Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance Read online

  Her Pirate to Love

  Michelle Beattie

  Her Pirate to Love

  ©Copyright 2016 Michelle Beattie

  Kindle Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-943963-81-2

  Dedication

  I have been extremely blessed with a large, wonderful family. While I hate to single any one out because I love them all, one especially always made me smile. My Uncle Marcel was the life of any get together. His smile, his contagious laugh, his energy simply filled a room. Even at his funeral they talked about his laugh and how just hearing it was enough to make you laugh too, even if you had no idea why he was laughing.

  I rarely knew Uncle Marcel to be serious but I remember when my third pirate book came out and he came to my book signing. With a most serious expression he picked up the book with the shirtless, well-muscled pirate on the front and said, “Hmm. I don’t remember them asking permission to take my picture.” He may not have looked the “hero” type with his round belly and shiny head but Uncle Marcel, you were and still remain a hero in my eyes. I miss your laugh, that little giggle that was so contagious. I hope you continue to laugh in heaven and know that there isn’t a day that I don’t think of you and miss you. But neither is there a day that I don’t think of you and smile.

  Acknowledgment

  This book couldn’t have happened without a lot of help and so here’s to the wonderful minds that helped me along the sometimes rocky path that was Her Pirate to Love.

  Taryn, for reading and re-reading and many long conversations about plot. Brenda Collins who put me in touch with her brother, Paul Collins, a wonderful historian. To Suzanne Forrest for all things Irish and many historical details. I really did appreciate the input. Any errors or inaccuracies are entirely my own and in no way reflect the help given to me.

  Thank you to Michele and Fab for your endless support and belief in me. For the readers who love the series as much I do and finally to the wonderful team at Tule Publishing for taking this book on mid-series and for loving the characters as much as I do.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  About In the Arms of a Pirate

  About the Author

  Dear reader,

  While I do extensive research for my books, sometimes it becomes necessary to play a little loose with the facts in order for the story to work. And as, at the end of the day, this is a work of fiction, I hope you can understand and accept what you may see as inaccuracies or glossed over facts.

  Life for Catholics in Ireland at the time Grace and her family left was miserable as they weren’t allowed to hold title on lands and were forced to work for wealthy land owners, with no hope—at the time, though it changed later once King Charles came into power—of ever owning their own property. While some chose to go to the Caribbean willingly, as at least there they’d have a chance to own land once their servitude was over, others were forcibly exiled, such as Grace and her family.

  It was true many Irish were sold as indentured servants into the West Indies and Montserrat was indeed one of the places they were sent to. This happened predominantly between 1650-1659. Life as a white indentured servant was abysmal and sometimes they were treated worse than the slaves as their tenure was limited, most 5-7 yrs, and the plantation owners wanted to get their monies worth in the time they had them. For the purposes of this story, I had Grace’s tenure be twelve years.

  Also, it would have been likely that Grace and her mother would have been raped during their tenure, but I didn’t want that kind of history for Grace. First, she has enough baggage and second, this is a romance after all.

  What happened in Ireland is a passionate tale and if I seem to gloss over it, it’s not out of a lack of respect, or lack of research but simply because this is a romance. Yes, Grace’s past plays a role in who she is, but it’s not a political story and I never wanted it to be. Also, you have to remember Grace was only eleven when she left Ireland so she does have a young girl’s perspective of what happened there, not one of an adult.

  So in that spirit, I hope you enjoy Cale and Grace’s story and allow me to sweep you into the Caribbean and share with you a tale of two people who learn that love really does heal all wounds.

  Chapter One

  Caribbean Sea

  1664

  Grace Sullivan’s stomach roiled. It had little to do with the thrashing sea tossing the ship as though it was nothing more than a ball being bounced between children.

  It had everything to do with the man who held her destiny in his cold-blooded hands.

  Roche Santiago wasn’t known for his mercy toward his crew or his prisoners. Since the day he’d ripped her from the shores of Montserrat, Grace had been his prisoner and had been forced to endure his brutal ruthlessness. But until now, she hadn’t been locked in the brig.

  Fear rattled inside her chest as every sort of awful fate she’d witnessed Roche deliver burst through her mind. He’d once flogged his boatswain and left him hanging off the bowsprit. Then there’d been the poor cabin boy who had been sliced open from groin to throat. Grace choked back the sickness charging up her throat. She’d lived through every atrocity he’d forced upon her. Somehow she’d find a way to survive this as well.

  The barque pitched with the waves; water slopped over her shoes and sucked at the soaked hem of her skirt. Above her head feet pounded the deck as the crew struggled to control the sails. With only minimal light slipping through the hatch and closed gun ports, below decks was bleak as her future. Grace grabbed the bars of her prison, pressed her forehead to the cool metal.

