Dunham

Chapter 2

2

Elliott brooded as he rowed back to his ship.

He had never lost such a battle before. Granted, it was not one he’d meant to start, and had taken him and his crew completely unawares. Granted, too, that while he’d outmatched a highly skilled swordswoman, his men had had to fight three crews at the same time over her—

—and there was no honor in besting a woman at swords, no matter how accomplished she might be.

Still … 

Captain Fury.

Dunham had called her Jack, but it did not sit well on her shoulders, and definitely not as well as her nom de guerre.

It and tales of her adventures traveled from the Colonies to the Caribbean, from England to Egypt, from Africa to Argentina. He’d thought her a myth, such as sirens and mermaids and selkies. He’d heard she was striking, though not beautiful, and even that only as an aside. He’d also heard she occasionally went bare-breasted about her ship and always, without fail, in battle.

’Twas said she had taken the Carnivale on her own, with no forewarning, no conspiracy, but he refused to believe that. Captain Skirrow was known far and wide as a tyrant so cruel even the Ottomans feared him. Considering the women in Elliott’s family, he could easily believe in the existence of a female privateer captain, but not that a woman could lead a mutiny to acquire it.

If she had indeed taken it—no one seemed to know why—she would have had to have its crew behind her.

mutiny

by a woman

accepted as an equal by two well-respected commanders

Elliott searched his mind for more tidbits he’d long forgotten because her existence—if, indeed, she did exist—made no difference to him. A woman pirate. Not since Anne Bonney and Mary Read. Even they had worked as men, and under Jack Rackham’s protection.

Myth.

Most men weren’t capable of the exploits laid at Fury’s feet.

Striking? Aye, he supposed. Not beautiful. She had generous hips, magnificent breasts, fair skin that had the faint look of perpetual sunburn, and eyes the color of burnt sugar. Her hair had initially caught his eye: pink. A red so light and so streaked blonde by the sun it looked like a strawberry, peach, and creme purée.

But it was the smile she had cast at the old man with whom she’d entered the tavern that transformed her into something ethereal.

Fierce? Aye. She had challenged him so that he had been stretched to defeat her, and even then her mentor had reprimanded her for being out of practice. He could see why she might be; she likely relied upon her reputation to stay out of as many battles as possible. ’Twas logical: the most reward for the least risk.

Captain Fury.

She kissed like a woman who knew how to spike a man on his own lust, and her arse had filled his hand perfectly.

There are many ways you could have acquired my undivided attention for a night or six.

His eyes narrowed as he rowed harder and his jaw clenched.

He definitely wanted her undivided attention. Wanted to run his fingers through that incredible pink hair. Wanted to grind his mouth against hers. Wanted to wrap her thighs around his hips. Wanted to bury himself so hard, so deep within her she would never, ever forget who he was or what he could do to her.

What pleasure he could give her.

His men had left the tavern to seek their fun elsewhere, but Elliott had lost his taste for whoring tonight. With each pull of the oars toward the Silver Shilling, he cast about the bay for the Thunderstorm. Ah, there, not so far from his ship, though he could be easily forgiven for missing it, as it was painted entirely black so as to disappear in the night.

The stern was sparsely embellished, but its design was definitely British. He rowed slowly toward it. It was a sixth-rate sloop-of-war, three masts, ship-rigged. He counted no fewer than sixteen carronade and at least twelve swivels. It was a rare vessel, Swan class, the same size as the HMS Rose, which Elliott had once numbered in a fleet he had commanded. It was the perfect privateer: enough room in the holds to put a decent amount of cargo, enough armament to fend off most predators as well as take merchant vessels much larger, and enough speed to outrun any warship she came up against.

He found himself nodding in approval as he rowed slowly past it, admiring its sleek lines. He was just past the ship’s hull when he looked up at the prow and his mouth dropped open.

That figurehead!

“Almighty God,” he whispered, thoroughly awed.

Fury herself. Carved thrice scale in mahogany, with her hair streaming behind her, her body bare to the apex of her thighs, which then parted and straddled the prow as if she rode a lover, her bare arse firm, her wooden feet curled up over the rail. Her breasts were high and well-formed, the erect nipples large and prominent. Her right fist gripped the hilt of a massive steel sword, its point thrust deep into the wood beneath her thigh, its blade dripping wooden blood down the hull. Her left hand was outstretched to the world, her first finger pointing the way.

Her face had been caught in an expression of savage ecstasy; one could not tell if she was receiving ungodly pleasure from her prow or from battle. If Elliott had not already been half aroused thinking about how that arse fit in his hand, he was fully engorged now, watching her fuck her ship.

Then he grinned. No, he had not intended to do anything other than kiss a pretty wench with an entrancing smile, much less start a war, but there was only one thing to do after one had lost a battle to an enemy: Win the next and with it, finish the war.

By dawn, Elliott and his ship, its crew lively from a good night’s work and now not at all resentful of a lost tavern brawl, weighed anchor and put out to the other side of Sint Eustatius.

Elliott could barely think to command, his attention riveted by the sword-wielding mahogany privateer captain who now fucked the prow of the Silver Shilling instead of the Thunderstorm.