Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by C. B. Halverson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Suzanne Evans

Cover design by Kelly Martin

Cover art from Period Images, Shutterstock, Deposit Images, and Bigstock

ISBN 978-1-63375-806-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition January 2017

For the women who have always fought

I am a maid that sleeps in love and cannot feel my pain

For once I had a sweetheart, and Johnny was his name

And if I cannot find him, I’ll wander night and day

For it’s for the sake of Johnny, I’ll cross the stormy seas

—Traditional Irish Folk Song

Chapter One

1805

The large trout wiggled in my hands, its glassy eye staring unblinking to the sky. My knuckles strained as I clutched its glittering scales, and I laughed as I held it up to Johnny, the sunlight blinding as I turned to him.

“Look what I found,” I cried out with a grin. “I believe that makes one for me, and none for you, Johnny Brighton.”

He trudged through the rushing stream, water splashing far above his rolled up trousers. Blond hair swept away from his wide forehead, a smile spreading across his boyish features. “Ah, we will have to see about that.”

His nearness sent my heart beating, and the trout jerked in my hand. Its sharp fin cut deep, slashing a wide gash of red along my thumb. Pain shot up through my arm, and I stumbled against the pull of the stream.

“Get off, you dirty fecker.” I squeezed hard to hold it still, but the fish slipped through my fingers and back into the water with so much force, I went tumbling into the current. The shock of the freezing stream stopped my heart for a moment, and I grasped at the pebbled riverbed for purchase. So much for dinner.

“Watch yourself, Mary!” Johnny cried, his strong hands lifting me up.

I gasped for air, river water spluttering from my mouth. I had taken off my dress on the riverbank and stood there shivering in my shift, the spring air turning the thin fabric to a sheet of ice.

Johnny’s eyes grazed over my chest, and he caught my hand, his touch sending a nervous flutter deep into my belly. We had fished in this river since we were children, and I had never thought anything of prancing around in my skivvies in front of the little lordling.

But Johnny wasn’t so little anymore.

My gaze wandered over to my dress draped over a fallen log, and I resisted the urge to cover myself with my bleeding hand. He had grown so used to seeing me as a girl. Tiny Mary O’Malley, the steward’s daughter. But now I needed him to see me as a woman, as slight as I was. I would never have the full bosoms and hips of the ladies sketched out on the fashion plates from Paris, but I had a decent enough face, and sure what does it matter in the dark?

I twisted my long hair over my shoulder, wringing it dry. Johnny watched my every move, his gaze hot and piercing. I turned away, smothering a satisfied smile. For the past few months, I had one goal in mind. Seduction. There was no other word for what I intended, but it wasn’t carnal pleasure I wanted from the good lad. I knew such things possessed their own delights, but what I desired was a much greater prize.

“You’re bleeding.” He drew my thumb to his mouth and kissed it, his lips lingering on my skin. His eyes narrowed in a smoldering gaze, a mischievous grin tugging at his mouth.

Extricating a strand of slimy algae from my hair, I quirked an eyebrow at him and stifled a laugh. If I could stand there covered in pond scum, shivering like a wet dog with my hands smelling like fish, and Johnny Brighton still flashed me a look like that, perhaps I had very much over-thought this whole seduction business.

His tongue flickered against my wrist, and I opened my mouth to protest as a decent maiden should, but he clutched my palm with a firm grip, drawing me closer. The movement sent a shiver down my spine, and I glanced up at him through my eyelashes.

His laughing eyes filled with warmth, his irises almost translucent in the sun. All the sound escaped in the intensity of his gaze—the rushing river, the singing birds, the soaring wind through the leaves. I glanced around, making sure no one was watching us. For this to work, I couldn’t have Johnny’s father Lord Brighton hearing one ill word about me or anything we might do. And Lord help me if Da discovered us. He would lock me in a convent and throw away the key. I needed time. And I was patient.

“What are you doing, Johnny?” I whispered.

His fingers caressed the delicate skin inside my palm, his other hand resting on my hip. “Just playing.”

He bent his head down and placed a gentle kiss behind my ear. His tongue traced a soft line against the edge of my scalp, and I exposed my neck in response. Poor Johnny was never clever, but if I couldn’t have a smart husband, lord save us, at least he could be kind.

And rich.

Everyone knew Johnny’s father was a miser, making a fortune from the backs of the Irish men and women working the surrounding fields, racking their rents and forcing them into abject poverty. Those poor souls scraped out a subsistence living on the outskirts of the property, huddled in filthy huts. Children with their stomachs distended, their faces little more than skeletons.

But none of that crossed Johnny’s mind as he pulled me closer, his lips brushing against my bare shoulder. As Lady of Dunraven I knew I could seize hold of the Brighton’s wealth to bring it back to the people, ensure prosperity to all who lived on those craggy moors. It was what my mother always spoke of before she died. Before the uprising of 1798. “The year of the French,” we called it, but the French aid never quite manifested. We thought the uprising would change everything. But since that terrible year, conditions had only grown worse, and I knew I needed to do something. It was what she would have wanted. I believed that.

His hand dipped lower on my waist, and I gasped, my hips jerking toward him. I had studied libertines in novels, skimming over the swooning ladies cursing themselves for their fall into temptation. Such flights of fancy didn’t seem so terrible in that moment, what with his shoulder muscles wide and rippling beneath his soaked shirt, his abdomen tensing as I stepped nearer to him. I thought I might actually enjoy playing the part of the scoundrel, at least until I got what I wanted. Sure, I’d never heard of a lady scoundrel, but these were revolutionary times.

“’Tis a new game, Mary.”

“Is it?” I whispered, tilting my head in confusion.

Oh, but you know I understood the game perfectly well. Better than he did, I would fancy. I may have been a young woman of twenty, but when you grow up in the hills of rural Ireland and see enough sheep humping each other, you pretty much know the lay of it. But it wouldn’t do to appear too eager. I had to make Johnny believe this was all his idea.

“I don’t understand,” I teased, batting my eyelashes.

For a moment, I contemplated holding my breath until I passed out, but I had to maintain some modicum of control in order for my plan to work. I was in it for the long haul, you know.

Johnny pressed me against his body, and his chest flexed beneath my hand as I clutched the damp fabric of his linen shirt. His heart raced, and something hard pressed against my belly. With a firm hand, he brought me closer, our bodies rubbing against one another. The sunlight glinted on his hair, and he ran his hand up and down my waist, making me shiver from the whisper-thin caress of his fingers.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I whispered into his shoulder.

But I knew we should.

And we would.

His hands cupped my bottom and brought me to my tiptoes, his hardness pushing against my inner thigh. He arched his hips into mine and I emitted a low sound from the back of my throat, my body pressing against something that made my insides ache. Clutching his wet shirt, I met his rolling thrusts, throwing my head back to gaze up at him.

“Johnny …” I let out a small whimper, and it excited him, his breath emitting in thick pants. He bent down to kiss me, and his lips pressed firm against mine, his tongue darting between my teeth. My shoulders tensed at the strange sensation, the storm of desire deep in my belly retreating in a rush of barely disguised confusion.

Something wasn’t right.

I had always thought my first kiss would be a dramatic affair, with the earth moving beneath my feet and all that. But Johnny’s tongue was a fleshy, foreign weight in my mouth, and it took all my willpower not to push him away. The heat and desire coiling in my abdomen had turned to a block of frigid ice, and I swallowed the wave of nausea bubbling up in my throat.

He broke off the kiss and flashed me a wide smile. “I’ve wanted to do that for as long as I could remember, Mary.”

“Me, too,” I breathed, the lie tumbling out easy as anything.

I told myself I would learn to like it, learn to indulge his messy, fumbling kisses as bland as day-old porridge. Women had tolerated empty-headed, incompetent men for centuries. It could have been worse. When we were married and settled in Dunraven Castle and the heat of first romance cooled, he could seek out warmer beds and more willing women. That was how the gentry did things, so they said. I would fulfill my wifely duties, sure, but I didn’t fear a loveless marriage. I would be too busy running the estate and making improvements. Lord knew Johnny had no head for such things. Even his own father said so.

He let out a whooping laugh, the same one he used when his horse Firebrand took a leap over the hedge. And flashing a dazzling grin, he dove into the stream, bubbles swirling to the surface. For a moment I thought he had drowned, and a shot of panic bolted down my spine. With an explosive splash, he broke through the current, a wriggling trout dangling over his head.

“Score one against you, Mary,” he called to me.

So that was the start of it, and I knew what the villagers would say if they found out. Slut. Whore. But it didn’t matter to me a wit. I had my sights set on the greatest treasure of all—Castle Dunraven, the ancestral home of the O’Malleys, torn from our family by foreign invaders hundreds of years ago. To Johnny and his skinflint father, it was no more than a pile of rocks. But to me, it was the greatest mansion of heaven, and I knew if I ruled over it, I could make a difference to the lives of my people.

My father was steward to Lord Brighton, but all the locals knew the truth of it: that he and my Ma—God, rest her soul—ran guns during the uprising a few years back. Oh, of course, Da was the picture of obedience to Lord Brighton’s face, but one failed rebellion wouldn’t quell the flames of liberty in my heart. Not after what they took from us. Not after what they did to my mother.

But like I said, I could have done a lot worse than that sweet, sunny, Adonis of a man, Johnny Brighton. While the fire of passion eluded me when I lingered in his arms, I did like running my hands through his hair, laughing with him as we said good night beside the garden gate. We never spoke of it, the kiss in the stream, but after that day, his hands took liberties anytime he could get me alone.

Sometimes not.

One evening, Lord Brighton invited us to dine with a collection of local lords and dignitaries. They argued about politics and what the English were doing about Napoleon. Old Bonny and his tricks. Johnny nodded vigorously at his father’s words while his hand wandered up my skirts and across my thigh. I remained perfectly still, my heart thundering against my rib cage. A small bead of sweat crept down my neck, and my hands itched to wipe it away with the cloth napkin I wrung in my lap, twisting it tighter and tighter with every inch Johnny conquered across my exposed flesh. I contemplated swatting his hand away, but something about the secret game thrilled me, the sheer naughtiness of it making the inner walls of my sex clench.

“Now, my daughter has quite a few good plans for opening up a school for the peasants of Dunraven. Haven’t you, Mary?”

Blast. With my eyes hazy, my mind blurry from wine and whatever Johnny was doing under the tablecloth, I had neglected to notice the conversation had turned. Da’s eyes peered at me guilelessly from across the table, and I prayed no one would notice my flushed face in the dim candlelight. Johnny’s hand paused on my thigh, his fingers digging into my naked flesh. I flashed my best lady-like smile, feeling their masculine gazes on the warmth of my cheek, the swell of my breasts.

“Just a few ideas, nothing serious yet.” I added a small tittering giggle to hide a gasp as Johnny’s hand wandered closer to my core.

A few ideas, indeed. I had blueprints, curriculum, plans for a library, and a vocational annex for developing skills in trade.

“There’s danger in educating the Irish,” one man said. Lord Kellingsworth, I believe, his bulbous nose red and veiny. “You’ll have another rebellion on your hands.”

“But it’s precisely the lack of education and resources that caused such rebellions in the first place,” I argued, batting my eyelashes. Beneath the table, I spread my legs wider in a subtle invitation, and Johnny cupped my mound with a firm hand, as if he was excited by my scandalous talk. He never minded a revolutionary as long as it came with tits.

“That’s circuitous logic, my dear,” said some other pompous ass from the corner. Lord Shiteforbrainsville or something ridiculous.

“The Irish rise up because of their fiery natures,” he continued. “They need the English to quell their mercurial tendencies, give them civilization. Reason.”

Oh God, the heat from my rage and Johnny’s wandering hand almost sent me over the edge. I took a deep breath, steadying my body as I pulsed with an angry pleasure. “The Irish had civilization long before the English came. We were transcribing Plato while the English were still running around willy-nilly from the fall of the Roman Empire.” I swallowed a moan as Johnny’s hand rubbed against the small button on my mound, rolling it over and over until I thought I would scream. I flashed the table a wide-eyed innocent look and flung my shiny black curls over my shoulder. “Or maybe my recollection of history fails me?”

“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, my dear.” Oh, so much laughter from the big fat English barrister on his tour of the Irish countryside. All the men joining in and me throwing back my head in fake giggles to mask my body arching into Johnny’s fingers. I covered my mouth with my napkin to hide the twist of my lips and my shaking exhalations as his hand retreated from my core and traced lazy, maddening circles against my knee.

This was always the way with Johnny. He brought me to the edge of ecstasy, but I knew something else existed beyond that surge of desire, like a ship sailing on the horizon. Whatever games we played, it never felt like enough.

When the laughter died down, and my breathing returned to normal, I took a sip of wine. “Still,” I said over the rim of my glass, “a bit of education might do this country some good.”

With a single swift movement, Johnny removed his hand from beneath my skirts. Nodding vigorously, he rapped his knuckles, the same knuckles that had pressed into my private flesh, against the table. “Here, here,” he said.

“Oh, my dear,” Lord Kellingsworth said. “If it had been you instead of Wolfe Tone who had led the revolution of 1798, I daresay you may have enchanted us all into reform!”

I took another sip of wine, catching my father’s stare from across the table. He met my gaze and glanced down at his hands, no doubt thinking of Ma, of how she had spied for the Irish during the uprising. How she had inspired so many of our kin to take up arms and fight. He may have moved on, but I could not. I was little more than a child then, but as a woman now, I could find a way to keep the flame of rebellion burning.

And besides…seduction, sabotage, and usurping weren’t such bad business when it came to spending time with Johnny. He wasn’t one for rich conversation, but he made me laugh and I liked the feel of his arms around me as we lay in the high grass, watching big white clouds roll over us. I wanted that to be my future. Something soft and dimmed, like fading afternoon light. There was an order to it, a dull contentment that I could throw over my shoulders like a favorite shawl. And when his hand wandered beneath my skirts, seeking out my private spaces, I could almost pretend it was enough—those brief flashes of bliss. It was satisfying. Perfunctory. It would do, in other words. With Johnny by my side and Dunraven within my grasp, I thought that this was what peace must feel like, days and days as predictable as perfectly-lined blocks on a patchwork quilt.

Perhaps my moony eyes had betrayed me, though. Because while Da may not have known the long and short of it, the man was no fool.

“I see the way Johnny Brighton stares at ye,” he said the next day as we went to check on one of the sick villagers. “Sick” was merely another word for starving, and even though Da had complained multiple times to Lord Brighton about the living conditions of the cottagers, we would no doubt see another fever outbreak before the year was done, to be sure.

“Ye be careful with that one now,” he grumbled. “Don’t think for a minute the likes of him would condescend to marry the likes of ye. He’ll be having himself an heiress from America more likes than a poor steward’s daughter from Dunraven.”

But Da was wrong, and I knew Johnny would be mine. I was sure of it. It was all about slow seduction, like that book Pamela. She didn’t give it all at once, you know. It took work. Patience. But by the end of that summer, I had Johnny exactly where I wanted him.

I sat curled in his lap, letting him kiss me as his hand wandered up my skirt again. The leaves of the large oak tree shivering above us cast Johnny’s face in dappling shadows, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy. His other hand traveled down across my bodice, his thumb circling my nipple like a bird of prey, drawing closer and closer in tightening concentric circles. A part of me wanted to give in to the fire rising in my body, but I still had to fight not to turn away from Johnny’s mouth as he peppered my neck with kisses, that prevailing feeling of utter wrongness always haunting me in our most heated moments. My mind wandered to the architectural plans for new cottages on the edge of the property. We had to move those families out of those decrepit huts and that swampy, sandy land. Then if we drained that area, we could use it for wheat or perhaps even grazing lands. Wool was in high demand now with the new factories in Belfast, and we would be fools not to utilize some of the acreage for livestock.

My attention snapped back to focus as Johnny’s palm cupped my shoulder and shifted my body back against the cold grass. My eyes widened as I took in the sight of him fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, and I let out a high-pitched squeal and scrambled away, pushing down my skirts.

“What are you doing?”

Johnny pounded the ground, his fist clenched. “You know what I’m doing.”

I stood up, smoothing back my hair. I had anticipated this moment for months, but a flicker of terror suddenly shuddered through me. Was this the man I wanted for life? To have and to hold? In sickness and in health? A roar began in my head like a stampede of horses charging toward a cliff. For a brief second, the impulse to run tugged at my limbs. I didn’t fear lying with Johnny. Most women seemed to survive carnal relations well enough. I feared the day after. And the day after that. Once I gave myself to him, I could never return to the way things were.

“We’re just playing, Johnny. You know that.” My voice was so quiet against the sound of my heart thundering against my rib cage.

“That’s not playing, Mary!” Bolting to standing, he grabbed my arm and pulled me in for a kiss, his teeth nipping my bottom lip. His need stabbed at my hip, and I knew I had reached a crossroads. Either walk away, or continue this game. Winning the prize meant Dunraven and the chance to set things right again, with an O’Malley at the helm and a new life for the people living in these lonely, barren hills. Losing him meant…what? Marrying a cottager and pushing out babies one by one until I was too tired to fight, too exhausted to make a difference to anyone. No, it was Johnny or nothing. I could find a way to love him, make him happy. I knew I could.

I broke away from him and turned around, clutching my elbows. “I want to save myself.” I swallowed hard, looking back over my shoulder. “For my husband.”

Johnny took a deep breath and stared into the rolling hills beyond the glen. Dark clouds billowed overhead, heavy with rain. We would have to go in soon.

“Mary, you know it’s impossible for me to—”

“I know. I never expected you to—”

“But if I could, you know I—”

“Johnny, please!”

His eyes widened in alarm, and I placed a shuddering kiss against his lips.

“Let’s not speak any more of it. I know of your duties to your father, to Dunraven.”

He frowned, his crystal blue eyes clouding over. “That’s just it. The old bat won’t be around forever, and then I could be free to do what I want.”

I paused. “Are you asking me to wait for you?”

He began to pace the length of the stream, a slight bulge still evident in his pants. The die had been cast, and I let out a long exhale, giving myself fully to the next phase in my plan. And it was a good plan. Thrilling, even. But I also knew what happened to girls who gave it away to any tomcat with a stiff one. I had one asset to my name. You could judge all you wanted if you believe in fairy tales and true love and all that. Johnny was young, handsome, kind, and rich. He was Earl of Dunraven and far from letting his wrinkled old father diddle me, I would do anything to have my family lands back. There was something greater at stake here. Hundreds of years of tyranny and oppression, and all I had to do was bide my time. Such a little thing, really.

“I’m not asking you to wait, but…” He shook his head. He was so close now, his back to me, muscles rippling with tension through his shirt.

“What are you saying?”

He whirled around and cupped my face, pushing me back against the oak tree. He buried his hips into mine and kissed me hard. “Marry me.”

“But you just said—”

His eyes shone with fever and he hardened again against my belly. “Marry me. In secret.”

Good enough.

My skin tingled, and I had to strain to suppress the giddy laughter bubbling up my throat. Even if we couldn’t tell the world, Johnny would be legally obligated to fulfill his promises to me. I would be Lady of Dunraven and the land would be mine.

Forcing my shoulders to slump and pasting a somber look on my face, I stared down at the ground, studying the carpet of autumn leaves beneath my feet. “Johnny, that’s ridiculous. It will never work.”

“My father has a year. Two at most. I’ve heard what the doctors have said.” He brushed his thumbs against my cheekbones, pleading. “Please, Mary. I want you as my wife. No other woman will ever do for me.” His eyes darted to the ground and then back up to meet my gaze. “I love you.”

I smiled and threw my arms around his neck, relief and victory flooding through my veins. “I love you, too,” I whispered.

And I love Dunraven. More than you could ever imagine.

Chapter Two

I didn’t see Johnny for another week, until he passed me in the village and slipped a small note into my hands. He bowed, giving me a subtle wink before throwing his strong legs over his horse and galloping away.

As soon as I passed through the prying eyes of the village, I unfolded the paper.

Meet me at the stream. Midnight.

I smiled, crumbling the note in my hands and tearing it to bits. My heart fluttered in my chest, and I smiled up to the blank blue sky above. Johnny had somehow found a priest to marry us, and by midnight that night I would be the future Lady of Dunraven.

Later in the evening, I put on my best dress and fastened a dark hooded cloak around my neck. Careful not to fall and break my back climbing the trellis, I hit the ground running and bolted out of the gate into the black hills surrounding our cottage. I found Johnny standing by the stream, the lantern in his hand illuminating his face. Panting for breath, I looked around, searching in the shadows for a priest.

“Why have you called me here?” My voice sounded small in the darkness.

He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I must leave Dunraven tomorrow.”

I shrank back, my heart pounding. “Leave? But why?”

“I’m going to fight for England.”

I blinked hard, ice water racing through my veins. I pressed my hand against a tree, my nails tearing into the rough bark. War meant fighting, and fighting meant almost certain death. And death meant…Dunraven would be lost to me forever.

“What does England have anything to do with you?” I rasped. “You never set foot in that blasted country!”

He put down the lantern in the grass and brushed against me, his hand grasping my shoulder. “I may have grown up in Ireland, but I am English, Mary. Lord Andrews’s son is going to fight, and I’m going with him.”

I wrenched away, pacing along the stream, fists clenched. I had never met Lord Andrews, but everyone knew he was a rake and a cad. He no doubt joined up for some bloody foolish romantic reason, and now he was pulling Johnny into this whole ridiculous affair.

I whirled around, seeking out his fingers and wrapping them in mine. “This isn’t your war.”

He raised his palms in the air. “But it is. I must go. I won’t have men think I’m a coward.”

“No one ever said you were. But I didn’t exactly take you for a fool, either.”

Not quite.

Johnny shook his head. “All the men in the neighborhood are leaving to fight. I must fulfill my duty to my country and kin.”

“Is this what it’s about? Proving your manhood?” My other hand danced on the seam of his trousers.

“My mind is made up.” He let out a deep, shuddering breath.

I dropped my hand. “But what about us? What about the promises you made?”

He tried to envelop me in his arms, but I sidled out of the way, a knot twisting in my stomach. None of this was going according to my plan.

He growled low in his throat. “When I return—”

“If you return! You’re likely to have a cannonball take off your head.”

“When I return,” he began again in a low voice, “we’ll marry. I swear it.”

“We were supposed to marry now!” I bit my lip, my voice harsh in my ears. Closing my eyes, I thought of Castle Dunraven, imagining myself mistress to the stone halls, the true manager of the lands and estate behind Johnny. This stupid war had thrown a wrench into my plans, but all wasn’t lost. I needed to make the best of things, and that meant making sure no matter what happened to Johnny, I would have Dunraven for my own.

I opened my eyes and placed my hand on his cheek, moving my thumb back and forth against his temple. Forcing a sympathetic smile, I made a low sound in my throat. “I’m sorry. You are so brave. Of course you must go.”

His lips brushed my fingertips, his long eyelashes creating dark shadows down his face. “I’ve brought you something.”

He reached into his pocket and kneeled down on one knee, clasping my hand in his. “I cannot give you a fine ceremony, not right now. But I can give you this.” He pulled out a ruby ring, the stone glinting blood red in the moonlight.

“Oh, Johnny,” I whispered.

“It has been passed down in my family for generations,” he said. “I want you to have it.”

In spite of the beauty of the ring, and in spite of the fact that it undoubtedly belonged to my Irish great-great-grandmother, I pushed his hand away. “You know I can’t accept it.”

He shook his head and, producing a long, thin chain, he ran the ring through it. Rising, he walked behind me, sweeping my hair from my neck before closing the delicate clasp. The ring fell, cold between my breasts, hidden away inside my bodice. “I want you to wear it until I return. Will you wait for me, Mary?”

I turned to face him, his strong hands spreading wide across my back. “Of course I will.”

He pulled me close against his body and planted a hot kiss on my mouth, his tongue darting wild between my teeth. A new plan formed in my mind, but it was risky and meant putting down the last chip I had on the table. I broke the kiss, gasping for air, my fingers curling tight against his cloak as he traced fierce kisses down the length of my neck and across my chest.

“Mary.” His voice sounded hoarse, and he swallowed hard as he ran his hand down the length of my waist. “Tell me you’ll be mine. I can’t leave you. Not without... Not without…”

He kissed me again, and I closed my eyes, my chest rising and falling with each pant of breath. Johnny was an honorable man. A bit dim, but honorable. If I gave myself to him fully, I might risk losing him and Dunraven forever. But if he was the man I knew him to be, he would never jilt a woman, not when she wore his grandmother’s ring. And if there was a child, I might even have a better chance at beholding him to his promise. It was not what I wanted, but with him leaving for war, it might be the best chance I had.

“Johnny,” I whispered. “I’ll need something in writing. Something that—”

“I’ve written a will!” A wide grin spread across his face, as if he were the cleverest man in all of Ireland. “A secret will. If something were to happen to me, it’s in a small box beneath the floorboards under my bed. I’ll take care of you, Mary. Everything I have is yours.” His hand pressed against the fold of my skirts. “I’ll always take care of you.”

My throat tightened, my skin tingling with the finality of his promise.

“Do you swear it?” I whispered.

He gripped my shoulders and stared down at me. “I swear it on my life.”

I threw my arms around his neck, kissing him hard. Undoing my cloak, Johnny let it pool to the ground in black folds of fabric. He grabbed my laces and undid them slowly, his fingers moving through the thin cords until they dangled behind me, my dress falling slack. With one firm tug, the fabric fell away, and I shivered in my shift, the cold autumn air cutting through the linen. I gasped as he pulled my hips against his, his cock hardening as he cupped my breasts.

“I want to touch every inch of your body tonight,” he whispered, peppering small kisses on my shoulders, his teeth nipping at the small muscles in my neck, releasing the tension of the previous week. “I want something of you to take with me.”

I grew slack in his arms, giving myself to the waves of heat pulsing through my body. I would be Johnny’s wife and one day I would be Lady Brighton. The very thought of it filled me with aching desire, and as Johnny’s hand inched up my thigh, I gasped with anticipation, my naked skin prickling. His hand slid down my bottom, pushing me against his length. I stood on my tiptoes, my thighs parting for him.

“Oh, Mary. You’re so beautiful.” With his other hand, he massaged my nipple until it grew hard, my breast swelling in his palm. I threw my head back, pushing them up into his grasp, and he bent down and sucked hard on the pink bead, the pressure forcing a small cry from my lips.

My hands scrambled for his shirt, threading my fingers through the crisp fabric and throwing it over his head. His chest rippled as I ran my fingers across his hard muscles, his abdomen contracting as my hand drifted down the trail of golden hair.

He cupped my face in his palm. “I’ve heard it hurts for girls, Mary. The first time.”

I kissed his ear, my tongue darting against his lobe and then up. “I’m not afraid, Johnny. My body belongs to you now.”

But the truth of it? I was terrified. With Johnny half naked before me, panting and shaking with a possessive desire, a loud buzzing sounded in my ears, and I clutched at my temple, willing it to disappear. I needed to think of something else. The flagstones in the great hall of Dunraven. The giant oaks that circled the property. Bloody wheat prices. Anything. But the chorus of peepers, the cascade of water in the stream, the swaying branches filled my head and overwhelmed me, and before I knew it, I lay naked on my cloak with Johnny’s body over mine. His cock pressed against my hip and then it slipped between my thighs. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, preparing myself for the inevitable. It seemed impossible that something so large could fit into something so small, but I had to have him. I couldn’t go back now if I tried.

Johnny’s heart thundered in his chest, pounding against mine, his breath stilted and shuddering against my neck. He brushed my sweaty curls away from my forehead and stared into my eyes for a moment. “Are you ready, Mary?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

Johnny paused and kissed me again, spreading my thighs wider. He positioned himself firm against my folds, the tip of his cock teasing the delicate flesh of my swollen opening. He pushed inside, and the pressure and pain snapped me out of my haze. My teeth dug into my lip, but I refused to cry out, refused to stop. We needed to become one. Dunraven would be mine.

“Do you want me to stop?” Johnny’s voice rasped in my ear, the tension in his body mounting. He held back, his desire like a building inferno in his hips, ready to explode. I dug my nails into his skin and braced myself.

“Do it,” I whispered. “Do it hard. All at once.”

Before I’d even finished my sentence Johnny thrust into me with all his masculine power. I bit into his shoulder, the pain radiating through me, my abdomen contracting in spasms of white hot fire. I kissed my teeth marks on his flesh, and he groaned, still for a moment, allowing the wave to pass.

“Oh, Mary, Mary…” He thrust again, this time even deeper and the pain regressed and turned to a dull ache as he rolled into me, again and again.

So that was what all the fuss was about. No longer a virgin, I didn’t feel any different, but I couldn’t help but feel I should have somehow. Everything I had done that summer had led up to this moment, but it had turned out to be quite a dull affair. Johnny’s body was a furnace, writhing and trembling with each exhalation. Letting out a long sigh, I tilted my face up to the night sky, the breath of the midnight chill off the river soothing and transporting me into a future as secure and predictable as the turn of the stars above us.

“I’ve dreamed of this, Mary,” Johnny whispered as he thrust hard into me again. He braced his strong arm above my shoulder, caging me in. “And now you’re mine.” He pushed deep. “Mine.” And deeper again, pumping his essence into me with a long, masculine groan. My body fractured, wet and open, receiving him. That was all a woman had to do, in the end. Be a vessel for men’s pleasure. For their heirs. It was a transaction like any other.

They always said my mother and father had a great love, but you don’t know about such things as children. One thing I did know. Love will leave you shattered, hollow you out and destroy you. The tiny town of Dunraven already had one broken O’Malley in their midst, and I refused to add another to their ranks. I would survive and win, and I didn’t need love to do that.

Breathing hard, Johnny flashed me a wide smile and kissed me deep on the lips. “I cannot wait until we can do that beneath the roof of Dunraven.”

“Neither can I,” I said, kissing him again and snuggling deep into his chest. “Promise me you won’t forget about me.”

He clutched me tight against him. “I won’t.”

That was the first lie he ever told me.

Chapter Three

Johnny left early the next morning along with Lord Andrews, and the whole town buzzed with the news. I wandered the rain-soaked streets, Johnny’s ring cold against my skin, and hushed whispers surrounded me as the rain pelted down on my head. How can the little lord do such a thing? What does Lord Brighton have to say about it? As I passed by, the villagers averted their eyes, and a sinking pit of regret settled into my belly. People were talking. About us. About the girl he left behind. Gritting my teeth, I hurried home, clutching my basket close against my chest.

Father sat in the kitchen, going over a pile of documents from the estate, and he looked up when I rushed through the door. “Have you heard the news about Johnny Brighton? His lordship is enraged. Ran off to fight in the Royal Navy?” Da shook his head. “How could the lad be such a fool?”

I threw my basket down on the counter with too much force, and a bag of onions tumbled to the floor. I cursed beneath my breath and scrambled to pick them up, my hands shaking.

Da rested a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t ye worry about him, Mary.”

I whirled around. “I’m not,” I said, a bit too shrilly.

But I was worried for him, but more so for what would happen to Dunraven if that fool Johnny found himself at the bottom of the sea with a cannonball in his belly. All my plans, everything I had worked for, would be lost.

He studied me with his clear green eyes and nodded slowly. “It’s time ye were wed, Mary. Ye need someone to look out for ye.”

I turned to leave the room. “I don’t need anyone to look out for me.”

“What about Jacob Connelly? He’s a good-looking lad.”

“The pig farmer? And smell like offal and bog water for the rest of my life?” I reached out to lean against the doorjamb, dizziness washing over me. “You must be mad.”

“Ye set your sights too high, Mary.” Da wagged his finger at me. “Ye watch yeself. Ye’ll end up an old spinster if ye’re not careful.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” I snapped, darting out of the room. I dug into my bodice and clutched the ruby ring dangling from my neck, my fingers worrying the stone over and over again like a rosary. Johnny would come back. He had to come back.

But weeks passed, and he did not.

…

Da let out a slight groan as he settled into his chair. “So tell me about your operation there, Jacob. Ye and your father seemed to have settled into a nice situation.”

Father had invited Jacob Connelly to tea, and the large farmer sat on the small settee, its spindly legs creaking beneath his weight. He did cut a nice figure with his dark reddish hair brushed back and his long muscled legs, but I would never forget the way he’d teased me as a child. He once threw my kitten down an old well, and it mewled for days, until Johnny finally came along and rescued it. The memory of its cries haunted me as I poured tea into Jacob’s tiny cup, dwarfed by his large, working man’s hands.

“It’s a right fair situation, sir, with near a hundred hogs planned for next year.”

“Yer father also told me ye built a new cottage for yerself,” Da said.

“Aye, sir.” Jacob nodded enthusiastically, glancing at my chest as I offered him another biscuit. “’Tis a fine little place out by the orchard. But ’tis a little lonely.”

“So ye looking to remedy that, I’m sure. A fine lad such as yerself should have no problem.” Da winked, and Jacob chuckled, his eyes flitting toward me.

I sat there, impassive, sipping my tea. Woe betides the young woman who would have to fulfill that position.

Da stood up abruptly. “Oh, I just remembered, I have some business with the blacksmith. I need to run off for a moment. Ye don’t mind, do ye, Jacob? Would give ye and Mary some time to catch up.”

A wave of panic rushed through my body, my chest tightening. “Perhaps we should walk over with you?” I said in a thin voice. “It’s a lovely day, and I would appreciate the exercise.”

“Nonsense, Mary. Ye just started tea. Enjoy ye selves. I’ll be back in about an hour, for sure.”

He made for the door, and I grabbed his hat, meeting him at the threshold. “Please,” I mouthed the words so Jacob couldn’t hear me. “Stay.”

Da ignored me and called over my shoulder. “Give my best to ye Ma.”

“Aye,” Jacob said as he chomped down on another biscuit, crumbs falling onto his shirt.

Taking a deep breath, I whirled to face him. “It’s been a long time, Jacob. Are you still drowning kittens in wells?”

Jacob slumped in his seat, his smile fading from his face. “That was years ago, Mary. I did it on a dare, ye know. For a lark.”

“On a dare? You’re so weak-willed, you would try to kill an innocent creature to what? Prove how tough you are?”

“No, it wasn’t that.” Jacob squirmed in his seat, a small thread of sweat beading on his upper lip. “It’s just ye were so above us all. I wanted—that is, the boys wanted—och, I can’t explain it.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Please, do. I’m afraid I’m failing to understand.”

“Ye’ve always thought ye was better than us! Ye with ye book learning and ye pretty manners. Maybe we just wanted to take you down a bit. Ye’ve always had high expectations, Mary.”

“Why?” I threw my shoulders back. “Because I want to be more than a pig farmer?”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone knows how ye carry on with Lord Johnny. How ye mooned after him. What do ye think he would ever want with the likes of ye? Yer Irish just like me. Ye should be having an Irish husband.” He slammed his fist against his chest.

“You mean you?” I scoffed. “I think I would rather lie with one of your pigs than share your bed, Jacob Connelly.”

He stood up, his eyes narrowing. “I’d love to watch you rolling naked in the mud, Mary. When ye’re my wife, I’ll make sure of it.”

I took a step back. “I’ll never be your wife. You disgust me.”

“It’s all been arranged. Yer father has agreed.” Jacob crept closer, closing in on me until my back pressed against the wall. Caging me in with his massive arms, he stared down at me with a dark grin, his breath hot on my cheek. “We’ll be married next Sunday.”

Anger boiled in my chest, and I shook my head. “I’ll never marry you.”

Jacob’s rough hand snapped up to my face, and he grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my flesh.

“I don’t know what happened between ye and that little lordling, but I’ll be sure to fuck the memory of him right out of ye, ye little slut.”

“Get out of my house,” I hissed, wrenching my chin away.

He backed up, pausing at the deadly look in my eyes.

“Get out!” I screamed.

Jacob made for the door, a smug smile on his face. “I’ll see ye next Sunday, Mary. Wear white. That is, if you can.”

He slammed the door behind him, and I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my bruised face, blinking back a flood of tears.

When Da finally returned an hour later, he found me sitting on the settee, my hands shaking. “You can’t be serious,” I hissed. “I won’t marry that brute!”

With his hat in hands, he approached me, eyes wide. “Mary, listen—”

“No, there’s nothing left for you to say. You can’t force me to wed Jacob Connelly! I won’t have him.”

My father’s eyes sparked with rage. Always a gentle man, his anger could be formidable if triggered. “You will have him. I’ve let you go wild for far too long. People are talking, Mary. About ye and Johnny Brighton. I won’t have my daughter be the fodder for idle gossipers. It’s time ye were properly wed. Yer twenty now. It’s time.”

“Da, please!”

“It’s done! I’ve drawn up the papers and everything.”

I stood up, pacing the room, trying to muster up the courage to tell him what happened. I couldn’t hide it from him anymore.

“You will marry him,” Da insisted.

“I can’t.” I choked back a sob, leveling my shoulders.

“What do ye mean ye can’t?” His voice dropped to his deepest register and his clear eyes spit fire.

“I can’t, Da.” I swallowed hard, the words like gravel in my throat. “Johnny and I, we…” My voice trailed off, my father’s sturdy figure growing blurry through my tears.

“Out with it, Mary!”

“Johnny proposed to me, and I accepted him.”

“What?” His face blanched, his fingers trembling.

“He gave me his ring.” I slipped it out beneath my dress and held it up to the light. “I wanted to tell you, but we were to wait until he returned, to make it proper-like. He wrote out a will and everything before he left. It’s under the floorboards beneath his bed. I swear it, Da.”

He staggered backward, catching himself on the back of a chair. “Mary, how could ye do such a thing?”

I raced over to him and took his hand, clutching it tight. “I did it for Dunraven, Da. And for Ma. I wanted to take it back. I may bear the Brighton name, but I’m an O’Malley through and through. O’Malley blood will run through the blood of my sons.”

His ears pricked up. “Are ye with child now?”

“No, Da.” My hand drifted instinctively to my belly, but my flux had come last week.

He shook his head, letting out a long exhale, his brow furrowed. “Mary, the rebellion is over. Marrying Johnny Brighton won’t bring your mother back.”

My mouth gaped open, and I clenched my fists. “You think I don’t know that? Marrying Johnny won’t change anything, but it might make a difference for those poor cottagers over the ridge. It might change something for the children of the village who won’t have to hide under hedges to learn their sums and letters. You know firsthand how Lord Brighton mismanages the estate. We could return Dunraven to her former glory. It’s within our grasp, Da.”

He collapsed into the chair, folding his head in his hands. I had no way to measure his response, so I waited, staring dumbly at the bald spot on the top of his head. He was an old man now, beaten down from working so hard for Lord Brighton. What would it have meant for him to move into the castle of our ancestors? Live out the rest of his days beneath his roof? I had to make this right somehow.

He raised his head, and tears glimmered in his eyes. “Mary, how could ye lie to me like this?”

I threw myself to the ground before his knees and grabbed his hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s deceitful, and I’ve always been a good girl. It’s just that Lord Brighton—”

“We need to tell him right away.”

“You mean, you’ll accept us?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t have much of a choice now, do I? I have no idea what the old Lord will say, but what’s done is done. We’ll have to make the best of it.”

Arching an eyebrow at me, he ran his hand over my hair. “Do ye love him, Mary?”

“You didn’t seem so concerned whether or not I loved Jacob Connelly,” I snapped.

He frowned, a bright-blue vein threatening to burst on his narrow forehead.

Letting out a long, measured breath, I raised my hands in repentance. “Johnny is a good man, and I enjoy his company very much. But I love Dunraven, Da. I love the O’Malleys. And I love you.”

He flashed me a sad smile and stood up to retrieve his hat. “Ye should tidy yerself up then. We should get this over with.”

“Today?”

“Better today than not at all. Ye better brace yeself for Lord Brighton’s wrath. But if there’s a will and statement of intent to marry ye, legally it will have to do. I won’t have my only daughter jilted by some spoiled upstart.”

The maid showed us in to Lord Brighton’s study. Night had already fallen in the thick woods around the castle, the cold wind howling and shaking the windowpanes with a constant drumming. Dunraven always felt more like a fairy castle than an actual place, and even as I stood before the crackling fire framed by the ancient carved mantel, the cold stone walls could never compare to the palace in my mind. Dunraven was more to me than a heap of rocks on a hill; it was my birthright.

When Lord Brighton walked in, my father spilled the details in his calm, even voice. The whole time Brighton sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, elbows planted on the arms of his oversize leather chair.

“So ye see, milord,” Da continued, “as Mary is now Lord Johnny’s fiancée, arrangements must be made with recognizing her legally within the family fold.”

Lord Brighton said nothing but grabbed a sheet of paper from a drawer and scribbled a quick note. Flashing me a sharp glare, he rang a bell on the edge of the desk, and a footman darted into the room. Lord Brighton slipped the letter to him with whispered instructions, and the servant fled without another look.

Brighton walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“Lord Brighton?” Da said, his brow furrowed.

The Lord turned abruptly. “I suppose we should see about those papers. The floorboard beneath his bed? Is that correct, Miss O’Malley?”

“Aye, sir,” I said as demurely as possible. It was the first time he had addressed me directly.

Lord Brighton pulled a chain, and Brian, another footman, breezed into the room with a bow. Grabbing his cane, Brian helped him stand and the old man rattled out of the room. Da and I followed close behind.

“Would you do the honors, Patrick?” He gestured to the bed. “If you and your scheming daughter are to bamboozle our family out of our fortune, you might as well bend down and seek out these mysterious papers.”

Da muttered something about the “scheming daughter” remark, then crouched and felt around beneath the bed for a loose floorboard. He pushed the heavy oak frame aside with his sturdy shoulder, and the bed shifted sideways. Locking his fingers beneath the board, he pried it loose. I leaned down to look, and a wave of relief passed through me. A small wooden box lay in the dusty hidey-hole.

Da pushed away the threads of cobwebs and grasped it with both hands, gingerly handing it to Lord Brighton. He lifted the lid, throwing it back.

A horrible sneer spread across his face, and the old man peered up at us. “Is this some sort of joke?”

My skin prickled at the sound of his icy voice. “Milord?”

He flashed the inside of the box to us.

It was empty.

Chapter Four

My mouth gaped open, my heart pounding. “But he said the papers were there. He told me!”

Lord Brighton made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and turned toward the door.

My fingers clasped around the delicate chain around my neck, and I held it up, Johnny’s ruby ring glittering in the candlelight. “Take a good look!” I shouted. “Johnny gave this to me. He promised himself to me.”

Lord Brighton narrowed his eyes and clattered forward with his cane. He placed the ring in his palm and studied it. His hand snapped shut and with one painful yank, the chain broke and he shook his fist.

“You whoring thief,” he hissed. “Where did you get this?”

“I told you! Johnny—”

He waved to his servant. “Take her to the cellar, Brian.”

I started forward, but the footman grabbed my wrists and pulled me out of the room as I screamed. “I’m not a thief! Johnny is my fiancé!”

“Lock her up!” Lord Brighton called after us. “We’ll wait for the constable to determine her fate. You’ll hang for this, you little bitch.”

“Mary!” my father cried in a broken voice. “Mary!”

Brian dragged me down the stairs, deep into the bowels of the castle, and threw me into a root cellar. He slammed the door shut, and with a jangle of keys, locked it behind him.

“Let me out of here!” I screamed, kicking the door and shoving my shoulder against it. After a while, my voice grew hoarse and I curled up in the pitch darkness and closed my eyes, fighting back tears of rage.

…

A large hand shook me awake. “Wake up, Mary.”

Jacob’s face came into focus, and I shrank back.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Jacob crouched down, and he shook his head. “Oh, Mary. What have ye done, lass?”

I glared at him. “Nothing. I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”

“Oh yeah, ye have. Old Lord Brighton’s had a shock. A weak heart that one. He’s not going to last the night.”

Ice water flooded my veins. “You mean he’s dying?”

“Aye. They’re saying ye’ll be tried for murder.”

“That’s nonsense!” I cried. “I’m not to blame for Lord Brighton’s poor health!”

“Maybe, but ye’re still going to hang for what ye done.”

“I’ve done nothing but follow my heart, Jacob Connelly.”

