His Pirate (Second Chance Book 2)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Loose Id Titles by Stephanie Lake
About the Author
Second Chance 2:
HIS PIRATE
Stephanie Lake
www.loose-id.com
Second Chance 2: His Pirate
Copyright © May 2017 by Stephanie Lake
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.
eISBN 9781682523391
Editor: Keren Reed
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Published in the United States of America
Loose Id LLC
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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
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Dedication
To our fans, who make writing worth the time, toil, rewrites, and more rewrites! Hugs!!!
Acknowledgment
Thanks to our fantastic beta readers, Jules Radcliffe, Mae Hancock, and Autumn Montague. Special thanks go to our patient and ever so tactful editor, Keren Reed. Cheers to April Martinez for another fantastic cover, and an extra flamboyant shout-out to the whole Loose Id team. You guys are great.
Chapter One
London, August 1809
The man was the ideal male specimen, except for the frown. Well, the frown and the nose. The nose a bit too prominent, a bit too hooked to be considered perfect, but it was a fully male-manly nose, which saved the face from a lack of character. Sleek brown brows over eyes the color of…of what? Damn the lighting in the Red Pig’s taproom; he couldn’t tell what color they were, but they were dark.
And those lips. They were full but smooth, not puffy like some. Puffy lips always looked like an over-yeasted pastry. But these lips were perfect for sliding a kiss onto.
Rubbing the engraved gold clasp securing the thin braid that fell over his ear, Captain Alastair Breckenridge leaned against the taproom’s door frame and let the door close. The sound of sea birds immediately turned to muffled cries. He allowed his eyes to adjust after the murky sunlight and took a moment to fully admire the man. Conservative but expensive clothing. Brown on brown over tan. He might be the boring type, dressing so drably. But really, who would care so long as they were grasping shoulders so broad as to eclipse the moon?
God. He obviously needed a good fuck in order to concentrate on finding cargo and stop envisioning acts that would not happen in this seedy tavern, in this seedy part of town, and certainly not with a man who glowers.
The room was only half-full. Midafternoon was not a popular drinking hour. Even so, two drunks in the corner made more noise than a squabbling family of ten laborers. The warm, humid air reeked of sour ale and cabbage, which was preferable to the stench of unwashed bodies that would permeate the tavern in a few hours when it filled.
Alastair closed his eyes and imagined what the man with the scowl would smell like. Fresh and sweet, that was obvious from his clean appearance. But what would be under the starch and soap? Would he smell like the forest, fresh earth, the air right before a storm? Hopefully he would not smell like the sea. Everyone he’d taken to bed the past few months smelled like brine, a scent that got tiresome very quickly.
Unable to ignore the glowering man who sat at a table alone, looking out of place, he finished his assessment: A mostly full tankard of ale close by his elbow. Must not be used to such unrefined fare. The man’s chin was strong but not overly so. Clean-shaven, pale skin. In total, a handsome package. He would have approached the man, introduced himself, tried to improve the young man’s mood—if not for creased skin between brows and across his forehead that tattled about this man’s temperament. Not a jovial youth to be certain. And Alastair did not associate with troubled people.
Better to look elsewhere for companionship tonight.
He would ask the barkeeper if anyone inquired about a ship heading west. They lost their contracted cargo because of the damn two-month delay returning to London and would likely lose the regular loads along the way as well. Damn the Moroccan government’s impound laws. Two months his ship sat waiting for him to grease the correct palms with an ungodly amount of money. He must pick up more cargo to make the sail profitable.
The barkeeper had worked at this seedy establishment for at least a decade, about as long as Alastair captained the Hurricane. The man was straight-dealing, with a good memory. That’s why Alastair kept coming here for tips on who needed what cargo shipped around the world.
Pushing away from the doorjamb, he caught the barkeeper’s attention and strode to the bar. “Hear of any cargo, One Eye?” No one had ever been brave enough to ask how the hulking brute lost his right eye. Not that he’d heard, anyway.
The man nodded and pointed.
Alastair turned in time to catch the handsome, sulking youth stare right at his arse before that gaze snapped to his face.
Well, well, well. His afternoon had just gotten exponentially more complicated and much more interesting.
BY GOD, HE was beautiful—in a strange sort of way.
At first Rhain Morgan thought the graceful person lounging in the door frame was a very athletic woman in costume. Perhaps the entertainment for the afternoon, dressed in a billowy shirt and tall boots. But as soon as the pirate crossed the room, he knew that lethal stalking, the firm bunch and release of muscles, could only belong to a man. A man in his prime and in prime condition. Fighting condition.
