Romancing A Pirate

By Raelle Logan

Romancing a Pirate
1688, Britain
Her father slain by cruel pirates, beauty Lone Stafford becomes a pirate herself at the behest of her father's hidden privateer marque that she's commanded to resume on his behalf or find herself imprisoned by the British Crown.  In her quest to lure her father's killer to justice, Lone becomes stranded aboard the Slayer of the Dragon, a pirate ship captained by her father's worst adversary, Hunter Draylin.  She enlists Hunter's reluctant aid, desperate to unbury Jonathan Stafford's horrifying treachery and his killer, a quest that ferries her down a prickly path of destruction.
Hunter Draylin fights a war against his lustful, seduced heart.  If he falls for Lone, he risks betraying his own father's memory, for he knows Lone's father as the Red Raven, a brutal brigand who killed his father in a ruthless search for a shipwrecked treasure that no pirate possesses the exact crypt for.  Torn by his starvation for blood vengeance he's never to receive and hungry to possess Lone and keep her lying in his bed, Hunter questions her innocence of the Red Raven's tyranny.  Is he a fool to trust her?  Alas, his lust for Lone becomes too alluring for him to forsake.  He cannot resist her.  
Lone battles blood-lusting pirates, swiping murderous swords, all while frenzied for Hunter's seductive caresses, a rakish rogue whose own past lies cloaked in mysterious shadow, a pirate she cannot refuse who holds the key to her desirous heart.  Will she survive the betrayal forged by exposing the nefariousness surrounding her or will devils reign divine and she'll never grasp her one and only chance to romance a pirate, all owing to the venomous curse that webs a lost treasure in a blood-tinctured shroud of death. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phoenix Publishing Asdociates
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393982463

Book preview

A picture containing drawing Description automatically generated

Plymouth, Britain, the Age of Piracy’s Glory, 1688

Alas, the moment his daughter, Lone, agonizes over his waywardness at the ball she’s giving that night, Jonathan Stafford, a lanky man whose long red hair curled ‘round his head, crimson beard matching, sat afore a gaming table, thumbing worn cards.  He’d had a run of fortune and just couldn’t leave until he declared it escaping.  Oh, he knew his daughter would be troubled by his lengthy absence.  Social functions, such as balls, were never for him.

Jonathan played out his hand, his fortune waned.  He scooped up the remainder of his funds, soldiering through the gaming establishment, acknowledging those fashionable men surrounding him.  He was minutes from his manor, having left the hall, when he was blockaded by three unsavory creatures.  Two burly men grabbed him from behind, his arms trussed in a stronghold.  The other blackguard stood forefront, a knife seized amongst labor-roughened fingers, a sneer gripping his terribly gaunt face.

We are wanton of what is ours, the brigand brandishing the knife spat.

Nary did Jonathan flinch.  ‘Tis naught I sequester for a hideous demon such as you, Kincaid.  Ye squander yer time meetin’ this sacrilege.

Fox Kincaid, a scallywag beholding sinister black eyes and grotesquely thinning ebony hair, throttled the knife firmly in his scarred fist.  Ye be wise to tell us where we’ll find what we seek.

Jonathan cunningly grinned.  He knew what they were after.  Neither torture nor threat of death shall wiggle anythin’ from my lips to yers.

The men tightened their hold.

Kincaid menacingly glared, revealing yellowed broken teeth.  Death ye meet, he hissed, stabbing the knife, spearing Jonathan’s side.  Ripping the bloodied blade, he wiped the weapon, staining dirty linen breeches.  I’ll unbury what I hunt without yer bloody assistance, mate, Kincaid swore.

Allowed to drop to the ground, Jonathan moaned, slumping, cupping his bloodying side.  His attackers faded amongst the night gloom, chuckling at their antics.

***

Among those guests crowding the elaborate ball, Lone Stafford whispers vulgarly, Damn him for this blasphemy. Whipping her gown of ruby silk and black lace to cascade behind her in abundant waves, she cheerfully acknowledged chattering nobility. Willowy tall, Lone’s fiery red, upswept hair brushes her face in rivulets, the hugging bodice of her gown’s squared throat adorned milky breasts, little of her shapely body obscured to the enraptured beholder.  Lightning silver eyes never conveyed her distress as she speaks to those who dawdle about the ballroom, smiling with blush-red lips when what she yearns for is to plunge into the garden, hiding behind breath-stealing blooms.  Flamboyant dukes, duchesses and earls donned vivid yellow silks, glittery blues, purple velvets, brocades of crimson, fluffy laces ringing the guests’ throats and droopy collars…all bewildered the eye.  Everyone appeared jovial.

