumped outside, angry
voices sounded, and the door opened just enough to admit Colin Lord’s fair
head. His face was crimson with embarrassment, his eyes anxious. “Admiral, sir,
forgive me, but there’s a lady here to see you. I told her that you would not
wish to—”

“Pooh on what you told me,
Captain-dear,” came a feminine voice, and the woman shoved past both Colin and
the marine sentry and strode brazenly into the cabin. She stopped, her lip
curling with contempt at the sight of the admiral and the chestnut-haired girl
who’d gone stiff in his arms. Maeve stared back. The woman’s lips were awfully
red. Her face, awfully fair. And then she gave a slow, sultry smile and driving
her hand into her pinned-up hair, sent it tumbling down her back in a sleek
fall of liquid ebony.

“Well, well, Sir Graham,” she said,
her voice a study in practiced, husky sexuality. “I see you’ve found yourself
another trollop with whom to amuse yourself. What, weren’t my
attractions hot enough for you?”

Maeve stared, her eyes going wide.
She turned, speechless, and looked up into Gray’s face.

But the admiral had turned a
ghastly white, and beads of sweat were dappling his forehead. He did not look
well. He did not look well at all.

The woman smiled. “Surprise,
surprise . . . Gray. I see you’re just eating dinner. Mind if I join
you?”

“Cat,” he said shakily, and raked a
hand through his hair. “I th-thought you were . . . on Barbados.”

Chapter 23

“On Barbados?” The woman strode
forward, plucked Gray’s mug from the table and took a long sip, watching him
from over the rim. Then she put it down. “Oh, darling, you of all people
should know how positively bored I am with the tropics, especially after how
many years have elapsed since I’ve last been to London. I thought I would take
passage on one of the merchantmen that Papa’s sending home with your convoy.”
She looked at him pointedly. “After all, I’m still waiting for a dangerous
pirate to whisk me off in the middle of the night. Oh, don’t look so shocked,
Gray! Did you really think I’d let you sail back to England without me?’

The admiral made a choking noise
and motioned for Colin and the sentry to leave.

Maeve had gone numb with shock. For
a brief, hollow moment she was unable to feel anything; then, myriad emotion
flooded in. She thrust herself out of his arms and stared up into his ashen face.
“Gray—who is this female?”

“L-L . . . Lady Catherine
Fairfield,” he managed. He looked lost, and, for the first time since she’d known
him, a prisoner of a situation rather than master of it.

So, this was the mistress on Barbados.

“Look, Maeve, I know what you’re
thinking, but this is not what it seems—”

“Indeed, Gray,” the woman said
silkily, with a pointed, insulting glance at Maeve, “I should hope it isn’t.
And who is this . . . chit? Your latest toy?”

“She’s no chit,
Catherine, she’s to be my wi—”

Maeve jerked free of his grasp,
drew the blanket about her as though it was a monarch’s robe, and glared at the
other woman. “I am Captain Merrick, Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, and if you
do not watch your tongue, I’ll cut it out, feed it to you and watch you choke
on it.”

Lady Catherine smiled. “How
charming. Your newest kitten has claws, Gray.”

“Really, Catherine, this is not the
time or place for this—this discussion—”

“What, would you prefer to have it
in more pleasurable surroundings, my handsome admiral? I seem to recall
you have a penchant for creative positioning within the confines of such unlikely
surfaces as tables, hammocks, and overstuffed chairs. I’m sure something can be
arranged.” She turned disdainful eyes on Maeve. “Pirate Queen, eh? Fancy
that. From the stories I’ve heard about you, I thought you'd be much . . .
older.”

“As you so obviously are?” Maeve challenged,
and saw her barb hit home. The woman colored with rage, but Maeve—trying in
vain to control her temper, trying desperately to play the queen and not the
pirate—merely lifted her chin and with royal hauteur, drawled, “Forgive me, but
I’d forgotten what the tropical sun can do to a lady’s face. Yours, I’m afraid,
seems to have suffered the worst for it.”

“Why, you vicious, coarse little bitch!”

Maeve turned, ignoring her. “Excuse
me, Sir Graham. I have affairs to attend to on deck, if you don’t mind. Please,
do not let me keep you from your business with this . . . commoner.”

“How dare you insult me so, you
brazen little hussy!”

Maeve strode up to the other woman,
paused in front of her and stared at her for a long, tense moment. Then, fast
as lightning, she raised her hand as if to slap her face. The other woman gave
a cry of guttural horror and shrank beneath an upraised hand to deflect a blow
that never came.

“Coward,” Maeve said, haughtily. And
with that, she walked to the door, stiff-backed and proud, fiery and beautiful
and every inch the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. She heard the admiral’s sharp
intake of breath, the angry exchange between him and that—that woman,
felt the hem of the nightshirt brushing her calves with every step she took,
and fought the darkness that threatened to bring her down as she walked across
a deck that was suddenly like ice beneath her feet.

Keep walking.

“Maeve!” he roared, from just
behind her.

She clamped her jaws together,
hard, so she could not give in to the fierce urge to turn and scream out her
anguish at this man who had deceived and betrayed her yet again, for
so-help-her-God, the last time, the very last time. He did not love her.
He never had. He only wanted her because she was a piratess, a toy, as
his pretty slut had called her. Part of the fantasy, another piratical item to
add to his collection.

She pushed open the door.

“Maeve!”

Finally she turned and faced him,
chin high, mouth white with fury, eyes glittering. She did not know what to
expect when she looked into his face, but it was not the utter terror and
desperation she found there. “Aye, Sir Graham?” she said, her voice dangerously
calm.

“Don’t—don’t go.” His eyes were
imploring, begging her to understand. “Please.”

She gave a soft, serene, totally
sweet smile that nearly cracked her face and her composure along with it. Out
of the corner of her eye she saw Lady Catherine’s swift grin of triumph, for
now she would have the admiral all to herself.

“Really, Gray,” Maeve said,
gripping the door latch so hard it nearly broke off in her hand. Pain radiated
up her wrist, her arm, with the force it took to retain her composure, and she
moved her body in front of the door so neither could see how white her knuckles
must surely be. “Where indeed would I go? Your ship may be huge, but it is,
after all, finite. Please”—she gave an imperious wave of her hand—“carry on
with your little doxy. When you have put her back in proper temper you will
find me topside, where you may attempt to do the same with me.”

He moved forward, as though to stop
her, as though he didn’t quite trust her; he stole a swift glance at the sultry
Lady Catherine; then he sighed heavily, swore beneath his breath, and raked his
hair back, the movement causing the late-afternoon sun to burst in brilliant
shards of light against the golden tassels of his epaulets.

But suddenly they didn’t look so
grand anymore, and neither did that splendid uniform his shoulders filled so
magnificently.

Head high, Maeve strode out the
door . . . past the marine . . . through the passageway, up the hatch, and out
onto the broad quarterdeck. Beyond the nettings, she saw the convoy moving
along under clouds of sail. Colin Lord was gazing off to larboard, a telescope
to his eye, his fair hair bright beneath his cocked hat; a lieutenant touched
his elbow and the flag-captain spun around as she passed, staring at her first
with shock, then alarm.

“Good afternoon, cousin,”
Maeve purred, and strode purposefully past him and up the steep ladder to the
poop deck. Her strength rapidly failing her, she moved across and up its long,
empty expanse, focusing on the beckoning trio of high, mounted stern lanterns
and the wispy clouds that framed them, and didn’t stop until she reached the
flag locker and the taffrail, where there was nothing beyond her but blue sky, the
broad, glorious expanse of the sea—

—and Kestrel.

“Maeve!” her cousin shouted. “Stop
her!”

The Pirate Queen threw off the
blanket, climbed up onto the taffrail, and swayed there for a brief moment, the
wind whipping the admiral’s nightshirt around her body and tearing strands of
hair from her braid; then she took a deep breath and threw herself outward, the
wind screaming in her ears now, shrieking, the sea coming faster, faster,
faster, to swallow her up with a violent, bone-slamming crash that burst every
stitch in her bandaged side and left her stunned and senseless in the water.
She lay there for a moment, dazed, the waves breaking over her head, her body
beginning to sink down, down, down . . . then she heard the cries of alarm from
the flagship’s decks some two stories above, the desperate shrieks of the
bosun’s calls, and was roused by the thought of pursuit.

With the last of her strength,
Maeve raised her arm to summon Kestrel, but it was a wasted motion, for
already the little schooner was changing tack and sweeping in to rescue her
drowning captain.

Chapter 24

Prepare to heave to, Mr. Pearson!”
Racing to the side, a horrified Captain Colin Lord watched the lone figure
floundering in the waves, the schooner sweeping in to her rescue. “Brail up
courses, t’gallants and royals, and back the main tops’l! Lively now, for God’s
sake!”

Pipes shrilled, sailors ran to
their stations, the helm was put down, and the mammoth Triton swung into
the wind with a protest of shaking rigging and groaning timbers just as Sir
Graham came pounding up the hatch to the quarterdeck. His young
flag-lieutenant, John Stern, caught his arm, and ran with him toward the nettings,
gesturing madly. “There, sir! Just to starboard!”

Gray reached the side in time to
see Maeve being pulled out of the sea by her crew. His eyes widened with
disbelief. She’d jumped. The fool girl had actually jumped—

Paralyzed with shock, he gripped
the shrouds and watched her climbing up the schooner’s side, his
now-transparent nightshirt clinging wetly to her body, her hair a dark rope
streaming down her back—and a stain of crimson blossoming just above her hip
with alarming speed.

“Damnation, she’s bleeding!”
he roared, the sight shocking him into action. He spun around, nearly colliding
with his flag-captain, his flag-lieutenant, the first lieutenant, and a little
midshipman who looked as though he was about to piss his breeches. “Damn your
eyes, Colin, how the hell could you simply let her walk off the flagship?!”

Young Midshipman Jones dived in
recklessly to save his captain. “It w-was m-m-my fault, s-sir,” he said
bravely, trembling as his admiral’s furious stare swung on him. “I saw her
h-h-h-heading toward the p-poop deck and didn’t tell the c-c-captain soon
enough—”

“No, Mr. Jones, it was my
fault,” Colin said soberly, standing stiffly at attention and refusing to let
his officers take the blame. Composed and proper, he dauntlessly met the
admiral’s glare. “I saw her too, but must confess I was too shocked to react as
quickly as I might have had the circumstances been different.”

“No, Captain,” First Lieutenant
Pearson declared, “I should take the blame, I was nearest the ladder and
didn’t move to stop her—”

“Damn your eyes, damn all of
your eyes!” Gray raged. “It was my fault and I’ll take the
blame for it!” He fisted his hands into knots of helpless fury and let loose
such a foul string of sailor language that the very air seemed to smoke. “She’s
escaped me, who the bloody hell cares how, it’s the damned why of the
matter, I was so close, so damned close to winning her trust . . .” He
trailed off, spun around to watch the schooner, and bent his brow to his hand,
feeling the weighty, nervous silence of the officers behind him.

“Mr. Jones,” he heard Colin say
quietly. “See to it that the admiral’s barge is made ready, if you please. I
suspect he may need it directly.”

####

Lady Catherine . . . Gray’s
deceit . . . her father, not abandoning her after all, but thinking her dead
all these years—

It was too much.

Panting, winded, her wet hair
streaming around her shoulders and down her back, Maeve hauled herself over the
rail with the help of her horrified crewwomen. “Up topsl’s,” she gasped, nearly
collapsing in their arms, “and hurry!”

“Captain! Oh, look, your side—”

“I’m fine, for God’s sake; it’s
nothing but a few burst stitches!” Gripping their hands she swung onto the
deck, the familiarity of her own ship infusing her with a sudden burst of life
and energy. This was her command, the one place in the world that was a
safe refuge, a trusted haven, home. Already she could feel the
schooner’s spirit surging into her soul, that quick thrill of heady exaltation,
and utter invincibility. The admiral would never catch her now; not in that
massive and mighty flagship, not in a million years, not ever, damn his
lying, wenching, blackhearted soul!

“Captain!”

She whirled, neatly catching the
cutlass Enolia tossed to her, the weight of it nearly bringing her down. Tia
threw a light jacket over her for the sake of modesty and, trailed by the two
Irish girls, Maeve ran toward the tiller, feeling the blood oozing hot from her
side but knowing she had no time to worry about it now. He would send someone
after her, she knew he would send someone after her, if only to save his
rotten pride, if only to prove his ownership over this latest addition
to his pirate collection, if only to make her life hell—

Orla was at the helm, her eyes dark
and condemning. “Maeve—”

“Not now, Orla, just get me away
from that suffering bastard, and the sooner the better! I hope I never set eyes
on that snake again!”

“Snake, Captain?” Sorcha cried, her
eyes widening in horror at the bloodstained nightshirt just visible beneath
Maeve’s jacket. Already her sister was running to get fresh bandages. “Whatever
has poor Sir Graham done now?”

Maeve exploded. “Poor Sir Graham
flaunted his mistress right under my nose, that’s what he did! I hope he rots
in hell, the bastard, the wretch, the slimy, two-timing, bucket of bilge-rotted
scum!”

Orla merely set her lips and
staring past Kestrel's plunging jib-boom, said quietly, “Your orders,
Captain?”

Maeve bent her head to her palm,
wanting to kill, wanting to scream, wanting—

“Trim for beam reach, I think—yes,
yes, a beam reach, a bloody, blasted beam reach, and set the t’gallants too!”

“I think you’re being hasty,”
Sorcha said smugly as she drew a knife, sliced through Maeve’s soaked shirt,
and, with the help of her sister, began rebandaging Maeve’s side. “The admiral
loves you.”

Maeve’s head jerked up. “Well
darling, here’s a lesson for you! Men like the admiral don’t know how to
love! He’s a slinking slimy dog, just like the rest of his kind! He doesn’t love
me; the only thing he loves is gratifying the itch between his legs! He’ll not
leave his precious mistress for me, he’ll send someone else, and then, only
because he’s obsessed with pirates and I’m a pirate and the most
interesting addition to his COLLECTION! Blast it, don’t you understand,
don’t any of you understand? If he was my Gallant Knight, he wouldn’t
relegate his dirty work to a subordinate, he’d damn well come for me himself!”

Enolia was standing at the rail
with a glass to her eye.

“He is.”

Her sides heaving, Maeve came up
short. “What did you say?”

Enolia lowered the glass and looked
at Maeve. “I said, he is.”

The blood drained from Maeve’s
face. She turned and stared dumbly at one of the starboard guns, unable to
speak, her lips going gray with shock.

“Captain? You all right?”

Relief. And then fear, guilt,
elation, and anger all bubbled up in her breast. She grabbed a telescope from
Aisling and pressed it to her eye, the wind whipping loose strands of wet hair
around her neck and making it sting her cheeks. Sure enough, she could see the
frantic activity even from here; officers gesturing wildly, seamen running down
the gangways, a boat being swayed out, a frigate—oh God, he was summoning
the frigate Harleigh, the fastest ship he had!—charging down toward
the big flagship—

Trembling, she dropped the glass.

“He’s coming after you, isn’t he?”
Aisling taunted.

“Of course he’s coming after her,”
Sorcha cried, with a look of triumph on her face. “He’s her Gallant Knight. Do
you think he’s just going to let her go?”

Shrieking with delight, both girls
ran to the rail, jumped atop the guns, and, waving their arms and cupping their
hands over their mouths, began yelling at the very top of their lungs.

“Come on, Sir Graham! Come get
her!”

In a daze, Maeve pressed a hand to
her rebandaged side and stared out over the frothy sea. She felt the strength
and intensity of the admiral’s determination even from here—and saw the white
flag with the red cross dropping from Triton's mizzen and shooting to
the top of the frigate Harleigh’s.

“He’s aboard the frigate, Captain!”

“Here he comes!”

Maeve shut her eyes, ripped her
braid apart, and stumbled to the weather rail, seized by a hysterical urge to
laugh, to cry, to sit down and curl herself into a little ball where she could
hide from herself, and hide from the truth of what Gray was doing: coming for
her whether she wanted him to or not. She gripped the shrouds in both hands and
looked down, where the blue, frothing mirror of the sea threw her words back at
her. “You’re not supposed to come after me, Gray,” she whispered,
closing her eyes against her whipping hair as the schooner smashed through the
swells and spray licked her cheeks. “You were supposed to stay with her.
. .”

“Come on, Sir Graham! Look, Ash,
there’s the admiral himself. Hello, Admiral! Yoo-hoo, Sir Gra—ham!”

Maeve got up, crossed the short
distance to the helm, and pressing her hand to her throbbing side, stood beside
Orla. Together they watched Harleigh, neither saying a word, as beneath
them the brave Kestrel leapt and plunged through the waves in a race she
could never win.

“I give up, Orla,” Maeve whispered,
on a bleak little laugh. Her heart was now pounding, pulsing, echoing in her
ears, and thrilling tingles shot through her at the sight of that glorious
English frigate, charging forward and piling on every stitch of sail she
carried. “I just— plain—give up . . . ”

“Shall we heave to and let the
admiral close the distance, then?” Orla asked, her eyes grave as she peered at
the new bandage just visible beneath Maeve’s coat. Already, fresh blood was
soaking through it.

Maeve’s head snapped around so fast
her hair took a full second to follow. “What’re you, insane?! Heave
to, and fail Sir Graham’s expectations of me? Heave to, and let him down? No
way in bloody hell, Orla, will I heave to! Merricks do not give up! Pirate
Queens do not give up! The chase is not over yet, for we have Kestrel,
my father’s ship, the most famous vessel in the American Revolution, the swiftest
schooner afloat, a living legend—”

BOOM! Smoke burst
from the frigate’s bows in a plume of gray, and the ball threw a waterspout as
high as Kestrel's mainsail boom.

The Irish sisters howled with
delight. “He’s firing on us!”

Of course he wasn't, Maeve thought,
closing her eyes. But he was demanding they heave to, and demanding that they
do so immediately.

Clutching the old coat around her
like a shield and laughing with sudden, sheer exultation, the Pirate Queen
leapt atop the old gun her mother had long ago dubbed Freedom. The
cannon’s hot iron surface nearly burned the calluses off her soles and,
brandishing her sword, she yelled:

“Come and get me, Sir Bloody Graham
Falconer! You want me so damned much? Hah! If you can catch me, I’m yours!”

Orla’s voice, urgent and quick: “Captain?”

“Come on Sir Graham! I dare you!
Come on, Admiral, show me what you’re made of!”

“Captain!”

The desperate urgency in Orla’s
voice lanced her exultation, and whirling, she followed her friend’s arm,
nearly tumbling from the gun.

“Strange sail off the starboard
bows,” Orla murmured. “Far off the starboard bows. Look.”

Maeve grabbed a telescope and
nearly slammed it into her eye—one ship, two ships, frigates, and several miles
beyond them, cloaked in drifting haze, huge, massive shapes, rippling flags, a
fleet the size and might to rival if not surpass Nelson’s—

“Holy bloody HELL!” she cried,
dropping the telescope. “We’ve stumbled onto the combined Franco-Spanish fleet!
It’s Villeneuve!”

Chapter 25

“Ready about!” Maeve cried,
desperately.

“But Captain, you said—”

“To hell with what I said, that’s
the French fleet out there and Sir Graham must be warned!”

But even as the Pirate Queen
clutched the edges of the coat around her wet body and ran to the side, even as
Kestrel swung herself neatly through the wind, even as a low chorus of
awed disbelief rose from the crew around her, Maeve knew the admiral had seen
it, too. A mighty, invincible line of twenty battleships and seven frigates
stretching from one end of the horizon to the other, buried in haze, barely discernible,
the might and strength of Napoleon Bonaparte’s Combined Franco-Spanish fleet—

“Go below and change, Captain.”

“Orla, there’s no time!”

“Go below, Captain—if he sees you
all bloodied, he won’t go, he’ll not do what he must to save his convoy, his ships,
himself!”

“But—”

“Go, Maeve!” Orla cried. “For
God’s sake, go!”

Maeve shot one look at the oncoming
English frigate and fled down the hatch. With Aisling hot on her heels she
burst into her cabin, flung open her wardrobe, hurled clothes over her shoulder
until she found the purple satin gown.

“Captain, hurry, hurry!”

“Aisling, these buttons, I can’t do
them, I can’t reach them—”

The girl struggled to help.

“Oh, do hurry, Aisling, hurry!”
she cried.

“Just go, Captain!” Aisling shoved
her toward the door, and together the two raced topside. Orla had the schooner
close-hauled, and wind and spray hit them in the face; they reached the rail
just as Sir Graham's frigate met them, came about, and, paralleling their
course, plunged through the sea alongside them.

“Maeve!” It was him, him!
standing on the quarterdeck with Harleigh’s company assembled behind
him, his feet planted against the desperate plunge of the ship—

She leaned over the rail, one hand
thrust toward him as though she could reach across the waves and touch him. “Gray,
forgive me, I was rash, oh please forgive me—”

“Maeve, listen to me!” The
two ships were running neck and neck now, the frigate a savage, dashing warrior,
the schooner a pert little predator, so close they could’ve grappled, the crews
staring at each other across the short, rushing space.

He stood between two cannons, the
wind blowing his hair out from under his hat and whipping it across his cheeks,
and she knew then that she had been wrong about him, wrong!—that he
loved her and her alone. In his face, in his words, in the desperation of his
stance, she saw the truth. “You must listen to me!” He cupped his hands over
his mouth to be heard over the roar of wind and sea. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes!”

The sea thundered at the bows,
spray drove over the rail, the wind keened, and far off in the distance, one of
the scouting frigates of the enemy fleet was detaching itself from the others,
turning its bowsprit toward them—

The admiral spared it one glance,
grabbed a speaking trumpet, and shouted, “You must carry word back to Nelson!
He has the Fleet! The fate of a nation depends upon your obeying my command,
do you understand me, Maeve, obeying my command!” He tore the speaking
trumpet from his lips, flung it aside, and across the wind-whipped gulf that
separated them, yelled, “The fate of a nation depends on your finding Nelson!
Go to Antigua and bring him back!”

Miles to windward, the French scout
set her topgallants and another, just beyond it, left the line of battleships
to follow suit. Another . . .  And another . . .

“No!” Maeve cried, planting
her feet and clawing her whipping hair out of her eyes. “I won’t leave you,
Gray! Damn it, I won't abandon you!”

“GO FIND NELSON AND
BRING HIM BACK!”

Gray had already yelled something
to Harleigh's captain, and then the English frigate was showing her copper
as she bore off to carry the admiral back to his flagship. Already flags were
going up Harleigh's halyards, sending Sir Graham’s urgent instructions
to Captain Lord aboard the mighty Triton; already he had made up his
mind what course of action he would take. He had one battleship and three
frigates against the might of Villeneuve’s fleet, nothing more, nothing less,
and the meaning of the Vision she’d had upon leaving Barbados—the blood, the death,
the sea fight—was suddenly clear in all its ghastly horror.

He would die—honorably, gallantly—like
an officer.

And there wasn’t a damned thing she
could do about it.

Maeve saw the convoy beginning to
disperse in compliance with Sir Graham’s signals, already scattering and
fleeing to leeward while the massive Triton and the remaining two
English frigates, Cricket and Chatham, piled on sail and,
beating against the wind, drove forward to meet their admiral aboard Harleigh.

“Captain,” she heard Enolia saying,
“if we don’t get ourselves out of here now . . . we never will. One broadside
from those Frenchies and we’re done for.”

