The Pirate’s Tale

Grace D’Otare

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“Hello?” Maeve dropped her bags in the hall. Peering across the foyer, she could just make out her husband’s shape slumped in his favorite old leather chair. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it. It landed over the banister. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Why are you so far away?”

Her heels clicked on the parquet. “Bad day, darling?”

Devlin watched her cross the room, swirling his drink.

“You’re wearing those boots again,” he said.

“I am.”

He turned away to concentrate on a long swallow from his glass. “Not all bad, then.”

She smiled at that, and brushed a hand over his hair, feeling his forehead as a nurse might check for fever. He twitched, meaning don’t fuss, and patted his knee.

Maeve arranged herself in his lap, her knees swinging over the rolled arm of the chair, and wondered what to do.

They both had bad days now and then, with all they’d been through. Dev usually went off alone and came back when he’d healed himself. Or close enough to healed himself. Rarely did he let her see the suffering, much less offer what small comfort she could.

He set his glass on the floor. His palm skimmed beneath the hem of her skirt. The skirt was a favorite of Maeve’s, a great sweep of charcoal silk velvet. Despite the steady rise of his hand, the skirt veiled boots, legs and his intent. Beginning at her ankle, he traced the fit of her boot as it climbed her leg.

“Jesus. Where does it stop?”

The smoke of old-oaked whiskey on his breath and leather in the air whetted Maeve’s appetite. Dark and chilly as Dev’s spirits ran tonight, Maeve felt the tingle of warmth they made between them spark, and begin to burn.

“Ahhh, there’s a good man.” She wiggled deliberately, settling more comfortably in his lap, and he pinched the tender skin above the boot’s cuff. “I knew you’d find your way.”

“What’s this you’re barely wearing?” Blunt fingertips tickled the edge of her lacy thong.

“Layers are the secret to a well-dressed woman,” Maeve replied with an invitational tip of her hips.

“Thinly spread layer.”

“Mille Cake,” she teased, hoping for another pinch.

“Naughty girl.”

“Think of it as a visual aid.”

“A visual aid? When you’re hip-high in these…” He whispered across her ear. “…pirate boots,” making her shiver, another little retaliation.

“Pirates. Now, that reminds me of a story.” She shifted her butt in his lap more deliberately, achieving precisely the result she’d hoped for.

“Do tell,” her husband answered, with enough growl in his voice to really make it worth her while.

The Pirate’s Tale

The only life that Gertrude had ever known was the convent.

“The convent? I thought this was a lusty pirate tale?”

“Fine. Skip the convent. Straight to the bedroom.”

“That’s more like it.”

It was a cold, dark bedroom.

Gertrude wrapped the coverlet tighter around her and poked the fire. Two months at sea, two days in port and two hours in a carriage traveling streets that were worse than those on the island of Santa Ava, only to be deposited at the door of a respectable house and deserted.

She eyed the bed suspiciously. It was huge; big enough to sleep six orphans. Who else would be sleeping in there tonight?

The door banged open and in clomped a pair of dirty boys, a large brass tub and the housekeeper, Mrs. Allworthy.

“Right here,” the woman pointed to the space in front of the fire. “Carefully! Don’t slosh all over the Captain’s India rug,”

The water in the tub was so hot that steam rose into the air.

“Mrs. Allworthy?”

“A moment,” she answered with a glance at Gertrude. “Back downstairs, you two, quick step! Bring up the other pails of boiling water from the kitchen. Run!” From her apron pocket she pulled a glass bottle and dumped the contents into the water. The room bloomed with the scent of rose and rosemary. “You had a question, missus?”

Gertrude tried to sound merely inquisitive. “Who is planning on bathing in my room?”

“You, dear.”

“I’ve already washed,” she said. “Thank you.”

“The Captain ordered you a bath.”

“He hasn’t seen me since we made port. How would he know I need a bath?” she grumbled. “Please don’t go to any more trouble. I prefer to bathe…standing. Thank you.”