Everyone, that is, except Lone.  "Curse his bleedin’ hide," she snarled.  Having split the crushing throng of dancing and supping guests, Lone glided to a corner where her sister, May, meekly stood, eager suitors encumbering.  Smiling, Lone extracted her enthralled sister from the isolating entourage.

May stood petite.  Lone was far taller than her younger sibling.  Lone always dubbed herself simple when compared to her sister’s astonishing beauty, for May’s coiffed hair lay angelically golden and thinner.  Lone’s hair was unruly, its waist-length, rippling tresses too thick. Lone’s face was oval, May’s beheld a rounded countenance, her pert nose slight, Lone’s appeared slender, more pointed, her cheeks molded to pronounced cheekbones, May’s were the opposite, which gave her sister, Lone thought, an elegant loveliness.

Guided to where their guests couldn’t overhear their conversation, May fidgeted, folding her gossamer green silk dress.  She knew why her sister distracted her from the gentlemanly entourage.  She bit irritably, "Honestly, Lone, he said he’d be here.  I do not understand your vexation."

Lone murmured, He’s spewed these falsehoods afore, vowing to be here, and he never intended.  She nodded, for a woman dressed in indigo satin glided by them.  Lone glared, spurning the lady’s retreating form.

May snootily huffed.  Father has always seen fit to do whatever he pleases, as you well know. She smiled, for an earl caught her tempting greenish silver eyes.  May batted dark lashes.

Lone smiled, for several other women sashayed amidst their presence. Father’s bloody position is at our sides.  How do we arise as proper noblewomen when he refuses to stand with us?  Sincerely, May, you should be incensed with his absence.  ‘Tis your reputation at stake as well as my own.

May waved at each man who had been circling her.  James is enamored.  She fluffed upswept hair.

Why are you not anxious for your own father? chided Lone, disgruntled by her sister’s lack of unease.

May glowered, lancing Lone’s indignant eyes.  "You fret far too much.  This ball is for us to enjoy. Father said so.  I mean to do just this." May pleated her hem, stomping from Lone and returning to her entourage.

Lone derisively eyed her sister, for once more she was smothered by doting men.  Father’s more trouble than he’s worth at times.  Sighing, she smiled luminously, for another of the older females promenaded into her midst.  Unquestionably, you crave to uncover some scandal enmeshed in this manor’s halls, Mrs. Blith, she whispered, teeth gnashed.

Foreboding continued; the eve wore amongst the night with no sighting of Lone’s wayward, lying father.  She secreted herself amidst a shaded recess near the arched entryway, glaring at any man who attempted to ask for a dance.  Lone was not feeling social.

A pounding knock thrashed the manor’s main door.  Lone rushed to answer, waving off the maid who approached, thinking it her rebellious father returning from who knew where, having forgotten his key again. Startled, Lone instead found an ebony-haired stranger standing at attention behind the oak door.  The constable introduced himself with a severe brash tone.  Lone brusquely ushered him inside the sitting room, distanced of musing guests.  She offered wine.  He refused the libation.  Dread besieging, she sat on the settee, for he motioned to her.  Trouble’s afoot.

The constable fell grave.  I apologize, my lady, for abruptness.  Your father’s been murdered.

The room twirled.  Somehow Lone decried the blackness.  "What…murdered?"  Her hands trembled; discreetly she laced them in her lap.

Retrieving a pouch ensconced amid his linen shirt, the constable removed the gold chain, the emerald cross dangling from it that her father always wore, garnishing his throat.  Its coldness biting, Lone strangled the crucifix in an icing palm.  How is he dead? This must be a nightmare.

The constable squeezed her shoulder.  I’m remorseful for your loss.

He was about to depart at whence she muttered, How…where?

At the arched doorway, the constable froze his step.  His knifed body was discovered outside Hartford’s Gaming Establishment in an alley.  No one apparently witnessed the atrocity.

Lone’s head swam.  Constable, good eve. Lone said the words without a thought to what she said.

The constable saw himself out of the manor.

Searching relentlessly, May hunted her errant sister, stumbling upon her secluded amid the sitting room, alone.  May sought to reprimand her for being a dreadful hostess. She suddenly noticed Lone was shivering.  Fright pushed May to hunch at Lone’s slipper clad feet.  What’s befallen you, Lone?

