The Sea Hellion, page 8
For the first time in her life, she suddenly felt shy around a man. Not recognizing the sensation at first, she blinked a few times, pressing the material against her breasts, before it occurred to her this was unacceptable. Especially around him. So, despite the furious heat spreading over not just her face but body, she cocked her chin in renewed challenge, and nonchalantly pulled off the tunic and tossed it aside.
Where she fully expected him to keep his casual albeit aroused disposition, he was instead far more vocal and appreciative than anticipated.
“Och, lass,” he said under his breath, his eyes hungry as they trailed over her. “Ye really are well formed, aye?” The corner of his mouth hitched as his lustful yet mirthful eyes dragged back to hers. “Even when beet red.”
Having no witty comeback, rather than leave the desk and saunter enticingly to her clothes as intended, she offered a jerky shrug. Hell, how was it he made her feel like an awkward youth all over again? Yet that’s not all he made her feel, and her taut, suddenly sensitive nipples made that obvious. Nipples she was seconds away from covering, but again felt like that might be giving in. To what, she had no clue, but she had started this on her terms, so decided to finish it that way.
Confident.
Not awash in youthful bashfulness.
So she sat up straight, breasts thrust forward, and nodded once that he had been allowed an eyeful of a lifetime but now the time had passed. Be that as it may, though he remained silent as she managed into a corset and stockings, she felt his gaze on her the whole time. She never looked his way, but focused on the blasted dress which unfortunately enough, tied up the back.
“Bloody useless garment,” she muttered, trying to grope at the damn sashes.
“Stop, lass,” he rumbled, suddenly resting his hands on her shoulders from behind, though she had never heard him move. Far too close, he murmured in her ear, “’Tis time ye start acting like a proper wife, aye?”
“Proper wife, my arse,” she managed, far too aware of his heat against her back. Though tempted to figure out the darn dress on her own, she knew he was right. She had a part to play and practice made perfect. So she stayed still and let him sash up her dress with far too much speed and finesse.
“I see ye’re no stranger to a woman’s fine wear,” she commented. “Had a turn or two at a real lady, have ye?”
“I’ve had my share.” His voice was huskier than usual. “But none so tempting as ye, my wee lass.”
She frowned at him over her shoulder even as her heart leapt at the praise. “Ye think me a lady then, aye?”
“For now,” he reminded, his demeanor once again serious. “And dinnae forget it.”
For a moment she felt a flash of disappointment. He was acting the part already. Good enough. She would, too.
“Aye, kind sir.” She curtsied, then rolled her eyes, implementing a dash of politeness mixed with sarcasm. “Yer wish is my command.”
“Bloody hell right it is.” He pulled the cinches tight enough that air whooshed out of her. “’Tis important ye remember that.”
“How could I possibly forget with the likes of ye around,” she muttered, eyeing him coyly as he stepped away. “So have ye had me yet, or am I virginal?”
“Och, ye pulling off innocence might be pushing our limits,” he managed to get out before he ducked, just missing the boot she whipped at him.
“That bothered ye?” he exclaimed, chuckling. “After what ye just did on my desk?”
“Nay, I was just practicing my feisty side.”
Not to mention, she did not want to wear the awful girly ankle boots that went with her equally atrocious dress. Better to throw them at him.
“Ye dinnae need any practice at being feisty.” He tossed the boot back her way as he shouldered into a long sleeved, brown leather doublet. “Put the boots on, Sorcha. ’Tis time to go.”
“Aye,” she muttered on a sigh and put them on as he tied a sash with the MacLauchlin colors around his waist.
“Feeling pride for yer clan?” she commented.
“Always,” he replied. “But this now is for Antoine’s benefit. He likes a man who takes pride in his roots.”
“Ah.” She remembered all too well what a fine sight Douglas MacLauchlin was in his plaid.
“Are ye ready for this then?” He stopped in front of her, gripped her shoulders, and searched her eyes. “Are ye truly, lass?”
“As ready as I will ever be.” She found a level of comfort she didn’t know she needed in his steady gaze. “Just so long as we get my men back, I will play any part I have to.”
