A Pirate's Conquest Read online

  Vivienne Cox

  A Pirate’s Conquest

  A M/M Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Vivienne Cox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Foreword

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Also by Vivienne Cox

  Foreword

  James goes missing and Alexander decides to hunt him down. This leads to adventure filled with rattling cutlasses, daring rescues, dangerous escapes, villainous villains, torture, rum and a happy ending. And naturally, sex

  Preface

  This is the first full length novel and ninth instalment in the Pirates and Play series. It’s strongly advised that you read the first novel to become familiar with the characters and their relationships.

  Prologue

  Admiral James Thomas closed the door quietly. Standing for a moment, one hand resting on the pale wood, he shut his eyes and reassured himself. It was all right. In fact it had gone well. A semblance of calm washed over him and relaxing his hand he let it fall to his side, where it clenched into a fist. The skin was clammy with sweat, though he was hardly surprised to find it so.

  Now that it was over he could admit, if only to himself, that he had been afraid. He’d faced the possibility of death with equanimity, yet a full Naval Board of Enquiry had set him on the raw, and shredded his hard-won composure. Internally, at least. He hoped that outside he had presented a professional appearance. Maybe he had, for after all, he had just been exonerated. Fully. There would be no disciplinary proceedings following his kidnapping by the Swift Siren. Though they had laughed behind their hands at a man who had been hoodwinked so successfully by a ramshackled, most likely illiterate and definitely utterly lunatic pirate. Shame, they said, trying not to smile. Don’t let it happen again.

  The accusations of ineptitude, lack of judgement and gullibility had cut deeply. That they clearly all thought him lying to bolster his story had made him burn with carefully stifled anger. But, whatever had happened, he was still an officer and still a gentleman, and those two things had been enough. He retained his rank and would suffer nothing more than their scorn.

  God, but he needed a brandy. Straightening his back, his hands automatically smoothed his uniform. It felt scratchy under his touch, thick and for the first time in his life he thought it constricting. He’d worn uniform for ten years and before now it had never seemed anything but an honour to be dressed in the blue and gold.

  Aghast at the direction his thought were taking – at the self-pity he saw so clearly in himself – he mentally shook himself. It was still an honour! King, country and the joy of serving others. What else could a man want from his career?

  What indeed.

  He sighed, and turned away, going slowly down the long corridor, his heels tapping loudly as he walked. A door opened and a periwigged figure almost collided with him.

  “Governor, forgive me.” He stepped back.

  “Thomas. Well?”

  “I’m cleared of all charges, sir.”

  “Well done, knew they’d see sense.”

  Thomas smiled, the action feeling false, his skin awkward with the movement of stiff muscles.

  Lowe was nodding in a distracted sort of way, but he didn’t offer his hand.

  “They didn’t quite believe some of what I had to tell them. Thank you for backing me up on that. It undoubtedly swung their opinion.”

  The Governor almost met his eyes, but looked away at the last moment. He turned and Thomas stayed at his side as he walked on. Thomas glanced at the other man, and wondered for the thousandth time why the Governor insisted on wearing such old-fashioned clothing and wigs. It seemed archaic, even here in the farthest reaches of civilisation. Still, everyone had their eccentricities.

  “Jolly good. Now, James, we’ve had a little talk about you – the Naval chaps and I. And after everything that’s happened, we think it’s time you took some leave. A couple of months, say.” He sounded remarkably bright. “What d’ye think?”

  Thomas stopped. “You mean get me away until the scandal has died down.”

  “No, no! Goodness me, what a thought! No, really, just a holiday. You could go home, perhaps?”

  England. Thomas sighed. No, not there. And he couldn’t stay in Port Merrian. It would have been an easy enough storm to weather if he still had duties to see him through each day, but to be nothing but a civilian amidst all the bustle that he’d be no part of and the gossip that would burn his ears everytime he set foot outside his home? It was an insupportable thought. “I’d rather stay on duty, sir, if it were possible.”

  The Governor stared at him. “It isn’t optional, James.”

  Ah, so here was the punishment the Board had not seen fit to impose. Thomas drew himself up. “Then I thank you for the kind thought. If I start tomorrow will that be acceptable? I can hand over to Groves in the morning.”

  “Capital!” Lowe patted his arm then nodded. “I’ll go and tell them you’ve agreed. Groves can handle The Intrepid’s refit as well. It’ll all be ship-shape for your return.”

  “Thank you.” The words were like dust in his mouth and miserably he watched the Governor walk away. Damn. Work would have been better. Hard work and long hours, both good ways to forget the humiliation of the past few months, had seemed the way forward. Now that was denied him, what?

  Clasping his hands behind him, Thomas walked on, and let a wave of bitterness wash over him. His life had been in shreds since the pirate, Cruise, had come along. Everything was his fault. And he was proving as elusive as a needle in the proverbial haystack. Perhaps that would solve some of his own problems – to go pirate hunting. Somewhere no one knew him, somewhere he wouldn’t have to wear a uniform he somehow suddenly felt uncomfortable in. And if he found the pirate, then justice could be served.