Father’s…been murdered, lifelessly she attested.

May slumped to the floor.  "Murdered? You…you must be mistaken.  Why, surely not…"  Tears flooded her beset eyes.

Lone stammered, The…the constable was just here.  He said Father was moments from the manor, that he’d been knifed.  He’s…he’s dead, May.  Unleashing her fist, she unveiled the gold chain that nestled the cross.

May burst into tears.  Lone embraced her sister in comforting arms.  Hesitant, she looked at one of their servants as the linen-enshrouded maid entered the sitting room, unaware that it was occupied.  Her voice shuddering, Lone commanded Mrs. Jargus to inform their guests that there had been a wretched accident, their father was killed.  Lone fretted that she ought to enlighten their attendants of this tragedy as propriety dictated, alas, she daren’t face them.

Lone assisted her overwrought sister to her bedchamber on the second floor, gave her a water-filled goblet, stirred in the drink the sleeping powder May took at whence she was wakeful and waited for her to settle amidst fitful slumber.

Mournfully Lone wandered to her own bedchamber, never seeing lustrous furnishings, not the intricately carved bed, its oak wardrobe that shaded a far wall, or the quaking fire that illuminated the hearth. The emerald cross gleamed, dangling loose of her unclenching fingers. Lone stared at the jewel that belonged to her father.  She couldn’t weep.  She wondered why, for she loves her father.

Iced to her soul, Lone flipped the braided chain over her head, fingering the cross that chilled her skin.  Strolling amongst the chamber, she wilted backward on the four-post bed, morbidly dazed eyes never shut.

***

Several days after her father’s burial, Lone met the solicitor, Kirkham Walthrap, at his two story manor.  He cordially smiled, noting the black, form-silhouetting dress of austere satin and matching veil that she lifted off her blank face.  Entering his elaborate parlor, he offered Lone a seat on a high-backed chair.  She delicately sat, sweeping her skirt forward whilst he circled his mahogany desk.

Kirkham eyed the dark shadows that soiled the flesh under Lone’s stormy grey eyes, aggrieved.  Your father made provisions for you and your sister in the form of large funds to be granted, whenever required, by me.  Jonathan wished for your lives to continue smoothly, my lady.

It is quite acceptable, Solicitor Walthrap.  I’m assured, alas, this is not the reason that I am in attendance of your fine home?  Lone fretted as to why she’d been summoned to his residence instead of his usual establishment amongst Plymouth’s bustling trenches.

No, indeed not. Kirkham’s oval eyes became fraught.  There is the matter of shipping fleet to address.

Lone peered at him, interested. Shipping fleet? What shipping fleet?

Kirkham sneered, aware that she is utterly unaware of what her father did for a trade.  Your father’s exploits were cosseted for years, my lady, the foundation for concealment owing to his privateering.

Lone shifted to the chair’s edge.  "Privateering?"

His green eyes gleaming, Kirkham rubbed his clean-shaven chin.  "Your father was a pirate, a hired pirate."

Lone sprang to her feet, incensed.  My father stood as a respected earl!  He was no heinous pirate, sir!

Kirkham gestured for her to sit.  Jonathan wished…as the Crown…to keep his secret life just that, secret.  He never intended for you, or any family relations, to ever learn the truth of his exploits.

A dastardly air clouded her father.  Countless chattered that his trade endeavors were not what they should be; however, she’d never believed the gossipmongers.  Although, in thinking about it, she’d never heard her father decry the mutterings.  Was her father a Privateer for the Crown?  Had he kept his debauchery hidden from her for all these years?  I cannot trust this lest I see some morsel of evidence.

Steadfastly the solicitor delivered rolled, weathered parchment.

Lone unrolled the parchment and studied wispy writing.  What was sprawled in front of her lay a lawful declaration.  Fearful, she read the monstrous script...

Hitherto, this decree is a uniting covenant betwixt Jonathan A. Stafford,

the Earl of Manford, and that of the British Crown

to which no dissertation of this alliance will ever be referred to,

nor spoken of, from hither forthwith unless Jonathan A. Stafford is

imprisoned.  Until which time, his exploits for the Crown

are disguised in secrecy…

Should he find himself jailed, only thence is his allegiance to be revealed

and clandestinely to those who art within the

restraining Crown’s realm. Upon that moment in time, he and his

family shalt be ushered to an unknown country.

There, he’ll expend his life, nary to return to British shores again

under a yoke of treason...