“Follow your whorish appetites, more like.”

I turned away, burying my face into the wall. “Go away if all you’re going to do is insult me.”

“Oh, I’d like to do more than that to ye, Mary. As it stands, I believe ye’re engaged to Johnny Brighton.”

“You do?”

“Aye.” Jacob flashed me a sickening smile. “His servant Brian is a great friend of mine.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “So what of it?”

Jacob shrugged. “Johnny always did have a big mouth. Can’t keep a secret for nothing. He was a fool to trust one of us. He told Brian all about you.” He brushed his lips against my ear. “Told him all about how wet ye get, how you moan when ye come.”

I shoved him away. “Shut up! You’re bloody disgusting.”

Jacob shrugged. “Johnny told Brian where he hid the papers. Ye know, in case something happened to him.”

My hands trembled, and I clenched them tight in my skirts. “Get to the point.”

He stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “I took those papers.”

All the air escaped from my lungs, my throat tightening. “You bastard!”

He smiled. “Figured they might come in handy at some point.”

I slinked away, my chest tightening. “What do you want, Jacob?”

He snatched my hand, pulling me to standing before I could protest. I swallowed a lump of bile in my throat at the stench of manure on his shirtsleeves and stale beer on his breath.

“I think ye know what I want, Mary.”

“And if I give it to you, will you tell me where you hid the papers?” I forced my eyes to stay upright, but I had noted Jacob’s knife strapped to the side of his waist.

His mouth widened in a sickening grimace.

Swallowing my pride, I took hold of Jacob’s shirt. “I’ll do what you want. Just tell me where the papers are.”

“Oh, I’ll tell ye, Mary. But ye’ll need to please me first. Please me like ye did yer little lordling.”

My teeth ground in my skull, but I took a deep breath, trying to maintain my focus. My hands itched for his knife, but I had to wait for the right moment.

“What do you want?” I said in a low voice, my hand relaxing in his.

“Ye show me, Mary. Show me what ye did with Johnny.”

I crushed my lips against his, smothering the revulsion bubbling up in my throat. Kissing Jacob was like kissing a swine, the bristle on his chin scratching my face. My heart raced, blood thundering in my ears as I slipped his knife from his holster. Like candy from an overgrown baby.

I broke off the kiss. “Take off your trousers, Jacob,” I said in a husky voice, my hand tightening around the knife.

“Mmmm…are you ready for me, Mary?”

“Yes,” I whispered, slipping the knife up close to his shoulder.

Jacob made a low grunting sound, and his fat fingers scrambled to undo the buttons on his trousers before they pooled to the floor. He glanced down to kick them away.

With a raging scream, I slammed the knife hard into his shoulder. Once. Twice.

“Ahhhhh!” He let out a high-pitched squeal.

“Shut up!” Hot blood spurted across my hands, and with a sharp movement, I kicked him in the balls. He staggered to the floor, wheezing and grabbing at his crotch. Jacob fell to his knees with a shuddering groan, his face turning white, his hand trying to hold back the gushing wound. I raked my fingers through his hair and brought the knife sharp against his neck.

“Tell me where the papers are!”

“I don’t have them!” he cried.

I pressed the knife in deeper, the metal stabbing into his flesh with a satisfying sensation that sent bolts of lightning up my arm.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I burned them!”

With a savage shove, I threw Jacob to the floor. Blood thundered in my ears, the walls of the root cellar caving in on me. All the proof of Johnny’s betrothal lost because of this boorish, jealous oaf. I thrust forward, the knife cool in my hand, ready to strike.

Jacob cowered in the corner, his hand raised. “No, Mary! Mary, don’t kill me!”

At the last moment, I grasped onto a shelf filled with ancient jars and pulled it on top of him. They shattered over his head, and he screamed, the glass cutting into his flesh as he writhed beneath the heavy shelf. Better than what he deserved. With one flying leap over his moaning body, I jumped over him and raced out the door, the cool night air hitting my hot cheeks like a flood of ice water.

I stole for the stables, and the horses nickered and whinnied as I passed through the barn and grabbed reins and a bridle from the tack room. The smell of hay made me cough, and I squinted in the darkness in search of Johnny’s horse, Firebrand. The white diamond on the beast’s forehead was like a beacon in the night, and I made low shushing sounds as he bucked and grunted in its stall. He smelled Jacob’s blood on my hands, and the beast rolled his eyes, refusing to budge as I tried to bridle him. But with one firm cluck of my tongue, he settled, nostrils flaring and shaking his mane to the side before lowering his head. Clutching his reins with my slippery palms, I led him out of the stable before mounting him, squeezing my thighs tight around his glistening torso.

“Go, Firebrand!” I cried out, leaning forward.

Shouts rang out from the castle, but Firebrand was well-trained and longing for a good jaunt since Johnny had left. The wind whipped through my hair, and lightning flashed on the horizon, slick rain pelting sharp against my face. I glanced back only once, the lights of Dunraven growing smaller until they disappeared into darkness.

Chapter Five

Weeks later, I stood in the middle of a courtyard, my eyes squinting against the dazzling sunlight shimmering off the rooftop of the garrison in Gibraltar. Commanders shouted out orders, sailors scrambled across the dusty stones, and all along the docks, strongmen hoisted crates up into the holds while others rolled cannon after cannon up the planks.

I had sold Johnny’s horse in exchange for a miserable passage on a merchant ship, living off salt pork and moldy biscuits for the past week. My feet ached on the burning cobblestones, and my stomach rumbled, my throat dry as sand. I stood alone, sweaty and dusty in nothing but the dress I wore when I fled Dunraven, my purse almost empty.

Wanted for theft and murder, I had no choice but to follow Johnny to this ramshackle place on the edge of the continent. But now, with a sea of strange faces swirling around me, a sinking weight filled my chest. If I didn’t find him, I had no way home, no way to even buy my next meal. He had to be here. There was nothing else to do for it.

A hard shoulder dug into my back, and I stumbled forward.

“Excuse me, Miss.” Hands gripped my elbow, straightening me.

I whirled to face a tall man with sandy-blond hair framing his narrow face.

“’Tis quite all right,” I said beneath my breath. I bowed and made to move on, in search of Johnny, but the stranger’s hand lingered on my elbow.

He smiled down at me, his teeth too small for his wide mouth. “Please, Miss. The garrison is no place for a lady. Is there something I could assist you with? Are you lost?”

I swallowed hard, a blush creeping up my neck as sailors paused to stare at us, jeering to each other as they walked past. Shaking off their ogling glances, I straightened my shoulders and raised them higher. “I am not lost, sir. I am looking for”—I hesitated over the word for a moment—“my fiancé. Lieutenant Brighton. The regiment in Belfast said he would be here. Would you know where I could find him?”

The man smiled wider and nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do know where you could find Lieutenant Brighton. Would you follow me?” He extended his arm, and I locked my hand over his. A wave of relief passed through me, and I grinned back at him.

“Is this your first time in Gibraltar?” he asked.

I nodded. “There has been some trouble at home, and I had to come to him immediately. Do you know Lord Brighton very well?”

“Of course I know Johnny.” His eyes glittered, and I shrank away at the dark shadow passing over his face. He chuckled beneath his breath, and it sent a shiver of caution up my spine. He must have noticed, because his hand brushed against my arm, and he flashed me a wide, reassuring smile.

“We served together on the Artemis.” He clutched at his heart. “He is a dear friend of mine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I gave him a thin smile, but my stomach churned, warning bells sounding in my head. I pushed them down, my desire to see Johnny giving over to everything else.

“He should be right through here.” The man gestured to a side door, and he held it open, its hinges creaking. “Please. Ladies first.”

Darkness lay on the other side of the door, and I peered inside. “Johnny is in there?”

The man nodded, his eyes narrowing. “That is what I said.”

I cleared my throat. “Perhaps you could ask him to come out here to speak to me.”

Something felt very wrong about this lanky man in his ill-fitting officer coat, and my skin prickled as he took hold of my hand with a firm grip. I pulled away, taking a step back, but he grasped me tighter.

“I am afraid that is not possible, Miss,” he replied. “You must come with me now.”

I wrenched my hand away. “No, thank you. Please go in and ask for his presence. I shall wait for him.”

The man’s gaze swept behind me. “It is not proper for you to remain unattended out here.”

“Nor do I believe ’tis proper for me to walk into a pitch-black room with a man I don’t know,” I replied, retreating back a step. “Go see to Lieutenant Brighton. Now.”

The man raised his eyebrows, and with one quick movement, he snatched hold of my elbow. “Now, you see here—”

“Let me go,” I argued, twisting away.

“What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant Andrews?” A voice thundered behind me.

My attacker, presumably Lieutenant Andrews, dropped my elbow like a hot frying pan. A wave of recognition passed through me, and I stared up at him. Andrews. Of course. That rake who convinced Johnny to go off to war with him. Rage boiled up in my belly, and I clenched my fists, my only desire to see him swinging from the gallows, ravens poking at his empty eye sockets.

“Captain Grant!” Andrews squeaked as he straightened his pose and saluted.

I turned and squinted in the sun. The Captain’s features were cloaked in darkness, his broad shoulders and towering figure casting a shadow over me.

“This man accosted me.” I darted away from Andrews, straightening my skirts.

Andrews snorted, pointing his weasel finger at me. “This whore is claiming to be Lieutenant Brighton’s fiancée.”

“I am his fiancée!” I spat.

“I don’t care who she is,” Captain Grant roared. “The midshipman has been looking for you for half an hour. Get yourself to the Elizabeth immediately.”

Lieutenant Andrews bowed and scrambled away, and the Captain disappeared back into the throng of sailors.

“Captain Grant!” I dogged his heels, pushing sweaty strands of hair back from my face. “That Lieutenant attacked me. Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

The Captain continued through the chaos of the docks, and I weaved in and out of the mob of sailors and their leering stares in pursuit of him.

“Captain Grant!” Panting and sweating from the midday sun, I slid in behind him, calling over his shoulder while he conversed with a rough-looking man holding a thick ledger. “I said that Lieutenant attacked me!”

I might as well have been a mosquito buzzing in his ear with all the attention he paid me. My breath hitched in my throat, tears threatening to press against my eyelids.

“I’m looking for Lieutenant Brighton.” I dug my fingers into his arm and whirled him around to face me. “My fiancé. Please!”

He turned, and a pair of sapphire eyes burned through heavy eyelashes, a deep frown line cutting across his brow. I swallowed the last of my speech, my eyes widening, my body shrinking beneath his towering frame. For a brief moment I forgot everything about Johnny Brighton and Dunraven. I think I forgot my own bloody name. An enraged stare twisted his handsome features, snatching all the air from my lungs. In that moment all I wanted to do was run as far as I could from the immense power in the man’s shoulders, his thick arms bulging beneath his coat.

“I…” My lip trembled, and I dislodged my hand, hiding my shaking fingers in my skirts.

His face softened, and he dismissed the sailor beside him.

“I apologize,” he said in a clipped English accent. “Your fiancé is not here. Lieutenant Brighton’s ship was intercepted by Willaumez.”

My knees buckled, my chest tightening. “Intercepted? What—what does that mean?”

“He could be held captive. He could be dead.” The Captain turned and barked an order to a sailor carrying an inconceivable amount of rope on his shoulders. “McKellen! Have you seen Billy?”

McKellen turned, nearly knocking down a line of sailors racing past him.

“The cabin boy, sir?” he drawled. “Keating said he done jumped aboard the Grey Lady this morning. Bound for Shanghai, he is.”

The Captain bit back a curse and shook his head. He looked back at me, and a storm cloud of anger swarmed in his eyes. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my lady, but you must excuse me. We are leaving tonight for the West Indies in pursuit.” He glanced at his ship and back at me again. “If your fiancé lives, we are his only chance.” With a tight bow, he turned and darted after the sailor with the rope.

In spite of the heat, a cold chill ran down my spine, the shouting din of sailors invading my ears and crowding out my scattered thoughts. I gazed at Captain Grant’s broad back as he tore through the throng of sailors, breaking apart like the Red Sea as he approached.

We are his only chance.

The bright sun lingered high in the sky, glinting off the pale ocean. My hands clenched at my sides, and I bit down on my lip, swallowing the scream rising in my throat. Turning back now was not an option. No matter where he was, no matter who had taken him captive, I would fight through a thousand French squadrons to find him, to ensure Dunraven would indeed be mine.

My thoughts turned to the wayward Billy, the cabin boy bound for Shanghai. The handsome Captain would be desperate for an extra pair of hands to serve him, and with only hours before setting sail, beggars wouldn’t be choosers. I closed my eyes, a warm ocean wind brushing my sweaty hair away from my face. My thoughts returned to Ireland, thousands of miles away, and I recalled the starving cottagers huddled together on their dirt floor, grateful for a crust of bread and a few moldy potatoes. I tasted the salt air, and a memory of my mother swept over me.

“Do you see that castle, Mary?”

Her green eyes had flashed as she pointed to Dunraven rising dark and foreboding from the craggy hills covered in mist.

“That castle belongs to the O’Malleys. To our ancestors. And one day it will be yours.”

She had pressed her cool hand over the crown of my head, her fingers winding through my hair as I rested against her thigh. I had no idea then the price she would pay in her attempt to take back Dunraven from the Brightons, but somehow I knew if I found Johnny, forced him to marry me and make me the lady of that rundown old castle, somehow it would have made her sacrifice worth it. Her death would mean something.

Gripping my near empty purse, I took off out of the garrison and raced back to town to find a new set of clothes—and a haircut.

Chapter Six

I stood on deck, praying no one could see my quivering knees beneath the legs of my trousers. The coarse material felt foreign between my legs, and my lungs contracted with each breath beneath the tight strip of linen binding my breasts. The salty air stung the back of my neck, and I resisted the urge to run my hands through my close-cropped hair. I cried when I took the scissors to it, long black ropes falling into my lap. Even now, standing on the rolling deck of the Elizabeth, I blinked back tears. But it didn’t matter. Hair would grow back. Johnny was out there somewhere, and I had to find him, force him to marry me so he could clear my name and ensure my title as mistress of Dunraven. Nothing else mattered beyond this.

“Name.” The quartermaster, McKellen, eyed me up and down with beady black eyes. For a moment, I knew I’d been had, but he only repeated himself.

“Name!”

“Michael O’Brien, sir,” I lied, dropping my voice in the lowest register possible.

The quartermaster shook his head. “Irish, eh?” He sneered. “You ever been on a ship before?”

“No, sir.”

He reeled on the young man standing beside me. “Where did you drag up this skinny little shite, Keating?”

“Slim pickings, sir.” Keating, a young man about sixteen or so, shrugged his wiry shoulders. “He volunteered.”

The quartermaster shifted his gaze back to me. “You’ll be serving all the officers tonight in the Captain’s cabin. Report to the cook and be quick about it.”

I stood there, my eyes shifting across the deck of the ship.

McKellen grabbed my collar and shoved me against the rail, pushing my chest back until I half dangled over the roaring waves. “When I give an order, you hop to.” He shook me hard. “You understand that, you puss-filled milk sot? The next time you hesitate, I’ll throw you overboard and let the sharks sort you out.”

I nodded, staring in panic into the boatswain’s hollow black eyes.

He threw me back onto the deck, and I took off at a mad dash, the rest of the sailors snickering behind me. Down below, I asked another sailor for the direction of the kitchen, and after winding through the narrow, rocking corridors of the ship, I found myself in the stifling heat near the ovens. A barrel-chested man stood over a cutting board, slicing carrots so fast, his knife moved in one big blur. He swiped them into a giant pot, slamming it on the stove with a clatter.

“You here for the Captain’s supper?”

“Aye, sir.”

He pointed to a wide tray filled with plates of food. I had to kneel to place it on my shoulders, wincing beneath the weight.

“Make sure not to drop it, or you’ll be sorry,” the cook barked.

I set out to the Captain’s quarters, which I already recognized from the opulent door on deck. Keating, the wiry sailor who had recruited me back in Gibraltar, sidled up to me and opened the door.

“I’ll get that for ye, mate,” he said with a wide, freckly grin.

The tray knocked into the door jamb and wobbled dangerously. Keating straightened it, his eyes wide.

“Ye better be careful, then. The Captain won’t abide a clumsy cabin boy, and the cook will have yer hide.”

“Thanks,” I muttered in my lowest register and slid through the door.

The smell of smoke and brandy flooded my nostrils as soon as I entered the Captain’s chambers. The officers circled around a wooden table, a cloud of haze hanging below the low ceiling, all of them with heads thrown back and exploding with heavy masculine laughter.

All except Captain Grant.

His head swiveled, and he met my gaze, his vibrant eyes boring straight into my skull. Warmth crept up my neck, and my hands trembled beneath the staggering weight of the tray. He couldn’t know it was me. How could he? But his stare seemed to pierce right through the tight bindings around my breasts, and my skin prickled with heat as I hunched down, setting the tray on a side table.

“Ah! Supper!” someone cried.

I jumped, and the tray rocked to the right, almost slipping off the buffet. I balanced it with my knee, my shaking hand keeping it upright. The whole time, Captain Grant’s gaze penetrated me from across the room. And sure enough, as soon as I turned around, his eyes were still locked on me, staring at me from beneath hooded lids.

“At last!” a booming voice rang out.

My eyes darted across the table. Lieutenant Andrews leaned back in his chair, his hand stuffed in his coat while he flicked lazily at a cigar. Swallowing the rising panic in my throat, I kept my head down and passed out the plates as the men continued to talk in a frenzy of nautical terms, the conversation wandering to how they planned to intercept Willaumez’s fleet.

As I set the plate before the Captain, he placed a pitcher in my hands. “More wine,” he commanded.

His hand brushed against my thumb, and a spark of pure terror ran up my arm. I scurried back to the buffet and poured more wine into the container. My chest tightened, my fingers numb, the sound of the shouting officers flooding my ears as they boasted and talked over each other.

Picking up the carafe, I watched Captain Grant out of the corner of my eye. He remained still, not even touching his plate, and in that moment he reminded me of a large predator lying in wait for his prey, muscles tight, mind alert, never missing even the slightest movement. With his broad shoulders and dark stare, he absorbed all the masculine energy in the room, the officers around the table waiting for his cues, their eager stares seeking out his approval. Power radiated off him, and the lure of it drew me into his sphere, sending small flutters from my belly to my core. He met my gaze, and I looked away, the skin on the back of my neck tingling as I busied myself with the wine.

I refilled Captain Grant’s glass, my breath caught in my throat, exhaling only when I safely poured it without spilling a drop. Blanching, I approached Lieutenant Andrews, willing my hands to stop shaking. At the same moment I grabbed his glass, the ship pitched and rolled beneath my feet. The carafe slipped from my fingertips, and I grabbed it reflexively, but not before half of it spilled on Andrews’s immaculate white trousers.

I felt the slap before I saw it, hard knuckles backhanding me, sending me slamming to the wall and down to the floor. The room tilted and bright white flecks poked through the edge of my vision. I gasped, trying to catch my breath, the pitcher clutched tight against my chest. The metallic sting of blood trickled down my lip, and I swallowed it, nausea settling into my stomach.

Andrews towered over me, lifting me by my collar. “You little shit!”

The alcohol on his breath made my insides churn, and I turned away, bracing for another blow as he raised his hand.

“Enough, Lieutenant,” Captain Grant’s voice boomed through the cabin. “I will discipline the boy later.”

The Captain’s words stopped my heart, and I glanced over to him. He had stood up, and his face was a mask of stone, his knuckles grinding against the table.

Andrews paused and then released me, straightening the lapels of his coat. “Yes, sir.” He plopped back down at the table and rapped his glass against the table. “More wine, boy! And get me a towel.”

Limping and shaking, I resumed serving the officers. The entire time, Captain Grant’s steady gaze studied my every move. I kept my eyes averted, but inwardly my stomach clenched with panic. He couldn’t know. We spoke for nothing but a second, and I looked much different with my shorn hair and trousers. But every time I looked over to him, I caught him staring, forcing me to turn away and hide my face from him. I had hoped I could just blend in the background like any other servant, but as the night went on it became clear Captain Grant was the quiet, watchful sort. He barely said three words the entire dinner.

After several hours of conversation and carrying on, the officers stumbled from the cabin, and a dense shroud of quiet settled over the chamber. Several of the candles had sputtered out, and only a dim light illuminated the round table. I stacked the plates, the clinking of porcelain the only sound to pierce the silence between us. Bunching a towel in my hands, I approached the cleared table, brushing loose crumbs in my palm and soaking up the spilled wine.

He did not move the whole time, and when he finally spoke, I jumped.

“What is your name, boy?”

I stood still, staring at the ground. “Michael, sir.”

“Michael what?”

“Michael O’Brien, sir.”

“Michael O’Brien.” My assumed name rolled off his tongue. “When I address you, you will look at me. You will not cower.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

With my knees still shaking, I flung back my shoulders and stood up straight, leveling my eyes on the Captain’s hard-lined face. The sun and wind had weathered his skin, but he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his brown hair swept from his face and tied at the nape of his neck.

“Is this your first time aboard a ship?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will have to train you. I like things done a certain way, O’Brien. I am a good master, but cross me and you will suffer, do I make myself clear?”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding. “Yes, sir.”

“After you clear away these things, you will help me undress. You will see that my uniform is properly pressed and ready each morning. McKellan will provide you with what you need.”

“Yes, sir.”

His brilliant eyes traveled up from my big boots to my oversize coat. “You will keep this cabin clean. Spotless.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I cannot abide a dirty ship. One shred of dust, and you will be punished, do you understand?”

“I do, sir.”

“I also expect you to prepare my bath in the evening before supper, shine my shoes, do the mending, and any other manner of things I may ask of you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Finish tidying up and then come to my dressing room.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain marched into a side cabin and closed the door.

I let out a huge exhale and flattened myself against the wall. Blood pounded in my ears, the inside of my palms clammy and soaking through the coarse material of my trousers. Safe for now. I could do the man’s damn dishes and ironing for a hundred years if it meant I would have my family’s castle back. I figured it would just be a few weeks at sea, nothing more. I would rescue Johnny, get married, and then one day, with his little blond babies at my knee, we would all have a good laugh about the one time I dressed up as a cabin boy to find him. Sailing across the ocean in search of my true love. My everything. Just like a heroine in a novel.

I practically danced across the room as I swept the floor, a relieved smile plastered over my face. For the first time in God knew how long, I felt like everything might work out for me, and as I dried the pewter plates and put them back, I laughed at the boyish face in my reflection. With my curly hair around my ears, I looked like one of those mad French revolutionaries, a devilish gleam in my eye and a red flag in my back pocket. Playing the soldier wasn’t so hard. Like housework, more than anything.

My chest tightened, my thoughts retreating back to Dunraven and our little cottage. No one was there to bring Da tea, iron his shirts. I would have given anything to send a note in Gibraltar, but I didn’t want to risk his safety in case the magistrate thought he was somehow responsible. No doubt they would question him about the death of Lord Brighton, and tears stung my eyes at the thought of Da having to try to explain everything to them. But all I could do now was look at the ceiling and offer up a silent prayer for him. As lady of Dunraven, I knew I could make everything right again. And I would.

I packaged my feelings and stored them on the shelf along with the rest of the dinner things. After rubbing my dusty hands on a towel, I squared my shoulders and knocked on the door of the Captain’s bedchamber. Helping him disrobe couldn’t be so complicated. Sure I had helped Johnny enough.

“Come in,” he barked.

I hesitated, opening the door just a crack. The Captain snatched it open and pulled me inside, thrusting me against the wall. His bright eyes pegged me, and my throat tightened as his hand gripped hard around my wrist.

“Do you take me for a fool?” he growled.

Chapter Seven

His hot breath burned against my cheek, and I paled, my knees shaking.

“Sir, I don’t know what you mean?” I stammered, forcing my voice to remain low. A cold frost crept down my spine, the room closing in around me.

“Do not play dumb.” He caged me against the wall, his shoulders shaking with barely repressed rage.

“I don’t understand!” I cried.

“Take off your trousers.”

“No!”

He let out a snarl and grabbed me by the shoulder. “Then, I ask you again.” His voice was so quiet, dangerous. “Do you take me for a fool?”

With my heart pounding, I wrenched his hand away. “I take you for a bloody pervert!” My voice sounded high and hysterical in my ears, and I ducked beneath his arms and scrambled across the room. Unable to reach the door, I shrank into the corner. Trapped.

“You may have fooled the others, but you do not fool me.” He folded his arms across his chest, his jacket already unbuttoned. A wisp of brown hair peeked from the opening of his linen shirt, his muscles near bursting the seams on his shoulders. “What are you doing aboard my ship?”

I swallowed hard, my lip trembling as I fumbled for the words. I didn’t even know where to start, and my face burned as I tried to gather my thoughts. No matter how I told the story, it all seemed so ridiculous.

“Tell me!” he commanded.

“I’m searching for my fiancé.”

He took a step forward, his boots thudding hard on the floor. “Your fiancé.” He took another step, and I flinched. The ship rolled and tumbled beneath my feet, and I grasped onto the panels, my fingers digging into the polished oak planks.

“Are you mad?” His fists clenched at his sides, powerful and trembling.

“It would look that way, sir.” My eyes drilled into a tiny knot on the floor, willing myself to shrink in size so I could dive into it and scurry away like a little mouse. But his boots thundered forward, the small buckles making a sound like clinking chains.

“Are you in some sort of trouble? Is that it? Are you with child?” His voice softened, and I looked up, startled at the sudden change in his tone.

“No, sir.”

“Well, then?” he boomed.

I jumped, folding myself deeper into the corner of the room. What could I have possibly said to him in that moment? Telling Captain Grant that Johnny’s father had accused me of stealing, so I had to run away to consummate our marriage in order to clear my name and win back my homeland was perhaps not the best way to endear myself to him.

“There’s been…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “There’s been trouble at home.”

Grant let out an exasperated sound, shaking his head and turning away with a curse. “You do understand you are aboard a ship with over seven hundred male sailors, correct? A woman has no place on a ship of the line bound for battle. I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“I know that, sir.”

“And due to the nature of our mission, I am in no position to turn us around.”

“Yes, sir.”

He shook his head, pacing the room. “You have endangered yourself and my men with your presence. I know officers who would hang you for treason against England for what you have done.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not English, then.” The words popped out before I could stop them, my latent nationalism waving a pitiful green flag in the dim light of the Captain’s chambers.

A muscle flickered in his jaw, and when he turned to me again, I nearly gasped at the rage in his bright eyes. All the blood drained from my face, and I bit my lip, willing my saucy tongue to hold still.

“You think this is some sort of game?” His eyes narrowed, and he pressed closer to me.

My courage fired back, and I straightened, raising my shoulders in a challenge.

His eyes flitted over me from head to toe, and he made a low sound in the back of his throat. “I should throw you overboard and let the fish eat at your rebel heart.”

“Better to die a rebel than live as a slave.”

Och, Mary, there you go again.

The Captain’s eyes turned to two slits, his mouth straightening in a tight line. “If you want to find your Lieutenant Brighton, you will eat those words, or I swear you will never see land again.”

The turrets of Dunraven flashed in my mind, and I averted my eyes, my body sinking back against the wall in silent submission.

Grant turned away and paced the room, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. My eyes followed him, my stomach clenched in knots. He turned, his shoulders set in a rigid line.

“You have two choices. I can either lock you in the brig where you will half starve and most likely be attacked by the crew—” He cut himself off, turning his face to the tiny window facing the sea. Taking a deep breath, he faced me again, his teeth grinding. “Or you can continue this ruse. Serve me.”

I let out a long exhale, nodding and folding my sweaty hands together. “Yes. I will. I will do anything to get to Johnny.”

He flashed me a withering stare, and my chest caved in, my insides frosting over from the anger in his eyes.

“But you must stay out of sight as much as possible,” he said. “You can sleep in the pantry.”

“Yes, sir.”

His mouth opened and shut, and he waved his arm across the room with a sharp sigh. “As a gentleman, I would prefer to give you my bed, but it is vital we maintain appearances in all things. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. Very clear, sir.”

He appraised me, his gaze lingering at my close-cropped hair. “What is your name?”

“Jill,” I blurted out, thinking of some cow back at Dunraven.

He took two steps toward me. “Your real name.”

I exhaled. “Margaret, sir.”

My mother’s name.

He snorted, sensing the lie in my wavering voice. “Margaret, what?”

“O’Brien, sir. Margaret O’Brien.”

“As soon as we port in Jamaica for supplies, I will personally place you aboard a ship returning home. I do not know what romantic notion put it into your head that the sea was any place for a lady, but I can assure you, it is not. I must impress upon you the danger you are now in, Miss O’Brien.”

With my feet rooted to the floor, I lifted my chin to meet his gaze. I wouldn’t be spirited back home from Jamaica. Not until I became Johnny’s wife.

“Sir, I would not have done this if my situation were not grave. I have found myself in desperate times, and only my fiancé can make it right.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “If he still lives.”

“I must have faith, sir.”

“Faith,” he spat. “You do understand we are fighting a war, Miss O’Brien.”

I puffed out my bound chest, trying to make myself larger than I appeared. But the top of my head barely reached the Captain’s collarbone, and he stared down at me with his intense glare.

“I’m not afraid,” I said.

“You will be,” he snarled, turning away and facing the small window. The waves below threw blue shadows across his profile, and minutes passed, his gaze unfaltering as the ship creaked and groaned around us. For a moment, I thought he might have forgotten about me, and I cleared my throat, taking a tentative step forward.

“Am I dismissed, sir?”

“You will know when you are dismissed,” he barked over his shoulder. He turned to face me, the lines of his face sharp and unflinching. “Undress me now.”

“Sir?” I balked, backing away.

“I said, ‘undress me.’” He stilled, the muscles in his shoulders tensing, his body exuding a blaze of heat. Yet, his blue eyes glittered with mischief, and the grim line of his mouth turned up in a ghost of a smile. That nasty fecker was testing me.

He turned around, his hands slack at his sides. “You want to play at cabin boy, Miss O’Brien, then you will do as I say. I want no suspicion. So, if you will. Undress me.”

Bowing my head, I stepped toward him, the sweet smell of brandy lingering with the acrid cigar smoke on his clothes. And there was something beneath that, the salt of the ocean, of sawdust, cedar, and something inexplicably strong and male. My fingers hesitated inches from his shoulders, and I felt as though I were about to touch a sleeping tiger. Standing on tiptoes, I pulled his coat away from his body, folding it carefully so I could iron it later.

I slid in front of him, moving softly, fearful of making any sudden movements.

“Have you undressed a man before?”

His voice made me jump, and I stepped back, chewing on my lip. How the bloody hell was I supposed to answer that question? In lieu of a response, I cleared my throat, staring down at the floor.

“I told you not to cower.” He stepped forward until he towered over me. “Have you undressed a man before?”

I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

“Then you should be able to work more efficiently.”

My jaw dropped, and a small sound of exasperation escaped the back of my throat.

“I am tired,” Grant said. “And I would like to go to bed sometime in the near future.”

“That makes two of us,” I muttered beneath my breath, my limbs heavy with exhaustion.

“What was that?”

My eyes snapped back to his. “I said, ‘Yes, sir.’”

He frowned, nodding down toward his chest. “My shirt, if you please.”

With a deep breath, I reached up and loosened the drawstrings, mentally forcing my hands to stop shaking. The whole time his gaze drilled into my skull, and I knew he saw me hesitate before reaching down at the waistband of his trousers to pull the shirt loose. He sucked in his breath as I inched my hands up his abdomen, my fingertips brushing his skin.

“Your hands are freezing,” he growled.

I lifted his shirt, my eyes widening at the landscape of muscle beneath, the brush of brown hair leading straight down beneath his trousers to the bulge of his cock below. I swallowed, shaking my head.

“Sir, could you…?”

He bent his towering frame so I could tug his shirt gently past his massive arms. I turned away, heat prickling up my neck and blooming on my cheeks. Even two steps from him, I could sense the heat radiating off his body, the way his presence sucked up all the air in the room. To avoid looking at him, I folded the shirt neatly on top of his coat, taking extra care to match the seams.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “My boots. I’ll need you to polish them before morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kneeling down, I braced my hand on the thick black leather, giving his boot a firm tug. Over-shooting my strength, I toppled to the floor on my bum, boot in hand.

Grant gave me a hard stare, and I cleared my throat and continued with the other boot.

“There is a night shirt in that drawer there.” He pointed to one of the built-in shelves. “From now on I shall call you boy or O’Brien. You shall answer only to that. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” I retrieved his shirt and stood there as if giving up an offering. My eyes flitted back to his naked chest, the chiseled muscles of his abdomen, the cords in his arms. Power hummed beneath his skin, and I suppressed the urge to run as he met my gaze with a menacing stare.

“Are you just going to stand there, boy?”

Bowing my head, I unfolded the shirt and slipped it over his head, breathing in the manly smell of him again, sea salt and lingering sweat.

I stepped away to retrieve his shirt and coat.

“Are you forgetting something?”

“Sir?”

“My trousers.”

Heat burned in my cheeks, sparks shooting through my limbs as I stood paralyzed, rooted to the spot.

“Your trousers, sir?” I squeaked.

His voice softened. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The words sounded almost like a plea, as if we had played a long, intricate game of chess and I had refused to move my king at checkmate. And yet, when I glanced up at him, his hot gaze reminded me that this was a man used to winning, to conquering. If I ran away, if I cried out in humiliation and shame, he would have proven his initial stance—that women didn’t belong on his ship. He wanted me to refuse him, but I wouldn’t dare give him the pleasure.

With small, agonizing steps, I crept closer to him and kneeled, the great bulge beneath almost bursting through the smooth wool fabric. My hands grasped at the buttons, fingers numb and fumbling with the embroidered buttonholes. He stood so still, as firm as an iron statue, and the effect his powerful stance had on my body betrayed every ounce of sense I had in my head. Johnny had been sweet, boyish, but no matter how much he toyed with me, I maintained all the control. Kneeling before this towering man sent a dizzying wave of overwhelming desire through me. Desire to be in his control. In his power. Face-to-face with his belly button, I breathed in his warm, musky scent, the trail of hair leading to his cock tickling my nose, I was that close to him. I licked my lips, swallowing hard.

With a firm tug, the trousers dropped to the floor, and the Captain stepped out of them. I lifted my chin and found myself face to face with his cock. Even at rest it appeared impressive, proud. Flashes of the Captain bending me over and taking me with it flooded my mind, and I gave my head a tiny shake to clear it as I scrambled to my feet and collected the last article of clothing.

He’s just a man, Mary. Just like every other worthless man in the known world.

“Is that all, sir?”

“Wait.”

My blood turned to ice, my spine rigid. “Sir?”

“Lord Andrews will expect you to be punished.”

My mouth dropped open. He truly wanted to break me from my pursuit. “You can’t be serious.”

A muscle flickered in Grant’s jaw. “I will not give you special treatment.”

“But it was an accident. You know that.”

He stalked over to me, but I held my ground, more terrified to move than anything else. “I do not tolerate back talk, boy.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“And I do not tolerate bullies like Andrews,” I said, my voice firm.

“But you will tolerate me.” He moved in closer.

My eyes grazed his body up and down. “If I must.”

With a swift hand, he grabbed the back of my neck. I let out a small squeal, his clothes and boots falling to the floor with a thud. His thumbs digging into my neck, he pushed me toward a chair.

“Hold on to the back.”

My hands remained limp at my sides.

“Hold on to it.”

I shook my head.

“I’ll make it quick.”

“No.”

“You want to raise suspicion?” He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my ear. My nipples hardened beneath my bonds, wetness dripping between my thighs. I did not understand how Grant’s power—his brute masculine force—quickened my body, but he seemed to sense it, his hand relaxing against the tense cords in my neck. He rubbed his thumb back and forth as if to lull me into obedience, and my shoulders trembled at his touch. I didn’t want to humiliate myself in front of Grant, but I knew I had to go through with this ridiculous punishment. And part of me wanted to succumb to it, to see what power dwelled in those powerful arms, those towering shoulders.

“Do it then,” I whispered.

“Drop your trousers and bend over.”

I did as he asked, the cold night air stinging the swollen flesh between my legs as I grasped onto the back of the chair.

Grant rested his hand on my bum for a moment, his hand scorching hot against my skin, his wide, padded palm expanding across my cheek.

I cleared my throat. “I never heard of a Captain taking orders from his inferiors. Do you do everything Andrews says?”

Grant lifted his hand as if I’d burned him, and I peered over my shoulder, flashing him a spiteful smile.

A sharp, slapping sound echoed through the room and filled my ears. White hot pain exploded through my body, and I yelped, nearly toppling over the chair as my knees wobbled. My fingernails dug into the wood, my knuckles white.

He struck me again, tiny needles darting through my skin. I stifled my cry, Grant’s hand still tight around my neck, holding me steady.

“I’ve had enough of that sharp tongue, boy.”

I looked over my shoulder again, panting, sweat beading down my jaw. My gaze flitted down to Grant’s swollen and twitching cock beneath his nightshirt.

“You might come to appreciate my sharp tongue, Captain.”

Slap.

I gasped, the back of the chair shifting forward with a groan. The pain burned through my body, leaving behind a smoldering ache, wildfire shooting from my core. A dizzying fever took over my brain, and I arched my back, lifting my arse higher in response.

Slap.

Grant’s hand loosened, resting on my shoulder. He breathed hard against the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. I moaned, my body burning beneath a layer of sweat, my shirt clinging to my skin. His hand lingered on my hip for a moment, and he pitched me forward. I staggered, collecting my trousers and pulling them over my red hot bum, the coarse fabric tortuous against my tender skin.

Grant paused, and I stared up at him through the sweat clouding my vision.

“Make sure you finish up your chores.” He walked to the bed. “I will expect you at first light to dress me and prepare my breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

He turned and his eyes met mine, and I inhaled sharply at the sudden emotion in his face. He opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, resting his forehead in his palm.

I scurried away, collecting his clothes in my trembling hands. “Was there anything else, sir?”

Grant paused then looked up, his blue eyes dull with exhaustion. “Yes, come here.” The hardness of his voice had fled, and only a velvety softness remained.

I took a tentative step forward. The air between us grew thick, and I fought the urge to shrink away from the massive weight of him before me.

He reached a hand up, and I flinched, but he only ran his fingers through my cropped curls, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone to rest at the curve of my shoulder.

“You will pass as a pretty boy, O’Brien,” he whispered. “But be mindful how you move, how you talk. You are too soft. Too graceful. Be bolder, stronger. Do not shrink away. Speak clearly. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And try to stay out of sight as much as possible.” He stared at me for a moment then pointed to the door. “Leave me now.”

I bowed and bounded out of the room, shutting the door behind me with a grateful shove.

I lay on my side, my head propped on the crook of my arm. My bum stung like I had sat on a beehive, and I winced every time I moved an inch. The ship rolled beneath me with creaking groans, and the sound of sailors calling watch echoed from the deck. I closed my eyes again, willing my exhausted body to drift into sleep. But the hard floor jutted into my hipbone, and the ache in my arse surely wasn’t helping anything.

And there was something else.

The memory of Grant’s hard gaze, the way his hand lingered on my hip before he raised it in punishment. His palm forceful. His voice unforgiving. He challenged me, made me want to break him, too. Made me want to win, but what the prize would be, I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps it scared me a little to think about it.

You are too soft. Too graceful.

He had watched me all through dinner, studied me. The thought of his eyes on my body quickened my core, and my chest tightened. I ran a hand down my bound breasts, wishing I could break them free, discard those loose trousers in exchange for something softer, more graceful. I wanted him to see me like that.

Too soft. Too graceful.

I grasped at my short curls and frowned, running my hands through them. He had called me boy. Insisted on it. I thought of my soft crepe dresses at home, my hair pins and delicate shoes, and I let out a small laugh beneath my breath. Being the Captain’s boy both repulsed and excited me. A beautiful wrongness that brought a rush of wetness between my legs as I remembered the way he had emphasized the word.

Boy.

It made me feel small, at his mercy, and yet powerful somehow, youthful and masculine. Full of vigor. As if to remember my own sex, I slipped my hand down beneath the band of my breeches, my fingers brushing against my slick folds. My hands moved lazily back and forth, blood rushing to my clit as I rubbed against the small nub of pleasure. Did he peek between my legs before bringing his hand down hard against my flesh? Had it tempted him to push that massive cock inside, punishing me with it until I cried out and begged him for mercy?

I inserted a finger inside, my core scorching and aching. My inner walls contracted, begging to be filled, but even as I slipped more fingers in, nothing could sate me. My hand moved faster, harder, brutalizing my delicate flesh, wishing it were Grant shoving himself inside me, pounding against my hips as I rolled up to meet each desperate thrust. I thought of the smell of brandy on his breath, the dark scent emanating from his skin, and I pushed my arm over my mouth, biting down to hide my gasps of pleasure, imagining him grinding into me again and again until I begged him to stop. But he kept on coming, and as the dim light of early morning flooded the pantry, so did I.

Chapter Eight

Bright sunlight glinted on Grant’s hair as he chewed absently on the last of his toast, his eyes glued to a sheet of paper in his hands. I stood by the buffet, planted to the spot, watching his steady movements. He even ate with military precision, circling the corners of the bread before biting into the middle. He lifted his cup toward me, his gaze never breaking from the scrawl on the parchment.

“Tea,” he demanded.

Wrapping my hands around the warm teapot, I poured the steaming liquid into his cup, being careful not to spill. My stomach grumbled, and I grimaced at the sound.

“Have you eaten, boy?” His eyes never lifted from the sheet of paper in his hands.

“No, sir. Not since…” I tried to recall the last time I ate, but nervousness and sheer exhaustion had turned my insides to knots. “I haven’t, sir.”

“Sit.” He nodded to the chair on the other side of the table, but I hesitated.

He let the paper fall to the table. “It’s not out of the ordinary for the cabin boy to dine with the Captain if it pleases him. I did the same myself as a lad.”

I slipped into the seat, wincing at the soreness on my bum. Sucking in my breath, I perched on the edge of the chair, placing a napkin on my lap.

“You were a cabin boy?” I said through gritted teeth.

It was difficult to imagine the hard, stoic man as anything else, as if he had hatched out of an eagle’s nest, tightly muscled and fully formed with a tricorn hat on his head.

He picked up another sheet of paper out of the high stack at his elbow. “Long ago. That is how my career began.”

I leaned forward. “You mean you didn’t start out as an officer?”

His blue eyes stared at me from above the parchment. “You mean like your Lord Brighton? No. Not everyone has the wealth and rank to enter leadership positions without merit.”

I glanced down at the tablecloth, studying the delicate lace patterns swirling around my plate. So the Captain was a commoner. Interesting.

He waved his hand at the bread and jam. “Eat. You will need your strength today. McKellan will have chores for you.”

I crammed a piece of warm bread into my mouth, seeds from the strawberry jam settling into my teeth. I swallowed, wiping my lips with my napkin.

“But Johnny wasn’t lucky, was he?” I said.

The Captain set down his paper, peering at me with an arched eyebrow.

I shrugged. “I mean to be taken by the French like that.”

He nodded, returning to his letter.

“Did you know Lord Brighton? Did he ever…” I swallowed hard. “Did he ever speak of me?”

Grant shook his head. “He served in another ship in Redmill’s squadron. I met him only once, so I am afraid the extent of my knowledge of him came from idle rumors.”

I paused between bites. “Rumors?”

“Eat your breakfast and report to the quartermaster for orders.” He filed his papers in his hands and stomped over to his wide desk before retrieving his hat. “That is enough chatter from you for one day.”

I took another bite of bread and then cleared the breakfast things, my mind whirring with what he had meant by “rumors.”

The hot sun prickled the bare skin on the back of my neck as I ran across the deck toward the quartermaster. He frowned, the flames in his black eyes stopping me short.

“O’Brien, ye little shite, ye think ye’re on holiday?” he barked, tobacco-stained spittle peppering my cheek. “Ye think we’re off looking for buried treasure?”

“No, sir.” I stared straight ahead, thinking of what Grant had told me. Don’t shrink away. Don’t cower.

