The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1) Page 2

  “If I died with me face buried in there, lass, I’d die a happy, happy man.” Connor took a huge gulp of the ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Elbowing him sharply, Quinn looked into the woman’s light blue eyes and smiled softly. “I apologize fer Connor’s brutish ways, miss. He failed manners training at pirate school.”

  The young serving girl leaned over toward Quinn, her breasts nearly falling out of a bodice laced too tightly. Their eyes locked. “Men like him are weeds in a garden, kind sir, but men like ya are the rarest a’ fruits waitin’ ta be plucked by one who appreciates yer juices.”

  Connor stared slack-jawed at Quinn.

  “Put yer eyes back in their holes, Connor,” Quinn said, sliding a coin into the woman’s hand. “This is fer his trouble.”

  The serving girl leaned over a little more so Quinn could get a better look. Her breasts were enormous. “And this is fer yers.” The woman floated around the table, deposited the coin down her cleavage, and whispered into Quinn’s ear, “Later then?”

  Quinn grinned. “Aye. I’d like that verra much.”

  As the serving wench walked by Connor, she smacked the back of his head. “Ya could learn a thing or five about bein’ a gentleman from yer verra handsome young friend.”

  Connor threw his head back and laughed. “There’s nothing gentle about this man, lass,” he said, pounding his own chest. “I suppose if ya want a soft touch, that boy oughtta be more ta yer likin’, but when yer ready fer a real man––”

  “I won’t find him in ya.”

  The entire table broke into a chorus of laughter, and Quinn threw her arm around Connor’s shoulders. “Don’t worry none, old man. I’m sure there’s a widow walking around who could take yer weathered cock.”

  The table was raucous now.

  Quinn shook her head before chugging the ale she’d only recently learned to tolerate. “And ya wonder why sex avoids ya? Ya really need ta work on yer approach ta women, my friend.”

  Connor slammed his pint back, gulping loudly as he did, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Oh, lad, I approach just fine.” He watched the wench carry three ales to another table before slapping two coins on the splintered wood. “I’ll wager I get me some sweet pussy before ya.”

  “I’ll take that bet, Connor.”

  Quinn looked up as her brother Patrick strode through the door and slid into a seat across from her. She nodded to him once before turning to Connor and digging into her worn leather pouch for two coins.

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “But taking your money is always just too easy. I can’t remember the last time you beat Kieran,” he said to Connor.

  Quinn snorted. Patrick was trying to stand up for her again—no surprise there. When he had discovered Quinn’s plan to pass herself off as a man, he insisted on going with her to “protect” her. Sad thing was, Patrick was cut out for neither the sea nor the killing that came with being a pirate, and he had proven to be a terrible fighter.

  This had not surprised Quinn, who had beaten him handily with the wooden swords they played with as children and had never lost to him when wrestling. Although both of them were both children of a nobleman, Patrick’s gentility showed while Quinn rid herself of hers with little effort. She still often caught herself slipping up when trying to mimic the pirates’ more crass way of speaking, but she was certainly doing better than Patrick, who seemed barely to be making an effort.

  Still, she had been unsuccessful in talking Patrick into returning home to Galway, where their father and younger sister resided.

  “He’s just gonna take more of your purse, Connor,” Patrick warned.

  Connor released a deep belly laugh that filled the room, wafting high above the boisterous sounds of the other men. He clapped a hand to Quinn’s shoulder. “Ya know, when ya two first came ta the captain’s ship, I thought, ‘There’s two young boys who’ve never worked a hard day’s wage in their lives.’ Ya proved me wrong, Callaghan. Ya hold yer own everrawhere but with the wine and the wenches. But fear not. I’ll take care a’ that last arena fer ya.”

  Quinn knocked back a large gulp of her ale and wiped her mouth off with the back of her hand as she’d seen Connor do so many times. “When ya walk away with a lighter pouch than when ya arrived, I will remind ya of that.”

  “Connor, there are times when a man needs a friend to talk some common sense into him. Thus far, my brother has bedded every wench he’s set his eyes toward. Give it up, man. You cannot compete.” Patrick’s green eyes lit up as he spoke; he clearly enjoyed this type of banter.