A true to life swashbuckler, then. A pirate in the blood and flesh, here in London of all places. Rhain had never seen one before, so he was surprised a pirate could be so…well, unmarred and attractive. The satires always portrayed men of the sea as ragged, dirty, with most of their fingers missing, or worse.
Months had passed since he’d desired a man. He thought those unnatural desires were mostl
y conquered, but this man with his swagger and confidence sent a tingle of interest to his groin. Damn, and he’d been thinking it was time to put his youthful follies behind him, marry, beget an heir.
Good God, this man and the way he moved. Graceful and sinewy.
One thing for certain, the pirate was not here for anyone’s entertainment. More like some mayhem was afoot.
Time to leave.
Coming here and spending half a day with bad food and even worse ale had been a mistake. Not only did he not find a ship to take him and his precious cargo to Dominica, now he would have erotic dreams for months, if not longer, about this stunning man.
The pirate leaned over to speak to someone at the bar. Slim hips and a firm backside with a tempting narrowing of the waist, the flawless form so few men possessed. Since that backside was covered by tight tan breeches and accentuated with a wide burgundy leather belt, he knew he would see very little sleep this night. But that wasn’t the worst part. At that moment, the barkeeper pointed to him, and the pirate turned, snapping obsidian-black eyes his direction.
Bloody hell! Too late to make an escape.
He forced his shoulders to relax and tried to look unconcerned as he slipped the dagger from his boot.
“I heard you want to hire a ship. I happen to have one.” The pirate sat down with a slow, deliberate slide across the table from him without an invitation. “Captain Breckenridge of the Hurricane.” He spoke properly and nodded politely, the pleasantry so out of character with the picture the captain presented, Rhain thought the man perhaps mocked his upper-class bearing and attire.
“The cost is eight hundred pounds for a direct route and immediate departure to Dominica, which includes wages for the crew. We can leave as soon as the crew is rounded up.” His voice was a smooth, silky tenor. The type of voice that could lull you to sleep even as your throat was cut. A voice so soothing, he almost agreed with the price before registering it was open-seas robbery.
“Eight hundred pounds? You must be mad. I assure you my sister and I do not require champagne and caviar each night.”
“It is late for a westerly crossing. You are not likely to find another ship at this date.”
Yes, Rhain had been told that by many captains going the opposite direction. And he couldn’t wait. Lydia’s condition worsened with each passing day. If she improved away from the cold, wet weather and smog, then his conviction that she did not have tuberculosis would be proven. This boat was his last chance to save his little sister. A tight band squeezed around his chest, and he fought to relax and take a deep breath.
“Why, then, are you going westward?”
“We were held up in customs for two months on my last leg. Cost me a small bag of silver to bribe all the people involved in releasing my ship with its cargo. So we are late for our regular route. I’ve been contemplating missing a year of our Atlantic crossing, but if I can obtain the right load, we will make the journey.”
Rhain argued, and for a half hour they negotiated a lower price and, unfortunately, a delayed departure so the captain had time to find cargo. Drawn to the pirate’s curly, jet-black hair, Rhain’s attention floundered, making it impossible to concentrate on how each additional stop would decrease the price but increase the time it took to arrive at his plantation in Dominica. The pirate wore his hair pulled back by a band at his nape, except for one flirty thin braid by his right ear, which slipped back and forth over his shoulder as he moved. Even more distracting was the way he would occasionally move one long, ropy-muscled arm to twist a gold ring in one perfect ear, the blousy sleeve slipping to his elbow. Then he was just as likely to run an elegant finger across a groove in the scarred table.
Despite everything, they finally agreed on a price, although it would nearly wipe out his savings and delay their arrival by an extra two or more weeks, depending on how quickly the pirate obtained the requisite cargo and how many stops were needed to deliver the cargo.
Having come to an agreement, Rhain’s worry grew. Would it be safe to sail with this man and his crew?
“Just how old are you? You don’t look old enough to captain a ship.”
The pirate pulled himself up from a half sprawl on the table, his movements slow and predatory. “I am one and thirty, sir, and a damn fine captain. My father wanted me to learn to sail properly, so he stuffed me on a government ship. The HBMS Dragon captained by Lord Wentworth. A bloody viscount of all things, but he is one of the damn finest captains I have ever seen. I learned as much as I could in those four years, then worked on one of my father’s ships. I started as acting captain on the Hurricane at one and twenty and gained ownership of her at five and twenty.” One could tell he was proud of his accomplishments by the rapid speech and lift in his voice.