McKellan rapped me on the side of my head, and I staggered backward, my ears ringing.

“I expected ye on deck an hour ago, boy!” he roared in my face. “Don’t ye be faffing with the Captain’s business. Ye be quick about it and make sure ye don’t skimp on yer duties topside, ye hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He shoved a mop and bucket into my hands, the filthy water sopping over my chest.

“Mop the deck, ye useless whoreson, or we’ll tie a rope on yer ankles and use ye for sharkbait.”

“Aye, sir!”

Grasping the mop, I set to work, the sun’s rays beating on the back of my neck. After hours of scrubbing, my arms felt like they might fall off, but I bit my lip through the pain, refusing to pause for even a moment. I dunked the mop into the soapy water and sopped it over the deck, the monotonous back and forth motion giving me relief from the orchestrated chaos of the ship.

A dark shadow crossed my path and grabbed the mop out of my hands.

“Hello, boy.”

I glanced up, and my stomach flipped. Lieutenant Andrews stood in front of me, a leering grin plastered over his face. Giving him a curt nod, I reached for my mop, but he extended it out of my reach.

“I hope the Captain gave you ample punishment last night.”

My teeth ground in my skull, and I narrowed my eyes up at him. Sure it was none of his business what the Captain and I did, and as his subordinate, he should know that.

“The Captain is fair,” I muttered.

Andrews arched an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. “Did he seem to take pleasure in it?”

Some glint of hesitation must have flashed in my eyes, because Andrews threw back his head and laughed. He ran his fingers through my cropped hair, and I flinched away, his mere touch sending a wave of nausea through my belly.

“Grant always had a soft spot for his cabin boys,” he said.

The blow came before I could even move. With one whirring arc, Andrews brought the end of the mop across my backside, sending me sprawling forward on my hands and knees. Sweat poured down my face, darts of pain shooting up through my arms as I gasped, trying to scramble away. Blood roared in my ears, and the sound of bellowing laughter surrounded me. Andrews brought the mop down again, and I let out a cry as it broke flesh, a trickle of hot blood falling between my legs. I reached out, trying to escape, and my hand fell on something hard and metal. Without a thought, I turned and threw the water pail savagely at Andrews. It bounced against his forehead with a metallic thud, dousing him head to toe with grey water.

He spluttered and cursed, wiping the slurry from his eyes. “You little cunt!”

I pounced to my feet, darting across the deck, and ran smack into a hard chest.

“Oof!” I backed away and glanced up, right into the blazing blue eyes of Captain Grant.

He grabbed me by the arm, dragging me back to Andrews who wiped the water from his coat with a violent hand. A crowd of sailors pointed and jeered, and he threw a curse over his shoulder.

“What is the meaning of this?” Grant barked.

The deck fell silent, and the onlookers dispersed, suddenly remembering they had business elsewhere. Andrews turned and blanched at the sight of the tight-lipped Captain.

A cold sweat poured from my forehead, and I glanced between the two men, panting and shaking. So much for not bringing attention to myself.

“The boy threw a bucket at me, sir!” Andrews wiped his muddy hair behind his ears and straightened, his other hand still gripped around the mop. “He should be punished for his impertinence.”

“Silence!” the Captain bellowed.

The only sound on the deck was the crash of the waves and the wind whipping through the sails.

He leaned in to Andrews. “Did I not say I would see to the boy myself?”

“But, sir—!”

“That was a direct order.” The Captain’s voice sounded low and dark, and even though I stood right beside him, I had to strain to hear him. “Did you disobey my orders?”

“Sir, I—!”

“Seeing as though you are so fond of that mop, Lieutenant, you get to finish swabbing the deck.”

Andrews’s eyes bulged from his skull, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I don’t want to see a speck of dirt.” He cornered the Lieutenant, their lips almost touching. “And stay away from the boy.”

The Captain whirled, pulling me with him, dragging me down toward the galley. “Prepare hot water for my bath. I’ll be in my chambers.”

Water sloshed onto my toes, and my arms ached as I lugged the bucket back to the Captain’s cabin. My entire body felt like a map of bruises, my backside so swollen I could barely walk. Dried blood had pasted my trousers to the back of my leg, and it was all I could do not to completely collapse onto the floor. I poured the water into Grant’s copper tub and, gritting my teeth from the pain, I made to trudge back down to the galley. Grant intercepted me on my way out the door.

“That will do, boy,” he whispered, pulling me back into his chambers.

“But what about your bath, sir?” I paled. “Do you…do you expect me to bathe you…sir?”

He shook his head, bending down and testing the heat of the water with his fingers. “The water is not for me.”

“No?”

“It is for you.” He peered up at me, motioning me to come forward. “You are hurt.”

I shook my head, my skin prickling. “’Tis fine, sir. I’ll see to it later.”

“We will see to it now.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Your wounds will become inflamed if we do not.”

My cheeks warmed. He couldn’t expect me to disrobe in front of him. “It’s not decent, sir.”

“Would you rather go to the Surgeon?” he demanded. “Have him inspect your wounds?”

I averted my gaze to the floor, shaking my head. That poor man would sure receive the shock of his life.

“I’ll keep my shirt on,” I said in a small voice.

“Drop your trousers, then.”

I undid the drawstring and peeled the sticky material away from my body with a wince of pain. The Captain registered my face, and his tone softened.

“Kneel down in the tub.”

I stepped into the blazing hot water, bending my knees and grabbing the edge of the tub. In spite of the blinding pain, my blood hummed at the thought of him touching me. Only the sound of our breathing echoed in the room, the warm silence of the afternoon enveloping us. He crouched behind me, and I stole a glance over my shoulder. He studied my wounds impassively, his stare blank and unreadable.

“Andrews is such a bastard,” he breathed.

He picked up a sponge from the water, ringing it in his hands. The water dripped across the small of my back, and I couldn’t help but spread my legs a little wider, my core tingling at the idea of his touch.

“If you think so, why do you keep him around?” I said over the splashing from the bath.

“His family is powerful.”

“You’re powerful.” I regretted the words as soon as they fell from my mouth. They sounded seductive, sultry on my lips—not the objective fact I meant them as.

“Not in that way. Not in the way it counts in this world,” he said. “This is going to sting a bit, but I need to clean the wound before I dress you.”

I nodded my head in assent but let out a gasp when the hot water dripped on my backside like liquid fire. I bucked, instinctively trying to get away, but the Captain’s hand dug into my hip, holding me in place.

“Do not move,” he commanded.

My body stilled, and I white-knuckled the edge of the bath.

He brought the sponge down in the water and patted my skin with the lightest touch. My back arched in response, but I did not move away this time. The rough texture of the sponge softened, and I almost purred as he circled it across my flesh. The water in the tub ran pink.

“You need to stay away from Andrews,” he said in a soft voice.

“I know. He snuck up on me.” I sucked air through my teeth as he pressed the sponge against my flesh a little harder, cleaning out the wound.

“He likes to mess with the boys. Do you understand what I mean?”

I shook my head. “You mean, he…he plays with them?”

Grant’s movements turned languid, sliding behind my thighs and up to the small of my back. “No, worse than that. He likes to bugger them.” A tightness crept into the Captain’s voice.

“Bugger them?” I whispered.

The sponge lingered in the cleft of my arse, his fingers flickering next to my tight hole.

“It is when a man puts himself here.” He pressed his finger against the tiny opening, and the sensation sent a wave of desire through me. I shuddered with pleasure, rising my hips up higher to meet his probing hand.

Of course I knew what buggering was. There was a farmer two counties over who was rumored to sneak off to Belfast to engage in certain unspeakable acts. My friend Shirley had brothers, so she explained to me how it worked. It sounded ridiculously painful, but the way Grant’s finger lingered on my arse, I started to reassess that assumption.

“Does it feel good to do it that way?” I asked in a breathless voice.

“It can,” the Captain whispered. “For a willing participant.”

I moved my hips closer to his hand, and his finger pressed a hairsbreadth inside. I gasped, my muscles resisting, trying to force him out. But his hand remained, the other hand continuing to trickle warm water over my lower back, my thighs.

“If the participant relaxes, I am told it can feel quite pleasurable.” His voice was husky, heavy with desire.

I took a deep breath and allowed him to glide in farther. The foreignness of it made me dizzy, and my core burned, swelling, as he brought the sponge up between my legs, tickling my folds. I let out a moan as the hot water stimulated my clit before he smoothed it away. Submerging the sponge, he brought more hot water up next to my opening, pushing harder against the delicate flesh there. The combination of the wet sponge and his probing finger sent shocks through my body, and I lost myself in his confident hands as they explored my dark places, cleaned them out with the sudsy water. My inner walls contracted, and the heat between my legs peaked, my thigh muscles quivering as a shot of pleasure burst through me. I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to shame myself in front of him with my release. Resting my flaming cheeks on the edge of the copper tub, I panted hard into my weary arms.

The Captain paused for a moment, but then he removed his finger, resuming washing me as if nothing had happened, sinking the sponge back into the water and then smoothing it over my legs. This went on for a long time. Longer than was needed. Longer than was decent.

“Stand up,” he said finally, handing me a towel.

I blinked, lulled into a kind of hypnotic trance by the steam, his rhythmic movements. Water splashed as I stood up, and I locked eyes with him for a moment.

He met my gaze with a stony stare. “Lie down on the bed.”

I nodded, drying off my legs and splaying myself on the soft downy mattress. My eyes drooped with exhaustion, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into delicious sleep. I hissed as the Captain touched my wounds, curling my body away, but he held me firm.

“This balm will soothe you.” He spread a rich, minty-smelling cream across my flesh, and my skin burned with every sweep of his fingers.

“Jaysus, that hurts,” I gasped.

“Quiet.”

Frowning, I buried my nose into his pillow, breathing in the rich, manly smell emanating from the crisp linen.

He stretched a bit of gauze across my backside, lifting me up to circle it around my hips and back.

“You should be able to take the bandage off in a few days.” The Captain rose from the bed and pulled a pair of trousers from a drawer. “You can wear these. They will be big on you.”

“I can hem them.” I rose from the bed, his scent still lingering on my shirt. “Thank you.” He turned away as I pulled my legs through the trousers, folding over the waistband so it wouldn’t slip down my narrow hips.

“We shall be dining with the Surgeon this evening. He is a close friend of mine.” Grant glanced over his shoulder. “I would appreciate it if you did not spill wine on him.”

“Would you punish me again if I did?” I shocked myself with the saucy words.

The Captain turned and stalked over to me, his shoulders throwing a shadow across my face as the sun blazed on the horizon through the window behind him. His eyes glittered, and he studied the length of my body, my baggy trousers, my oversize shirt.

“Would you like that, O’Brien?”

I stared up at him, my assent caught in the back of my throat. Would I like that? My mind resisted, but my body ached for his stern hands, the pain, the gravity of his weight behind me.

He studied me with his stunning blue eyes and then grunted, shaking his head before turning away.

My chest deflated, the bath an intermission between our ongoing performance of Captain and cabin boy, master and servant. But he had touched me, and my skin still burned from his wandering fingers. Whatever I felt, he had felt it, too.

“See yourself to the galley,” he said in a gruff voice.

“As you will.” I bowed my head and slid past him. “Sir.”

Chapter Nine

The Surgeon Mr. McGregor had to bend his tall, lumbering body to enter the Captain’s great cabin. He brushed a lock of floppy grey hair from his forehead and readjusted his spectacles before bowing to Grant.

“Good evening, McGregor.” The Captain cracked a smile.

The plate in my hand clattered on the table, and I coughed, blinking hard. I didn’t think it was possible for his mouth to turn up like that, but it transformed him, revealing a glimpse of the young man he might have been without the command of an entire warship on his shoulders. Turning away, I hid my blush by grabbing the wine decanter to pour glasses for both men.

“Evening, Captain,” the Surgeon returned in a thick Scottish brogue before grabbing his glass and cheering with Grant. “On the hunt again, it seems.”

The Captain nodded. “Willaumez is a sneaky bastard, but we will suss him out soon enough.”

“So is this yer new boy?” McGregor turned to me with a broad smile.

The skin on the back of my neck prickled with the sudden attention, and I busied myself with the plates.

“Where’s Billy?” the Surgeon pressed.

“Billy took off on a merchant ship to Shanghai. He never really had the stomach for war.” The Captain’s fingers brushed against my elbow as I set down the first course. “This is Michael O’Brien from…where did you say you were from?”

“Dunraven, sir,” I mumbled.

“Speak up,” the Captain insisted.

I met McGregor’s gaze. “Dunraven,” I said in a clear voice.

“Irish?” McGregor said, his brown eyes brimming with excitement. “My mother was Irish. A Cleary from Donegal.”

My heart softened to find a countryman on the rollicking Elizabeth. “That’s close to Dunraven, sir. Some of the prettiest country you’ve ever seen in your life.”

McGregor grinned. “My mother always said so. I’d love to visit someday.”

I smiled. “If you ever do, inquire after my people. My family would see after you and show you the sights. We have a lovely example of early monastic ruins—”

The Captain cleared his throat. “Dinner, boy.”

My mouth snapped shut. “Yes, sir.”

I set out the plates of food before the men, and when I finished, McGregor looked up to me and grinned. “You should join us, O’Brien.”

The Captain gritted his teeth in response, frowning up at me and giving a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“There’s more than enough here.” McGregor scraped some of his portion on an extra plate, plopping a piece of fresh bread with it. “Please. Lord knows ye poor boys never get a chance to sit down, much rather eat.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, moving back toward the buffet. “But Captain Grant treats me well.”

Very well…

“Och, Michael,” the Surgeon bellowed. “I insist. Himself does na mind, do ye?”

The Captain opened his mouth to protest, but McGregor spoke over him. “See, he does na mind.”

Grant glanced up at me, nodding to the chair beside him. Trying to make myself as invisible as possible, I slipped next to the Captain and began picking at McGregor’s extra dinner.

“How does that taste, O’Brien?” he asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

I plopped a bite of beef into my mouth and nearly moaned with pleasure. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a warm meal. “Delicious.”

“So how does ye family feel about ye coming aboard a ship of the line?” Mr. McGregor shoved a spoonful of greens into his mouth and peered down at me.

My shoulders slumped, my heart fluttering at the thought of poor Da sitting alone in his chair before a smoldering fire. If he knew what I had done, the lengths I had gone to in order to find Johnny, it would absolutely destroy him. Better for the poor man to think me dead than to imagine me alone and friendless on a ship with over seven hundred of England’s finest.

Captain Grant spoke up. “O’Brien told me there were few prospects at home, so he decided to try his hand on the seas.”

“Is that right?” Mr. McGregor grasped onto his wine glass. “I suppose ’tis a sore business there since the rising.”

My shoulders tensed at the mention of the uprising, and memories of running guns for my parents ran through my head—the smell of gunpowder, the thick oil on my fingers stinging my nose. I rubbed my sweaty palms back and forth on my trousers, keeping my head low.

“Things have turned poorly since 1798, sir, yes,” I mumbled.

McGregor grabbed a glass and poured a heavy amount of wine into it, shoving it into my hands. Grant made to intercept, but I grabbed the glass before it could crash onto the table.

“Not too much of that, boy,” he growled beneath his breath. “You still have chores later.”

McGregor roared with laughter. “Oh, how old’s the lad now? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

I gripped the edge of the wine glass in a daze. Grant kicked me under the table, and I startled, realizing the Surgeon had asked me a direct question.

“Fourteen, sir.”

McGregor wagged a finger at Grant, his eyes already clouded from the wine. “Let me tell ye ’bout yer man here. When he was fourteen, he drank the quartermaster under the table when we were stationed in Nassau. ’Twas the last one standing this one, but not for long.”

I laughed over the rim of my glass, taking a long draught of wine. My muscles loosened, and I grinned up at the Surgeon, edging forward in my seat.

“He staggered dead drunk into the street, straight into a hog pen. He must have thought we were back at the whorehouse, because he rolled in the mud like he was rolling in a pair of tits. Those dirty fuckers would have eaten yer Captain alive.” McGregor rolled up his sleeves. “I had to dive in there myself and wrestle with one of those big bulls, ye ken? The hog was massive. Sixteen stone? At least?”

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “I believe that hog grows bigger every time you tell the tale.”

McGregor ignored him, wrestling an imaginary hog in his wiry arms. “I grabbed that swine by the shoulder and landed a sharp blow right between the eyes.” He mimicked a punch and then raised his arms in surrender. “But then there was yer man Grant, passed out drunk, thoroughly pickled. I had to stick my own finger down this lad’s throat, and he threw up a gallon of rum all over my shirt!”

I let out a high-pitched giggle, holding my sides.

Grant kicked me harder under the table, and I straightened, praying that McGregor hadn’t noted that very feminine laugh. It seemed to echo in the Captain’s quarters, like the lingering sound of piano keys.

The Surgeon paused and studied me, his hazel eyes narrowing from beyond his spectacles. I swallowed hard, averting my gaze.

McGregor let out a loud laugh, and he took his spectacles off his face, cleaning them with the edge of the tablecloth. “Och, the bastard. No good deed goes unpunished.”

He shook his fist at Grant who sat cold and placid, an awkward grimace plastered on his hard-lined face. Beneath the table his knuckles cracked with tension, and he flashed me a dark stare, as if he could will me to leave the table.

I lifted my chin in challenge, mischief flickering in my belly. Perhaps it was the wine, but some flash of rebellion surged through me, reveling in Grant’s discomfort, his loss of control. Shifting in my seat, I turned back to McGregor, trying to ply more secrets from the Surgeon about the mysterious commander. “You sound like you’ve known the Captain for a long time.”

“Near twenty years now. Balls of steel, this one.” The Scotsman nodded to the Captain. “You’d do well to learn from him.”

“Certainly not when it comes to drinking, if that’s all the Captain can stand.”

Grant tensed beside me.

McGregor howled with laughter, banging his fist on the table. “Och, ye best be careful lad. That’s a challenge yer no likely to win.”

I raised my hands in the air, flashing the doctor a wide smile. The heat radiating from Grant’s body emboldened me, and I wanted to push this as far as it would go, his rage stirring a strange recklessness in me that felt as hot and erotic as our bath earlier.

“There’s only one way to find out,” I said.

The Surgeon’s eyes twinkled, and he threw his head back and laughed. Pointing at me, he leaned in to Grant. “Where did ye pick up this cheeky lad? I like him!”

The Captain stared straight ahead, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “He is impertinent and out of turn.”

I nodded, raising my fork and tucking back into my dinner. “Fair enough. I do see how an Englishman might be intimidated by an Irishman when it comes to drinking, Mr. McGregor.”

The Scotsman bent over with laughter, some of his wine spilling on his coat. “Did ye hear this one, Grant? I think ye might need to take this laddie down a peg or two.” He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “Or twenty.”

The Captain turned to me with a deadly stare. “It would seem so.”

I gave him a sly smile, reveling in Grant’s disapproval. But there was something else, something I couldn’t quite name. Freed of petticoats and pretty manners, I shifted in my seat and ran my hand through my short hair, the desire to prove myself as equal, as good and strong as any man, sent sparks of anticipation through me. In my trousers and oversize coat, I didn’t have to back down. Not this time.

“A contest!” McGregor bellowed, pushing his polished plate away. “I know ye have some rum here somewhere, Grant. Let’s get this boy good and initiated.” He rushed off toward the buffet, clattering through a cabinet.

“What are you doing?” the Captain growled through gritted teeth.

“Being a cabin boy.” I gave him my best doe-eyed stare, raising my wineglass in honor to his fleeting control over the situation.

“You must stop this nonsense,” he hissed.

McGregor returned, a great bottle of rum sloshing in his surgeon’s hands. Three glasses clicked on the table, and he poured them full of the spicy alcohol.

“Cheers, lad!” He raised his glass and threw it back, nodding at me to do the same.

I reached for the glass, but Grant’s hand closed over mine. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Right, Captain,” I said, leaning back in my chair and waving to McGregor. “I would not want to embarrass you in front of the company.”

The Surgeon bellowed and pushed the glass of rum toward me. “Och, aye,” he panted as he laughed, taking off his spectacles and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Very well,” Grant spat, lifting his hand from mine.

I took a deep breath and tipped the glass to my lips, the spicy liquor stinging my tongue before leaving a trail of fire down my throat. I coughed, bile rising up through my chest, but I swallowed it down, banging the glass on the table.

“That’s good,” I gasped.

“Aged in oak. Only the finest for Captain Grant.” McGregor nodded at Grant’s glass. “Having second thoughts?”

The Captain squinted, picked up the rum, and swallowed it with one gulp. He didn’t even flinch at the straight liquor, but gently set his glass down on the table and waved his hand. “You were saying?”

McGregor grinned and filled the glasses again. We clinked in cheers, drops of rum spilling on my thumb before I slugged it back. I blinked, swallowing hard and doubling over with a choking cough.

Grant slapped my back. A wee bit too hard.

I nodded, waving his hand away.

“Let it out, son,” McGregor barked. “There ye go.”

He poured again, a wide smile pasted on his face, his cheeks flushed.

My hand hesitated over the glass, the room starting to blur around the edges.

“Bottoms up,” Grant demanded.

I jumped at the sound of his stern voice and kicked back the shot. This time the rum went down smoother, a numbness flooding through my arms. Smiling up at McGregor, I held out my glass again, and he filled it once more.

“Now there was this one time,” the Surgeon began again, “where we had dropped anchor in Greece, and they have that…” He snapped his fingers. “Grant, what’s that liquor they drink over there?”

“Ouzo.”

“Ouzo!”

McGregor poured another round, and I sank into my chair, a calming warmth settling on my shoulders and spreading through my weary bones. For the first time since leaving Ireland, my neck muscles relaxed, and the constant gnawing feeling in my stomach subsided. I glanced over at the Scotsman across the table, studying his salt and pepper hair, his overgrown beard, his sharp nose. Beneath those spectacles, he wasn’t bad-looking at all. He slammed another shot of rum. No ring, I noted before throwing back my own.

“Now in Rhodes, there was this whore who could do this thing with her—”

Grant cleared his throat, slamming the glass on the table.

McGregor raised his hands and looked to the ceiling. “I’m just telling the lad a story. Broadening his education, ye ken?”

I leaned in, holding out my glass for more rum. “She did what with her—?”

The Captain kicked me under the table again, leaving a mark for sure. Grinding my teeth, I kicked him back, and he stifled a grunt. He grabbed my thigh, and I swiped his hand away, but he reached for me again, locking his fingers on my knee, flashing me a dangerous stare.

I raised my glass at him and grinned, flinging the shot back with a satisfied gasp at the end. Grant gripped his rum and narrowed his eyes over the rim of his glass before swallowing the liquor with one smooth flick of his wrist.

“So there was this woman,” McGregor began again, “a woman of great skill. She was a verrah talented lass with verrah flexible appendages if ye ken my meaning.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said with feigned innocence, flinging back another shot.

Grant dug his fingers into my knee in a warning, but I held out my hand for more rum.

“Can we please keep some modicum of respectability in the conversation, McGregor?” Grant said in a low voice. “O’Brien here is not as worldly as you are.”

I arched an eyebrow at the Captain, remembering how his hands had traveled over my body, teaching me quite a few new things about the ways of the world.

“Och, well,” McGregor said. “If it’s respectability the Captain’s looking for, well, let’s just say she had the biggest…” He held his hands out in front of his chest, but then brushed them up against his cheeks, waggling his fingers. “…eyes you’ve ever seen. With thick, thick…”

Grant made a low sound in his throat.

“Eyelashes!” the Scotsman bellowed.

Another bright, feminine peal of laughter burst from my lips, numb from the alcohol. Grant’s fingers dug tighter into my thigh, urgent and bruising, but I was far from feeling much of anything in that moment.

A wistful look came over the Surgeon’s face. “And her eyes were bright green.” He leaned in, studying me hard, and his voice softened. “Like yours, actually.”

The Captain bolted up, knocking the glasses over. He made a choking sound in his throat, his palm plastered to his mouth as he heaved. Racing to his chambers, he turned into the doorway, and a loud retching sound filled the quarters.

“Och, no! We have a man down!” McGregor stood up, thumbing his lapels. “Ye getting soft in yer old age, laddie!” he called into the bedroom, shaking with laughter. Throwing back one last shot, he grinned down at me. “Take care of the poor drunken sot. Ye’ve won the day, young O’Brien. There will be no living with him now.”

I nodded, bracing myself to stand up and go see to the Captain. The door to his chambers suddenly appeared very far away, and I squinted, trying to focus. The Surgeon waved a silent good-bye to me, still laughing as he shut the door closed.

Stumbling from the table, I staggered across the room on heavy feet, bumping into the buffet with a hard thud.

“Dammit all,” I muttered, rubbing my side.

Rounding the corner to his bedroom, I stalled in the doorway, gripping the doorknob for dear life as my stomach rolled. I sought out the sick Captain, expecting to see him passed out on the floor, but my eyes focused on his large form standing in a corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest.

“You were sick,” I slurred, pointing at him with a giggle. “So I win.”

He darted across the room in two steps and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against his warm chest, rubbing my nose in his shirt. He smelled like salt and ocean and sweat, and the strange urge to lick his skin came over me. I giggled again, holding onto his arms, his biceps rippling beneath my grasp.

“You have the biggest musshels.” I laughed harder. “Goodness, I said musshels…”

He gave me a little shake, and I let out a gasp as he picked me up by my wrists and dragged me to a chair.

“I was not sick, you little chit,” he growled. “I faked it to avoid McGregor finding you out.”

My mouth gaped open. “He had no idea!”

“Are you so sure?” Grant towered over me. “The way you batted your eyelashes at him, you might as well have taken off your trousers and exposed yourself to him completely.”

I shook my head, which was a terrible mistake as the room began to tilt sideways, and I wondered what was keeping the furniture nailed down as the walls spun around me. Squinting and clutching onto the chair, I stood up and faced Grant. “It wouldn’t be the first time I took off my trousers and exposed myself to someone.”

The Captain blanched, his eyes glittering.

I let go of the chair and shifted forward. “Do you treat all your cabin boys that way, or is it just me?”

He eyed me from head to toe and shook his head. “You take one step closer to me, and I will show you exactly how I treat cabin boys who drink too much and forget their place.”

His words fell over me like a mantle, dark and soft, and I knew I should have run away from him, escaped from the room as fast as I could, but some shadowy part of me wanted to know his violence and his power. The limits to what he was capable of doing and what I was capable of taking.

I took a step forward.

“Stop,” he said.

I took another step. “Or what?”

I stood close to him, so close I could smell the rum on his breath, feel the heat pulsing from his body. Placing my hands on his chest, I steadied myself, running my fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Or what?”

My lips grazed his neck, but he stood there, unflinching, the tiny hairs on his smooth skin rising, his muscles tense. My hands danced on the edge of his trousers, fingering the brass buttons, the only thing standing between me and that incredible cock of his.

“Or what?” I whispered.

He grabbed my hand and dragged me to the door. “You will find out soon enough, boy.” Leaning into me, his breath felt hot and ragged against my ear. “I will not punish you drunk, but you better prepare yourself for tomorrow.”

He pushed me through the threshold with a savage shove. “Go sober up.”

And with that, he slammed the door in my face.

Chapter Ten

I woke up early the next morning, the light outside the iron-paned windows a pale blue thread on the horizon. Massaging my pounding temples, I swallowed the ball of cotton in my throat, the spicy taste of rum still lingering on my tongue. I replayed the events of last night in my head, my cheeks flaming at my saucy words, the way my hands had grazed over Grant’s belt buckle. What had come over me?

Smoothing my hands over my close-cropped hair, I took a deep breath, replaying all the reasons I sat in this tiny pantry on this bloody English warship: Dunraven. My mother. Freedom. Centuries of tyranny, and I had one chance to make things right again. The Captain’s stern voice, his blazing eyes, were a distraction to all that, and I had to keep myself together if I was going to survive this ordeal.

Grant’s words haunted me.

Prepare yourself for tomorrow.

I had signed my own death warrant with the man for sure, and I needed to find a way to make it right. Padding across his quarters, I sneaked into the Captain’s private chambers, grabbing his discarded clothes and boots. I scampered out, shutting the door behind me without a sound before setting to work making sure everything was pressed and polished. Then I crept through the ghost ship, brushing past a few lonely sailors switching watch before stumbling into the galley for Grant’s breakfast.

By the time the Captain emerged, his face frowning and drawn, I stood planted by the table, his clothes and boots in my hand, his meal neatly laid out on the table.

He nodded and turned around, expecting me to follow him back into his chambers. He didn’t say a word as I dressed him, and the whole time my hands trembled as I slipped the linen material over his vast shoulders, brushed his coat, handed him his hat. He folded it beneath his arm and marched out of the room without even a glance at me.

My palms sweated and my stomach churned. Perhaps he had forgotten about the punishment and we could go on as before, quietly coexisting until I found Johnny and forced him to marry me. I didn’t understand why I felt so afraid, so anxious at the towering giant, but I remembered the cold look in his eyes from last night, and I shivered.

He ate his breakfast, and this time his eyes concentrated on a series of several maps. He would lay them out in various configurations and then move them around again, as if he were trying to solve some intricate puzzle. I stood by the side table the entire time, only approaching him to pour more tea.

Throwing his napkin to the side, he stood up and faced me, his face calm like the sea before a storm.

I met his gaze, my skin prickling and itchy beneath my clothes.

“When I give an order, I expect it to be followed,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Last night, your disobedience, your insolence, your sheer brazenness put you at risk. And that puts me at risk.” He stepped forward. “Which puts my ship at risk.”

I remained still, my fists clenched at my sides.

“This is not a game. We are at war.” He cornered me against the side table. “Turn around.”

I swallowed hard, lifting my eyes to meet his gaze. “Sir?”

“I gave you an order, boy.”

Swallowing hard, I turned around, his breath hot against the back of my neck. Wetness burst between my legs, and I shuddered as his hands grabbed the waistband of my trousers. I wanted him to control me, bend me over and take me hard. I wanted his ruthlessness and his cruelty, and it shocked me how much I craved it from him. Perhaps this was why I had behaved so carelessly last night, because in some dark, wanton place in my body, I knew his discipline would be the result. This man was driving me into sheer madness, and I shut my eyes and bit my lip, conjuring up visions of Dunraven in my mind. But all I could imagine were the chiseled muscles on his chest, his cock, firm and ready between my thighs.

“Grab the edge of the table,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

He pulled down my trousers, the cold morning air sweeping across my skin. Then his hand gripped my hip, and I let out a small moan from the hot brand of his fingers clutching tight to my flesh. I spread my legs wider, and Grant shifted himself against my body, his hard cock straining inside his trousers, brushing rough against my backside.

“Do not cry out,” he warned.

“I won’t, sir.”

“You want to dress like a man, you will take a man’s punishment.”

“I will, sir.”

Slap.

A scream choked in my throat, and I doubled over the side table, my fingernails digging into the wood to keep my knees from giving out.

Slap.

My flesh stung from the blow, the heat from his pummeling hands radiating through my legs, through my core. I dripped with desire, the pain awakening a carnal yearning inside me as I leaned forward, bending my hips higher to meet his palm. The white hot heat tore through me, destroying me, but I wanted it. I had always wanted it.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The sharp sound of his hand against my flesh sang through his chambers, and this time I nearly broke in two with release, my bound breasts jammed against the table, my chest heaving. He slapped me again, but then his fingers trailed down the curve of my arse, sweeping past the tiny hole he had explored yesterday, to seek out my inner folds. With a slow, creeping closeness, he settled his hand near my opening, teasing me.

He leaned over me, his voice thick. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes, sir,” I gasped.

“You want my cock inside that secret little cunt of yours, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

He slipped a finger into my slit, and I let out a long, shuddering exhale.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

He moved another finger into me, slipping back and forth through my slick folds. I whimpered, soft mewling sounds escaping my lips as he moved me to the edge. “What do you want? Tell me.”

“I want your cock inside me, sir.”

His fingers moved faster, playing me, drawing out my release. “And what are you going to do for it?”

“Anything!” I gasped, heat blazing between my legs as I moved my hips in rhythm to his fingers, so rough and furious against my delicate skin.

“Will you obey me?”

“Yes, sir,” I moaned, the flames rising in my core. “I’ll follow your orders. I’ll do what you ask.”

“Then come for me,” he breathed, his tongue brushing against my earlobe. “Come for me right now.”

My body burst in an explosion that left me blind, a bright white light filling my vision for a moment before I collapsed against the table, burying my face into my elbow. His strong arm held me up, bracing me against the side table as I gasped and hiccupped for air.

Minutes passed, maybe hours. I couldn’t tell in the long silence stretching out between us. Finally, he slipped his fingers out and turned me around, bringing them to my lips. I tasted my own essence, salty and musky, and I opened my mouth wider, sucking on them, wishing they were Grant’s cock instead. He stared down at me with his piercing blue eyes and studied me as I sucked harder, turning my tongue over the callused pads of his fingertips.

He brought his hand away, and I let out a small sound in the back of my throat, the need for him to fill me somehow, somewhere, overpowering.

“See, boy?” he said in a calm voice. “You can follow orders.”

He turned and stalked out of his chambers, leaving me breathless and shattered against the side table.

Chapter Eleven

I didn’t see Captain Grant for several days after that, except for a few seconds in the morning when he growled at me not to wait up for him. A menacing scowl seemed glued upon his rugged face, and from my nest in the pantry I often heard him at odd hours tromping around and arguing with the quartermaster and various other officers. There was trouble with the ship, it seemed, but I couldn’t tell you what it was or what Grant was doing prowling around the blasted thing to try to fix it.

As for myself, I tried to keep my head down as best as possible, my days filled with never-ending tasks of tidying up and sorting the Captain’s things, and whatever new torture the quartermaster invented for me on deck. But as I became faster and more efficient at my tasks, a sense of freedom filled me, an open, endless sensation brought on by the vast ocean surrounding us, the brilliant sky overhead. The tether attached between me and Dunraven began to wear and snap with every giant gust of wind, every blast of ocean spray on my face.

I maintained the ruse of cabin boy well, especially after the fiasco with McGregor. I kept my guard up and my voice low, my baggy clothes and cap hiding any vestiges of my femininity. And yet, the small glimpses of the Captain on deck or rushing through his quarters sent my heart pounding, my core coiling tight with memories of his hand between my legs. Sometimes when I hunched over my work, tying knots or scrubbing the deck, the skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I would look up and catch him staring before his eyes darted away.

And then I realized.

He was avoiding me.

That night, I brought in his supper tray and jumped when I saw him already seated at the table. Documents were scattered across the surface, and his elbow rested on the edge as his fingers massaged his temples. He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and then quickly averted his gaze.

I set about serving his meal, scurrying to the corner as if feeding a wild animal in a cage.

“Sit,” he said.

“Sir?”

He waved to the seat across from him. “Sit down.”

I crept up to the table, sidling into the chair.

“Help yourself.” He nodded to the steaming plates of food. “There’s enough to feed an army here.”

“Or a navy.”

He arched an eyebrow at me and then returned to his papers.

My stomach growled, and I scooped up some of the salted pork and potatoes and dropped them on an extra plate. I had existed on the Captain’s discarded leftovers and whatever the cook threw at me the past week, and I resisted the urge to shove everything into my mouth at once. We ate in silence, the sound of chewing the only thing to break the tension between us.

“Are they treating you well on deck?” Grant still held a document in his hand, his eyes tracing the same lines over and over again.

I snorted into my napkin, recalling the colorful names the quartermaster enjoyed calling me. “As well as can be expected, sir.”

“And you do not mind the hard work?”

“Never minded hard work, sir.”

Grant set down his paper and peered at me from across the table. “And what did you do before?”

“What did you do before, sir?”

His eyes narrowed. “I asked you a question. I demand an answer.”

“I did what women do. I sewed, cooked, cleaned.”

“You are being intentionally obtuse, boy.”

“I have my reasons, sir.”

“I am sure you do.” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his wine, studying me over the rim of the glass. “But you are not gentry. You are educated, but not wealthy.”

“You’re a great judge of character, sir.”

He took a long draught and set his glass on the table with a thud. “And you are not in any woman trouble. So how is it that you are affianced to Lord Jonathon Brighton? And why is it you would travel so far to find him?”

I didn’t answer but moved my potatoes around my plate with my fork.

He leaned in. “Are you in love with him?”

I paused for a moment, and that was all it took for my movements to betray me.

“You are not in love with him,” he confirmed.

I threw down my fork, and it clattered against the porcelain.

“Of course I am.”

He shook his head. “No, you are not.”

My cheeks flamed, and I hid my trembling hands beneath my thighs. How dare he accuse me of such a thing? Sure, it wasn’t the kind of love the poets sung about in books, but it was good enough for a steward’s daughter from the backside of the bogs outside of Dunraven. He was a decent lad. Of course I loved Johnny. Of course I did.

“And what would you know about it?” I spat.

“I know a woman in love would never let another man fuck her with his fingers.”

Biting my lip, I looked down at my lap, taking in a deep breath. The muscles between my legs clenched, and a fluttering started deep in my abdomen. I tried to conjure up visions of Johnny, of his sweet smile and gentle voice, but all I could think about were Grant’s hands on my flank, his hot breath against my neck.

I lifted my gaze to meet his. “And are you an expert on love, sir?”

A sly smile crossed his hard face. “I am an expert on many things, boy.” He pushed his chair back and waved across the table. “See to these things and attend me in my chambers.”

Chapter Twelve

I hesitated in front of the door and raised my fist in the air, hesitating before knocking. My mind screamed at me to run, find some excuse to stay away from him, but my body hummed beneath my clothes, desire building between my legs with every movement. I scrubbed and cleaned, trying to extinguish the flushed, feverish feeling in my mind, but all I could think about were Grant’s hands on my skin, his fingers slipping inside me. The need to know the limits of his particular expertise sent me into a spiral of frustrated longing, and I had no choice but to enter his lair, discover his secrets. I stretched my palm on the oak planks, cool and a little damp to the touch. Letting out a deep breath, I knocked.

“Come in,” he called in a clipped voice.

I opened the door a crack, my hands shaking.

Grant’s long legs were stretched over the length of the bed, a book propped in his hand. A single oil lamp burned at his bedside, casting deep shadows across the lines of his face.

Closing the door behind me, I lingered by the wall, my hands pressed against the paneling to prop myself up. His face arrested me with its hard beauty, his brown hair slightly curled against his cheek. I stole a glance at the small volume in his hand. Wordsworth and Coleridge. Lyrical Ballads. Raising a hand to my face, I coughed, suppressing the slight smile tugging at my lips. I didn’t take Grant for a romantic fool.

“You enjoy poetry, Captain?”

He snapped the book closed and threw it to the side. “I enjoy many things, boy.”

I swallowed hard, my hand sliding down to my neck, brushing away the cold sweat breaking out on my hairline. “I don’t see why you need to maintain the pretense here, sir. No one is watching us.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “We’re on a ship with over seven hundred sailors. Someone is always watching.”

Letting out a long exhale, I walked to the edge of the bed, my fingers slipping on the binding of the book, the title glittered gold beneath my hand. “What was it like when you were a cabin boy?”

“What do you want to know?” he said in a low voice.

“Were you punished?” I raised my eyes to meet his. “Were you punished in the way you punish me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bend yourself over for your Captain?”

“I did everything he asked of me,” he said. “Such punishments were commonplace, but it did not matter. I would have died for him.”

“And how did you serve him?”

He smiled, his blue eyes smoldering. He knew what I was asking, but he refused to submit the information. Instead, his hand slipped across the smooth sheet and covered mine, his thumb moving softly across the ridges of my knuckles. The tingling sensation racing up my arm nearly sent me to my knees.

“He taught me to read,” he said. “And as I got on with my letters, he liked it when I read to him.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

He smiled slyly, taking the book from beneath my hand and offering it out to me, nudging my chest with the spine. “Do you read, boy?”

“Which language? Latin? Greek? French? Irish?”

He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged.

“Hedge school learning,” I said. “I could recite some Ovid in Latin if you like.”

He frowned. “Can you read English?”

“Ah, ’tis English you’ll be wanting…” I smirked. “The language of commerce. Not even your Coleridge could make it sing.”

He licked his finger and turned a page. “Could you make it sing for me?”

“I don’t know, sir. Are you partial to my crass Irish brogue?”

“My eyes are tired. Read for me.” He patted the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

I perched on the edge of the bed, the book in hand. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his wandering hand retreating back to his chest.

I opened the first page, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of the single oil lamp at his bedside.

“It is an ancient Mariner,” I began, my thumb rubbing the smooth surface of the page.

“And he stoppeth one of three.

“‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

“Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?”

I looked up, laughter bubbling up in my throat. “You can’t be serious with this flowery treacle. Honestly, sir. Do you have some Homer? Or maybe some Goldsmith?”

He opened one eye. “Read, boy.”

I sighed, starting again.

“He holds him with his skinny hand,

“‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.

“‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’

“Eftsoons his hand dropt he.”

“Eftsoons? Goodness, are you sure this is English?” I shook my head, tilting the book sideways.

The Captain’s eyes snapped open, and he made a low sound in his throat. “Read.”

“Aye, sir.” I nodded, beginning again, hunching over the volume and bringing it closer beneath my gaze.

As I continued speaking, he sat up and massaged the back of my neck. His touch sent bolts of lightning down my back. My mouth fumbled over the words, my sight blurring, and I gasped as the tension in my muscles released.

“Keep reading,” he breathed in my ear as his fingers inched up my shirt.

“Your attentions are quite distracting, Captain.” I coughed. “I’m not sure Coleridge would approve.”

“Keep. Reading.” He found the tight little knot binding my breasts, and slowly began to unwind the thick gauze holding them in place.

“Sir…” I whispered.

His fingers paused and then wandered up the nape of my neck, settling there with a delicious heaviness. “Do you want me to stop?”

I bent my head over the book in my lap, defeated against the aching need in my belly, the way his fingers sent sparks down my spine. “No.”

“Then keep reading,” he said. “The sound of your voice pleases me.”

His hands slipped back down to my binding, and he began unraveling again, the long strip of linen winding around and around his fist. I stole a glance sideways at him and nearly moaned at the sight of his perfect face. He looked like a boxer about to pounce, his blue eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.

I stumbled over the words of the poem, the lines and stanzas mixing together in a jumble of letters, something about an icy sea and some dumb bird. My mouth moved mechanically, but my blood pounded in my ears, drowning out the sound of my own voice.

His hands drifted over my back with each rotation around my body, and finally, he collected the bindings, snapping it tight in his hands to test out the strength of the material.

“Stand up,” he commanded.

I tripped over my words. “What?”

“Do not say ‘what’ to me, boy.” He breathed across my neck as he nuzzled me, the coarse hair on his jaw scratching my skin. “Stand up.”

I did as he demanded, my knees wobbling as he towered over me. With one quick movement, he snatched the book from my hands, his thumb resting between the pages.

“Take off your shirt.”

The thin fabric was over my head and drifting to the floor before I could even think, and my nipples hardened from the cool air. I glanced at his hands, clenched tight and wrapped in gauze. My breasts felt heavy, full, and I longed for him to touch me, cup my flesh in his wide palms. I struggled to swallow, gasping and panting, trying to catch my breath.

Without breaking my gaze, Grant placed the book back in my hands, settling my fingers against the page.

“Keep reading.”

I wet my parched lips and squinted at the blurring text.

“In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

“It perched for vespers nine;”

Grant knelt down before me, his hands running up my loose-fitting trousers. His fingers settled on the makeshift drawstring, and he bent down, his hair tickling the lower muscles of my abdomen. I sucked in my breath, gasping as he broke the string with his teeth.

“Jaysus,” I cried out, almost dropping the book.

“Keep reading,” he growled.

My voice quaked.

“Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

“Glimmered the white Moon-shine.”

He remained kneeling before me, his fingers drifting up and down my thighs, lingering at the V between my legs. Every brush of his hands was a brand to my skin, and my heart raced, the pages fluttering as I turned them.

“With my cross-bow

“I shot the ALBATROSS.”

I read the line again.