  The twinkle in Quinn’s own eyes matched Patrick’s. As fraternal twins who shared such distinctive assets as a cleft chin, light green eyes, a dimple in the left cheek, and full, kissable lips, Quinn and Patrick were almost identical now that Quinn had forgone her women’s clothing. It had been easy for the two siblings to represent themselves as brothers when they first came aboard the Malendroke. Between their green eyes and auburn hair, their strong twin resemblance grew even stronger once they began to dress the same. Even their height and build was similar, so no one was the wiser when they came aboard as a pair. Quinn’s lack of breast muscle made it fairly easy to strap her breasts down prior to donning the dirty-brown leather jerkin her fellow privateers wore.

  That had been the easy part. Cutting off her thick locks was another story... a story that also belonged to the captain of her ship, Captain Grace O’Malley.

  Every Irishman alive knew the famous story of how Grace O’Malley had wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps after inheriting his large shipping and trading business. As a young girl, she cut off her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the many ropes of her vessel. She wanted to prove to her da that she could and would fit in. She kept it short for a few years before growing it out to the long red mane she sported now.

  She had taken to the seas early in life, before her twelfth year. Her father allowed her on board because Grace had a very special knack of being able to read the weather before it hit; a very useful skill to have when so many ships dove to the bottom of the seas because of the winds and rains.

  As “royalty” of Connacht, Grace and her clan were determined to fight for Irish traditions and the Celtic way of life even as the Catholics and Protestants fought to steal it from them. While some Celtic chieftains’ loyalty had been bought with titles and gold, the O’Malley clan refused to fall victim to greed and the whims of the monarchs sitting on the English throne. So when Black Oak, her father, died, Grace took up the mantle of rebel, doing all she could to repel the English and keep them from destroying their way of life.

  Quinn had taken a page from Grace’s book and chopped her hair off prior to boarding their ship as Kieran Callaghan. Grace had needed more men after one particularly nasty ship-to-ship battle with someone named Dragut—or so Quinn heard from other crewmen later—and so she had signed Quinn and Patrick the morning before setting sail a little over a month ago. Grace was that way. She trusted her instincts.

  According to the crew, the battle with Dragut had been fierce, with casualties on both sides. The ship Grace had fought had not been Dragut’s lead ship. He would not even show her respect by fighting her with his best, which he’d apparently left docked elsewhere. Instead, he came at her with his second ship and fought hard until it was evident Grace’s crew would win. She lost two handfuls of men but managed to beat Dragut’s men back.

  He slunk away like a coward, and she’d been searching for him ever since.

  So Grace settled on Quinn and Patrick to replace some of her lost crewmen, and for the past month they had both been sailing the high seas with one of the most famous Irish ship captains in the world: Grace O’Malley, queen of Umhaill, chieftain of the O’Malley clan, and all-around fearsome swordsman and formidable pirate. That month had been filled with eye-opening experiences for the two siblings, who had grown up in manors with servants and privileges.

  Gambling with Connor was one of those new
experiences... as was always taking his money. Of course, neither Quinn nor Patrick needed his money. It was just too much fun to turn down.

  “You ought not to take the poor slob’s money,” Patrick said under his breath to Quinn.

  “I can’t help it, Paddy,” Quinn said loudly. “The man seems desperate ta give it all ta me.”

  Connor slapped her hard on the back. “Not this time, me friend. That wench and I––”

  “Will never share a bed,” Quinn finished. “At least, not this night.”

  Patrick chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve not bested my brother yet, Connor. I suggest you find another for your nighttime dalliance.”

  “Pshaw, lad. I saw how the wench looked at me. I’ve got this one, laddies. There’ll be no beatin’ me this night.”

  Patrick and Quinn exchanged knowing looks. One more ale and Connor would be face down in whatever gruel he’d ordered. That was the way of most pirates on shore leave: drink and either land face first in a plate of food or face first into a woman’s décolletage.

