Page 11 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son (Brides of Chattan #3)

Chapter Ten

A fter the initial shock of being up so high her first time in the rigging, Maggie had enjoyed the climb. Her muscles had ached for days, but the good kind of ache, from having done something new and helpful. The view alone was worth it, unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Now, as she climbed once more, her body came alive with excitement. From all the way up in the tops, would she be able to catch one last glimpse of the giant devil ray with its white belly and flapping wings? The way it soared, perhaps it should have been called an angel ray instead.

Her neck prickled with the weight of so many eyes, but she would show them. She’d show them all.

Less than a dozen feet into her ascent, however, the angry kestrel flew right at her, forcing her to duck, and she almost lost her grip despite being careful not to look down. Then something smacked into her cheek and out of instinct she jumped away, letting go with her right hand to cover her face. She swung dangerously by the other hand as her feet scrambled for purchase, yanking her shoulder almost out of place.

Down below, a few men guffawed, but another roared in fury. Catching her breath, Maggie rubbed her stinging cheek, and her fingers came away sticky with dark yellow yolk.

She chanced a look down and saw Bash shouting in the face of a shameful-looking pirate, Bash’s own face livid and red as beetroot. She didn’t need him flying to her defense, but her traitorous heart swelled at the sight. Who else but Jory had ever done as much for her? Grinning, she wiped the egg off her hand onto the ropes and resumed her climb.

A few minutes later, the kestrel squawked, diving again, and Maggie closed her eyes and held on tight, burying her face in the crook of her arm. She was only just discovering the beauty of this big, wide world. It wouldn’t do at all to have her eyes pecked out so soon.

The bird came back for another pass, and this time Maggie felt a sharp sting where it must have pulled out a few strands of hair.

“Shh, shh, shh,” she whispered as either of her brothers-in-law might soothe a horse.

Whether comforted by her shushing or not, the bird laid off its attack, so Maggie continued to climb until the kestrel grew agitated once more. Again, she wrapped her arms around the ropes and ducked her head, trying desperately not to fall. “Shh, shh, shh,” she said again. “Don’t you know I’m the one stopping them from shooting at you?”

When it flew back to its perch at the very top, Maggie took a moment to gaze out across the ocean, where aqua water met azure sky on a vanishing blue horizon. She must have stared at a similar, if greyer, view on the boat over to Orkney, but stared without seeing, for this was entirely new. It was worth the climb, worth the danger, even worth the angry kestrel, for who could ever tire of such a sight?

Lucky bird , she wanted to tell it, to see this from your perch every day. If only you could coexist.

Not realizing how lucky it was, the kestrel grew more frantic about her intrusion, flapping its wings in her face and squawking angrily in her ears.

What would Jory do? she wondered. Or gentle Wee Ellen?

When Maggie was a very little girl, storms upset her terribly, and she would rage as though she could outscream the thunder—as though if she kicked up a bigger fuss than the weather did, she could chase the lightning away. Her parents were at a loss. They tried consoling her, and they tried birching her, and eventually they gave up and left her to destroy the furniture in her chamber all alone, flying at anyone who entered, talons bared, not unlike this poor bird.

But Ellen couldn’t stand to see her little sister so distraught. She came to Maggie, singing some made-up wordless hymn, and somehow it had settled her restless soul when nothing else could. The melody came back to her now, and she offered her voice to the kestrel, which finally returned to its perch. Maggie hummed louder as the bird bobbed up and down, not in time to the music, but sizing her up for its next attack.

She sang louder still, hoping the men below wouldn’t hear her and guess by her voice that she wasn’t actually a boy, not that she really need worry. Jeremiah liked to say she sang like a dying duck.

The kestrel watched suspiciously as Maggie reached the top platform, pulling herself up and grabbing hold of the railing. It cocked its head and blinked, but Maggie kept singing softly and it tolerated her approach.

Catching it, however, would be a whole other thing.

She stared out across the water once more, and the bird hopped down onto the railing, casting so much side-eye in her direction that it reminded her a little of her cousin Lennox.

“I’m sorry, Kes,” she cooed to the bird. “I know you’ve found the perfect spot, but it won’t do. Not if it gets you shot for your trouble.”

The bird stepped to the left, then the right, moving closer, bobbing its head again .

“You know men,” Maggie sighed. “They’ll have their way, and like as not, eat you for dinner now they’ve wasted half the eggs.”