“I shot the ALBATROSS.”

“Bloody hell…” With a sharp click of my tongue, I lowered the book and stared down at Grant. “He shot that bird? What in the devil’s name did he do that for?”

The Captain bolted to standing and grabbed my hand, leading me to the chair.

I shrugged him off, flashing him an annoyed look. “What did that albatross ever do to him? It seems like a cruel thing to do—”

Grant planted his lips on mine, nearly knocking me over with the force of his hungry kiss. The shock blinded me, and my spine stiffened, my heart jumping into my throat. He placed one heavy hand against the small of my back, and with the other he clasped me behind my neck. Like a bridled horse, I relaxed under his commanding touch, bending against him.

His kiss deepened, and he made a low sound in his throat as his tongue slipped across my lips. I parted them, and he invaded me, the forcefulness making me retreat, back away, but he held me firm. His fingers massaged the back of my neck, and succumbing to the languid movements, I opened my mouth wider, finding a sweet rhythm to the kiss. I forgot my nakedness, that bloody albatross, even my own name. All I knew were his lips, his tongue, the rough gasps of his breath against my cheek.

He broke off first, and I panted, my head reeling.

“You stop reading again, and you will pay for it,” he growled.

I nodded, all my words escaping me.

He cupped my breast, and a white sheet of lightning swept across his eyes. I sucked in my breath as his fingers spread across the soft flesh, and he pressed harder, almost bruising. “I want you to sit in that chair.”

“Yes, sir.” My voice sounded hoarse and far away. I took a tentative step back and slid into the seat.

He knelt in front of me, his blue eyes studying the length of my legs, the gentle swell of my breasts.

“Come forward.”

“Sir?”

Grant grabbed hold of my hips and slid me to the edge of the chair.

I grabbed hold of the armrests, the book flopping onto my lap. He picked it up leisurely, flicking through the pages until he found my place.

He handed me the book. “Continue.”

I nodded, diving into the sanctuary of the poetry, the words echoing back to me in the quiet room.

Grant unraveled my bindings from his wrist and grabbed my ankle.

I let out a yelp as his thumb dug into the delicate skin.

“Is there a problem, boy?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep reading.”

I resumed the poem while Grant twined the linen around my ankle, tying one against the leg of the chair with a firm knot. Fear fluttered in my belly, but I shifted in my seat, wetness dripping between my legs as he tightened the binding against the other leg of the chair. Holding the book closer to my flaming face, I glanced down between the pages to see myself completely exposed to him, my folds slick and glinting in the candlelight. Swallowing hard, I returned to the book, but Grant remained kneeling in front of me, his index finger traveling up and down my leg, a thoughtful look on his face.

His eyes narrowed as if he had come to some decision. “Go on.”

I nodded, fumbling over the words.

“Alone, alone, all, all alone,

“Alone on a wide wide sea!

“And never a saint took pity on

“My soul in agony.”

I groaned out the last word as his fingers danced around my mound, playing with the tiny curls before traveling farther down. Agony was right. With the slightest of touches, he found the small button hidden between my folds, and I threw back my head and arched my back as a thousand darts of pleasure burst through me.

I gritted my teeth, continuing, staring hard at the words dancing across the page.

“Instead of the cross, the albatross

“About my neck was hung.”

I shook my head and looked up from the volume. “They hung the dead bird around his neck? ’Tis a right odd thing to do.”

Grant growled.

I gulped down the lump rising in my throat. “Right, right…”

Coleridge’s words tumbled from my mouth, something about a chit with rose red lips and a skeleton playing dice. The Captain continued to tease my clit, caressing my folds with a persistent rhythm. I bucked in the chair, my body suffering for release, but the bonds held tight.

“Shhh…” he whispered, his face moving closer to my opening. “Keep reading.”

I panted the words of the poem as he lowered his mouth to my slit, his tongue darting back and forth and lapping up the wetness between my thighs. I gripped the book tight, fighting the urge to close my legs, but his shoulders pressed hard against me, locking me in place. He gripped my waist and pulled me closer toward him, his tongue moving fast against my sensitive flesh. Then he entered me, licking my inner walls, and I had to bite down a moan of pleasure. I had no idea a man could do such things with his mouth, and I writhed against the chair as he pushed my bliss to a level that left me blind and panting. My body peaked, my hips moving wildly against his face even as his fingers gripped me, bruising my skin.

And then…

He backed away and stood up. His cock filled my vision, bulging beneath his trousers, begging to break free.

I glanced up at him, breathless, my opening tingling and cold as a draft hit it. My body screamed to be filled, and I folded my hand to mark my page, setting the book in my lap. I had done this. Filled this piece of him with lust. With want. With need. My face flushed with the thought of it, all the blood running to the space between my thighs.

“Sir…” I whispered.

He didn’t speak as he unbuttoned his trousers, his cock springing free in his wide hand. It was stiff and impossibly large, a small drop of come slipping down from the tiny slit at the top. I suppressed the urge to lick it, and instead ran my tongue against my dry lips.

Grant placed a hand on my shoulder. “Do you want this?”

“Yes.”

But I had no clue what to do with it. I shifted in my seat, trying to rub my sore clit against the wood as I pressed my mouth to his swollen manhood. He gripped the base and pressed it against my lips, and I had no choice but to take all of him in. His hand slipped to the back of my head and with firm pressure, he guided himself into my mouth until I gagged. He backed away, then slipped forward again, wrapping his fingers in my short curls.

“Relax the back of your throat, boy,” he breathed.

Taking a deep breath, I released the muscles in my neck. He made a low, affirming sound as he pressed harder between my lips. My body sang with pleasure at the sound of his moan, and I pushed my lips down on him, creating suction.

“Yes, you are doing very well,” he said, driving back into me.

His hand wandered down to my nipple, and he cupped my breast again, this time harder. He rolled my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a firm pinch, the sensation of pain and ecstasy so sudden, his cock almost slipped from my lips. His hand returned to my curls, and he pushed himself in deeper, fucking my mouth, jamming himself into me.

His other hand slipped down until he reached my core, and he slipped two fingers into me. My release was instant, my mouth clamping on his cock as he rocked my body with his hands, milking me, teasing out the blast of pleasure as it shattered through my belly and out to my limbs. Come built up at the base of his cock, and he groaned and shuddered as it burst in my mouth.

“Swallow it,” he growled. “Take me in.”

I gulped it down, and it tasted warm and spicy down my throat. He arched his body over the chair, caging me in with his massive arms. He panted, sweat beading down his neck. Finally, with a long breath, he slipped out of my mouth and stuffed himself back into his trousers.

I licked my lips, tasting the last salty remnants of him. Through bleary eyes, I watched Grant as he bent down and untied my ankles, massaging the delicate flesh. With one sweep of his arm, he held me cradled close to him for a moment before settling me in the bed. He returned to the chair and picked up the volume of Lyrical Ballads.

“Will you finish?”

“I believe I just did, sir.”

He shoved the book in front of my nose. “The poem.”

“Aye, sir.” I yawned, taking the volume in my hands and reading through the rest of the poem, my eyes heavy.

Grant stretched out beside me, a lazy hand smoothing my hair away from my forehead and down my cheek. I snuck glances at him, studying his long legs, his wide chest. I still felt the imprint of his fingers on the back of my neck, the strain of the bonds on my ankles. As exhausted as I was, I found desire kindling in my belly again, the need for his control so addicting my hands trembled as I turned the pages.

Finally, I read the last line and folded the book shut, resting my head atop its weathered leather binding with a long sigh.

Grant leaned on his elbow next to me, his fingers trailing up and down my back. “Did you enjoy the poem?”

“Yes, I suppose.” I flashed him a sly smile. “But I don’t understand why he had to spoil this nice couple’s wedding with this dour story about a dead bird. Seems a bit rude to me.”

He smiled. “Some say it reflects the Captain’s loneliness, the way he destroys the albatross and must wander the world, forced to tell this tale.”

I snorted. “Loneliness. ’Tis a man’s curse.”

Grant’s hand hesitated on my shoulder. “Are you never lonely?”

I glanced over my shoulder, crossing my ankles in the air. “Of course. But I have better things to do than sit around and talk about albatrosses, you know.”

“Like find your Johnny.”

I looked away, the sound of Johnny’s name on the Captain’s lips like a foreign word.

“Yes, like find my Johnny.”

The Captain’s hand rested hot on my flank, the air heavy between us.

“All I’m saying,” I said, beginning again, “is that most women I know don’t have that kind of luxury, to sit around and bemoan our fate. We do what we can with the cards we’re dealt.”

“And is that what you are doing?”

“I didn’t get the best hand, Captain.” I sat up to face him. His eyes flitted to my chest, and I suppressed the wave of heat rising in my belly. “But I’m not going to sit around and cry about it. I’m certainly not going to barge into someone’s wedding and tell them some horrible story. Where I come from, if you have a sad story to tell, you should at least have the decency to sing it.”

The Captain laughed, and my heart warmed at the throaty sound. I didn’t think it was possible the man could laugh.

“Do you sing?”

I shrugged. “Sure I do, well enough. I am Irish, you know.”

He then did the strangest thing. He kissed my neck and collected me in his arms, holding me close. I snuggled up into the hollow of his shoulder, his muscles rippling as he tucked me close against him.

“Will you sing for me?”

“It’s late, Captain.”

“Sing for me.”

I knew it was wrong, but I loved his bossy moods, his commanding tones. My body responded to him, and I reveled in that strange sense of no escape, the freedom of only having one task, to please him, make him happy. I opened my mouth, not sure what I would sing, but the lyrics poured out from me, filling the tiny room, the ship rocking us gently in rhythm to the lilting verses. I had grown so used to speaking in such low tones, the clear highness of my voice surprised me, but it seemed to relax Grant, and my body melted into his. I sang a song about a girl who dressed in man’s clothes to board a ship to seek out her young man, lost at sea. Once he discovered her true identity, the Captain fell in love with her and begged her to marry him. She refused and left him, continuing her search for her true love. It was a silly song.

I grew quiet, singing the last verse in little more than a whisper.

“A sailor boy I was on ship, but a maid I am on shore

“Adieu, adieu, dear captain, adieu forever more…

“Come back, come back, my blooming girl, come back and marry me

“For I have a good fortune, I’ll give it all to thee…

“To marry you, dear captain, is more than I can say

“For it’s for the sake of Johnny, I’ll wander night and day…”

A tense stillness settled between us, and I stared at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze.

“For the sake of Johnny,” he said, his voice edged in steel. He let out a long exhale and pulled the covers tight around his waist.

“It’s a very old song. I didn’t write it.”

Minutes ticked by, and my heart thundered against my rib cage at his horrible silence. Why would I sing such a ridiculous song? Of all the hundreds of songs I knew, why this one? Why now?

“So does she ever find her man?” The sound of his voice startled me, and I cleared my throat, shifting to my side.

“I don’t know.” I palmed the crisp sheet in my hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. The Captain was a fool to fall in love with her when she was pledged to another.”

“Hearts can change.”

My chest tightened, and I closed my eyes as his breath tickled the back of my neck.

“Can you sing me something in your language?” he asked, his hand lingering on my shoulder.

I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear my peasant garbage, sir. Don’t pretend to.”

“Are they more ridiculous love songs about boys named Johnny?”

“No,” I snapped.

His fingers dug into my flesh, and he turned me around to face him. “Please. Sing.” The hard angles of his face opened up to reveal a painful rawness, a vulnerability that took my breath away.

I swallowed hard and bowed my head, curling my arms around my naked chest. The desire to run from him rushed through me, but another part of me, the lonely part maybe, wanted to open up to him, share something of my story.

“Well, there is this one song,” I said in a quiet voice. “I wrote it about my home, Dunraven. Would you like to hear it?”

“You wrote a song?”

“Sure I’m not a complete savage now.” I laughed beneath my breath. “Would you like to hear it or not?”

He nodded, cupping my head against his neck, his chin resting on the crown of my head.

So I sang again, in Irish this time, and ’twas a good thing, too, as it was all about freedom and revolution and kicking out English soldiers and military men. Kicking out men like him.

When I finished, all I could hear in the silent room was the sound of the Captain’s breathing, and I thought he was asleep. His eyes fluttered open and his brilliant blue irises glittered with emotion.

“That is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.” He ran his hands through my curls, planting a delicate kiss on my lips. “What does it mean?”

I smiled. “You’ll have to learn Irish to find out, sir.”

He looked down, the features of his face falling before he peered up at me again, and for a brief moment I glimpsed the young, vibrant cabin boy he once was. “Perhaps you can teach me some time.”

I winked at him. “I serve at my master’s pleasure.”

He rumpled my curls. “The pleasure has been all mine…boy.” He said the last word softly, his hand drifting back to my breast. His thumb brushed against my nipple one last time before I grabbed the gauze and wrapped it back around my chest. I needed to stop this intimacy, this warmness between us. Fucking was one thing, but this connection between us, or whatever it was, couldn’t exist. Not in this world, and probably not in the next, either.

Grant’s hands spread across mine, and he took over the task. I hitched my breath as he tightened the ends together and tucked them inside.

Jumping from the bed, I dressed hastily, mumbling something about polishing his boots for tomorrow. I bowed, grabbing them by their large brass buckles, and dashed out the door.Remember Johnny. Remember Dunraven.

But my body still quivered in the aftermath of the Captain’s touch—a touch that could be brutal and commanding one moment and gentle and attentive the next. For a fleeting second, I wondered what it would be like to serve him always, to go to sea with him, not as his boy, but as his woman.

I shook my head, knocking that idea right out of my mind. I was Johnny’s betrothed. The future Lady Brighton. No matter what happened aboard this ship, I could never forget that simple fact.

I set the Captain’s boots on the table, scouring the pantry for shoe polish. I found the tin, but blast if it wasn’t empty.

Cursing, I slipped out of the Captain’s chambers to seek some polish down in the hold. Even with seven hundred sailors, the ship felt almost abandoned, a few lone men wandering past like the skeleton crew in the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” The only sounds onboard were the creaking of the hull as the waves tossed the ship about and the far-off calls of the changing watch. I raced deeper into the hold, remembering the way the members of the crew died one by one, their bodies dumped overboard. Shivering in the cold, damp air, I staggered into the darkness of the hold, my hands seeking out the shoe polish stored with other supplies.

My fingers palmed the tin, but a strong hand clamped over my wrist.

“Hello, O’Brien.”

A chill settled into the marrow of my bones, and I tried to wrench my arm away. Andrews stood over me, his eyes glittering with predatory glee in the dim light of the hold.

Chapter Thirteen

I made a dash for the door, but Andrews sidestepped and blocked my way.

“Well, if it isn’t the Captain’s little pet.” He folded his arms across his chest and sneered, his eyes dilating.

My heart pounded, and I backed away, knocking over a crate of apples. They scattered around my feet like billiard balls, and I shrank farther into the shadows.

“How does our Captain enjoy those pretty lips, boy?” He stepped toward me, backing me into a corner. My hands braced the wall, searching for something I could use as a weapon. My knees buckled as he pressed his body close to mine, and a wave of revulsion cramped my stomach as bile burned in my throat.

“The Captain doesn’t touch me,” I spat, my eyes flitting around in the darkness. “He’s a good man.”

Andrews’s hand clamped down hard on my arm. “Liar,” he hissed. “I know he’s been priming that tight little asshole for me.” His other hand dug into my hip.

“No!” I shouted as he whirled me around, bending me across a crate. I scrambled to get away, but Andrews held on tight, tearing off his breeches and massaging his cock. He pinned me down with one hand while the other pulled down my trousers. Splinters shred through my cheek, and I choked and cried out, snatching behind me at his wrist.

“Oh yes,” he breathed against my ear. The smell of rum wafted up to my nostrils, and I heaved. I flailed my arms, and my hand brushed against a bottle of ale. My fingers fumbled for the neck and I gripped it tight.

He kicked open my legs savagely, and went to shove himself in. He hesitated. “What’s this?”

In that same moment, I brought the bottle up behind me in one quick arc. It shattered against his skull, and he staggered back. With just enough space to squeeze away, I hitched my breeches up, racing out of the hold. I barreled through the ship until I reached the Captain’s quarters, slamming the door behind me.

Hot and sweating, holding the stitch in my side, I collapsed onto my mat in the pantry. I curled up into a ball, my body shaking with violent tremors. Would Andrews remember what he saw after he woke up from his drunken stupor? Would he tell the Captain? Would Grant be forced to arrest me as a stowaway? I took ten deep breaths, placing my hand over my heart and willing it to slow. I had fought enemies before, and I needed to figure a way out of Andrews’s clutches. No matter what the price.

…

The next morning I woke early to set out breakfast and dress the Captain. When I entered his chambers, he frowned at me.

“Have I offended you, Captain?” I said.

He pointed to his boots, and my shoulders slumped. With everything that had happened with Andrews last night, I had neglected to polish them. My stomach dropped to the floor, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

“These need to be polished every morning, boy.”

“I know, sir. It’s just that it was so late last night, and I—”

“I do not need your excuses, O’Brien.” His face darkened.

I hung my head low. “I know, sir.”

“And you knew the consequences of defying my orders.”

“I did, sir.” I stared at a knot in the wood floor, running my toe over it back and forth. “Are you going to punish me?”

He towered over me, his breath hot on my neck. “Would you like me to?”

I nodded.

“Look at me and say it.”

The sound of his steely voice in my ear sent a shiver down my spine, and I gasped as his lips brushed against my skin.

“Look at me,” he said.

I raised my chin and stared into his feverish eyes.

“Yes. I want you to punish me, sir.”

He backed away in an instant. “Drop your trousers and place your hands against the wall.”

“Yes, sir,” I said through gritted teeth. I unlaced my britches and braced myself against the wall. The varnished wood felt cold against my splayed palms.

The sounds of a drawer opening and closing pierced my ears, and Grant walked over to me, each step sounding like the gong of a bell. He leaned in close beside me. “I will not tolerate insubordination on this ship. Nor will I tolerate slovenliness and laziness.”

Stick your laziness up your arse.

I let out a deep sigh and bit down on my sharp tongue. Something brushed up against my bum, small leather ribbons massaging my skin. Despite the darkness in his voice, his motions felt teasing, as if he relished the snaky trails it made and how it caressed my backside. The anticipation of the sting drew new sensations out of me, my body tingling and ready.

“Is that a flogger, sir?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said, swinging it against my bum lightly, snapping me with delicate nips. My body responded, wetness blooming in my core. I arched my back and let out a long sigh.

“Do not move,” he said. “You move and I will have to tie you up.”

The suggestion sent a thrill straight through me, and I recalled last night, how he held me at his mercy. A low moan escaped from my lips, and the flogger swiped one more time against my skin.

“You will count with me,” he commanded.

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

The pain shot through my limbs, white-hot and flaming. My eyes snapped open, and my breath caught in my throat.

“Count!” he demanded.

“One,” I croaked. I swallowed hard, the pain enveloping me in a seductive trance.

“One,” I said again in a steadier voice.

He paused, letting the pain sink into my skin. The second slap came, harder this time. Merciless. I winced, trying to resist the urge to bolt.

“Two.”

He brought down the flogger again, and my knees buckled with a gasp. He fisted my hair and raised me to standing. “Stand up.”

I nodded, choking back a sob. Or perhaps a moan. I couldn’t tell which. Placing my trembling hands back on the wall, I widened my stance, as if I could somehow distribute the pain more evenly through my body.

The Captain chuckled low and dark, and the sound of it sent a bolt of fear and pleasure through my body.

“You think by showing me that delicious cunny of yours that I’ll be easy on you?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

The flogger came down on me again, and this time my teeth drew blood on my lip as I bit back a scream.

“Three!” I cried in a strained voice. My eyes swam with stars, the pain pushing me to a space outside my body. The next two slaps came fast and hard, my voice calling out the numbers. On number five, my body peaked, my folds swelling and aching with heat.

The Captain ran his hand gently across my bum, finding me wet and wanting with his exploring fingers. “You enjoyed that, I think.” He slipped a finger into my core, massaging the inside.

“Yes,” I gasped as he slid another finger in, but the pressure only made me ache for something bigger. “I’m sorry…for the boots… I won’t let it happen again.”

“See that you do not.” His fingers worked harder, and I arched my back, trying to gain more friction against them. “There is only so much of this sweet backside can take.”

“I think it can take a little more.” The words fell from my mouth, and they sounded so final, so complete, breaking some forbidden barrier between us. With a flurry of movement, Grant dropped his trousers and pressed against me, his hands digging into my hips. His swollen cock jabbed against my arse, but I rearranged myself until my folds engulfed him. His tip teased my opening, and he hesitated for a moment, his shuddering exhale burning the back of my neck. I dripped for him, my hips undulating across his cock. I wanted him inside me. Now. Nothing else would do.

With one long groan of resignation he thrust deep inside. I nearly came with the heat of him filling me, satiating me. He paused for a moment, and his heartbeat thumped against my back, furious and fast like a cornered animal. He brought his muscled arm around my stomach and positioned himself deeper. I gasped at the fullness of him, the sheer bigness of his cock impaling me. He moved slowly at first, my backside still raw from my punishment. The pain and the pleasure bled together, and I pushed back into him with my hips. He met my lust, thrusting hard, with a deep, masculine sigh.

“God, woman, you’re so wet.”

Woman.

The sound of the word sang in my ears. Enough of playing his cabin boy. Enough of shining shoes, ironing shirts. I wanted to serve this primal need. Serve him. I gasped as he twisted his arm tight around my waist, bringing me closer to him. He pumped viciously now, his breath hot and panting in my ear. With his other hand, he brought his fingers to my tiny nub, rolling the center of my pleasure with his thumb, then flicking it hard. With every touch, my body inched forward to a precipice, until finally he pounded me without mercy, his muscles tight. He roared in my ear, and the sound of his passion pushed me over the edge. I smothered my scream into my arm as his cock flooded my core. He came endlessly, groaning with each long thrust, until he caged me in with his arms. My knees buckled, only his hands holding me upright.

He buried his face into my neck before dislodging himself. Then he swept me up and laid me gently on the bed, my stomach on the mattress. He ran his fingers down my spine, and I shivered, craving his caress, my body already heating up again from his touch. He reached over to the side of the bed and took out a jar from inside. As soon as he opened it up, the smell of mint filled the room.

“This will help with the pain,” he said.

“I like the pain,” I whispered.

Grant spooned a generous amount of balm in his fingers and spread it over my backside.

I hissed as the minty concoction stung for a moment before sending a soft warming sensation through my skin. I turned my head to face him, my Captain, but his eyes were fixed on the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist.

“Is that wrong?” I asked. “To like it?”

He shook his head. “There is no shame in it. A lot of men and women enjoy it like this. The pain.” He swallowed, his hands pausing. “And the pleasure.”

I buried my nose in the pillow, breathing in his smell. “Mmmmm…I didn’t know that.” I peered back up at him. “I am sorry,” I said. “For your boots. It won’t happen again.”

He flashed me a vague smile. “See that it won’t, boy, or else I will have to punish you again.”

I laughed, taking his hand in mine and kissing it. “Perhaps I may need to forget again.”

He made a low tsk sound. “You have not seen me at my worst.”

“I bet your bark is worse than your bite.”

Grant arched an eyebrow. “Oh, you think so?” Before I could dodge him, his lips came down and clamped onto my neck. I squealed, rolling away. A fleeting thought of how our lovemaking might result in a child passed through my mind, but I pushed it back. Johnny couldn’t plant a seed in me to secure my hold on Dunraven, so perhaps the Captain could. Sure Johnny would never figure it out. He was always terrible at math. I scrubbed my face, staring at Grant through my fingers, and a lump rose in my throat, thinking of the beautiful babies the handsome Captain would produce. My belly fluttered at the thought, and I pressed my fingers against my abdomen, burying my face into the Captain’s pillow, the linen cool on my hot face.

Have you no shame, Mary? No shame at all?

He patted my bum one last time and rose. “I am expected above, and you are probably late to meet the quartermaster.”

I scrambled to my feet, collecting my clothes, the beady eyes of our draconian quartermaster flashing in my mind. “Aye, sir.”

I had just finished dressing when Grant grabbed me around my waist and planted a deep, passionate kiss on my lips. His tongue slammed into my mouth, and his cock hardened against my belly. I rubbed against it, standing on my tiptoes. He broke it off and marched out the door, leaving me breathless.

Chapter Fourteen

My hands chafed against the jute rope as it ran fast through my fingers. I steadied myself on the mast, clutching the gleaming wood tight between my thighs as I trimmed the sail, the coarse canvas flapping in the wind, until it caught the blowing gusts of salty air, and they straightened stiff and true.

“Good lad, there, O’Brien!” McKellan roared below. “Secure it and come down!”

I smiled and my fingers ran through the complex series of knots the quartermaster had taught me, taking care to flip the rope in the right direction and pull it tight. I took a moment to gaze at the endless ocean ahead of us, sparkling aqua blue extending to a haze of shadows where it met the sky. Soft, feathery white clouds billowed across the bright expanse, and the warm sun poured over my shoulders. I sighed before crawling down off the mast. I could get used to the sea.

“Yer a good climber, lad,” McKellen said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

“I climbed my fair share of trees, sir, back where I’m from.”

His weathered face cracked in an unexpected smile. “Ye work hard, O’Brien, and you could go far as a sailor.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, averting my eyes, fearful of being noticed. My gaze rested on a herd of officers in discussion on the other side of the deck. Andrews lifted his head and met my stare, his eyes narrowing into dark slits.

Ice water rushed through my veins, and I looked away, my heart pounding.

“Ye best run along now,” the quartermaster said. “I’m sure the Captain will be wanting his supper soon.”

“Thank you, sir.” I bowed and raced toward the lower decks. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Andrews had followed me, but he had disappeared from the group of other officers. I turned, marching toward the galley, and charged right into Andrews’s chest. I backed away with a start. His hand clamped over my wrist and he dragged me down into the hold, pointing to a cut on his forehead.

“You owe me, you stupid cunt!” He shook me, spittle flying in my face. “I should have known Brighton’s whore would have followed us.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m no whore!”

The Lieutenant gripped my arm tighter. “Oh, Brighton told me all about you. How you spread your legs for him.” He breathed against my ear, and I could detect the faintest whiff of alcohol on his tongue as he ran it behind my ear. I repressed a shudder of revulsion.

“Shut up, you bastard. Brighton is a gentleman. Unlike you!”

Andrews threw his head back and laughed. “Your man Johnny is many things, but he is not a gentleman. You should have seen what we got up to with the women in Gibraltar—”

“Shut up!”

The smack hit me before I could even register, and my ears rang, stars dotting my vision. Andrews grabbed my chin and forced me to face him.

“The way I see it, you are in no position to tell me what to do.” He ran his hand down the length of my trousers and dug into my crotch. “You are at my mercy.”

A wave of panic washed over me, and I searched Andrews’s cruel dark eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Andrews smiled, showing a line of perfect white teeth. “I can tell the Captain now who you are, who you really are. At best, you will face a hundred lashes. Then perhaps he’ll have you arrested, thrown into a Jamaican prison, and leave you there to rot. At worst, he throws you overboard. Happens all the time. No use feeding a stowaway.”

Blood roared in my ears. If Andrews made a production about it, forced the Captain’s hand, Grant would have to dole out some sort of punishment to save face in front of his men. There would be no way around it.

Andrews slammed my hand against the wall. My knuckles bled from the force of it, and I winced.

“But I am not going to do that to you,” he whispered. “I am, after all, a fair man.”

“If you were a fair man and a friend to Johnny, you would keep this secret and let me go on my way,” I spat.

Andrews’s fingers dug deeper into my wrist. “I want something from you.”

“I don’t make bargains with the devil,” I hissed.

Andrews smiled and he released my wrist, turning on his heel. “Then I best seek out the Captain, then.”

“No!” I screamed, grabbing his arm. Flashes of Dunraven, its crenellated towers dark against the sky, sped through my mind, and I dropped to my knees. “Please. Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

The Lieutenant ran his hands through my cropped curls. “You look so pretty there. Like a fresh little lad.”

He smiled and the sight of it curdled my insides.

“I will keep your secret quiet. For now.” Andrews leaned down close to me. “But you need to do something for me.”

“What?” I frowned.

He ran a finger down my cheek and grinned wider, stepping back. “Grant has a series of maps. You have seen him staring at them.”

Some hint of recognition must have flared in my eyes, because he nodded, a wide smile spreading across his thin face.

“I want you to copy them and bring them to me,” he said.

“What do you want with them?”

Andrews sniffed, ignoring me. “I will signal to you, and you will bring them to me in the hold after he falls asleep.”

I narrowed my eyes at the Lieutenant. I had no idea what he wanted with these maps, but if Andrews were involved in the plan, it couldn’t be good.

“And if I refuse?”

He squared his shoulders at me and lifted his chin. “Maybe before running to the Captain, I will throw you to the crew first. Teach you what they do to female stowaways.”

I glared at Andrews, my fists clenched at my sides.

“The maps,” he said with a mock bow. “And be ready when I call for you.”

He turned and walked away, and I let out a long, shuddering exhale. A wave of bile rose up in my throat, but I shoved it down, along with the sobs of helplessness threatening to wrack my body. Now was not the time for womanly tears. I was in the service to his highness’s Royal Navy, and I could take my punches.

…

The Captain dined alone that night, and he invited me to join him. I shoved my food around my plate listlessly, my thoughts far away, back at my safe little fire in the lodge near Dunraven, with Da snoring lightly in the chair beside me. The poor old man must be sick with worry, and a pang of guilt rushed through me as his stern face flashed in my mind. How I wish I could write to him, let him know I was all right, that everything I did, I did for him, for us, for the O’Malleys. For Ireland. I imagined myself riding home on a white stallion, like a princess in a fairy tale, with Johnny at my side, all decorated in ribbons for his valor. Yet, even as the vision took shape in my imagination, my thoughts returned to the Captain across from me, his strong, capable hands. His confident, commandeering manner. Being married to Johnny would be like being married to some doleful farm animal.

But at least a rich farm animal.

Of course, all of this was contingent on Andrews not blowing my true identity, and his words still echoed in my ears.

Be ready when I call for you.

Was I prepared to do what he says? Take these maps from the Captain and copy them out? It would just be a small stack of papers. He probably wouldn’t miss them.

Don’t be dim, Mary.

I stabbed my fork at a potato, circling it in a pool of butter. Andrews wanted those maps for some terrible reason, and I had to figure out why, discover a weakness, a secret. No matter how much I wanted to find Johnny, the thought of betraying Grant made me sick inside. But if I told Grant the truth and he went after Andrews, the Lieutenant would bellow from every corner of the ship that the Captain had a woman holed up in his cabin. I thought of the rough sailors working on the deck above us and the way they gazed upon Grant with a mixture of respect, awe, and genuine trust. A single word from Andrews could destroy everything Grant had built, and he would have no choice but to condemn me in order to save face, proud man he was. I had to do what Andrews said, even if it meant going against the one man trying to protect me aboard this ship.

“Is something troubling you, boy?”

I jumped at the velvety sound of his voice. It had an immediate effect on me, my abdomen fluttering at the sound.

“No, sir.”

“You have not eaten anything.” He paused, then continued in a softer voice. “You need to eat.”

I looked up at his sharp blue eyes studying me, and I swallowed hard. I knew I should tell Grant what happened between Andrews and me today, but the words caught in my throat. I had disturbed the man enough by coming aboard this ship, and I didn’t need him fighting my battles for me. I had to figure this out on my own.

“Are you ill, boy?”

I cleared my throat as my face flushed. “No, sir.”

“Then eat, or I will have to feed you myself.”

Even though he spit out the words, his concern for my welfare sent a flush of heat to my cheeks. Shaking my head, I returned to my previous mission—understanding what those maps were worth.

“I was wondering,” I said in a too high voice. Remembering myself, I resumed in my lower range. “I was wondering about those maps you’re always studying.”

The lines of his face sharpened. “What do you want to know about them?”

I shrank a little in my chair. “Are they helping you lead us to Willaumez’s ship?”

Grant stilled. “Those maps are none of your business.”

I nodded. “I know. I just thought—”

“What? What did you think?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” My leg hopped nervously beneath the table, and I bit down on my lip. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind learning a bit about navigation, and those maps might—”

“You need to put those maps out of your mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

We ate together in awkward silence. Rain pelted against the window, and the beams groaned with the rising storm. Swallowing another bite of bread, I cleared my throat, desperate to change the subject from those bloody maps.

“How did you come to be a cabin boy?” I asked.

Grant leaned back in his chair, and it creaked beneath his weight. The man was a mountain of pure muscle and as impenetrable as a fortress. He made all the furniture appear like children’s toys.

“It is a sad story,” he said.

I shrugged. “I’m Irish. I love a sad story.”

A smile pulled on the edge of his lips, but then he frowned, folding his hands in his lap. “I was born in a brothel.”

My eyes widened, and I leaned forward in my chair. “Oh, now this is a good story.”

Grant shook his head. “My mother had been a maid to a wealthy family, but she was…assaulted by her master and thrown into the street when she became big with me. She had no family, no connections.”

“Oh, that is sad.”

Grant nodded, wiping his hands with his napkin before setting it on the table. “Say what you will about my mother, about the prostitutes who raised me, but all things considered, I had a happy childhood. I was loved, which is more than one can say for most children.”

I nodded. “Being loved makes up for many sins.”

“Aye,” the Captain agreed. “My mother had one frequent customer, a Navy Captain, Captain Bloomfield. I do not know if he loved her, but he was kind to me. He brought me books, filled me with tales of the sea.” Grant’s eyes grew far away, clouded with the past. “And then one day, mother told me to pack my things.” He laughed low beneath his breath. “It was not much. And then the Captain came for me and told me to kiss my mother good-bye.”

Some force wrenched at my heart, and I imagined Grant as a boy, standing in the shadows, embracing his mother for the last time.

“So I went to sea,” the Captain continued. “Bloomfield promised we would come back, but when we did, my mother was gone. Diphtheria outbreak.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

Grant nodded. “I devoted myself then to learning the sailor’s trade. Bloomfield was an excellent mentor.”

“In what way?”

“He taught me everything he knew about commanding a ship, navigation, but more than that.” Grant took a long sip of wine. “He taught me etiquette, how to speak properly. How to be a gentleman.”

“And did he teach you the art of discipline?” I smirked, batting my eyelashes at him.

The Captain’s eyes narrowed on me. “He never touched me, if that’s what you’re assuming. Bloomfield was no pederast. I loved my Captain, and when I grew to a young man, I would do anything to serve him. He helped me rise in the ranks, put me in front of the right people. I owe everything I am to him.”

“Do you think you would like to be an Admiral one day?”

Grant shook his head. “I have risen as far as I can, given the humble circumstances of my birth.”

“Bollocks.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Language, boy.”

“No, sir, it’s bollocks. Thomas Paine says a man should be judged on his deeds and not by his birth.”

He folded his wide arms around his chest. “Thomas Paine said that? I had no idea we had a radical in our midst.”

I shrugged, lifting my eyes innocently up to the ceiling. “Irish.”

Grant took a sip of wine. “Cheers to merit, then, over rank.”

I grabbed my cup. “Sure, I’ll drink to that now. Sláinte. I mean, ‘cheers.’” The conversation dwindled. I cleared my throat. “Have you ever wondered who your father was? Have you ever gone searching for him? Maybe he could do something for you.”

Grant’s face darkened with rage. “I want nothing from that man. But yes, I have spent my whole life searching for him.”

“What for, then?”

“Because when I find him, I am going to kill him.”

My skin prickled, and I hid my shiver by taking a long sip of wine. I had tasted the Captain’s displeasure, and while it thrilled me to no end, God help the person who saw the face of his true ire.

“So,” the Captain continued. “I told you my sad story. Are you ready to tell me yours?”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Not so fast, Captain. You won’t get me to spill my secrets so easily.”

“You said there was trouble at home and that is why you came for Johnny. What does that mean?”

I shrugged, pursing my lips tight.

“I see.” Grant stood up and walked slowly to behind my chair. He clamped his hand territorially on the back of my neck, his other hand reaching down beneath the collar of my shirt to brush against my bindings. “You can try to hide, boy, but I will know the secrets of your soul soon enough.” He undid the knotted gauze, his hand slipping beneath the layers to find my breast.

“My soul is a locked door, Captain.” I made a sound low in my throat as he rubbed my nipple with his thumb.

He leaned down until his lips brushed my ear. “I want to unravel you, open you like the petals of a flower. I want you to bare everything to me.” He nipped my neck, and I gasped as he pulled my nipple taut beneath my loosened bindings. His lips found mine and he kissed me furiously, as if his mouth could part the sea surrounding the deserted island of my heart and make a path. I met his lips with the same ferocity, and before I could take another breath, the Captain had picked me up from the chair and brought me through the door to his bedchambers.

Settling me on the bed, he drew my shirt over my head, balling it and throwing it across the room. Then he set to work unraveling my bindings until he laid my breasts bare, my nipples hardening as they met the cool air of his sleeping quarters. He blew against them, taking each one in his mouth, creating a delicious suction until I arched my spine with a moan.

He pushed my breasts together, creating a ravine through which he stared up at me with his intense blue eyes. “Are you actually affianced to him?”

I rolled my eyes back in my head and lifted my hips to settle him deeper within the concave of my inner thighs. His cock pushed roughly against my folds, hungry and seeking.

He bit my nipple, and I let out a shocked squeal.

“Are you?” He raised his voice.

“Yes,” I whispered as his hand traveled down the length of my waist. He brushed against my belly, his finger twirling around my bellybutton. “I think so.”

He stopped.

“What do you mean? You are either betrothed to him or you are not.”

“There were…discrepancies.”

His hand slipped beneath my britches, grazing over my mound. “What sort of discrepancies?”

“’Tis none of your business.” I gasped as he found the small button between my folds and flicked it with his finger.

“You have made it my business,” he said in a dark voice.

“Captain, please,” I moaned, begging him. For what, I did not know.

He slid a finger inside me, teasing my opening while he continued working on my clit. “Tell me.”

“No.”

He inserted another finger, this time massaging the center of pleasure in my core.

“Ah!”

“Tell me,” he whispered, pressing kisses on my thigh.

“There was a lost letter, a ring they said I stole,” I blurted out in one fevered jumble.

Grant paused.

“I know,” I panted, rising to my elbows. “I know what it sounds like.”

The Captain continued exploring me with his hands as he breathed against my lower abdomen. He replaced his finger with his tongue, and he lightly licked my clit in a circular motion. The sensation sent me spinning, my head rolling back onto the mattress as I stifled a moan with my arm.

“It sounds like a string of poor luck,” he breathed between my legs.

“Bad judgment on my part. I don’t believe in luck.”

He licked me again, and I shivered, scissoring my legs. I hooked an ankle over his shoulder, and he pulled me closer to him. “An Irish girl who does not believe in luck. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“I suppose I’m lucky to be here right now.”

Grant’s tongue lapped against the space between my clit and my opening, drinking in the flood of wetness he produced with his fingers. He continued to search within me, his hand working faster inside as he licked harder.

“So you wish Johnny to claim you so you can clear your name?” he breathed.

“Yes, sir…ahhh! Sir…” I hissed.

His fingers dropped away, and his tongue darted inside me, jabbing, circling, licking. Jabbing, circling, licking. The rhythm intensified, his ministrations practiced to the point of intuition. He placed both hands on my hips, bobbing inches above the bed, and bore down on me until I came completely under his control. The sound of his face smacking against my wet folds excited me, and I rocked into his tongue even as he pulled me closer to him. With one last jerk, like the pull of a rope, my body collapsed inside itself. I tore into his sheets with my fingers, my spine contorted with endless pleasure.

He raised his body over mine, covering my scream of passion with a hard kiss. With one swift movement, he was inside me. He came fast, pushing my already pulsating body to greater heights with his violent pounding, and with each thrust he gave me more and more of his seed until he collapsed on top of me.

“Are you in love with him?” he breathed, lifting himself up to scrutinize my shuddering, fevered body.

I looked him straight into his blue eyes. “You’ve already asked me that question.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, staring down the length of my waist, my breasts, finally meeting my gaze once more. “I do not believe you.”

“I don’t care,” I spat, unsheathing his cock from my core and rolling over, my back to him. “What would you know about love, anyway? The only person you’ve ever loved was a pedophilic sea Captain.”

Grant paused, the tension in the room rising.

“Interesting,” he said, settling back against the mattress.

I turned around. His chest lay bare before me, each muscle so sharp and chiseled, like it was carved by the gods themselves. I shook my head. “What’s interesting?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “How defensive you get about it. As if you have something to prove.”

Forgetting myself, I threw a pillow at his head. He dodged it with ease, and before I could dart from the bed, he had me pinned against the mattress. His hair fell against his forehead in damp strands, his eyes blazing with blue fire. “You are still keeping something from me. I aim to discover it.”

“I dare you to try,” I replied.

“I believe you underestimate my power.”

My chest heaved, sweat beading on my forehead. Underestimating the power of this man would be an act of sheer ignorance. I changed tack, my wrists falling limp in his hands.

“If you have ever loved something, something you would die for a thousand times over, then please. Don’t ask me again.”

Grant’s eyes softened, and he nodded, releasing me with a long exhale. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.

“Make sure my boots are glistening tomorrow, boy,” he said.

“I will, sir,” I whispered, gathering my clothes.

“And don’t forget to polish the buckles, either.”

“Of course.”

“And not so much starch in my shirt this time.”

“As you like it, Captain.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Chapter Fifteen

After that night, life fell into a steady routine. During the day, the quartermaster ordered me about like a slave, rapping me on the head every time I messed up an intricate knot or didn’t scrub the deck clean enough. But sometimes late at night, he would point to the heavens above, teaching me the complex system of stars and navigation. Beneath those twinkling beacons in the dark sky, with my eyes wide and the salty air stinging my cheeks, I began to see the order of things, the path laid before us.

As for the Captain, he remained cool and distant since our last exchange. During the day, he ran back and forth on the deck in a blur of blue, shouting orders at the herd of officers following him. But at the end of the day, he all but collapsed into bed, slipping into a deep sleep. Sometimes I wanted to reach out and touch him, soothe the creases in his brow, but what good would it do for him? For me? He knew it was Johnny I was after, and the sooner we found Willaumez’s ship, the better we would all be for it. Sometimes Andrews would pass me on deck, but he never glanced at me nor called for me as he had threatened.

The gun captain had decided to train me to be a powder monkey for the cannon. A tall, coarse man, he walked me through to where I would locate the powder in the ship’s magazine and showed me the most efficient way to carry it up to artillery. When we finished the tour, he spit out a blob of tobacco and pulled out a stopwatch from his coat. Even with the sailors tromping across the deck and the groaning of the beams above our head, the ticking hands pounded in my ears.

“Move yer arse, O’Brien! Ye need to get down to four minutes, ye worthless cunt!” he roared after me.

My blood raced through my veins as I bolted up to the gun deck, the heavy cartridge digging into my back. I passed it off to the gunner, who shook his head with a patronizing smirk.

“Six minutes!” the gun captain roared, slapping me on the back of my head. The sting of his hand made my ears ring. “The Elizabeth will be Swiss cheese at this point, and yer bloody mop top will be bobbing in the sea with the rest of yer severed limbs. Do it again!”

I clutched at my side, trying to catch my breath.

“Go, ye little shite!” He kicked me in the backside, and I went sprawling to the deck, the gunners howling with laughter.

“Ye think the French are gonna give ye a break?” he bellowed. “Ye think they’re gonna bring ye a cup of tea? Get yer arse down to the hold now!”

I scrambled to my feet.

“And keep yer bloody head down unless ye want a bullet between yer eyes, ye bastard!”

Cheeks burning, my sides twisting in pain, I raced to the hold, the quartermaster still hollering behind me.

The darkness below deck swallowed me, but with the efficiency of an automaton, I grabbed the cartridge and hoisted it over my shoulder. Just as I ran to the stairs, a hand shot out from the darkness and covered my mouth, smothering my scream.

“Where have you been, my little cabin boy?”

Andrews.

