Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance (22 page)

“Below. Sleeping, I hope, though I doubt it.”

“Oh?”

Grace folded her arms, settled against one of the cannons. “Do you know of his brother?”

Aidan raised a brow. Steele had told her about Vincent? Well, well. “I do.”

“I’ve been noticing how he doesn’t get the same enjoyment from pirating as the rest of you, and I asked him about it.”

“And he told you?” Aidan couldn’t mask his surprise.

Lord knew Steele wasn’t the talkative sort. Hadn’t Aidan himself spent years with the man and gleaned nothing more about him than what he already knew?

“Not at first.”

Squawk.
“Not at first. Not at first.”

She bit her lip, looked away. Mentally rubbing his hands together, Aidan struggled to withhold the mirth pulling at his lips.

“But…later he did?” He coaxed.

She nodded, swallowed. He barely managed to smother the grin before she looked his way again.

“He carries such guilt. I told him Vincent would be proud of him but he refused to listen. He’s been in his cabin ever since.”

“How long ago was that?”

Grace shrugged. “An hour, perhaps longer.”

“I’m sorry, Grace. Had I know I wouldn’t have lingered so long with Morgan.”

“I don’t need a keeper, Aidan. I’m fine on me own. Besides, ’tisn’t me I’m worried about.”

“You care for him.”

“I—well—that is—” She huffed a breath. “Fine, yes, I care for him.”

When Aidan lost the battle and his grin spread wide, Grace narrowed her eyes, took the same haughty Irish tone he’d heard Paddy take when he was good and riled. “Get those romantic notions out of your head, I can care about him without wanting to shackle meself to him.”

“I agree Steele isn’t the easiest sort to deal with, but I hardly think he’d shackle you.”

Squawk.
“Shackle you. Shackle you.”

“Don’t be daft. You know what I be meaning. I’d have no freedom.”

Curious and amused, Aidan lifted himself on the next cannon. “Was your mother shackled to the table?”

Grace crossed her arms. “You think yourself funny, do you?”

“I’m simply asking if that’s how it was for her. Was she miserable? Did she spend her days in tears?”

“She left her home, her roots, and followed me da right into servitude.”

His amusement faded. “I’m sorry you were servants, Grace, it couldn’t have been easy. Did she fight him about leaving? Did he force her out of Ireland?”

Her gaze turned to the night. He watched her jaw set, her lips purse.

“No,” she said, her eyes still on the sea.

Aidan didn’t miss the way her shoulders slumped and imagined she was admitting the truth to herself as well.

“Because she loved him, Grace. And love isn’t meant to be a shackle or an anchor.”

She turned to him. “And you’d be having vast experience with love?”

“No, I haven’t, but I’ve seen it.”
And one day, I’d like to have it.

“You said you were raised on a plantation. As I assume you aren’t married, and if you never had your parents as an example, then where does this absolute faith in love come from?”

“Samantha and Luke,” he said without even having to think on it.

“And who might they be?”

“Samantha is…” He never really knew how to refer to her. She was too young to be his mother, but she treated him more like a son than she did a brother. She’d seen to his lessons, refused to let him join Steele’s crew until he’d had his sixteenth birthday. She fussed over him and, he only admitted this to himself, he liked it. “Samantha raised me since I was eight. Luke is her husband.”

“And they’ve a legendary love, do they?”

Aidan ignored her scoffing tone and spoke the truth. “They do. If I can find even a shadow of what they’ve found together I’ll be happy.”

Grace leaned forward, studied him. “You honestly believe that.”

“I’m not saying they don’t argue and get under each other’s skin from time to time, but when they’re together…” Aidan shrugged. “You can’t help but want the same.”

“What’s so special about it?”

He could have teased her about her inquiring tone, how it didn’t sound doubtful so much as thoughtful, but he decided not to. They would be in Santo Domingo in two days time, and he hoped another match would be made on board the
Revenge
by the time they made port.