  After all, sitting in Port Merrian had achieved nothing, nor had sailing on The Intrepid . Well, it was a perfectly pleasant pastime that had, over the past few months, allowed him to travel around many islands and islets, but it hadn’t found The Swift Siren . He’d even resorted to paying informers and bribing sailors, but nothing had even given him a whisper of where the pirate might be found. If there was any good to come from this enforced idleness, then finding the pirate would be high on the list.

  But why – to hang him? No, not that…

  The thought was startling, for Thomas realised that it had been a long time since that had been his goal.

  Damn the man. Damn him to hell and high water. The words and the pirate himself w
ith all his skill, charm, lunacy, elusiveness and damnable goodness.

  Shivering once, Thomas took a deep breath and walked out into the bright sunshine. Yes, he’d hunt his pirate, and try and outrun the misery that dogged his own life. Which was an almost cheerful thought, for of late his life had become more than confusing. Right now though he needed not to think. His feet speeded up on the path to his own quarters. There was brandy there, and he headed towards it with the intention of getting very, very drunk.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  One month later…

  The rum tasted as if it had been strained through the filthy sawdust that covered the floor, but he drank it anyway. Grog for afternoon tea - his mother would have approved. Though as it wasn’t gin then maybe not. James Thomas took another mouthful and swallowed thoughtfully. It tasted of burning heat and lice infested dirt; the same heady combination that scented the very air in Port Wiley.

  Indeed, as he himself must smell after three weeks in the same clothes with naught but a single change of linen. Verisimilitude was a tricky business. But if you wanted to blend in at The Blind Peacock , there was no point in wearing your best dress uniform, or for that matter any uniform. It wasn’t even worth bothering with clean clothing.

  Leaning back he squinted down at himself. The breeches were past consideration, the shirt was grimed but serviceable, and his cravat was perhaps better suited for use as a dishrag. The coat was the saddest of all; for once, long past, it had been a favourite. Now it was faded from its original green to delightful shade of pond-slime brown. Fingering a rip in one sleeve, he knew that once he was back in Port Merrian he would burn it. There was no possibility of ever removing the slight odour of goat that clung to the wool.

  His comfort wasn’t added to by the weather, it being irredeemably hot. Sweat prickled down his spine and, closing his eyes, he allowed himself the luxury of imagining a bath. A cool bath, with soap scented with lavender. Wiping sweat from his eyes he sighed, and promised himself just that treat. One day soon. But not yet, not while Port Wiley still held possibilities. Though he still damned the need for subterfuge that had necessitated the coat, the dirt and the rum - which tragically was all gone. Despondently, he shook the tankard over his mouth, licking the last drops as they trickled down.

  Gone. But at least there was always more.

  Swaying slightly as he stood, he walked carefully over to the bar. Delving deep in his breeches pocket, he came up with a coin. King George winked up at him, and Thomas tossed it onto the counter in disgust. Taking a deep breath, he leant on the scarred wooden counter-top and waved at the innkeeper.

  “Another of your fine specimens of alcoholic beverage, kind sir!”

  At least that was what he thought he said.

  The man lumbered towards him, a filthy cloth draped over one shoulder. “Yer what?”

  The innkeeper was tall. Very tall. Thomas looked up at him. “Rum. Please.”

  “Why din’t you bloody well say so?”

  Thomas didn’t argue. He just smiled as a cask was tapped and his tankard re-filled. Lovely, lovely rum. When it was shoved in front of him he picked it up and took a deep swig. Oh, yes. The same vintage: Chateau Port Wiley 1759. Fine on the palate, with a hint of carbolic overlain with something unspeakably reminiscent of stale seawater. Delightful.

  He drank again, and found himself leaning hard on the counter. “That’s very good. Thank you.”

  “Bloody polite, ain’t you. Where you from?”

  He blinked slowly, as if searching for the trick in the question. “Nowhere, everywhere. Port Merrian, London, Bideford, and I spent a little time in -” He caught the glare. “Port Merrian.”

  “And what’s a nice Port Merrian gent like yerself doin’ in Port Wiley, eh?”

  That was a good questio.What was he doing here? The answer was complicated. Really, it was. But even three sheets to the wind he didn’t try explaining it. Not here, and not even as reckless as he felt. He shrugged instead and answered, his face feeling tight as a drum-skin. “Hunting.”

  “Hunting? There’s no game ‘ere mate.”

  “My good man, I, am hunting Cruises.” Straightening, he smiled placatingly. “This is very good rum.”

  “I knows that – makes it meself. So, you’re huntin’ Cruises, eh? Not many in ‘ere – least not for the ten days you bin hangin’ round.”

  Had he been here that long? Time seemed to have lost any form, as if the days were dissolving in the liquid he craved.

  The man sniffed, the sound remarkably akin to a drain unblocking, and walked away to serve another customer. Picking up his tankard, Thomas made it successfully over to a far table, sitting down carefully, inordinately pleased with himself for not spilling a drop.