Not trusting herself to speak,
Maeve nodded her head in a quick, jerky motion, her gaze fastened on the diminishing
shape of Harleigh as she ran down to meet the oncoming Triton,
Cricket, and Chatham. Harleigh was stern-on to them, giant pillars
of sail rising gloriously skyward. Signals were bursting at her halyards,
answered by equally rapid acknowledgments from the mighty flagship.

She raised a telescope and put it
to her eye. A single, commanding figure had strode to Harleigh's
taffrail, there to stand rigid and alone. Gray, the officer. Gray, the admiral.
Gray, the one and only prayer the convoy—and maybe even England—had.

Her gaze met the admiral’s across
the rapidly widening sea. Tears choked her throat, and Maeve saw him cup his
hands to his mouth a final time. The wind snatched away his words, but she
already heard them in her heart.

I love you.

###

From the gundecks above came the
roll of drums calling the crew to action, the squeal of trucks and deep,
rumbling thunder as the big cannons were dragged up to their ports; barked
commands from the officers; pounding footsteps just overhead, yells of encouragement,
blasphemous oaths, and cheers and shouts of excitement.

Aboard H.M.S. Triton, el
Perro Negro and his companions waited for the organized confusion to cover
their escape from the hold. Tricking the young marine guard into opening the
door, they killed him with a blow from the stock of his own musket, tossed his
body into the hold, and escaped into the depths of the flagship, there to hide
until the time was right for el Perro Negro to put his plan into action.

And in the desperate race to get
the mighty ship ready for battle, no one noticed.

###

Aboard Harleigh, Sir Graham
stood on the quarterdeck with her commander, Captain Ben Warner, and watched
the French frigates—seven of them, all told—closing the distance aft.

Thank God Maeve had gotten
safely away. . .

“Shall I turn and fight, sir?”
Warner smashed his fist into his palm, his blue eyes glowing. “Please sir, let
me at them, I’ll bloody their noses good—”

“In good time, Captain, all in good
time,” Sir Graham murmured, resting the heel of his hand atop his sword hilt. “We
must dally for a bit, buy time so the convoy can scatter and get out of the
area.”

“Your orders then, sir?”

“Clear for action and beat to
quarters.”

To the ominous beat of a marine’s
drum, the British frigate prepared for battle as men ran to their stations. The
guns were run out, shot was carried up from below, and the lieutenants barked
orders through speaking trumpets.

“Look lively there, look lively!”

“Get a move on, damn your eyes!”

Aft, the leading French ship fired
her bow chaser, and a ball raised a harmless waterspout in Harleigh's wake
as the enemy gunner tried to find the range. Harleigh's crew sent up a
chorus of jeers, raising their fists in challenge and defiance. Some yelled
obscene threats, others roared with derision, all looked toward the admiral
whose command they would obey, even if it might mean their deaths before this
day was over.

“I daresay, Warner, your people
have spunk!” Gray said, with boyish delight.

The French frigate fired again.

“Poor Nelson,” the admiral mused,
watching the enemy ship closing the distance. “Imagine, Captain Warner! Here
he’s chased this very fleet nearly thirty-five hundred miles across the Atlantic
and we are the ones who shall get to fight it! What Nelson wouldn’t give
to be in my shoes right now . . .”

“Sir?”

The admiral grinned and wagged a
finger. “But mark me, I’d not trade places with him for the world!”

Thunder rolled again from the
French frigate, and another ball splashed into the sea a hundred feet off the
starboard quarter. The next shot might be a hit.

“Take in your t’gallants, Captain
Warner, and allow the enemy to catch up. At this rate they’ll spot the convoy
before it is safely over the horizon. And please, do not look so woeful! You’ll
get your chance to fight today, I can assure you. And now, while we are waiting
for Captain Lord to collect me, it is time to put my plan for confusing and
confounding the enemy into effect. Where is my flag-lieutenant? Ah, there you
are, Mr. Stern!”

The young officer clapped his hat
to his head and tearing his gaze from the enemy frigates and the immense enemy fleet
beyond, turned and walked briskly across the deck. He was terrified; Gray could
see it in his eyes, in his stance, in the color of his skin.

“Muster your signals party, Mr.
Stern, and be quick about it,” the admiral said. “I have a number of messages I
will be making directly, is that understood?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very well then, Lieutenant. Now,
come with me.” Already, midshipmen were scurrying from the lockers with
armloads of colorful flags. Gray joined them, noting their nervousness that he,
their admiral, was in their midst. “Are you ready, my young lads?”

“Aye, sir!” they cried in chorus.

He crossed his arms, tugged at his
earring and angled his head to one side as though lost in thought. “The first
signal I should like to make,” he said pensively, “is to Triton, to be
repeated to the convoy beyond. And make haste, Mr. Stern, as you must warm up
for the work you shall soon have to perform for me!”

“Aye, sir!”

“To the convoy: continue sailing
with all haste for England. With any luck, they’ll be safely
away before Villeneuve sees them, but if not, I doubt he will be fool enough to
chase after them and thus weaken his own strength as a massed fighting unit.
Make the signal directly, Lieutenant, we haven’t all day, you know!”

The signals were hauled skyward,
bursting from Harleigh’s masts, clawing at the wind. Puffs of smoke
plumed from the leading French frigate, a half mile away now and closing fast.
Another ball plowed the sea, twenty feet beyond Harleigh’s taffrail.
Seconds later, the sharp report echoed across the waves.

“My second signal. Make to Captain
Lord in Triton: Prepare for battle and make more sail.”

Sir Graham watched the French
frigate running out her bow chaser. “The third. Make to our frigates Chatham
and Cricket. Prepare for battle and take station to windward of Triton.”

The Frenchman fired again. The ball
splashed into the sea just aft of Harleigh’s rudder.

More flags darted skyward, the
little midshipman trying desperately to keep the pages of his signals book from
fluttering in the wind. He glanced at his admiral, that man so far removed from
his own lowly rank that he might have been a god, and found Sir Graham smiling
at him.

The admiral winked. “Cheer up, Mr.
Marshall, I have not even begun to work you yet!”

“Signal from Triton, sir!
Acknowledged!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gray
saw Captain Warner fidgeting with impatience.

“Signal from Chatham, sir!
Acknowledged!”

The admiral gave a barely
perceptible nod. And then he saw the pile of signal flags lying on the deck,
the flag-lieutenant and the midshipman standing ready, a marine positioned
nearby, and Captain Warner regarding him anxiously. He saw nearly three hundred
men all watching him, wondering what he would do—and how he would get them out
of this.

“Cricket acknowledged, sir!”

And then he gazed up at the
halyards on each side of the ship, the fathoms and fathoms of ropes and flags,
the party of loyal men, all anxious and ready to convey his barrage of signals
to an unsuspecting fleet.

Another half hour and Triton
would reach him. Another ten minutes and he estimated the convoy would be well
out of sight of Villeneuve’s fleet. Another minute, maybe two, and Harleigh
would be trading fire with the first of the enemy frigates.

“Are you ready, Lieutenant Stern?”

“Aye sir, as ready as I’ll ever be!”

“Very well, then, let us proceed.
And do ensure that my messages can be viewed from every angle. These
messages are for the benefit of our fine French friends.”

He put his hands behind his back,
and when he looked at Lieutenant Stern, his eyes were gleaming with wicked
humor, his mouth curving in a smile and his jaw dimpling with delight. “My
first signal is general and to the Fleet: All hands prepare for divine
worship.”

“Uh—all hands prepare for divine
worship, sir?”

“Just make the signal, boy, and be
quick about it!”

Aboard the frigate Cricket,
an excitable lieutenant with nineteen years behind him seized his captain’s arm
and pointed wildly. “Signals from Sir Graham aboard Harleigh, sir! Look!”

Captain Roger Young grabbed his
telescope. Quick-thinking and competent, he’d had his ship cleared for action
before he’d even received his admiral’s signal and now, sweating, bare-backed
gun crews stared up from their huge cannon and as one swung to look at the
signals bursting from the frigate Harleigh.

“What the devil?” the captain said.

“Can you make them out, sir?”

“Of course not, lieutenant, they
are all mumbo jumbo to me! Midshipman Beauregard! Yes, you with the damned
French name! Can you make out that signal the admiral is flying?”

The little midshipman opened his
signals book, pushing through the spray-damp pages to look up the meaning of
each flag. Bracing his legs against the leaping deck beneath him, he slowly
began to spell out the message. “It”—shaking his head, he turned bleak and confused
eyes upon his captain—“it makes no sense, sir!”

“Read it!”

The boy puckered his brow, his
high-pitched and still-youthful voice laboring over the message: “Signal from flag.
It says”—he looked up at his captain, confused— “All—hands—make—ready—for—divine—worship.”

“What?”

Thunder cleaved the air as the
French frigates opened fire upon Harleigh.

“It says, ‘All hands make ready for
divine worship,’ sir—”

“Damn you, I know what you said,
surely it must be some mistake!”

“No, sir, it’s in the book—”

Another gun boomed from the French
ship, raising a burst of spray off Cricket’s quarter, and Captain Young
clenched his fists as he willed more speed from his vessel.

“Look, sir, another signal!”

“Read it, Mr. Beauregard!”

“Prepare—to—” he
hunched his shoulders, screwed up his face, stuck his neck out—“this can’t be
right!— take—on stores. And another—B—L—A—C—K—
What? Blackbeard Forever? Sir, what does that mean, ‘Blackbeard
Forever?’ Wait, another! It’s an easy one, number 2045 . . . but it doesn’t
make any sense!”

“READ IT!”

Beyond Harleigh, the leading
French frigate hove to, suspicious and obviously confused by the barrage of flags,
their messages undecipherable without a signals book, breaking from the British
ship’s ensigns.

The boy screwed up his face and
looked at his captain, his expression stating his opinion that Rear Admiral Sir
Graham Falconer had clearly lost his mind. “It says, Can you spare an
anchor-stock?”

But Captain Young was staring past him,
his eyes intense, hard; the next signal was already at Harleigh’s masts,
equally ridiculous, equally nonsensical, fluttering in beautiful bursts of
color for all the world to see. And as the second of the French frigates hove
to and stood off, unsure about whom the English frigate was signaling to over
the horizon, Captain Young figured out just what his admiral was about.

Of course the signals made no
sense. They weren't meant to. Falconer was buying time by trying to make the
enemy believe he had a greater force than he actually did. Buying time. For
himself, his frigates, the convoy—for all of them.

“Bonaparte’s blood!” he
swore, laughing, and then, to the poor little midshipman, “make signal to Harleigh,
Mr. Starkey. Acknowledge!”

He glanced aft, but the massive
flagship Triton was already overtaking him, a fortress of checkerboard
sides and hungry guns towering above the sea, crowned by acres of sail and
strung with an array of brightly colored flags streaming in the wind as she
charged forward to collect her admiral.

###

On the deck of his own flagship,
Admiral Villeneuve, in command of the Combined Franco-Spanish forces, trained
his glass on the distant British frigate and the mighty ship-of-the-line that
was quickly running down to meet her. Sweat dappled his aristocratic upper lip,
and apprehension clawed at his gut. Sacre bleu! He didn’t like this,
didn’t like it one bit.

He lowered the glass. “All those
signals . . . whatever do they mean?”

“Je ne sais pas, sir,” his
flag-captain responded. “But were I to hazard a guess, I would say that English
frigate is calling for assistance, maybe, to that fleet whose sails we can just
see over the horizon?”

“I am confused. I must know what
those signals mean!”

The captain gave a shrug. Between
the emperor’s threats, insults, and orders, the deplorable state of the
Combined Franco-Spanish Fleet, the constant confrontations with his officers,
the Spaniards, and that most bone-chilling fear of all—the fear of the dreaded
English Admiral Nelson, the clever, cunning, fierce Admiral Nelson who would
never rest until he had run them down at last—Villeneuve had lost his nerve.

The alarming news that his English
nemesis was not looking for them in Egypt as he’d been led to believe—but
had chased them clear across the Atlantic—had sent Villeneuve fleeing the West
Indies in blatant disobedience of the Emperor’s orders that they remain there
to wait for reinforcements.

Napoleon would not be happy .
. .

“That British battleship and its
three meager frigates will pose us no threat, sir,” the French flag-captain assured
his panicky admiral. “Our seven frigates will make short work of them. And as
for Nelson, you have eluded him once again—I know what you are thinking, sir,
that that frigate is summoning his assistance, but surely, the English
admiral is still foolishly searching for you in the Indies—”

Villeneuve swung on his captain. “Surely,
you don’t think that is Nelson that frigate is signaling to, do you?”

“Oh, no, sir, surely not! Besides,
if those sails out there were Nelson’s fleet, you know as well as I do that
he’d be running toward, not away from us—”

Villeneuve was falling apart. “Well,
I’m not taking any chances! Mon Dieu, Capitaine, don’t just stand there!
Signal our frigates to attack immediately, and for one of Gravina’s battleships
to go with them in case that Englishman is too much for them!”

“And the rest of us, sir?”

“Continue on our present course for
Europe!”

###

H.M.S. Triton and the
frigate Harleigh reached each other at last.

To the wild cheers of seven hundred
men, Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer clambered up the sides of his flagship,
saluted the quarterdeck, and shook hands with Captain Colin Lord. Then, the two
senior officers of the fleet strode briskly to the helm, where they watched the
big Spanish battleship detach herself from the Franco-Spanish fleet and turn
her massive bows toward them.

“Ready for a pell-mell battle,
Captain Lord?”

“Aye, sir. You’ll not find my men
lacking this day.”

“Yes, well, we’ll show those French
buggers yet, eh, Colin?” The admiral clapped a hand across his flag-captain’s
shoulders to encourage him in the face of the terrible odds. “Besides, I have a
strategy that cannot fail. . . .”

Captain Lord sure hoped he did, for
even as the two stood watching, a frigate was detaching itself from the enemy
fleet and turning her bows on them.

Another.

He took a deep and steadying
breath.  It was going to be a pell-mell battle, indeed.

Chapter 26

VICTORY, June 13th, 1805

My Dear Lady Hamilton,

I have learned the French fleet passed
to leeward of Antigua on Saturday last, standing to the Northward
and no doubt steering for Europe. My opinion is firm that
something has made them resolve to leave these islands and proceed directly for
Europe, but at least I leave the Indies knowing Britain’s holdings here are
secure. As you may believe, my dearest, beloved angel, your Nelson is
very sad at not having got at the Enemy here, but I shall hound them all the
way back to Europe where I hope to bring them to glorious battle at last and annihilate
them. Then, my beloved, I shall return to you crowned with glory, and the only
reward I ask will be my dear Emma’s love. Oh, if not for the wrong information
given me by that damned Brereton, I would have been at them days ago, and your
own dear Nelson would have been forever immortalized—

“Sir?”

Nelson was just putting the third
emphatic bold line beneath angel and forever immortalized when
the lieutenant’s words jolted him back to awareness. “Mr. Pasco!”

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to
give you a start—”

“No, no, Mr. Pasco, it is my
fault for not having heard your arrival. Pray, what is it?” Reddening a bit, he
curled his arm around the letter, hiding his words from the young lieutenant
with all the guilty protectiveness of an adolescent in love.

“The captain’s respects, sir, and
the masthead has just sighted the Pirate Queen’s schooner closing rapidly to
windward. She seems to be in utmost haste, sir.”

“The Pirate Queen? Whatever
is she doing here, she is supposed to be with Sir Graham . . .” Trailing off,
Nelson jumped to his feet, blanching as his swift mind put two and two
together. “Oh, dear God—Falconer . . . the convoy—Villeneuve!”

Flinging down his pen, the admiral
grabbed his hat and charged out of the cabin.

###

Dawn.

The sky was bleak and gray, with
low-hanging clouds dragging behind the darkness of night. The ocean was still,
tense, expectant, the swells filing endlessly past, lifting up the
debris—broken spars and splinters of wood, ragged cordage, and pieces of
shot-torn sail—that littered the lonely patch of sea and dropping it into each
successive trough.

Silence, and the haunted sighs of
the wind.

A battered British frigate lay in
the lee of a noble leviathan whose mizzen still flew the proud colors of a rear
admiral. Where there had been three frigates, there was now only one, and some
thousand feet below them the wreck of the Chatham, and those who had
died with her, made her final anchorage on the bed of the Atlantic.

The other, Harleigh, had
been dispatched to catch up to the unprotected convoy.

Deep in Triton’s innards,
the orlop was as dark as the long night had been, with only the meager glare of
swinging lanterns to illuminate that dismal space that had not seen daylight
since the great ship was built.

The smell of blood, sickly and
sweet, lay heavily on the air. The deck planking was drenched with it. Vomit
and excrement and suffering made a choking stench strong enough to make one’s
eyes water. But the surgeon and his mate had had no respite since Triton
had engaged the mighty Spanish San Rafael and now, twelve hours after
the battle, Dr. Ryder moved like a sleepwalker, his apron crusted with dried
blood, his movements mechanical, his sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow.

It was a wonder they were all even
here at all, and not lying dead on the decks, sunk, or worse, chained as
prisoners of war in the hold of one of the enemy’s ships.

And they could thank their admiral,
Sir Graham Falconer, for that.

With him to inspire them and
Captain Lord to lead them, Triton’s crew had fought well—and they had
fought hard. So hard, in fact, that after Triton and San Rafael had
pounded the stuffing out of each other for nearly three quarters of an hour
with the Spaniard clearly getting the worst of it, Villeneuve, safely aboard
his flagship three miles away, had finally recalled his battleship and frigates—which
were also taking a beating from their British counterparts—and the enemy fleet
had fallen off to leeward under a full press of sail. Why Villeneuve hadn’t
sent in additional heavy battleships to handle Triton was a mystery, but
Ryder suspected the French admiral had no desire to see his ships so heavily
damaged that it would cost them valuable time in the flight back across the Atlantic.

Valuable time that might, Ryder
thought wryly, give Lord Nelson all the more opportunity to find and destroy
them.

It was a damned good thing that Sir
Graham had come up with that ruse with the signals, because if Villeneuve had
known that the sails on the horizon were not, in fact, Nelson’s fleet, but a
harmless and lucrative sugar convoy, the outcome would have been very different
indeed.

Yes, thank God for their admiral.

Ryder thought of how, his Bible in
hand, Sir Graham had solemnly recited the Twenty-third Psalm in his clear
baritone as the bodies—sewn in sailcloth and weighted by cannonballs—had
awaited that final journey to the bottom. Ryder knew the solemn ceremony would
soon be repeated; already, the sad shapes of those he'd been unable to save lay
waiting to be sewn into their canvas coffins. Less fortunate men lay groaning
in pain in the gloom around them, some babbling in delirium or screaming in
agony as a limb was removed or a splinter cut out, while others merely lay on
the deck propped against the bulkhead, their eyes staring into space as if they
were already dead.

One of the survivors was set a bit
away from the rest, still and unconscious now after the agonies he had suffered
earlier: Ryder’s eyes went bleak that the fates had laid waste to such a fine
young officer as Captain Colin Lord. It was always ones like him that God took;
the finest, the most promising, the cream of the crop, the best.

He heard footsteps approaching and
sighed heavily. Well, if God wanted Captain Lord, He was in for one hell of a
fight.

The admiral paused to comfort a
ship’s boy who had lost a finger and was sobbing brokenly for his mother. And
then, his face solemn and the ship’s cat struggling in the crook of his arm, he
walked slowly to where his flag-captain lay, and knelt down beside him.

“Colin.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the
surgeon saw Sir Graham set the little animal carefully down against the
flag-captain’s ribs, then reach out to take the still hand in his own.

“He’ll not hear you, sir,” Ryder
said quietly, watching as the cat flattened itself protectively against Captain
Lord’s side. “I dosed him up good with rum before I set the leg. He appears to
have a remarkably low tolerance for alcohol and will be out of it for a while,
I’m afraid.”

“It is better that way.” Sir Graham
looked up, his dark eyes troubled, anguished. “I should like to have him moved
to my quarters, Ryder. This is no place for him to—”

To die, he’d been about to
say.

“Pardon me, sir, but the captain
extracted from me a promise to leave him here. He didn’t want to desert his
men, sir.”

“Of course,” Sir Graham said, in
complete understanding, “but he extracted no such promise from me. I am
his admiral and I want him moved to my cabin as soon as possible, is that
clear?” He reached out, curved his arm beneath Captain Lord’s neck, and lifting
the lolling head, adjusted the crumpled and bloodstained coat that served as a
pillow. It was the young officer’s own, the tassels of one sad epaulet lying
against his cheek. With paternal tenderness, the admiral smoothed the damp hair
away from the captain’s brow and gently lowered his head back down.

“Will the leg be saved, Ryder?”

“I don’t know, sir. I did all I
could for him, but the ball did break it quite badly . . . shattered it, in
fact. At the very best, he’ll have a limp. At the very worst—”

“Never mind, Ryder, I do not wish
to hear the very worst.”

“Aye sir.” He looked at the
admiral’s shoulders, slumped with fatigue and grief, yet still proudly reassuring
beneath the bright epaulets that crowned them. Aye, it was a sad thing about
the young flag-captain, but didn’t Sir Graham realize or care that his actions
had saved them all, including the whole convoy? Didn’t he realize or care that
he had met, and beaten, nearly impossible odds?

That he had outsmarted
Villeneuve and a Spanish admiral besides?

Apparently not.

“What is the dead count up to,
Ryder?”

“Thirty-three, sir,” the surgeon
answered. “Not including the master’s mate. I don’t expect him to last the day.”

Sir Graham nodded wearily. He
pulled the sheet up to Captain Lord’s chin and dragged himself to his feet. His
face was stubbly with new beard, his shirt, so fine and bright before the
battle, now torn and smudged with blood and soot. He looked nothing like an
admiral, yet he looked everything like one. For a moment, he stared
blankly at the ship’s timbers, started to rake a hand through his dark hair,
and let his arm drop to his side.

“Sir?”

“Carry on, Ryder. Summon me if my
captain’s condition worsens—”

“Sir Graham!”

The admiral glanced up as a
midshipman burst into their midst , his cheeks flushed with having run down several
decks to reach this hellish hole. The boy snapped off a hasty salute and
blurted, “Lieutenant Pearson’s respects, sir, and there’s something he thinks
you should come topside to see!”

Gray looked at the pile of covered
bodies and felt the last of his spirit draining out of him.

Villeneuve.

He took a deep, bracing sigh. “My
compliments to the lieutenant, Mr. Fay, and I will be up shortly.”

The midshipman fled. Gray stood for
a moment, steadying himself for the inevitable sight, knowing already that
Villeneuve had discovered his ruse and returned to finish the job. He looked at
Colin, shattered beyond repair; he looked at the dead and the dying, who would
never fight again; he thought of Maeve, and her heartwarming refusal to leave
him in those last moments before he had turned his ships to face the enemy. But
even the possibility of hope where she was concerned failed to rouse his
spirits, and he despaired of being able to muster the confident optimism he
knew he must summon, if only for the sake of his men. Their captain was down,
out of action, and in all likelihood crippled for life; they had lost a
frigate, had lost a lot of good men, and now, with Villeneuve coming back to
sweep up the pieces . . .

He nodded to Ryder, picked up his
hat, and trudged up through the hatch to the next deck, too dispirited to
notice that with each level it got brighter and brighter, the darkness falling
away behind and beneath him, the sunlight probing through, weak at first, now
getting stronger, stronger, stronger—

Cheering.

