Pirate's Daughter, Rebel Wife

She began to struggle. He found her amazingly strong, considering the energy she must have spent swimming ashore. But she could not match his strength and he captured both her wrists and held them above her head. He could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against his chest and was aware of sensations that he had not experienced for a while.

‘There is no need for you to fight me,’ he growled. ‘I will not hurt you. Now rouse yourself, undress and get into bed.’

To his dismay, her body sagged and her head fell forwards on to his shoulder. He flinched and tried to wake her once more, but whatever he did, it failed. He knew then that there was naught for it but to undress her himself.

His hands shook as he unfastened the belt from about her waist, so freeing the skirts she had girded there. Then he loosened the ties on the bodice of her gown. Noticing the design of the garment, he fingered the fabric, certain that it had been fashioned in England. So this mermaid was likely to be no peasant Portuguese woman, but could be English. What was she doing here and where was the father she had mentioned?

After removing her gown and having exposed the perfect roundness of her breasts in the damp, cream silk shift that clung to her skin, he knew that he would have had to have been made of wood, not to be stirred by their loveliness.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God,’ he groaned, clutching his hair with one hand and holding her off from him with the other, ‘What am I to do with you?’ There was no reply. Clearing his throat, he said loudly, ‘Mistress, you need to remove your shift. I will fetch one of my shirts for you to wear. We have no female apparel in this house.’

‘Men are s–s–such d–devils,’ she stuttered, her eyes still closed.

‘Women are no angels, either,’ he replied roundly, getting to his feet, leaving her sprawled out on the chest.

When she did not reply, he presumed that she had slipped into that semi–conscious state again. He dragged her upright and swung her over his shoulder. Then he carried her to the side of the bed and placed her down gently. Seizing hold of the thickly woven coverlet of red and brown, he pulled it over her to ensure she stayed warm before hastening from the bedchamber.

Harry stripped off his wet garments in his own bedchamber and rubbed himself dry. Then with the cloth wrapped around his nether regions, he went over to the window and pushed wide the shutters, staring down over the sloping garden that was fragrant with the perfume of scattered blossoms after the rain. His gaze fixed on the wide expanse of ocean, but could see no sign of a vessel. For as long as he could remember the sea had been his life and a ship his main home, but on days like this he was glad to be on land since the damage to his leg.

He turned from the window with an impatient movement and limped over to the armoire and chest. He removed all that he needed and donned undergarments, shirt, hose and doublet and pulled on boots before removing another shirt from the armoire. Then, gathering up his gloves and hat, he headed for the guest chamber.

He saw that the woman had managed to divest herself of her shift. She was lying on her side, her head close to the edge of the bed with her braid dangling so that its end touched the floor. He would have liked to have seen her hair newly washed with perfumed water, smelling sweetly of camomile or lavender, and hanging loose. He drew in his breath with a hiss. What was he thinking of, fixating on her hair? He could only be glad that her naked body was mostly covered!

He placed his shirt on the bed and was in the process of pulling up the coverlet further, when he saw the scarring on her back. For a moment he froze and then his fingers gently explored the weals in the soft skin across her shoulder blades and lower back. Anger exploded inside him. Someone had cruelly whipped her? Could a husband have done this? He reached for her left hand that was curled on the sheet beneath and found it ringless.

He peered closer at the scars and remembered the beatings he had suffered growing up on the pirate ship. He scowled as he drew the coverlet over her. Then, gathering up her discarded garments, he left the room. He went downstairs and this time was fortunate to find Joe preparing the evening meal.

‘We have a guest,’ said Harry in English, placing the clothing on the table where the youth was slicing an onion.

Joseph stared at the sodden green gown and darted a startled glance at Harry. ‘A woman?’

‘Of course it’s a woman, Joe! That’s a gown, isn’t it?’ Harry sank on to a chair. ‘And such a woman, Joe. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful she is. The odd thing is that I feel I have seen her before.’

‘God’s Blood! A woman under your roof!’ Joe’s voice rose to a squeak as he reached for the sodden gown and sniffed a handful of material. ‘This smells of the sea. Where did you find her?’

‘She swam ashore from a ship that was in trouble.’ Harry stared at Joe through his fingers. ‘Unusual a woman being able to swim, hey, Joe? I saw her drop into the sea and later came upon her sprawled on the sand. She is in the guest bedchamber, so keep your eye on her. I need to go out. I want to find out what’s happened to that ship.’

Joe had now found the silken shift and dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. ‘Me!’ His blue eyes widened in dismay. ‘What’s she wearing if her clothes are here? Wh–what if—if she starts wandering around half–naked?’

‘Enough of that nonsense,’ snapped Harry, not wanting to dwell on the image the words conjured up. ‘I’ve left her one of my shirts and I doubt she has the strength to get off the bed. If she wakes, she’ll be in need of food and drink. Some soup, perhaps.’

Harry made his way to the stables and saddled up a horse. He rode in the direction where he had last seen the vessel, wanting a closer look at it if possible. He wondered if it had foundered on the rocks. If so, there was a possibility of there being survivors; if not, then others on the island might have seen the vessel and be planning to steal what they could, before those who owned the rights to salvage arrived on the scene.