Cold sweat broke out like pond scum on my skin. I wrestled away from him. “I’m wanted on the gun deck.”

He grabbed my arm, thrusting me back to him. “I have been thinking of you.”

I struggled against his bruising fingers. “Go fuck yourself.”

Andrews’s grip tightened around my wrist, bruising my flesh. “Meet me back here tonight with the maps, or I go straight to the Captain.”

I slammed my heel on Andrews’s boot, and the Lieutenant let out a yelp. I darted for the hold, his hands flailing in the darkness for me. I did not look back until I returned to the gun deck.

“O’Brien, you bloody scab!” The quartermaster’s hand slammed in the back of my head, and I crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes, the cartridge rolling out of my hands. He towered over me, his hands on his hips. “Ye taking a nap down there? Ye want his King’s finest standing around deck with their cocks in their hands waiting for yer sorry arse to bring them some bloody gunpowder so maybe, just maybe we can get this whoreson Napoleon?”

He spit out a fresh glob of tobacco and reached down to me with a hand blackened with gun oil. “Get up, ye sniveling shite. Yer poxy mother should have thrown ye into the river for as good as ye are to anyone. Get up now!”

Sailors sniggered behind their hands, and my face flamed, my stomach still churning from Andrews ’s requests. I could do nothing but run again and again, until finally, sometime near sundown, I made it to four minutes.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I entered Grant’s chambers and found him missing. Looking around to make sure I was alone, I darted to his desk, rummaging through the papers in search of the maps. Finally, I found them buried in a drawer underneath some old correspondence. Taking out a fresh sheet of paper and a quill, I set out to sketching them, my hand flying across the page before I could even think of my betrayal, of the consequences of my actions. Andrews may have been a spy, but if I went to the Captain, the Lieutenant would tell everyone what was missing beneath my trousers. Word would get out and Grant would lose his credibility, and I would be locked in the brig or thrown overboard. They were just some bloody maps, the edge of some island in the Caribbean.

With trembling hands, it took me almost an hour to complete the copies. Boots thundered behind the door, and I finished up, throwing the original maps back into the desk. I stowed my drawings in my coat pocket, and when Grant opened the door, nothing looked out of place. I pushed a broom across the floor, but he barely said two words to me as he remained locked in conversation with two other officers. Setting my broom down, I dashed downstairs to the galley to retrieve his dinner, a clawing, churning feeling in my gut for what I had done.

My hands shook as I poured Grant’s wine, my entire body a mass of nerves and exhaustion. The officers had left and only the two of us remained.

He grabbed the pitcher from me and pulled up at my sleeve, eying the bruises on my wrist. “Where did you get these?”

I blinked, hesitating, remembering Andrews’s strong grip in the hold.

“Oh, this is nothing,” I said, waving him away. “The gun captain, sir. He was training me to be a powder monkey.”

The Captain grunted. “Much good it will do you. I will make sure you will never see battle.”

“I’m not afraid of war,” I said beneath my breath.

“That is because you’ve never seen it.”

“I saw my fair share during the 1798 uprising, and again in 1803.”

“You saw it. You did not fight it.”

I stifled a laugh with a cough. Now was probably not the best time to tell the Captain my Ma and I ran weapons to the front lines of the rising. Da had taught me how to shoot, and I was a crack shot. A natural, he had said. But like the Captain, he refused to allow me to do any of the real fighting.

Grant shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “Are they treating you well down there on the gun deck? No one…?”

I blinked, my tired head gathering Grant’s meaning. “No one suspects, sir.”

He nodded. “Good. Let us keep it that way.” He took another sip of wine and stared at me from across the table. “You have proven yourself to be a stout sailor.”

Heat flamed my face. “I’m happy my work pleases you, sir.”

He rose, and I stood, too. “I will not need your assistance tonight. You look as though you could fall asleep in that chair. Clear these things and get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

But rest was the furthest thing from my mind.

“You do please me, O’Brien.” Grant hesitated at the door of his chamber, his eyes soft. “I was angry at first when I discovered you, but your presence has brought me peace. I am honored I could help you on your journey. If there is anything you need—”

“No, sir, I am quite well.” I stood up and forced a smile.

“Are you sure?” He paused. “You seem troubled tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Just tired, ’tis all.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but then he cleared his throat and opened the door, slamming it behind him.

I worked furiously to clean the quarters. When I finished, I pressed my ear to the Captain’s door, listening for any sign of movement. After I felt sure he had settled in for the night, I padded across the room and made my way down to the hold.

Lieutenant Andrews waited for me in the darkness, a bottle of whiskey in his hands. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.”

“I’m here.”

He stood up and sauntered over to me. His fingers trailed down my arm. “So I see.”

A wave of bile surged up my throat. “Listen, Lieutenant. I know you feel like you have some hold over me, but I’m asking you to think clearly. You are a gentleman. Brighton is your friend. You are an officer in the Royal Navy.”

Andrews chuckled, his hand inching across my waist. The smell of liquor on his lips almost knocked me down, and I tried not to heave.

“All the more reason this set of circumstances excites me most irregularly.” His fingers dug into my side. “Did you bring what I asked?”

I wrenched myself away. “Is it money you want? I know Brighton can compensate you for ensuring I have safe passage.”

Andrews smiled. “I have money. I want those maps.”

I shoved him off, and he stumbled, tripping over his big black boots. I pilfered the folded stack of papers from my pocket and threw them at him. “Here you go, you disgusting wretch.”

He collected them from the floor, his eyes glittering as he slipped them into his coat.

“Now leave me alone,” I hissed, turning on my heel.

“I don’t think so.” He took a step toward me.

“Go to hell, Andrews.” I whirled on him, my feet planted to the floor. “I gave you what you wanted.”

He sneered, saliva dripping off his chin. “You’ll spread your legs for me, or I will tell the Captain who you really are!”

“So tell him!” I spat. “What’s he going to do? Turn this ship around? Throw me overboard?”

Andrews’s eyes flickered with doubt. “He might.”

“He won’t.” But my voice wavered, unsure what would happen if Andrews revealed my identity to the entire crew. Grant built loyalty amongst his men by establishing a mutual relationship of honesty and trust, that much was sure. If the Lieutenant revealed my identity, it would make him look weak, deceptive. He would have no choice but to turn his back on me to ensure stability amongst his sailors.

The Lieutenant’s gaze narrowed on me, and then he cracked a sickening smile. “You’ve gotten to him somehow, haven’t you?”

“The Captain has no idea, and I aim to keep it that way.”

Andrews tapped Grant’s maps against his palm and approached me with long, slow strides. “Oh, he’s had you. I can tell.”

“Shut up, Andrews.” I planted my feet to the floor. “You’re the only one who knows.”

He pursed his lips and made a tsk sound. “So the brave Captain Grant is a seducer of women, a co-conspirator of a treasonous stowaway.”

Andrews’s hand slipped down my back, and he thrust against my hips.

I squirmed, but he dug his other hand into my shoulder, pressing me closer to him.

“I’m telling you, the man has not touched me,” I hissed. “And what a bloody hypocrite you are to accuse him of it.”

The Lieutenant threw his head back and laughed. “The only difference between Grant and me is Grant actually has a moral code.”

“So leave him alone, you bastard!”

Andrews ran his hands down my backside, and I gave him a quick shove backward.

“Stay away from me! Or I’ll tell the Captain you tried to bugger me. What’s the penalty for that? Court-martial?”

“As if he cares!” He lunged at me again but hesitated when I whipped out my knife.

“I’m warning you,” I said in a low voice, waving my weapon. “Stay away from me.”

Andrews glanced down at my knife and laughed, drunken and throaty. “You even know how to wield that thing?”

“You want to find out?” I backed toward the door of the hold. “I mean it. Don’t come near me.”

My foot caught on a sack of potatoes and I went flying backward. Seeing an opportunity, Andrews tackled me, pinning me with his body. The wind knocked out of my lungs, and I couldn’t even muster the breath to scream as he slammed my wrist against the floor, nearly knocking the knife from my hand. I thrashed beneath him, sending my knee into his groin. He winced, letting out a grunt of pain. His hold on my wrist lessened for a moment, and I slammed my knife into his throat.

He sat up, confused, gurgling and coughing, holding his neck as blood streamed between his fingers. I scrambled away, panting, a prickling sense of horror at what I’d done spreading through my body. He reached for me, dark eyes pleading, then collapsed face-first on the ground. His body rattled and then lay still.

“Oh God,” I whispered, my voice echoing back to me in the heavy silence of the hold.

Blood pooled around Andrews, black and shiny as a mourning dress. I hugged my knees against my chest, my breath coming out in strained, choking hiccups. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I pushed down the panic and tried to form a plan.

First, get rid of the body. A cold sweat broke out between my shoulder blades and my stomach churned as I searched the hold for some solution. I couldn’t exactly carry Andrews’s corpse up to the deck and pitch it overboard. Not only could I not bear the load, but I would have to contend with near seven hundred sailors milling about the ship.

The bilge!

I grabbed hold of the knife sticking out of his throat, and it released with a sickening sound. Planting my feet on the floor, I grabbed his hands and pulled, his weight straining my sockets. After managing to drag Andrews’s body a mere three inches, I had to stop and rest. My already weary bones screamed at me, but I had to keep going. Gritting through the pain, I pulled again, this time moving at least six inches.

After what seemed like an eternity, I made it to the bilge. Sea water mixed with feces and piss roiled in the pit. Bracing myself against the wall, I kicked Andrews’s body into the cesspool, and he fell in with a loud splash. Bubbles rose to the surface, and then the constant churning resumed, erasing all appearance of his existence.

Yes, there was still a body. Pumping that bilge would reveal Andrews’s demise. Hopefully by then the water would disguise all signs of foul play, and everyone would assume he fell in drunk.

And by the time they clean out the ship, I’ll be long gone. Hopefully back to Ireland with Johnny in tow.

I wiped my sweaty brow with the back of my arm, careful not to spread Andrews’s blood all over myself. I set to work cleaning up the tell-tale streak of red leading to the bilge. Scrubbing the remainder of the night, the hold never sparkled so. I had just finished my work and put away the mop and bucket when I heard a noise behind me.

“Boy?”

My shoulders slumped, and I turned, wiping the last of Andrews’s blood from my hands with a rag.

“Yes, Captain?”

Grant’s blue eyes blazed in the dark hold of the ship and he studied me quizzically. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to check on you and you were gone.”

I smiled, nodding. “Aye, sir. I woke up in a panic and realized I had forgotten your boots again.” I stalked over to where they stored the shoe polish. “See? Just needed to grab some.”

With a bow, I made to move past him.

He grabbed my chin and forced me to stare into his eyes. “Are you lying to me?”

All the blood rushed from my face, and I opened my mouth to confess everything. But at the last moment, I decided otherwise. A co-conspirator to my treason as a castaway would be one thing, but mixing Grant up in all this violence would place him in complete jeopardy as an officer.

“No, sir,” I said. “Why would I lie about that?”

“Because there is an empty whiskey bottle on the floor.”

Blasted! How did I miss that?

“Whiskey, sir?” I batted my eyelashes up at him, and he squinted at me hard.

“Get to my quarters.” He shrugged me off, and I followed him through the sleepy ship up to his room.

Chapter Sixteen

He pulled me into his chambers and closed the door, turning to face me with a dark stare. “Who have you been meeting?”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “No one, sir.”

“I have heard you leave my quarters at night before. Where do you go?”

“To retrieve supplies, Captain.”

He folded his arms, his nightshirt tightening around his impossibly large biceps. His body crackled with tension, his blue eyes boring through me. “I know you are hiding something.”

“Aside from my breasts, sir?” Desperate to get his mind away from what I was doing in the hold, I threw my shirt over my head and let it slip to the floor. All that remained were the layers of gauze crisscrossing my flesh.

He stalked over to me and grabbed my arm. “Do not get saucy with me.”

“Well, I think this is quite the inquisition over a tin of shoe polish. I needed to shine your boots.” I stared at him through hooded eyes. “You made it very clear how you like things, Captain.”

He edged me against the wall, his breath hot against my cheek. “I am not so sure I did.”

My body responded to his nearness, heat blooming between my legs. He fisted my hair and threw my head back, baring my neck to him. He trailed long, sensual kisses to my clavicle, pausing in the hollow of my throat, and I moaned, shifting my hips closer to his. “God, woman, when I see that little ass swaying in those trousers, it is all I can do not to tie you to my bed and keep you here.”

“Why don’t you?” I said, the words pouring from my mouth before I had a moment to think about them. “Tie me to your bed?”

He made a low, warning sound. With one swift movement, he hoisted me up on his hip and threw me onto the mattress, straddling me. He dragged his shirt over his head and rolled it up in a long, tight rope. He bound my wrists together so tight, I gasped. With what was left, he spun it across the bedpost, his callused sailor hands creating a firm, intricate knot.

“How is that?” the Captain kissed my bound wrists, his fingers tracing the length of my arms before settling on my waist.

I gave him a sly smile, squirming slightly, surprised at how little give his linen shirt provided. I lay there prostrate to him, at his mercy. The thought excited him, his cock straining beneath his trousers. He caught my gaze, and I arched an eyebrow.

“I suppose I could get used to this,” I whispered.

“Good,” he said with an air of finality. “This is exactly where I want you. Not giving my men unclean thoughts with that cherry mouth of yours.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Oh, because you have such a pious mind.”

“I assure you, my thoughts are very clean.”

I raised my hips, my core aching for him. He began working on unraveling my bound breasts, slowly rolling up the gauze, his fingers tickling my ribs.

“Tell me of your ‘clean’ thoughts, Captain.”

“Well,” he said, hovering over me, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. “I certainly dream of scrubbing that smart mouth of yours.” He leaned in for a long, hard kiss, sucking on my lower lip until I cried out, my hips rising from the mattress.

“And then,” he whispered hoarsely, crawling down my body, his blue eyes never leaving mine. “I long to bathe this beautiful belly with my come.”

I moaned at the thought of his essence glistening over my skin. He smiled, tracing small, perfect kisses over my stomach.

He moved lower, his face nestling between my thighs. “And of course, these dirty little holes require a good scrub.” He buried his head into my mound, his tongue teasing my opening while he lazily flicked my clit.

“You are very strict, Captain.”

“I keep an immaculate ship.” He slid a finger inside me and shook his head as he licked the inside of my folds. “I fear we may be here till morning cleaning you up.”

“Mmmm…” I moaned. “Please, sir, I need to meet inspection.”

“So you shall.” He tucked into the space between my thighs, his tongue working furiously, licking me with a cruel intensity, meticulous in his attentions. He slipped another finger inside, and my hips rose up to meet him, jerking with his furious movements. I longed to run my fingers through his hair, scratch the flesh on his shoulders as his mouth sucked on my folds, but my wrists burned against my tight bindings.

“Lay back,” the Captain demanded. “You have done enough cleaning and running ragged today. Let me do the work.”

I gasped as he hooked his fingers, massaging my inner walls, the same time as his tongue attacked the small nub of my clit. Blood roared in my ears, and a great wave of pleasure crashed over me.

He knew I was ready for him, and he tore off his trousers, thrusting deep inside of me. I cried out, and he pressed a hand against my mouth, pushing me back on the mattress with a freezing look. I blinked, catching my breath as he paused inside of me. My flesh surrounded him, taking him in as he settled in deeper. Even though I could feel his massive cock pulsing and contracting inside me, he was in no hurry to come this time. His sense of control overwhelmed me, warming my body as I melted against the bed, letting him take over.

The Captain’s eyes never left mine, and he glided into me once more, hard and deep. My thighs parted wider for him, my hips rising with some animalistic intuition, wanting him to bury himself inside of me, conquer me. I threw my legs around his waist, locking my ankles, wanting to somehow hold him even closer. Something broke within Grant then, like a miner working diligently through a seam of gold, he found the lodestone, and he pounded against me, breaking me in two beneath him. He swallowed my cries with hard kisses, my body collapsing beneath his hands, his cock, his gasping breath as he panted into my mouth. I came hard, his kisses swallowing my whimpering cries.

He slipped out of me, come shooting across my belly as he pumped himself raw over my skin. I wanted it all over me, moaning as he forced his beautiful glistening seed across my breasts. My chest rose and fell, our heartbeats slowing down together. He brushed a sweaty curl away from my forehead and kissed me there, so tenderly it made me want him all over again.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered.

I looked away, burying my face in my shoulder, my hands still bound. “You know my name.”

“Your real name.”

I breathed in deeply, looking back into his eyes. “Tell me your name. Your Christian name.”

He nodded. “Richard.”

I smiled. “A name for a king.”

Grant looked away sadly. “A bastard King…”

“Hey!” I jerked my hips up to get his attention. “So was William the Conqueror, but it didn’t stop him from taking over England.”

He smirked, showering my shoulder blade with kisses. I giggled, his stubble tickling me. He let out a laugh as I struggled to get away, and I squealed beneath him. Finally, out of breath, he propped himself on his elbow, his hand settling over my heart. “Your name.”

“What’s in a name?” I said, in a fake English accent. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?”

“Your name.”

“All right,” I huffed, blowing a lock of hair from my forehead. “It’s Mary. Mary O’Malley.”

He smiled. “Mary?”

“Aye. Mary. Just like every other Irish girl in the known world.”

He cupped my cheek with his hand. “Mary,” he said. “I like Mary.”

I smiled. “I like Richard.”

The warmth in his eyes faded, and a wrinkle furrowed his brow. “What will you do if you do not find Johnny?”

I looked away with a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I could farm myself out as a powder monkey.”

“I am serious, Mary.”

The sound of my name on his lips startled me, and I glanced back up at him, the intensity of his stare sending a shudder down my spine.

“I’ve honestly not thought that far ahead yet, Captain,” I said. “Johnny has to be alive. There’s no other way about it.”

“But if he is lost,” he prompted. “Would you consider…” He swallowed hard, stumbling over the words. “Would you consider staying with me?”

I shook my head. “I have responsibilities, sir. It would not do for me to be your cabin boy.”

“I do not mean as my cabin boy, Mary.”

“Sir…”

“Shhh…” He pressed a finger to my lips. “Consider my offer. That is all I ask.”

I closed my eyes, Dunraven flashing in my mind. Not even death could part me from that place for too long. Sure I would be haunting it long after they buried me in the ground. What greater heaven could there be? But then I breathed in the smell of Grant, the salt of the ocean lingering on his hair and skin, and I wondered if maybe there might be something else for me, something I never had the capacity to imagine. The endless freedom of the sea. Adventure on the waves, the two of us seeking out all the mysterious corners of the earth. Perhaps…

The Captain untied his shirt from the bedpost and led me shivering to the copper tub like a slave, my wrists still bound. The idea excited me, and I stood inside the cold metal staring up at him. He poured a little water from his pitcher, and it pooled around my toes. Grabbing a sponge and a bar of soap, he commenced to scrub every inch of me, wetting me first and lathering up my flesh until he covered me in a shroud of white bubbles. I gasped as he rinsed me, the water cold and trickling down my skin in soapy rivulets. When he finished, he wrapped me in a warm towel and provided me with some new, freshly laundered clothes and a roll of gauze.

“They are castoffs, but they are clean at least.”

“Thank you, sir,” I murmured, folding the clothes in my arms.

I made to put them on, but Grant grabbed my hand. “Will you remain in my chambers tonight?”

I averted my gaze, the heat from his eyes inflaming me again. “Sir, you know it wouldn’t be prudent.”

He stepped toward me, caging me in with his arms. “I want you close to me, Mary.”

I rested my head on his chest, allowing his warmth to consume me. For a moment, I let his strength penetrate my heart, tasting the sweet medicine of his love, his desire. I thought of the letter Jacob had burned and Johnny’s handsome, but vapid, face. I could leave that all behind to stay with Grant, travel the world with him, please him, take his body. But that would have meant walking away from Dunraven, and I couldn’t do it.

I stood on tiptoe and buried my face in his neck, breathing him in again before planting a tender kiss on his throat. Ducking out of his arms, I bowed, mumbling about needing sleep. With a disappointed glance, he turned away from me, propping himself up on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.

I lay in the pantry until sunrise, watching the sun cast orange frames on the wall. The events of the night before jumbled in my head—the violence of Andrews’s attack, the adoration in Grant’s eyes. In spite of my exhausted limbs and heavy eyes, sleep refused to come, and I arose early to begin my daily duties.

As I laid out the breakfast items, a sharp pounding on the door echoed in the room. Hands trembling, I opened it a crack and recognized one of the younger Lieutenants hopping nervously from foot to foot on the other side.

“I need to see the Captain at once,” he demanded, shouldering past me.

“He has not yet risen!” I called after him.

The young man rapped his knuckles on the door, and it opened. Grant stood there fully dressed, staring down at the Lieutenant.

“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but we have a situation.”

“Go on, Lieutenant.”

“It’s Andrews, sir. He did not show up for watch this morning, and no one can find him.”

Blood pounded in my ears, but I forced myself to keep my breath steady as Grant looked over the young Lieutenant’s shoulder and stared right at me.

Chapter Seventeen

The entire crew stood on the deck, rows and rows of sailors standing tall and straight in their blue uniforms. A grey sky stretched high above us, pale and still, the wind rippling through our hair and snapping the sails. The air had turned cool, the sea a dark, foreboding, bottle green lined with filmy white on the edges of the choppy waves.

Grant paced, periodically meeting the gaze of a random sailor before moving on, the sound of his large black boots thudding hard with each step. The men followed him with their eyes, their backs straight, hands steady at their sides. No one knew Grant’s real story—I could tell that much from hanging around the gun deck. Still, they admired him because he wasn’t like the other officers. Second and third sons of fading gentry. No, Grant was a man just like them, and his voice soared over the gusting wind, resonating in my soul and hollowing me out.

“If anyone knows anything… If you have seen anything, you must step forward. The efficacy of a ship’s crew is dependent on the goodwill and forthrightness of its sailors. It is your duty to speak to me of any clues to the whereabouts of Lieutenant Andrews.”

He stopped and turned suddenly, his eyes meeting mine for a second before he looked over the mass of men before him. “We will continue our search, but in the meantime, keep your ears and eyes open for any sign of the Lieutenant so we may bring him home safely. Now back to work.”

“Aye, Captain!” the crew shouted.

“Dismissed,” he said.

The deck resumed in a flurry of activity, and I made to report to the quartermaster when a firm hand fell on my shoulder.

“O’Brien,” a gruff voice said behind me. I turned and McGregor stood before me, the breeze catching his floppy hair and brushing it away from his forehead.

“The Captain wants ye to spend some time in the surgery with me today,” he said. “We’ll need to train ye before we reach the West Indies.”

“Of course,” I mumbled, following McGregor below deck.

Injury was common aboard the ship. Sailors fell, fights broke out, limbs were broken. There was dysentery and other ills. But today the surgery stood still and empty, crisp white sheets stretched across the few beds the ship could afford.

“So do ye have some history mending bodies?” McGregor asked, his warm eyes putting me at ease after the Captain’s stern directive above. My mind raced, wondering if I had been seen, if someone had heard something, but I tried to focus on McGregor’s rugged face as he tidied up his already meticulous surgical materials. My mother would have been so proud.

“My ma was a bit of a healer, you could say, sir,” I said. “I know basic things like setting broken bones, stitching people up.”

McGregor’s face brightened. “Is that right? Delightful! We need able hands in the surgery after a battle.”

“Of course, sir.” I nodded. “I do whatever the Captain orders.”

McGregor smiled. “Certainly. He is a very commandeering sort of person.”

“But trustworthy,” I piped up.

“Aye. There is no one in this world I would trust more.” McGregor looked away, out the small narrow window in the surgery. A light rain made darted patterns across the pane. “Let’s get started then.”

McGregor showed me where he kept supplies and walked me through a few basic procedures. When he finished, he motioned me over to his desk, and I sat across from him on a simple wooden stool. He opened a drawer and brought out something small and orange, the size of a ball.

“Would you like some? It’s an orange.”

“I’ve never had one, sir.”

McGregor smiled. “Yer in for a real treat.” He peeled it, juices running down his nimble surgical hands. He broke the tender flesh of the fruit in half and placed it in my palm.

“Go on,” he said. “Taste it.”

Tentatively, I broke off a small piece and slipped it into my mouth. Sunshine and sweetness rolled over my tongue, and I let out a small moan of pleasure as the bright tasting liquid dripped down my throat. “It’s good.” I chuckled, wiping my moist lips with the back of my hand.

McGregor laughed, biting into his half. “So, how does yer mother approve of ye taking up the sailor’s life?”

“I don’t know, sir. My mother is dead.”

McGregor’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. ’Twas rude of me.”

“No, no.” I waved him off. “How would you know it?”

The surgeon nodded, swallowing another piece of his orange. “How did she die?”

“Oh. Well.” The fruit turned to ash in my mouth, and I repressed the old familiar wave of rage welling up inside me. “She died in the rising.”

“A tragedy, O’Brien,” McGregor whispered.

“Ma was quite a revolutionary, and Da said she had a hard time keeping her mouth shut. I suppose we had that much in common.” I laughed beneath my breath, turning to meet the surgeon’s sympathetic gaze. “It was a retaliation killing. An eye for an eye, I suppose.” I never talked about my mother, but the sound of her screams as those terrible men dragged her away still haunted me. Jamming the last bit of fruit into my mouth, I sat there chewing and staring at my hands, thinking of how I hid beneath the stairs, powerless.

Over the years, I would learn the truth, how a marauding band of Orange Boys heard rumors of my ma’s spying and made an example of her. I never knew for sure what “made an example of” truly meant, but she must have endured unspeakable violence at their hands. Lord Brighton openly condemned their brutality, but nothing ever came of it after the rising. No arrests. No retribution. Da threw himself into taking care of Dunraven as steward, and he never spoke of the events of 1798 again. Perhaps he worked so hard for Lord Brighton in order to keep me safe, so that by proving his loyalty he could appear the ever-steadfast servant and evade closer scrutiny. But his backbreaking labor only made me all that more desperate to bring the estate back into the O’Malley family.

I glanced up, shaking my head and rubbing my sticky hands across my trousers. “Rebellions are a messy business, Mr. McGregor. As a Scotsman, you should know that.”

McGregor’s face reddened, and he lifted his palms. “I didn’t mean to pry. That is—”

My face grew hot, and I nodded, rising to leave. “I think I’m needed in—”

The door burst open and five sweaty sailors tromped in, carrying in their arms a bloated, human corpse.

“We found Andrews, sir!” one of them cried.

“What’s left of him,” another muttered.

My blood ran cold, and I stood rooted to the spot, my heart thundering against my rib cage.

They threw the body onto one of the cots, bilge water dripping all over the floor of the surgery and through the crisp white sheets, staining them a nasty brownish-grey. His face had expanded in size, blue and veiny, and it looked as if it could pop like a soap bubble just to touch it. Rigor mortis had set in, and he lay there like a swollen, oversize doll, his limbs sticking out on all sides, spilling over the cot. Something had attacked Andrews’s eyes, his brown irises scraped away to a milky blue consistency. Bile rose in my throat, and I clamped a hand against my mouth, swallowing down the acid churning in my stomach. Sure enough, a deep red gash opened up Andrews’s neck, revealing to anyone with two wits to rub together that Andrews hadn’t just taken a drunken tumble into the bilge.

“Get the Captain,” McGregor whispered. His usually jovial mien turned serious, and he shook his head. Rolling up his sleeves, he turned toward his cabinet to retrieve his surgical supplies.

The young sailors stood there in awe of the corpse, and a crowd had gathered by the door.

“Now!” McGregor bellowed so loud I jumped.

The sailors scrambled out of the surgery. I made to follow, but McGregor caught me.

“Can you stay, O’Brien? I’ll need an assistant for the autopsy.”

“Autopsy?” I said, the timbre in my voice creeping up with nervousness. It was a word I didn’t know.

“The Admiral will need a full report, and by the looks of things”—McGregor gave a furtive glance toward Andrews’s body—“this does na appear to be an accident.”

Grant leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. “We cannot tell this to the crew. It will only start a panic.”

McGregor nodded. “Yes, sir, but with all due respect, there is a murderer aboard this ship. The Admiral will want to see justice.”

“Justice?” the Captain said darkly. “Everyone knows Andrews was a bastard and a drunk. Best case scenario, he cheated on cards and one of the sailors took him out. Worst case scenario, that gash came from a rat after stumbling face first into the bilge in some drunken stupor. Either way, do you want me to put that down on an official report? Perhaps I should write that in a letter to his father?”

McGregor blanched and covered Andrews’s face with a sheet. He stepped back and nodded. “You are right, Captain. Of course.”

“I will take care of the Admiral. I shall tell his family he died valiantly in battle.”

McGregor nodded. “And what about the sailors who carried up the body?”

Grant stared hard at Andrews’s shrouded body. “They’ll talk, but everyone knows what sort Andrews was. As I said, in the end, the official word will be he died a hero.” The Captain started for the door. “Prepare him for a sea burial. O’Brien, I need you in my chambers.”

My stomach bottomed out, and I gave McGregor a quick bow before jogging after Grant, his long gait propelling him through the dark reaches of the ship and up to his quarters. My heart pounded as I followed him, my hands shaking in my pockets. The crew bustled around us, but I swore I heard my name muttered by a group of sailors as we passed through the gun deck. When I turned toward the sound, they averted their eyes.

The Captain opened his cabin door, and I raced to slide in behind him before it slammed in my face. When it clicked shut, Grant grabbed me with such force, I gasped, my toes barely tracing the floor as he dragged me into his sleeping chambers, kicking the door shut behind him.

He pushed me against the wall. “What. Have. You. Done.”

His eyes burned through me, and fear like I had never known iced my blood, tightening my throat.

“Answer me.” He gave my shoulders a slight shake, and I shrank away. He forced my head back, locking my gaze.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” I managed to say, the words tumbling over each other. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Do not lie to me, Mary.” His voice sank low and dark, reverberating deep in my chest. “Tell me what happened with Andrews.”

I shook my head. “No, sir.”

“No?” His eyes widened, and then he blinked slowly, a horrible frown distorting his face.

I curled my hands into tight fists at my side, standing my ground. It was bad enough the Captain had covered up what happened to Andrews, but if I had told him what I had done and why, he would become my accomplice, too. Not only that, he would never forgive me for copying those maps, and the thought of his fury, the inevitable sense of betrayal after what he did for me, cut me to the core. I couldn’t bear it. Better for both of us that he remained in the dark.

He shook his head, his face flushed with rage. Leaning in, he spoke close to my ear, his breath hot and damp. “I do not think you understand the precariousness of your position. You are still under my command. You are still a member of the English Royal Navy.”

“I know, sir.”

He released me, taking off his hat and coat. “Stand right there.” He pointed to a spot on the floor.

Shaking, terrified, I could do nothing but comply.

He left the room, and when he returned, he carried a long, thin rope in his arms.

“Sir?”

“Tell me what happened last night. Tell me the truth.”

“Or what?” I returned his fiery gaze with a blank one.

“The truth, Mary.”

“Is this one of your games, Captain Grant?”

He twisted the rope taut between his hands. “Would you like it to be?”

I wasn’t sure what I wanted in that moment, my insides still knotted by the events from last night. Andrews was a bastard, and he deserved to die. Still, I had never killed anyone before even though I had dreamed of it often enough after my mother died. Grant’s promise of violence spoke to some strange need inside me, a desire to return to my body. To bring order to the chaos in my mind. Of course it was wrong. All of it. I should have darted for the door and hidden deep in the hold until we arrived in Jamaica, but small sparks of anticipation tore through my limbs as I glanced at his knuckles, the tendons in his neck strained and bursting with power and strength. I wanted to push him, see how far he would go to dominate my mind and body in order to find the truth. And while I might submit to the rope trailing across the floor, I knew he would be the one to break.

Because O’Malleys don’t break. They burn.

After a long, tense moment, I raised my chin in challenge and held out my wrists. “Go on, then.”

His eyes never left mine as he twisted the rope over and over against my skin, his fingers working intuitively to create intricate knots. When he finished, he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around my eyes, leaving me standing in pitch darkness. His lips brushed my neck, and I shivered.

“Mary,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Tell me.”

“I can’t, sir,” I whispered.

“Very well.”

He threw the rope over a beam on the ceiling and pulled. My arms strained from their sockets, my toes dancing on the floor. I let out an involuntary whimper and squeezed my eyes shut as if to block out the ache in my arms. Grant’s breath brushed against my chest, and he stuffed a piece of cloth between my lips and tied a kerchief around my head to keep it in place. Even if I grew desperate and tried to scream, no one would hear me now.

“I need to go attend to McGregor and my dead Lieutenant,” he said in a low voice. “I will return. I hope by then you are prepared to tell me everything.”

His loud boots tromped out of the room, and the door slammed shut. I heard a key turn in the lock, and then silence.

I pulled hard on the ropes, trying to gain traction with my wrists, but they held fast. The tips of my toes brushed the floor, teasing me almost, giving me just enough purchase to torture my limbs. Minutes passed. Hours? Perhaps just a few seconds. Who could know? After struggling and pulling at the ropes, my body finally gave up and I hung limp in the air. I longed to spit out the cloth between my teeth, the back of my throat scratchy and tight. I would have done anything for a drop of water, and in spite of the churning fear in my stomach, my empty belly gurgled in the stillness of Grant’s chambers. Summoning my strength, I tried to swing myself over to where I imagined the bed would be. On my last try, my toes brushed against the frame, but then slipped off, the movement nearly yanking my arm out of my socket. I howled in my gag, tears soaking through my blindfold.

Much later, footsteps sounded across the floor, the door creaking open.

Someone pulled my gag from my lips and fisted my hair, pulling my head back. Cool liquid dripped on my lips, and I snapped awake and out of the passed-out stupor that had consumed me. The water washed down my parched throat, and I nearly moaned in pleasure at the taste.

He untied my blindfold, and my pupils dilated. I blinked as Grant’s face came into view.

“Hello, Mary.”

I stared at him, gritting my teeth.

“What were you really doing down there in the hold?” he asked.

“I told you,” I breathed through the ache in my limbs. “I had to get shoe polish.”

He exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have you had enough?”

“Not a jot,” I replied.

Grant shook his head and folded the blindfold over my eyes again.

I swallowed my scream as the gag filled my mouth. The Captain grabbed the collar of my shirt and ripped it from the nape of my neck all the way down, the sound like a crack of thunder in my ears. I flinched as his fingers trailed down my back, pausing at the gauze binding my breasts. He slipped my arms out of the ruined shirt, and I heard it drop to the floor in a flutter of soft cotton. He unraveled the gauze across my chest, turning me and twisting me around and around like a dancer.

The movement sent a burning ache through my arms, and I arched my back, exposed and vulnerable. I didn’t know if this was part of the game or part of his interrogation, but I didn’t care. He wanted me to submit to him, but I reveled in the pain. Welcomed it. From the moment I stepped aboard this ship, Grant wanted to control my every movement, my every breath. He may have had my body, but my secrets were my own.

Cold air hit my body and Grant’s palm stroked my spine up and down, warming my skin. It lulled me into a daze, my mind latching on to some remnant of tenderness. He leaned in, kissing me soft against my ear, his hot breath sending a shudder through me. Blind and bound, I bent my neck, and his mouth trailed down to my clavicle, hungry and urgent.

His palm spread against my breast, and I hitched my breath, startled by his firm grasp. His callused thumb traveled across the soft flesh, and he pinched my nipple between his fingers. A low moan escaped my lips, wetness dampening the inside of my thighs. In the darkness behind my blindfold, his body was a burning wall of fire, his breathing quickening as he squeezed harder.

“Tell me, Mary…” he whispered in my ear. “Tell me what happened between you and Andrews.”

I swallowed hard, my hips seeking out his, searching for the relief of his touch. He teased my nipple out from my chest, pulling and pulling until I thought I might pass out from the pain. But just before I cried out, he released me. I took deep gulps of air, panting and gasping, but then his mouth suctioned over my nipple, and with each pulsing tug of his lips, my core flamed, yearning for release.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, his hand sliding down my waist, my hip, until he brushed against the inside of my thigh through my trousers. I bent my head back, eager for his touch, but then he stepped away, and with a soft hiss the rope loosened. My feet re-discovered the floor before my limbs gave out, and I slipped to the ground, holding my aching arms around my chest, curling into myself and gasping for air.

Grant crouched over me, untying my gag and placing a small piece of bread in my mouth, which I chewed gratefully. He followed up with a pitcher of water and I lapped it up, cold drops bleeding down my chin and between my breasts. When I finished, I rested my head back on my arm, but Grant had other ideas. He ran his hands through my hair and pulled me to face him as he ripped away my blindfold. His rugged face swam into view, and I made to reach for him, but my arms fell limp at my sides like dead weights.

“Are you ready to talk to me, Mary?”

My eyes rolled back into my head, and I snapped myself into awareness.

Grant grasped my arm, his thumb digging into my flesh. “Talk to me, Mary.”

I looked up at the Captain and he swam into twos and threes as my vision blurred. I closed one eye and it helped him return to focus. His face looked haggard, the lines in his forehead deeper, the planes of his high cheekbones harder. The fury in his blue eyes had vanished, and a glint of weariness lined his irises. He needed to drop this. Andrews was dead, and he’d be celebrated back home as the hero he could never be in real life. Grant could suspect all he wanted, but admitting my guilt would allow him to have a power over me I couldn’t give up to anyone.

“This seems like a right production for a bit of shoe polish, Captain,” I said in a strained voice.

Grant exhaled in disgust and frustration, his fingers slipping out of my hair. My head dropped back to the floor, and I sank into it, reveling in the break from the rope.

He paced the floor, his footsteps thundering against my ear. “We need to stop this, Mary. It has gone on long enough.”

I sat up, clutching my bound hands to my waist. The coiled rope created an intricate pattern, almost like a nautilus shell, and I smiled at the meticulous nature of his handiwork, how he had created a special knot that would lessen the pressure on my wrists, my arms. This wasn’t about the pain for him, and I knew as I glanced up at his tense shoulders, his furrowed brow, that he had never intended things to get this far. But men had underestimated me my whole life, and I was no stranger to pain. To suffering. I was Irish. We bloody well invented the concept.

“’Tis a shame,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I thought we were just getting started.”

Grant stalked over to me and dragged me to standing. I gasped as my muscles instantly retaliated against my stubborn mind, the ache returning with a strange fire that consumed me. I blinked back hot tears as the Captain brought a blindfold back over my eyes and a gag across my mouth. He stripped my trousers down, pulling them off roughly. My skin tingled, and my face burned to be so exposed to him. Grant stood behind me, his hands resting on my hips, his fingers burying into my flesh.

He brushed my hot, sweaty curls away from my forehead. “Tell me what happened.”

His hands wandered down the indentation of my waist, trailing across my belly in circular strokes. He slipped a hand between my thighs, and the invasion of his fingers left me moaning for him, the sweet release of his touch making me forget all about Andrews. He kissed me behind my ear. “Whatever it is, I can protect you. But I need to know. Tell me, Mary.”

I parted my legs wider, letting him slip deeper inside me. He responded to my movements, his fingers probing, searching, massaging my inner walls. I arched into his hips, and his hard cock pressed against the cleft of my arse.

“Give yourself to me, Mary. I know you were down there with Andrews. What happened?” He slipped another finger inside, and I groaned into my gag, my body betraying me as I tilted back toward him, swaying slightly on the rope, the ache in my arms forgotten as the ache in my core took over. I wanted him to fill me, overwhelm me. He threw a hand around my waist from behind, supporting me with his strength as his fingers moved faster, wetness dripping down my inner thigh as my body responded to his touch. Grant paused, breathing hard, his heart beating against my back. “Tell me,” he growled.

I shook my head.

Never.

His hand slipped from my mound, and I cried out in agony, my orgasm nearly at its peak as he moved away from me. My core tingled painfully, and I longed to finish myself, but with my wrists tied, it was impossible.

“Then you can stay there until you do.” The door slammed behind him, and I screamed a stream of obscenities into my gag.

The pressure of the Captain pleasuring me turned into a horrible cramp in my abdomen as the need to relieve my bladder became increasingly more urgent. I tried to cry out, but the kerchief stuffed in my mouth made sound impossible. I could do nothing more than dance on the floor, exhaustion taking over my limbs. I think I slept, or passed out, more like.

When I woke again, Grant’s familiar scent of cedar and boot polish filled my nostrils and I screamed through my gag, the pressure on my lower abdomen excruciating.

“Are you ready to talk now, Mary?”

I nodded, and the gag unraveled out of my mouth while the blindfold remained, the darkness disorienting.

“Please, sir, I need to relieve myself.”

“Of course you do.” Grant’s voice did not belie any sense of urgency or alarm on his part. In fact, he began warming my back again with his hands.

“Captain, please. Don’t make me soil myself.”

“I am not a man who shrinks from natural bodily functions, Mary.” He moved closer to me, the heat of his body warm against my bare skin, and the back of my neck prickled with fear.

“Listen to me now. I did not ask to have a woman aboard my ship,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I do not appreciate being blind to anything happening on the Elizabeth. I know you are lying to me, and I have had enough of your secrets.”

“It’s better you don’t know.”

Grant’s hand warmed my backside, and my body responded in kind, my hips jerking toward his callused fingers as they smoothed over my skin.

“Did you kill Andrews?” he asked.

“How would you expect a little thing like me to take on the bastard?”

The Captain’s hand slapped my backside, and I gasped, leaning painfully on the ropes to escape the horrible sting.

“Did you have an arrangement with him?”

Panic flooded my limbs, and my blood ran cold. “An arrangement?”

Grant spanked me again, and the tiny shards of white-hot heat bled through my body. “Do not play dumb, Mary. It does not suit you. Did he know your identity? Did he threaten you?”

“I swear, Captain, there was nothing between us.”

Grant filled my mouth with the gag again even as I struggled, my teeth gnashing at his hands. He fisted my hair and pulled me back. “You’re lying. I know when you are lying.”

His voice sounded like an animalistic growl, low and throaty. Grant smacked my arse again, the pounding taking on new levels of pain as he persisted without mercy. I could do nothing but dangle there helplessly, swallowing hiccupping sobs behind my gag, screaming soundlessly as the punishment continued.

He ripped the cloth from my mouth.

“Are you ready to talk now?”

I shook my head. As sore as my bum felt, I could withstand it. And in some dark place, I welcomed it, watching him come undone and retreating before he lost all control. I could smell the sex on his skin, his body radiating hot desire, and I shivered, opening my thighs wider as if in wait for him.

“Maybe you had an affair with Andrews.” The Captain’s voice turned lethal, as sharp as the sword swinging from his waist. “Maybe you have been lying with him this whole time. Was he your lover, Mary? Did he tire of you?”

I shook my head, the idea too ridiculous to entertain. Even still, the heat of jealousy burned in the Captain’s voice, and he gripped my breast hard as he leaned in close to my ear.

“Perhaps you have had other men aboard this ship, Mary?” he whispered. “Was it an ill-fated lovers’ triangle? Did one of them kill Andrews?”

I shook my head again, no. Grant must be daft to think I would touch any other sailor without him knowing.

He grabbed my ankle and wrapped it around his waist, his other hand caressing the inside of my thigh. The response to his touch was immediate, warmth flooding my core. As if sensing my need, he explored further, and I leaned into him, craving release. Bending down, he buried his face into my neck and planted hot kisses there, trailing his lips down to my breast still clutched in his hand. His tongue brushed against my nipple, and I shivered.

“So what was it, Mary? Did you give yourself to Andrews?”

I shook my head no.

“You are lying. I can tell when you are lying. Your spine turns rigid, your heart murmurs, your breath catches in your throat.” He inserted a finger into me, and I gasped through my gag, bringing my hips closer to him. I succumbed to his wandering hands, his seeking tongue as it traced lazy circles across my hardened nipple. Some secret part of me awakened to Grant’s power, his jealousy, his rage, and in that moment, bound, gagged, and blindfolded, I wanted to be his entirely. I desired nothing more but to have him enfold me in his dark, masculine strength, and I tightened my leg around his waist, pulling him closer.