“Standing? You mean a spit bath? With your clothes on?” An odd expression flickered over the older woman’s face. She arched her back and rubbed her distended belly. From where Gertrude stood, it appeared the baby might come before Mrs. Allworthy left the room. “Ever sat in a bathtub, my dear?”

“Why does that matter?”

“You haven’t! Ha! I’ll be a ripe tomato.” She barked a laugh that colored her face as red as the fruit, then she started to hiccup. “Pardon me. Where does he find ’em? Uuurp, there I go again!”

“Find who?”

“Well now, the Captain’s been married before, I’m sure you’ve heard?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “Don’t believe one word of the rumors. Captain wouldn’t harm a fly, much less his wives.”

“That’s a…relief,” Gertrude said. Wives?

“Don’t wait too long, poppet. Water’s best when it’s hot enough to turn you pink all over.” Mrs. Allworthy winked and rubbed her belly again. “I’m away. I’ve my own chicks and a husband to settle in for the night. Good luck, my girl.” She chuckled and burped her way out the door. “Never sat in a bath! Going to be a long night for both of them….”

Gertrude slumped. Long night? The Captain must be going out again this evening. Nothing was going according to plan. She’d gambled on love, new experiences and a world beyond the locked doors of Santa Ava’s convent orphanage.

She’d lost. The Captain had been too busy to do more than stare at her across the deck during the crossing. Alone, confined to the ship, seasickness had been her only notable new experience.

Steam from the bath fogged the mirror over the mantel. Her reflection blurred. She dipped her hand in the tub’s water. The sweet-spice scent of rose and rosemary swirled around her. The water appeared clean enough. She’d been told baths were dirty. It smelled lovely.

Maybe she should try it? Many things she’d been told at the convent had turned out to be untrue. That certain private behavior caused spots, for instance. Or that women who were not virgins would never find a husband. Also—clearly—false.

Here she sat in a fine house, married. For the most part.

What sort of pirate was this husband of hers, two months at sea and all he did was watch her across the deck, staring with those intent blue eyes, as if she were the dangerous one?

She sat down on the rug, unhooked her stockings and carefully rolled them down her legs, one by one. Absent husband or not, she was capable of creating a new experience for herself. She wiggled her toes in the carpet. Carpet in a bedroom! A luxury right under her feet.

Shrugging off the coverlet, she reached beneath her dress to untie her drawers.

Why had Mrs. Allworthy asked about her clothes? Who dared to take off all their clothes to bathe? She unfastened the buttons down the front of her gown and lifted it over her head, leaving her shift in place. The last time Gertrude had taken off everything…well, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken off all her clothes at the same time. Not with fifty women and children watching every move.

The door banged open.

The Captain, her new husband, entered the bedroom carrying a bucket of hot water in each hand. His shirtsleeves were folded up, revealing cords of muscles straining under the weight of water and pail.

For once, his look wasn’t full of apprehension. Admiration, perhaps? Appetite, most definitely. She was after all, practically naked, the sheerness of her shift hiding all her flaws but none of her charms.

Gertrude panicked. She grabbed the coverlet off the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders like a tent.

The first time they’d met, she’d known immediately, he was a captain of men in both form and function. Deep-blue eyes and blue-black hair. A straight, sharp nose, unbroken, unlike many of his shipmates. Tall, but wiry. He could use a few good meals.

And that commanding voice. “I’ve brought more water.”

Several questions occurred to her. Don’t you knock? was the first. Will you stay? was the last.

The Captain stepped further into the room and dumped one bucket of steaming water into the tub. The other he set by the fire.

“Nothing to say?”

His shirt was open. He had dark hair on his chest also. The room seemed smaller.

“Gertrude is a mouthful. Do you have another name?”

Old Gertrude. “No,” she told him.

“I thought I might find you in the bath already, Gertrude.” He pointed. “Water’s hot.”

She shuffled backward until her calves hit the bed. The convenience of her shipboard seasickness returned to her. New experiences were all well and good when you were in control of them.

She did not feel that the man standing in front of her was quite under her control.

“Actually, there are three other Gertrudes residing at the convent,” she babbled. “Gertie who is fifteen and quiet. Trudy is seven and never quiet, but she wets the bed when she has a nightmare. The youngest is called Baby Gertrude. I’ll miss her.”

