Captain of My Heart (48 page)

“Mr. Reilly
what,
Liam?!”

“Got his eye blackened by Mr. Starr, sir . .
.” Liam said, lamely.

“And why, pray tell, did Mr. Starr blacken
his eye, Liam?!”

“Well, uh, he was threatenin’ t’ ’ave his
rooster fer supper, sir.”

“I see.” Brendan shut his eyes. And then he
grinned, a hard, exasperated grin mixed with grudging admiration.
He almost wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and strangle
her! “Sun” glasses, eh? Albino?

“Where ye goin’, Brendan?”

“Below.” He removed his tricorne, raked an
unsteady hand through his hair, and set the hat back on his head.
“I think I need to . . . to lie down for a spell.”

“You all right, Cap’n?”

He kept walking, his back stiff and straight,
his shoulders thrown back. But no one saw that those shoulders were
shaking with mirth.

She had followed him.
Followed him!
And, by the looks of it, forgiven him.

“Cap’n?”

Brendan paused, turned, and met his
lieutenant’s questioning gaze. “Liam—” He grinned and swung his
speaking trumpet once around his wrist. “—I’ve never felt better.
Please see that
Kestrel
doesn’t get into any mischief, would
you? And then send
Mr. Starr
down to me so that I can put an
end to
his!
”

Liam’s eyes lit up. Slyly he said, “But,
Cap’n, I thought ye were goin’ t’ be lyin’ down. ...”

Brendan shoved his tricorne back. His eyes
glowed like honey in the morning light, and his smile was dazzling,
bright, and completely roguish.

“I intend to be, Liam,” he said.

Still grinning, he turned, and went
below.

###

He did not expect her to appear looking
sheepish, worried, or contrite, and indeed, she didn’t disappoint
him. The door banged open and she swaggered in, the rooster perched
insolently on her shoulder with its iridescent feathers shining.
Still humming that awful tune, she shoved her fist beneath the
bird’s breast until it climbed up on it. Then she walked to one of
the chairs around the table and deposited it on the top rung.

The rooster stood there, looking
discomfited.

It cocked its head, looking at the shiny
buttons of Brendan’s waistcoat.

And then it tensed, shuddered, and squirted
out a wet dropping that splattered the varnished deck.

The gunner snapped off a crisp salute. “Mr.
Starr, sir, reporting for duty!”

“Please sit down, Mr. Starr.”

She shrugged, sauntered to the window seat,
and draped herself atop the cushion, idly lying back and playing
with the end of her long braid while she let her bold gaze rake
appreciatively over his face, his chest, and the front of his
breeches. He felt the fabric begin to tighten across his loins.
Carefully sidestepping the rooster’s mess, he pulled out a chair
and tried to regard her thoughtfully. Laughter bubbled up in his
throat, threatening to wreck his composure. The little imp!

His lips twitched. “Mr. Starr,” he said
calmly, “please tell me what you know of our role in this so-called
Penobscot Expedition.”

“Aye, sir. To lend our assistance to
Commodore Saltonstall’s fleet and kick the damned Brits out of the
Penobscot.”

He gazed at the tantalizing display of flesh
blatantly revealed by her loose shirt. “Very good, Mr. Starr.”

“But it’s all a big secret, because we don’t
want the British to find out and send for reinforcements.”

“That’s right, it
is
a big secret.
You’re very good at keeping secrets, aren’t you, Mr. Starr?”

“Oh, aye, Cap’n.” Her eyes gleamed. “Very
good.”

“Have you one you’d like to share with me,
Mr. Starr?”

She twisted her glossy braid around her
wrist, never taking her eyes off him. “Only if ye’d like to hear
it.”

His gaze traveled over her body, her gently
flaring hips, her skirts, and the shapely calves beneath them. “I
think I should very much like to hear it.”

“Ye sure?”

He smiled, leaned back, and crossed his arms
behind his head, waiting. “Very sure, Mr. Starr.”

She jerked her thumb toward her pet. “See
that there rooster? He always shits in threes.”

Slumping forward, Brendan leaned his brow
into the heel of his hand to hide his laughter.

“Sir, you all right? I can come back another
time when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m feeling just fine—Mr. Starr.”

“Are you sure, now? We wouldn’t want you to
overexert yourself after that injury and all.”