He heard it, at first just as a
dull, muffled din, now an unmistakable roar bursting from a thousand raw
throats throughout what remained of his fleet.

The admiral hauled himself up the
last hatch, out onto a quarterdeck blazing with sunlight—and stopped in his
tracks.

Their backs to him, several hundred
wildly cheering men lined the rail, the hammock nettings, the shrouds, the
yards, standing atop cannon and out on the catheads. Some were throwing their
hats to the sky, others dancing with excitement, and in the shadow of the
mainmast a ship’s boy was weeping openly.

Someone turned, saw him, and a
hundred sailors cleared away to make a path for their admiral as he stepped up
to the hammock nettings.

“There, sir,” Lieutenant Stern
said, hoarsely, and handed him a telescope. “Look.”

Gray raised the glass to his eye.
He looked far to the west and saw it, even as the cheering grew so loud his
head rang, even as the realization of what he was seeing made his eyes begin to
water with strain and emotion. For there, hull up on the horizon was a ship, a
magnificent, mighty ship, with an invincible fleet spread out around her in a
glorious array of power and majesty and strength.

Nelson.

And Victory.

And there, leading them—a tiny,
mothlike speck nearly dwarfed by the magnificence of that formidable array—was Kestrel.

Chapter
27

A sailor through and through, Maeve
refused the bosun’s chair and, looping her skirts up and over one arm so they
wouldn’t tangle in her legs, scrambled up Triton’s side the minute Lord
Nelson returned to Victory.

She’d waited all morning for Gray’s
business with Nelson to conclude so she could go to him, impatiently pacing Kestrel's
deck and watching the sun blaze down to scorch the deck planking until the
rigging oozed tar and the very guns baked and sizzled in the heat. Now, as she
scaled the massive wall of the big warship’s tumblehome, she tried not to look
at the angry gouges the French and Spanish shot had struck in the wood, tried
not to envision her beloved admiral, standing unprotected on the quarterdeck as
H.M.S. Triton had sailed into battle—and tried not to think about what
awaited her in the moments ahead.

Her nerves were tight. True, he had
proclaimed his love for her before dispatching her to find Nelson, but that had
been a desperate moment. Now that the dust had settled, that last scene in his
cabin with his mistress was all she could think about.

He might have died.  And she had
mistrusted him, deserted him when that woman came into the cabin.
She had let him down.

She almost turned back.

Almost.

Don’t repeat with Gray, the
mistake that you made with your family. Don’t run and hide and allow yourself
to believe the worst. He deserves the chance to explain about that woman. Trust
him. Believe him. Give him the benefit of the doubt, give him a chance, go to
him and give him your love.

Then she was through the entry port
and a moment later, standing on the warship’s broad quarterdeck, and there was no
turning back.

A lieutenant, his hat tucked under
his arm, had stepped forward to receive her. He was a round-cheeked redhead
with an equally round belly, and he blushed like a schoolboy at sight of her. Clad
in a satin gown purple enough to please any monarch, gold earrings kissing her
shoulders, a straw hat atop her head and her long chestnut tresses caught by a
dark purple ribbon, she looked sweet, soft, and feminine . . .

As long as one discounted the
choker of sharks’ teeth around her neck, the cutlass in her hand, and the
wicked, gleaming dagger strapped to a bejeweled belt about her waist.

“Please don’t ogle, Lieutenant, it
makes me damned uncomfortable.”

“Sorry, ma’am, it’s just that—well,
we don’t have ladies aboard very often, you see, and . . .”—he flushed and
gulped, staring at her bare feet—“well, you look quite fetching, ma’m, and, uh,
well . . .”

“Never mind me,” she snapped,
looking about her. “Where is your admiral?”

“Sir Graham is in his cabin with
the flag-captain, Miss Merrick.”

“Captain Merrick.”

“Yes, of course, forgive me, Captain
Merrick, sorry, ma’am—”

“Or you may call me ‘Majesty.’ But
since I am here as the commander of a ship, I would prefer ‘Captain.’”

She saw several men smirking and
elbowing each other at the young officer’s obvious discomfort.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I mean Majesty, do
forgive me, I meant to say Captain—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Lieutenant! If
you cannot manage any of that, simply ‘Maeve’ will do! Now where are your
senior officers?”

“Captain Lord has been seriously
wounded, ma’am.” The lieutenant looked down at the deck. “The admiral is with
him now.”

Maeve's eyes darkened with alarm. “Wounded?
Take me to them, immediately.”

The lieutenant looked around as
though for orders, but he was the most senior officer present.

“I said, now, Lieutenant!”

“Yes, ma’am. Of—of course.”

She straightened her spine and
followed him aft, her heart beginning to pound all the harder.

I ought not to have come.

She thought of Nelson as his
bargemen had rowed him back to Victory not fifteen minutes ago, how he’d
looked up and waved his hat at her, his melancholy little face breaking into a
smile of reassurance as though he knew of her fears and trepidation.

He’s going to reject me, he’s
going to send me away, I know he will. He's had too much time to think, too
much time to see that I’ve done nothing to make him respect me enough to love
me—

All too soon, they were standing at
the door of Gray’s cabin. A marine, sober-faced and severe, stood just outside.
“Admiral’s not seeing anyone,” he growled, staring straight ahead.

“He will see me,” Maeve
snapped before she could falter, and pushing past him, shoved open the door,
closed it in his face, and strode into the cabin, blinking away the sunspots.

Stillness. Thick, cloying quiet. No
movement, no sound, nothing. Only the gentle wash of the sea around the great
ship’s rudder, far, far below her.

“Gray?”

After the blazingly bright
sunlight, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the comparative gloom of
the cabin. She saw her cousin, lying on the same sofa on which she had
convalesced and looking about as close to death as a person could get without
stepping over into the hereafter. She saw a cat nestled against his blanketed
feet and staring at her, its jaws open in an angry, threatening hiss. She saw a
roll of bandages on a table beside him, a half-empty glass of brandy, the
bottle, and there—the admiral himself.

Asleep.

She froze, torn between an absurd
and cowardly urge to flee before he could waken—and going to him.

He was slumped over the table, his
brow resting on his forearm, his black hair loose around his shoulders, his
sleeves pushed up to the elbows in a futile attempt to escape the heat. His
fine naval coat lay over the back of a chair, his hat on the table beside his
arm. A stack of papers was spread out around him, and a pen lay in his relaxed
fingers, dribbling ink all over the reports and dispatches he’d been working on
when exhaustion had finally done him in.

There was fatigue in the lines of
his face. A sizeable cut on the back of his hand. Blood on the edge of his
cuff.

“Gray,” she said softly, and
tiptoeing forward, stood over him. Time stopped. The world went away. Holding
her breath, she slowly, hesitantly, reached out, her fingers coming to within
an inch of his shoulder before halting in uncertainty.

The Pirate Queen swallowed, hard,
overcome by emotions she couldn’t name or recognize.

She hadn’t thought a mighty admiral
could look vulnerable, but this one did. She hadn’t thought a man who commanded
a fleet of battleships and the lives of thousands of sailors could look so
defenseless, but he did. She didn’t think the sight of her Knight in such a
state would rouse such a magnitude of love and fierce protectiveness in her
breast—but it did.

For a long moment, she stood there,
listening to the soft sounds of his breathing and holding this special, private
moment next to her heart. Sir Graham, alone. Sir Graham, defenseless. Sir
Graham, vulnerable.

Sir Graham—hers.

A half-finished report lay beneath
his wrist, three paragraphs of the worst handwriting she’d ever seen in her
life sprawled across the page before the words faded off into a black dribble
of ink. Her brows snapped together in indignation. Why didn’t he employ his
secretary, his clerks, to write the blasted thing? He was an admiral,
for God’s sake, with a whole staff of personal servants to attend to such
menial matters!

And then she saw that it was no
report at all, but a letter—a letter to her, full of the outpourings of
his heart, an apology about the woman, and declarations of the utter,
infinite magnitude of his love for her.

A thick knot of emotion lodged in
her throat. She sucked her lips between her teeth, carefully slid the paper out
from under his wrist, took the pen from his lax fingers—and on a deep, poised
breath, touched his shoulder.

He jerked awake, blinking, his eyes
momentarily unfocused and confused. “Maeve?” He stared up at her, but Maeve
glanced at Colin and put her finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, he’ll never hear
us. I got him foxed so he could get some relief from the pain . . . Good God, am
I seeing things?”

Touch me, Gray. Hold me. Comfort
me. I need you.

“Of course you aren’t seeing
things,” she snapped, tossing her head and retreating behind the safety of her
customary bluster. She picked up his hat with the point of her cutlass and flung
it at him, her eyes flashing. “You’re a damned fool, Gray!”

He stared at her in bewilderment,
clutching the hat to his chest.

“And I’m a bigger one,” she added,
sullenly. She bent her head, examining the wire grip of her cutlass, suddenly
unable to meet that dark stare. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

He didn’t move, and she wondered if
he was allowing this awkward silence on purpose so she would have no choice but
to fill it with something. Anything.

The tactics of an admiral.
She was becoming wise to them.

Her head snapped up. “I had to come
back, you know. After all, you are my Gallant Knight.” Then, she slammed
the cutlass against the top rung of an empty chair, the resounding crash
echoing through the cabin. “But I’ll tolerate no more long-lost lovers on
your part, is that understood?”

Guiltily, she glanced at Colin, but
her cousin remained still and unmoving. As for Gray, he was looking slowly,
pointedly, at the sword buried in the rung of his chair, his brow lifted in
silent amusement.

Maeve immediately saw her
predicament. “Oh, shit.” She tried to pull the heavy blade free of the wood,
but it was stuck fast. She gripped the hilt of the blade and tried to jerk it
up and down—to no avail. Sweat dampened her brow and her face went a deep,
blazing red. “Oh, shit!”

He rubbed his chin, as though
trying to mask a grin. “Need some help, Majesty?”

“You laugh and I’ll ram this thing
up your—”

“Uh, uh, uh, Maeve, that’s no way
for a monarch to talk.”

“You think it’s funny, do you?” She
put her bare foot against the seat of the chair, gripped the cutlass, and
yanked with all her might, her skirts jerking with every erratic, furious
lunge. “Bloody hell! Son of a—”

“Here.” He put the hat down on the
table. Then he stood up, tall and handsome, his head nearly touching the
deckhead above and a wicked smile lighting his face. “Allow me.”

“I can do it, damn you!”

He merely lifted a skeptical brow, gently
stepped in front of her, and grasping the hilt of the savage weapon, patiently
rocked it back and forth until it quietly eased free. Then, with a flourish and
a bow, he presented it to her with all the chivalry that he, a gallant Knight
of the Bath, could muster.

“Your sword, Majesty.”

He was grinning, that dimpled,
wolfish grin she’d come to know so well. Humiliated, she glanced at the
still-motionless form of Colin Lord, and snatched the cutlass away from him.

“Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“I’ll . . . replace the chair.”

“There is no need.”

“No, I insist.”

“I said”—a faint smile of
admiration and approval curved his mouth as he studied her ladylike garb—“there
is no need. There are other ways of paying me that would suffice just as well.”
The smile grew slow, lazy, hot. “Better, in fact.”

He stepped forward.

She stepped backward.

He moved closer.

She puffed out her chest and forced
herself to stay put.

Then, very slowly, the admiral
reached out, took the cutlass from her suddenly boneless hand, and laid it
carefully, deliberately, across the table beside his hat. His hands closed
around her elbows, skimmed up her arms, and, as he drew her into his embrace
she felt her defenses crumbling, her body melting. “Oh, Gray,” she murmured,
and went into his arms with all the desperate gratitude of a lost child who has
suddenly been found.

He kissed her deeply, his hand
catching in her hair, his arm a steel band around her waist. She drove upward,
clinging to him, her tongue hot against his, her heart wanting to weep with
gratitude that he had been spared. Finally she drew back, her eyes misty.

“Leaving you to fight Villeneuve
was the hardest thing I have ever done. I thought I’d never see you again. I
thought you wouldn’t have a chance against all those ships—”

He set her back to stare down into
her eyes, his expression ripe with humor. “Come now, my dear,” he said softly. “Do
you have as little faith in my abilities as all that?”

“For God’s sake, Gray, you were
vastly outnumbered; you could’ve been killed!”

“And you could have left me
to my fate.” His thumbs smoothed her hair from her temples, and his eyes went
soft and dark with wonder. “And yet . . .”

“And yet, what?”

“You came back to me,” he said
softly.

“Aye, well I”—she looked down so he
wouldn’t see how red her face must surely be—”I realized I was acting rashly
about that—that woman.”

“You acted . . . as I would have
expected someone in your place to act.”

“You don’t think I behaved like a
damned fool, then?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Majesty.” He
smiled, and dropped a kiss on her brow. “But I love you anyhow.”

A soft sigh ensued from behind her,
and she gasped and spun around, remembering Colin’s presence.

“Have no fear, love. As I told you,
my captain is dead to the world and will not eavesdrop on us, I can assure you.”

“What happened to him?”

The admiral’s easy humor abruptly
faded, and with a great, weary sigh, he gazed bleakly at the still form on the
sofa. “Another casualty of war, I’m afraid, caught by a ball from a Spanish cannon.
His leg is shattered and so, I fear, is his career in the navy. He may well end
up as a cripple—even if he does live.”

“Why wouldn’t he live?” she asked,
frowning and following his gaze.

“If gangrene sets in, the leg will
have to come off. But let’s not talk of so gloomy an affair. We survived the
engagement, thanks to a trick up this old dog’s sleeve, and as for young
Colin—well, he’s made of strong stuff indeed.” He gave a brave smile, though
she knew the fate of “young Colin” was very much on his mind. “He’ll recover—or
I’ll thrash him to within an inch of his life, the pup!”

Maeve swallowed hard, her heart
aching for him. He was like his mentor, Nelson. Kind and concerned and always
putting the fate of his men before himself. “I could send Aisling and Sorcha
across to nurse him,” she offered, slowly. “Perhaps they could read to him,
clean the wound, keep his spirits up. . .”

“Oh no, they’re far too young; I
could never allow it.”

“Young, but not entirely innocent.
His would not be the first male thigh they have seen. And besides, they’ll be
together”—she paused at the stubborn look on his face—“for God’s sake, Gray,
there’s only so much one overworked surgeon can do! He has a far better chance
of survival with my girls tending to him.”

But the admiral was cocking his
head, narrowing his eyes and looking at her speculatively. “And just why do you
care so very much, eh?”

“What?”

“I know he’s your cousin and all
that, but you barely know him.”

She caught her breath, feeling like
a thief who’s been suddenly found out. “I . . . I don’t know.” She tightened
her mouth, not willing to examine these feelings of tenderness and compassion
for another. “I just do, all right?”

His eyes darkened, and he took her
face in his hands. “Maeve, darling, sweetheart, love. You try so hard to
hide that gentle heart of yours beneath bluster and ferocity. But inside, you
are a warm and compassionate soul, full of generosity, concern and caring, with
so much love to give—”

Panicking, she drew back, feeling
suddenly threatened, vulnerable, scared.

“Please sit down,” he said quietly.
“Don’t abandon me. I could use a friend right now. It gets lonely sometimes,
being the sole man at the top.”

Don’t abandon me. Nothing he
might’ve said could’ve affected her more. That simple, unashamed plea, that
honest admission that he didn’t want to be alone—obviously the admiral had no
such fears as she did about laying bare his heart, his feelings. Reluctantly
she sat, pressed her palms together, and tried to avoid those dark, steady
eyes.

He poured two glasses of rum, sat
down, and pushed one across the table to her. “Do you have any idea how I felt
when I saw your little schooner leading the might of the Mediterranean Fleet
back to me this morning?”

She glanced at the door, her heart
beginning to slam within her breast.

“Trust,” he said gently, and she
felt the warmth of his dark gaze upon her, “works both ways. You could have
forsaken your promise to me and simply gone back to your island without ever
summoning Lord Nelson. You could have abandoned me, but you didn’t. And
I trusted that you wouldn’t. I trusted you so much that I kept my two
ships sitting here in the middle of the damned ocean waiting for you, because I
knew you’d return—and I didn’t want you to come back and find me gone. I
didn’t want you to think that I had abandoned you, when it might seem
that everyone else in your young life has done just that.”

The cabin grew very silent. From
somewhere above, came the shrill of a bosun’s pipes. A long moment passed;
then, he reached across the table to lay his knuckles gently against her cheek.
She shut her eyes and caught his hand with her own, pressing her cheek against
his palm and wishing for more than just a simple touch, wishing he would carry
her away and make the world cease to exist, cease to matter. Hold me, Gray.
Love me. . .

“I never loved Catherine,” he said
softly. “I never had any intention of keeping her or any other woman as a
mistress once I met you, Maeve, because after that, all other women ceased to
exist for me.”

“But you said you had a mistress on
Barbados, and that was well after we met. . .”

“Yes, I did say that. And it was a
lie—my desperate and panicky attempt to make you so very angry that you'd take
me back to Nelson as you'd originally planned to do. I had to think of
something, and something quick . . . something that wouldn't make you
suspicious.” He smiled. “You decided to ‘keep’ me, remember?  But I had had
nothing to do with Catherine since before you and I met.  She only came here to
try and change my mind.”  His eyes grew dark and intent, almost pleading, as he
brought her hand to his lips. “Forgive me love—I could think of no other way at
the time, and I didn’t know you well enough to trust you not to bring me to
Villeneuve instead.”

Maeve could not hold that gaze.
She looked down, and swallowed hard.

She felt him pull his hand from her
grasp and came around the table. He knelt down before her, and put his
fingertips beneath her chin, lifting her head so that she had no choice but to
look up at him. “I love you, Maeve,” he murmured. “Nothing can change that. I
love you, and I would like you to be my wife.”

His wife. The words should
have thrilled her; instead they brought her only despair, for his wife was
something she could never be.

“You still want to marry me?” she asked,
her eyes bleak.

“Of course I still want to marry
you.” He pulled the hat from her head, tossed it to the table, ran his hands along
her long, silky ponytail. “Nothing has changed.”

He was right. Nothing had
changed. She was still the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. Pirate queens didn’t
desert their ships, their crews, the lives they’d built for themselves to take
a reckless gamble on a man’s love. And pirate queens didn’t marry admirals.

Not if they intended to remain
pirate queens.

She bent her head, picking at a
hangnail on her thumb while he planted a kiss against her nape. “Gray,” she
said slowly, “I don’t think we can get married.”

“Don’t be silly, love, of course we
can get married.”

“No. We can’t.”

His lips found the sensitive spot
behind her ear. “And whyever not, sweeting?” he said, cheerfully.

“Because your career as a naval
officer would never survive the reality of having a wife who’s out roving the Spanish
Main.”

He looked amused and, straightening
up, ruffled her hair affectionately before tugging the bright purple ribbon
from her nape. Then his lips came down against hers and she moaned softly as
his tongue explored the recesses of her mouth. “Ah, Maeve,” he murmured, reluctantly
breaking the kiss. “Any roving you do after we are wed will take place in our
marriage bed.”

“No, Gray,” she said firmly,
savoring the taste of him on her lips. “I intend to remain in my present capacity
as the Pirate Queen.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There
is no reason for you to carry on as you are. I can give you everything you
need—lovely clothes, servants, and maids; grand parties, balls, and soirees.
You will entertain dignitaries, diplomats, and naval officers, take tea with
members of your own fair sex instead of crossing swords with criminals,
killers, and rogues. By God, never again will you have to steal just to feed
yourself, fight just to defend your honor! I will take care of you, Maeve. I
will love you. As my wife you shall enjoy the life you deserve to have,
one of grandeur, society, and status.”

“But that is not the life I want.”

He drew back, hurt. “What do you
mean? Isn’t that what every woman wants?”

“It is not what I want. And
I am not ‘every woman.’”

“Well, what do you want,
then?” He twisted the purple ribbon in his hands, looking bewildered, confused,
lost. “Ask, Maeve, and you shall have it.”

“My freedom. My ship. My life, to
live as I see fit. Please understand, Gray. It’s not that I don’t love you . . .
it’s that I’m scared of becoming an admiral’s wife. I won’t fit in. I have
obligations—to my girls, my ship—” Her voice grew desperate. “Please say you understand.”

“As my wife, you won’t need
a ship.”

“No. I do need my ship—”

“For God’s sake, Maeve, I won’t
have my wife sailing the Caribbean as the modern-day incarnation of Anne
Bonney!”

She leapt to her feet. “I thought
you liked Anne Bonney!”

“Aye, but I damn well wouldn’t
marry the woman!”

“Oh, I understand, now,” she said
hotly, grabbing her hat. “It’s only the fantasy, isn’t it? Well, my gallant
admiral, it’s about time you learn to distinguish the difference between
reality and fantasy. I am a pirate. Understand?” She jabbed her finger into his
chest. “Pirate. I steal, plunder, and fight as well if not better than
any man! I curse and drink and toast my skin in the sun! I’d never do as an
admiral’s wife, because I would embarrass you in front of those people you’d
want me to impress!”

“No, Maeve, you would make me proud,
d’you hear me, proud!”

“I am a pirate!”

“I wouldn’t care if you’re a bloody
gutter rat;  I love you, dammit!”

Their breathing echoed harshly
through the cabin. She snatched the purple ribbon from his hand and, turning
her back on him, stuffed it down her bodice with quick, angry jabs. Outside,
the sea washed around the rudder and from the sofa came the flag-captain’s soft
breathing.

She stared at the wall, trying in
vain to control her emotions.

“Very well, then.” His voice was
flat and toneless from behind her. “I guess we can’t get married, then.”

“Aye.” She swallowed hard. “Guess
not.”

“For God’s sake, Maeve!”

She spun around, eyes blazing. “Don’t
‘For God’s sake’ me, Gray! I’ve fought hard to get where I am and now you’re
asking me to give it all up. For what? Fancy balls, a life of bored leisure,
and ‘Lady’ in front of my name? Your name? I’ll not grow fat and lazy
entertaining a bunch of stuffy hussies who’ll only sneer at me and whisper
about me behind their backs. I’ll not desert, nay abandon, those who
depend upon me for leadership, their next meal, their very existence. They’re
my family now, Gray, the only family I have. I cannot desert them! I learned my
lesson the hard way, seven years ago, when I gave up everything I had for the
sake of a man’s love, and I’ll never do it again!”

“Maeve!”

“Never!”

She stormed across the room, tore
open the door—

And came face-to-face with el Perro
Negro.

Chapter
28

Maeve didn’t even have time for a
startled scream. Her hand went for the knife at her waist even as el Perro
Negro’s fist crashed into her jaw and rocked her head back on her neck. White
lights exploded in her brain and she fought to maintain consciousness, knowing
even as she felt herself falling, sinking, fading, that she . . . could . . .
not. . .

Her eyes rolled up and with a
little sigh, the Pirate Queen sagged bonelessly into el Perro Negro’s clutches.
Immediately, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back to expose her throat,
and thrust the flat of his knife against the pale flesh.

He looked up—and saw Sir Graham
facing him from behind the mouth of a pistol.

“Drop the gun, Admiral.”

Falconer's eyes burned with
murderous fury. “Release her. Now.”

“I said, drop it. Or the puta
dies.”