Grant’s trousers dropped to the floor in a rustle of fabric, and then his hands gripped painfully on my hips, pushing me up against his erection, one leg flung over his arm. My slick folds invited him in, and I rubbed against his long, massive cock as he sought out my core.

“Oh, you are so wet, Mary,” he hissed in my ear. “Did you get this wet for him?”

Unable to speak, I shook my head vigorously, rubbing myself against him like a cat in heat.

“Is this what you wanted, Mary?” he hissed in my ear. “You want my cock inside you?”

I nodded.

Yes, I want you. Only you.

With one hard grunt, he thrust himself into me, and I moaned into my gag, my chin digging into his sweaty shoulder as his muscles strained to surge inside of me. Relentless, cruel, he drove hard, each thrust punishing me for my silence.

His cock pushed so far into me, it pressed against the walls of my womb. I cried out into the gag, the pain mixing with a kind of pleasure I had never known. Dark, twisted, hurtful, delicious. Something bent in me, the cold hard splinter of steel in my heart contorted around him, letting him penetrate me. And in that hollowed-out darkness behind the blindfold, I felt utterly and completely his woman in that moment.

“You wanted this, didn’t you, Mary?”

He grabbed the gag from my mouth and kissed me hard.

“Yes,” I whispered through his powerful movements, my moans taking over, my body reaching a tipping point.

“You wanted my cock inside you.” His fingers dug into my flesh as he pounded me. Merciless. Unforgiving. “Like this.”

“Yes, sir…ahhhh…” I buried my face deeper into his chest, biting his flesh as my orgasm exploded with each raking thrust.

His spine contracted, his massive body towering over mine as he shuddered, pumping his seed into me again and again. He hovered over me, shaking and breathing hard. He clutched at my curls, kissing my hair, my cheek, my neck.

“God, Mary. Is there nothing you will not do to find that worthless man?”

Grant pulled away, and the rope sagged. I dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap, my body limp and shaking. Grant collected me in his arms, shoving the blindfold over my sweaty curls, which he brushed away with the back of his hand.

I let out a small chuckle, thinking of the absurdity of it, of doing all this for some stupid man. As if any man would be worth enduring so much. The small, breathy giggle exploded in a peel of hysterical, cackling laughter until tears streamed from my eyes. I had remained so strong, so guarded in the face of Grant’s domination, but now—exhausted, fucked blind, and dizzy—I crumpled against his chest, shaking and exploding with manic laughter.

“Oh, Captain,” I said, catching my breath, muffling my giggles with my palm, my wrists still bound together, a sight that only made me laugh harder.

Grant’s body tensed. “What do you find so funny, Mary?”

I turned in his arms and shoved him away, the suddenness of my movement catching him off guard. He grabbed my wrists and pulled me closer to him, and we kneeled together in the dark, me reeling with insane, hiccupping laughter, Grant’s nostrils flaring with rage.

“What is wrong with you?” he demanded.

“You think…you think,” I gasped, swallowing hard. “You think I did all this for some stupid man? Cut my hair, dress up like a boy? Risk death? Or worse?” I doubled over with laughter, the insanity of everything overwhelming me like a tremendous wave, pulling me under.

Grant’s grip loosened. “You said you needed to find your fiancé. Was that a lie, too?”

I laughed harder, high and shrill, and I leaned against his shoulder as he stared at me, his blue eyes glimmering in the darkness. Leaning forward, I looked hard at him and shook my head.

“Have you ever wanted something?” I said. “Something you could never have? Something that filled you with a never ending ache in your soul? As if you would never be whole until you held it in your hands? Have you ever known that kind of longing?”

Grant blinked, a muscle in his jaw flickering wildly.

“Oh, you have. I know you have, Captain Richard Grant. Bastard son of a London prostitute. People like us, all we ever know is that longing.”

“You don’t know me, Mary.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I snapped, throwing my head back and laughing. “The only difference between you and me is that I have a chance. I have one chance of getting what I want, and Andrews wanted to take that away from me.” I stared down at my bound hands and fresh tears streamed down my face. Wiping them away, I looked back up at the Captain. “Tell me, sir. Tell me you wouldn’t do anything for that one chance.”

“I would not kill a man to be an Admiral, if that is what you’re implying,” Grant argued.

“Andrews was a bloody bastard and he deserved to die. I’m glad I killed him. He’s just like—” I clamped my mouth shut. He had tricked me, and like a fool, I had confessed. My cheeks burned, and I bit hard into my lip, turning away.

The Captain paused. “Just like whom, Mary?”

I let out a long, shuddering breath, my skin prickling with quiet rage. There was no use hiding it now.

“Just like the bastards who took away Dunraven,” I spit out. “Rich and stupid men. Opportunists. Rapists. Plunderers.” I swallowed hard, raising my gaze to meet his hard stare. “Just like the men who killed my mother.”

“Your mother?” He cocked his head to the side, studying me with wide eyes.

I wiped hot tears from my cheeks, and I rocked back and forth, tucking my bound wrists against my neck. “She died. She died trying to take back the O’Malley estate from the English. And I owe her this. Don’t you see?”

“So you did this for land?”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head. I needed him to understand. It wasn’t for the love of Johnny I did these things. My prize was something greater. “Marrying Johnny was the only way I could get it back. It was the only way I could save the people of Dunraven from starvation, from ignorance and abject poverty. It is my duty.”

Grant exhaled, his breath hot against my bare breasts. He took my chin in his hands and tilted my head back to meet his gaze. “I have seen the world. Met a thousand women, all beautiful, passionate. But you are by far the most insane woman I have ever laid eyes upon.” He crushed me against his chest, stroking my back. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I wanted to deal with it on my own. I already knew I had troubled you too much. You had threatened to—”

“Mary, this is different! Did he…?”

“No, he was going to. He attacked me, and I…I stuck him with my knife.”

He buried his face in my neck. “God. You should have told me. You should have never had to face that monster alone.”

“Well, I did,” I snapped. “And I would do it again.”

He stared at me, his hands working mechanically to untie my hands. When the rope slipped free, the cool air grazed the burns on my flesh, and I shuddered in the rapture of it. Grant bent his head and kissed the delicate flesh below my wrists, and I gasped as he flexed them slightly, the muscles straining from the movement.

“So you do not love Johnny?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course I love him. In my way. I grew up with Johnny. He’s a good man. And kind. He would make a grand husband. But Dunraven belongs to me. To the O’Malleys. I would do anything to get it back. When Andrews attacked me—” I bit my lip, my shoulders trembling at the memory of how easily my knife stuck into his throat, how his blood bubbled up from his mouth. “He didn’t care. He would have raped me and told you anyway. He would have told the whole crew, and then what? You would have no choice but to…well, I don’t know what you would have done. Thrown me overboard, I guess.”

Grant snorted, gathering me up closer in his arms. “I would not have thrown you overboard. You have read too many novels, Mary.”

“One hundred lashes, then? Walk the plank? Keelhaul?”

He laughed, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him, which only reminded me of my urgent bodily needs.

“I’m sorry, but I really need to…”

Grant nodded and stood up to search for his chamber pot. He pushed it toward me.

“Could I have a bit of privacy, then?”

He narrowed his eyes and turned around.

“That’s not what—”

“Just go, Mary.”

Fit to burst, I relieved myself, luxuriating in the relief of my emptied bladder. Grant busied himself by shifting through a drawer and bringing out a series of balms and gauze bandages. When I finished, he ushered me over to the bed. When I made to sit down, I felt as if I were sitting on a field of nettles. He positioned me on my stomach, soothing me with his hands. He sat down next to me, inspecting my rope burns.

“How do your wrists feel?”

“Like I’ve been tied up for two days.”

“More like two hours, Mary.”

“What are you playing at?”

“Time moves differently when you are tied up.”

“And how would you know that?”

He peered down at me from beneath hooded eyelids. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would actually.” I settled deeper into the down mattress. “Perhaps I will have to tie you up and beat the truth out of you.”

“You are welcome to try, my dear.”

I smiled into his pillow and moaned as he rubbed some balm into my skin, the mint soothing the chafing from the rope. Then he gently wrapped some gauze around my wrists, folding them above my head when he finished. Next he set to work on the rest of my body, massaging the calming ointment along my spine and into my backside. My eyes nodded off, and I allowed my body to sink into the soft mattress, luxuriating in the cool cotton.

When I awoke, who knew how much later, Grant sat beside me as if he had never left. He brushed my hair away from my forehead and helped me sit up, keeping the blanket tucked above my breasts. He pressed a glass of wine in my hands. After I took a long gulp, he passed me a piece of bread, which I gobbled up, my stomach growling.

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

I nodded, curling up into the mattress again. Grant took my wrists gently in his hands, untied the gauze binding them, and inspected my wounds. Only a small amount of redness remained, and he reapplied the balm before bandaging them up again.

“How long have I been asleep?” I said.

“Not too long. The sun will be up soon, and you will be needed on the gun deck.” He placed a hand on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing softly into my skin. “It is important that we maintain a routine. There may have been witnesses who saw you or me going to the hold the other night. We cannot give any rise to suspicion. We will port in Jamaica soon. We need to make it until then.”

I sat up. “And when we arrive in Jamaica?”

Grant shook his head. “You know I cannot keep you here, Mary.”

“But what about—?”

He raised a hand to cut me off. “I know how badly you need to find Lieutenant Brighton, but it is not safe where we are going. As an officer, I cannot in my right mind place you in harm’s way. I have friends in Jamaica. You can wait with them while we seek out Willaumez.”

“But I don’t want to wait.” I grabbed Grant’s hand. “I need to find him myself!”

He locked his hand over mine and the look he gave me silenced my protestations. While his touch felt paternal, protective almost, his eyes threw daggers at me. I bit my tongue to avoid throwing some finely-tailored invectives at the Captain.

He pressed his lips to my forehead, collecting me close to his chest. “I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to ensure your land is yours again.”

I nuzzled up against his shoulder. “Why? Why would you do that for a complete stranger?”

Grant pressed me into his lap, cradling me like a child. “Are we strangers, Mary? Are there no secrets between us now?”

The blue of his eyes looked like two pools of vibrant oil paint in his rugged face. My heart stopped, thinking of the maps I had copied, the maps I had so carelessly thrown at Andrews. While the water in the bilge had destroyed all trace of them, the guilt remained written on my soul. I stroked his cheek, and he smiled as my fingers brushed against his lips.

“I suppose I might have two secrets left now,” I whispered.

I betrayed you.

Letting out a deep exhale, I flashed him a brilliant grin.

And I think I’m in love with you.

“Two secrets?” The Captain brushed away the bedspread, his hand cupping my breast. “You must tell me.”

I shook my head, and before I could take another breath, he had me pinned to the bed, his face twisted in mocking anger.

“Perhaps I will need to dream up worse punishments for you,” he breathed, his tongue flicking against my ear.

I gasped, flinging my arms around his neck and bringing him close for a kiss. “I wouldn’t exactly be opposed to it, Captain.”

He growled and parted my thighs with his knee, nestling his hips between my legs. His body rolled into mine, urgency rippling beneath his skin. His fingers dug into my arms, drawing me closer to him, and I arched to meet his hard cock as it strained against his breeches. With one hand, he sprang it free, his hands working his shaft until a small drop of come seeped from its little eye. I moaned as he rubbed his tip against my folds, lingering on the small button of pleasure beneath.

“I don’t want you to keep things from me, Mary,” he whispered in a ragged voice. “I want you to open up completely.”

I thrust my hips against his teasing cock. “I will…” I gasped as he traced my opening. “I’ll let you in.”

“Tell me your secrets, Mary…”

I dug my nails into my palm, my arms still pinned down, unable to move. My only desire was to feel him move inside me, the beautiful rhythm of our bodies, the flood of communion as we grasped at ecstasy. He lingered so close to me, his hardness pulsing just above my secret place, hot and swollen.

“I will,” I whispered. “I want to, I—”

He cut me off, slamming into me hard, the collective heat of our bodies fusing our skin together into a ball of passion. Not fast and pounding this time, but deep, as if he were trying to carve a place for himself inside of me. I shut my eyes against his neck, tilting my hips to allow him to plunge farther. He paused at each thrust, and my walls contracted around him, until finally he could not hold back. A flood of masculine energy pounded into me, and my spine bent back to receive him as my own explosion of pleasure took over my body, transporting me far beyond his chambers, the ship, the churning sea.

His whole weight collapsed over me, his heart pounding against my chest. The sharp exhalations of our breath echoed in the tiny room, and I luxuriated in the slick come between my thighs, aftershocks of my orgasm sending tiny waves of pleasure up through my abdomen. Sensing me stirring beneath him, Grant kneeled up and turned me ruthlessly around, plunging into me again and again, this time firing into me until he gasped loud and breathless in my ear.

“Mary. Oh, Mary.”

He thrust one more time, long and deep, and I took all of him in, as my body rocked with spasm after spasm of pleasure.

He kissed my back, caressing the welts across my skin, soothing me. He slipped out and spooned me into him, his arms enfolding me against his chest.

“Keep your secrets,” he whispered. “Just never deny me, Mary.”

I let out a long sigh, tightening his grip around my body even as my eyes blurred with tears. If he had asked me in that moment, I would have given up everything: Dunraven, the O’Malleys, Ireland. I couldn’t have denied him. I wouldn’t have known how.

Chapter Eighteen

I raced up the steps to the gun deck, cartridge in hand, heaving and gasping for breath. After several weeks of training, I had proven myself to be the quickest powder monkey on the Elizabeth, and I took a cautious sort of pride in my speed and agility. The gun captain wheeled around the corner and slapped me on the back, and I fumbled with the gunpowder as it almost flew out of my arms.

“Good man, O’Brien,” he bellowed. “We’ll train ye on the cannon next, once ye bulk up a bit.”

“Thank you, sir.” I passed the cartridge to the gunner, who went through the familiar ritual of pretending to load up the iron monstrosity, his movements so automatic and rapid his hands blurred. The gun captain strode down the line, shouting orders, and I turned to retrieve another cartridge, the thrill of the pace flooding my limbs. I knew it was just practice, but every step back and forth filled me with the kind of grand of excitement I hadn’t known since the rising. I loved the camaraderie on deck, the way we moved like a well-oiled machine, each man depending on one another. In the quiet between my footfalls and panting breath, a singing joy surged through me, my cheeks tingling as I pounced back to the gun deck, trying to beat my own time, my own steady rhythm.

Sharp commands roared up above, and my stomach dropped to my knees as I recognized Grant’s voice cutting through the floorboards.

I glanced over my shoulder, and the gun captain brought a small silver whistle to his lips.

“Hop to, ye whoresons!” he shouted. “French ships starboard. Cannons ready!”

My eyes widened, and my mouth dropped. In recent weeks, Willaumez’s ship and Johnny had faded into the back of my mind. With my days filled with gun running and seeing to the Captain’s needs—all of his needs—I had almost forgotten my original mission. My hands shook, and I looked around through the windows, seeking a glimpse of the elusive French ships.

“O’Brien!” The gun captain’s face was a blazing shade of red and his eyes bugged out of his skull. “Get yer worthless arse down to the hold. This is not a drill!”

Without even a nod, I raced down to the hold for a cartridge, the echo of cannons already bursting overhead. I collected the heavy powder in my arms and ran back up to the gunner deck, my lungs bursting. Passing it off to the gunner, I turned on my heel to dart back down, but the ship shifted beneath my feet, and I tumbled forward, shards of pain shooting up from my wrists.

“Get yer arse up O’Brien!” the gun captain bellowed. “We’re crossing the T, lads! Step lively now!”

My mind only had a second to register what he meant by crossing the T as the floor tilted beneath me, the entire might of the ship fighting against the waves of the sea, groaning and creaking as it turned at an impossible angle. The sky shifted, and I scrambled to my feet, pounding across the gun deck and to the hold below.

I galloped up the stairs, a cartridge wrapped in my arms, heaving and sweating as I jumped onto the gun deck, headed toward my cannon at the end of the line. A small whine cut through the air, all of the oxygen sucked out of the shadows of the deck. I flew sideways, my shoulder smashing against a beam. A rain of splinters stung my face, and my heart stopped, everything in my vision turning a seeping shade of red. My ears rang, and I staggered forward, my training taking over my limbs.

A blast of ocean air swept across my forehead, dust choking my lungs, and bloody bodies lay collapsed on the floor all around me. From faraway, the gun captain called my name, but all I could do was lurch forward, the cartridge still wrapped like a babe in my arms. The gunner waved to me, shouting and banging his fist on the cannon.

His hand passed over mine and the sound returned with a sudden wave, the groans of the dying, the crackling of splintered wood filling the deck.

“Go! Go!” the gunner cried.

I took a step back, and a bullet whistled near my ear.

“They’re shooting!” a sailor called behind me.

I turned back toward the hold when the man’s head exploded in front of me, a mist of bright red peppering my face, bits of bone rattling against the deck. My feet moved, pushing my body forward.

Run. Get the powder. Don’t look. Don’t waver.

Blood roared in my ears, my heart bursting, but I collected the cartridge and raced back to the deck in record time, bullets whining past me. A hook tied to a rope flew across my path, and I stopped short. The hook clawed into the deck, the rope pulling taut.

“They’re boarding!” someone cried.

French sailors burst through the gaping hole in the gun deck, brandishing swords and muskets, their faces monstrous in the bright blasts of gunpowder.

“Get down, O’Brien!” the gun captain screamed.

I ducked behind a cannon right as a musket ball zinged over my head.

Panting and sweating, I glanced over and saw a dead sailor staring up to the ceiling with wide, sightless eyes, a musket still gripped in his clutching hands. A melee had ensued on the gun deck, but a cold calm took over me, and for a moment I seemed to fly above my body, watching myself take hold of the weapon, grabbing the powder horn. My father’s voice filled my head.

Rip the paper with your teeth.

Pour in the powder.

Heavy footsteps charged toward my cannon, but my hands didn’t shake. My fingers didn’t falter.

Ram to pack the paper.

Another musket ball whistled over my head, and a body dropped behind me, the deck vibrating with the impact. But my movements remained steady.

Put in the ball.

Ram to pack.

My finger lingered on the trigger, and I bolted up, the musket on my shoulder. A French sailor raced toward me, his sword glinting in the sunlight beaming through the cracked boards. With a deep breath, I squeezed the trigger. The blast of gunpowder blinded me for a moment, the musket kicking back like a knife stabbing sharp into my shoulder. But his body hit the floor with a sharp thud, and I dropped back down behind the cannon. After reloading the musket, I jumped up and took down another French sailor. I fell into a rhythm, reloading, taking aim, and shooting down the enemy through a haze of smoke and dust.

The ship tilted again, and I fell to my knees, grasping the base of the cannon.

“Stations, lads!” the gun captain cried.

I threw down the musket, picked up my forgotten cannon cartridge, and placed it inside the gaping hole. Ramming the shot and powder home, I set the gun right with the spike.

“Fire at will!” McKellan cried.

I pulled the line, clicking the hammer. Flame burst in the pan and the cannon ripped backward with an explosion that reverberated in my chest. I cried out, pumping my fist in the air before pouncing to pull out another cartridge.

All the air sucked out of the deck and a cannonball flew through the line, shattering beams. An inhuman scream rang out, and then another. I slammed to the floor, looking up just in time to watch in horror as a plank fell free and swung through the air. It hit me on the edge of my skull, and pain burst through my head, the room tilting backward. My eyelids fluttered once, and then everything went dark.

Chapter Nineteen

Light strained my eyes, the silence deafening after the chaos of battle. For a moment, I thought I had died, but my fingers tightened around soft linen sheets and Captain Grant’s face drifted into view.

“Mary,” he breathed.

A dull ache filled my head, and I tried to sit up, but he pressed me back against the pillow.

“Rest,” he said. “You have taken a nasty blow on the head.”

“Water?” I croaked.

He slipped a cup into my hand, and I gulped down the sweet liquid, the water cooling the burning tightness in my throat. Glancing down, I found myself in one of the Captain’s nightshirts. Panic gripped my chest, and I looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Don’t worry.” He took the cup of water from my hands and set it on the nightstand. “It was I who found you buried in the rubble. No one knows.”

I nodded, closing my eyes, trying to keep the room from spinning.

“You have become quite the hero, Mary,” Grant said, his hand smoothing up and down my arm. “The gun captain told me you took out nearly eight French sailors.”

I peeked at him with one eye. “Just doing my duty, sir.”

“I would punish you for putting yourself in harm’s way, but I suspect such a lashing would be pointless.”

“You would be correct in that assumption, sir.”

“I did not realize you could shoot a musket.”

“I am a woman of many talents, sir.”

“That you are, Mary,” he whispered, tucking the blanket up to my chin. “That you are.”

…

The rough rope slipped through my fingers as I twisted it into a tight knot, the salty wind blowing through my hair. For days now, the sense of anticipation aboard the ship had increased to a tipping point, all the sailors quick to anger, the quartermaster’s cane making its appearance for every tiny infraction. I brushed my curls away from my eyes and saw the strip of darkness in the distance at the same time the watch shouted, “Land ho!”

The sailors dropped their tasks to peer into the distance, and a great cheer erupted on deck. The quartermaster’s roars quickly followed suit, and he barked instructions for entering the bay. I climbed down off the mast, and Keating came up to me, slapping me on the back.

“First time in the West Indies, mate?”

“Aye,” I mumbled in a low voice.

Since Andrews’s death and the events on the gun deck, I had achieved a strange sort of respect among the crew. Whispers followed me wherever I went, and sailors slipped me extra rations. No longer an invisible cabin boy, they all knew me by name and accepted me as one of their own.

“Don’t get too excited, lad,” Keating said, peering off into the distance. “Ye probably won’t be going to shore with the officers. They’re afraid of us running off, ye see?” A smile spread across his face, and he gave me a wink. “But there be women aboard the bum boats that come in from Port Royal, and there’s one what does this thing with her—”

“Keating! O’Brien!” the quartermaster shouted across the deck. “Don’t let me catch ye idling about. Ye need to mend those sails before the wind picks up again or ye’ll be spending the night at the bottom of the sea!”

We bent our heads down, taking hold of the ripped sail, but Keating whistled low and whispered, “Her name is Kylie.”

“Whose name is Kylie?”

“The one who does the—”

The quartermaster roared at us again, and we tucked into our task in silence.

Jamaica grew closer, expanding across the horizon. The water turned a crystal aqua blue and the wind quickened as night fell. Only the twinkling of torches from the base and the beacon of the lighthouse revealed the presence of the port.

I raced down to Grant’s quarters to prepare him for dinner, but I found him in his chambers, already dressed. He flashed me a wide smile and kicked the door closed before grabbing my hands and bringing me close against his chest.

“All that work up top has roughened your hands, Mary.”

“Ah, now, Captain. Wouldn’t want to return to Ireland with nothing to show for all my sailing adventures.”

“Aside from a husband, you mean.”

I looked down, my face flushed. As the weeks went by and I spent my nights nestled with the Captain, I had almost forgotten about Johnny and Dunraven. The silence stretched out between us, and his heartbeat thudded against my ear, a death knell calling the end of our time together.

“We’ll be in port in Jamaica for a few days before turning toward the South Atlantic. Tonight we will attend the Admiral and the local gentry so they can meet you and feel more familiar with you. You will, of course, attend me as my servant and then later you shall remain as their guest.” He reached back on the bed and pressed a stack of fresh clothes into my arms along with a pair of polished black shoes.

“Yes, sir.”

“You must stay absolutely quiet.”

“As the grave, sir.”

“There will be no discussion of abolition or Jacobinism this evening.”

I widened my eyes and gasped in mock surprise. “Why, Captain, I am scandalized you would even suggest such a thing!”

He smirked and tapped me on the nose, patting my behind on his way out the door. He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. “You might find the way of life amongst the aristocracy in the colonies very different than what you are used to at home.”

Turning around, I arched my eyebrow, trying to puzzle his insinuation. “Different in what way?”

He shook his head. “You shall see.”

We traveled to shore in a small boat, and from there we took a carriage to an opulent house perched on one of the bluffs on the edge of the city. Descending from the carriage, my legs trembled and fell out beneath me. I stumbled, and the Captain clamped onto my arm, lifting me upright before anyone noticed.

“Steady as she goes, boy,” he whispered in my ear. “You will need to learn how to walk on land again.”

I nodded, following the Captain up the wide marble steps to the expansive palace, the white columns standing tall as sentinels as we marched into a large receiving room. Our footsteps echoed across the hall as a servant opened a door to a smaller parlor. A peel of feminine laughter cut through the air, followed by low, masculine voices raised in a bawdy song about an unfortunate chambermaid with red hair.

Grant looked over his shoulder and flashed a worried glance. “Stay close to me,” he whispered.

“Captain Richard Grant,” the footman announced before retreating back into the shadows.

The Captain launched into the room with the same domineering, confident air he had onboard the Elizabeth, and I trailed behind him.

“Richard!” a woman screamed, and I lifted my eyes and had to stifle a gasp at the strange tableau.

A young woman lay naked and hogtied on the table, her mouth occupied with the cock of a leering soldier, his hand fisted in her hair as he forced himself deeper down her throat. I blinked, trying to register the scene, shaking my head at the sight of the flagrant display. The smell of wine and sex hit my nostrils, and I coughed, edging toward Grant with weak knees.

“Bloody hell,” I whispered beneath my breath.

“I see they have started early.” He placed a firm hand on my elbow. “Stay by me, and for God’s sake, do not let anyone touch you.”

Soldiers milled about the room, drinking and laughing. In the corner sat a young couple before a piano, the man shirtless and reeling drunk, his hands cupping the breast of the piano player, a giggling naked woman whose fingers danced across the keys. She threw her head back and opened her mouth, and the soldier poured wine down her throat, red rivulets dripping down her chin and neck.

The woman who had called Grant’s name stood on the other end of the hogtied woman, a riding crop in her hand, clearly in the middle of abusing the poor lady’s exposed cunny with it. She gave it another swipe and scolded her. “Oh, Lady Jane, I do not recall telling you to come, you naughty thing! We have company!”

I blinked again, swallowing hard. Grant had said that some men and women like the sort of games we played, but it shocked me to watch it as an outsider. Even still, warmth bloomed in my core as the beautiful brunette woman on the table quivered beneath the strokes of the riding crop, and I flexed my fingers, trying to steady myself.

The woman with the riding crop glided over to Grant, the magenta satin of her skirts rustling around her. “You are just in time for the party!”

“Lady Catherine.” The Captain bowed, nonplussed. “I am here to see Admiral Endsworth.”

Lady Catherine laughed and grabbed Grant’s arm, leading him toward the hogtied Lady Jane in the middle of the room. “Oh, Charles should be back soon. Lord Edward had a very naughty footman to discipline.” She threw back her blond curls and giggled, slapping her riding crop in her hand before spanking Lady Jane with it again.

I glanced up at the soldier positioned in front of her and watched as he pulled her hair tighter, his face flushed red with passion as he came into her mouth with a groan. My stomach twisted even though I blanched at the sheer wrongness of it all. I wanted to be both the soldier and Lady Jane. The one using and the one being used.

Grant leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Do not be alarmed. Lady Catherine and Lady Jane have what you might call a special friendship.”

“A special…friendship?” I kept my voice low.

He chuckled beneath his breath. “They enjoy these games, and their husbands have their own arrangements.”

My eyes grazed over Lady Jane’s naked body, bright red welts flaming on her backside. “So she likes it like this. In front of everyone?”

He shot me a heated glance. “She loves it.”

Lady Catherine inserted her fingers into Lady Jane, humming along with the tune on the piano. “I think Lady Jane is hungry for a big cock,” she said, batting her eyes at the Captain. “What say you, Richard?”

“No,” I blurted out in a firm voice.

Grant placed a warning palm on my shoulder.

My stomach did a flip-flop, and my teeth ground in my skull. The flame of jealousy caught me off guard, and I forced myself to take a deep, steadying breath. Before Grant could answer her, she squealed and sidled up to me, wrapping her thin, perfumed arms around my neck.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You brought a boy! What fun!”

Grant’s face darkened with anger. “Please leave him be. I promised his mother I would look after him.”

Lady Catherine nuzzled her face into my neck, her wine-drenched mouth planting sloppy kisses behind my ear. “Oh, but he’s so adorable,” she purred. “I’m sure his mummy will not mind if he comes out to play.” Her hands grazed down my abdomen in search for my assumed cock, but Grant’s hand clamped onto her delicate wrist.

“I said leave him be,” he commanded in his deep, throaty, Captain’s voice. The sexual congress in the room paused for a moment, the pianist hitting a flat note before stopping. Everyone stared at the tall, dangerous-looking man beside me before resuming their play.

“Oh, Richard. You are such a prude.” She dropped her arms from my neck and flitted back over to him. Placing his hand on her waist, he settled it dangerously close to her ample bosom spilling out her bodice. I forced my face to remain blank, but inside my chest tightened with rage.

“I bet the poor lad has never even touched a woman before,” Lady Catherine said. “And you know what they say…practice makes perfect!”

She took my hand and led me over to Lady Jane. I looked back at the Captain, who stared in disapproval but said nothing, making an almost imperceptible nod in my direction. Both of us knew I had to play along with Lady Catherine’s games. A fourteen-year-old lad who refused to touch a woman? Anything else would rouse suspicion.

“And what is your name, little one?” Lady Catherine caressed my chin and flashed me a dazzling smile, a small beauty mark dancing above her thick red lips.

“Michael O’Brien, mum.”

“Oh, Michael, you are a handsome little thing. I am sure you have plucked a few girls back home, have you not, my sweet lad?”

“No, mum,” I mumbled, trying to avoid her scrutinizing gaze.

She grabbed my hand and gestured over to the Captain. “Come here, Richard. Show this poor boy how to touch a woman.”

“Lady Catherine,” Grant said in a dark voice, “I find these games highly inappropriate. The boy is barely fifteen.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I was married to Lord Edward at fifteen.” She tittered, but I could sense a shard of ice on the edge of her words. “Come, Richard.” Lady Catherine pursed her lips and squeezed her deep décolletage suggestively. “I know you are the expert here.”

She circled around to Lady Jane and held up her chin with her index finger, gazing with loving eyes at the woman. “My little princess, would you like the young boy to touch you?”

Lady Jane glanced over her shoulder, her sharp stare looking me up and down before she winked. She looked back up at Lady Catherine. “Yes, mistress. If it pleases you.”

Lady Catherine gave her a peck on the cheek and whispered something in her ear that sent Lady Jane’s hips writhing, her back arching with pleasure.

Lady Catherine turned to me. “And Michael O’Brien, would you like to touch my princess?”

I stared up at Grant, and we exchanged a private look. Shaking his head, he took hold of my hand. Hidden from view, his thumb glided back and forth in the center of my palm, and I shuddered at his touch, heat flooding between my legs.

“Would you like to know how to touch a woman, Michael?” he asked.

“If it pleases you, my lord,” I said in a low voice. The thought of touching Lady Jane in front of Grant thrilled me beyond imagining. I wanted him to watch me, study me as I did this forbidden thing.

He caught my hooded stare and heat blazed behind his jeweled eyes. He turned to Lady Catherine. “I believe the young lad would enjoy the pleasure.”

Flashing me a smile, he guided my hand to Lady Jane’s exposed lips, glistening in the candlelight. “The trick to touching a woman is teasing her until she thinks bedding her is her idea.”

Lady Catherine let out a tittering giggle, and she swiped at the Captain with her riding crop. “Oh, Richard!”

Grant ignored her and guided me up through Lady Jane’s folds until our fingers found her clit, the small nub like a tiny bead beneath my thumb. “Do you feel that, boy? Do you feel how it swells beneath your touch?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

Lady Jane squirmed beneath my hand, her ankles straining against her bonds. The spent soldier at the other end of the table stroked her shoulders, and she moaned.

All the blood in my head swept down to the space between my legs, and the steady ache of desire began to pulse there even as I felt Lady Jane’s slick flesh. She was so soft, so delicate.

The Captain forced my thumb to flick faster against Lady Jane’s clit and her hips jerked against the table. The other revelers gathered around us, intrigued to watch a young boy’s education. My cheeks flamed, and my stomach clenched, but I didn’t want to stop.

“See how hot you are making her, boy?” He came up behind me, caging me in, my fingers working on Lady Jane’s button even as he rubbed his secret erection against my backside, hiding his arousal from Lady Catherine. “She loves your attention.”

Lady Jane’s slit overflowed with arousal, and Grant guided my fingers down to her wet, aching quim, pausing on the edge of her opening.

“Do you see how tender she is? How tight Lady Jane is right now?” The Captain leaned in close to my ear and whispered in a throaty voice. “Your goal is to open her up. Tease her, make her bloom like a flower so you can taste her sweet honey.”

He grasped onto my hand, and I inserted one finger a hairsbreadth inside of her. Lady Jane could barely contain herself as she thrashed against the table.

“Oh, Lady Catherine,” she cried. “Please let me come!”

My hand hesitated, startled by her sudden outburst.

Lady Catherine brought her riding crop down on Lady Jane’s swollen mouth with expert precision. She grabbed the woman by the hair and kissed her hard before slapping her again. Lady Jane cried out, even as wetness gushed across my probing finger.

Lady Catherine stroked her cheek. “You will come when I tell you to, my sweet little slut. I want to watch this little boy finger fuck you until you beg for some soldier cock.”

Lady Jane moaned again, burying her flushed face into the table.

“Go on, boy,” Lady Catherine said through thick, fluttering eyelashes. “She will not cry out again, will you Lady Jane?”

“Go on, O’Brien,” the Captain said. “She will say a special word if it is too much for her.”

I let out a long exhale, and all Lady Jane could do was make a long, desperate noise in the back of her throat as my finger wandered deeper into her slit.

“Take your time,” Grant warned. “She’s hot, but you need to learn how to draw her out, make her want it.”

I slipped my finger back, almost completely retreating from her opening before entering her again, establishing an achingly slow rhythm. The Captain’s breath scorched my neck as he studied my movements, and the dizzying desire to please him, to seek his approval came over me. I would make Lady Jane come with my hands like she never had before. I wanted it for him, not for anyone else.

“Well done, boy,” he whispered in my ear, his tongue flickering inside for a millisecond while everyone’s attention remained on Lady Jane’s swollen folds and my small fingers moving in and out.

“Now, insert your other finger.” He grabbed my hand tight. “Slowly now, surprise her a little.”

My other finger unfurled into Lady Jane, and she jerked her hips up to meet me. She felt so warm and wet on the inside, and a surge of power flowed through me at having her tied up and so ready for my touch. With Grant’s cock edged against me, I wanted to come right there, but I bit my lip, forcing myself to remain in control.

“Excellent work, boy,” Grant breathed. “She wants it so badly now. Can you feel it?” He rubbed his erection against my backside in a movement so slow and imperceptible, only I would be able to sense it.

“Yes, sir. She’s so ready.” My inside ached for him, but I could only seek satisfaction through Lady Jane. Her moans. Her cries.

“Good. Now you will want to find the little spot of pleasure on the roof of her cunt.” He tilted my hand down ever so slightly, and Lady Jane let out a high-pitched yelp.

Lady Catherine clamped down on the back of her neck and swiped at the woman’s mouth again. “Hush. You are breaking the boy’s concentration!”

But my entire body remained focused on Grant’s hand as he glided my fingers in and out of Lady Jane’s opening, and I watched in fascination as she creamed around me, soaking my hand.

“Oh, she is so close now, boy.” Grant forced my hand out until it rested just on the edge of her slit. “But we are going to play with her a little more. Give me your other hand.”

I placed my shaking hand into Grant’s palm and he brought my fingers to my lips.

“Suck on them,” he demanded.

“Sir—?”

“Suck on them!” He forced my fingers into my mouth, and the action felt so erotic as if he were stuffing his cock between my lips. “Get them nice and wet. Lady Jane is in for a special delight this evening.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he popped my fingers out of my mouth and inserted them right into Lady Jane’s tiny arsehole. I tried to jump back, instinctively averted to the action, but Grant’s hand clamped down on my palm like a vise and he forced my forefinger inside her forbidden little space. Lady Jane wagged her backside in the air, making small mewling noises in her throat. Her muscles contracted around me, and I slipped my finger in deeper.

“She is a dirty little one, isn’t she, boy?”

The tip of Grant’s cock pressed against my trousers, searching for my own opening.

“She is, sir.”

“She wants to be filled, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

“Slip another finger inside that tight arse, boy.”

I did as I was told, and Lady Jane moaned into the table, sweat covering her body as her hips gyrated against my hands.

We paused there for a minute, his hand still clamped down on mine. “I am going to take my hands away, but I want you to finger both her openings. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must apply steady pressure and maintain a perfect rhythm.”

I nodded, Grant’s scent of boot polish and cedar sending me into such a fever, I wanted to drop my trousers there and then at that moment and let him take me in front of God and everybody. Slowly, he took his hand away and settled it protectively on the back of my neck. With the other one, he reached down in search of Lady Jane’s clit. She moaned when he discovered her swollen nub, and I grinned up at him, excited by the power we both had over the tiny, helpless woman.

“Go on then, boy,” he whispered.

Even though my body trembled with aching lust, I forced my fingers in and out of Lady Jane’s holes, her arse cheeks jiggling alluringly as my rhythm increased, matching Grant’s flickering hands between her folds. I pressed my hips against the edge of the table, seeking any sort of friction as my own arousal surged through me, my thighs tingling with every thrust into the woman’s sweet, milky holes.

“She’s so ready,” Grant said. “Not too fast now, or she’ll go. She is Lady Catherine’s slave. She needs to respond to her.”

“But she’s so wet,” I whispered into his ear.

The Captain flashed me a stare so searing, I nearly passed out from the sexual intensity of my response. “She will have to wait.”

I slipped another finger inside.

“That’s it, boy. Go on, now.”

Moving my fingers faster in and out of Lady Jane’s gaping hole, I gritted my teeth, desire sending a fever to my brain. Desire for her, for the Captain, for power, for domination. I didn’t know which. But I knew when Lady Jane screamed, I wanted to cry out with her. I slammed my elbow against the table, a pulsing wave of heat blasting through my body as her inner walls contracted around my fingers.

“Come for the boy, Lady Jane. Oh, come…!” Lady Catherine cried as Lady Jane’s hips jerked wildly against my hand, showered me with the intensity of her release.

Flushed and exhausted with my own unsated need, I sank against Grant, who propped me up with his strong, muscled arm.

Lady Catherine looked up at us and laughed. “Oh, what a sight. Excellent show, Michael O’Brien! You have been initiated by your master.”

Lady Catherine bent down and placed a passionate kiss on Lady Jane’s lips before untying her and collecting her in her arms. She ushered her to a couch in the corner, and the two of them drank wine and giggled together like school girls.

The door opened and two gentlemen entered, one in his sixties and another considerably younger. Grant’s eyes lit up and he stepped forward, leaving me reeling against the table, my body still burning for him.

“Lord Edward, Admiral Endsworth.” The Captain bowed sharp at the waist, military man to the last.

“Ah, Richard.” The fortyish looking man I assumed was the Admiral by his uniform stepped forward. “Here already?”

“I have much to discuss with you, sir.”

Neither man seemed surprised by the wild, ongoing orgy in the room, even though their eyes wandered over to the settee where Lady Catherine and Lady Jane were teasing a poor young soldier lad. Their giggles sailed high throughout the room, and the piano music continued on like nothing had happened.

The Admiral smoothed his rumpled uniform and winked at Lord Edward. “My Lord, if you would excuse us, would there be a room I could receive Captain Grant in private?”

Lord Edward mentioned a private parlor down the hall.

“Excellent, sir,” Grant said. “But first is there a place I could freshen up? I find the evening’s activities have disheveled me most dreadfully.”

Lord Edward chuckled, looking over Grant’s shoulder to his wife huddled in close conversation with Lady Jane as they plotted what to do with the young soldier. “I see my wife has recruited you for playing with her pet. I hope you enjoyed your experience.”

“Of course, sir.” Grant’s face was a blank page, the heat completely retreated from his deep blue eyes.

“There is a water closet across the hall.”

“Excellent, sir.” Grant turned to the Admiral. “I shall see you in your parlor in a few moments, sir.”

“Very good, Captain.” The Admiral turned on his heel and all of us left the chamber, the piano music drifting on our heels.

Grant hesitated for a moment and then ushered me inside the small chamber. As soon as the door clicked shut he threw me against the wall, face first, tearing my trousers down and unbuttoning his own. The force of his hands grinding into my hips sent a wave of wetness bursting between my legs, my own core aching and pulsing for him after working Lady Jane’s so soundly. Grant kissed my neck, nipping at the flesh behind my ear, just as he thrust deep into me with a low groan.

“God, I nearly came watching you with that woman.” The Captain tilted my hips, allowing himself to penetrate me deeper. Ruthless, commanding, all the control he had demonstrated in the parlor shattered, and I arched my back, receiving his hard, pounding assault.

“Did you like making her come, Mary?”

My breath caught in my throat at the sound of my name on his lips, and I gasped as he grabbed onto my breast, bruising my flesh. “I wanted to be that woman, Captain,” I breathed, imagining myself spread out for him like that on a table, helpless and naked and open. “I wanted you inside me. I wanted…oh…oh, Captain!”

His cock impaled me, jabbing hard into the walls of my womb, the intense pressure turning to pleasure as he jammed himself hard against me, his skin slapping against my backside. He fisted my hair, throwing my neck back and planting a brutal kiss on my lips as he flooded my core with warm come, and I milked him for all he was worth. My vision flashed white for a moment behind my closed eyelids, and I broke in two, my mouth emitting small, whimpering sounds as wave after wave of his release burst into me. With one last thrust he broke the kiss and nuzzled my neck, the sound of our breath loud in my ears.

“Oh, Mary, you were made for my cock.” He moved into me again, and I felt him harden once more. “You are my sheath, I swear it, woman.”

My inner walls contracted around him, the aftershock of our passion quickening inside of me.

He groaned and wrapped his arms around me. “I cannot wait to get you back to my cabin tonight.”

“Will you tie me up like Lady Jane?” The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them, but the effect on Grant’s cock was immediate.

He nipped at my ear as he chuckled darkly into my ear. “Your wish is my command.” With a low moan, he slipped out of me, come overflowing down my thighs. “Let us get cleaned up. We do not want to keep the Admiral waiting too long. The hour grows late.”

We found the Admiral staring out the window, a glass of brandy tipped to his lips. A light ocean breeze swept through the room, white drapes billowing around his lonely figure. His grey hair flowed loose over his shoulders, and the skin on his hand was badly scarred as if by a terrible burn. The radiating flames of glistening flesh trailed up past his cuffs, and I wondered how much of his body was covered with those twisted lines and how it might have happened.

“Good evening, sir,” Grant said, interrupting my thoughts. “While these are not ideal circumstances, I am pleased to be once again in your service.”

Endsworth smiled at Grant, setting his emptied glass of brandy onto the table. “And I, you, Richard.” The Admiral’s voice filled with warmth, and my eyes darted between the pair of them. There was history there.

“Please, sit.” He gestured at the chair facing him. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

Grant’s boots pounded against the creaking wooden floor, and he motioned for me to pour him a glass of brandy. After filling his glass, I disappeared into the shadows, my presence all but invisible to the Admiral.

“I am aware of the ambush you experienced on the Atlantic.”

“We overcame the French, but how they knew our course is still a mystery.” Grant leaned back in his chair. “It is as if they knew where we would be.”

The Admiral nodded, taking a long sip of brandy. “Because they did know.”

“Sir?”

“We have it on good intelligence that there were spies in Gibraltar, and one perhaps aboard your ship.”

Grant shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Who is it?”

“That is the problem, the prisoner died before we could get everything out of him. But he did say one of the spies was Irish.”

My skin prickled on the back of my neck. Of course it was no shock there that an Irishman would be cozy with the French as they supported us during our revolution in 1798, but the distinction narrowed down the number of suspects to a handful of sailors. I sneaked a glance at Grant and the muscle in his jaw flickered, his fingers tightening around his brandy glass. I thought about Andrews and the maps I had copied. He couldn’t suspect me, could he?