“Honestly, you would need to see them together to understand, but when Samantha’s at his side, Luke seems…whole. He’s always touching her, as though he’s afraid he might lose her.”

“Must be stifling,” Grace answered.

“Samantha doesn’t seem to mind. She’s as quick to reach for his hand.”

Grace fiddled with her skirt. “Me parents touched each other often as well.”

“There would be little point in being married if you loathed touching each other.”

“Aye,” she agreed.

Aidan ran a palm over the smooth gunwale. “They built this ship together.”

Grace’s brows arched into her hairline. “Samantha builds ships?”

“It was Luke’s idea. When he realized he couldn’t remain a pirate and keep Samantha—”

“Luke is a pirate as well?”

“It’s a family trait.” Aidan winked. “At any rate, when he realized Samantha had no interest in marrying a pirate, no matter how much she loved him, he proposed they build ships together. This one…” He tapped the wood. “Was the first Bradley ship made.”

“And he lets her help?”

“Lets her?” Aidan chuckled. “He wouldn’t be able to stop her if he tried. She loves it, and he’s smart enough to know if Samantha is happy, so is he. It’s a partnership that’s served them well. As I said before, theirs is a love worth admiring. They are partners in every sense of the word. As are Claire and Nate and Alicia and Blake.”

“Nate, the former Sam Steele. Blake is his friend?”

“Cale told you?”

She nodded. “When he was telling me about Vincent, he explained how Nate and Blake had to convince him to be Steele.”

Aidan shook his head, amazed Cale had confided in her. Amazed but pleased. A match by Santo Domingo was indeed possible. Grace simply needed a bit more convincing to see marriage and shackles didn’t necessarily go together. Luckily for him, he had excellent ammunition.

“Alicia is Samantha’s sister. She’s a mother of five and a blacksmith.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, with five children where does she find the time?”

“She—” Aidan laughed, stopped to catch his breath. “She runs the blacksmith shop but she has help. And when Blake isn’t sailing, he helps with both the children and the shop.”

“Let me guess, he’s a pirate as well.”

“Privateer, and make no mistake, to Blake there is a vast difference. My point, Grace, is each of those couples found what worked best for them, for
both
of them. And, as you’ll see when you meet Claire and Nate in Santo Domingo, it’s made them very happy.”

Then, wanting to leave her thinking, he looked up at the moon. “It’s late. You and the babe need to rest.” He jumped from his perch on the cannon, took her elbow and led her to the captain’s hatch. He lifted it, gestured for her to enter and said, “Goodnight.”

He started to close the hatch the moment her foot landed on the first rung, giving her no choice but to keep moving downward. He shut the access behind her, grinning like a fool, and made his way to the helm.

*

He wasn’t awake.
She knew by the deep breathing and the occasional snore that Cale was asleep. Stepping off the ladder, she saw he’d remade the pallet of blankets she’d made for him last night. He’d either fallen asleep with the single, thick candle burning on the plate in the middle of the table or he’d left it for her so she wouldn’t stumble in the dark. Knowing Cale, she was inclined to believe the latter.

Grace removed her shoes where she stood then crept quietly across the small cabin. Even in sleep he looked troubled. Lines of worry creased his brow. His arms were crossed over his chest. Determined, she thought sadly, to remain alone.

Suddenly weary, Grace padded to the table, blew out the light. Silvery moonlight drifted through the porthole as she unwound her braid, ran her fingers through the long tresses. Grace slipped under the covers. The ropes creaked as she settled onto the edge of Cale’s berth and watched him sleep. There was comfort in having him nearby, in hearing his low breaths, but there was loneliness as well, for she’d much rather be tucked up warm beside him then alone in his bed. Or alone in any bed she acknowledged as the truth taunted her with a lifetime’s worth of lonely nights. When had the thought of being alone and in sole command of her destiny lost its sheen?