Gray never flinched, though his
hand was sweating around the pistol’s grip. How the pirates had escaped he
didn’t know, but all seven of them filled the doorway and there was no room for
heroic measures. Beyond, he could see the faithful marine sentry, sprawled on
the deck with his throat cut and gushing blood. On the deck directly above, he
could hear two lieutenants, obviously unaware of what was happening, calmly discussing
the weather. He looked into the desperate black eyes of el Perro Negro . . . at
Maeve, hanging senseless over his arm, her exposed throat vulnerable to his
knife . . . thought of Colin behind him, defenseless and now, starting to stir—

“Kill her.”

“Belay, damn you!” Cursing, he
lowered the pistol, tossed it to the table on a snarl of disgust, and stood
helplessly as el Perro Negro threw Maeve roughly against one of his cohorts.
Then the pirate stepped behind Gray, looped his arm around his neck, and held
the knife to his throat.

“Pig-Eye! Give me the almirante’s
pistol.”

Gray’s dark stare bored into the
eyes of the pirate who held Maeve. If you so much as breathe on her, I’ll
kill you, he silently vowed, unflinching as el Perro Negro, the gun now in
his hand, shoved it against his temple.

“One wrong move, Admiral, and I’ll
splatter the Fleet’s intelligence all over these pristine decks, ye hear?”

Gray didn’t answer.

“You hear me, Almirante?”
the pirate shrieked, jabbing the mouth of the pistol against his skull.

“You’ll not get away with this,”
Gray said coldly, but his unflinching stare was still locked on the pirate who
had Maeve.

El Perro Negro’s laughter was high,
desperate, hysterical, the stench of his unwashed body—and the fear that reeked
from his every pore—pungent and acrid. “No, Almirante, I will get
away with it! For I will take you, king of the sea, as hostage to ensure
my escape from this ship. You think I’m estupido, fool enough to believe
I’ll get a fair trial back in England? Baah! You English peegs are all
vile, wretched bastards! Tie up that puta, Renaldo, good and tight. And
hurry up, I don’t have all day!”

“Ye ain’t takin’ ’er with us, Capitan?”

“I don’t have time, idiota!
I have the almirante; he is all the insurance we need. Now, move!”

###

Maeve . . . Maeve, wake up . . .
please, wake up . . . Splitting pain cleaved her skull and she moaned in
agony with every gentle roll of the deck beneath her. Something hard and
unforgiving lay beneath her cheek, and she tried to move her arm . . . couldn’t
. . .

“Maeve . . . help me.”

The voice was real . . . the
accent, English . . . not Gray’s.

She opened her eyes and saw her
cousin Colin lying on the deck not five feet away from her. He was on his
stomach, his bright hair falling over his sweating brow, his gentle eyes
glazed, and half of the bedding trailing behind him and connecting him to the
sofa. Stupidly, she thought he was supposed to be in bed and started to scold
him . . . Belatedly, she realized she, too, was lying on the deck. Memories
slammed into her aching head. She surged to her feet, only to lose her balance
and fall, painfully, back to the deck.

“Colin, the admiral—”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice
tight with agony. “I heard most of it. They have him topside, Maeve. I—I tried
to go for help . . . can’t get any farther with this leg, God knows I tried—”

“They’ll kill him, Colin! They’ve
tied me up; you’ve got to help me get loose!”

“—God knows, I tried . . . you’ve
got to save him.”

“Dammit, Colin, you’re drunk!”

“Yes, I daresay . . . drunk . . .
Got to save Sir Graham.”

Desperately, she managed to get to
her feet, even as she realized the deck above was deathly still and quiet.

“Colin, help me!”

He shook his head, and she saw a
flash of sobriety in his eyes; she squatted down before him, thrusting her
bound hands directly in his face. “Colin—my knife! It’s in my belt, you’ve got
to cut me loose!”

“Drunk . . . Maeve . . . might cut
you . . . can’t.”

“For God’s sake, Colin, we’re
talking about Gray’s life!” Damn you Gray for getting him so bloody soused
he can’t even think straight!  “Colin—my knife. Please.”

She felt him pulling the wicked,
deadly blade from her belt, bit her lip as he began to saw, slowly, too slowly,
at her bound wrists. “For God's sake, hurry up!”

“Hold still, almost there . . .
hurry, Maeve . . . they’ll kill him—”

She felt the last thread break free
just as Colin sank back beneath the haze of pain and alcohol. On a little cry,
she grabbed up the knife, stumbled once, twice, and fled the cabin, leaving the
flag-captain passed out on the black-and-white-checkered deck.

###

“One more stupid move and your
commander in chief dies!” el Perro Negro snarled, holding the pistol against
Sir Graham’s temple and daring Triton's crew to try any more foolish
heroics in an attempt to rescue him.

The pirate was not taking any
chances. He felt the fury emanating from his hostage, the raw power in his
body, the deadly rage in his stance. But the almirante had remained
dangerously silent as they’d forced him up through the hatch and onto the
quarterdeck, and that was somehow worse than anything he could have said, done,
or threatened—for el Perro Negro had no idea what clever plan was going on
behind those dark eyes, and that alone was enough to bring fear tingling up his
spine.

That there was a plan, he
had no doubt. El Perro Negro had been in the Caribbean long enough to know that
Sir Graham Falconer was not a man to trifle with.

Now, standing on the deck beside
him, he glanced up into the almirante's swarthy face—and found those
dark, cold eyes regarding him.

The almirante smiled, and
the pirate felt sweat break out the length of his spine. I will kill
you, those eyes promised. You may depend on it.

He would too, el Perro Negro knew.
The English admiral would not forgive him for his treatment of the puta.

Nor for the insult to his
flagship’s crew.

He looked away, making sure the
pistol was snugly against his hostage’s skull. As they’d forced their hostage topside,
one of the young midshipmen had come running to his aid, only to be felled by a
shot from Renaldo’s musket. A lieutenant had then pulled his own pistol—and on
a sharp command from the almirante, angrily sheathed it. Only then had Triton's
crew—some seven hundred of them, el Perro Negro figured—gone silent,
terrified to make a move for fear he would kill their commander in chief.

Obviously, he thought in
satisfaction, they held their almirante in high regard indeed.

Darkness was falling, and fast.
There was no time to waste. Forcing several of Triton’s unwilling
sailors to help them, el Perro Negro’s men were already preparing to swing out
one of the flagship’s lug-sailed launches on tackles rigged to the great ship’s
fore and main yards. With it, they could make a clean escape into the darkness
and be away before any of the other ships, or even Nelson, aboard Victory
a cable’s length away, knew what they were about. El Perro Negro’s only regret
was that he didn’t have time to bring that puta the Pirate Queen along
with him. How he would enjoy slamming his own blade into her over and
over again before he killed her.

As for the almirante—

Once they were well clear of the
big flagship, he’d have no use for his valuable hostage. One bullet to the head
and the Royal Navy wouldn’t, either.

“Hurry up, you damned fools!” he
snarled.

High above, he heard the yards
creaking as they took the weight of the launch. He tilted his head back to
look—

And Sir Graham made his move.

A vicious elbow to the pirate’s
ribs, a swift uppercut to his jaw, and the pistol flew from el Perro Negro’s
stunned grasp. With the desperation of the damned, he dived for it at the same
time his hostage did. They both hit the deck together, but it was the pirate
who got lucky; snatching up the pistol, he thrust it between the dark and
challenging eyes of the man beneath him, screaming, “I’ll blow your brains out
for that, you estupido—”

A voice rang out from behind him:  “I
believe that prize is mine.”

Turning, el Perro Negro lunged to
his feet. He saw a beautiful woman in purple, the flash of metal through the
air—and then, nothing.

Gasping and twitching, he was dead
before he even hit the deck, the Pirate Queen’s dagger buried in his throat.

Chapter 29

Stunned, shocked, speechless, Gray
lay on his back and stared up at the woman who stood triumphantly atop a cannon
fifteen feet away.

For a long, terrible moment,
everything was still.

And then, chaos.

Officers running to his assistance.
A pack of angry seamen leaping on the remaining pirates. A short scuffle, a
lieutenant shouting wildly for order—

—and Maeve.

There she stood, still atop the cannon’s
breech, her hair blowing wildly about her face, her head high, proud, defiant.

Their gazes collided, hers glittering
with relief and love, his blank with appalled shock.

She jumped down from the cannon and
walked toward him with the regal hauteur of a queen.

He watched her coming. He didn’t
move, though a score of hands were reaching down to help him up. Couldn’t speak.
Not yet. Again, he saw that vicious dagger scything through the air, true as an
arrow. Again he saw the look of high triumph on Maeve’s beautiful, angry face
as the blade caught the pirate in the throat. Again, he heard el Perro Negro’s
strangled gasp, the sounds of his choking and dying on his own blood.

And now he saw Maeve standing
directly above him, while his officers and seamen stared at her in awe and
shock.

“Excuse me,” she said, smiling
sweetly, and they respectfully moved aside so that she could reach down to help
him up.

He looked up at that slender arm,
that feminine hand that had thrown the knife with such savage accuracy, those
golden tiger eyes that shone with love only for him. He saw the knife, arcing
through the air once more, saw her standing there on that cannon, never
blinking an eye over the fact she had just brutally killed a man—

And felt sick.

He could not touch that hand. He
got to his feet, shakily, seeing the knife, flying through the air. Again . . .
and again.

“Sir Graham, are you all right?”

Her earlier words echoed over and
over in his mind. Well, my gallant admiral, it’s about time you learned the
difference between reality and fantasy . . . I am a pirate.

Dear God, he’d just learned the
difference. He had thought her piratical antics charming, titillating, and on
the whole, harmless. Fantasy. But to have seen her hurl a dagger into el
Perro Negro’s throat and gloat over the fact she’d just killed a man . . .

Reality.

Cold, brutal reality.

I am a pirate.

“Sir Graham!” It was Lieutenant
Stern, desperately gripping his elbow. “Sir, I repeat, are you all right?”

Maeve’s hand was still stretched
toward him. He felt, rather than saw, her expression go from triumph to bewilderment
to hurt as he ignored that graceful hand and moved past her. Lieutenant Stern
tried to take his arm. Gray waved him off, raked a trembling hand through his
hair, and moved toward the hatch.

He shook off offers of help, felt
himself nodding woodenly to anxious inquiries over his welfare . . . saw again
the knife arcing through the air.

He felt her eyes on his back.

“Gray!”

He could not look at her.

“Gray!”

But the admiral kept walking, and
did not look back.

###

Stunned, Maeve stood on the darkening
quarterdeck, the wind blowing her skirts around her bare legs, her hair about
her face. She heard the excited talk of the men around her, dumbly accepted
their gushing praise and admiration, their gratitude for saving their
admiral—and stared at the hatch where he had gone.

One of the midshipmen was babbling
excitedly in her ear but she never heard him. A smartly dressed lieutenant was
offering to get her something to drink, but she only shook her head, staring at
that spot in the deck where Gray had disappeared, and feeling the raw agony of
rejection welling up in the very pit of her soul.

She had seen it in his eyes. Horror
and shame—that she had thrown the dagger, that she had reveled in the killing,
that she hadn’t fainted dead away as a proper admiral’s woman might
have, should have, would have, done. Was she supposed to just stand there
screaming like a helpless female while el Perro Negro murdered the man she
loved? No, she had taken matters into her own hands when his own crew could
not, and saved his life.

And he had rejected her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw the seamen lifting el Perro Negro’s bloody corpse and heaving it over the
side, the red-haired Lieutenant Pearson directing the crew to rig halters to the
foreyard for immediate execution of the remaining pirates.

I didn’t do anything wrong,
Gray. I merely saved your life, and I would do it again in a heartbeat. Her
throat tightened and she blinked back sudden tears. I’d do it again in a heartbeat
because, dammit, I love you.

She stared hard at that darkened
hatch for a moment longer and then, her back stiff with pride, moved away,
feeling the great deck moving beneath her feet, the wind clawing at her hair.
At the nettings, she stood and looked out over the darkening sea. Where her
heart had been there was a great, empty void, full of despair and grief.

He had turned away. Just as her
parents would have done had they seen her hurl a dagger and cut down a
man. Gray would never want her now, it was clear. Just as her parents wouldn’t
if they could see what their headstrong daughter had become after seven years
of fighting for survival and supremacy in a Caribbean that showed no favors to
anyone.

“Hello, Father. Hello, Mother”—she
was a grown woman now, and “Daddy” and “Mama” would no longer do—“I'm sorry
you thought I was dead all these years but I’ve been busy roving, pillaging,
stealing, and oh, yes, killing. Don’t look so shocked, it’s only been in
self-defense or to save the lives of those I hold dear . . . Mama? Daddy! No,
wait . . . Wait!

She saw them turning away in
rejection and disgust, refusing to accept this ugly, savage monster that had
once been their daughter.

Turning away—as Gray had done.

Her heart was cracking and going to
pieces, the wind lashing her hair across her face. She saw a boat putting out
from Victory, and knew she couldn’t bear the condemnation on Nelson’s
face, either.

I am what I am, she thought,
proudly, defiantly. So damn them all to hell.

Her head high, she called for
Lieutenant Pearson, and asked him to fire the two guns that would signal Kestrel
to come and collect her.

###

Morning came and with it the sounds
of footsteps on the deck above, as the crew scrubbed and scoured the night’s
spume away.

Maeve opened her eyes and lay
staring up at the deckhead while the schooner came awake around her. As it was
every morning, her first thought was of her father, who had once slept in this
very same bunk. She wondered what he was doing now. What her mother was doing
now. If they missed her.

And then she thought of Gray, and
his cold rejection of her.

Sitting up, she put her aching jaw
in her hands, her hair spilling into her eyes. Then, she raked the thick
tresses back, swung her legs out of bed, stumbled to her washbasin, and began
to dress.

She put on the necklace of sharks’
teeth. She donned baggy breeches, a loose silk shirt, a dark green vest of
patterned brocade. Her dagger was gone, still buried in el Perro Negro’s
throat; lamenting its loss, she found another to replace it and, on a note of
sullen defiance, jammed it into the scabbard on her belt.

She was just ready to go topside
and order her ship to be put about and sailed back to her island, when there
was a knock on the door.

“Captain? You awake?”

“Aye,” she grunted, miserably.

The door opened to admit young
Aisling, with Sorcha right behind her. Between them they carried a tray, a pot
of coffee, and breakfast—hot oatmeal, a piece of fruit, and a mug of stiff,
bitter ale.

On the empty plate was a folded
note.

“If it’s from the admiral, I don’t
want it,” Maeve said.

“Oh, it’s from the admiral all
right!” Aisling chirped, and despite herself, Maeve felt a quick flutter of
hope within her breast.

“Give it to me, then.”

She grabbed the note, broke the
seal, and saw a paragraph of stilted, crabbed writing that was nearly as bad as
Gray’s.

My dear Captain Merrick, the
note began.

Nelson. She lowered the note
in disappointment. Wrong admiral.

“His lordship had a midshipman send
it over just as soon as it got light out, Captain! What’s it say?”

“Yes, read it! Read it!”

She turned away, unable to look at
the blistering words she knew she would find. He would condemn her, she knew he
would, and somehow that hurt just as much as Gray’s reaction had—for Lord
Nelson, like her parents, like Gray—was all that was good, all that was heroic,
all that was honorable and just—all that she, the Pirate Queen of the
Caribbean, was not and could never be.

Trembling, she brought the note up,
and her gaze fell to the choppy, left-handed scrawl.

My dear Captain Merrick, she
read again, it is with the deepest sense of gratitude and relief that I send
you this note to thank you for once again coming to the aid of the Royal Navy.
You acted with calmness, skill, and valour, and had you not thought quickly
during the attempted assassination of Sir Graham Falconer, I fear that our
service, and our Country, would have found itself lamenting the loss of one of
its finest officers.

“Forever in your debt, Nelson and
Bronte,” she trailed off.

“What’s it say, Captain? What’s it
say?”

Dazedly, she handed them the note. “Read
it yourself,” she said quietly, and strode from the cabin.

###

Nearby, in another ship, Sir Graham
also lay in his bed as the sun rose over a silver sea and suffused it with the
colors of dawn.

It wasn’t really much of a bed, but
rather a swinging box, suspended from a pole and enclosed with curtains
lovingly embroidered by his youngest sister. Closed off as he was from that
beautiful sunrise, his main cabin, and the rest of the ship, Sir Graham was
alone with nothing but his thoughts.

He heard his servants bustling
about in the dining cabin just beyond his sleeping quarters, laying out his
breakfast, his uniform, and hot water for shaving. He heard footsteps just
above his head as Colin’s servants, or maybe even Dr. Ryder, looked in on the
flag-captain, who had been moved back to his own cabin after showing marked
signs of improvement.

Maeve.

No sooner had she departed for Kestrel
than Nelson himself had come aboard Triton, having seen the commotion
and heard pistol shots from his own ship. And no sooner had the little hero
gleaned the details of what had happened than he was singing Her Majesty’s
praises—and slamming a blistering broadside of anger into Gray’s disbelieving
ears.

“You damned fool, she saved
your life, by God!” Nelson had raged, furiously working the stump of his arm
through his sleeve. “Is this how you show your gratitude?”

Gray flung his arm over his eyes,
wishing he could block all of it out. The killing. Last night’s executions.
Maeve. Nelson’s harsh anger. But damn it, Nelson hadn’t seen the woman he
loved kill a man in cold blood, and delight in the doing!

He tore the hangings aside and
crawled from the cot. The smell of hot coffee and sizzling pork assailed him,
making him feel sick. Beneath his feet the deck was cool and damp, and he
dreaded the thought of going topside and seeing, in the light of day, the place
where his beloved had hacked down a man and then looked at him like a cat
expecting a word of praise for laying a dead and gutted mouse at its owner’s
doorstep.

It is time you learned the
difference between fantasy and reality.

He reached up, raked a hand through
his hair, caught his thumb on the gold earring—and nearly ripped it out on a
wave of disgust.

Suddenly, there was nothing
remotely alluring about pirates.

Nothing at all.

###

On a futile hope that a similar,
forgiving note might come from the man she loved, the Pirate Queen decided to
remain with the British Fleet for another hour and no more. She went on deck
and, as though to defy Sir Graham’s distaste for her prowess at the sport,
engaged in a savage sword fight with Enolia that nearly killed the both of
them. Then, trembling and exhausted, she collapsed in the shade of the gunwale
and sullenly nursed a mug of cool ale.

Nothing.

She took out her dagger and pared
her fingernails.

And still, no message came.

That was it, then. To hell with
him. She got to her feet, slammed the mug down, and stormed to the tiller.

Orla met her along the way, her
eyes worried.

“Put the ship about, we’re going
back to the island,” Maeve snarled.

“But Maeve—”

“I said, put the ship about!”
she shouted, and after a hesitant, mutinous pause, her friend went forward,
repeating Maeve’s orders.

All along the deck, she saw her
crew staring at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses.

Maeve spun around and seized the
tiller, drumming her fingers on the smooth wood in angry impatience. Up went
the big foresail, and she felt her heart breaking with every inch the long,
swinging gaff crawled. Sail spilled to the wind, shook itself out, thundered
and fluttered in the early morning sunshine. Shadows swung to and fro over the
deck with every swing of the great assembly of spar and canvas.

Still, no boats putting out from
HMS Triton, no alarmed figure appearing on the quarterdeck, no signal,
nothing.

She felt raw, wrenching pain
clawing at her chest.

“Put up the main,” she ordered
curtly, and as her crew ran to the halliards and began to haul up the throat
and peak, she couldn’t help glancing over at Triton.

Movement.

A flag, rising skyward . . .
another . . . another.

“Captain! Sir Graham is signaling!”

“Sir Graham can go to bloody hell
and rot there ’til his balls turn black.”

“We have to get the signal book
Captain Lord issued us so we can see what he’s saying!” Aisling cried, grabbing
her sister and racing below.

More flags soared up the great
warship’s masts.

“Hurry up, damn you!” Maeve shouted
to her hesitant crew.

She stared over at Triton—and
saw a gun port opening along that massive, towering side. The snout of a cannon
crawled out into the sunshine, its hungry mouth trained on Kestrel.

“Just who the bleeding hell
does he think he is?” she snarled, even as another port opened, and yet, another.
She turned just as the Irish girls came running forward, the signal book in
their hand. “Give me that damned thing!”

And there, the last flag,
fluttering angrily from the big man-of-war’s mast.

She flipped through the pages,
noting the meaning of each flag even as another gun poked out of the warship’s
sides . . . and another.

And closed the book with a furious
snap.

“What’s he saying, Captain? What’s
he saying?” She stared at the big ship, the colorful array of flags waving in
the wind.

“He says,” she muttered, on a dark
little laugh, “that if I so much as even think of sailing off, he’ll
blow us out of the water.”

“Oh, Captain, surely he wouldn’t do
that!”

But Maeve remembered the admiral’s
shocked and stricken face after she’d saved him from el Perro Negro . . . and
wasn’t so sure.

Chapter
30

It had been seven days since they’d
caught up with the sugar convoy, two weeks since Sir Graham had ordered Kestrel
to remain with his fleet, and a half hour since Sir Graham had joined Colin
Lord for dinner in the flag-captain’s cabin.

The atmosphere between them was
strained and tense, for with every league the British fleet, the convoy, and
Gray’s few warships drew closer to Europe, with every league the little
schooner Kestrel hovered mutinously at its fringes, with every league of
sun and rain and wind and salt they put behind them, Sir Graham’s normally
jovial mood had evaporated into a dark and simmering silence that no one—with
the exception of Nelson and Colin—dared to disturb.

Courageous to a fault, diligent in
his pursuit of every detail, in possession of a keen maritime acumen, and
guided by an unflappable sense of fairness, duty, and insight, Colin was by no
means stupid, and should have known better than to broach the subject of Maeve
Merrick. Yet Gray saw it coming; it was there in Colin’s eyes, in the faint
puckering of his fair brows, in the way he was fidgeting and shifting the
pillow beneath his thigh to take the weight off his leg.

Gray picked up his napkin and
dabbed at his lips. “Leg bothering you, Colin?”

“Not really, sir. It itches beneath
the cast, but otherwise, is healing quite nicely, I daresay.”

“Good. I’d hate like hell for anything
to happen to you. You’ve been the best damned flag-captain I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, sir.” Distractedly, the
younger man pushed a piece of roast beef around on his plate, making a dollop
of gravy in its center. “Though sometimes, I wish I’d chosen a different career
. . . something that preserves life, rather than destroys it. Forgive me, sir,
but I’ve seen enough of death and killing to last a lifetime, I’m afraid.”

Death and killing. “Aye, so
have I,” Gray drawled, and glared out the window, where he could just see the
distant shape of Kestrel hugging the horizon, as if poised for flight.
He had no doubt she would have been long gone, if not for the fact he’d ordered
his frigates to keep an eye on the schooner and put a shot across her bows if
she tried to escape.

The flag-captain finally looked up
at Gray. “If I may speak, sir?”

Gray raised his wineglass—he was no
longer drinking rum—sipped it, and motioned impatiently. “Be my guest.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking, sir,
about that time you came to me and asked, in a roundabout way, the best way to,
er, go after the heart of the Pirate Queen . . .”

The admiral’s fingers tightened
around the stem of the glass.