No utterance of this privateering marque shall ever be remarked

upon except in circumstances for which there is an

absolute necessity and to which no recounting by any living soul

must ever further stand addressed.  If confirmation of said alliance

is uncloaked, having been uttered by anyone connected with the family

of Jonathan A. Stafford, the Crown dubs this mutineer guilty,

forthrightly jailing said offender for treason…

Should Jonathan A. Stafford not fulfill his duties by manner of

timeless death, this decree shalt fall to his family under the faithful

rules of conduct scribed herein…

The Crown wilt deny any affiliation in the lawless

activities Jonathan A. Stafford may become associated with…

Far more was satanically scripted, alas, she’d seen enough to realize that it was enslaving.  Lone was spellbound by the marque, sickened.  Anew she glanced at the signatures -- the king’s and her villainous father’s.  Excruciatingly, she relinquished the decree to the solicitor.  What she yearned to do was to rip it to shreds.  Alas, she was sure that another decree had been cloistered somewhere, her insubordination would be naught but an insignificant act of defiance.

The marque, as you can see, trussed Jonathan for life; he was subservient to this arrangement.  Alas, with his murder, the decree falls to you to fulfill.

Lone glowered.  "You cannot think that I am capable of continuing this…this illicit escapade? It is madness."

The solicitor nodded.  You’re first born, though you are female, the decree is yours to resume.

Lone straightened.  I cannot accept the station of sinful pirate, Solicitor Walthrap.  You’re insane to suggest such a proposal.

Kirkham admonished, This alliance bestows the Crown liberties, shall we say.  Should you not comply, you break the decree.  You shall be held accountable.

Are you implying that they’ll toss me into prison?

He leaned against the carved desk.  ‘Tis a hideous possibility.  Beware…the Crown harkens you answerable for resuming your father’s footsteps.  Jonathan understood this when he signed the decree.

Lone stalked about the fire-enamored parlor.  How could her father inflict this wretchedness?  Did they truly expect her to engage in this ludicrous venture?  She’s a woman…she knows nothing of piracy.

Kirkham watched the wild play of emotions that struck her, aware that Lone berated her father. "I have granted an enormous lot for you to consider.  I suggest you reflect upon the disastrous conditions you face if you decide not to obey.  Prison is an unpleasant experience.  There is sincerely no reason that you shouldn’t resume the alliance."

Lone caustically mocked, I can think of a thousand reasons.  I am a female.  I have no skill at piracy or anything concerning shipping.  I did not even know that my father owned one ship, let alone a fleet.  ‘Tis insanity.

Your apprehension is just, however, either you continue your father’s privateering, or you’re imprisoned. It is your choice.

Lone covered her face beneath the ebony veil. Is it acceptable for me to speak with my sister regarding Father’s revolting decree?

May is family, nevertheless, no others must know.  Cloister this as much as possible to yourself.

How many?  Ships, that is?

Twenty.

Docked where?

"They moor here when required.  Unnumbered anchor at unknown locations to load and unload their wares, shall we say."

Lone understood.  The ships met clandestinely to shuffle their bloodied treasures.  I shall inform you of my decision, sir.  Hesitating, she crept a delicate hand, enchaining the glinting door knob.  You’re unquestionably already aware of my answer.

Kirkham smiled.  The only choice you grasp.  If you wish to speak with me, send messenger, request an audience, and we’ll rendezvous here.  Otherwise, keep even our association sacred.

Gratitude, sir.  Lone departed the house and was about to duck inside her carriage.  A ship’s bell tolled, striking her attention toward the swarmed pier.  She hastily informed the carriage handler that she thought to walk the docks.  He should meet her there in no later than two hours.

***

Secluded behind heavy curtain, Kirkham watched her leave-taking, smirking at his treachery, having led Lone dastardly astray.

***

Footfalls from the noisy pier, Lone sliced the milling mass of people who clogged Plymouth’s dirt streets.  She’d been to the pier prior to this day, escorted there by her father.  At the time, she’d thought that he’d merely longed to see the ships arriving and departing.  How could she have been blind to that he was executing villainy as deplorable as piracy?  Lone remembered seeing him conversing with men aboard the ships.  She’d hailed it innocent.  This day, alas, his guilt could never be forsaken.