  Ten days. Was it possible? He looked around, eyeing the array of motley scallywags, drunks and drabs. None of them looked back. He was sitting in the dirtiest, nastiest hole in that dirty nasty town, Port Wiley; a place bereft of the person he was here to see. Well, that wasn’t right. That made it sound like a liaison. Which it wasn’t, and wasn’t going to be. He was here to catch his Cruise, and to take him back to justice. Or something. Something like justice anyway. But the Siren could be anywhere. There was no real reason to think that Captain Alexander Cruise or any of his crew would be here. None at all. But there was a slim, outside possibility. And besides, better to spend his leave here rather than in Port Merrian watching Elizabeth glow with happiness, or in England with his monumentally appalling family.

  Getting to Port Wiley had been easy. Finding any trace of his errant quarry had been far, far more difficult. But the compensation of finding rum to be a wonderfully consoling drink had almost made up for it. At that thought he lifted his tankard in a toast, then drank, relishing the burn in his mouth, the way it fought a passage down his throat and hit his belly to flood like fire through his veins. Brandy was a poor relation. Rum was the king of spirits. No wonder Alexander was so fond of it.

  He stilled. Since when had the pirate become ‘Alexander’? And suddenly there was an image in his head of Alexander Cruise, half naked and sleepy in the crumpled sheets of Thomas’s own bed.

  The thought was so shocking that he came close to sobering. Horrified, he unconsciously shook his head in devout denial. The thought could only be blamed on the spirits he’d imbibed. They must have stirred up things long buried. Thoughts, desires, wants. Biting down on the inside of his mouth, he cursed himself bitterly. He’d spent his fourteen years of service forgetting he’d ever cared anything for men other than friendship and admiration. Now in a blinding moment of revelation, he knew beyond doubt that the desires that had mired his youth had simply been repressed, not destroyed. And all because of a pirate!

  He groaned. It was no good, no good at all. Leaning forward, he slapped his palm on the table and frowned at the pitted and scarred oak, trying to concentrate. It was all in his past. It was. It had to be. No, of course, it was just the rum. The rum twisting his thoughts. Yes. He nodded, that was it.

  Ah, but hellfire and fury. It was the glint of mischief in the dark eyes and the supple sway of those narrow hips that enticed and teased and confounded. And the fact that he was a pirate that put pay to any possibilities at all. Any. Even if he did wish for any. Which he didn’t.

  There, he nodded to himself. The man was amoral, drunken, debauched and filthy. Perhaps he had some goodness to him – and he certainly was comely enough, with the eyes and the face and the hips…

  No! Damnation to it all. Thomas considered himself to be a good man, and a good man would rather lie with a beast than with a pirate.

  Besides, he thought illogically, Cruise liked his women. Then Thomas’s thoughts paused, slowing almost to a halt as carefully he reviewed those weeks of high adventure.

  But the pirate had been very kind to a man who was seemingly determined to hang him and display his body until the flesh dropped from the bones. That said something, surely – other than about his bravado, of course
. Probably not anything about whether he preferred men or women in his bed. If pirates fucked in bed. Could you do it in a hammock? Thomas considered, and supposed so. After a fashion, if you were very careful, very supple and not inclined to sea-sickness.

  He swallowed dryly as his blood began to burn with more than the rum. Oh, Lord, he thought this all so long in his past. He liked women now. He’d wanted Eliza! He was a red-blooded officer in the Royal Navy, John Bull incarnate; he liked beef for his supper and to beat his servants regularly. Except he didn’t, not either really. But he still couldn’t be a sodomite! Good men were not sodomites so, ergo, he wasn’t. Not any more. It had been a passing phase. A fancy. The lunacy of youth. His father had told him so and the strap he had been wielding at the time had driven the point home with great vigour. Thomas liked women in his bed. Truly, all he wanted Cruise for was justice.

  Justice for a lying, thieving, murdering pirate. Which meant the noose.

  He recalled the moment of truth he had already witnessed. Alexander Cruise hanging by the neck. It made him queasy to recall, to remember the fear, the realisation of exactly what he had done. Murdering a good man was hardly conducive to a guilt-free conscience. Though Cruise was hardly guilt-free. Not as mired in wrongdoing as Barbossa, true, but hardly a saint.

  He was wicked. There, fact. Steeped in wickedness to the point where he boasted of it. Which meant he was damned.

  But if Alexander Cruise was damned for piracy, what did that make himself?

  No, he couldn’t think that way. Couldn’t equate even the smallest of the pirate’s evils with his own. But, in a misery of confusion, the thought made him drink deep, gulping the mind-numbing liquor as memory threw at him every word his father had ever shouted about how he was damned to the fires of Hell.

  The rum was gone. The tankard slapped onto the table with a crash, toppling onto its side and rolling for a moment before stilling. Thomas was glaring at the tankard when he realised someone was standing in front of him. Blearily, he looked up. The innkeeper. With a bottle – maybe this was the good stuff. Thomas smiled at him. “How kind, thank –”