Rhain found he believed this man to be a good captain. A man capable of sailing to Dominica.
His pulse pounded at his temples. Lydia would survive after all. Once he got her out of this hellhole and to a hot, smogless locale, she would be fine. This pirate, or captain as he called himself, would do that for them.
He’d sold everything but a few crates of possessions to pay for their travel, then sold their small home to pay for what they would need in Dominica, so he and Lydia were ready to leave. He was not happy over the delay to ship out, but he could not afford to rent the entire damn vessel.
He examined the man across the table. Really looked at him—at the hungry ebony eyes and his do-what-is-needed-to-earn-a-bag-of-gold stare—and his doubts came tumbling back. They would not make it in time for Lydia. Or worse, this man would take them to the deepest part of the ocean, dump them overboard, and then sell their goods and keep all profits without a blink of those thick-lashed eyes. For God’s sake, it looked as though he had applied kohl around his eyes to enhance the intensity of that stare.
He took a deep breath to calm his fears. Perhaps the worst that would come of their crossing was this rekindling of his need to visit molly houses. He sighed and stood to leave.
The pirate grabbed him with a strong, work-roughened but elegant hand.
The feel of those long fingers on his wrist froze him to the spot and sent longing through his arm to his whole body.
“When our holds are full, we will leave with the retreating tide. Depending on the day, this could be early morning. I will send you notice the evening before departure. Is that enough time for you to prepare and have all your cargo at the dock before six of the clock?”
Rhain nodded, scrawled his address with some apprehension, and left the dark, noisy tavern with his damn rod at half-mast and his dagger up a sleeve at the ready.
Chapter Two
Rhain took one last look at the small, soot-stained boarding house he and Lydia had lived in the past month. It had been necessary to find a modest place to stay while finalizing the sale of their mother’s small London home.
God, but it would be good to leave London and these dreary rented rooms with their even drearier landlady, Mrs. Prescott, who always complained Lydia’s coughing kept her up at night.
Leaving the home he grew up in had been much more difficult. The home where his mother’s presence could still be felt, even after she passed away when he was only six. This place felt like a part of him. He’d always thought he would live out the rest of his days surrounded by its dark-paneled walls. Signing the papers to hand over ownership had been one of the most difficult things he hoped to ever face.
From some silly sentiment, he’d gone back to see the brick building one last time, yesterday. Remembering all the love he, his sister, and Father shared in that place until Father passed, some… He counted back. Six years ago.
Since then he’d acted as head of his and Lydia’s little family.
Walking back to their sad set of rented rooms after seeing the home he’d loved from childhood, his eyes had been moist. He’d felt ridiculously melancholy.
“Come now, Rhain,” Lydia said, jerking his attention back to the present and their current adventure. Sh
e looked at him wide-eyed. “We don’t want to risk missing the boat.”
He smiled at her. God, so good to see her excited about something for a change. Ever since he’d told her they would leave London, she’d spun stories about all the adventures they would have on their voyage and at their plantation, which she now called their island paradise. Some of these stories involved handsome men in blue sweeping her off her feet with romance, even though he repeatedly told her they were not traveling on a military vessel. Other stories involved how they would never utilize slaves and would convince the island government to abolish slavery on their island.
He climbed into the wagon he’d hired to carry all their worldly possessions to the docks.
The driver smacked the rump of two scrawny horses with the reins, and the wagon jerked forward with creaks and groans.
They were clattering over cobblestones, not twelve yards away, when Lydia started in on another adventure story.
Rhain laughed, enjoying her exuberance. “Let me assure you, dear girl. The ship we will sail on is not romantic. It is barely more than a pirate vessel. In fact, the captain looks more like a pirate who should be brandishing a cutlass rather than captaining a ship.” He proceeded to describe the stunning man, down to whipcord strong body and that flirty braid.
“Oh, he sounds marvelously wicked.” She gave him an impish grin. “Then perhaps we will be rescued by a Royal Navy ship with hundreds of sweet-faced lieutenants missing home and romantic company.”
“Lydia!”
Her light laughter turned into a racking cough.
His chest tightened at the sound. He glared at the foul London air, the combination of smoke and fog that made her condition so much worse, and wished they were on the damn floating transport already. The week and a half wait between agreeing on a price and setting sail had been excruciating. Twice in that time, Lydia was overcome with fever. He felt so helpless when she succumbed to her illness; just thinking about it made him want to grab the reins from the driver’s hands and stir the horses into a dash to get her out of the poor air now.