At the dock, Lone surmised the massive ship that anchored, bejeweling the plank pier’s end.  The vessel was eerily black, impaled by three masts that spiked the flawless sky.  Is this vessel her father’s?  Lone had forgotten to inquire if a ship belonging to him was moored currently.  She would merely hasten to the ship and see.  If it were her father’s ship, someone aboard would surely possess that information.

Lone dispelled her fright, trudging the groaning pier.  The broad plank was felled for crewmen to depart and return as required.  She knew shouldn’t board a ship without the captain’s permission, alas, curiosity overpowered that nagging voice of caution.  Crimping her voluminous skirt, she boarded the vessel’s moon-shaped deck.

No guard hovered aboard with either threatening sword or pistol.

Lone stepped, avoiding ropes the thickness of a man’s upper arm and different obstacles, which she did not know their names.  She cringed, eyeing sleek black cannons and couldn’t envision the deafening sounds they could resonate, blasting deadly shots at other vessels instilled amidst the rage of conflict.  Steadfast, she ascended the stairs to the helm deck that bridges the ship’s squared stern and to the vessel’s tiller.  A finger skipped shining knobby reddish wood.  How liberating it must feel to be a ship’s captain, the world lying for you to but touch.

At Length, Lone decided to wander the lower decks, certainly she could search them without anyone suspicious.  She’d have a swift glance around, then depart, nary a soul the wiser to her perfidy.

On main deck, Lone creaked a black door and descended a short number of stairs, and there she spied a lantern-ensconced passageway.  She glided to the door doffing its end.  She listened afore the entrance but heard no sounds strumming inward.  Lone forthrightly clasped the door’s brass handle, crept it aside and scampered inside.  No one prowled therein, as suspected.

A reddish-coloured desk littered by a seafaring chart and glittery brass instruments was poised near a glass wall, which bestowed a wrenching view of the sapphire ocean.  Anchored to a side wall was a colossal bed, edges intertwined in vines and leaves.  Shelves possessing parchment charts rolled upon them and countless sheltering clothing piled waited alongside the bed’s head.  She gently removed a cerulean silk shirt.  Whoever the wearer is, he’s a sizeable man.  A shiver crawled down her spine.  Lone plopped the shirt on the shelf, not desirous to face that the mantle’s owner could do her tremendous harm should he catch her fondling his belongings.

The giant casement summoned; the ocean flowing for as far as the eye could see.  How glorious it had to be to sail amongst the tide. Dejected, Lone withered on the high-backed chair, skirting the desk, dreaming of freedom.  Her father was proprietor of twenty ships.  Is this one?  Lone thumbed through the ship’s log and found only references to the tasks that proceeded aboard the vessel, entries described positions and seafaring terms, nothing stated the name of the proprietor commanding this vessel.

Distracted, Lone trudged to the bed and sat on the feather mattress, fingering its railing.  Who captains this ship?  What would he do if he discovers an invader on board?  He might imprison her amidst the darkened cargo hold with all his plundered treasures, if he’s a pirate.

Lone vaulted for the door.

The vessel harshly rocked sideways.

The hull groaned.

Lone at first declared it only a wave cresting, but, no, it occurred once more and more pronounced.  Trounced by fear, she faced the casement, eyeing tumultuous waves that rushed behind the vessel.  Nary did the ship seem to move; however, as she peered, enduring distressed fascination, she could see that it was undeniably.  How long had it been moving? How lengthily was she even aboard?  Lone couldn’t be sure; she’d paid no heed to time.

Oh, what an oaf, is she.

Terrified, Lone scuttled for the door.

Someone loudly spoke behind the entry’s vastness.

Lone groped to a standstill, yelped and thrashed behind the door as it flew open.  A towering man cut the threshold.  He wore a lavish blue silk shirt and snuggly fitted brown breeches, lengthy black boots clasped to his knees.  She could see that he was golden-haired, his long, waving tresses were trussed at the nape of his neck, bridled by a leather binding, his body and legs were heavily muscled.  Beguiled, she glanced over the breadth of his back as he preyed on the desk.  Lone’s heart throbbed, for his satiny clad body moved as lithely as a lion.  He gripped the chart swathing the desk and rolled it, then he placed it on a shelf, retrieving another, flipping it to enfold the desk.  He studied the parchment, picked up the logbook, dipped his black quill in the inkwell, scribing amongst the book and upon parchment.  Icily he flopped the book down, yelling.

Lone flinched, for he bellowed the name Thomas.  Fitful, she fought to melt, swathing the carved wood wall but it was to no avail.  She scrunched her eyes shut, desperate to slither amid the shadows of the door.