Her stomach growled, and she remembered the dried beef in her pocket.

“I suppose you eat fish,” she said, taking out a strip of beef and holding it flat on her palm the way Finn taught her to feed carrots to his Clydesdale. “Don’t imagine this will interest you?”

The kestrel bobbed its head once more and snatched the meat from her hand, gobbling it up.

“That’s a good girl, Kes! You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you?”

Kes trilled in reply.

“I don’t actually know if you’re a girl or a boy, but you’re pretty all the same.”

She offered another bite of beef, and Kes took it without hesitation, scrutinizing Maggie’s every movement. She held out one more piece to distract the bird, and caught it with her other hand, letting it snag the beef before she settled it into the basket Langley had given her.

“Shh, shh, shh,” she crooned. “You’ll be all right.”

Standing on the platform, leaning out over the rail, she took one last longing look for her big grey and white ray, this time through the captain’s spyglass.

She almost missed it—would have done if not for the way the sunlight glinted off the sails. Not her ray, but way out almost as far as she could see, there was a ship, sailing fast. It flew a black flag with a white blob.

She squinted through the spyglass, relaxing her left eye, and twisted the shaft as Bash had shown her. The white blob morphed into a fish, not unlike an illustration of Jonah’s whale, with a cutlass beneath. After the rumors of ghost ships that circulated like currency, Bash would want to know about this straight away.

Maggie climbed quickly back down holding the guide rope as Bash had taught her, an angry squawking bird rattling the basket at her side .

The moment her feet touched the deck, a rousing cheer went up from the circle of men, and Bash picked her up and swung her around.

“Careful,” she exclaimed, holding the basket out of harm’s way, until he set her down again.

“Well done,” the captain said in a cold, begrudging tone.

“How’d you do it, Magnus?” Duffy asked.

“Magic,” Bash whispered, nodding at her reverently, and Maggie felt hot all over.

“Magic,” Samson grinned, nodding along with Bash.

“Huh?” Duffy asked.

“Sorcery, innit?” Bash teased. “Forenoon watch,” he bellowed, jerking his head toward the tops. “Man your posts, you lubbers. Double up!”

“Wait,” Maggie called, a little breathless. “Sails,” she said, and the deck fell silent.

“You saw sails?” Dutch repeated.

“How many masts?” Bash asked.

“One. A sloop, I think.”

He smiled at her and she practically melted into a puddle of wanting.

“What banner did she fly?” he asked, darting a glance towards the captain.

“Black. With a white round fish or whale and a sword on it.”

Another silence fell, this one palpable. The air practically hummed with excitement. And then the men erupted into more cheers, jumping up and down, pushing and shoving, and tossing her about. Samson did a back flip. It was quite the stramash.

Bash waived the men up the rigging, and then hovered as the captain approached Maggie. She offered him his spyglass, but he pushed it back to her chest.

“Keep it.” Then he patted her shoulder and walked away.

“Shall I take the hen for you?” Roo asked, nodding at her basket of kestrel with a toothy grin .

“No!” she exclaimed. “If you thought it was bad luck to shoot her, you don’t want to see what will happen if you eat her!”

“Found the Whale ,” Roo pouted. “Seems like good luck to me.”

“What will you do with her?” Bash asked.

“I was hoping to let her rest in a quiet corner below deck,” she said, and Roo guffawed.

“Looks like your pet has found a pet there, Bashy.”

Bash glared at the cook but gestured for Maggie to lead the way below deck.

No sooner had they entered his alcove, however, than Bash pushed her against the bulkhead, surprising her so she almost dropped the basket she was taking off her shoulder.

She looked up at him, searching his eyes, and he took her face in both hands, staring at her in a way that made it impossible to breathe, running his thumbs along each side of her jaw. Then he crashed his lips against hers, frantically, hungrily, like if he reined himself in any longer he’d burst.

His whole body was so close, as though he would climb inside her skin if he could, and Maggie wanted him to, even as she felt his heartbeat through the bulge hardening against her stomach. Then, just as abruptly, he ripped himself back, pressing only his forehead to hers and breathing heavily.

She didn’t remember grabbing him, but there were fistfuls of his shirt balled in her hands, which she released, noting how crumpled the fabric had become.

“I messed up your sark,” she said, still gasping for breath after such a thorough kissing.

“No matter,” he replied in a rough whisper.