  She needed a plan. It mattered little that she had no weapon on her person, no allies willing to risk their lives for hers. She wouldn’t lie down and die, wouldn’t forget what she wanted from this life. What she’d wanted ever since being forced from Ireland—freedom.

  There’d been a glimpse of it before Roche had taken her from one kind of hell to another and Grace vowed she’d have it again. With a crew of seventy men above decks, however, ’twas a lofty goal. And escaping wasn’t her only dilemma. Once she was free she had nowhere to go and no currency. She had nothing to barter with but her body.

  Grace tightened her grip on the iron bars, turning her knuckles white. She wouldn’t trade her body. She hadn’t a choice with Roche, but she would from this point forward. If she survived.

  “I’ll do more th
an survive,” she declared, even as she wondered how she’d manage it.

  Ever since she’d first tried to gouge out Roche’s eyes with a hairpin, he’d seen to it there was nothing within reach she could use against him but her fists. They’d proven ineffective against his brute strength.

  Grace peered beyond her prison. He’d never put her in the brig before and she knew what it meant that he did now. He had tired of her and meant to rid himself of her. There was one advantage she intended to use in her favor. Roche loved to torture. He could have killed her in his cabin, but instead he’d brought her here. No doubt to let fear build, to give her plenty of time to fret over her fate.

  However Roche’s depravity was such that he wouldn’t simply fire his pistol through the bars. He would be after terrifying her further, which meant he’d be opening her cell. And when he did, she needed to be ready. Pulling an Irish ballad from her memory, Grace hummed as her mind worked quickly to form a plan, as her eyes darted about for something, anything, which would help her escape alive. The music calmed her, helped her think, and kept the hopelessness from overwhelming her. She reached for song whenever all seemed lost as it not only took her back to the best parts of home, it reminded her of what she was fighting for; to go back.

  The hatch lifted. Dull grey light accompanied the man who stepped onto the ladder. The bottom fell out of Grace’s stomach and the music died in her throat. She needed more time! Her eyes hunted the dimness but fear blinded her and no amount of blinking helped. She shoved her thick mass of ebony hair over her shoulder and moved to the corner of her cell—as though Roche couldn’t reach her there.

  He approached with determined purpose. Neither the swaying of the ship nor the water creeping over the toes of his boots slowed his long strides. Her gown, which had once been a simple and modest garment until Roche had hacked open the bodice until it barely contained her bosom, offered as little protection as it did modesty. With nothing else to hold onto, Grace wrapped her arms around herself.

  Roche’s meaty fingers closed over the bars. Soulless eyes raked her from the tip of her shoes to the crown of her black hair. He sniffed as though he smelled her terror and his lips twisted beneath his mustache. One hand snaked around his back.

  Grace pressed herself harder into the corner. She was all too familiar with what Roche kept in the small of his back. Terror assaulted her when he brought his arm round. Even in the limited light, the blade of his dagger gleamed ominously. He pressed it against the pad of his thumb and drew a drop of blood.

  Digging into the pocket of his vest, Roche withdrew the key. “If it’s any consolation, wench, I will miss plunging my cock between your thighs.”

  Grace had lived through her share of indignities as in indentured servant, but it was Roche who’d shown her the true meaning of horror and shame. He’d thrust them upon her despite her screams and struggles. Even now her skin shriveled at the thought of his hands on her.

  Lord, if she had but a weapon she’d be showing him the same mercy he’d shown her.

  The key slid into the lock and clicked open. Only an act of sheer will and a hand pressed firmly over her mouth kept Grace from retching. But a plan, such as it was, had come to her and she needed to keep alert and focused on the pirate.

  The door swung inward and Roche prowled toward her.

  How she’d love to throw herself at him, carve her nails into his face and leave permanent scars, just as his touch had done to her. But she couldn’t reveal her intent, not yet. Best he think her weak and completely at his mercy.

  “Roche, please.” The tremors in her voice, at least, were real. “I’ll be doing anything you want. I won’t—” She swallowed the lie along with the panic. If this didn’t work… “I won’t make any further plans to escape.”

  “You expect me to believe the word of a whore?”

  He raised the blade, twisted his wrist from side to side. In a whirl of movement, he lunged and the dagger sliced across her sleeve.

  Grace yelped, yanked her arm away. She expected pain but there was none. He’d only cut the fabric.

  “Next time you won’t be so fortunate.”

  Sweat trickled into her eyes, burning. Grace swiped her palm across her forehead. She braced her legs, even as she pleaded, “I’ll do anything, if you spare me life.”

  His gaze was lecherous. “You already have.”

  Blood roared in Grace’s ears but her attention was on the dagger. When next he moved, she’d be ready.