A chestnut-haired boy, baring sparkling brown eyes, skipped the cabin’s threshold.  Aye, Captain.

The captain turned.

Lone saw a smattering of his sculpted face but not enough to describe him.  Praying not to be heard, she hid more amid blackened recesses.  Lord, what had she reaped?  She’s alone aboard a ship, caged by swarms of men, and she was not even sure if this is her father’s vessel.  What would this captain do once he uncloaks her blasphemous presence?  Perhaps he’ll slay her for her witchery. Lone clenched despoiled eyes, only whisking them open, hearing the captain speak.

With a deep, resounding voice he said, Take this headin’ to Craven.  Outstretching his arm, he surrendered to the young man the parchment on which he’d written.

Aye, Capt’n. Spinning, the lad took his leave.

Setting down the logbook, after scribing another entry, the captain charged for the door.

Lone barely saw his face as he slammed the entrance, leaving the cabin silent at his exodus.  A jittery hand arose to her furiously pounding chest.  She heaved a sigh of relief, tiptoeing to the casement.  Where were they journeying?  She should have made herself known but something told her not to, she prayed that her judgment was not sorely clouded by fright.

What to do?

They’d find her.

It was inevitable.

However, ‘tis an enormous ship.  Perhaps she could cower in fear amongst a corner until they dock.  But where would they anchor?  Lone lurched for the logbook, flipping pages until she uncovered the reference’s end.  There, he’d written a name she’d never heard.

In a huff, Lone cast off the book. At the entrance, she listened for any noises that might drift to her from outside. Silence greeted.

Squeaking the door a sliver, Lone searched through the passage, seeing no pistol-brandishing sentries.  Her heart skipping anew, she ventured out of the cabin.

Where to run?

Meager doors summoned off the lantern-emblazoned corridor.  Guarded, she opened each, none led amidst the ship’s depths; they revealed cabins that were almost replicas of the captain’s.  Lone daren’t step aboard the deck, for she’d be seen, especially since she was confident that there were few, if any, women aboard.  An echo spurred her tormented mind… she might search for clothing to change into and mingle amongst the crew.  Afterward, she’d retrieve a suitable hiding place.

Discreet, Lone tiptoed amid cabin after cabin, but the clothing she unfolded was much too large.  She’d simply make due.  Yanking, twisting and slicing the laces threading the dress’ back, she eventually loosened them and hoisted the heavy gown over her head. Unclothed, she drew on the pale linen breeches and the silk shirt she’d plundered from a shelf.  Poisoning distress bemoaning, she observed her reflection gracing the mirror that was anchored to the wall.  The shirt’s laces drooped down rounded breasts provocatively, the breeches slouching, and she’d not even considered her scarlet hair, Lone couldn’t do anything with it but tie it availing of a length of leather and its tresses rippled, descending her back.

Blasphemously Lone swore.  She’d never hide herself.  Damned for her reckless treason, she sprawled, flopping on the bed entrenched amongst the tousled cabin.  She’d simply have to fess up to her misdeeds and pray that the captain wouldn’t order her beheaded.

Desolate, Lone gathered her black mourning dress, mumbled profanities and dragged herself to the captain’s quarters.  She opened the door and forlornly plodded to the bed.  Dropping lifelessly, she awaited venomous doom, trusting the axe is about to fall.

A picture containing drawing Description automatically generated

Lone cowered amidst the captain’s quarters for what she hailed an eternity, jumping at every rustle of the ship until the door swung wide and he entered.  Lone’s heart thrummed as she bejeweled the captain’s bed, gritting the dress over her lap, fingers bloodless.

Astounded to an abrupt standstill, he peered upon this sorcerer’s apparition, eyes enraptured as though she’s a vestige of his imagination that was somehow twirled to life.  He churlishly folded his arms at his chest, the shirt laces billowed, throat to tapering waist.  Huh, I do not remember havin’ any females aboard.

Lone’s gaze crept, black-booted feet to beguiling face, his sun-darkened cheek muscles sculpted, shrouding high bones, nose long, lips defined, eyes silvery blue, framed by black lashes, golden hair braced amidst leather.  His muscled legs were rakishly honed within hugging breeches, the shirt’s black laces untied at the throat, plunging toward his rippling stomach.  Lone muttered, This, sir, I know not.  Nary am I a passenger.  She stood, almost bumping him.

His glacial gaze bewitched hers.

Lone stumbled backward, bewildered.