Kes squawked grumpily.

Just within reach, there was a small ledge where the bulkhead and the upper deck met, and she stood on her toes, stretching to place the basket and open it before stepping back.

Bash watched, frowning, as the bird hopped out of the basket, tossing them both a dirty look, then hunkered back down quietly in her new nest box.

“Why are you glaring at her like that?” Maggie asked, noting Bash’s wary scowl. “Did you really mind bringing her in?”

He shook his head. “Kestrel,” he said, frowning even more deeply. “This far out on the open sea? Where the devil did she come from?”

Now it was Maggie’s turn to frown.

“So you do believe in omens? Like Langley and the rest?”

“Dunno what to think,” Bash admitted, drawing Maggie back against his chest with one arm, kissing the top of her head as they watched the bird settle in. “Perhaps the fool thing snuck aboard in Scotland, same as you.”

Yet again, she couldn’t dodge the desire to stay right there in his little alcove for the rest of forever.

The lookouts confirmed Maggie’s sighting, and a course was laid for a furtive interception. The evening’s revelry was unlike anything she’d yet experienced.

Prevented from cooking the kestrel, Roo killed the last two fat hens instead. It was an optimistic move, but Maggie supposed they would soon capture the Woebegone Whale and be inundated with whatever livestock and provisions were aboard.

The cook stuffed his birds with corn and who knew what all, and roasted them up, before making the men arm wrestle for the chance to snap apart the collarbones for luck. Everyone was joyous and rowdy, finishing off the dregs of bumbo and starting in on the Scottish ale.

She, too, felt tipsy and thirsty, with a thirst no amount of drink could ever quench. She finally fit somewhere, never mind it was amongst pirates, passing as one of them, assumed name and all. They loved her for having spotted the Woebegone Whale , not to mention ridding them of the pesky bird, and they made it clear, offering her tankard after tankard.

Only Bash seemed reticent about the coming days. He sat apart, quietly observing the celebrations like a glowering figurehead on a forbidding prow. His mood was the only thing to temper Maggie’s spirits, reminding her of the battle and bloodshed looming on the horizon.

When they grew too drunk to continue dancing around the tables, several men began tussling over a deck of cards.

“Oh!” Maggie remembered. “You were going to teach me how to play!”

“Aye,” Bash said.

“Now’s good a time as any, Bashy,” Roo said. “Shall we deal you in?”

“Not tonight,” Bash answered, steering Maggie through the rowdy throng, muttering, “Friends don’t let friends wager when they’re in their cups.”

“Is that what we are?” Maggie asked, smiling giddily, warmth spreading through her that was wholly unrelated to the ale. Friends.

She hadn’t had one in so very long. Lorna had been the only person on Orkney she’d have called a friend, and the woman was more of a conveniently located acquaintance—a neighbor who tolerated her because of the only things they had in common: their gender and their proximity.

When they finally snuck away from the celebration, Maggie was thankful there was no detour to the upper deck. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was keep watch.

A million different questions swirled through her mind now they were finally alone. Bash, however, still seemed disinclined to speak, so she crossed to the bird’s basket and delivered some corn she’d stashed away during dinner.

“Hello, beautiful Kes,” she crooned, and the bird squawked at her, gobbling up the corn immediately .

“Reckon she’d rather have a go at the rats,” Bash suggested. “The mouser won’t be happy to share.”

When she turned around again, Maggie found herself faced with the glorious sight of a shirtless Bash. As he bent over a bowl to wash his face, the muscles in his back rippled under the patchwork of crisscrossed scars. In their tiny alcove, he was close enough she could reach out and touch those scars, and this time she surrendered to temptation.

His skin was warm and soft, but he jumped at her touch, so she snatched her hand away. Turning swiftly, he caught her.

“Like ice,” he growled, and her stomach did a little flip. “Shall I warm them?” he asked, entwining her fingers with his.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, and he pulled her close, drawing her into an embrace.

“Always so polite. A proper lady,” he murmured.

She stroked his back hesitantly. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore,” he said, shutting down further questions. “Were you really married?” he asked, and she froze.

She didn’t want to think about Jeremiah right now. “Briefly,” she said.

“How brief?” he rasped. “A day?”

“A year and a bit.”

“And in all that time, he never tried to seduce you?”