  Earlier in the morning she’d overheard Roche speak of Cartegena and his intent to intercept Spanish ships leaving with mountains of gold. Despite two ships worth of plunder already filling his hold, Grace knew where he was heading. She couldn’t know how close they were to shore, however, not with the fog that had thwarted her hope of seeing Cartegena when she’d been dragged from Roche’s cabin to the brig. Yet if she could only get past Roche and his crew, if she took her chances by jumping overboard and if another ship were to see her, she’d stand a chance.

  It was a staggering amount of ‘ifs’ but they were Grace’s only hope. For sure as she was trembling in her sodden shoes, she wouldn’t be alive by day’s end unless she managed to escape. And unlike her da, she was willing to do fight for her freedom, for her life.

  A burst of noise came from above. Booted feet, what sounded like hundreds, thudded overhead. Raised voices shouted from bow to stern and every point in between.

  Someone yelled through the hatch, “Ship, Captain! She’s flying a pirate flag.”

  “How far?” Roche asked, his attention still solely on Grace.

  “She’ll be within firing distance in minutes.”

  “Bloody hell, didn’t you see her coming before now?”

  “She was tucked around an island, sir. And with the fog…”

  Roche growled. He loathed incompetence. He shifted his eyes toward the hatch. “Load the guns. Every man to his station.”

  The distraction was better than Grace’s feeble plan and she didn’t hesitate. She kicked out, catching Roche’s wrist with the heel of her shoe. He cursed as the blade tumbled from his hand, splashed into the water. Shoving into Roche as hard as she could Grace knocked him aside. She grabbed her heavy skirts and raced for the cell door, her only chance at survival. She cleared the opening. Roche wasn’t far behind. His boots slapped the water, each splash louder than the first as he gained on her. Grace bolted toward the stairs and the hatch.

  If he caught her…

  Suddenly the opening filled with men and the light dimmed along with her chances.

  “Stop her!” Roche bellowed.

  Her blood ran cold as she realized the futility of her efforts and yet she couldn’t stop. Life was worth fighting for. Freedom was worth the risk. Without slowing her pace, she charged ahead. The men, hardened by years of hard work, proved impenetrable barriers. She shoved, ducked, dug for purchase and thrust with all her might. She gained nothing.

  They pinched her arms, pawed her breasts. Someone grabbed a fistful of her hair. Her scalp exploded in pain. The smell of ripe bodies pressing in on her suffocated her as much as her fear.

  “Out of my way,” Roche roared and the men dispersed like a flock of birds scared off a carcass.

  He grabbed her from behind, spun her round. Rage pulsed red in his eyes.

  “Nobody escapes me. Ever,” he said and before she could do more than lift her fingers to claw at him, his fist flew, slamming against her cheek.

  The blow sent Grace reeling. Her ears rang and her eyes struggled to focus. Roche ordered the men who’d stopped to gawk back to their stations. Gun ports thrust open. Cannons were wheeled into position and loaded. Noise throbbed throughout the hull.

  “Captain!” someone shouted from the mouth of the hatch. “She’s gaining!”

  “Bring us about, and, when ready, give the order.” Roche untied the sash from his waist, wrapped an end around each fist and stepped toward Grace. “This shouldn’t take long,” he muttered.

 
; Grace swallowed hard, a difficult task with a mouth gone dry as sand. Unblinking, her gaze latched onto the sash and what Roche intended to do with it. The cacophony of noise faded in the face of Grace’s distress. She was fast running out of time and options.

  Fear had a taste. A metallic, tinny flavor that coated the roof of her mouth and numbed her lips. Roche licked his own as he savored her plight. He took a sudden leap toward her. Grace spun to the left. He’d anticipated her movements. He looped the silk around her throat and yanked her against him.

  Grace’s hands flew to her neck but no amount of clawing eased the pressure. Soon her lungs burned. Her vision clouded. Her mouth gaped open but no sound came out.

  Roche thrust his hips forward and his shoulders back, lifting Grace off the ground. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks as consciousness began to slip from her grasp.

  Dimly, she heard a shot. Mere seconds later, an explosion ripped into the brig behind them. Debris went flying. Roche stumbled and lost his balance. The pressure on her throat eased and they tumbled down. She braced herself above the water and gasped for breath.

  “Fire!” Roche yelled. “Now, you blooming idiots!”

  Thunder roared around her. Water soaked her, chilling her skin. Grace had never felt anything so wonderful in her life. It meant she was alive. Still wheezing, she searched for Roche. In the melee of men loading and reloading the guns and the smoke hanging in the air, Grace couldn’t locate him. She could kiss whoever had attacked them, for he’d given her an escape when she’d feared one had been hopeless.

  Struggling to her feet, Grace sought the hatch. Walking a straight line proved impossible. The battle, combined with the already turbulent sea, had Grace weaving like a drunkard. Cannon fire exploded in rapid succession, blasting her ears. The smoke and Roche’s attempt on her life had her throat burning. Grace wiped her mouth on her sleeve, scrambled for balance when the ship pitched to the side.