Colin, unflappable and unfazed,
ignored the sudden tension, merely pushing the beef around and around on his
plate. “Well, forgive my bluntness, sir, but I think you’re behaving like a
hypocrite.”

Gray’s glass slammed down on the
table so hard it shattered into a thousand pieces. Wine went everywhere, and
servants came running.

“Damn you, I’ll have you watch what
you say to me!”

Colin lifted his head, regarding
him steadily. “I merely speak the truth, sir, as I see it.”

The admiral glared at him,
bristling with anger, his shoulders very stiff beneath the proud epaulets.

Colin did not back down. “You loved
her when she would not have you, when you thought her nothing but a little girl
playing at being a pirate queen. She was a source of amusement to you, a . . .
fantasy.”

Sir Graham’s swarthy countenance
went dark with fury.

“Forgive me, sir, but you’ve put
this ship in peril with your orders to fly pirate flags, your unconventional
habits, and your expectations that my crew and I turn a blind eye to your
doings. We have done so, sir, because you are a fine commander and we have
nothing but respect for you. But I cannot respect a man who conducts his
behavior under a double standard.”

The admiral lunged to his feet on a
snarl of fury. “You’ll watch your damned tongue, Captain Lord!”

The young captain put down his
fork, placing it just so beside his plate, and looked calmly up at his commanding
officer. “Sir, if I may ask you a question . . .”

A muscle jumped along the admiral’s
jaw, and Colin saw his hand fisting with suppressed wrath. “Out with it,” he
bit out, through clenched teeth.

“If it had been I who’d
thrown that dagger and saved you from el Perro Negro’s bullet, would you have
rejected me as you have her?”

Steady eyes of purple-gray met
angry ones of dark cobalt. Sunlight drifted through the stern windows, struck
gold in Colin’s hair, glanced off the tassels of Gray’s epaulets.

“I repeat, sir, would you?”

The admiral’s nostrils flared. “You
are a man, by God!”

“So?”

“That’s bloody different!”

“I take that to mean it is
permissible for me to defend those I love, even if it means killing someone,
just because I am a man? That if I were a woman and had just saved the life of
a high-ranking officer, it would be less than heroic? Sir, you cannot sit there
across from me and tell me that if the situation were reversed, and Maeve’s
life had been the one in peril, you would not have done the same as she
did. You cannot, for that matter, tell me you did not want to kill el Perro
Negro yourself when you saw him strike her unconscious, and, I daresay, you would
have killed him if only the opportunity had afforded itself.”

“That’s a damned stupid question, of
course I would have!”

“Precisely my point, sir,” Colin
said, returning his attention to the beef.

Gray merely stared at him, helpless
against the younger man’s logic. Angry because he had no defense against it.
Feeling his temper rising . . . rising . . .

The flag-captain continued in his
calm, infuriating way. “You may think she should be soft and feminine, pampered
and sweet, a lady in the accepted sense of the word, but she is what she
is, sir, and acted with those qualities that, in a man, would have been
applauded as heroic. Courageous.” The gentle eyes looked up at Gray, silently
condemning. “I’m sorry, sir. But I think you are unfair to reject the woman you
love just because she defended that which she held most dear.”

The admiral’s fist crashed down on
the table. “You think it’s unfair, do you?” he roared.

“Aye, sir. I do.”

They stared at each other, neither
willing to give ground—and, for a brief, terrible moment, Colin thought his
superior was going to strike him. Then, Sir Graham’s chest rose on a great,
shaky sigh, and he sat heavily down in his chair to glare sullenly out the
stern window.

“Sir?”

“You’re a damned cunning bastard,”
the admiral growled, and without another word, attacked his own supper.

###

An hour later, Gray—embarrassed,
angry, and determined—called for his barge, signaled for Kestrel to
close with the flagship, and, wearing his best uniform, decided to make peace
with the Pirate Queen.

His officers saluted him as he
strode grimly past them, but he knew the gossip would be flying the moment he
left the flagship. And as the barge cut through the heavy swells, the spray
drenching his fine uniform and soaking the smart, handpicked crew, he saw them grinning
and exchanging silent comments, saw their amused gazes flickering between the
little schooner and their dark and angry admiral.

“Row, damn you!” he roared, and
gripped the gunwale so hard it nearly broke off in his hand.

The schooner’s black side loomed
before, then above him. High above his head, her two sharply raked masts thrust
toward the sky. Gray waited for the barge to hook onto the little ship’s main
chains and, grasping the ladder that Aisling and Sorcha tossed eagerly over the
side to him, began to climb.

He was halfway up the schooner’s
side when he happened to glance up and saw the bell-like mouth of a blunderbuss
staring him in the face.

“Halt right there, Admiral,” came
Maeve’s low, angry voice. “Or so help me God, I’ll shoot.”

Gray merely set his jaw and on a
dark smile, continued climbing.

“I’m warning you, Gray!”

Beneath him, he heard one of the
barge crew gasp in alarm . . . another, choking back an amused snigger.

“Dammit, Gray, don’t make me hurt
you!”

He reached up, seized the cold
metal of the weapon, and with one savage jerk, yanked it from her hand and
flung it into the sea.

And kept climbing.

Up he came, his hat now level with
the schooner’s gunwale, his progress never faltering.

A cutlass thrust itself before his
nose. “I mean it, Gray!”

Never pausing, he knocked it aside
and began to haul himself up and over the gunwale. She tried to step on his
fingers as he reached for a hold. He grabbed her ankle. She pulled her knife on
him. He snared her wrist and threw the weapon aside. She screamed every curse
she knew at him.

And he pulled her into his arms and
kissed her, to the wild cheers of her own traitorous crew.

Small fists beat at his chest. Her
bare foot slammed against his shin. Her angry protests vibrated against his
mouth, and her knee came up on a vicious swing to connect with his groin.

Gasping, he doubled over in agony,
his hat tumbling from his head and his vision going black around the edges.

“Admiral!” Aisling and Sorcha
caught him as he fell, their hands beneath his elbows. “Admiral! You all right?”

He stumbled to his feet, shook his
head to clear it, and recovered in time to see Maeve’s stiff, silk-clad back
just disappearing down the hatch.

“I’m fine,” he ground out and,
pausing only long enough to retrieve his hat and slam it back down on his head,
went after her.

The fierce Enolia tried to bar his
way with her cutlass, but he kicked it aside and kept walking. Down the hatch
he went, after Maeve. He strode right up to the door of her cabin, seized the
latch, and yanked.

Locked.

“Open the door, Maeve.”

“Rot in hell, you wretch!”

“Open the damned door, Maeve.”

“I said, go to—”

He raised his foot, drew back, and
with all his strength, kicked the latch. Once, twice—and then the door crashed
open under the force of his blows and he was in the cabin and striding angrily
across the tiny space.

He saw her, facing him with her
back against the bulkhead, her breasts thrusting against her shirt and her face
white with rage. She was holding a pistol, pointing it at him. Her hands were
shaking. Her throat was working. He went right up to her, seized her collar,
yanked her forward, and drew her up to within an inch of his face.

“I have one thing to say to you,”
he growled, holding her so close that her breath touched his cheeks, “and one
thing only—”

“Say it!” she screamed.

He smiled, his teeth flashing white
in his swarthy face. “I love you.”

And then his head bent and he
claimed her lips with his own.

She melted beneath the sheer force
of the kiss, the fury and love and desperation with which he drove his mouth
down against hers. The pistol fell from her hand, but she never heard it hit
the deck. He forced her backward, crushing her between his body and the bulkhead.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, and she smelled salt water in his clothes,
tasted it on his lips.

Gasping, she tore her lips from
his. “How dare you think you can just come in here and—”

Her tirade was effectively cut off
by his mouth slamming down on hers once more. He kissed her with an almost
brutal desperation, robbing the very breath from her body, the strength from
her legs, the resolve from her will. She could not resist him. Had never been
able to—

She came up, dazed and gasping, her
eyes glazed with desire.

“I’ll dare anything I damn well
please,” he ground out, his dark face just inches from her own. He reached up,
tore the hat from his head, the sword belt from his waist, and flung both to
the deck. “Tell me you love me, Maeve.”

“I—”

“Tell me!”

“Aye, I love you, but I’ll not
marry you! I’m a bloody pirate, remember? A vile, despicable, thieving, murdering
pi—”

His lips came down against hers yet
again. Struggling, Maeve felt his tongue stabbing into the warm recesses of her
mouth, his hot breath burning her cheeks. It was no use fighting him. It was no
use fighting how she felt about him. Sighing, she sagged against him, even as
his hands caught the collar of her shirt and, with one savage yank, ripped the
blousy garment from her body. Her breasts filled his hands and she moaned as he
tore his mouth from hers and left a hot path of kisses simmering the length of
her neck, capturing first one nipple and sucking hungrily on the hard bud, then
the other, until she was writhing with delight and despair.

“Dammit, Gray . . . I cannot resist
you . . . You cannot resist me . . . Does it have to be this way?”

He bent his head, licking, tasting,
suckling, her breasts, while all the while his hand strayed lower until it
found the hot core of her womanhood and made her writhe with the pressure he
exerted there. Her knees went to liquid, but she was able to hold her balance,
pinned as she was between him and the bulkhead. Dark spots swam before her
eyes. His hand drove beneath her waistband, yanking the trousers down and off;
she felt his fingers sliding inside of her, and on a half sob of anger and
defeat, sank down against his hand.

“No Maeve, it doesn’t have
to be this way,” he muttered, against the damp hair at her temple. ‘Two people
who love each other ought to be together. Not fighting each other.”

He stepped back and caught her as
she fell. She felt herself being hoisted up in his arms, but he never made it
to the bunk. Halfway across the cabin he set her down, tore off his coat, laid
her down atop it, and kissed her until she couldn’t see straight, think
straight, even remember her name. His body covered hers, seeking, driving,
wanting. Her hands clawed impatiently at his shirt, found the damp skin just
beneath, then downward, the flap of his breeches. His mouth drove against hers
and his body crushed her, forcing her head and spine against the deck. But she
never felt the pain, never felt anything but the boiling cauldron that was her
blood, the hot length of his arousal swelling against her hand.

The climb was short, fast, hard,
and brilliant. He drove himself into her, and took her with a savage intensity
that nearly impaled her to the deck upon which she lay. And when it was over,
she lay bathed in sweat and the ashes of her anger, clasping his body fiercely
to her own. His breathing was harsh and fast above her; his curses, soft and
angry. He reached up, and pushing his hand into her hair, stroked it gently,
over and over again.

“I can’t believe I just did that,”
he muttered. “I feel like a bloody animal. God, Maeve, tell me I didn’t hurt
you.”

“You didn’t.”

He raised himself up, taking his
weight on his forearms so as not to crush her. He was silent for a moment and
then he asked, “Can you forgive me, Maeve?”

“There is nothing to forgive you
for, Gray,” she said. “You have made love to me. Never apologize for that.”

“No, no, you don’t understand.” He
dropped tender kisses on her brow, her cheeks. “I turned away from you after
you killed el Perro Negro. After you’d saved my life, for God’s sake. I was
wrong, Maeve. Wrong to expect you to behave like a fainthearted bit of fluff,
wrong to be angry with you for showing the bold courage that first attracted me
to you. Here you defended me, saved my life, and how did I thank you? By
turning away.” His voice was anguished. “I feel like a vile, undeserving wretch.”

“You are.” She grinned at his
helpless look, then reached up to touch her finger to his nose. “But I forgive
you, Gray.”

“Do you, Maeve? Do you, honestly—”

“I forgive you, Gray,” she
said again, kissing him.

“Then you will give up your life as
a pirate and marry me?”

“I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“For God’s sake, Maeve—”

“Gray, I told you, I have obligations.”

He stared down at her for a long,
frustrated moment; then, his eyes went black with hopelessness and he lunged to
his feet, leaving her lying there on the floor with his coat beneath her back.
He buttoned his breeches. Picked up his sword belt. Retrieved his hat.

“Gray, please, you don’t
understand!”

He shook his head. “Belay it,
Maeve, I don’t want to hear it. I offer you everything I have, and still you
throw it back in my face. Go find some thieving scoundrel like the one you just
disposed of, if that’s what you want. Because you sure as hell don’t want an
officer, despite whatever rubbish you once told me about Gallant Knights.”

“But why must you marry me?”
She got up, hugging her arms to skin that was suddenly cold where he had
earlier touched it. She felt empty inside, scared. “Must you own me, Gray?
Can’t we just be lovers?”

He spun around, his eyes blazing. “I
wish to marry you, Maeve, because I’m an honorable man. I wish to marry you
because you are everything I ever wanted in a woman. It has nothing to do with ownership,
I wish to marry you because, dammit, I love you!”

He snatched his coat up from the
deck, and donned it with angry, jerky movements that nearly tore the lining out
of the sleeves. Maeve caught her lip between her teeth to keep it from
trembling, to keep herself from saying the words she longed to say, that he
longed to hear.

But then she thought of her family
of pirates she would be deserting, and the words just wouldn’t come out.

“Good day, madam,” the admiral said
coldly, and turning on his heel, strode swiftly from the cabin.

###

“Really, Falconer, you are the last
man I would expect to have trouble getting a lady to marry you.”

The two admirals walked Victory’s
stately quarterdeck, working off their suppers and listening to the band
playing “Hearts of Oak.” They were a familiar sight, Sir Graham munching a
biscuit and staring glumly off at Kestrel, Nelson fretting with his
empty sleeve and staring anxiously out to sea. Tonight, like every night for
the past week, they were together, commiserating over their mutual despair.

For Nelson, the likelihood of
catching up with his panicky nemesis Villeneuve grew more and more remote the
closer the British fleet got to Europe. His face was pale and haggard, and he
was in desperate need of rest. His nights were hellish, and he managed no more
than two hours of sleep before violent coughing spells woke him; then, huddled
in his coat against the damp night air, he would go up on the lonely
quarterdeck and stare dismally out over the darkened sea.

His thoughts were sadly
transparent. He had crossed the ocean in search of an enemy, and failed to find
and destroy him. He had let England down. He would no longer be a hero. Villeneuve
was still loose, and probably safely back in some French or Spanish port by
now. But the threat of invasion still remained, and Nelson could not sleep,
could not eat, could not think of anything but his frantic desire to annihilate
the enemy fleet—and the brilliant new plan he was working out for doing just
that.

“You think it amusing, do you?”
Gray was saying. “The one woman in the world I have ever truly loved, and she
won’t have me.” He stared off at the distant schooner. “By God, sir, I don’t
know what else to do to convince her of my love for her.”

Poor Falconer, Nelson
thought. He would not have a practicing pirate for a wife, and she would not
have an admiral for a husband. Two stubborn people, neither willing to make
compromises . . . a fine mess, the two of them were in.

“Persist in your chase, Gray, and I
daresay you’ll be up with her soon enough!”

“No. She refuses to give up her
life as a pirate.”

“And it is unthinkable, of course,
for you, as an admiral, to marry one.”

“I don’t know what to do, dammit.”

“She’ll come around.”

“I don’t think so.”

“For God’s sake, Falconer, the
girl’s in love with you! If only you could have seen the state she was in when
she came to me with the news you’d found the enemy fleet.”

Gray perked up, ever so slightly. “Really?”

“Aye, really.” Nelson smiled with
remembrance. “’Twas quite affecting, if I do say so myself.”

Victory hit a swell, and
spray hissed along the great hull. Nelson thought of the letter he’d sent the
girl’s parents when she’d lain so close to death, and wondered idly if he
should mention it to Gray. But maybe some matters were better left alone.

“Well, she still refuses to marry
me. You’d think that any woman would want the life I can give her, but no. Not
Maeve. She refuses to exchange her life as a she-wolf for one of comparative
dullness, boredom, and wealth.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Gray.”

“No? Well, I have been chasing her
as ardently as you have the French with the same fruitless results!”

Nelson sighed, stopped, and looked
the younger man straight in the eye. “Let me tell you a little story about the
French, Gray . . .”

Just off Victory’s weather
quarter, Triton awaited her admiral’s return. Framed in the space
between bowsprit and forecourse, Gray could just see Kestrel, a lone
speck on the horizon.

Maeve, he thought, bleakly. What
will it take?

“For two years I blockaded the
enemy at Toulon,” Nelson was saying. Then, irritably: “Damn you, Falconer, are
you listening to me?”

“Why yes, sir, of course—”

Nelson pursed his lips and made a
noise of impatience. “For two years,” he said again, “I blockaded the enemy at Toulon.
Call me impatient, but I was not happy keeping them bottled up, safely in port.
I wanted them to come out so I could fight them.”

Gray looked at his friend. Nelson
was staring out to sea, his sharp face in profile, his bold nose as straight
and true as the tiller of a sailboat.

“And?” he prompted in mild
annoyance, wondering what Nelson was getting at.

“And so I devised a scheme to tempt
them out.” The setting sun turned the sea to molten gold. Nelson stared at the
fiery orb, his poor, abused eye beginning to water helplessly. “The French
admiral was like a mouse playing bo-peep at the edge of her hole, creeping out
to see what I was up to, darting back in, tormenting me, teasing me—” He
paused, seized by a spell of coughing, then he turned to Gray, his eye
penetrating and fierce. “And I knew that as long as I hovered near her hole,
that mouse would never come out. So you know what I did? I shall tell you!
I took my fleet out to sea, and in so doing, I tempted the mouse out of the
hole!

“Veal-noove,” Nelson
declared, wagging his finger before Gray’s nose, “may have escaped me at Toulon,
but when I catch up with him—as indeed I will!—I shall pounce, I shall
destroy, I shall annihilate him! And to that end, Falconer, it is time
for me to tell you about my plan, my plan to defeat him and any hopes that
devil Bonaparte has of invading England. Now come with me, and I will explain
it to you!”

With Nelson leading the way, they
strode beneath the poop deck—and it was there, in the gloomy shadows, that
Nelson revealed the true magnitude of his genius.

“Now pay attention,” he snapped.

Snatching up a pencil, the little admiral
flipped over a chart and drew a line of ships while Gray leaned over his shoulder,
watching with growing attentiveness. “The British navy,” Nelson said, sketching
madly, “has always put its ships in a line alongside that of the enemy, the
victor being determined by whichever side has the superior force of guns. But I
am devising a new plan, Gray, a singular, brilliant plan which cannot
fail.

“This is Veal-noove’s fleet”—Nelson
dashed off a line of wedges representing ships—“all sailing in the traditional
line-of-battle formation. And these”—he penciled in three short columns, all
spearheading toward the long enemy line on a right-angled collision course—“are
my ships. I will break the line, Falconer. I will smash it in three
places and thus overwhelm them! Do you understand, Gray? Tempt the mouse out of
the hole, then divide and conquer! It is the only way . . . and it—can—not—fail!”

He slammed the pencil down and
looked up, his eyes penetrating, fiery.

“You are . . . brilliant, sir.”

“I said, do you understand,
Gray?!”

Gray met that intent stare. “Yes,
sir,” he said softly. “I understand indeed.”

A plan to tempt the mouse out of
the hole. A plan to divide and conquer.

Not a French fleet—but a Pirate
Queen’s heart.

“Very well then,” Nelson snapped,
but his eyes were gleaming. He smiled, faintly. “Now get back to your ship,
Falconer, and be about it!”

###

Maeve’s first glimpse of England
was one she would never forget, a distant sighting of surf-beaten rock
stretching away into a long coast swallowed up by mist. Clutching the rail, she
choked back the seasickness that had been hers for the last week, and stared
bleakly off into the fog.

She had never been seasick a day in
her life.

And she knew that her nausea was
not mal de mer. Now, as the convoy and the little squadron that
accompanied it beat its way up-channel—the two frigates that had survived the
battle on station to windward, Triton lumbering along with the rear
admiral’s flag at her mizzen, and Lord Nelson’s Victory, minus the
Mediterranean Fleet which had been left at Gibraltar, in the van—Maeve could
only view her future with dread and uncertainty.

“Gray,” she whispered, as the cool
mist drifted across the deck and touched her face. She thought of him the last
time she’d seen him, when he’d broken down the door to her cabin and in a
towering rage, forced her to listen to him.

Forced her to love him.

No, she thought on a little
smile. Not forced . . . He would never have to force her to do that
. . .

But then her smile faded, for he’d
left her after that stormy scene—and she hadn’t seen him since.

Night after night she’d lain in her
bunk aboard Kestrel, burning with desire for him, staring out at the
lights of the mighty Triton and pining for him with a desperation that
burned a hole in her heart. Night after night she cried herself to sleep,
wishing she dared trust him enough to give up her hard-won life of independence.
And day after day a boat had put off from Triton, carrying a cheeky
midshipman with a packet of sealed dispatches for her. Except they weren’t dispatches
at all, but ardent declarations of love and devotion written in the admiral’s
atrociously unreadable hand.

And then, unexplainably, the
letters had stopped coming.

Just like that.

Now, the only contact she had with
the flagship was a daily exchange of signals—signals that advised where Kestrel
should be positioned, signals that conveyed the admiral’s annoyance when she
strayed too far from the Fleet, signals that spelled out friendly invitations
to Aisling and Sorcha to have dinner with him and his flag-captain, Colin Lord.

You’ve got to tell him, Maeve.

No. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even
tell her crew, whose loyalties she no longer trusted.

Would your life as an admiral’s
wife be as bad as all that? He said you could go to sea with him. He said you
could always stay near him. He said you could have all the freedom you wanted.
His only wish is that you give up the pirating. And given that he’s an admiral,
that’s really not such an unreasonable request . . . is it?

“I can’t!” she whispered.

Why not?

“Because . . . I don’t know
any other life! Because I’m scared, dammit!”

She saw the mist drifting around
his flagship, making the great man-of-war look like a ghost vessel in the dim
gray light of morning. Kestrel surged on a swell, and again she felt the
nausea curling in her belly, and with it the terror . . . the joy . . . and the
realization that she was soon going to have to make a decision.

If not for herself, then for the
tiny life that grew within her.

Do you want his baby to grow up
to a life of thieving, piracy, and killing, only to die some day at the end of
a noose? Or do you want it to have what you once had . . . two loving parents .
. . a belly that is always full . . . a fine education, a safe home, and a
solid understanding of decency, morals, and guidance?

A father.

Doesn’t that innocent little
life deserve more than what you alone can give it?

Her hand strayed protectively to
her belly.

Doesn’t it?

She could smell the land now, the
fishy stench of a harbor, the smoke from chimneys, the ripe scent of grass and
vegetation. A father. She thought of her own, who had once served this
country and later fought against it, and wondered if he had once glimpsed these
same shores, strode the very streets she would soon walk. She thought of the proud
schooner that had carried her here, which had once fought against Britain’s
fleet and now sailed in company with not one, but two English admirals. To have
British colors flying from her gaff didn’t seem right—but yet, it was.
It was poignant, strangely ironic, almost as though Kestrel had come
home.

The mist parted and she had a clear
view of Sir Graham’s massive man of war. There was a cluster of officers
gathered on her quarterdeck, and it was all Maeve could do not to raise her
glass and try to find him in its circular field.

Oh, Daddy. I wish you were here
to advise me . . . I don’t know what to do.

Marry him, of course. You love
him, don’t you?

She hugged her arms to herself and
bent her head, torn, scared, and never feeling so alone in her life . . . while
forward, Kestrel’s jibboom thrust through the mists, steady and true as
an arrow.