The first time they’d met, in the Mother Superior’s office, he’d looked at her exactly this way, as if he were looking at a ghost.

A slow smile now curved his mouth with hints of fear and wonder.

She blushed everywhere. Thank heaven, all he could see was the red in her cheeks. How could anyone as ordinary as she was inspire such a look?

“An abundance of Gertrudes.”

“Tradition. All the baby girls left at the orphanage…” Gertrude stopped. Her nerves tingled an alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Can’t let a hot bath go to waste,” he answered, as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. “Go on.”

She turned toward the wall as if suddenly fascinated by an etching of a sloop. “Girls are always christened Gertrude, after the Patron Saint of the West Indies.”

There was a snap of leather and the clink of a buckle. He was taking off his pants.

“Perhaps…I’ll wait outside.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Water sloshed and the Captain exhaled an indecent sound.

She peeked over her shoulder. His head lolled against the back of the tub. His arms rested along the brass rim in one long line of flesh that stretched from earlobe to fingertip. Beads of water on his skin sparkled in the fire’s light.

His abandoned clothes lay beside the empty water bucket in a pile. Shirt. Pants. It was the white linen of his drawers that gave Gertrude her first palpitation. He was naked in that bathtub.

“Tell me. How did the sainted Gertrude make her name?” he asked, as if they were conversing over dinner.

“Virgin.” The word was impossible to say without squeaking. “In 1306. Educated in the convent, lived a life of great mental activity.”

“Great mental activity. You can be sainted for that?” He pointed to a small table without opening his eyes. “Pass me the soap, if you please.”

Pass me the salt, he might have said. Gertrude sidled over to where Mrs. Allworthy had left a pair of apothecary jars and a rough sea sponge.

“The sponge also, if you don’t mind.”

Gertrude angled her way toward the tub.

“How old are you?”

“Here’s your soap.”

“Put a little on the sponge for me? You didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s not a polite question. I’m giving you time to reconsider.” She dripped a little of the fancy liquid soap on the dry sponge. “It’s not soaking in very well.”

“Come closer. Dip the sponge in the water.” He didn’t move a muscle. His eyes remained shut, eyelashes curled on his cheek. She’d never noticed how pretty a man’s eyelashes could be.

Was he watching her through the curtain of those lashes?

Gertrude dunked her hand in the extra bucket of hot water. She squished the sponge until it bubbled. “Here you are.”

“If you wouldn’t mind—” The Captain sloshed forward in the tub, bracing his arms on his lifted knees. “—washing my back, please? Piracy is not a trade that rewards politesse.”

Wash his back? Gertrude had to think for a moment. What was he talking about? What should she do?

The moment surrounded them, tingling with opportunity.

New experiences. She stepped behind him. With him leaning forward, the front of his body was hidden from her sight. But the view of his tender nape trailed all the way down his back to the shadowed split of his buttocks. Muscles arched across his shoulder blades and tensed along the valley of his spine.

Water everywhere and all Gertrude could think was how dry her mouth felt.

“How old did you say you were?” he asked again.

Keeping the sponge as a barrier between her hand and his skin, she buffed his shoulder.

“More than twenty.” She scrubbed with broader strokes. “Quite a bit more. Closer to thirty, if you must know.”

He gave a snort. “I thought so. They told me you were nineteen. And married before.”

She nearly dropped the sponge. “Who told you that?”

“The old woman with the bad teeth,” he said. “The age was an obvious lie. No way to tell about the rest.”

No way to tell? Gertrude coughed. Hardly a subtle hint. “I was not married. Precisely. More like…betrothed. At least, I thought so. He seemed to think…well, never mind.”

Distracted by the conversation, and getting more comfortable in his company, she scrubbed lower. A corner of the coverlet dropped into the water.

“Bother.” Reasoning that he couldn’t see behind his back, she shook the blanket off her shoulders and onto the floor. Without the quilt she was able to move more freely. Scrubbing lower into the water, she admitted, “I think perhaps the Sisters meant to warn you off.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.