He throttled her arms, steadying her.

Lone felt ravishingly singed.  Ruthlessly, she jerked her arms loose.

He stepped aside so she could shift away.

Lord, the tale’s brutally longer than any I could ordinarily tell, she confessed.

He confronted her whilst she wandered aimlessly around the cabin.  Begin by explainin’ your illicit presence.

I simply wished to see the ship.  I wondered if it might be my father’s.

His eyes frosted.  "I am holder of this pirate ship.  It is named the Slayer of the Dragon.  Known to buccaneers, far and wide, as the Slayer."

Lone rolled her eyes and resumed her pacing. Oh, this never would’ve happened had my father not gotten himself killed.

"Killed?"

He was knifed days ago.  I just found…  Lone stilted her sentence, realizing she’s not supposed to inform anyone about her father’s true identity.

"Found…what?"  His frost-blue eyes speared as she paused before him.

"That he is…was the proprietor of a shipping fleet.  We were unaware."

"We?" He glanced throughout the cabin, concerned that she may not be alone. Grateful, he found no one else in attendance.

My sister and I.  Lone resumed her pacing.  I only intended to mull on my wretched plight, and when I saw your ship, I jumped into peril.  ‘Tis Father’s folly I’ve horridly inherited.

He ogled her silhouetted body.  The clothing she wore was exceedingly too revealing.  The silky shirt’s throat exposed her gloriously baiting chest; his eyes torturously fondled heavy breasts.  Fire blazed, but he trounced its cutthroat savagery.  I…ah…why are you wearin’ these clothes?

Lone halted.  His enraptured glance pricked the flesh of her chest to her pulsing throat, journeying to her face, caressing wet lips that she licked, then he captivated her silvery eyes.  The flame swirling in his stirring gaze shocked, a ripple impaling her heart.  I…intended to disguise myself.

Ah, you thought to stowaway?

Lone nodded, pacing to rid the tear this man cast over her beguiled senses.  "I only thought to look about and thereafter leave.  Now I’m aboard a ship in who knows what sort of peril, for the future was bleak with prison looming should I not comply with the terms of the agreement and my father’s jaded life.  If I had the chance, I’d throttle that man, I would.  How could he do this to me?  She stared at the captain.  I do not even know your name."

He’d rakishly slouched, sitting on the desk’s ridge, his right leg dangling.  "Hunter.  Captain Hunter Draylin."

Captain Draylin.  Anew she rambled, "My sister will wonder where I am, for all she’ll know, I’ve been slain as was Father.  Lord, why did I not trot to the manor as a genteel noblewoman?  I’ve never been on a ship, never been anywhere, quite honestly.  Did you say…Slayer?"

Thomas knocked, entering, chestnut eyes roaming to the woman who chattered afore his seemingly aloof captain.  "Who be…this?"

Hunter arched a sun-golden eyebrow.  I’ve no clue.  She’s not drawn breath so I may ask.

Glancing from one man to the other, Lone seized her prattle. Lone Stafford.

Hunter gazed at Thomas.  Lone Stafford.

Thomas smirked.

Lone plunged to the bed, dropping her face to Hunter’s pillow, weeping a flood of tears.

Hunter signaled for Thomas to leave.  He rushed to Lone.  Lowering a hand, he covered her shuddering back.  You’ve suffered a grave loss.  You’re entitled to weep.

Lone brushed hair off her face.  "I should wail. Her words were muffled, for she spoke with her mouth enswathed by his pillow.  You’re doubtless going to slay me.  I’m sure it is your right."

Unaccustomed to having women to coddle, Hunter retrieved a linen cloth that was usually availed of for washing wounds. He fluttered it near her face.  When he received little in the way of response, he withdrew Lone’s hair from her blushed cheek.  She accepted the cloth and blew her nose.

Hunter wandered to his desk.  What is he to do with this woman?  She’d said that her father was proprietor of a shipping fleet.  It couldn’t be Red Raven Shipping.  Could it? The name, he knew, is a sanctuary for piracy.  Her name was unfamiliar, although a paltry lot of pirates ever ply their true names.

I never cry.  Lone sniffled. Since Father died, I’ve shed nary a tear.  I love him.  What could be the reason?

Distress often sees fit to shed its tears at the proper moment.

Could you return me to Plymouth?

Hunter shook his head.  I’ve a destination to meet.

Lone forlornly asked, What’s to befall me?