  But Quinn Gallagher wasn’t like most pirates.

  She wasn’t interested in looting and plundering or drinking until she saw double. No, she was pirating because of a woman––a special woman––one she was very interested in finding.

  One woman.

  Her oldest and dearest friend.

  Quinn, Shea, and Kennedy had made a promise to each other a long, long time ago when they were but wee children playing in the village. Pirates had come to their town and looted everyone and everything, and when one pirate carried a screaming young girl off on his shoulders, Shea stood frozen with fear in the middle of the street.

  Quinn had managed to get Shea out of the street and into the back of a tavern. It was there that the three little girls made a pact that if ever one of them was stolen, the other two would try to find them.

  It was a silly pact made by frightened little girls, but it was one Quinn now intended on keeping. So she had donned male clothing as well as the rough and bloody life of a pirate in order to fulfill that promise and find the men who had taken Shea over a month ago.

  When Connor turned his attention to harassing another young sailor, Patrick scooted closer to Quinn and said as loudly as he dared, “You’re not really thinking about––”

  Quinn caught the woman’s eye as she replied, “Actually, I am. She quite fancies me.”

  “God damn it, Kieran,” Patrick growled in her ear. “Why must you insist on taking these unnecessary risks?”

  Quinn shrugged as she rose to join the woman on the other side of the room. Leaning over, she whispered back, “Lying with a woman is only a risk if she can get my clothes off. Thus far, brother, none has managed that singular feat. For the millionth time, trust me.”

  “I suppose you want me to remain?”

  “Only if you have an itch to scratch, Paddy. Otherwise, come in a few. This won’t take long.”

  When Connor turned his attention back to Quinn, only to find her following the woman up the stairs, he slammed his fist on the table and ordered another ale. “How, lad? How does that smooth-skinned, lily-livered, pretty boy always get me wenches?”

  Patrick watched his sister disappear into one of the six rooms upstairs. “Haven’t you realized, old man, that what comes with that smooth skin is a smooth tongue? Kieran is not a better man than you, Connor. He is merely a smoother talker than you.”

  Connor held his ale inches from his face before lifting it toward the upstairs landing in a toast. “To smooth tongues, then.”

  Patrick grabbed the remnants of Quinn’s ale and did the same. “Aye. To smooth tongues.”

  ***

  The wench’s milky white breasts were even more stunning once they were free of her confining bustier that had seen better days. Not quite pert but not low-hanging fruit, they were bountiful and magnificent.

  “Ya are a gorgeous creature,” Quinn said, lying fully clothed on top of the woman as she had done a dozen times before with other women in other ports. “Beautiful both in and out of yer garments.”

  The young redhead smiled and pulled Quinn’s mouth to hers. They kissed, softly at first, until the wench’s passion got the best of her and she both deepened and lengthened the kiss.

  Slowly pulling away, Quinn looked into her blue eyes. They had specks of gold around the pupil. “Do ya have a name, lass?”

  The wench looked slightly startled, as if no one had ever bothered to ask before. “A name?” Then she grinned. “Of course I have a name. I’m just... I am not used ta a man carin’ a fig about it.”

  Quinn kissed her lips softly, then her cheek, her neck, her bare shoulders that tasted of the salt and sweat of a workingwoman. Women, she discovered, tasted different depending on the job they did. It had stunned her to discover that thus far she preferred the taste of working women. They were saltier, thicker, as if the taste of them represented more substance. “I am unlike most men.” Returning her mouth to the woman’s neck, she gently bit it, causing the young woman to inhale a quick breath and then sigh.

  “Rebecca.”

  Quinn grinned before nibbling some more. “A fine name, that, Rebecca.”

  “It sounds fine leavin’ yer lips,” she said, running her hand through Quinn’s hair. “Yer hair is much softer than the other sea dogs I’ve... met here. Yer hair is softer, and yer face is the face of an angel.”

  “Sea dog.” Quinn nodded. “I like that far better than angel, as I am certainly not that.” Propping herself up on her elbow, she studied Rebecca’s face in the half-light from the three candles flickering on a rickety table in a room she was certain saw more sex than a brothel.