He looked up, his eyes mirthful, his lips
twitching. “Mr. Starr, please get up off that window seat, come
over here, and take your shirt off.”

“Sir?”

“And your breeches, too.”

“I’d rather not, sir.”

“And why is that, Mr. Starr?”

“I find the window seat quite comfortable.
Why don’t you come over here and let me take
your
shirt
off?”

His brows shot up.

“And your breeches, too,” she mimicked.

They stared at each other. Her nose wrinkled
with humor; he grinned and got to his feet. Then they both burst
into helpless laughter.

“I ought to have you keelhauled for your
deceit,
Mr. Starr!
To think, all this time that I’ve been
missing my wee Newburyport lassie, here she is, manning a gun right
under my very nose!”

Laughing, she folded her arms behind her
head, feeling the thrum of tiller and rudder vibrating against her
spine. He moved toward her. She reached up, undid her braid, pulled
her fingers through her long dark hair, spreading it over her
shoulders, and let her gaze travel down the handsome length of him
until it rested on the telltale bulge at the front of his breeches.
“Missing me, huh? You mean you’re not going to run this time,
Cap’n?”

“Run?” His warm gaze slid over her body,
caressing her. “I wouldn’t dream of it . . . Mr. Starr.”

“You dreamt of it last night.”

He leaned over her, unlatched the stern
windows, and threw them open. Sea wind, salty and full of tang,
danced into the cabin and shivered over her skin, mixing with the
deliciously clean scent of his shaving soap. Instead of
straightening up, he rested his forearms against the sill, hung his
head between them, and gazed lovingly down at her. “I had a reason
for running.”

“And what was that, Cap’n?”

“I couldn’t stand to see how upset I’d made
you.”

“And you thought that running off and getting
yourself killed at Penobscot
wouldn’t
make me upset?”

“You should know me well enough by now to
realize I’m not so easy to kill.”

“Well, when a person loves someone, they
worry. And worry a lot.”

“And
do
you love me,
Moyrrra?”

“Aye. But I don’t think I’ve done a very good
job of convincing you of it,” she lamented, holding his gaze as she
reached up and touched his cheek. “I wish I could take back all the
awful things I said to you, Brendan, that day you came back to
Newburyport alone, without Matt. I’m so sorry.”

“Grief causes us all to think and act in odd
ways,
mo bhourneen.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He remained
leaning over her, blotting out the light from the window. “Do you
still want to marry me?”

“I’d marry you right now, Brendan, if there
was someone on board who could perform the ceremony.”

“Then we’ll do it when we get back from
Penobscot.”

“Yes, when we get back from Penobscot.”

“And not a moment later.”

“Not one. “

They remained like that for a moment more,
she lying on the window seat looking invitingly up at him, and he
resting his weight on his forearms and, braced against the slight
roll of the ship, gazing down at her. And then her eyes lit with
mischief, and she put her finger to her tongue and licked it, still
holding his gaze. His eyes darkened and his breathing quickened.
The cabin grew quiet. Then, slowly, she withdrew her finger and
touched it to his lips, gently tracing their shape, painting them
with her own moisture.

“You should know that
Kestrel
and I
have settled our differences. I’m quite willing to share you with
her—under one condition.”

He caught her hand and pulled her fingertip
into his mouth, gently sucking on it and causing sensation to flare
deep in the pit of her belly. “Anything,
stóirín.”

“You must share
her
—with
me.”

“That’s a lot to ask. You nearly let her
broach to.”

“Like hell I did.”

He smiled, and slowly withdrawing her finger
from his mouth, began to kiss each finger in turn. “All right. You
had her well in hand. Why should I have doubted you?”

“You shouldn’t. I’ve been sailing as long as
Matt has. Besides,
Kestrel
and I had a common goal that
day—saving your life. We were depending on each other. She wouldn’t
have let me down. She wouldn’t have let
you
down.”

“I know that.”

“So are you going to let me take her out once
in a while?”

“Uh . . . well, maybe.”

He was leaning heavily against the sill, his
forearms supporting his weight. Above his head a tin lantern swung
with the roll of the ship.