###

Aisling and Sorcha had come aboard Triton
the previous evening with the declaration that they wanted to make biscuits for
Colin Lord, and had ended up staying the night—safe, of course, in a
lieutenant’s cabin under the grumbling protection of Sergeant Handley after the
culinary deed was done. Now, Gray wished that his heart wasn’t so damned soft
with regard to letting them stay, for his belly was sick after overindulging in
the treats and he was nursing a headache of thundering proportions.

So much for drawing the “enemy”
into his own camp, he thought wryly. He had all of them eating out of his hand
except Her Majesty herself.

He glared off across the misty
water at the schooner as Triton entered the Spithead anchorage, fired her
guns in salute to the port admiral, turned into the wind and let her massive
anchor splash down into the sea.

He turned to his flag-lieutenant. “Mr.
Stern, make a signal to Kestrel. Tell Captain Merrick, repair to
Flag immediately. I wish to see her before I’m called to pay my respects
to the port admiral.”

“Aye, sir.”

Gray caught the arm of a midshipman
as the boy hustled past in the lieutenant’s wake. “Mr. Hayes!”

“Sir!”

“Go and ready my barge. And be
quick about it.” Off to starboard, he heard twin splashes as the frigates Cricket
and Harleigh dropped anchor nearby.

“Kestrel not acknowledging,
sir.”

Gray swore beneath his breath. It
was bad enough his own lust for the Pirate Queen had kept him up every night
with an arousal as hard as his sword hilt. It was bad enough that he could
think of nothing to prove the depth of his love for her. And it was bad enough
he’d been forcing himself to stay away from her when he wanted nothing more
than to storm aboard that damned schooner, love her until she couldn’t see
straight, and carry her off as his bride.

But no. His á la Nelson plan
of tempting the mouse out of the hole by retreating seemed to be failing
miserably.

“Fire a gun and get her attention,”
he snapped.

His order was promptly carried out.
“She’s still not acknowledging, sir.”

Nelson’s words came back to him. Divide
and conquer.

He stared at the little schooner.
Then he yanked his hat down over his brow and calling for his barge, strode to
the rail.

His patience had reached its end.

Chapter 31

“The admiral's here, Captain!”

‘Thank you, Orla. Please show him
in.” The Pirate Queen went to the stern windows and leaned out over the water,
her hands shaking. She had known it would come down to this, yes, even hoped
it would come to this, after her blatant refusal to answer his summons—

The door crashed open and Sir
Graham stood there in full uniform, magnificent in his fury, his eyes blazing.

He strode forward, slammed his hat
down on the table and roared, “By God Maeve, I don’t know what the bloody devil
you’re up to but I can assure you I’ll tolerate no disobedience from any ship
under my command! I ordered you to come aboard the Flag and you
blatantly ignored my summons!”

Head high, the Pirate Queen merely
shot him a scathing glance and moved gracefully across the cabin, her green
satin gown whispering on the deck behind her, a shaft of stray sunlight gilding
her lovely profile. She was haughty, poised, aloof, the choker of sharks’ teeth
emphasizing the elegant grace of her neck, her hair piled atop her head and
anchored there by a tiara of pearls. She looked every inch a queen. She looked
every inch a warrior preparing for battle. She looked every inch a lady.

She turned and met his black
glower. “Sir Graham.”

Reining in his temper, he folded
his arms and leaned against the door, watching her and wondering what game she
was playing now, what pretense she was up to, what she was trying to prove—and
what she was really trying to say but couldn't.

“Let me clear a few things up for
you.” She lifted her chin, trying to look down her nose as any good queen
should, but his height made that a bit difficult. “I am not part of your navy.
I fly your flag as a courtesy to you, and do not forget it. Therefore,
you cannot order me to do anything.”

He smiled, and looked at her
through the long sweep of his lashes. “Of course. I had forgotten.”

She turned away, her nose rising
once more, her voice lofty with challenge. “Furthermore, I have decided to
weigh anchor. I don’t like the looks of this place, am sick of your high-handed
ways, and am leaving on the evening tide.”

“Oh?”

She faltered, her aloof composure
shaken by his casual acceptance of her impending departure. “Yes, that’s what I
said. I’m leaving, Gray—”

“I heard what you said, dearest,
and you’re not going anywhere as long as your ship is still a part of my
squadron. Which, at the moment, it is. Sit down.”

“I beg to remind you that you are
speaking to the captain of this ship—”

“And I beg to remind you
that I am your admiral and you’ll obey my command.”

She drew herself up, eyes flashing.
“How dare—”

“I—am—your—admiral.”
His tone was low and dangerous. “Is that understood?”

They stared at each other, he
commanding, unbending, secure in his power and authority, she glaring at him
and refusing to back down. Her mouth began to tremble and he saw her suck her
lips between her teeth; then, on a hoot of laughter, she threw herself in a
chair and tilted her face to look up at him. “Oh, Gray. I love it when you get
angry.”

“Look, Maeve—”

She made a flippant gesture with
her hand and shook her head. “Don’t try to stop me, dear, darling Admiral. I’m
leaving. Tomorrow. After I replenish supplies. I’ve made up my mind and nothing
you can say or do will sway me. Besides, what is there for me here in England?
Your snobbish peers will never take to a sunburned woman who sails and curses
and fights with a sword.”

He merely leaned against the door
with his arms crossed and one hand idly tugging at his earring, watching her,
as Nelson’s words echoed through his mind . . .

Tempt the mouse out of the hole.

“They’ll never take to someone who kills,”
she goaded.

He refused to rise to the bait. “So,
you really have to leave then, eh?”

She rose and began to walk around
the cabin once more, her words no longer controlled and detached, but coming
out in hurried little bursts, as though she was about to lose her studied
composure and wanted to get them out while she still could. “Yes, I have to go.
You see, I left unfinished business back on my island. I need to take care of
my dolphin. Water my flowers. Weed my garden . . . “

She shot him a challenging glance,
her head high, her eyes unnaturally bright.

“I need to paint my dock. Make sure
my island’s safe. See about getting a new set of topsails for Kestrel. .
.”

“Like hell you do,” he said softly.

She glanced away, and in that
fleeting moment, Gray knew his intuition had been right. The hauteur, the
pride, the cool detachment—it was an act, just as he’d suspected. He knew
women. He knew her. And he saw the longing in her face, the desperate
plea for him not to leave her, not to abandon her—

He sighed, and very gently asked, “What
do you really want, Maeve?”

She raised her head and looked at
him. Her eyes were huge, and he saw her throat working as she bravely tried to
contain her emotion.

“What I really want is—oh, God,
this is difficult for me to admit, to say—”

He walked forward, took her hands
in his own, squeezed them tightly. “Trust me.”

“I—”

“Trust me.”

She drew a deep, tremulous sigh,
raised her head, and met his patient gaze. “What I really want, Gray, is . . .
to spend the rest of my life with you, the only man that I have ever truly
loved, the only man who has been patient and tactical and determined enough to
pierce my armor, to understand and love me for who I am. What I want is the
courage to shed that armor . . . to put the drawbridge of my castle down so
that it won’t be such a cold and empty house of stone.” She looked up at him,
her eyes desperate. “What I really want is the courage to trust not only you,
but others, with all my heart, with the knowledge that they won’t condemn me
for the hard and savage woman that I am, and because of . . . certain
unexpected things in my life right now—”

“Maeve, dearest,” he said softly,
and set her back so he could look into her eyes. He tipped her chin up, bent
his brow to hers. “I am not going anywhere. You can begin by trusting me on that.”

He smiled at her.

Hesitantly, she smiled back.

She took a deep, quivery breath. “What
I want, Gray, is the courage to go crawling back to my parents, to ask for
their forgiveness, and to do it knowing they may reject me. It’s hard for me to
admit that I’m afraid—I mean, I’m a pirate queen, pirate queens aren’t supposed
to be afraid—but I am. I’m more than afraid . . . I’m terrified.”

“It’s all right to be afraid,
Maeve.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll bet you’re
never afraid.”

“On the contrary.” He gave her a
lopsided, dimpled smile. “Fear and the courage to admit it are part of being
human.”

“So you are afraid of some
things, then?”

“Hell, yes. I’m afraid of losing
friends I love to war and battle. I’m afraid of going aloft in high winds. I’m
afraid my sisters will meet rogues like me. And—”

She looked up at him, her eyes
huge.

“—I’m afraid I'll fail to convince
the woman in my arms how very much I love and adore her . . . and that she will
leave me.” He smiled, gently, and touched his brow to hers. “No, I’m more than
afraid,” he said, repeating the words she had used. “I’m terrified.”

“Oh, Gray . . .”

She went into his arms, her heart
so swollen and heavy that she didn’t think her breast could contain it. He held
her for a long moment, then he slid an arm behind her legs and in one easy
motion hoisted her up into his arms. Kicking the door shut behind them, he
carried her to the cushioned bench seat beneath the stern windows, where he set
her down as gently as if she were his mother’s finest china.

“Make love to me, Gray,” she
whispered, trying to contain her sudden tears. “Convince me how much you love
and adore me . . .”

He smiled, his heart in his eyes.
Then, joining her on the cushion, he bent his head and claimed her lips in a
gentle, searing kiss that made her weep for realizing how much she had missed
the feel of him, the exquisite, coming-home joy of being in his arms. He pulled
a pin loose, then another, until her rich chestnut hair was loose around her
shoulders; then, tenderly, he pulled the tiara free, smoothed her hair back,
and kissed her again.

“Say you’ll marry me, Maeve.”

“Oh, Gray, don’t ask that . . . not
now.”

“I will continue to ask until I
receive the response I seek,” he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his
hand. “Don’t think I give up as easily as all that.”

“There are . . . obstacles.”

“And there are solutions.  Ways
around things. Together, we can overcome them.” He cupped her cheek with his
palm and looked searchingly down into her eyes. “Trust me, Maeve.”

“I can’t marry an admiral, I’m a
pirate!”

“So retire. You don’t need
to be a pirate. We’ve been through this before, love.”

“I can’t give up my ship!”

“I never said you had to. I merely said
I’d not stand to have you engage in piracy.”

“What about my crew?”

“Give them your plantation house.”

“But where would we live?”

“Barbados.”

“All the time?”

“When we are not at sea.”

“We?”

“We.”

“Gray, I’m pregnant.”

He froze, his hand against her cheek,
his face looking like a thunderbolt had just driven out of the sky and struck
him. His mouth slowly fell open, and he stared at her as though he’d never seen
her before.

“What did you say?”

“I’m”—she gave a faint, frightened
little smile—“going to have a baby.”

He made a noise that sounded a bit
like a sob, a bit like laughter—then his face broke into a radiant grin, and
sweeping her up in his arms, he threw back his head and gave a great whoop of
joy that had to have been heard by every ship in the anchorage. “By God, my
prayers are answered, now you’ll have to marry me! Oh, glory, glory, glory
is mine!”

“Gray, a baby alone would not be
enough to make me marry you.”

The laughter died in his throat,
and his face began to darken with fury. “I’ll tell you right now, Maeve, I’ll
not have my child brought up as a damned pi—”

She cut off his tirade with a finger
across his lips. “I’d have to love you, besides”—she gazed into his eyes—“which
. . . I do.”

Slowly, she let her hand fall from
his lips. He remained very still, as though not daring to breathe.

“You will marry me, then, Maeve?”

“I . . . I don’t know.  Maybe. But
you’d have to let me keep my ship. She was designed by my daddy, you know, and built
by my grandfather. She's family. She's part of me.  I learned how to sail
aboard her and someday, I want our child to learn the ways of the sea as
I did, on her deck, at her helm.”

He nodded, slowly, but said
nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“I . . . I suppose I could give up
the pirating, too. Yes, I’m sure I can give that up, I think.” She frowned, and
a sudden hard glitter came into her eyes. “But this I tell you, Gray, that I will
fiercely guard the lives of my loved ones, and if I ever see anyone—do you hear
me— anyone, seeking to harm one hair of your or my baby’s head, I will
do as I did with el Perro Negro, and if you don’t like that, you can just eat .
. . worms!”

“Eat worms?”

Her nose came up with queenly
hauteur and she looked away. “I am trying to refine my language as befitting
the possible future wife of an admiral.”

He sucked his lips between his
teeth so he wouldn’t laugh. “Really, Majesty, you needn’t go to such extremes.”

“No?”

“No.”

“All right then,” she said
prettily, “eat shit.”

He laughed, loudly, and saw an
answering sparkle of humor in her eyes. And then she laughed too, that harsh, full-of-life
bellow that reminded him of gale winds and rain squalls, blustery sunshine and
ringing cutlasses. He took her into his arms and hugged her fiercely.

“Ah, dearest, we must set a date,”
he said, into her hair. “A very early date, given your delicate
condition.”

“I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet,” she
said, and he realized, suddenly, that her sails had spilled their wind.

Alarmed, he pulled back and stared
into her face. “What is it, dearest?” he asked gently, cupping her cheeks in
his hands and lifting her face to his.

“Nothing,” she said, with a little
shrug, and tried to look away.

“Maeve—I will permit no . . . uh, I
mean there should be no secrets between us.”

She gave a little smile at his
sheepish look, but her eyes were unnaturally glassy behind the dark fringe of
her lashes. “It’s just that”— she glanced hopelessly out the stern windows, her
lips tight with pain —“it's just that here I’ve finally found my Gallant Knight
and my own daddy won’t be here to give me away at my wedding . . .”

He watched her throat working, her
chin coming up as though to deny her own pain, and his heart ached for her. “So
write to him now, Maeve,” he said gently. “Don't leave it any longer.”

“No, Gray. I can’t write. Think of
the shock to them. They still think I’m dead.”

“Yes, love, they do think that.
Which is why you must write them.”

“I can’t, Gray.” She looked
up at him, her beautiful tiger eyes floating in tears of pain and fear and
despair. “Don’t you understand? I can’t, because”—she looked down, suddenly
finding her thumbnail of great interest—“I can’t bring myself to tell them what
I’ve become. Better that my father remember me as his innocent little daughter,
not . . . the woman I now am. Better that he go on thinking that I’m dead.”

“No, Maeve. That is never
better.”

“Don’t force me, Gray. Please.”

He said nothing, only looking at
her with his heart in his eyes.

“My parents are decent people,” she
continued, still picking at her thumb. “If they knew of the things I have done.
. .” She looked up, her lower lip beginning to quiver. “Gray, please
understand, I can’t go through any more rejection, I just can’t!”

He sat helplessly, wishing she
could see herself as he saw her, as her beloved and much-worshipped daddy would
surely see her.

Her eyes were desperate, pleading, and
bright with unshed tears. “You understand, don’t you, Gray?”

He smiled gently, curving an arm
around her shoulders and hugging her sad little body close to his. “Of course I
do, dearest. In time, you will put your demons to rest. But if I may add my own
thoughts to the matter, I should think your parents would be quite proud of you
for surviving as well as you have . . . and, very, very excited that they will
be gaining not only a daughter, but a grandchild as well.”

She swallowed hard and looked away.

“Furthermore,” he added softly, “I
cannot imagine any parents preferring their little girl to be dead over
her having become a lady pirate.”

She looked up at him, her eyes huge
in pools of unspilt tears. “I don’t think I can talk about this anymore, Gray.
I’m going to cry, and I don’t want to cry. Someday, maybe, I’ll write them, but
not now.”

Long moments went by. She leaned
into the comforting curve of his arm, wishing she were braver than she was.

He said nothing, but just held her
close.

They sat together for a long
moment; then, eventually, he let his leg swing over and purposely bump hers.
She looked up at him, and found him smiling down at her, his eyes full of
teading confidence, and in that moment she loved him more than she had ever
loved anyone, anything, in the entire span of her life.

“Oh, Gray—” She reached up to touch
the golden tassels of one of his epaulets. “You’re not disappointed in me, are
you?”

He was still gazing at her, his
eyes twinkling. “Naaaah.”

“Angry with me?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t know what you see in me;
I’m a coward, really, I am. And I have behaved abominably. If you are angry
with me, you have every right to be . . . ”

“Now, why on earth would you think
I’m angry with you?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have I, now?”

“Don’t play innocent. You were
ignoring me. Pretending I didn’t exist. Inviting Aisling and Sorcha to your
ship but purposely excluding me. You even stopped sending those . . . those
love letters.”

“I do everything for a reason.” He
leaned over and kissed her ear. “You should know that by now.”

“You were intentionally avoiding
me?  Excluding me?”

“I was. But only in the hopes that
maybe, just maybe, you'd realize that you missed me as much as I was missing
you.” He smiled. “And now that my secret is out, I suppose you will be
angry with me.”

She playfully pushed him away, his
good-natured teasing driving away the gloom brought on by thoughts of her
family. “You’re a real blackguard, d'ye know that, Gray? Sometimes I hate the
fact you’re so damned . . . tactical. ”

“Do you? I can cease being an
admiral for a little while, then, and be your pirate again if you like.”

He leaned close, and she felt his
tongue slipping out to circle the inner folds of her ear, driving a shiver down
her spine.

“You are a pirate in the
truest sense of the word. And now you are trying to rob me of my sense just as
you have stolen my heart. God, I love you.”

“Ah, how I have longed to hear those
words again!”

Trembling, she shut her eyes as his
lips moved down the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Know what I wish, Gray?”

His legs bumped against hers. “What?”

She gave him a girlishly shy smile.
‘That’s you’d make love to me, right here and now, in broad daylight.”

“Oh no, the baby—”

“The baby will be fine. And I
want to be ravished by an admiral.”

He grinned hard enough to raise his
dimple. “So, my lady pirate has her own fantasies, eh?”

“Blast it, Gray, don’t make me beg!”

“As if I could.” His eyes glinted. “Well
then, dearest, let’s indulge your fantasy.”

Almost shyly, she rose up on her
knees and faced him, looking lush, rumpled, and lovely; she put her arms around
him, kissed each tasseled epaulet with its silver star of rank. Then she slid
the coat from his shoulders, gently pushing it back and away and down, and
kissed him through his shirt.

“I wonder,” he said jokingly, his
eyes twinkling, “if you would still love me if I were anything but an admiral.”

“I loved you when I thought you
were a traitorous spy, I loved you when I thought you were a thieving
freebooter, I loved you even when I thought I hated you. Don’t laugh, that
makes perfect sense! Besides, how do I know you don’t love me just
because I am—I mean, was—a pirate?”

His dark gaze roved down the front
of her gown, raising the heat of her blood, and he chuckled softly. “You have
me there, Maeve. Guess you’re just going to have to trust, eh?”

Trust. He’d taught her much
about that. If only she dared to do the same where her family was concerned
. . .

She slid off the cushions and stood
before him in the open V of his legs. The evidence of his desire for her was
all too visible beneath the snug white breeches. Trembling with anticipation,
Maeve turned her back to him, allowing him to unfasten her gown, and sighing
with pleasure at the warm, gentle brush of his hands against her skin. She felt
him clearing the hair from her neck, fumbling with the clasp of the
sharks’-tooth necklace. It slipped free, and he held it up, looking at it, as
though it symbolized all the defenses that she had carried with her for so
long.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve
always had a fantasy of making love to Anne Bonney. But I’ll bet she wasn’t
half the pirate queen you are, Maeve.”

“And I,” said she, “have always had
a fantasy of some gallant sea captain coming along to sweep me off my feet. But
I find that admirals are far more exciting.”

“You’d damn well better. Because if
I ever catch you turning those tiger eyes on anyone but me, I’ll have you
strung up to the yardarm so fast you won’t know what hit you!”

“And if I ever catch you
flirting with anyone but me, I’ll make you eat this necklace of mine and
God bless the consequences!”

He laughed, a hearty, deep,
baritone sound of sheer delight. “Ah, Maeve . . . How I love you!”

Facing him, she put her hands on
his thighs and gazed into his eyes, her knees pressed against the bench seat
and her belly just inches from that rigid tumescence. “And I love you,
Gray. I’m sorry I’ve made your life . . . difficult.”

“Difficult? You have made it a
veritable hell! But it has been quite an adventure, I grant you that. I would
not have had it otherwise.”

She grinned, thinking of other
kinds of adventures, and playfully dragged a finger across his thigh.

“Well?” he said, arching a dark
brow.

“Well, what?”

“I don’t bite.”

“Oh. I was waiting for you
to make the first move.”

“I have. Your gown is conveniently
unfastened. Or had you not noticed?”

She looked up and stuck out her
tongue at him.

“Do that again and I’ll forget I’m
trying to adhere to decorum.”

“Decorum?”

“Aye, Majesty. We’re aboard your
ship. I was waiting for you to initiate this . . . this cruise.”

“And here I thought you were going
to play pirate and plunder me,” she said, prettily. He laughed, and she pushed
her hands beneath his shirt, spreading her palms over the taut muscles of a
chest that was perfectly suited to the span of broad, capable shoulders upon
which so many decisions had rested, so many lives had depended.

She stepped back, away from him,
and allowed him to undress her until she stood before him in only her chemise,
and then, not even that, her hair streaming over her shoulders and down her
breasts. Very gently, he reached out and pushed the silky masses back over her
shoulders, baring her lithe body to his admiring gaze.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, watching
the dusky peaks harden with desire as she stood proudly before him. Then, with
infinite care, he leaned forward and, his hands anchoring her hips, lightly
kissed one nipple . . . then, the other, his breath warm and moist against the
sensitive flesh. She took a deep and shuddering breath, and rested a hand
against the top of his head. And then he looked up into her eyes and splayed
his fingers over her still-flat belly, his smile one of wonder and awe. “And to
think that a life grows within you . . . a child. My child. Our child. .
.”

She flushed. Her breathing grew
shallow and looking down, she saw that her nipples seemed to jut toward him,
beckoning him. She also saw that he was hard and swollen beneath the
confinement of the breeches, and felt a desperate, aching need deep in her
womb.

“Gray . . . stop delaying. I swear,
you won’t hurt anything by making love to me.”

He smiled faintly, just enough to
raise crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He laid his hand between her
breasts, letting their warmth envelop his fingers as her heartbeat thumped
beneath his palm. Then he spread his hand, his thumb gently touching, stroking,
caressing, one hardened nipple.

“There's a difference between
delaying and savoring, my dear.”

“Of course.” She looked down at his
swelling tumescence. “But how you can be so patient is beyond me.  I mean . .
.doesn't it hurt?” she said, playfully.

“Doesn't what hurt?” He followed
her gaze for the briefest of moments. “Oh, that? It’s fair to killing me. But”—his
grin spread—“I’m a patient man.”

She rested her fingertips against
his thigh, and then, let them walk slowly, teasingly, toward the hard bulge
beneath his breeches. His breathing begin to quicken.

“Shall I test that patience,
Admiral?”

“Ah, love . . . you can test anything
you like.” His attention was on her breasts, and she sighed with pleasure as he
cupped them in his hands, testing and enjoying their weight, his warm, callused
palms creating myriad sensations that centered themselves deep in the pit of
her belly and began to make her squirm with need. He bent his head and dropped kisses
on each pouty crest. “But do keep in mind that I intend to test your
patience as well, Majesty.”

She gasped then, for his tongue had
slipped out to taste one hardened nipple; she caught her lip between her teeth
as she felt the slick, warm, wetness of his mouth, the gentle nip of his teeth,
the feathery heat of his breath against her skin. His hands were hard and warm
as he cupped each soft mound, pushing it up so that he could taste and lick the
sweet buds that capped it. The combination of sensations was wildly erotic, and
he knew it; she had a feeling that her admiral knew a lot of things about her,
about women, and that this playful contest to see who could hold out the
longest was one she could never win.