Hunter sat next to her.  What shippin’ fleet did your father own?

I do not know.  I never asked.  I was too revolted.  Lone shuddered.

You did not hear the name Red Raven? inquired Hunter.

My solicitor never surrendered a name.  Why?

Hunter shrugged.  ‘Tis somethin’ I wondered.

What will you do…to me?  Lone moved to the casement, troubled.

Hunter touched the black mourning dress that was now gracing his bed.  You’ll reside in my cabin.  I’ve no other quarters to allot.

Lone whirled.  "I cannot sleep with you here."

His steely eyes bewildered hers.  My crew takes precedence over available cabins -- none remain.

What reputation I had is ruined.  I can imagine what my sister shall say.  ‘As well as the whole of Britain,’ she muttered silently.

Hunter stood.  I’m just a scallywag pirate.  Who’d believe me should I vow that the Lady Lone Stafford slept amidst my cabin?

She smiled at his rendition of her treachery.  The British lot, they’ve christened me sinful, seeing my wicked antics.  Plagued, Lone faced the casement again.  They suspected Father was dastardly.  Why did they see it and I did not?

You saw what you wanted.

How foolish have I been?

Lady Red, such is a question I cannot answer.  Alas, I’ve two hundred pirates aboard ship.  You’re the only female.  Such spells catastrophe.  Hunter mulled over the situation amidst which he wallows.  I must find clothes that fit far differently.  If they see you as you stand, I shall definitely have a mutiny.  You cannot wear that dress.  The blisterin’ sun will bake you in that heavy black cloth.

Lone felt besotted by his sensual smile.  He had the most faultless white teeth she’d ever seen.  You could throw me to the wolves, let them eat me alive.

‘Tis not anythin’ I’d ever consider. Hunter strode for the door.  Do not leave the cabin. Wait here.

Lone tugged the chain aloft and grasped the cross, wondering what she’s to do now.  She wouldn’t be able to speak to the solicitor.  The coachman would assuredly enlighten everyone that she’d ventured to the dock.  Would they realize that she’s stranded aboard this ship?

To the bed, she glided, withering.

Hunter returned, carrying clothing he hoped would fit her suitably.  His outstretched hands presented to her the pale blue silk shirt and breeches.  It was in that heart-ripping instant that he saw the emerald cross, a jewel he immediately recognized.  Hunter’s blood boiled, for it hung ‘round the throat of the man who is his vilest adversary.

Noticing that his gaze was bedazzled by the crucifix, Lone unleashed it.  It belonged to my father.

Her father is the Red Raven, notorious commander of Red Raven Shipping, the one pirate he’d hunted for years, the leviathan that had slain his own father and was always just beyond his cutthroat grip.  His ruby-haired daughter stood right amongst Hunter’s clutches? Unable to dispel his wrath, Hunter charged away, for Lone glanced at him when he did not forsake the cabin so she could change her clothing.

Undaunted, Lone shrugged, slipping the silk shirt over her head, tugging the smaller blue shirt to cover her naked body.  Sliding off the loose breeches, she pulled on the tighter fitting pair. She must cuff the sleeves and breeches, other than this, they were a fair fit.  Proudly she faced him.  It is an improvement, do you agree?

Hunter’s bewildered glance roamed blazing tresses and the gorgeous flesh of Lone’s face, tumbling down her voluptuous body, skittering to her naked feet.  How is this mythological goddess the daughter of the man he’d thirsted to slaughter with crushing hands?  Lone said that he’s dead.  Did this not end his search for him?  Yes, nevertheless, there’s the treasure.  Did Lone guard anything of it?  Nary did Hunter think so, for she’d said that she’d not been enlightened about her father’s fleet ‘til this day.  She didn’t know he was a pirate or of his bloody reputation…

Or, is everything she told him a treacherous lie?

Lone looked at him, ill at ease.  Is something amiss?

Hunter shook loose of his reverie.  No.  I was contemplatin’ our quandary.  Those clothes fit too revealingly.  This might be unwise.

Into the mirror attached to a wall, she gazed.  Lone looked vastly different, she knew, but there was little to trouble anyone, for she had an unremarkable figure.  I do not see that anyone will notice me.  My sister’s the ravishing beauty.

She clearly never saw what he did, for her hourglass figure was breath-crushingly flaunted by the breeches, the shirt divulging too much of her sultry chest.  Who wouldn’t see her gut-wrenching beauty?  Hunter’s glance fondled her wavy hair that Lone gathered