He held her gaze for another moment, confident it seemed based on the nod of approval he gave. “Ye’ll do just fine, my lass.”
His lass? Hell, if her breath didn’t catch at the endearment. This is acting, she reminded herself. He did not mean it, nor did she want him to.
“My hair?” Her voice was irritatingly breathy as she struggled to act unaffected while playing the part. “Is it to yer liking, kind sir?”
“Aye, lass,” he murmured as he fingered a curl, the fondness in his gaze very believable. “Yer locks have always been to my liking.”
“Aye?” She eyed him from beneath her lashes. “I should not tie it up proper like?”
“Nay,” he said softly, his gaze a little lost on the curl he held before he blinked several times and stepped away. “Antoine will like yer hair best of all. ’Tis the wild in ye struggling to get out.” He gave her a pointed look. “The wild in ye he will be set to stamp out.”
She nodded firmly and pulled her shoulders back, ready to go. “Then let us go see if we can tempt him, aye?”
“Aye,” he agreed, pulling something small out of a desk drawer.
“What are ye doing?” she asked as he urged her to sit on one of the steps leading to the main deck.
“Did ye think I would leave ye with nothing but skirts to defend yerself?” he said as he crouched and slid none other than her small childhood knife into a hidden pocket he had sewn into her boot.
“Bloody hell, I wondered where that got off to,” she said softly. It was the very one she had used to carve their names in the rock complete with a wee sheath he must have had welded for it.
“Ye dropped it on the shore the day ye punched me,” he revealed. “I never had a chance to get it back to ye.”
Liar. He had several chances.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, touched that he had kept it all this time. And mayhap a wee bit relieved he had clearly put some work into fashioning this boot the eve before rather than enjoying the wench.
“Dinnae thank me.” His eyes met hers in warning. “Just remember ’tis there, and dinnae think twice about going for Antoine’s jugular if we lose control of the situation.”
Something, she learned a short while later when she finally met Basille, that might be a very distinct possibility.
Chapter Eleven
“Ye’re eyeing my sister like ye want to keep her, not give her over to Antoine,” Innis commented as all but a few lanterns were doused. Just enough to not appear suspicious but at the same time provide ample darkness for the skiffs sneaking ashore. “If ye cannae act the part now watching her with the Irishman, how do ye hope to convince Antoine?”
Douglas cursed and tore his gaze away from Sorcha and Brechin who stood close together talking in hushed tones. She was far too bonny in that dress with her wild hair blowing in the wind. He clenched his fingers, wishing they were lost in all those curls. That he was lost in her wee lovely body. All he could envision was her taut form and lush breasts. The cinch of her waist and the flare of her soft hips.
“I will act the part just fine with Antoine,” he assured. After all, Basille was not an Irishman she had nearly married. He was not someone who had already tasted her sweet skin.
Douglas turned his attention to the shore and the skiffs vanishing into the darkness. “Time to go, friend.” He clasped Innis’s shoulder and met his eyes. “Travel safe and keep an eye on my wayward niece.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Innis vowed before he, Audric, Aileann, and Brechin boarded their skiff and left.
“We will bring The Sea Hellion in closer, then reef the sails,” he informed his remaining crew as he took to the helm. “Whatever ye do, no matter the weather, keep the lantern lit by my flag for all to see.” He shook his head. “Dinnae let it blow out, for ye’ll end up dead before yer time, aye?”
They nodded, well aware how dangerous an area this was. How a pirate’s flag was the only thing that stood between life and death.
“’Tis a rugged, almost haunting land, aye?” Sorcha said, joining him. “I always appreciated the beauty of this area.”
“Aye then?” He cast her a sidelong glance. “Ye never struck me as the type to be caught by such fancies.”
Then again, she never struck him as the type who liked to read.
“’Tis all part of the adventure I spoke of,” she began but trailed off rather than continue. Yet he had a good idea what she was going to say based on the fleeting longing in her eyes as they flickered from him to the shore. She had once envisioned him by her side as they ventured to new lands together. Adventures she had imagined having with Muireall became ones she wanted to share with him.