“If you want me to prove how much I love you,
Brendan, you’ll have to do better than a ‘well, maybe.’” She
reached up and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, one by
one. Her other hand drifted downward, grazing his arousal through
his breeches. His eyes slipped shut and still braced against the
window, he leaned his forehead on one arm, allowing her the
pleasure of seducing him. “You’ll have to say yes.”

“Yes to what?” he asked, distantly.

“To taking
Kestrel
out.” She circled
him with her palm, rubbing hard, watching him swell up against her
hand. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“No . . . Yes . . . Faith, I don’t care. . .
.”

“Is this too much for you?”

“No, take her out . . . I really don’t
care.”

“No, Brendan, I’m talking about
this
now.” She squeezed him through the breeches and ran her fingernail
along the hard ridge. “Am I pushing you too far? Can you withstand
a rigorous afternoon of making love to me without fainting in my
lap?”

He managed a grin. “The day I cannot love my
wee lassie is the day I’m dead and buried.”

She stared up into his mirthful eyes. Then,
playfully, she reached up and in one quick motion, jerked his arms
down, squealing with delight as he fell atop her. They both tumbled
to the deck, laughing.

“And to think,
Mr. Starr
, we could
have been doing this all along, on every cruise,” he said, his eyes
dancing. “Oh, you have done a fine job deceiving your captain!”

“Face it, Brendan, if you’d known who I was
you’d have made me stay home.”

“I am not so sure of that,” he murmured,
groaning as she found him again and rubbed him, hard, through the
breeches. “I could get used to this. Oh! Very used to it. . .
.”

She reached up and pulled a cushion from the
window seat. “Here. Don’t put your back against the decking,
Brendan, it’ll hurt. Use this, instead.”

He smiled at her thoughtfulness, and sat up a
bit so she could put it under his shoulders. And then she stood up
just long enough to yank off the breeches from under the skirt
before throwing her leg over him and gently easing herself down
atop his belly, her mischievous gaze holding his own the whole
time.

“God almighty,” he gasped, as her weight came
down atop his hardening arousal.

She was stark naked beneath the skirts. He
suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“What are you doing to me, lass?”

“Seducing you. Something I’ve been wanting to
do for a long, long time. Now lie back and enjoy it.”

She leaned forward, every little movement of
her body, each subtle change of position, sending him deeper into
agony as she parted his waistcoat, pulled his shirt from his
breeches, and plunged her hands deep beneath his shirt, her palms
roving over his chest as his heart began to thump madly beneath
them. In moments, she had his shirt off, and his chest was bare to
her hands. She slid her fingers into the sparse hair there and let
her fingers, ever so gentle, linger on the little burst of scar
tissue. Slowly she leaned down, put her lips against the hard,
puckered flesh, and kissed it with infinite tenderness. Brendan
shut his eyes, struggling for control, unable to think of anything
but the fact that she was naked beneath her skirts and she was
sitting on him.

Moving herself against him.

Naked.

And she was worried about him surviving
Penobscot? He had to get through this, first!

He sucked in his breath as she reached behind
herself and gently stroked his testicles. “Am I proving my love for
you well enough, Brendan?”

He couldn’t answer. He’d forgotten how to
breathe. Dizziness was swirling behind his eyes now, and he shut
them, trying desperately to hold on to consciousness as well as
control.

“Brendan?”

“I’m dizzy,” he managed. “But it will pass .
. . don’t stop . . . I don’t want you to stop.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking down into
his eyes, unfocused now, as she continued to explore him through
his breeches.

“I’m . . . fine. . . .”

She moved off him, unbuttoned the drop-front
of his breeches and then her hands were on him, all over him and
no, he was not fine, he was not fine at all, and that was just
perfect as far as he was concerned. She began rubbing the tip of
him with her thumb, smearing the tiny wet pearl of seed there over
the head, gently putting a hand on his chest to hold him down when
he tried, weakly, to move, her hair brushing his skin, tickling his
belly, catching in the bed of hair in which his erection was
rooted. She leaned down and his skin went drum-tight as her tongue
flicked against his shaft, once, twice. A moment later he felt her
lips closing around him, sealing him in hot, delicious warmth and
drawing him deeply up inside her mouth. His vision blurred and
began to spin and he shut his eyes, one arm coming out to grip the
leg of the nearby table in a last desperate attempt to anchor
himself in consciousness. Sweat broke out on his brow, and beneath
his back.