Bridget was wakened by the sound of a door slowly opening and then stealthy footsteps approaching the bed. Her heart thudded as into her mind came an image of a man with shoulder–length black hair, angry dark eyes, a scar on his nose and a great black beard. She shivered, recalling the face of the master of the slave–trader ship who also had a great black beard. Her instincts were to sit up and defend herself but, not only did her limbs ache unbearably, her head throbbed and her throat felt raw. She was already aware that someone had taken her garments away and left a clean, soft woollen–and–linen shirt behind.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked in a husky voice.

‘I’ve brought you some soup and bread and a drink, mistress,’ replied a cautious young English voice.

Bridget was confused. Hadn’t her rescuer spoken to her in Portuguese earlier? She opened her eyes and stared at the youth holding a tray. He could not have been more different to the other man as night was from day. He had straw–coloured hair and a freckled face that was filled with curiosity.

‘You’re English,’ she stated in that tongue.

‘Aye, mistress.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I’m Joe,’ replied the gangly youth.

‘Where is the bearded man who was here earlier?’

‘That would be the captain. He’s gone off to see what’s happened to the ship you deserted.’

She prayed that he would find no sign of the ship or that it was wrecked and its master drowned. ‘The captain? Is he a mariner, then?’ she asked, picking up on what the youth called the man who had rescued her.

‘Aye.’

‘He—he looked fearsome. Is he Portuguese?’

‘No, he’s English and you have naught to fear from him.’ He gave her a reassuring gap–toothed smile. ‘Here, mistress, I’ll leave your food and drink on this little table here. You get it down you and then have another little sleep.’

Bridget clutched the open neck of the shirt and managed to ease herself into a sitting position. ‘Tell me, where am I?’

He paused in the doorway without looking back. ‘You’re on the island of Madeira, mistress,’ he replied and closed the door before she could ask him any more questions.

Bridget sank back against the pillows. Her relief was such that tears filled her eyes and threatened to overpower her. Praise the Trinity that she had at last reached her destination! Now she must hope that she had not arrived here in vain. She remembered her first meeting with the man she still thought of as Captain Black Harry. She and her father, Callum, had been on the coast of Ireland after escaping from a brigand called Patrick O’Malley and his cutthroats. For many a summer past Callum had set sail with young warriors from Scotland to support his Irish wife’s family in their battles with the O’Malleys. That summer two years ago his luck had run out and Callum had lost not only his fortune, but his ship.

When Bridget had met Captain Black Harry, she was alone, having left her father trying to persuade the master of another ship to take them back to Scotland with only the promise of payment when they arrived there. She had been embarrassed due to his need to beg for help. Then she had walked slap bang into the handsomest young man she had ever seen. He had helped her to her feet and she had begged his pardon. He had inclined his head and asked in the Gaelic whether he could be of further assistance to her.

Impulsively she had explained their situation and he had escorted her back to Callum. Only then did she discover that the two men had sailed together when Black Harry was a boy. They had much to say to each other and had headed for the nearest tavern.

Bridget frowned as she reached for the cup on the table and gulped down the drink thirstily. If only she had overheard their discussion, she would have been more prepared for what happened the next day. Her eyes darkened. She would never forget what she considered Black Harry’s hardhearted treatment of her.

She placed the cup on the table and reached for the food. She dunked the bread in the soup and, despite being ravenous, ate slowly because it hurt to swallow. As she gazed at her surroundings, her eyes began to feel heavy. The white walls appeared to waver and the blue shutters at the window shimmered. On another wall was a niche holding a statue of the Madonna and Child and they appeared to be smiling at her. She fumbled for the cup, picked it up and sniffed it. Had she been drugged? The lad might have assured her that she had naught to fear from the captain, but could she trust him? She had suffered sorely at the hands of men in the past and she felt a rising panic. Her last thought before she slipped into unconsciousness was of her father.

‘You put what into her drink?’ exploded Harry.

‘Only a little poppy juice, Captain,’ replied Joe hastily, backing away from him. ‘It was what Juanita gave to me when I couldn’t sleep for my aches and pains after I was attacked in the town. She dosed you with it, too! It’s not that long since we returned from Africa with you wounded so bad, and I thought you’d not only never walk again, but smash every looking glass in sight.’

A muscle clenched in Harry’s jaw. He would never forget seeing his scarred reflection in the mirror for the first time. Later, when he had rattled in the cart into town, the women who had previously fallen into his arms had shrunk away from him and walked by on the other side of the street. Deeply hurt and also suffering agony from the wound in his thigh, he had grown a beard to conceal the scar and chose to keep away from women altogether.

‘What if she suspects you’ve drugged her?’ Harry pointed out.

‘Why should she? Surely she’ll deem her feeling drowsy is due to exhaustion after swimming ashore? I was only trying to ease any pain she was in.’

Harry gazed at him with exasperation. ‘I suppose you thought you were doing what was best, but I wanted to question her. Now I’ll probably have to wait several hours before she wakes up. Don’t ever do such a thing again without my permission, Joe, or you’ll be out on your ear!’ He paused. ‘So what did you think of her?’

‘Comely. Her eyes are hurting her. She could do with a potion to bathe them. More importantly, Captain, is the information that she does speak English and there is a lilt to her voice that convinces me that it is not her first language.’