“Ye just wanted me to enjoy it all alongside ye,” he murmured before he could stop himself.
Though her eyes cut to him and lingered with a mix of sentiment and frustration, she said nothing. She didn’t have to. Because he was developing a much better understanding of her than the lass he thought he knew. He had, on occasion, assumed her an impetuous creature who cared for nothing but what lay on the horizon. And while he never faulted her for it, some small part of him had hoped the adventure she truly sought was right here in his arms.
“I see few ships about,” she finally said, turning her attention back to what lay ahead. “Will that be good or bad?”
“It depends on who is in port.” He scanned the coast. “Whilst they might be few, the right pirates would be a more pleasing audience than a host of the wrong pirates.”
When she glanced at him in confusion, he elaborated. “If he is a pirate Antoine respects or better yet, envies, then claiming ye as his own would be a more satisfying accomplishment.” He ordered his men to drop anchor and reef the sails. They were close enough for Basille to see the flag and know who was coming. “Let us go, lass, ’tis time to make our way inland.”
So they did, alone in a skiff, in just the nick of time as rain began to spit. With a shawl wrapped over her hair, Sorcha kept her head bent as they made their way. Despite her seemingly obedient posture, he knew she was taking in the ships they passed and the various sounds aboard. Not just cries of pain and torture but grunts of lecherous pleasure. He had tucked several blades here and there on his person, but not for the first time wondered if he should have brought more.
The entrance to Hebrides Cove was essentially a cave wide enough for skiffs to pass through yet narrow enough that the wind created an eerie howl. As he rowed them in, he scanned their dimly lit surroundings. Lanterns hissed and spit, casting shadows back and forth over a craggy yet monstrous cave as they swung in the breeze. Someone played a forlorn melody on a hornpipe and the air smelled of brine, sweat, and roasting meat.
The water ended about a quarter of the way in, leaving ample room for skiffs to tie off. As he surmised based on the ships he had seen, most specifically their flags, few were here, but those who were, troublesome pirates, all. Notorious miscreants who were favored more than most by Antoine.
“I take it by the look on yer face, these werenae the men we were hoping to see,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“Shh,” he bit back. “Hush, lass.” Then he snarled, his voice a bit louder. “Ye speak when ye are spoken to, wench.”
“Wife,” she reminded.
“Wench for the moment,” he growled. “Now, hush.”
“But ye were verra clear about this,” she argued on a whisper. “I am yer wife. Will wench not confuse the situation?”
“I know what I am doing, lass.” He glared in warning. “Now keep yer trap shut lest our throats be slashed the moment we set foot on land.”
“My trap?” she mouthed, glaring right back at him from beneath her shawl before she muttered a few curses, then, thank the gods, complied.
How had he let her talk them into this? What made him think she would be able to act meek in the least? He set aside the fact he had volunteered and would never have allowed her to come here alone.
“Est-ce que je pense que c’est,” came a booming voice. “Is that who I think it is? The Hellion himself come with a fragile mais peut-être magnifique treasure?”
“It would have made sense to bring Audric along to translate,” she muttered under her breath, finally snapping her mouth shut when he shot her the most sinister look he could muster.
“Aye,” Douglas called out in greeting. “My wee wife is verra fragile but also verra beautiful.” He enjoyed the surprise in Sorcha’s eyes when he looked her way and spoke French. “Enlève ton châle et montre à ma bonne amie ta beauté.” He switched to English and repeated his command. “Take off yer shawl and show my good friend yer beauty.”
“Yes, show me,” Antoine called out, unmoving from his opulent throne, his tree-trunk legs crossed casually on the table in front of him. Leaden with jewels, he sat in a high-backed golden chair with blue velvet padding most likely pilfered from French royalty. “Let me see your beauty, wife of the Hellion.”
“More like the Hellion herself,” Sorcha muttered so softly Douglas barely heard it before she slowly, very meekly, removed her shawl and lifted her face.
