The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines) Page 16

  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 secr
ets, 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.”