His Midshipman Page 4
Other books by Stephanie Lake in the Second Chance series:
His Second Chance
His Pirate
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Other stories by Stephanie Lake
Thom’s Desires
Florian’s Garden (written with Jules Radcliffe)
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Coming Soon: Book 3 of the Second Chance series
His Viscount
excerpt from His Pirate
Read on for an excerpt from His Pirate by Stephanie Lake.
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His Pirate
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Rhain Morgan will sacrifice everything, including his happiness, to save his sister’s life. Little does he know that the pirate Captain who can grant his wish, will also steal his heart.
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Warning: This title contains graphic language and gay sex.
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London, August 1809
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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 mostly 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 hi
s 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 to deliver the cargo were needed.
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.
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Copyright © Stephanie Lake
excerpt from His Second Chance
Read on for an excerpt from His Second Chance by Stephanie Lake
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Viscount Randall Blair wants a second chance at love with his long-lost Lieutenant David Wedgewood. Only one problem: he's engaged to David's sister.
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Warning: This title contains graphic language and gay sex.
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London, July 1784
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I can do this.
Randall turned the phaeton into Hyde Park, then looked at Prudence. She was lovely—no, she was beautiful. Raven hair, flashing chocolate eyes, and ebony eyelashes that defied the late-afternoon sun. Include a petite frame and creamy, pale skin that had probably never been forced to suffer sunshine—even now her face was shaded by a beribboned hat—and that equaled beauty. Add in her wicked wit, and he thought he really could marry the chit. And be, if not happy, at least content with the fact he had followed the correct path.
He teased his favorite pair of bays into a smart trot along the packed-dirt lane, settling behind a landau carrying a smartly dressed couple and two red-haired boys, twins, perhaps. He waved back at the boys and enjoyed Prudence’s seamless, sarcastic commentary. Her drollness was more than likely the reason she was still unwed at five and twenty, even being the daughter of an earl. But that suited Randall just fine. He loved a sharp, acerbic mind.
Yes, they would do nicely together.
“…and then, when my aunt careened down the bank, she knocked down two footmen and a speckled hound. I told her the whole scene resembled a game of bowls, and I suggested we all roll down the hill and try to knock down glass bottles; I was only ten at the time. All of us siblings and cousins spent the rest of the day getting grass stains on our best Sunday clothes. But Aunt Celia stopped crying and actually did a few more tumbles down the hill herself.” The perfect light tinkling of laughter came from perfectly tinted lips, with perfect timing.
An elderly matron, riding in the back of another landau, smiled approvingly at them. Randall’s chest swelled. Yes, Prudence would make him a first-rate viscountess. His aunt had made an excellent recommendation for a wife.
He could do this. Yes, he could.
“Oh, Lord Blair. Look.” She pointed toward the crowded park, where dozens of strolling and riding London denizens enjoyed the waning rays of sunshine. “My brother, David.” She turned and looked at him with a radiance he’d never seen in her always perfectly contained features. She was so beautiful at that moment, he almost thought he could love this one woman. Almost.
“He is my favorite sibling but has been away oh so long.” She half stood and waved at a dark young man dressed in a naval officer’s uniform and riding a smart-looking dappled gray. The young man reined in to trot toward them. Firm, fine thighs controlled the spirited horse while posting. Magnificent.
Randall swallowed his lust. It would not do to admire men any longer. He was to marry soon. He would simply have to change his tastes.
Prudence gave a little squeal. She actually squealed with excitement as her brother stopped his horse and reached over to take her hand to his lips.
He almost laughed at her unexpected giddiness, but then the brother raised his head and pinned him with a glare and… Bloody hell. No!
Perfect features, so like his sister’s—raven hair, flashing gunmetal-black eyes with lashes too long to believe, angry winged brows, and the only evidence this man was human and not some fallen angel was a slight spattering of freckles across the skin of his straight, flawless nose. Skin he remembered tasting. Warm and salty.
All the blood fled from his face for lower regions.
Slight musk that grew stronger the closer his lips had come to… Oh God! Bloody hell. I had Prudence’s brother.
Blo
ody damn hell. I had my cock up Prudence’s brother’s arse.
More than once!
Hands shaking, sweat beading between shoulder blades and running down his back, his vision of smooth, young, naked skin turned away from an ideal week five years ago and back to harsh reality…to judgmental eyes, the exact shape as Prudence’s. He should have known. No wonder he thought she was beautiful—she looked so much like her brother. A brother he at one time had been half in love with.
He closed his eyes, unable to bear the condemnation from a face he remembered in the throes of passion—mouth open, sighs and moans issuing from perfect lips. And between the times of passion, a wicked wit.
He should have known.
He was doomed.
He could not force air into burning, constricted lungs.
His surroundings dimmed.
The phaeton surged forward. Prudence screamed.
Just as quickly, the bay horses stopped, tossing their heads and snorting. David had one lead.
“Release the reins, Lord Blair.” Snapped out like an enemy flag on an angry wind. “Let…the reins…drop!”
Randall pried his numb fingers away from the tortured leather and felt his future plans die with each extracted digit. He took shallow breaths, trying to feed air-starved lungs. What would David do? What did he want? He knew everything, for God’s sake.
He had fucked the man.
Groaning, a torturous sound, he raked his hands over his face. The abrasive pull did not help his composure. This cannot be happening.