Well done, he thought to himself, taking in the single-tear streak on her cheek. Though her wet eyes drifted to Antoine in sadness and fear, Douglas did not miss the ever-so-slight twinkle deep within. Indeed, her fiery soul simmered right beneath the surface.
“Eyes on your husband, woman,” Antoine barked, slowly standing at the sight of her. “They should only be on your husband until I allow them on me.”
Sorcha’s eyes snapped back to Douglas before she ducked her head obediently. Meanwhile, he tied off the skiff, then they joined Antoine and the others, all of whom had their eyes trained on Sorcha. Rather than sit again, Basille came around and leaned back against the table, his gaze already hungry for what might soon be his.
“What brings you this way, Scotsman?” His cunning eyes returned to Douglas. “’Tis a rare day of late that you frequent these parts and now here you are with a wife of all things.”
“Potential profit.” Douglas tapped his coat pocket and gave Antoine a pointed look, hoping the Frenchman recalled a conversation they once had. He glanced from Sorcha back to Basille and winked. “As well as potential gain.”
Antoine’s brows perked in curiosity. “Is that right?”
“Mayhap.” Douglas shrugged a shoulder, then yanked Sorcha in front of him as though encouraging Antoine’s inspection. “She has a streak of fire I dinnae much appreciate, though I remain hopeful ’twill soon diminish.”
“Ah, yes,” Antoine said, slowly looking her up and down on approach before he gripped her chin and tilted her face as he studied her. “Good skin.” He nodded with approval as his gaze drifted over her features. “And a nicely shaped mouth that must fit nicely around your cock.”
When he felt Sorcha tense, likely ready to punch Antoine, Douglas gripped her shoulders in warning.
“Aye, she’s got a mouth on her, this one,” he responded, sure Sorcha would get the double meaning. But better she fume at him than the Frenchman.
Antoine pushed at her lower lip. “Let me see your teeth, woman.”
When Sorcha went perfectly still, Douglas nudged her to comply. “Show him yer teeth, lass.”
“Aye,” she whispered timidly. Or so it sounded. Yet Douglas’s ear was trained enough to hear the underlying venom as she bared her teeth and allowed Antoine to inspect them for rot. She should be grateful he cared more for oral health than the weight of her breasts, or this would be a different sort of inspection altogether.
As it were, she would pass either test with flying colors because the Lord knew her breasts were near perfect. More importantly at the moment, though, like Douglas, she had grown up alongside Elspeth. His sister had thought keeping their teeth clean was as important as anything else, therefore, often urged them to rub an herbal paste she concocted on their teeth. It seemed Sorcha had kept with Elspeth’s advice as the years wore on.
“Belles dents,” Antoine murmured. “Beautiful teeth.” His eyes drifted to hers, though he spoke to Douglas. “’Tis rare to come across a woman her age with such good teeth. Rare indeed.”
Her age? This time when she tensed, he knew Sorcha would much rather skip a punch and go straight to kneeing Antoine in the ballocks. He had to give her a great deal of credit, though. She kept herself under remarkably good control. It spoke to how much she truly cared for her missing crewmates.
“There is a little something in her eyes, though,” Antoine remarked softly as his eyes stayed with hers. “I see this fire you speak of, MacLauchlin.”
Douglas was sure he did. She might be acting, but there was no denying the feisty blaze that was Sorcha’s soul. And her temper was without a doubt, at a low boil right now.
“’Tis unwise to think you can ever defy your husband,” Antoine cooed as his eyes challenged hers, likely searching for kinks in her armor. “Your master.”
Though clearly reluctant to take his hands off her, Antoine finally stepped back and gestured at a fire. “Come. Sit. I insist.” His gaze went to Douglas. “We will talk business over refreshments, oui?”
“To an extent.” Douglas purposefully swept his gaze over the others—all of whom Antoine might want to practice more discretion around—before he looked at the Frenchman again. “As I am sure ye ken, aye?” He rested his hand over his pocket, reminding him of what was there. “C’est une affaire privée.”