Oh, Gray, if I could marry you
this morning, I would . . .

Her fingers crept the final inch to
his arousal, hot and throbbing beneath the breeches.

“You’re determined, aren’t you?” he
murmured, his breath hot against her breast.

“I will win, Sir Graham. I’ll have
you on your knees and begging for mercy within the next five minutes.”

“I daresay I like the sound of
that.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes, love.  This is one battle
I would not mind losing.”

Oh, you'll lose, she vowed,
even as he slipped his hand around her back, one finger tracing the groove of
her spine, down, down, before he spread his hand and skimmed his palm out over the
curve of her bottom, caressing it, rubbing it, until it was all she could do
not to purr like a cat. Her breasts tingled, and she moaned a little as he
grasped a lock of her hair, rubbing the silky tress over first one still-wet
nipple, then the other. She began to burn inside, down below, and of their own
accord her hips thrust toward him, seeking him, where he sat.

Her naked thigh encountered his
breeches. The sensation of her own flesh meeting the coarse fabric was wildly
erotic, and she began to doubt her own boastful words about winning this
contest, any contest, with this man. The admiral knew what he was about. Even
now, his hand was roving out over her bottom and down the back of her thigh, moving
back up again . . . now his skilled fingers were dragging gently over her slit,
slipping between her cleft, until she felt her own moisture beginning to flood
against his fingers. A pulse began to beat in her temples, and her mouth went
suddenly dry; it was all she could do not to push him backward onto the
cushions and have her way with him.

But no. She, too, wanted to savor.
She wanted to feel the heady joy and rewards of her own power. She wanted to
stretch his so-called patience to its very limits—and break it. Her
fingers found the buttons of his drop front, slid them through their holes, and
his arousal—hot and full and hard—spilled into her hands.

The admiral groaned.

She cupped him between her palms
and began to rub. Hard.

“Maeve . . .”

She felt wicked, powerful, alive.
He bent his head, rested his brow against her belly, and a moment later she
felt his warm breath against her navel; his hands, hot with need, pressed
against her bare bottom, pulling her hips toward his mouth, pinning her between
them until her knees began to shake and she feared she wouldn't be able to stay
on her feet.

She tried to resume her own
ministrations—but he, cleverly, had made it impossible to reach him with such
close contact. And now his lips were moving against her belly, and she felt the
warm kiss of his tongue as it came out to trace and lick little circles around,
then below, her navel.

This was going to be one hell of a
contest.

But two could play his game!

Breathing hard now, she tugged his
shirt up and over his head and tossed it aside, letting her fingernails linger
against the darkly tanned shoulders, the tattooed anchor that only emphasized
the hard bulge of bicep beneath.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes
wickedly inviting, intensely pleased, beneath the lengthy fringe of his lashes.
“Still think you’re going to win, Majesty?”

She gave a slow, confident smile. “I
know I’m going to win, Admiral.”

And then, defiantly holding his gaze,
she put her hand against his chest and, feeling his heart beginning to pound
beneath her palm, pushed him forcefully back, until his splendid body lay
angled across the cushions. He watched her intently, bringing his arms up to
cross them behind his head, his hair spilling over his wrists and framing his
swarthy face; a shaft of English sunlight drove in from the salt-glazed stern
windows, gilding his handsome body, picking out the definition of muscle,
tendon, and bone.

“I could look at you all day,” she
murmured, softly.

“The feeling is mutual, my dear.”

Maeve stepped closer. “But I think
I'll do more than just look.”

He only smiled. And waited to see
what she would do.

His legs were loose and spread, his
arousal hard and hot against his belly, and this time he made no move to try
and delay her ardent attentions, but gave himself up to the inevitable. She
moved between his legs and dropped her hand to encircle him, letting her thumb
rove over the velvety knob, back and forth until a slick pearl eased the
friction and made it slippery. A sheen of moisture glazed his brow and his eyes
darkened with desire, before his long, long lashes swept down to veil them.
Maeve smiled, thrilling to the feel of her own power. Oh, this was costing him,
and costing him dearly. Back and forth she moved her thumb, slowly increasing
the pressure until his body tensed and a helpless groan escaping his parted
lips. Then she relented, tracing feathery fingertips over him and feeling him
swelling even harder, larger, into her hand. His dark lashes draped his cheeks
now, and he turned his face against his wrist, where veins and tendons stood
out in high relief.

“You win, Maeve,” he managed, his
lips barely moving. “And I am . . . delighted . . . to concede defeat.”

“Not yet I haven't,” she said
wickedly—and sinking to her knees, took him gently into her mouth. His whole
body went stiff and he sucked in his breath on a harsh gasp. She circled him
with her lips, with her tongue, pulled him deeply into her mouth until he
filled her. She heard him cursing softly, felt him driving his elbows into the
cushion, but still he did not break, did not allow himself release. She sucked
and pulled at him harder, enjoying the hot taste of him, feeling her own need
burning between her thighs as passion escalated. And still, he kept himself
under control. Oh, such fortitude! Where, she wondered, with the part of her
own that could still think, was the admiral’s mind that he was able to exhibit
such mastery over his own virile body?

She cupped his sacs in her hands,
lightly stroking him, and began to drag her nails up the inside of his thighs
while she loved him with her tongue, her mouth, her lips. His groans changed to
curses, his curses back to groans, and he drove his hand into her hair and gripped
it in a way that was almost painful.

Even an admiral could not hold out
forever.

“Sweet God above, Maeve—”

She suckled him, harder.

“Maeve, please,” he said hoarsely,
and the taste of him filled her mouth, “I . . . am only . . . a man—”

She lifted her head, saw his face
pressed against the curve of his wrist, the dark lashes lying against his
cheeks and a lock of his hair fluttering near his mouth with every burst of his
labored breath. Slowly, she stood up and running her tongue over her tingling lips,
looked down at him in triumph; he turned his head and his eyes drifted open,
the navy depths glazed with desire.

“So, do I win this test of
patience, then, Admiral?”

His eyes swung into focus. Sharp,
intent, steady focus. And then his lips curved in a slow, wicked smile that
made her realize she was in over her head, here.

Far over her head.

The smile grew wicked. “Obviously .
. . not.”

She climbed up beside him, the
thick masses of her hair sliding down between their bodies as his big, powerful
arm went around her neck and drew her down atop him. She felt the hard length
of his body against hers, his arousal stabbing against the soft, wet curls of
her womanhood, the damp heat of his chest beneath her breasts; then his tongue
plunged into her mouth, plundering it greedily, savagely.

He broke the kiss and rolled over,
pinning her beneath him, his arms massive, twin pillars on either side of her
head and his arousal already poised at the junction of her thighs. Anchoring his
hands in her hair, he kissed her lips, her face, her throat, his lips leaving a
shivery trail of fire as he moved lower and lower.

“I’m going to kiss you, as you
kissed me,” he murmured, his breath hot, now, against her belly, “and you
are not going to be able to hold out as I did.”

Dear God, she didn't want to. And
then she felt his tongue circling within her navel, licking the sensitive skin
there, moving lower, and lower still, until his lips were against the edge of
her feminine curls and his hands lay hot against the junction of her thighs,
gently coaxing them wide.

“Open for me, Maeve.”

She did. And then she cried out as
his head moved between her legs, his thumbs spreading her wide, and the first
skilled, hot stabs of his tongue met her slick and molten flesh.

Maeve arced upward, her lower lip
caught between her teeth in sweet, searing agony as he began to lick her with
relentless strokes, slowly, steadily, over and over again. Her hands caught and
twisted in his hair, knuckled against his skull, and she began to tremble, to
convulse, as sobs came choking out from a place deep inside the back of her
throat. She was almost there . . . almost—

“Come on, dearest,” he murmured—and
then, drawing her engorged bud deep into his mouth while he laved it with his
tongue, he plunged both thumbs far up into her cleft and began to stroke her
inner walls, deep, deep inside.

Maeve gave a harsh cry and came
hard against him, her body convulsing violently and her belly clenching into a
savage, twisting knot as sobs tumbled from her throat and wave after wave of
climax swept down on her; dimly, she felt him moving up to cover her, to lower himself
down to her, his mouth hungry and hot against her own as he guided himself to her
slick entrance and began the timeless motion of love.

She was lost. She knew it even as
his mouth drove against hers, his tongue ruthlessly plundering its depths; she
knew it even as his strokes grew strong, deep, perfectly controlled and masterfully
orchestrated; she knew it even as he put his weight on one arm and with the
other hand, reached down to rub and thumb her entrance at the same time he was
sliding in and out of her, bringing her rapidly toward a second stunning
precipice.

There had never been any contest
between them. Faster and faster he moved, building the rhythm, taking her with
him on a spiraling, breathless climb to the clouds. Her breath came in short,
hard pants and gasps, and she felt her release building, climbing, peaking—

With a last, driving shudder, he
impaled her to the very hilt of himself. She arced up to meet him as her own
release came hard and fast, his hot seed pulsing within her and tears of joy
and love streaming down her cheeks. And when it was over, and the admiral lay
in her arms, belonging to her and no one but her, she thought of what it might be
like to be married to him, and making wild, uninhibited love like this for the
rest of her life.

“I guess you win,” she murmured,
against the salty skin of his shoulder.

“Nay, Maeve,” he said, still
breathing hard. “We both do.”

She felt his lips curve in a smile
against her throat, the brush of his lashes tickling her skin. He held her for
a long time, keeping his weight on his arms so as not to crush her. Then he
raised himself up on one elbow, idly playing with a damp chestnut curl as he
smiled down at her.

“Maeve.”

“Sir Graham?”

“Marry me?”

She reached out and touched the
dimple in his jaw, the arching black brows, the plane of his cheek. Sighing,
she looked into his eyes, determined but twinkling behind his thick lashes, and
shook her head. “Gray . . .I need time to think, to make sure I’m making the
right decision.”

“When will you know, then?”

“I don’t know. Soon. For now—for
now, I think I’d prefer to have another contest of patience.”

And then, as she squealed in
delight, he went about ravishing her once more, and this time it was indeed the
admiral who lost the contest.

Chapter 32

He was the scourge of London.

No pirate who’d ever swung a
cutlass this side of Jamaica had ever looked more formidable. Dressed in a
billowing white shirt and breeches, with a patch over one eye and a kerchief
around his throat, Sir Graham Falconer, Knight of the Bath, Rear Admiral of the
White, savior of the season’s richest convoy, and now, fresh from a long and
stuffy meeting with his crusty old superiors at the Admiralty in London, stared
up at the open window of Maeve’s hotel room, two stories above his head.

He held a grappling iron in one
hand, its long rope in the other, and a gleaming dagger between his teeth. God
help him if anyone saw him engaging in such outrageous behavior. But hell, if this
little performance didn’t convince Her Majesty of the lengths he would go to get
her to the altar, then he feared nothing would!

He was tired of waiting.

And he was beginning to find he
wasn’t such a patient man after all, not where she was concerned.

Her crew had remained in Portsmouth
with Kestrel, but for the sake of appearances, Orla had checked into a
room with Maeve, and he had taken a neighboring one. It was not an arrangement
he intended to keep. Oh, hell no. He had no intention of sleeping alone.

Just as he had no intention of
allowing her to dally anymore with regard to this whole marriage business. She’d
damn well give him an answer tonight—or, he’d carry her off to Triton
and have his own flag-captain marry them, and amen to that!

Aaaaarrrh, me pretty!, he
thought with sudden, reckless glee, warming to his role and beginning to thoroughly
enjoy himself. “I shall have ye, yet!”

He looked up at the square of
golden light directly above him. A shadow passed before the window. Good. She
was still awake . . .

And now, for the proposal to outdo
all marriage proposals . . .  pirate style.

A noise sounded behind him. He
whirled, but it was only a cat, staring at him in fright.

He removed the knife and bared his
teeth, making the face he'd used on Colin’s pet.

The animal hissed, and shot off
into the darkness. Gray laughed. Then, narrowing his eyes in concentration, he
put the knife between his teeth once more, tightened his hand around the rope,
and began to swing the grappling iron in a wide, powerful circle, focusing on
the sill two stories above.

One last circle, and he let the
grapple go.

Chunk! The iron claw found
purchase and he froze, waiting to be discovered.

Nothing.

He let out his breath, relaxing,
grinning, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of snaring his prize. “Aaaargh,”
he growled happily, rolling the words around his teeth as he figured Blackbeard
must’ve done, “ye’ll not escape me now, wench!” He pulled on the rope, testing
it. That was all he needed, to begin climbing and have the damned thing let go
to send him crashing to the street. But no, the grapple was solid, strong,
tightly in place.

With a last wary glance behind him,
he pulled himself up and began to climb, the knife clenched between his teeth,
cutlass at his side, hair trailing between his shoulders, powerful arms and
bare feet pulling and pushing him up the thick rope.

I’ll have ye yet, woman, he
growled, reveling in the role of marauding pirate.

Higher and higher he went. Heights
did not bother him; he was, after all, the most fearsome freebooter ever to
sail the Spanish Main, the most dangerous pirate ever to stalk the streets of London.
Adjusting his eye patch and sheathing his dagger, he paused just beneath the
windowsill, breathing hard, grinning fiercely, and wondering how to best make
his surprise entry. Then, in a single movement, he pulled himself cleanly up
and through the window, and drawing his cutlass, leapt into the room with a
savage, bloodcurdling yell.

“Aaaarrrrrrghhhhhh!”

“Eeeeeaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

An elderly woman, in slippers and
nightgown.

“SHIT!” Gray cried, and
bolted for the door.

“Thief! Intruder! Somebody, help!”

Cutlass in hand, he tore frantically
down the hall, the old woman’s screams echoing in the corridor behind him. How
could he have chosen the wrong room?! He tripped, nearly fell, cut himself
on the blade of the sword, and finding speed, darted away from an opening door,
when he heard more calls and shouts ringing out behind him.

And as he charged around the corner
he saw two flag officers in cocked hats and epaulets just entering the hotel
dining room.

He feinted to the right, charging
down a carpeted corridor—

“There he is! Thief! Somebody, stop
him, thief!”

Behind him he heard pounding feet,
knew the two admirals had seen him and were in hot pursuit.

Bloody hell, where was Maeve’s
room?!

He charged around another corner,
running as fast as his bare feet would take him, shirt billowing, hair flying
out behind him. There, thank God, thank God, thank God!, her door—

“Maeve, open up!”

“Gray, darling? Is that you?”

“For God’s sake, Maeve, open the
goddamned door, now!”

“Now Gray, that’s no way to talk to
royalty.”

He pounded savagely against the
door, nearly holing the elegant wood. “Jesus, Maeve, OPEN THE GODDAMNED
DOOR!”

He heard more people running toward
him. The old woman in her nightgown, hotel personnel, maids, clerks, a nobleman
in elegant silk—Oh, God, not the Marquess of Anderleigh—”I say, Sir Graham,
is that you?”—and then the two flag officers, not just any flag
officers, but Lords Hood and Barham, both admirals and the latter, the most
senior man in the entire bloody navy, from whose office Gray had just
come not an hour before—now striding with tight-lipped authority around the
corner.

He slammed his fist against the
door a final time. “Maeve, for the love of God, open the door!”

“SIR GRAHAM!” Lord Barham’s
voice thundered through the hall. “What in GOD’S NAME are you DOING?!”

Silence. He fell back, plastering
his spine against the door, a pirate with a patch over his eye, a cutlass in
his hand, his shirt open to his navel, and their shocked eyes upon him, while
the crowd gaped and stared and gathered and smirked.

The door opened and he fell,
prostrate, at the Pirate Queen’s feet.

“Maeve! Say you’ll marry me!”

Chapter
33

Several hours after Maeve Merrick
agreed quite publicly to marry Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, a post chaise
carrying one Captain Henry Blackwood arrived at Nelson’s home, Merton, with the
news that Villeneuve was holed up in the Spanish port of Cadiz with more than
thirty ships-of-the-line. And so began the last stage of events, all rushing
toward that final decisive battle that the admiral, in those last weeks of his
long-suffering life, knew was coming.

In the Channel, and in the French
and Spanish ports of the Atlantic seaboard, great fleets stood poised for the
final confrontation while Europe stood waiting . . .

Off of the Spanish port of Cadiz,
where Villeneuve’s forces had fled for refuge, the bored and frustrated
blockading fleet under the British Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood complained
bitterly about their dour old “Cuddie’s” puritanical ways: “For charity’s sake,
send us Lord Nelson, oh ye men of power!” wrote one of the desperate captains,
in a letter home to his wife.

And in England, while anxiously
waiting to go aboard Victory for the last time, Lord Nelson paid his
bills with his dwindling resources, put his affairs in order, and spent his
time playing with his little daughter. On one of his trips to London he stopped
to pay a somber visit to an old friend, fashioned from the mainmast of the
French flagship L’Orient which he had defeated at the Battle of the Nile,
and now, waiting patiently for that time when the two of them would be together
forever. That old friend had traveled many miles with him; now, it rested
safely in the care of one Mr. Peddieson.

“Get it properly engraved for me,”
Nelson joked to Peddieson, “for I shall probably need it upon my return.”

That old friend was his coffin.

###

At Falconer House in Surrey, things
were in a state of high excitement as the family’s only son, the days of his
own leave numbered before he returned to his West Indies command, eagerly
awaited his marriage to the Pirate Queen, to be held at Nelson’s nearby home, Merton
Place.

Gray’s happiness over that upcoming
event was heightened by an urgent message sent to him by Lord Nelson, but he
did not tell his Pirate Queen the surprising contents of the admiral’s note.
For Sir Graham knew that his lady must conquer her demons herself—and as her
wedding day dawned, she did.

She got up that morning, dressed,
and long before the house awoke and Gray’s six younger sisters sought her out
for tales of piracy on the high seas, tiptoed quietly from her bedroom and down
the great staircase . . . across plush carpeting and marbled floors . . . past
the statues and busts and paintings of ancestors that lined the walls, until
she saw the half-open door to the study.

It called to her. It was now or
never. She could not live with the pain anymore.

She paused only once on her way to
that room and all the fears she would confront there, and that was to stop, as
she always did, beneath the magnificent portrait that dominated the wall just
outside the door. It was a glorious portrait, stretching from the height of her
waist to the tall ceiling, of a pirate standing before a dark and roiling sea
with storm clouds gathering behind him like a great, unholy halo. His hair was
black, magnificent, wild; his eyes were bold, his stance, godlike and commanding.
He leaned on a cutlass, wore a flowing shirt of white silk, and jackboots that
reached to his knees. Behind him was a fleet of ships, his ships, and
the elaborate nameplate affixed to the painting’s gilt frame read, Rear
Admiral Sir Graham Falconer, K.B.

Maeve tilted her head back, stepped
forward, and kissed the only part of that magnificent portrait she could reach:
his boots.

Leave it to her Knight to be
painted as a pirate, when any admiral worth his salt wouldn’t be caught dead in
anything but his finest uniform.

She touched the portrait one final
time, as though the courage of the man himself could reach her. But he had gone
to London last night to meet with the Admiralty, then on to Merton to see
Nelson, and she had yet to hear the hoofbeats signifying his return.

“Gray,” she whispered, staring into
the dark, commanding eyes, “how I wish you were here, right now. I need you.
I’m afraid. But I must do this thing that has to be done . . . and I must do it
alone.”

She was trembling. She heard the
sounds of the big house, amplified by the intense quiet; the ticking of a clock
somewhere down the hall, various creaks and settlings of aged wood, and
outside, the crow of a rooster. Sunlight, weak and orange, slanted through the
tall windows, angling toward the door of the study as though directing her to
do what needed to be done.

What difference did it make, now?
She was getting married today. She should have written the letter to her family
weeks ago, when she’d first learned they hadn't deserted her, after all. Now,
it was too late.

Do it, Maeve.

But even as her heart tried to
retreat behind the walls it had hidden behind for seven long years, she knew
there was no turning back. She had been affected these last three weeks by
watching Gray’s family revel in the love they had for each other. It was time
to put the demons behind her, to face the truth.

“I love you, Gray,” she whispered
to that magnificent man in the portrait, and indeed, she did. For if her admiral
had not taught her about vulnerability, love, courage and trust, she would
never have been contemplating what she was about to do.

Head high, the Pirate Queen pushed
open the door to the study and saw the sunlight, like a beacon from God,
touching nothing in the room but the carved oak desk beneath the window. She
closed the door behind her and walked across the room, pulled out the chair,
and sat down.

Around her, the silence pressed.

She looked at the quill pens laid
out on the desk. The inkwell. The sheets of blank paper, set there as though
awaiting the outpourings of her heart.

Stop delaying.

She picked up a quill, running her
fingers over the soft feather. Her heart thundered in her breast. Slowly, she
pulled one of the pieces of paper toward her.

Far down the hall the clock chimed
the hour, reminding her that time was trickling by, bringing back memories of
her beloved Grandpa Ephraim and the obsession he’d had for timepieces.

What are you waiting for, Maeve?
Do it.

Once again, she picked up the quill
in her trembling hand, bit her lip, and began to write . . .

DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

As I write this, the sun is
coming up and I am in England. I think you should know I’m
getting married today—

She paused, reading over her words.
They seemed cold. Impersonal. With a little sob, she snatched up the paper, wadded
it into a ball, flung it to the floor and tried again.

DEAR MAMA AND DADDY,

This is your daughter, Maeve. I
know you think I’m dead, but—

No. That was even worse.
Frustrated, Maeve crumpled up the letter, shot to her feet, bolted for the
door, and paused, her lungs heaving and the tears choking the back of her
throat. She stood there, watching the orange sunlight getting stronger,
brighter, whiter, hotter. She touched the door and thought of the portrait just
outside. She could flee this room and no one would ever know but her; or she
could stay and confront her worst fears. She looked back at the desk, the pen
lying across that stack of paper, the chair pushed aside and waiting for her to
come back to it, and made her decision.

Fisting her hands at her sides, she
slowly went back to the desk, sat down, and weeping quietly, began to write
once more.

Dear Daddy and
Mama,

I don’t know how to begin a
letter, and I especially don’t know how to begin this one. It’s awfully hard to
write a letter of apology after seven years of believing the worst about
somebody, especially when it’s your own family, but I am forcing myself to do
it and if this letter never reaches you at least I will have made a start . . .

She bit her lip, her teeth bringing
the blood to the surface as the pen gathered speed and her thoughts began to
pour out upon the page . . .

The most singular set of
circumstances have occurred in my life to bring about my writing to you at
last, not the least of which is my meeting a wonderful man who has shown me
what it means to love, to trust, and to be willing to take chances. Were it not
for him, I would not be writing this letter; were it not for him, I would still
be nursing my anger and bitterness and broken heart in the Caribbean,
where I’ve made my home these past seven years. Now, I realize that all the
time I was nursing my broken heart, you were both nursing yours.
Oh, Daddy, oh, Mama, how can you ever forgive me? How can you . . . ?

The tears were flowing now,
uninhibited by barriers of distrust and fear, racing down her cheeks and beginning
to spatter upon her wrist. Her arm. The paper on which she wrote. She did not
see them. She did not hear the harsh sounds of her own breathing anymore, her
sobs, the sound of the dogs barking outside, the thump of feet on the floor of
an upstairs bedroom, nor see the sun pulling itself up through the clouds in a
magnificent dawn of beauty and glory and hope.