When she’d seen past Steele to Cale. When she’d witnessed him putting aside his own wants and needs for those of his crew. For hers. Lying with him had shown her the beauty of sharing one’s body, of joining with another. Of cherishing and being cherished in return. Lord, she’d been a fool to think she could give herself willingly, share the most intimate moment with another, and believe once would be enough to carry her through life.

She knew, until the day she died, she’d yearn for him and what they’d shared.

Unless she stayed with him. Grace drew a sharp breath, pulled the blankets close as though they’d protect her from her thoughts. No, she couldn’t stay with him, though for a moment she couldn’t think of a reason why not. Then reality surfaced and all her arguments came back. She wanted freedom, the chance to choose her fate. She wanted to go to Ireland, though she could admit the luster on that had dulled. She wanted—

Cale, she admitted with a trembling heart. Despite her resolutions and her fears, despite the vows she’d made to herself, she’d given him her heart. She closed her eyes, thumped her hands against the mattress.
Fool
. She cursed herself.
Foolish, foolish woman
. She’d done what she’d sworn never to do. But be damned if she’d ever let him know it. Imagine the power he could wield over her if he knew her true feelings? Though she’d yet to see him do anything that didn’t have her best interests at heart, she would stay her course. Her plan had kept her going through years of servitude and had kept her sane on Roche’s ship. Keeping the goal of Ireland solidly in her mind had allowed her to survive. She wouldn’t waver now.

Even if the prospect of it no longer shone as brightly as it once had.

Cale’s stirring dragged her from her troublesome thoughts. His deep breaths changed to short, shallow ones. Grace peered over the side of the bed as he thrashed. His head bucked from one side of the pillow to the other and his arms jerked while his legs tangled in the blanket. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his face.

It pained her to see him hurting, even if ’twas only a nightmare. Should she wake him? Would he be angry if she did? Or would he be embarrassed? Before she could decide, a heart-wrenching wail and another woman’s name poured from his lips.

“Catherine! Nooo…”

H
is scream ripped
him from his nightmare and jerked him awake. Sweating and gasping, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, desperate to wipe away the memory of his ravaged home. For a moment, he slid back into the nightmare and once again folded to the floor next to the bloody smears. His family. Gone.

“Cale?”

He let his arms fall to his sides. If his scream had awakened him it stood to reason it had wakened Grace as well. Which meant she’d heard him yell Catherine’s name. He was too weighed with grief to bother with embarrassment. He shrugged off the hand she’d placed on his shoulder and came to his feet. Guided by moonlight, he headed directly to the table. As he’d learned over the years being awake wasn’t enough to dispel the nightmare. He needed light to chase away every last shadow.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said as the wick caught.

Her clothes rustled as he imagined her straightening from where she’d been kneeling on his pallet. Her feet padded the floor as she made her way toward the table. Cale braced himself but she didn’t touch him. Instead, she went past and grabbed a bottle of rum. She peered into an empty cup which had been left on the table, turned it upside down then apparently deeming it fit, sloshed amber liquid into it and passed it to him.

“Me da swore the drink helped chase away nightmares.”

It didn’t. He’d tried for years but they kept coming back, kept haunting him. “Thank you,” he said instead, and, despite the futility of it, took a healthy swallow.

“’Tis hers, isn’t it?” she asked softly, inclining her head toward his chest. “I thought maybe it was Vincent’s earlier, but ’tisn’t.”

His hand closed over the angel hanging around his neck.

“Who is Catherine?”

There was little point in pretending since Grace had heard him scream her name, had no doubt felt the sweat covering him. She’d noted the necklace before and it was clear whoever it reminded him of was important. And didn’t Catherine deserve that at least, to be known as someone who’d mattered? Cale took two big swallows, blew out a breath and waited for his vision to clear. “My wife,” he answered.

Grace paled. Her hand flew to her chest. “You bedded me with a wife at home?” Within the blink of an eye her pallor changed to an angry flush. “I would never have shared meself with you if I had known! Why the devil didn’t you tell me?”