The Admiral took a long breath. “Would you have any obvious leads as to who our mysterious Irishman could be?”

“We have a handful of Irish on the ship, but no one jumps out to me as a potential adversary,” Grant said in a quiet voice.

The muscles in my chest unclenched, and I let out a soft exhale.

The Captain took a sip of his brandy, drumming his ring finger against the crystal glass. “I will keep a lookout for anything suspicious.”

“Very good, then.” The Admiral continued with other pressing news, but both men decided to continue with their official debrief in the morning.

Grant’s jaw tightened as he left the room, with only a slight glance in my direction before slipping out the door. His footsteps echoed through the marble halls, the revelry in the parlor sputtered out and the quiet of early morning settled on the house as we reached our carriage. He didn’t look at me but rested his chin in his hands as we made our way through the narrow streets of Port Royal.

My throat tightened, wishing I could reach out to him, take his hand and rub my thumb against his palm. The ache within me burned beneath my skin, and a swirl of anger, resentment, and shame bubbled up inside of me.

“You can’t think I’m a spy, Captain,” I said finally, breaking the long, cold silence stretching between us.

Grant stared at me, his eyes glittering black as obsidian in the darkness. “It would be a fantastic ruse, though, you must admit.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “There must be dozens of Irishmen aboard the Elizabeth, not to mention hundreds more within the fleet.”

Grant nodded, his dark eyes scrutinizing me cruelly. “Yes, but not all of them are in private attendance to a Captain in the English Royal Navy. Not all of them parade around in men’s clothes. And not all of them have read Thomas Paine and spout revolutionary nonsense at every opportunity.”

I flashed Grant a sly smile. “I thought you enjoyed my revolutionary nonsense.”

His hand reached out to grab the lapel of my coat, and I almost fell from my seat in the carriage. “Do you think this is a game? Men died in that ambush. Good men.”

My fingers dug into Grant’s arm, trying to extricate myself. “And as you recall, I was aboard that ship as well, Captain. And I nearly died in that ambush!”

His chest heaved, and he loosened his grip, settling back on his seat. But his face remained drawn, his eyes boring right through me.

“Someone knew where we were. Some Irish person. I do not know if it is you, but it certainly does not look good.”

Tears stung my eyelids, and I stared out the window. “All I’ve wanted is to find my fiancé. Take back my land—”

“Land stolen from your ancestors, yes. You have made that clear on numerous occasions. But how much further would you go to take back Ireland?”

My eyes widened, and I turned to him, spluttering, fists clenched at my sides, wondering what he knew about the maps. “You’re being ridiculous!”

“Keep your voice down,” Grant hissed. “We will talk about this in my quarters.”

“But sir—”

“Not another word, boy.”

We didn’t speak a word to each other until we reached the ship and entered Grant’s chambers. I reached for his coat, but he grabbed my wrists, pulling me close into a hard kiss. His tongue assaulted my mouth, and I parted my lips, wetness blooming in my core as he thrust into me, tracing the tips of my teeth. His fingers dug hard into my waist, and he threw my shirt over my head, tearing at the gauze across my breasts. They sprang free from their hot restraints, and he threw me on the bed, crashing over me like a wave. His weight expelled the air from my lungs as his mouth clamped hard on my nipple, sucking until I cried out. I muffled my screams with my arm, tasting the sweat and musk of my own wanting flesh.

He tore off my boots and trousers until I lay naked, sprawled beneath him, his cock jabbing painfully into my thigh. He reached for the buttons of his breeches but then hesitated, his fingers softening against my waist.

“Wait here,” he whispered against my neck, his tongue darting at the edge of my earlobe.

I ached for him, wishing he could fill me right then. The orgy followed by our argument had sent me into a tailspin of worry, and I needed to connect with him again, feel his heartbeat against mine, swallow his cries of passion with my mouth as he came inside of me.

I blinked and he hovered over me, bits of rope in his arms. His eyes glittered with predatory dominance. “I am going to tie you up now.”

Fear quickened in my heart, and I grabbed hold of the bedspread. “Sir, please. I know I said earlier—”

“Are you being impertinent, Mary? Do you feel you are in a position to retract on your desires?”

“But—”

He took my chin in his hand, his fingers brushing against the pulsing vein in my neck. “Do not deny me, Mary.”

The velvety softness of his voice sent trickles of panic down my spine, and my thighs trembled with desire, wanting both to spread myself open for him and run in terror from his chambers. My primal, intuitive feelings warred within me, sexual wantonness and self-preservation tearing me in two different directions. His hand slipped down between my breasts, and I sucked in my breath as he lingered at the small swell of my belly before dipping down between my legs, finding my soaked folds.

“Submit,” he said simply, and that one word sent my will toppling like a breached barricade.

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, the steel in my spine melting as his fingers entered deeper inside me.

“I want you to lie on the bed, Mary, and do not move.”

With his fingers still buried inside me, teasing my inner walls, I stretched out on his bed, my chest propped by downy pillows.

“Beautiful, Mary.” His hand slowed, and I nearly screamed for him to continue, my need reaching a tipping point as the events of the night unraveled in my mind with each stroke of his hand. In spite of my whimpers, he slipped out of my mound and took my wrist. He placed a delicate kiss on the inside of my arm. Then he fastened the rope to the bed, taking time to create a strong knot, his rough sailor’s hands pulling it tight.

He moved to the other side of the bed and unraveled another cord of rope. “What did you think about when you fingered Lady Jane tonight?”

I paused, watching the Captain twist the rope over my wrist then over and under and around the bedpost, the quickness of his hands making me dizzy.

“At first I felt repulsed to see a woman so deeply humiliated.”

Grant nodded, his shoulders relaxed; his only tell was the massive erection tenting his trousers. I swallowed hard. How badly I wanted to release him, with my hands, my mouth. Why would he play this game? Tonight of all nights. If only I could make love to him, hold him close, show him my loyalty to him, my Captain.

My love.

There was that word again. Love. The thought quickened me to my core, and I swallowed hard, shoving it to the back of mind. I couldn’t love him. Not here. Not in this lifetime.

He took hold of my ankle, flexing my leg before pulling it near the bedpost. He wrapped my leg in the rope before creating another intricate knot, this time a little tighter.

“But you did not remain repulsed for long.” He tickled the instep of my foot and my other leg kicked forward impulsively. He grabbed my other ankle, a spark of anger glittering in his dark eyes.

The heat in Grant’s gaze sent another flutter of need through me, and my hips squirmed with the sheer desire of his touch. “No, sir. I found her state…arousing.”

“And why is that?” He took his time with the last knot, as if to tease me, displaying the last shred of freedom of will, letting me watch it flit away beneath his hands.

“Because she had given herself so freely to Lady Catherine. She placed complete trust in her.”

He nodded, the cruel line of his mouth softening somewhat. “And what did you feel with your fingers inside her cunt?”

I breathed in deeply, my nipples tightening at the memory of Grant behind me, pushing his cock into my backside as his fingers guided me into Lady Jane’s dripping quim, how together we had brought that woman to the peak of ecstasy, knowing she had no choice but to submit to our pleasure. Her pleasure.

“I felt…powerful.”

Grant’s fingers trailed back and forth against my instep, sending tickling waves up my limbs, my toes flexing helplessly against the small movement.

“You like that feeling, don’t you, Mary?” His hand slipped up my leg as he walked up the side of the bed toward me, lingering on the sensitive flesh beneath my knee. “You have to maintain perfect control aboard my ship. It must be exhausting, this charade of yours.”

My heart pounded at the implications of his words. Did he mean the nature of my disguise? Or the horrible suggestion that I might be spying for the French?

“It’s exhausting being a boy, but it also has its perks.”

“Is that so?”

I smiled up at Grant. “No corsets.”

He placed a hand on my waist, and I sucked in my breath as he twirled his finger around my belly button. The heat from his gaze seared me, and moisture soaked me between my legs as he perched on the bed, bending his neck to place a line of kisses on my lower abdomen.

“How do you feel now?” he breathed, lifting his knee to straddle my body. His teeth grazed the opening of my mound, finding the small nub of pleasure hidden in my folds. He nibbled on it, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out as tiny shards of physical release quivered through my body. My hips jerked reflexively up to his, but he merely stared at me through dark, hooded eyes, his breath hot against my clit.

“I feel helpless.”

He rubbed his cock against my opening, and I moaned, bucking my hips to meet him. “Do you feel that, Mary? Do you feel what you do to me? You are not helpless.”

Desire welled up inside my core as he brushed against me again. Hovering over me, he brought his tongue up and down the length of my folds, lapping up my desire with a low moan. He slipped a finger inside me, and I gasped.

“You love the power, Mary, but you want this more.”

“You’ve made me want it,” I panted, thrashing hard against his probing fingers. “Oh, Captain, I want it.”

“You want what, Mary?” He lowered his head to suck harder on my clit, and I felt my orgasm rise, blood pumping in my ears.

“I want…” My eyes squeezed shut, my core contracting around his fingers.

“What, Mary?” he demanded, slipping two more fingers inside me, his assault on my core so cruel, punishing.

“You. Inside me. Now.” I gasped and clenched my fists, straining against the ropes.

“Not yet.” The Captain disengaged his fingers, and I moaned in frustration, my body trembling with the stunted release.

He crawled up my body until his mouth was mere inches from mine, locks of brown hair falling into his feral eyes. “I want you to give yourself over to me completely, Mary. I want you to do exactly what I say, be as compliant as Lady Jane was to your hand. Compliant to my voice, my hands, my cock.” He thrust his fingers into my hair and pulled me up from the pillows for a painful, aching kiss. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

And I did want it. Wanted to submit to him, open myself completely to him.

He grabbed my nipple and pinched hard. The pain flooded through my breast at the same time it sent a shot of pleasure down to my clit. He brought his mouth down to one and sucked hard, and then, letting go, slapped it with a sharp movement. I gasped, trying to escape my restraints, shield myself, but the Captain slapped again, harder this time.

“I do not think you do,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Or you would take the punishments I give you.”

“But why?” I whimpered, tears stinging the edge of my eyelids.

“Because you need it. You want it. I can feel you soaking through my sheets, you are so wet for me. Your body cries out to me to take control of you, discipline you.” He slapped my nipple again, and I let out a loud yelp at the same time I pulled at my bindings. He clamped his hand around my neck and gave a firm squeeze. “Cry out again. Move again. And you will pay for it.”

He slapped hard on my nipples again, but this time I bit my lip to keep from screaming, stilling myself to the intense pain that somehow brought me to the peak of ecstasy. I choked back a sob, aching for release, my thighs wet, my clit full and swollen.

Grant brushed his hand against my breast, gentle this time, and I melted against his touch. He inched his knees up closer until his cock hovered over my mouth. A drop of pre-come wept from the tip, and reflexively I extended my tongue out to taste.

“Are you hungry, my darling?” He brushed my short sweaty curls away from my forehead.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good, because I want to see you swallow this cock.”

Without any hesitation, he rammed his shaft into my mouth, and I had to repress the desire to heave as it scraped the back of my throat.

“You need to relax for me, Mary. Open up.”

I concentrated on the muscles in my throat, willing them to part for him. By some miracle they did, and he inched farther into my mouth.

“Oh, that’s good,” he moaned. “Open for me, Mary. Take all of me in.”

It seemed impossible. The Captain was too massive, too long, but his thumb pressed softly against my neck, and I found the will to contract my throat muscles, letting him in more.

He groaned. “Oh God, your mouth is so beautiful.” The sound of his pleasure made the blood sing in my veins. A small amount of come drizzled down my throat, and I moaned.

“I am going to fuck your mouth, Mary. I am going to give it all to you because you need it. You want it.”

I stared up at him, his cock deep in my mouth, and while I should have felt shame, horror, fear, I felt nothing but complete trust.

I needed it. Wanted it.

He tilted his hips back, and I rubbed my tongue around his shaft, tracing the deep vein running the length of him. He moaned, letting me taste him, and then without warning, he slammed his cock deep down my throat. I dug my fingernails deep in my palm, trying to fight off the invasion, but he pressed his hands against my arms, pinning me to the bed as his balls brushed against my lips, the rough curls of his hair tickling my nostrils. My eyes watered, my throat contracting with the force of him invading my mouth, but I took a deep breath and let him in, all of him.

He smelled earthy and delicious, and he moved out and shoved back into me again with a dark, masculine grunt of desire. As soon as he felt my muscles loosen, he pumped harder, the rhythm of his desire taking him over. My tongue ran up and down his length, wild, trying to take in all of him. His cock pulsed and a small shot of come splashed against my throat, salty and bitter. With a low moan, he slipped out of me, his cock swollen, the delicate skin stretched to its limit.

“Not yet,” he growled, jumping off the bed and reaching for the drawer containing his flogger. He cracked it in the air, and I shivered in fear and anticipation.

“You still hesitated as I fed you my cock, Mary.”

I gasped, straining against my bonds. “I was surprised. I—”

He bent over the bed and cracked it again just above my cunt. A white-hot surge of pain radiated through me even as my clit ached with heaviness. He grabbed my hair and pulled me in for a hard kiss. Breaking it off, he hissed into my ear. “You need to give yourself to me fully, Mary. I hope this helps you remember.”

The flogger snapped back again, grazing my delicate folds. I winced, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Jesus, Mary, and all the Saints!” I gasped. He flicked it across my clit expertly, and I moaned as the sting bled into endless pleasure, my bound legs twisting and scissoring. He gave one last slap across my exposed quim, and then he threw the flogger to the ground and pounced on me like an animal. He buried his face between my legs, licking my welts, kissing them hungrily and sending his fingers back inside me, my climax rising.

“You come when I tell you to come,” he breathed, mounting me, each muscle on his abdomen quivering as he sought control over his own desires. His cock bulged red and angry, heavy with need, and I longed to touch him, feel the hard length of him in my palm. He clamped his hand on my neck again, tighter this time. “I am going to fuck you now, Mary.”

“Yes,” I breathed, my hips rising off the bed, searching for his beautiful tip. He rubbed his length down across my folds, my body splintering against him, all sense crashing down into some endless dark well. “Fuck me, please, sir.”

With one long groan, he thrust inside me. No care, no finesse, no tenderness. He pounded me, impaling me, breaking me. My desire crested, but I held back, suspended in the air, as his arms wrapped around the small of my back, bringing me closer to him until his cock jabbed deep inside. The pressure sweet and horrible at the same time. Primal and painful, I wanted all of him, and somewhere in the back of my mind I heard myself cry out his name.

“Come for me, Mary. Come all over my cock.”

“Yes…yes!”

My body imploded and snapped back to earth as Grant’s rhythm went wild, hungry, and merciless. With one final moan, he spilled his seed into me. The deep contraction of his shaft had me thrashing again, thrusting my hips up to capture every drop of him, every last bit. He collapsed over my body, and I breathed in his scent. Cedar, shoe polish, the sea, and beneath that something I could not define, something dark and masculine and mine.

Mine.

“Mine,” he whispered in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. “You are mine, Mary.”

I could have curled up inside him, all memories of my past life melting away until I was reborn again. Our bodies melded together, skin against skin, the pounding rhythm of his heartbeat mirroring my own. I loved him. Of course I did. Maybe I had loved him the first night aboard the Elizabeth, but in that moment, I knew it as sure as anything. And yet, I had no idea what to do with that love, and like a secret treasure I had no choice but to bury it far away and deep within myself.

Maybe I dozed or maybe Grant had really ravished me silly, but before I knew it, my binds had loosened from my wrists and ankles, and he had collected me against his chest, his hands soothing my curls away from my face. I glanced up at him, and he stared at me from beneath heavy, hooded eyes. As always, he was unreadable, an implacable wall of steel, the Admiral’s news of spies not even reading in his gaze as he pressed a kiss against my lips.

“I can see why Lady Jane enjoyed that so much,” I whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that kind of pleasure before.”

“Not with Johnny?”

I rolled back against the bed with a sigh, pulling the sheet over my nakedness. “That all seems so far away now, like someone else’s memories.”

“You have changed, Mary,” he said.

I looked back at the Captain—my Captain. He had the beauty of a cruel angel warrior, the hard lines of his face cut in dark shadows. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back. What turn of events had brought us both to this place, and how would things have been different otherwise? I left Dunraven seeking my fiancé, but I found this fiery, raging sort of love instead, a love that almost replaced my desire for the luscious green fields, the wild hills of Dunraven.

Yet, none of that mattered when I lay so close to this man. All I could think of was the smooth texture of his arms caging me against him, his muscles flexing as he thrust into me. The sound of his moans as he tucked into my body haunted me constantly, and I longed to feel the sharp bristles of his unshaven cheek as he buried his face into my neck. Grant surrounded me, his hard masculine power spellbinding, and with one word he could make me submit to him. Me. Mary O’Malley, who submitted to no man, no government, no King. But for my Captain, I would have given anything. He was my compass, my North Star, my lighthouse, the voice calling me home. Not to Ireland, but to his body. Again and again.

“I have changed, sir,” I whispered.

“Are you crying?’

“No.”

He kissed me again and pulled me tight to his chest, the small curly hairs tickling my nose as I nestled in close to him. The ship rocked us like a cradle, but sleep eluded us both as endless streams of conversation played out in our heads, the multitude of words we could not say. So much was at stake. Our inevitable distance, the set of circumstances that would ultimately tear us apart.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mary,” Grant whispered.

“Tell me a story.”

“A story? About what?”

I took a deep, steadying breath, running my hand across the scoop of his neck to his broad, chiseled shoulders. “Tell me the story of how a lowly little cabin boy became a Captain in the Royal Navy.”

“You do not want to hear that story.”

I slid up on my elbows. “Of course I do. Go on. I imagine you didn’t get here on your good looks alone.”

He arched a stern eyebrow at me. “What are you implying, Mary?”

“I’m implying that while you may not have been Captain Bloomfield’s bumboy, you don’t rise in the ranks without giving special favors. Not for you. Nor for me, neither.”

Grant sat up. “One, I was certainly not Bloomfield’s bumboy as you call it. And two, I did rise in the ranks by giving special favors, but not the kind your dirty little mind can dream up.”

“Ah, not so fast there, Captain.” I cupped his cheek, a smile splayed across my lips. “You’re the one who’s instructed me in all the dirty secrets of the Royal Navy.”

“So I have, but it was for your own good.”

I let out a gasp of protest.

“Don’t tell me you did not like it.”

Heat rose up my neck, and I hid my face in my hands with a giggle as he tackled me back to the bed, kissing me between my breasts.

“Don’t get distracted now! I want to hear your story!” I swatted him playfully with my palm. With my other hand, I reached over to his nightstand and grabbed his hat, popping it square on my head. Far too big for me, I tipped it back to find Grant’s eyes narrowed on me. “What? Maybe I would like to be a Captain someday.”

“You would make a formidable Captain, Mary.”

“A cabin boy can dream…”

“Yes, and for a long time that is all I could do.” Grant snatched his hat and placed it back on his nightstand, grabbing me roughly and pulling me back into his arms. We lay in the darkness together, the candle long burned out. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and I thought for a moment he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke. Softly. His deep, baritone voice reverberated through his chest and against my ear, and I curled my hands against his neck, snuggling up tighter against him.

“The year was 1794, and I sailed on the Achilles under Captain Bloomfield. I had risen in the ranks by then, but a commission seemed impossible, out of reach for someone like me. But I loved the sea, and I worked hard, learning everything I could under him. In those days, we patrolled the Caribbean for pirates—the waters were thick with them—and it seemed once we destroyed one nest, another popped up somewhere else. But it was Bloomfield who had the courage to chase after the main source, the leader of the pirates, Red Fox.”

I grinned. “Oh, pirates! I like this story already!”

Grant tucked his hand tightly behind my backside in warning not to interrupt.

“We had finally caught up to him just east of Nassau, but the wind was not on our side, and he outran us quickly. That did not deter Captain Bloomfield, and we sailed after him. A storm picked up, but the Captain was relentless. Finally, we caught up with Red Fox, and the storm had turned into a downright hurricane.”

Grant absently stroked my waist, his voice low, almost a whisper as his mind traveled back to that moment.

“We exchanged fire, Red Fox’s cannon taking out one of our masts. The Captain fell from a musket shot, so I took the ship’s wheel. Red Fox was fast, but we leaned into the wind, nearly taking down half the ship with it. But we managed to cross them and fire at their bow, taking the ship out.”

“Crossing the T,” I said absently.

Grant sat up. “Where did you hear that term?”

“Something the gun captain screamed during the battle.”

He nodded.

I took his hand. “And the ship tilted so sharply. Like this.” I jack-knifed my wrist against his palm.

“Right. We passed across her bow, the full might of our cannon tearing her apart.” He leaned back on the pillow, his eyes faraway. “They said I was mad to take the maneuver, but it worked.”

“It is mad.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps we are both ones for insane measures.”

I curled up tighter against his chest.

Grant sighed, continuing his story. “The Captain was blinded by the explosion, and could no longer sail. I was promoted and am now the officer you see before you today.”

“What happened to Red Fox?”

“He was hanged just like all criminals are, his body left to rot on the fortress of Nassau. That is what they do to criminals in this part of the world. Criminals…and spies.” His hand gripped my waist and pulled me under him.

“Tell me what happened with Andrews.” Grant’s eyes glittered bright, desperate.

“I told you everything,” I said in a small voice.

“Not everything. I know there is more, Mary.” He tangled his hand in my hair and pulled my head back. “Tell me. Now. Once you asked me about my maps. Was that him?”

I swallowed hard, tears stinging my eyes. “Aye.”

Grant’s mouth dropped in disbelief before he blinked and it became a mask of stone again. “Did he see them? Did you copy them for him?”

My face crumpled, my control lost as the words tumbled out. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You are not an idiot, Mary. You knew exactly what you were doing.” His blue eyes bore through me, his body still, even his heart against my chest stopped thundering.

“Please,” I whispered. “I was so afraid.”

He didn’t move. Not even an eyelash.

“He was going to sell me out to you and the crew!” I cried. “I couldn’t have that!”

“But you could copy my private correspondence.”

My throat tightened, and I tried to speak but only a sob escaped my lips. I closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear, pull Grant’s sheet over my head and, like in a magic show, turn into air. The enormity of what I had done washed over me, and I struggled to escape his gripping hands even as he dug in tighter to my flesh. The one man who had protected me, kept me safe, looked out for me on this crazy errand into the wilderness, the one man who ignited a kind of passion I had never known in my life…I had betrayed him. A sickening feeling churned in my stomach, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I swear I’m not a spy.”

“You are not a spy, I know that much.” Grant pushed himself off the bed with his knuckles. “But you are selfish, Mary. Shortsighted. Do you have any idea what Andrews could have done with that information?”

“I swear, I didn’t know—”

“But rather than come to me, you served this traitor!”

The air in the room crackled with tension between us. A dark hand passed over my heart, leaving my blood cold.

“I didn’t serve Andrews. I killed him.”

Grant reeled on me. “You wanted to play cabin boy, Mary. You should have put me, your master, before all things!”

I leaped from the bed. “You’re not my master, Richard, and I’m sick of this stupid game!”

He startled at the sound of his Christian name, but he recovered, snatching my wrist. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep on the gun deck.”

He pulled me closer to him. “No.”

I wrenched my hand away and grabbed my clothes. He flung his arm around my waist and threw me onto the bed. I landed face down with a gasp, the air escaping my lungs as I struggled beneath him.

His breath felt hot in my ear, and his cock hardened as I squirmed, tangled in the sheets. “You are a liar, Mary. I am your master.”

“You are not!” I cried.

He kissed my neck, and I moaned, my clit aching as he thrust against my backside. “That’s right, Mary,” he said, his fingers trailing down to my slit. “Look at how wet you are, even now, even when you struggle beneath me. You want to obey me, serve me.”

“I do want to…I…I want you…I…” The words caught in my throat with a choked sob, even as my hips tilted up to give him greater access to my folds. His hands slipped back and forth, spreading our mutual come from our last lovemaking all through my private spaces. The tip of his cock grazed my opening, and I made a sound low in my throat, my spine melting under the force of his strong, sailor hands. I could not say no to this man. A helpless, wild, fevered feeling overtook me, and I threw myself into the riptide of his control, relishing in the way he pulled me under into some warm, dark place.

“Tell me who your master is, Mary.” He pressed his cock a hairsbreadth deeper into me, but it wasn’t enough, and I arched my back, my hips gyrating to seek him out. A sharp smack cracked through the room, and a a hot ache spread through my backside. “Tell me!” he growled and spanked harder, the slap of his hand forcing a sob from my lips.

“You are,” I gasped, my body contorted from the sting.

“Tell me!”

“You are my master!”

With one hard thrust, Grant slammed into me, and I came instantly, his masculine power overwhelming me, sending my body over the edge. One hand gripping my hip, his other twisted into my hair, he invaded me, reckless and wild. He groaned and his seed erupted in my core, spilling on my thighs with each long thrust. He collapsed over me, his touch softening, his hands clearing my sweaty curls from my forehead. “Mary, Mary…” he whispered.

“Are you going to turn me in as a spy?”

Grant kissed me between my shoulder blades, and I shivered, burying my nose into his sheets. They smelled like him, like sex, like the musty damp of the sea. I wasn’t ready to leave him, not yet. Everything in me ached for him, a constant dull hunger, even then as he panted above me, catching his breath. Even then, I wanted him again and again.

“Of course not.” He slid out of me and propped himself on his side. His hands swept up and down the hills and valleys of my curves, the movement lulling me into stillness. “We will not do anything, Mary. We will go on as before. You shall stay with Lord Edward when we sail.”

I turned my head to face him. “Please don’t leave me here.”

Grant swept his hand across my cheek and closed his eyes for a long time. I felt a possessive energy through his palm, as if he cupped something small and precious, like the last drop of water in the desert. It made me want to throw myself at him, cling to him, but I resisted. Instead I traced the planes of his perfect face with my gaze, the deep lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his brow, the set of his mouth as he frowned. He opened his eyes.

“I will not be the one who places you in harm’s way, Mary. In spite of the play we are in, you have been my lover these past few weeks. While that may not mean much to you, as a gentleman, it means everything to me. You have been my woman, and I will take care of you as such.” His hand swept past my ear and ran through my sweaty curls. “At least for the time we have left.”

My vision blurred with fresh tears, and I blinked them back. “It does mean something to me.”

A ghost of a smile swept across his lips for a moment, but then his face hardened again. “I will arrange for you to stay with Lord Edward and Lady Catherine. They are eccentric, yes, but they will not harm you.”

I nodded, even though I knew in my heart I would not stay there. I would find a way to return to the sea in pursuit of Johnny, in search of a way to clear my name and take back my land. A sickening feeling of betrayal coursed through me once again, and the emotion gave me pause. I looked away from Grant’s searching eyes. He would know my intent, and something in my heart didn’t want him to know.

He collected me in his arms, and I buried my face into the hollow of his shoulder. We fit so perfectly, as if our bodies had been molded together by some divine force. My hand curled on his chest and he covered it with his own hand, and they rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. Outside the ship, a light rain fell, the soft pattering sound echoing into the walls of the chamber, sending us both to sleep.

Chapter Twenty

My shoulders ached from scrubbing the length of the deck, the sun a white-hot mass of flame in the pale blue sky. Sweat dripped from my forehead, soaking into the wooden planks and disappearing immediately from the heat. A scuffle and the shout of voices on the dock made me look up and wander over to the railing. Below, four soldiers in the scarlet of the English Army surrounded Captain Grant and two of his lieutenants. I couldn’t hear over the din of the docks and the incessant cries of the seagulls, but by the tense set of Grant’s shoulders, I knew the exchange had turned heated. Finally, he nodded and turned on his heel up the gang plank, the soldiers following in close pursuit, bayonets perched on their forearms.

When the Captain reached the main deck, his eyes searched for me. I took a step forward and captured his gaze, and a glint of panic flashed in his irises for a moment until he hardened his stare again. In spite of the heat, a cold shiver shot down my spine.

“O’Brien,” he bellowed.

I dropped the scrub brush onto the deck with a clatter. “Sir?”

The soldiers shoved past him, one of them hovering close to my face, his teeth stained yellow with tobacco. “Are you Michael O’Brien?”

My mouth flapped open and closed, my throat tightening. Sweat broke out on my skin like a shroud of cold silk, and I flinched as the soldier’s hand clamped my arm.

“Are you Michael O’Brien?” he barked again, louder this time.

I nodded.

The soldier gestured to another one who manifested a pair of iron shackles.

“You’re under arrest.”

“What?” My words sounded high and tinny in my ears. The bright light blinded me, fuzzing the edges of the soldiers. A low murmur had arisen from the deck as sailors crowded over to see the commotion. The press of bodies sucked the air from my lungs and black spots crowded my vision as the shackles clicked shut against my wrist. The sound awakened something inside me, and I snapped back awake, my voice low again.

“What have I done?” My voice quavered. I knew why they had come for me, but my mind refused to accept it. “Why are you arresting me?”

One of the soldiers cuffed me on the side of my head, dragging me forward. I stumbled and I heard Grant’s voice booming over the rising hum. “You have no jurisdiction to touch my men aboard this ship!” A gentle hand helped me up, and in the chaos I heard his voice whisper, “I do not know what is happening, but I will get you out. I promise you.”

I shook my head, trying to focus as Grant’s face came into view. The soldiers dragged me forward, and I looked over my shoulder as long as I could, taking in his stony, stoic stare, only his eyes deceiving the rage boiling beneath his skin.

Aside from the churning in my stomach, I felt numb, as if I were being swept up by a great gust of wind, unable to resist its hurricane force. One of the soldiers shoved me toward the plank, and my feet barely touched the ground as we walked the length of the dock before they shoved me into a cart bound for prison.

The door of my cell opened, letting a small sliver of light through the darkness. Folding my knees closer to my chest and blinking hard, I inched backward as two soldiers came into view, their arms reaching for me. They grabbed the lapels of my coat and dragged me out of my cell, down a long hall. From faraway, someone belted out an unholy scream, and I swallowed the wave of panic bubbling up inside me.

“What have I done? Tell me why I’m here!” I suppressed the high quiver in my voice, raising my chin to face my jailers. If they discovered I was a woman, for sure I would be done for. Neither of the soldiers answered me, but instead opened a door to a chamber empty save a few wooden chairs and a pair of shackles dangling from a low wooden beam. I backed away, struggling against the soldiers’ iron grip.

“Don’t!” I exclaimed, my situation coming clear to me. They were going to torture information out of me. Information I did not have. And in the process of torturing me, they would discover my true identity as a woman. The discovery of a woman aboard the Elizabeth would not look good for Grant, and it would surely be the death of me. “I haven’t done anything!”

They unlocked the chains on my wrists and wrenched my arms up to bind to the ones dangling from the ceiling. I made to kick one of the soldiers, but he diverted the blow and sent his fist deep in my side. My breath hitched, the pain blinding me for a moment. From faraway, I heard a low, animalistic gasping sound and a murky blackness passed over my eyes. When I opened them again, Admiral Endsworth stood in front of me, so close I could see the pores around his nose, the white hairs flecked on his jaw. The small chamber was oppressively hot, and a slight sheen cast over his rugged features. He studied me with a dark stare.

“You are Captain Grant’s cabin boy. The Irish lad.”

“S-s-sir…” I shook my head, trying to bring the world back into focus again.

“Tell me how long you’ve been involved with Lieutenant Andrews.”

“I had nothing to do with Andrews, sir. I swear to you.”

The Admiral shook his head. “That is not what I heard, boy. I suggest you start talking, or you will not enjoy what is coming to you.”

“Sir, I swear. I’m not a spy!”

Endsworth nodded at one of the soldiers who marched across the room, a knife in hand.

“No!” I cried. Fear gripped my belly, and I rattled my shackles in a vain attempt to escape. The soldier grabbed the hem of my shirt and shredded it in half, nicking my back. Blood trickled down my spine and into my trousers, and I went limp, the iron shackles digging hard into my wrists.

“Stop!” the Admiral’s voice boomed through the chamber.

I blinked, and his face was only a hairsbreadth from mine. He grabbed my chin and scrutinized me with his clear, watery eyes. He threw his arms around me, and with a rent beneath my fingers, the last of my shirt fluttered to the floor, bloodied and stained. Along with it, the last shreds of my gauze bindings drifted in the air like small white birds. Someone let out a low curse, footsteps shuffling. In spite of the heat of the room, my skin prickled with gooseflesh as the Admiral breathed fast against my cheek.

“Set her down!”

With one click, I stumbled to the floor, the room tilting as I tried to regain my footing.

“You. Give her your shirt.”

“Sir?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Your shirt!” the Admiral bellowed.

Endsworth crouched down and shook his head. “You have quite a story to tell us, my dear.”

The last thing I saw were the flecks of bright silver in his irises before the cold stone floor folded over me and enveloped me in a well of darkness.

…

My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, my eyes gummy and stuck shut. Scrubbing my face with the back of my hand, I took stock of my quarters. Cleaner, no doubt, than the hole they had buried me in beneath the garrison, with a bed, a chair, a nightstand, and a pitcher. But the barred window on the door revealed my prisoner status. A maid came in with a bowl of gruel and a dress and undergarments. She wordlessly changed the bandage across my back and fled the room with a pinched look on her reddened, sour apple face.

Wincing in pain, I managed to throw the thin shift over my head, but exhaustion took over me before I could even manage dressing myself in the threadbare linen dress she had given me. Instead, I took a sip of water and tried to wolf down a few bites of gruel before my stomach protested, and I gave up. Lying on my side, I stared at the wall, wondering where Grant was and if he would hold true and come for me. A heroic man was wont to say those sorts of things in the heat of the moment, but the vengeful look he flashed the soldiers as they dragged me away spoke to a deeper promise.

And if he helped you, what then? When have you ever given him even a glimmer of hope that we could have anything beyond what we experienced in his bed? Nay, Mary. He’s no doubt a hundred leagues from you.

The thought brought hot tears to my eyes, and I wiped them away with the back of my hand. Gritting my teeth against the cut on my back, I went through my cover story from beginning to end.

Hours later, the Admiral came in, escorted by several soldiers. He bid them to leave and we sat face to face, alone.

“This was quite a good ruse you and Andrews set up,” the Admiral drawled. He sat still, not even the fringe on his shoulders quivering in the light breeze from the barred window.

I gave him a blank stare, but my skin prickled with the mention of Andrews.

“Did Captain Grant know of your disguise?”

I paused for a moment, stilling my pounding heart. “No.”

Endsworth leaned back in his chair. “I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

I shrugged. “You didn’t seem to notice when we paid you a visit.”

Irritation flickered in the Admiral’s clear eyes, but he quickly suppressed it. “What is your name?”

“Margaret O’Reilly.”

“And where are you from, Margaret O’Reilly?” He said my nom de plume with an arched eyebrow, sarcasm dripping from his lips.

“From Donegal, sir.”

“And how long have you been spying for the French, Miss O’Reilly?”

I maintained my level gaze at the Admiral. “I’m not a spy, sir. I’m looking for my sweetheart who went off to war.” I blinked up some fake tears, which, given my state, were not difficult to muster. “You see, sir. I’m…I’m with child, sir.”

I stared down at my hands, trying to make myself appear small, vulnerable. The silence in the cell stretched between us, until finally the Admiral spoke in a low voice.

“Unfortunately, for you, Miss O’Reilly, I do not believe your horseshit story, and I do not care if you are carrying some sailor’s bastard or not.”

My head snapped up to face the Admiral, my heart pounding in my chest.

“I have two men who saw you go down to the hold to meet with Andrews.”

I shook my head, fumbling with my words.

The Admiral’s voice rose. “I also have the word of two Lieutenants about how Andrews, while drunk, bragged about ‘using you.’”

“Sir! Andrews threatened to reveal my identity to the Captain, to the crew! That’s all. He…he wanted me to do things…”

“And I also have word from Mr. McGregor that you discussed your involvement with revolutionary activities in Ireland, activities that allied you with French interests.”

I felt as if someone had shoved a knife into my heart. Gentle, kind Mr. McGregor, one of the two men I truly trusted aboard the Elizabeth—my betrayer.

“I swear.” The words caught in my throat, and I struggled for air against the bandages wound tightly around my chest. “I swear I wasn’t working for Andrews, sir. I’m not a spy. I’m just a girl looking for her man. Grant will tell you. I’m no spy!”

“Grant has already set sail.”

The walls closed in on me, and a rattling started in my ankles and swept up through to my shoulders. He had left me. I knew he would, but I still refused to believe it. My last ally on this earth had abandoned me in this prison. I buried my head in my hands, willing myself to remain calm, but the more I tried to stop the incessant shaking, the more my body betrayed me. It served me right. He had given me everything, and I had done nothing but bring him an ocean of trouble.

The Admiral stood, towering over my bed. “Richard always did have a soft spot for the cabin boys.” He tsked, shaking his head. “You Irish scum. You think you are so crafty with your disguises and your intrigue. You think the French give a damn about you and your backwoods island?”

I shot up, staring the Admiral in the eye. “I don’t think the French give a damn about us. I know they don’t! You think for one minute I would serve them? I was but a child when they abandoned us to your English guns, but I remember. You have the wrong person, Admiral. I may detest your King, but English or French, your wars mean nothing to me!”

The Admiral narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Prepare yourself, Miss O’Reilly.”

“For what?”

“For hanging. At dawn.”

Fear and rage exploded in my heart, and I shook my head, my hands clenched at my sides. “What about a trial? I know my rights!”

“This is wartime, Miss O’Brien. You gave up your rights when you signed yourself up as a sailor in the Royal Navy. You may not care about these wars, but we do.” A dark purple flush passed over his weathered face. “And we will not have spies in our fleet.”

The Admiral turned on his heel and left the chamber. I raced after him, but the door slammed in my face. I screamed, pounding on the door until my fists bled, but there was nothing for it. As night fell, the garrison quieted, and I curled up on the floor, waiting for death.

Chapter Twenty-One

The sound of giggling on the other side of the door roused me from my numb stupor.

“Do you not know how to stick a key in a hole?” The clanking of metal and the click of a lock sounded just beyond the wall.

“I will stick this key up your hole if you do not shut your smart mouth, Lady Jane.”

Lady Jane?

I scrambled away from the door as she and Lady Catherine burst into my rude chambers with a whirl of satin and silk. Lady Catherine crouched to the floor and smothered me against her breast, the smell of gardenias and the shock of their sudden appearance nearly making me swoon.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Lady Catherine exclaimed. “This is no place for a lady!”

I rubbed my eyes. “Wha-what are you doing here?”

Lady Jane grabbed my hand and placed a bundle in my arms. “Getting you out, of course! Grant told us your story and how you’re searching for your lost love. It is so romantic!” Her eyes glittered and she nuzzled up to my shoulder, her hands clasped against her breast. Heat bloomed in my cheeks as my mind wandered to the last time I met the fair lady, and my palms itched when I thought about where my fingers had been the other night. She gave me a small peck on the cheek, and shame, desire, excitement, and fear twisted my insides into knots.

Lady Catherine flashed me a warm, sympathetic look. “We could not bear the thought of you swinging from the gallows.” She nodded toward the bundle in my arms. “Go on. Get dressed. We have occupied the jailer for now, but it will not be for long!”

The women had provided me a fine but simple dress in blue silk, undergarments, a pair of slippers, and a long, soft grey cloak. Lady Jane wiped off my tear-stained face with her delicate fingers and settled a wig of chestnut curls over my head.

“There now. That should do,” she said with a wide, impish grin.

In that same moment, the sound of a great explosion rang out on the other side of the garrison.

Lady Jane’s eyes widened. “What was that? Are they coming for us?”

Lady Catherine peered out the window as another explosion blasted down on the docks below.

“Lord God, Almighty!” she cried, clutching her pearls. “There is a fire. We have to hurry!”

I raced to the window. Outside, the night sky burst with orange flames. “Is it the French?”

Lady Catherine shook her head. “We need to move. Go!”

She raced out of the chamber and down a long corridor. The garrison was in chaos, with soldiers clambering over each other to their stations. No one seemed to notice three women bound for the opposite direction. Plaster rained down on us as the garrison shook again with another blast. Lady Catherine grabbed my hand and pulled me into a tight corner with a small hatch beneath our feet. She lifted it up to reveal a rickety ladder leading into a dank, musty, dark hole.

“Go! Go!” she hissed, waving Lady Jane and me down the hatch.

My feet landed on a cave-like surface, a tunnel stretching out both ways into darkness. Lady Jane fell behind me in a fountain of petticoats, and I reached for her and lifted her to standing. Lady Catherine descended last, placing the hatch over our heads, only small pinpricks of light beaming down from above.

“Only a few people know about this passageway,” Lady Catherine said, leading us one way down the tunnel. “It was created long ago for smuggling, but now they use it to press gang convicts. One way leads to a pub in town and the other way leads to the docks.”

“Which way are we going?” I whispered.

“We have arranged passage for you on a merchant’s ship bound for Belfast.”

“Belfast! But—”

“You’re getting aboard that ship, Miss O’Brien,” Lady Catherine snapped. “You have no choice.”

Lady Jane squeezed my arm in the darkness. “I know how far you have come to find your love, but you must have faith, my darling. He will come back to you.”

I patted her hand and pressed on behind Lady Catherine. After a while, the lady paused, and I sensed her consternation as she felt across the wall of the cave for something. Finally, she must have discovered the secret lever, because a small door opened up for us, leading into a small chamber barely wide enough for all three of us to fit inside. The explosions sounded louder here, and I held my hands to my ears.

When the chaos subsided for a moment, Lady Catherine pointed to another trap door. “This will lead you out to the docks. There should be a ship there, the Amanda.” She reached into her bodice and emerged with a short stack of papers. “Here is everything you need, plus some money to get you home.”

She pulled something out of her pocket, and recognition flared in my belly. My knife. The soldiers had confiscated it when I was arrested, but Lady Catherine placed it in my hands with a wink.

“You might want to keep this close,” she said.

I took the knife from her graceful hand. “But why are you doing this?”

Lady Catherine looked at Lady Jane and nodded. Lady Jane stepped up close to me and whispered in my ear. “We take care of our own, Miss O’Brien.”

Her breath felt cool and sweet next to my ear, and I turned to her and smiled in spite of my racing heart. “I don’t understand.”

Tilting her head, Lady Jane pressed her face close to mine, her big doe eyes shining in the cave where only a few slivers of moonlight fell through the cracks in the door.

Lady Catherine came up behind me, her flowery scent enveloping me as she pressed her long fingernails gently into my shoulders. “You have touched my princess, Miss O’Brien. That gift comes with certain privileges.”

Her low, feminine voice produced an immediate effect on my body, my stomach fluttering as her nails scaled my back. Lady Jane bit her lip before bringing her full mouth closer for a kiss. I made to back away, but another cannon sounded just on the other side of the wall, and I flinched forward, her mouth pressing against mine. Her small tongue darted against my teeth, and something in me collapsed as I parted my lips wider, letting her gain access. Her movements felt so precious, so gentle, and a wave of desire blossomed inside my core as Lady Catherine pushed me closer to Lady Jane, pressing us against the wall, deepening the kiss. Again, I felt the rush of power I had experienced before with my fingers deep inside her, and a tingle of excitement coursed through me as the small, fragile woman moaned in my mouth.

The explosions ceased, and all I could hear was the sound of rushing waves just beyond the hatch.

“The Amanda is waiting just out that door, Miss O’Brien,” Lady Catherine said. “Promise me you will be on it.”

Tears stung my eyes, my heart heavy with gratitude.

I pressed my hand into Lady Catherine’s. “I will pay you back someday.”

She smiled, her arm curling tighter around Lady Jane. “Just promise me you will never don those horrible trousers again. A woman like you should show off her figure.” She winked, nodding to the door. “Now, go. Hurry!”

