The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines) Read online

  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, re
suming 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 fou
rteen, 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.”