Mama, Daddy, I am so very ashamed
of myself, for believing you have turned away from me. How can I apologize for
that belief? I’m crying as I write this; I’m crying for all the lost years, all
the sadness and grief and hurt and pain, the misunderstandings, the fact that I
ran away from home and never came back. I’m crying because I love you, never stopped
loving you, will always love you whether you can find it in your hearts to forgive
me or not, crying because I’m getting married today and—

She paused, her chest heaving in
great, convulsing bursts of grief—

and you shall not be here to see
it . . .

She pulled back, sobbing
wretchedly, and was about to crumple the letter in her fist when a hand closed
over her own.

She looked up, the tears streaming
down her face and splashing onto the back of that hand.  His hand. The
letter itself, blurred and smudged with her tears of grief.

“Leave it be,” he commanded,
quietly.

“I can’t do it, Gray, I can’t send
this, it’s stained and they won’t be able to even read it—”

“Leave it,” he said again,
softly.

She shot to her feet, her hand
still pinned beneath his. “I’m a coward, really I am, I should never even have
thought I had the courage to do this—”

“You do have the courage,
and you have done it.” He moved around to join her behind the desk, taking care
not to read what she had written. He made her sit back down in the chair, and
kneeling down so that he was on a level with her, looked steadily in her eyes. “Maeve,”
he said gently.

She looked up at him, miserable,
wretched.

“Leave it be,” he said. “And let
the tear stains remain. Nothing else could stand as proof of your love for your
family as they can.”

He was right, of course. The
admiral was always right. She lunged out of the chair and hurled herself into
his arms, crying bitterly, feeling his hands stroking her hair and soothing
her. He held her for a long time, and then he gently set her back, gazing
lovingly into her eyes and thumbing away the wetness upon her cheeks.

Then he stood, tall, dark and
splendidly handsome, and gave her an encouraging smile. “Finish your letter,
Maeve,” was all he said, and, turning on his heel, left the room.

###

“They’ll not come. Dear God, what
have I done, I know they wrote to say they would be here, but they won’t come,
I know they won’t come, it’s already late, late! And they have not come—”

“Nelson,” she said soothingly, “it’s
six o’clock in the morning. Not everyone rises as early as you!”

‘They won’t come, and here I’ve
already told Falconer they would, dear God, what if he’s told her? Oh,
Emma, I should never have told him, I should never have written that damned letter
in the first place, I should never have interfered; this, if nothing else,
shall be the death of me, the very death of me!”

He was so distraught he hadn’t
shaved, hadn’t even washed his face yet this morning, his dear, sad, suffering
little face that she loved so much. And how could he? How could he, with only
one arm?

She took his hand, sat him down in
a chair, filled a basin, and lovingly did that intimate task for him, trying to
remain cheerful and brave despite the knowledge that he would soon be leaving
her once again to lead the British fleet against the might of Bonaparte’s navy.

“It’s early yet,” she said again,
dipping the washcloth in the bowl. She kissed his scarred brow, touched his
lid, the eye beneath still bold, still penetrating, despite the fact he could
barely see out of it. With love and tenderness, she washed his face, taking
care to keep the soapy cloth away from his eyes, touching the lips that were
now pinched tight in a perpetual frown of worry and despair. “Besides, the
wedding ain’t ’til this afternoon. For all you know, their carriage might’ve
broken down, a horse thrown a shoe; why, they might even ’ave got lost!”

“They said they’d be here yesterday,
Emma!”

“And so did the girl’s cousins, but
they ’aven’t arrived yet either. And you, of all people, know that Admiral
Sir Christian Lord is as true as the shot from a carronade. ’E’ll be ’ere. They
will be ’ere. Now sit still, would you? All this fidgeting of yours’ll make me
slip and get soap in your eye.”

He reached up, caught her hand,
pressed it to his lips, and on a resigned breath, murmured, “Emma, dear, sweet,
Emma . . . what would I do without you?”

“You’d get on just fine,” she
joked, “for you are Nelson. Now be still—we ’ave much to do before Sir Graham
and ’is bride-to-be arrive!”

She laughed, but in her heart were
tears and sorrow and misery, for soon he would depart for the Victory at
Portsmouth, and she had the strangest, most awful feeling that he wasn’t
coming back.

###

Merton Place was a lovely,
sprawling property just southwest of London proper, complete with a little
river affectionately renamed the Nile in honor of its owner’s famous victory, a
pond filled with pike, grassy sloping lawns bordered by shrubbery, and a gravel
drive that grumbled and crunched beneath the wheels of their carriage as the
lathered steeds pulled up before the stone steps.

“Here we are,” Sir Graham said
cheerfully, and waited while the footman opened the door. “Now stop looking so
sad, my love. You are getting married today and I shall think you don’t want me
after all!”

Maeve nodded, and tried to smile.
She had finished the letter to her parents. She had posted it. Several weeks
from now, they would be reading it.

Oh, if only she’d written it
months ago. If only her family could be here today, on this happiest, yet saddest,
day of her life . . .

The door to the big house opened
and a woman rushed across the dewy lawn, the morning sunlight gilding her
voluminous, cream-colored gown. Maeve put her hand on Gray’s sleeve and allowed
him to help her out of the carriage.

“Why, what took you so long?” Lady
Hamilton grabbed Sir Graham, clasped him in her arms, kissed him unashamedly
and affectionately on the cheek, and, without skipping a beat, turned and
embraced Maeve too, her emotions as naked and guileless as were those of Nelson
himself. “Come, come, let me look at you, this woman milord has told me was the
only one who knew where the French ’ad gone, this woman who’s done so much for
our glorious an’ gallant navy! Oh, you’re lovely, beautiful, so exotic, an’
you’re going to make our friend Gray here very ’appy, very ’appy indeed! Are y’
nervous, love? Are y’ scared? ’Ere, let me take your things, and do come
inside, we’re just ready to sit down to breakfast and you simply must
join us!”

Emma’s inelegant and unaffected
voice was that of a country woman, loud and bawdy and full of fun and life.
Maeve stared at her, momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of her
personality. This was the woman whose charm and sensuality had won Nelson away
from his cold wife, the woman who had been friend and confidante to the queen
of Naples, the woman whose doings, past and present, had the gossipy tongues of
all England wagging—the woman whose portrait hung in Lord Nelson’s cabin, around
Lord Nelson’s neck, in every room of Lord Nelson’s kind and generous heart.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady
Hamilton.”

“And it’s a pleasure to meet you,
an’ please, you must call me Emma! Come, come, we ’ave much to do before the
guests start arriving! Really Gray, you’re such a rascal, why didn’t you bring
the poor dear yesterday? We ’ad room, you know we ’ad room, and you ’ave always
been welcome at Merton!”

Gray merely shrugged, smiling
distractedly and gazing at the two women; one tall and slim and honed with
muscle, the other effusive and matronly and as stout as a flagship. Both had
chestnut hair, both were faultlessly beautiful—and both were sailor’s women,
which in the end, of course, assured him they would get along famously.

Emma was shamelessly hugging the
very stiff Maeve to her ample bosom. “Come, come, let’s go inside,” she cried. “Milord
’as told me all about 'ow you saved Sir Graham's life! Such courage! Such
valor!” She clapped a hand dramatically to her heart. “No wonder our dear Sir
Graham is so taken with you!”

With her two guests on either arm,
Emma hustled them back toward the house, chattering all the way and hollering
for Nelson. He, just coming around the side of the house, met them on the lawn;
at first, Maeve didn’t recognize the admiral, for he was dressed as a civilian,
in black gaiters, green breeches, a somber black coat, and a little tricorne
hat, to which was attached a small, lime-colored visor to shade his good eye
from the sun. He carried a walking stick in his hand, and his melancholy face
was a study in anxiety, despair, and, as he saw Gray, relief.

“Gray,” he said, in that severe
tone reserved for use by admirals, generals, and the like, “I must talk to you.
Now.”

“Is there something amiss?”

Nelson jerked his head, indicating
the garden, where servants were busily setting up tables and chairs for the
afternoon ceremony. “I hope not. Can you come? Oh dear, forgive me, you must
have some breakfast first—”

“No, no, that can wait,” Gray said,
concerned at Nelson’s obvious distress. He looked at Maeve, but Emma was
already folding her in the circle of her arm and drawing her away.

“Go on, the two of you!” she said,
waving her hand. “Perhaps you can reassure our Nelson that everything will
be fine. And you, Maeve? Come with me, we ’ave much to do before the guests
arrive. . .”

###

An hour later Maeve, sitting
stiffly in a chair at Lady Hamilton’s mirrored dressing table while Emma attempted
to make elegance of her hair, heard the crunch of gravel outside and knew the
first guests had arrived. Emma’s mother, a kind, earthy woman who called herself
Mrs. Cadogan, hurried downstairs to meet them, while her daughter ran to the
window and drew the curtains aside.

She gasped in delight, the sunlight
picking out the classic beauty of her profile. “Oh, dear me! Admiral Hood is
here, and Captain ’ardy, and there, Lord Barham himself! Now who is that naval
officer with ’im? Nelson, I must find Nelson and ask him, but wait, there’s
another carriage, and a very ’andsome young man getting out of it—’e’s blond,
on crutches—do you know anyone of that description, love?—’e’s a real looker,
’e is!”

“That would be my cousin,” she
murmured, staring woodenly at the dressing table. “Colin.”

Lady Hamilton never noticed the
sadness of Maeve’s tone, the tears that threatened her golden eyes. “Oh, yes,
of course! The Colin I’ve heard so much about, a pity about ’is leg . . . Look,
another carriage and another . . . and there’s Gray’s family. And good ’eavens,
would you just look at that, there must be a whole passel of young women out
there, and they’re dressed most fiercely, if I do say so myself! Why, one of
’em is even ’olding a cutlass!”

“That would be my crew,” Maeve said
tonelessly.

“Oh, just think, in a few short
hours you’ll be Lady Falconer!”

She looked down at her hands. “Yes,
Lady Hamilton.”

“Emma, you must call me Emma. Oh
look, they’re putting the flowers on the tables now, you really should come see
this, love! And wait ’til you taste the champagne. Milord sent to town for the
finest of it; indeed, ’e is most anxious to see that you and your admiral ’ave
the most memorable of days!”

“Lord Nelson is the kindest man I
have ever met.”

Emma turned and hurried forward
with a gasp of dismay. “Why lovey—you’re crying! Whatever’s wrong?” Gentle
hands grasped her shoulders. “Why, this should be the ’appiest day of your
life! You’re about to wed the most eligible officer in the King’s navy! An
admiral at his age; that is unheard of! You ’ave a whole life of ’appiness
before you! Fine children, fine relations, the very finest of husbands—”

“I do not have my family. “Maeve’s
throat worked against the tears, and she stared down in defeat at her trembling
hands. “And there is nothing, nothing, I would’ve wanted more for this day than
to . . . to . . . to have my father here to give me away . . .”

“But your cousin, Admiral Lord,”
Emma said slowly. “’E’ll do the honors?”

“I have never set eyes upon Admiral
Lord in my life. I do not know him and besides, it is his wife Deirdre who is
my cousin, not him. I don’t know her either, and I barely know their son, Colin
. . .  and oh, I just want my D-D”—she bent her head to her hands and burst
into tears—”Daddy . . .”

Emma stepped forward, and
maternally, impulsively, hugged the stricken young woman to her bosom. Outside,
she heard carriages in the drive, greetings as guests recognized each other,
female voices, the guffaws of sailors, Nelson’s high laughter as he showed off
little Horatia to an admiring crowd who would never know she was his own
daughter.

There wasn’t much time left and now
she, too, began to feel the anxiety that Nelson had been unable to quell. But
what could she do? What could any of them do?

“Don’t cry, m’love,” she said,
feeling helpless for one of the first times in her life. “Don’t cry . . .
everything’ll be all right, you just wait and see . . . Please, don’t cry . . .”

But Maeve was still weeping as,
nearly two hours later, Emma and her mother straightened the folds of her gown,
placed the tiara atop her upswept tresses, and led her downstairs, to where the
man she had never met, the celebrated Admiral Christian Lord, waited solemnly
to take her hand and lead her to the husband who awaited her in the garden
outside.

###

In later years, her memory of those
last few moments were fuzzy and dreamlike; she remembered tucking a small
dagger into her bodice when Lady Hamilton wasn’t looking; she remembered
looking up at the tall man whose elbow rested beneath her gloved hand and
seeing the face of a stranger; she remembered thinking he looked stern and distinguished,
with good looks undimmed by the years and an aura of authority he wore as
easily as the gold epaulets upon his broad shoulders; she remembered thinking
he was nothing like the mirthful and merry soul her daddy had been, and
blinking back a fresh wave of tears as she raised her chin, commanded every
ounce of courage and strength and pride she had, and allowed him to lead her
outside into the bright sunlight.

The band was playing. She could
hear it, even from here, and above it, the sound of voices, laughter, gaiety,
merriment . . . sounds that abruptly ceased as Admiral Lord escorted her across
the lawn and to the gardens, where the guests had formed into two groups on
either side of a flowered path.

Faces.

All turned expectantly toward her.

As she passed them, she saw Aisling
and Sorcha, barely restrained by Enolia and both waving madly in a gleeful
attempt to be recognized by the lady of the day; she smiled tremulously, her
feet moving of their own accord, her fingers tightening over a muscled arm that
was alien and unfamiliar to her beneath her soft, satin gloves.

Faces.

She saw the squire and his
wife—Gray’s parents— and all six of his sisters, each dark head covered by a
colorful hat, each face bright and excited.

Faces.

She saw people she didn’t know,
people she did. Orla, and Kestrel's rowdy crew; Colin, leaning heavily
on his crutches, standing beside a lovely woman with curly black hair and a
strange, Celtic crucifix about her neck—that would be Deirdre, his mother and
Maeve’s own cousin; Mrs. Cadogan, one of Nelson’s sisters, and Emma, rushing to
the head of the line and weeping with joy; a cluster of unknown sea officers,
their wives in lovely gowns and parasols to shield their complexions from the
sun . . .

Faces.

And there, at the end of the path,
at the end of the crowd, Lord Nelson—aglitter with every star and decoration
and order he owned, his neck draped with medals, his hat plumed by a brilliant
diamond aigrette—standing triumphantly beside the vicar and the man who would
soon be her husband.

Sir Graham was in his best uniform.
The one that had never seen sea service, but was reserved for only the most
honored of occasions, the gold buttons and lace and epaulets blindingly bright
in the sun, the medal of the Nile around his neck, the broad red sash of knighthood
across his right shoulder. His hands were clasped behind his back; a sailor he
was, even here, and he was smiling, his eyes radiant with love as he caught
sight of her and watched her move slowly down the path, toward him.

Gray . . .

Her feet continued to move, but her
stare was on Nelson. Why was the admiral looking so smug? So satisfied? So very
proud of himself?

And then Sir Graham was gazing
beyond her shoulder, nodding ever so slightly; beside her, Admiral Lord
stopped, stepped away from her, and with a deferential bow, relinquished her
into the care of another.

The voice came to her, moving
across time, across memory, across pain and fear and anguish and hope . . .

“Faith, lassie, did you really
think you could steal my schooner and get away with it? Did you really think I
wouldn’t show up to give my daughter away at her own wedding? Good God, what
the devil is this world coming to?”

She froze, not daring to breathe,
to hope, to think; she felt his arm sliding under her gloved hand, heard his
melodious Irish voice echoing through her senses and every joyous cell in her
awakening body; she blinked once, twice, and slowly, looked up—into a face she
hadn’t seen in seven long years and thought never to see again.

A handsome face framed in chestnut
hair gone gray at the temples; a youthful face, lit by a mirthful grin and
Irish eyes now filling with tears of joy and love; a beloved face, a cherished
face, the face of the one man whose love and forgiveness meant more to her than
anyone else’s in the whole, entire world.

“Dadd-e-e-e-e-e-e!” she
cried, and threw herself into his embrace.

And as he swung her around and
around, she saw beyond him, gathered in a circle and now rushing forward, her
family. Mama. Uncle Matt. Aunt Eveleen. Her sisters and brothers and cousins
and yes, even old Grandpa Ephraim, swinging a pocket watch and grinning that
great, yellow-toothed old grin she remembered so well.

The tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her family converged upon her, hugging her, kissing her, sobbing over her, enfolding
her in loving arms that would never, ever let her go. And even as she wondered
how they could’ve known she was in England, even as she wondered how they
could’ve known to find her here, her gaze fell upon the frail figure of Lord
Nelson, standing a bit apart from the others and smiling a faint, satisfied
smile.

Their eyes met. And in that brief,
wonderful moment of revelation, Maeve knew the truth.

Gray had given her back the ability
to trust.

The little admiral had given her
back her family.

After seven long years, the Merricks
were united at last.

I
commit my life to Him who made me.

—NELSON

Epilogue

Friday night at half past ten,
drove from dear, dear Merton, where I left all which I hold dear in this world,
to go to serve my King and Country. May the great God, whom I adore, enable me
to fulfil the expectations of my country; and if it is His good pleasure that I
should return, my thanks will never cease being offered up to the throne of His
mercy. If it is His good Providence to cut short my days upon
earth, I bow with the greatest submission, relying that He will protect those
dear to me that I may leave behind. His will be done. Amen, amen, amen.

The post chaise rumbled through the
night, carrying Lord Nelson south, away from Emma and Horatia and the home he
loved so much.

He thought of Emma, sobbing and
nearly collapsing at the table yesterday; he thought of the tearful, final
farewells at dinner, and little Horatia as he’d knelt at her bedside in the
darkness and prayed for her; four times he’d gone back to look at his sleeping
daughter, before finally striding out the front door, down the steps, and into
the waiting chaise, where a young stablehand had stood holding the door for
him. “Be a good boy ’til I come back again,” Nelson had said fondly as he’d
climbed in, and then, the lights of Merton had faded away into darkness . . .

The prayer had been in his mind for
days. At a break in the journey at a coaching-inn, he had copied it into his
diary. And as the miles fell behind him he stared out into the night, thinking
of the enemy at Cadiz, of his plan for defeating them, of his waiting coffin
and glory and the words of a gypsy he’d once met, long ago . . .

I can see no farther than the
year 1805 for you . . .

Thinking . . .

Of his own premonitions, his fears,
a visionary orb of white light that had come to him long ago when he’d been a
despairing youth, remaining to guide him his entire life—and of his last
farewell to the Pirate Queen, who had embraced him with tears streaming down
her cheeks as a bewildered Sir Graham stood helplessly nearby . . .

You can see the future,
Maeve—what do you see for me? Will I beat the French? Oh, tell me, will I?

And she, faltering, her eyes
filling with tears before she’d looked away . . . You, milord . . . will
fulfill your own destiny . . .

Through the night the chaise went.
On through the sleeping countryside, past woods and fields and darkened houses,
on to the Hampshire coast, where morning light glowed upon the chalky bluffs
and the scent of the sea filled the air, on across Portsea Island and finally,
to Portsmouth—where the noble Victory stood in quiet readiness for the
greatest admiral her country had ever known.

###

The sally port was choked with
crowds, all pushing and shoving, all anxiously waiting just to get a glimpse of
him as, after lunching at The George, Lord Nelson left England for the last
time. He tried to avoid them, but in the end it was no use, and as he walked
toward the beach in his jaunty, rolling, seaman’s gait, the people came rushing
through the narrow streets of Portsmouth after him in a tumultuous flood of
adoring humanity. He—this little man they regarded as their savior, this little
man who symbolized England, this little man upon whose shoulders the hope and
fate of their country depended—was going off to fight their war, to save them
from the dreaded Napoleon Bonaparte, and they were determined to send him off
in a fine display of love and emotion. Hands reached out to grasp his, seeking
to touch his greatness; people knelt in his path, praying for him, for a
victory; some were crying in great keening wails, others wept quietly, all
followed him as he headed for the beach.

Across Southsea Common he went, the
vast multitudes trailing in his wake, sobbing, screaming, crying his name—Nelson!
Nelson! God bless you, Lord Nelson!—already he could see his barge,
waiting for him, the soldiers having to fight to clear a path through the
throngs so that he could get to it. There was an officer, sitting solemnly in
the sternsheets, and the barge crew, their oars raised smartly.

And beyond, Victory—waiting.

He descended the sixteen steps of
the wharf, the frenzied clamor of thousands of people ringing in his ears. The
barge swayed beneath him as he stepped down into it, acknowledging Hardy’s
salute and taking his place beside him. The clamor rose to a deafening thunder,
and, as the oarsmen pushed off from shore, separated itself into three distinct
and mighty cheers that shook the very clouds in the sky above.

God bless Lord Nelson! God bless
Lord Nelson! God bless Lord Nelson!

Misty-eyed and overwhelmed, he took
off his hat and waved it to the crowds. “I had their huzzahs before,” he
murmured softly to Hardy. “I have their hearts now.”

And in that vast, swelling crowd,
the new Lady Falconer stood with her own admiral and the family that Nelson had
given back to her. She thought of her last tearful good-bye to the brave hero
and the shining future that awaited her as Gray’s wife. Through the din she
heard her husband talking to her father, felt the press and breath and heat and
life of thousands of bodies around her—but in those last, melancholy moments
everything faded and it was just she and the little admiral. She watched the oars
rising and falling in precision as the barge, diminishing now in size, moved
toward the ship that would carry him to Cadiz . . . to the British Fleet . . .
to battle . . . to glory—

And, she knew—to Eternity.

Good-bye . . . she thought,
her eyes blurring with tears. And thank you.

Author’s
Note

“My last thought shall be fixed
on thee, yes my last sigh shall go to my own dear, incomparable Emma. I
see nothing terrible in death but leaving thee.”

On the 21st of October, 1805, Horatio, Lord Nelson—after more than two years of waiting, planning, and
praying—finally brought the British and Combined Franco-Spanish fleets to
battle off the Spanish port of Cadiz.

He never doubted a glorious
victory. The Battle of Trafalgar, as it came to be called, won Britain a supremacy
over the seas that was to last for the next one hundred years. Ending forever
the threat of Napoleonic invasion, the triumph was darkened only by the loss of
Nelson himself, who, at the height of the battle, was hit by a French sniper
who spotted the gleaming medals of his coat as the admiral and his flag-captain,
Hardy, calmly paced Victory’s shot-torn quarterdeck.

He died three hours later, after
receiving word of a complete and overwhelming victory.

--
the end --

About
the Author:

Bestselling,
multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten
books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages
worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is
married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England
with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian
Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her
readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the
means listed below:

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Read
on for information about additional titles for your Kindle from Danelle Harmon!

CAPTAIN
OF MY HEART

The
tale of Maeve's parents, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick and Mira Ashton!

WICKED AT
HEART

(continuing
the further adventures of the schooner Kestrel!)

and…

THE
BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING, CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED

DE
MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES:

“The
bluest of blood; the boldest of hearts;

the
de Montforte brothers will take your breath away.”

Meet
the dashing and aristocratic De Montforte Brothers by Danelle Harmon:

THE
WILD ONE

THE
BELOVED ONE

THE
DEFIANT ONE

THE
WICKED ONE

and
coming soon to Kindle:

PIRATE
IN MY ARMS

MASTER
OF MY DREAMS

TAKEN
BY STORM

~~~~