Maggie didn’t know how to answer. A flood of memories came crashing forward, threatening to drown her, and for some reason she began to tremble. What did she know of seduction—she who had never enjoyed a single moment in her husband’s bed?

“I’m sorry,” Bash whispered. “I’m beginning to suspect your husband was?—”

“He was real,” she snapped, pulling back, and he cocked his head.

“I’m beginning to suspect he was a fucking fool.”

A laugh bubbled out of her, surprising them both, and he held her tighter, running a hand gently over her short-cropped hair .

“Why?” she managed to say. “How do you seduce the ladies you meet at port?”

When he didn’t answer except to still his hand, she drew back again to study him, and his eyes flashed, recognizing her challenge. Then he looked away, at the floor, pink creeping up his neck and tinging his cheeks and the tips of his ears as deliciously as she’d hoped. He leaned against the opposite bulkhead, putting as much space as possible between them in the tiny berth, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

The chill that settled in that few feet of space made Maggie immediately sorry for her question, and she searched the room for something else to say to make it better.

“I could show you,” he answered softly, “what I would do were I ever allowed to leave the ship.”

She didn’t quite understand his admission. Was he more or less a prisoner? The very notion broke another wall within her, and she flew into his arms, kissing him with every bit of pent-up yearning she’d ever felt in all her twenty years of living.

After a moment, he broke the kiss and held her at arm’s length. “Is that a yes?” he asked, peering intently into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, trembling for a different reason this time. “Please.”

She gazed up at him, and he offered her the most roguish of smiles, and Maggie’s breath caught in her throat.

He stepped forward and for some reason she stepped back, brushing against the hammock. She couldn’t imagine what he had in mind, and she was both terrified and not. It made her dizzy.

“Sit,” he whispered in her ear, and she sat on the hammock. “Lie back,” he added, taking his yellow-and-black plaid from the corner cabinet and kneeling before her so his chiseled jaw and that roguish dimple were at eye level.

When she didn’t move, he stretched the hammock around her to support her back and head, pulling her forward so she sat right at the edge, sure to tumble out in the least ladylike of puddles .

“You’re shivering,” he said, draping the plaid around her.

“I’m not,” she lied, and his dimple deepened.

“What will you say if you want me to stop?” he asked, leaning towards her on his knees.

“Stop,” she whispered, and he drew back, hands in the air.

“Go,” she giggled, and this time when he grinned, he transformed into a mischievous schoolboy with ridiculously tousled hair.

He tugged at the string securing her breeches, and then lowered them, his eyebrows lifting in delighted surprise when he found she’d fashioned a pair of smalls for underneath. He grinned naughtily, reaching for the next drawstring.

“Will there be another pair, I wonder?” he teased. “Even smaller than these?”

“Stop,” she said, and he froze. “Will you be disappointed if there isn’t?”

“Nothing about you could ever disappoint me,” he said earnestly, and what was left of Maggie’s bones melted right out of her body.

“Go,” she whispered, and he lowered her drawers and clicked his tongue with a smile.

“What a shame.”

Then he slipped her legs over his shoulders and ducked his head under the plaid, kissing up her leg and behind her knee and along the crease of her hip, all her most ticklish places, making her squirm.

“So impatient,” he murmured, placing a steadying hand on her low belly. She tried to be still—so still that he poked his head out from under the plaid. “Understandable, when your pleasure’s been ignored for so very long. Were I your husband, I’d attend to you every day. Twice on Sundays.”

Maggie had the vague thought that such a promise might get her to a kirk on Sundays again. Her stomach flipped over and over, as though the hammock were swinging wildly instead of being held still by Bash.

And then he kissed her where he’d touched her before, and she heard herself whimper as her eyes rolled back in her head.

“Shh,” he whispered, nipping at the inside of her thigh, and she put an arm over her face to smother her moans just in time, for the next moment he licked up the length of her and she gasped aloud.

With one gentle hand he spread her while the other ventured up to find her breasts, which she quickly unwrapped beneath the plaid. As he licked lazy circles around her most sensitive spot, he mirrored the motion with a featherlight finger around each breast, and she pulled the blanket tight against her face to muffle her panting.

The same tingly tension which had built within her the prior week began to hum inside her head and inside her core, and she pushed herself wantonly against him, which seemed to encourage him for soon he was holding onto her bucking hips, flicking her torturously with his tongue until she was jerking against him, vibrating from tip to toe, riding the crest of an endless wave and drifting far out to sea.