I gave one last look over my shoulder at the two ladies, already preoccupied with each other in the dark chamber, and tugged at the ancient driftwood door. The smell of the sea and gunpowder hit my nostrils as I entered a cove disguised by formidable-looking rocks at the entrance. Just at the opening, a small ship sat anchored, the silhouettes of sailors scurrying to prepare for launch. In the moonlight they reminded me of the shades aboard Coleridge’s cursed vessel.

I shivered, hugging my arms as a wave lapped at my slippers. One of them spotted me and signaled for me to come forward. I hurried my steps, the salty air filling my lungs. Strong, rough arms lifted me aboard, and before I could even ask if I had actually climbed onto the Amanda, the ship reeled, navigating the choppy waters with ease, setting a course for East.

For home.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I leaned against the rail, staring out at the hazy horizon, glancing at the heavy clouds above. Behind me, a group of sailors chuckled at the punch line of a joke.

“So the whore says to the dwarfman,” one of them hollers, “if you think I’m sucking on this lizard, you best go saddle up that horse!”

An explosion of laughter reverberated in my chest, and my knuckles gripped hard on the wooden rail, not just in offense for that poor prostitute, but because their very presence offended me. Everything about this journey offended me. Returning to Ireland without Johnny, without Dunraven. And what of it? The thought of working in Belfast in disguise in some backstreet pub as a barmaid sent a wave of rage down my spine. It wasn’t supposed to end like this, and yet it had. Even Grant had abandoned me in Port Royal. I gazed across the still water, the flat grey sea stretching endlessly into an equally dull sky, wondering where he was now, what he was doing. My chest tightened at the thought of him, and I looked down at my hands, taking in a deep breath.

“That’s enough, men!” the Captain barked. A rustle of movement sounded behind me as the sailors resumed their duties.

Captain Wilkes walked up beside me and leaned his back on the rail, peering into my face. Short and wiry, he still commanded the Amanda with the same fierce dominance as Grant, but I had come to have my doubts that the Amanda was a supply ship. A privateer at best, and at worst…well, I could only hope Lady Catherine wouldn’t have thrown me to pirates.

“I apologize for their behavior.” He gave me a deep bow. “They’re not used to having a woman on board.”

I gave a slight curtsy to Captain Wilkes before returning to my meditation of the sea. “It’s quite all right, Captain. I am used to it by now.”

“Still,” Wilkes said, his eyes never leaving my face. “It gives no reason to be acting like a tribe of bloody savages, now, don’t it?”

A sly smile spread across my lips. “I’m sure that whore and dwarf joke would outdo any so-called savage, wouldn’t you agree, Captain Wilkes?”

He chuckled. “Indeed. I do like a good whore and dwarf joke now and again. It’s a wonder they let the English in charge on this side of the pond.”

I arched an eyebrow. “It’s easy to ‘let’ someone in charge when they threaten to kill your family and burn your homes.”

Captain Wilkes let out a low whistle. “My, you do have some interesting opinions, milady.”

I shook my head, the heat clouding my thinking. “I apologize, Captain,” I said with a slight bow. “I speak out of turn. It’s been a long time since I have been in polite company.”

He smiled. “In that case, would you do me the honor of dining with me this evening, Miss O’Brien?”

I had taken most of my meals in my room, trying to mingle with the ship’s crew as little as possible. Finding myself in a position where declining would cause more alarm than accepting, I nodded assent. My eyes traveled back to the sea, both of us quietly contemplating its changing colors in the late afternoon. My gaze wandering, I spied a small black dot on the horizon.

“Captain Wilkes!” I pointed to the smudge.

His muscles tightened, his teeth grinding in his skull. He took a spyglass from his coat and peered through it. He turned on his heel, shouting orders to his men before clutching my sleeve.

“You best be going down to your cabin, milady. I’m sure it’s one of ours, but we’d rather be safe than sorry if it comes to an attack.” He barked another order over his shoulder, grasping the ship’s wheel. “And lock your door,” he called out after me.

My stomach fluttered as I made my way below to my cabin, snapping the lock in place before I settled upon the hammock. A part of me wished I could remain above to see what was happening rather than sit here wringing my hands like a little girl. I could at least run powder for them.

No sooner than the thought flitted through my head than an explosion shattered through the ship, sending me to the floor, dust and debris raining on my head. My ears rang, my hearing momentarily lost. The ocean poured into my room, soaking my dress, and I raced to the door just before another cannonball burst through the side. The ship reeled dangerously, and I gripped the doorknob, using it to propel myself up and out to the galley.

The shouts of men and gunfire echoed in my ears, and I panicked, seeking out a place to hide. The telltale sounds of French voices boomed from the raiding ship and another cannonball skimmed not two feet in front of me. With water up to my ankles, I had no choice but to climb through the hatch to the upper deck.

A grisly sight met me. The boards were soaked and stained with blood, sailors collapsed in pitiful piles of flailing limbs and anguished cries. Someone shoved me from behind, and I fell to my knees, blood splattering across my dress, seeping between my fingers. Rough arms lifted me up, screaming at me in French, alignez-vous! Alignez-vous! Line up! Line up! His voice sounded muffled, low, as if he called to me from a long tunnel. The French sailor shoved the butt of his musket against my shoulder, and the sharp pain brought me back to the surface.

I scrambled to the edge of the bulwark, Captain Wilkes reeling beside me, holding his shoulder where a burst of bright red blood dripped from his coat.

“I’m sorry, milady,” he said beneath his breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t outrun the bastards.”

The surviving English sailors lined up on the deck while the French scurried like ants to lift cargo from the hold. In the midst of it all stood a portly rooster of a French Commander, gesticulating wildly even as the waves threatened to swallow the small English ship. One French sailor, a lieutenant maybe, gestured to us, and I overheard them conversing. My French was never as good as my Latin, and I was a wee bit rusty from my hedge school days, but their intent was clear.

“Qu’est-ce que nous ferions avec l’equipage?” What shall we do with the crew?

The Captain’s eyes scanned the line of the crew, his eyes resting momentarily on me. My skin prickled beneath his dark gaze, but he passed over me to assess the rest of Wilkes’s men. “Nous n’avons pas de place pour eux.” We have no room for them.

The sailor produced a pistol and cocked it. My knees began to shake, my heart pounding in my chest. “Et la femme?” And the woman?

The Captain gave a Gallic shrug and commenced bellowing at a group of soldiers about to drop a crate of gunpowder.

The French lieutenant walked up to the first crewman who simply stood there, blood smeared across his face, his chest heaving, barely conscious. A shot rang out. I yelped, flinching at the sound, and Captain Wilkes grabbed my hand.

“Just close your eyes, milady,” he gasped, still holding his shoulder, his face ashen, and sweat and blood streaming down his forehead. Another shot exploded on the deck, and another crewman collapsed with a loud thud, his blank eyes staring up at us with a small pebble-size hole between them.

“You won’t feel any pain, I swear,” the Captain breathed.

Another shot, another thud.

The Lieutenant raised his pistol to Wilkes’s forehead.

“Oh God,” I gasped, closing my eyes. Tears streaked down my face.

“Spare the woman. She had no part—”

Bang!

Wilkes dropped my hand with a spasm, his body going rigid before falling limp at my feet.

Terror, pure and penetrating, coursed through my veins, my lips trembling as I struggled to search for words. The young Lieutenant stared at me through dark brown eyes, almost black, and pressed his pistol against my brow.

“S’il vous plait—non!” I begged. Please don’t!

The Lieutenant lifted the pistol from my forehead, doubt passing through his face. He bit his lip, cocked the pistol, and pointed it at me again.

“Arretez!” a voice cried out in horrible French. “Arretez! Ne tirez pas! C’est ma femme!” Stop! Don’t shoot! That’s my woman!

The lieutenant looked over his shoulder, lowering his pistol. Blood pounded in my ears, my heartbeat slowing to a crawl, for there running toward me, eyes wild, blond hair sweeping away from his ears, was Johnny.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Johnny’s large frame ducked into the cabin and he shyly handed me a new dress to replace my stained one.

“From one of the officer’s wives,” he mumbled, his eyes smiling brightly through his thick eyelashes.

I reached for it, my hand trembling from the swirl of emotions buzzing through my mind. The close calls with the cannon. The death of the crew of the Amanda. Finding Johnny aboard a French war vessel, in French officer garb, no less. Questions flooded my mind, but all I could do was grasp onto the pale green fabric with trembling hands, making sure it didn’t touch my stained gown as I laid it across Johnny’s hammock.

“There’s some water in the pitcher there for washing up, too.” Johnny’s eyes darted to the floor and his feet shifted nervously. “My goodness. Mary. What a shock.”

My throat tightened, my movements purely mechanical. I struggled to make sense of his presence, his boyish grin, his glittering eyes as his fists clenched open and closed in a fitful gesture of barely contained energy. Unable to stay still any longer, he charged over to the basin and lifted a sponge, wringing it out before placing it against my cheek. Pink water slipped down my arms and onto the floor. The cold water snapped me awake, and I grabbed Johnny’s hand.

“Why are you dressed like that?”

He looked down at his clothes as if he hadn’t been the one to poke his legs through those ridiculous striped trousers, as if the blue coat and red piping had magically appeared over his shoulders. Johnny looked down and flashed me that wide, child-like grin again, and my hands itched to slap it right off his face.

“Mary, let’s clean you up first. I’ll explain.”

“Are you fighting for the French? What is this?” With every word my voice grew stronger.

“I wouldn’t say fighting necessarily, but they’ve treated me well here. I’ve…” he stammered, turning away from me and back to the basin to ring out the bloody water. “I’ve grown to appreciate Napoleon’s philosophy. You see, a fellow Lieutenant brought me over—”

“Andrews!”

Johnny whirled to face me. “How did you know?”

I waved his question away, shaking my head. “Have you been spying for the French?”

“Mary, Napoleon is bringing about a revolution. No more will we be ruled by Kings and Queens, but united, as an empire. We will enter a new age of—”

“Shut up, Johnny,” I hissed. “Not another word!”

Johnny frowned, reminding me of the boy back in Dunraven, training his puppies and chasing after tadpoles. Somewhere, deep in some well of memory, my heart ached for that boy and chilled over for the man who had seduced him to ruin with empty promises of freedom and liberty.

“Johnny, you are a peer of the realm. You have land, titles, responsibilities. How could you throw it all away?”

He backed away, his eyes widening. “I’m surprised at you, Mary, of all people. You’re the one who was always going on about reform and English oppression.”

“Yes, but I’ll take a mad king over a petty tyrant any day!”

Johnny waved his hand. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “So what are you doing here then? How do I find my fiancée with a bunch of privateers in the middle of the Atlantic?”

I placed my head in my hands, sitting back on his hammock. “Oh, Johnny, you’ve made such a mess of things!”

“What is it, Mary? What’s wrong?” He kneeled beside me and took my hand.

“Your father is dead!”

All the air burst out of Johnny’s lungs and his blue eyes shimmered with tears. “Dead?”

“Aye, Johnny. And no one believed that we were betrothed. Jacob Connelly burned your papers so he could marry me himself, and they all thought I stole your ring!”

Johnny rose, his fingers raking through his hair and spluttering. “Mary…why?”

“I had nowhere to go!” I snapped. “I had no choice but to come and find you.”

Johnny stopped pacing, turned to me, and smiled. “And now we can be together again, Mary. And we’ll return to Ireland victorious, and with Bonaparte on our side, we can—”

“No, Johnny.” I bolted to my feet. “We’re going home. Now. As soon as we can get away.” I brought the sponge to my breast, quickly soaking up the blood splattered across my skin. I knew what I needed to do, and at last my addled mind could formulate a plan. “We’ll sneak off at the next port. We’ll tell everyone you were taken a prisoner, or pressed to fight, or…or maybe you had some sort of amnesia from having a piece of shrapnel hit your head—”

Johnny grabbed my wrist. “No, Mary. I told you. My place is here, with the emperor’s men. I see it all so clearly now. Napoleon is the savior we’ve been waiting for. First France, tomorrow Ireland, and then—”

I wrenched my hand away. “And then nothing, Johnny! Are you mad? You think that little man gives one damn about Ireland? No! We’re going straight home to Dunraven, and as my English Lord, you’ll marry me in front of God and everyone.”

He wrinkled his brow, reaching out to me, but I turned away. With a deep sigh, Johnny placed his hands on my shoulders and rubbed them, his strong fingers loosening the tense, corded muscles along my upper back. “I know what this is about, Mary. You’re angry I left you.”

Tears stung my eyes. How could he not see? How could I have given myself to such a stupid, pitiful man?

“But in time,” he said, “you’ll understand why I must do this. I was never truly English. I understand that now. A new world is dawning, Mary, and with you at my side, we can meet it together. You’ll see.”

He pressed a kiss between my shoulder blades, and I bit my lip, repressing a sob. “Now wash up and get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

Johnny walked across the room, and I heard him pause at the door. “In the meantime, I need you to keep your tongue in check, Mary. The French sailors have accepted me as one of their own, but they won’t think twice about throwing you overboard for badmouthing the emperor.”

I turned around to tell Johnny exactly what he could do with his emperor, but he had already fled the room. I grabbed the sponge again from the basin and raked it across my body as if I could somehow scrub my skin away, transform myself into someone else. Folding the clean shift over my head, I lay back into Johnny’s hammock, all my tears dried out. I had to convince him to return home with me and forget this fool’s errand with the French before it was too late.

…

Shouting and the sound of pounding footsteps awoke me from a fitful slumber, and I snapped to my feet. I dressed quickly, making my way to the upper deck, the crew in a flurry of movement, French commands shouting over the buzz of the ship. Cool, misty air greeted me as I stepped across the gleaming planks, sailors running past me, throwing ropes, trimming sails, and loading musketry. I spotted Johnny across the bulwark, shouting orders in broken French to a line of young sailors, positioning them against the railing.

“What’s happening?” I cried out.

“British ship of the line, starboard,” Johnny clipped, loading his weapon and nodding off into the mist. “You need to get below deck, Mary.”

My heart pounded as I peered through the wispy white air, the sun a waxy ball behind the fog, burning off the tendrils as they brushed against the dark green waters. Like a leviathan emerging from the depths, the black side of an English ship broke through the clouds, and my skin prickled with a strange sense of familiarity.

Johnny dug through his coat and his hand revealed a spy glass, which he brought to his eye for a moment. “She’s loading her guns. Mary, you need to get down below now!”

I snatched his spyglass and avoiding his flailing hands, pressed it to my eye. ELIZABETH in bold yellow lettering burst into my vision, and I nearly dropped the glass into the water as I stepped back with a gasp.

“Go!” Johnny took my wrist. “Now!”

Trembling, I grabbed Johnny’s lapels and brought him close to my face so his pale blue eyes looked directly into mine. “I need to see the Captain.”

The Captain eyed me warily. “You’re saying you served this Grant?” he asked in French. “How?”

I threw my shoulders back, raising my chin, replying with my best Parisian accent. “I disguised myself as a cabin boy, sir. Grant shared secrets with me. Stories. I know his moves. He’s going to cross the T. It’s his signature move. He told me so.”

The Captain stood aboard the deck, the wind picking up and blowing through the large white plumes in his hat. His beady eyes narrowed on me. “Why would he tell you such things?”

At the same moment, warning fire burst from the Elizabeth, and the French ship rocked. Johnny grabbed a hold of my waist and positioned me upright. He gave me a dark look as his slow mind came to understand the real story of how I came to find him here as part of the French fleet. I wrenched myself away. It didn’t matter. Grant was no doubt the superior seaman. He would eat this ship for breakfast and we would all drown, and with it, my hopes of owning Dunraven.

For a moment, Grant’s brilliant blue eyes surfaced in my mind, and my heart contracted. Guilt at spilling Grant’s strategies to the French Captain gnawed at my insides. But Grant had left me at Port Royal at the first sign of trouble, abandoned me and left me to die. He and I were only playing games in his cabin. This was war. This was Dunraven. Everything my mother had sacrificed had come down to this moment, and whatever feelings I still harbored for Grant were nothing more than that. The vestiges of my emotions for him would never mean more than land, never more than the black earth beneath my fingers, the gnarled stones strewn across the fields. They would never mean more than Ireland. More than my mother’s sacrifice. I had to push those feelings aside and focus on the reason I sailed across thousands of miles to find Johnny. But every time I tried, my swirling thoughts of him surged forward in a shaking, desperate hysteria I could not suppress. I needed this over with. I needed to forget Grant. Forever.

“We don’t have time for this, Captain!” I cried, gesturing to the Elizabeth.

The Captain frowned, his nose crinkled up as the acrid smell of gunpowder wafted on the breeze, overwhelming us. Another volley of cannon fire exploded through the lower decks of the French ship, and the Captain turned resolutely to his crew, bellowing out commands.

Johnny shook his head. “You better be right about this.”

I whirled on him, stopping myself before I knocked my fist into his shoulder. “What would you know about it? Nothing!” Rage bubbled up in my chest. Grant’s face flashed in my mind, hard and soft, light and dark, shadows painting a perfect picture of strength and masculinity. The sight of Johnny’s gaping, open-mouthed stare filled me with horrible violence. How could he be so stupid? There was a man out there moving a ship through the water to out-maneuver us, commanding seven hundred men toward one heroic purpose, and all Johnny could do was hold his musket against his shoulder and criticize my strategy, a strategy I was employing all for him, for his benefit. For us. For Dunraven.

For my mother.

But what of you, Mary? What do you want?

The ship lurched forward, and I stumbled against him, the cold barrel of his musket pressing against my cheek. I pushed him away with a disgusted sound, my stomach churning. I raced to the edge of the railing and the contents of my stomach unloaded into the sea, bile burning the back of my throat like acid. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my nails digging into the railing, keeping me upright.

I stared up into the grey sky, the ethereal mist reminding me of home and the way the rain clouds would sink into the valley before burning off toward the sea. All I wanted in that moment was to be on one of those hills overlooking the town, the soft green grass like a carpet, plush and cool between my fingers. But when I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, I didn’t see Johnny standing next to me. I saw Grant. His tall form, his warm arms open wide, his blue eyes filled with warmth and longing. I saw his chiseled face breaking into a smile, and in the distance I saw our children skipping against the sky, holding their hands up to the rain.

The Elizabeth reared just inches from us, and frantic shouts burst from the galley as she tried to out-maneuver the French ship, the cannon fire exploding into its hull.

Hot tears beaded down my face, and I wrapped my arms around my waist, collapsing against the railing, wishing for anything I could jump aboard the Elizabeth. If this was winning, what did losing feel like? The hollowed out shell of my heart lurched, wishing it could all be over. And what would become of Grant? He would never surrender.

A bullet whistled near my ear, and I looked up, darting behind a barrel. Bleary-eyed, I stared at Grant’s ship gliding like a barracuda as our own ship picked up speed. Shouts rang out as the English sailors lined up to board, only to be thrown back as our ship lurched.

A booming voice rang out in the early dawn, and it echoed in my chest.

Grant.

He stood on deck, sailors swarming around him as they scrambled to man their positions. Hatless, with his brown hair plastered to his forehead, he waved frantically, his long blue coat billowing behind him. My chest tightened, tears prickling my eyes, and in my mind, I screamed his name, willing him to look at me one last time. He peered through the mist as if searching for something, and then his eyes found me.

“Mary!” he cried, racing to the railing.

I shot to standing. “Richard!”

He held his hand out to me, and all reason abandoned, I climbed up to meet him, clutching onto a rope, my arm outstretched. My fingers grazed across his, and lightning split through me at the touch of his skin. I screamed in frustration as he passed by.

Resolve burst through me, and my spine straightened. I had to stop the French ship. I had to undo this. Save Grant. Whirling around, I pulled my small knife from my skirts and climbed the mast.

Behind me, Grant called my name, but I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the rope, tearing through the thick jute with long, sawing motions. It unraveled, the mast groaning as the rope went limp. With just one strand to go, a hand clamped on my wrist.

“Mary!” Johnny cried. “What are you doing?”

I wrenched my arm away. “Get away, Johnny!”

We wrestled with my knife. A swarm of bullets rained down on us, and Johnny screamed, clutching at his belly and collapsing on the deck below. With one last slice, the rope tore free and the sail fell in a limp billow of linen all around us. The boat lurched and my footing slipped, tumbling to the ground next to Johnny, who moaned, his eyes bloodshot as he writhed in agony.

From the Elizabeth, cheers rang out and the sounds of slaughter burst aboard the French deck as the melee erupted. Shrouded in white canvas, I crawled under Johnny and hoisted him up, navigating through the endless yards of sail. A steady rain fell now and the deck swirled with blood. Through the chaos, I heard my name.

“Mary!”

Crushed against the stampeding French sailors, I could barely make out Grant, his blue eyes shining with panic as he fought his way through to me. Dragging Johnny, I skirted the fighting only to come face to face with the same Lieutenant who had slaughtered the crew of the Amanda.

He narrowed his eyes at me, his lips raised in a gruesome snarl before he cocked his pistol and aimed. A shot rang out, and I closed my eyes, anticipating death. When I opened them, the Lieutenant lay crumpled across a pile of rain and blood-soaked bodies, Grant standing over them, his pistol smoking in the cool air. He ran to me.

“Johnny’s wounded!” were the only words I could utter.

Grant grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his side, covering me with his other arm. He brayed a series of orders and a small company of sailors provided us with cover as we boarded the Elizabeth. The sound of cannon fire deafened me, and the air grew thick with gunpowder, blood, rain, and the screaming wounded. Still covered by his thick arm, Grant led me down to the surgery and lay Johnny on a cot. He whirled on me, his hands gripped my shoulders, and he scanned my body for bullet holes.

“Are you wounded?” he shouted, both our ears ringing.

“No, I’m all right. I’m—” I bit my lip, blinking back tears. “I’m all right.” I smiled, all the fear rushing out of me as I stood in Grant’s presence. In the harbor of Port Royal I thought I would never see him again, but there he was before me, and somehow the world felt right again.

“How did you come to be here?” he spluttered, eyes wide. “You were supposed to be on the Amanda, you were supposed to be safe—”

I cut him off with a thick kiss, collapsing into his arms. His lips molded against mine, warm and receiving. With a small moan, I pulled away from him. “You have a ship to board, sir.”

He nodded grimly, calling over his shoulder. “McGregor, see to Lieutenant Brighton.”

I turned, forgetting the presence of the surgeon. He stood there studying me, mouth agape, spectacles slightly askew. His scalpel slid from his hand and clattered on the floor.

“Dr. McGregor.” I gave a small curtsy.

Grant grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You. Stay down here. Do not leave.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Thank you for cutting that rope. You saved us.”

I spread my fingers across his cheek and brought him close to my lips. “Johnny cut the rope. It must be Johnny. Do you understand?”

He narrowed his eyes at my fiancé in his tattered French uniform, writhing in pain on the cot. He nodded before glancing back at me. “Stay here.”

I kissed him again, unable to let go of his face, dying to run my fingers through his hair, along his spine, down the slope of his hips. I craved the perfect nearness of him.

“I’ll stay,” I whispered.

I replaced another cold compress on Johnny’s head.

He blinked up at me, his breathing labored and his face flushed with fever. “How…how is it, Mary? Is it bad?”

McGregor caught my gaze over Johnny’s cot and shook his head, his eyes beyond his spectacles clouded with exhaustion.

I turned to Johnny and gave him my most brilliant smile. “Oh, sure, you’ll be fine, Johnny. The Surgeon is going to bandage you up, and you’ll be dancing again in no time.”

Johnny smiled, blood staining his teeth bright pink. “Dancing. Do you remember the barn dances back in Dunraven, the way old Jimmy could spin a reel to set the floor on fire? I wish I could be there again.”

I grabbed his hand tight. “You will, Johnny,” I whispered. “You will.”

He closed his eyes and my heart leaped into my throat, thinking he was dead, but a gurgled, labored breathing emitted from his lungs, and he merely slept.

“McGregor,” I said, dogging the Surgeon’s footsteps as he set the shattered arm of a sailor. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“The bullet took him in the stomach. There’s nothing I can do, I’m afraid.” He frowned, staring at his shoes. “He’s…he’s your fiancé?”

“He’s my…” I chewed on my lip, not sure what Johnny was to me anymore. “It’s a long story.”

McGregor let out a long exhale and looked back up at me before resuming his work.

The door to the surgery opened, and I whirled around. More wounded sailors poured into the chamber, but amidst the moans of dying men stood Captain Grant, whole and perfect, a piece of paper and a quill and ink in his hand. He set them on a side table and stomped over to Johnny snoring soundly in his cot. He brandished a pistol and cocked it.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed, rushing to Johnny’s side.

Grant shook Johnny awake and pressed the weapon to his temple. Johnny woke with a sharp cry of pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he took in Grant’s glare and the barrel pointed right at his face.

“What? What?” Johnny stammered.

“Lieutenant Brighton,” Grant growled. “Can you hold a quill?”

“Can I what?”

Grant grabbed Johnny by the shirt, the pistol digging into his flesh. “I said. Can you. Hold. A quill?”

“Yes?” Johnny nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, I can, sir.”

Grant released Johnny and placed the quill and paper in his hands. “Mary, fetch that book over there.”

Startled at the sound of my Christian name on his lips, I grabbed one of McGregor’s naturalist tomes from his bookshelf and slid it over Johnny’s lap.

“You will write exactly as I tell you,” Grant said. “You deviate one letter, and I will make sure you suffer. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”

The quill trembled in Johnny’s fingers. He winced, delirious from pain, but he dipped the writing instrument in the inkpot Grant held out to him. “Ready sir.”

“Hold this, Mary.” He stretched the inkpot over the bed, and I gripped it in my palm, nodding.

“I, the Earl of Dunraven Jonathon Brighton do hereby bequeath all my lands and titles to my legally wedded wife Mary Brighton, nee O’Malley.”

Johnny hesitated, the quills scratching a jagged line across the parchment.

“Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

Johnny’s glazed eyes stared up at Grant. “It’s just that we’re not legally married, and the estate is—”

Grant pressed his hand into his wound and Johnny cried out in agony. He bit his tongue as he took in the Captain’s face flushed with rage. “If you cannot do right by your country, at least you will do right by this woman.” He called over his shoulder. “McGregor!”

The Surgeon came to his side in an instant. “Sir?”

“I need you to witness a marriage.”

McGregor nodded.

I blinked, shaking my head, the inkpot trembling in my hands, spilling black dots on the stained sheets below.

“Lieutenant Brighton,” Grant hissed. “Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Johnny’s eyes bugged out of his skull, settling on me. “Mary?”

My mouth gaped open, my heart pounding, cold sweat beading down my back.

Grant cocked his pistol. “I said, do you take this woman?”

“Y-yes?” He trembled, emitting short panting breaths.

The Captain turned to me, his blue eyes boring through me. “And do you take this worthless traitorous fool for your husband?”

The word caught in my throat, and I fisted the sheet in my hands, blinking back tears.

“I…”

His shoulders shook with a vicious rage. “Do you take this man, Mary?”

“No!”

Grant lowered his pistol, his face twisted in confusion.

“I don’t take him. I don’t love him,” I whispered, rising to my feet. “I love you.”

“Mary?” Johnny coughed and groaned from what felt like a thousand miles away. All I could see was Grant’s face, my captain, my commander.

My love.

“You love…me?” he said in a soft voice.

“I do. And I’m a romantic fool for it.” I shook my head, meeting his gaze. “But I’m in love with you. Aye.”

He made to reach for me, but Johnny’s hand clamped down on mine, pulling me toward his bed.

“Please,” he gasped. “Marry me. Just say yes.” Blood trickled from his mouth, sweat bursting from his brow from a fever. “I’m dying, and…Dunraven is yours. It has always been yours.”

I glanced back at Grant, and he nodded.

I kneeled down beside Johnny, clasping his hand tighter. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” He lifted his eyes up to the Captain. “Marry us.”

I let out a long exhale, sweeping Johnny’s soaked hair from his forehead, watching as Johnny finally signed away Dunraven to me. Maybe I deserved it, and maybe I didn’t. But that land and the people who lived there needed better than a man so misguided, so untrustworthy to throw it all away on the promises of a petty tyrant. Perhaps Napoleon could have made a difference for the Irish, but in the end, he was no better than a bastard king, drunk with power and his own manly self-importance. Nay. Ireland needed her own people to raise her up. Not Napoleon, and definitely not the Johnny Brightons of the world. If I could bring the land back to life, build a school, provide opportunities for the people of Dunraven, who knew what seeds I would sow through my efforts? Perhaps I couldn’t bring Ireland its freedom, but I could find a way to bring change to my own scraggly little sheep-filled corner of the world. I could do one small thing. Maybe that was all any of us could ever do.

I looked at Captain Grant as he continued to outline Johnny’s will with the thoroughness of a professionally trained lawyer, and I thought about what he had done, in spite of his low birth and struggles. Perhaps he forced Johnny to write this note because he felt indebted to me, for all the pleasure I gave to him, or perhaps he did it because he wanted more from me, from my body. Yet, when I glanced up at his blazing blue eyes, so set and determined, I knew his reasons lay deeper than all that remained between us.

He commanded Johnny not because he wanted something from me, but because he wanted something for me. Driven by the same fire, he could offer me this one possibility for something better. Something more. And in that moment, I knew regardless of how I felt about Dunraven, about Ireland, I would never more part from this man. Not for hundreds of acres of earth, not for my birthright, not even for the memory of my poor lost mother. We would find our way in this world together, by land or by sea. We would find our way because we would will it so.

Grant signed the final will as a witness, and then without missing a beat, folded up the parchment, placed it in my hands, and finished the marriage sacrament. The ceremony was short, and at the end, Grant took out another piece of paper and asked for our signatures. McGregor scribbled out his name as a witness. It all took a few minutes, but then it was done.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Grant nodded. “I must go now. I would have you assist McGregor in the surgery. I will need a full report on our casualties to send to the Admiral.”

Johnny cried out again, and I rushed to his side. Blood had soaked through his bandages, so I changed them, tears stinging my eyes as I took in the full extent of his stomach wounds. Intestines, milky white and purple, peeked through his obliterated flesh, and I did my best to clean out the wound. McGregor passed me a small vial of laudanum, and I slipped some down Johnny’s throat to calm him. He thrashed for a few minutes, and then he fell into a peaceful sleep.

The rest of the day I spent by the surgeon’s side. I went through two aprons, but finally, late in the night the surgery quieted, patients separated by those who had a chance and those who were beyond saving.

“Ye should get some sleep,” McGregor said, patting me on the arm while I sat by Johnny’s side.

I flinched at his touch. “Why did you betray me?” I hissed.

McGregor looked taken aback and then he stared down at his blood-stained hands, wringing them in a stray bunch of gauze. “I have served with the Captain for near twenty years. I wanted to protect him.”

My legs trembled from exhaustion, but I rose to standing, staring up at the slight Surgeon. “I told you about my mother in confidence. Why wouldn’t you go to Grant first?”

“Because he would do anything to save ye.” He looked me up and down. “And so he did.”

I shook my head. “He didn’t save me. Lady Catherine did.”

He raised his eyebrows and turned away. “So he would have the world believe.”

Following him, I lingered by his desk, watching him scratch some notes into an aging ledger. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged, cleaning off his spectacles before resuming his notes. “Ask Grant about it.”

…

A gentle hand clutched my shoulder, and I snapped awake.

“Shh…Mary,” Grant’s voice called in the darkness. “It’s me.”

He lit a candle and the surgery sprang to life with shadows as he pulled a chair up next to me. “How is he?”

I placed my hand on Johnny’s forehead and had to pull my fingers away at the scorching heat radiating from his body. “Not good. McGregor said it’s any time now.”

Wringing a piece of gauze out in a basin, I scrubbed Johnny’s brow of sweat and grime. His face looked so grey, so drawn, and my heart ached for the boy I once knew. The boy who rescued my kitten from the well, who threw rocks at Jacob Connelly and taught me to ride a horse and fish in the stream. His eyelids fluttered, and I wondered what he dreamed about: Napoleon’s vision for a new world? Or the green hills of Dunraven. I hoped it was the latter.

“He was my first love, you know,” I said after a long pause. “I suppose such things are always doomed.” I whirled on Grant and took his hand. “Promise me no one will know what he did. Please let him die with some dignity.”

Grant rubbed my palm with his thumb. “I cannot promise no one will know, but I can promise you in my report to the Admiral I will say how Johnny worked as a double agent, sabotaging the French fleet from within. I will tell him how he bravely cut the rigging, allowing us to board. That is…” He looked up to me, his eyes glittering dark like obsidian in the candlelight. “That is, if that is what you wish.”

I nodded. “’Tis.” I stared at Johnny for a moment, my heart breaking for him. “He was always so easily seduced, you know, but he had a true heart. You must believe me.”

“I do.” The Captain put his arm around me, and we sat like that until sunrise, until Johnny’s body rattled his last breath and he lay in peace.

Chapter Twenty-Four

My fists clenched as Grant struck my back again with the flogger. The delicious ache in my core grew, and I writhed against the ropes suspending me from the floor. The Captain had given up his cabin for the poor widowed Lady Mary Brighton for propriety’s sake, but it didn’t keep him from sneaking in at night on occasion, nor did her mourning weeds keep him from doling out stern discipline when required.

His hands grazed my hips as he pulled me close, his erection throbbing against my backside. I twisted my body to envelop him, but he merely whipped me harder, the sting making me wet as I stifled my cries in the flesh of my arm.

“I’m going to polish this sweet backside of yours until you learn to polish my boots, Mary,” he growled. With all pretense of cabin boy gone, nobody seemed to care that the Lady Brighton kept herself busy taking care of the good captain. And if anyone noticed the resemblance she had to the young wastrel Michael O’Brien, they kept it to themselves. A true testament to Grant’s loyalty amongst the crew. As for the Admiral, after the events of the battle and Johnny’s death, he cleared my name, and I became the poor widow of a great hero of the British Empire. It was in all the papers.

“Bollocks your boots,” I gasped between slaps of the flogger, flashing him a mischievous grin.

The Captain grunted, untying my ropes and throwing me mercilessly onto the bed. He collapsed over me, grabbing my wrists with one hand and pressing his fingers into me with the other. “Tell me who you serve, Mary,” he breathed, his hand slick with my desire. “Tell me.”

“I serve you!” I cried, my hips rising, searching for satisfaction, release.

“That’s right.” He groaned, burying himself inside me. He tilted back, slamming into me again, harder this time. His rhythm tantalized me, and I longed to press my fingers into his hips, force him to stay deep inside me, but his hand held my wrists firm against the bed.

“Please, give it to me, Captain,” I cried. “Give it to me now.”

He thrust harder and harder, with my legs wrapping around his waist, locking at the ankles so I could take him all in. Our pleasure rose together with the quickness of our breath, the pounding of our hearts filling my head. Dear God, how that man brought me to the very roof of heaven. Before I knew it, his warmth, his strength, his love wrapped all around me, and I screamed inside his mouth, his tongue darting between my teeth, tasting the sound of my cries with every kiss.

We lay there panting for a long time, wrapped up in his cool sheets. Outside the cabin, the bustle of the docks intermingled with the raucous cries of seagulls and the gentle lapping of the waves as they brushed against the hold of the ship. I breathed in Grant’s wonderful scent, shoe polish, cedar, leather, the sea. I wanted to wake up surrounded by that smell every day for the rest of my life. But the familiar tug of home called to me, and my heart splintered.

I glanced over on the nightstand where lay a letter to my da, relating everything that had transpired since I left Dunraven.

Well, almost everything.

I also provided clear instructions for raising those terrible huts and providing proper cottages. I also informed him of where to find my blueprints for the school and how to proceed with developing the new curriculum. As for the rest, he was a clever man, my da. He could sort it out. He had been doing it his whole life, and now with the Brightons out of the way, he could manage the estate in the way he always wanted.

Grant nipped my ear as his hand swept across my thigh then up across my waist before settling protectively over my breast.

“I’ll need to go into town today to mail this letter,” I said.

Grant’s hand brushed against my cheek, and he kissed my forehead. “My solicitor can take care of everything for you.”

I nodded, nuzzling into his hand. “I know, but there’s just…so much to do.”

Looking away from his piercing blue eyes, I rolled beneath him, sitting up on the edge of the bed to fumble with my stockings.

“But surely as a steward, your father could take care of everything. If he’s anything like you, he must be a competent man.”

“Oh, aye, he is, surely. He will be overjoyed. It’s what he always wanted.” My chest tightened, and I wiped away the hot tears welling up in my eyes. I missed him so much, but the heart of the matter was, in Grant’s bed, Dunraven felt like some far-off dream, some other life lived by a stranger. I loved the sea, the military life, the feel of a musket in my hand, the satisfying sigh of Grant settling into sleep as his arms wrapped around me. That’s what felt right.

“Mary…” Grant’s fingers danced across my spine and I shivered. “There is something else we should do in town today.”

I glanced over my shoulder.

Grant slid off the bed and kneeled on the floor between my knees. He took both of my hands and kissed them tenderly. “I will not live without you.”

“You’re the one who rescued me, back in Port Royal,” I blurted out. “It wasn’t Lady Catherine. It was you. You set off the explosions, didn’t you?”

Grant looked up, his eyes bright. “Just as you saved me before the French fleet could board us. Of course it was me. We are of one mind, Mary. You must know that.” He searched the ground for his jacket, which I had discarded earlier in a state of lustful duress. Digging inside, his hand latched onto something, and he pulled out a small box.

“Oh, Richard,” I whispered.

“I wanted to save this moment for something perhaps more romantic, but I see no better time than now.” He stared hard into my eyes. “Mary, from the moment I found you hiding in my cabin, I knew you were a woman of remarkable bravery. You belonged to another man, but I wanted you for my own. Perhaps that is my gravest sin. Yet, I would commit a thousand more to have you share my bed tonight and every night for the rest of my life.”

He opened the box, and an emerald ring sparkled inside. Gasping for breath and trembling, I closed my eyes, the rent in my heart tearing deeper and deeper.

“I know you love your home, but I beg of you. Stay with me. Serve with me aboard my ship. Be my wife. See the world with me. And when this war is over and all our adventures have ended, let us return to your happy, haunted castle and make little green-eyed babies. Please, Mary. Please tell me you will say yes.”

The word bubbled up in my throat like a fountain, and before I could reconsider, it exploded in a breathless whisper. “Yes!”

After we made love again, we curled up together, the light of day falling behind us. I held up my hand in the piercing orange glow of early evening, letting the emerald throw light green sparkles across my fingertips. “I thought you said you didn’t allow women on your ship, Captain.”

“There is an exception for everything,” he whispered, kissing the tips of my ears. “And you are quite exceptional, Lady Brighton.”

“Just Mary, please.”

“Not boy?”

A burst of warmth flooded my body. “Only when I’m especially naughty, sir.”

Grant swiped at my backside playfully. “Which is only every day, my little sea urchin.” He sighed, propping himself up on his elbow. “I am sure we can find a way to keep you preoccupied while we are at sea. McGregor could definitely use an assistant.”

I shook my head vigorously. “You know I make a better powder monkey than a nurse.”

Grant trapped me beneath his body, caging me in with his hands and pouring kisses down on my chest. “Oh no, my darling. You get anywhere near a cannon, and you will get the hiding of your life.” He whirled me over and slapped me hard on the bum, and the sting forced a long, low moan from my lips. Placing a soft kiss on my skin, his fingers traced up the small of my back, powerful and demanding.

“That’s what you think, Captain…” I purred, arching my spine against his firm hand. “My captain…”

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Author’s Note

The 1798 uprising was one of the most violent events in Irish history. While English forces quickly quelled the surge of revolutionary fervor, the Irish would feel its aftershocks for generations. Historians estimate the death toll of in the tens of thousands. After the rising, greedy English landlords like Lord Brighton continued to oppress the Irish people with exorbitant rents, perpetuating a system of economic and political disenfranchisement that would eventually find its culmination in the genocide of the Great Hunger of the Irish potato famine (an Gorta Mór). For my character, Mary O’Malley, an Irish Catholic and a woman, her economic prospects would be few. However, I hope Mary reveals the incredible tenacity that eventually led to Irish Independence over a century after the 1798 uprising. While Mary could only do so much, I like to pretend her reforms in Dunraven helped fuel that fire.

I struggled to find scholarly research that supported the presence of Irish spies among the French, but there is no doubt the English possessed great anxiety toward an Irish/French alliance during the Napoleonic Wars. Who knows? Perhaps a French spy infiltrated the local Anglo-Irish gentry and inspired some of their ranks to join up for espionage missions. Also, Captain Richard Grant was not the first to use “crossing the T” as a naval strategy. Admiral Lord Nelson used it to during the Battle of Trafalgar (1805) to great success.

While history likes to pretend women always remained on the sidelines of battle, the fact is, such assumptions are simply untrue. Many women fought in the 1798 uprising and in several subsequent Irish uprisings. Most famously, Dr. James Berry was an Irish military surgeon who was born a woman, but went on to serve bravely in the British Army. Of course, if the proliferation of crossdressing sea shanties in Irish traditional music is any indication, Mary O’Malley was not the only young woman from Ireland who cut her hair and donned men’s clothing in search of adventure on the high seas…

Acknowledgments

When I was sixteen, I took a temp job at a local bookstore stocking shelves. One book in particular caught my eye. It was titled Henry and June and it featured the silhouette of a couple beneath a bridge, the leg of the woman dangling over the man’s shoulder. Well, of course I bought it with my bookstore discount, and from there began a sexual journey I have, perhaps, been on my entire life. So, thank you, Anaïs Nin, for stirring the imagination of one romantic, albeit hopelessly hormonal, sixteen-year-old young woman. Thank you, also, to the writers who furthered my education—Anne Rice, DH Lawrence, and Kate Chopin. And of course, thank you to the contemporary erotica writers and readers who first glanced at my dirty little book. I have so much gratitude to my eternal sister in the struggle Kim Cohen, whose conversations regarding feminism, agency, and female empowerment not only have made me a better romance writer, but a better human being. Thanks, also, to May B. Bridges for her incredible insights. Also, thank you to Laura Adams and Brenna Mills for all their help and support through my revisions. Thank you, also, to Sarah Etlinger for help with the French. Any errors are my own. Of course, I would be remiss not to thank Michael Mammay who did not read this book, but kept me laughing with enough dick jokes and terrible nautical puns to make this pub life bearable. Sorry, dude, but Entangled nixed Booty on the Bounty for a title. Maybe next time.

Thank you to my amazing editor Suzanne Evans for all her continued support and for loving all my deeply flawed heroines. Thanks, also, to Brenda Chin for finding Mary’s heart and helping me share her truth with my readers. Thank you to Kaitlyn Osborn and everyone at Entangled marketing for all their help with bringing my books out into the world. As ever, thank you to all the readers, reviewers, and book bloggers for their encouragement over the past year. You have made all of this worth it.

I am grateful to my parents for their unconditional support of my writing and my career. Thank you, also, to my brothers whose musical interests brought me here. Without all those rebel songs and sea shanties, I may have never come to know Mary O’Malley and her story. I am grateful to my children for the joy they bring me every day, and finally, to my husband who has turned my life into a fairy tale. You are, and ever will be, the light in all my twisty darkness, my true North. Thank you for taking me as I was and for loving me for who I am now, today, and always.

About the Author

C.B. Halverson is the alter-ego of Colleen Halverson, author of the Aisling Chronicles. Ever since she picked up her first bodice ripper as an impressionable adolescent, she wanted to explore the erotic female experience through writing. It wouldn’t be until much later that she allowed herself the freedom to write these sordid tales, and now she fears she may never stop. When she’s not staring out the window and dreaming up stories, she can be found trying out new Thai recipes, drinking wine with her girlfriends, or hiking through the woods with her husband and two children.

Sign up for her newsletter at http://colleenhalverson.com/newsletter-signup/.

Also by C.B. Halverson, writing as Colleen Halverson

THE AISLING CHRONICLES

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PRIVATE RESERVE

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People call me Ruthless for a reason. Whether I’m in the court room or in the bedroom, my reputation is well-earned. I’m either working hard, working out, or working my way into some woman’s panties. But none of them share my particular kink, and I walk away feeling unsatisfied. Until I met her.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

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Ruthless