  With her hair down, Rebecca was really quite beautiful, her features muted in the soft light. Her lips were full and beckoning, and her high cheekbones set off a nose that was in perfect proportion to the rest of her face. A slight crease ran across the top of it, no doubt deepened by the scowling that came from serving men like Grace’s.

  “You truly are stunning,” Quinn said, forgetting, as she often did, that she needed to sound like a seaman and not like the educated daughter of a nobleman. “You’re not married or betrothen, are you?”

  Rebecca backed her face away. “Stunnin’? Why, what sea dog would ever use a word like that? Perhaps yer right when ya say yer like no other.” Pulling Quinn’s face to hers, she kissed her deeply before pulling back. “And ya most assuredly do not kiss like the others, whose tongues are like serpents seekin’ passage down my throat.” Rebecca kissed her softly. “And no, I am not married or otherwise spoken fer.”

  Quinn kissed her long and intensely, enjoying the subtle taste of mead.

  “How is it ya know so well ta kiss a woman?” Rebecca asked, pulling slightly away. “Has one as young as yerself more experience than at first glance?”

  “I am not as young as everraone believes.”

  “Ya lack the rough beard and rugged jaw of an older man, that’s why. How old are ya, my sweet young man?”

  Before Quinn could reply, Rebecca was kissing her again and again, her hands now working at the buttons on Quinn’s clothing.

  Gently taking her wrists, Quinn moved Rebecca’s hands from her shirt. “I believe in the gentlemanly adage of ‘ladies first.’” Pushing the bodice to the side, Quinn kissed Rebecca’s soft cleavage before taking one of her puckered nipples in her mouth. As she ran her tongue around the outside of the hardened nipple, Quinn licked her first two fingers before lightly caressing Rebecca’s clit.

  “Holy Mother a’ Brigitta,” Rebecca murmured as Quinn slowly moved her mouth to the other breast.

  “Ya are... verra wet.”

  “And ya, dear sir, are verra good.”

  Quinn kissed her way down Rebecca’s taut stomach until she came to a mound rich in red foliage. “Hold on,” she whispered before licking a single stroke all the way up Rebecca’s warm and juicy slit.

  “Bloody hell... ” Rebecca murmured.

  “Shh. Enjoy
the moment,” Quinn said quietly, returning her mouth to Rebecca’s warm wetness. She was salty and sweet all at the same time, a taste not unfamiliar to Quinn’s now-experienced tongue.

  With very little effort, Quinn managed to bring Rebecca to climax, using her tongue, her fingers, even her warm breath. And when Rebecca released, her body arched in the air, her hands gathered the blanket beneath her, and she let out a sound that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

  When her hips finally returned to the bed, Rebecca muttered something and inhaled several deep breaths. “I... I have no words.”

  Quinn climbed back on top of her. “None needed, sweet girl. It was my pleasure.”

  Rebecca rolled her head back over. “And what a’ yer pleasure?”

  Quinn kissed her warm mouth, enjoying the plumpness of her lips and the sweet taste of mead on her breath. Kissing a woman was so superior to kissing a man, though truth be told, Quinn had really only kissed one boy before she had realized she was... different.

  As Rebecca’s hand slowly reached for Quinn’s groin, Quinn took her hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm.

  Where was Patrick? He needed to get his ass to the door and––

  Suddenly, there came a loud knock at the door.

  “Go away,” Rebecca ordered.

  “Kieran, she wants us back.”

  Rebecca froze. “She?” She shoved Quinn away from her. “I should have known a man like ya would have many mistresses.”

  Quinn slowly rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. “I have two, I’m afraid. I should have told ya.”

  “Only two?” Rebecca grabbed her bodice and held it to her chest. “Yer a dog just like the rest.”

  “The sea and Captain O’Malley.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up. “Yer a seaman fer Grace O’Malley? The Grace O’Malley? I’ve been servin’ her crew fer some time, but never have I seen ya.”

  “I am new ta the ship. My apologies if I’ve––”