Read Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance Online
Authors: Michelle Beattie
Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance
Michelle Beattie
Her Pirate to Love
©Copyright 2016 Michelle Beattie
Kindle Edition
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-943963-81-2
I have been extremely blessed with a large, wonderful family. While I hate to single any one out because I love them all, one especially always made me smile. My Uncle Marcel was the life of any get together. His smile, his contagious laugh, his energy simply filled a room. Even at his funeral they talked about his laugh and how just hearing it was enough to make you laugh too, even if you had no idea why he was laughing.
I rarely knew Uncle Marcel to be serious but I remember when my third pirate book came out and he came to my book signing. With a most serious expression he picked up the book with the shirtless, well-muscled pirate on the front and said, “Hmm. I don’t remember them asking permission to take my picture.” He may not have looked the “hero” type with his round belly and shiny head but Uncle Marcel, you were and still remain a hero in my eyes. I miss your laugh, that little giggle that was so contagious. I hope you continue to laugh in heaven and know that there isn’t a day that I don’t think of you and miss you. But neither is there a day that I don’t think of you and smile.
This book couldn’t have happened without a lot of help and so here’s to the wonderful minds that helped me along the sometimes rocky path that was
Her Pirate to Love
.
Taryn, for reading and re-reading and many long conversations about plot. Brenda Collins who put me in touch with her brother, Paul Collins, a wonderful historian. To Suzanne Forrest for all things Irish and many historical details. I really did appreciate the input. Any errors or inaccuracies are entirely my own and in no way reflect the help given to me.
Thank you to Michele and Fab for your endless support and belief in me. For the readers who love the series as much I do and finally to the wonderful team at Tule Publishing for taking this book on mid-series and for loving the characters as much as I do.
Dear reader,
While I do extensive research for my books, sometimes it becomes necessary to play a little loose with the facts in order for the story to work. And as, at the end of the day, this is a work of fiction, I hope you can understand and accept what you may see as inaccuracies or glossed over facts.
Life for Catholics in Ireland at the time Grace and her family left was miserable as they weren’t allowed to hold title on lands and were forced to work for wealthy land owners, with no hope—at the time, though it changed later once King Charles came into power—of ever owning their own property. While some chose to go to the Caribbean willingly, as at least there they’d have a chance to own land once their servitude was over, others were forcibly exiled, such as Grace and her family.
It was true many Irish were sold as indentured servants into the West Indies and Montserrat was indeed one of the places they were sent to. This happened predominantly between 1650-1659. Life as a white indentured servant was abysmal and sometimes they were treated worse than the slaves as their tenure was limited, most 5-7 yrs, and the plantation owners wanted to get their monies worth in the time they had them. For the purposes of this story, I had Grace’s tenure be twelve years.
Also, it would have been likely that Grace and her mother would have been raped during their tenure, but I didn’t want that kind of history for Grace. First, she has enough baggage and second, this is a romance after all.
What happened in Ireland is a passionate tale and if I seem to gloss over it, it’s not out of a lack of respect, or lack of research but simply because this is a romance. Yes, Grace’s past plays a role in who she is, but it’s not a political story and I never wanted it to be. Also, you have to remember Grace was only eleven when she left Ireland so she does have a young girl’s perspective of what happened there, not one of an adult.
So in that spirit, I hope you enjoy Cale and Grace’s story and allow me to sweep you into the Caribbean and share with you a tale of two people who learn that love really does heal all wounds.
Caribbean Sea
1664
G
race Sullivan’s stomach
roiled. It had little to do with the thrashing sea tossing the ship as though it was nothing more than a ball being bounced between children.
It had everything to do with the man who held her destiny in his cold-blooded hands.
Roche Santiago wasn’t known for his mercy toward his crew or his prisoners. Since the day he’d ripped her from the shores of Montserrat, Grace had been his prisoner and had been forced to endure his brutal ruthlessness. But until now, she hadn’t been locked in the brig.
Fear rattled inside her chest as every sort of awful fate she’d witnessed Roche deliver burst through her mind. He’d once flogged his boatswain and left him hanging off the bowsprit. Then there’d been the poor cabin boy who had been sliced open from groin to throat. Grace choked back the sickness charging up her throat. She’d lived through every atrocity he’d forced upon her. Somehow she’d find a way to survive this as well.
The barque pitched with the waves; water slopped over her shoes and sucked at the soaked hem of her skirt. Above her head feet pounded the deck as the crew struggled to control the sails. With only minimal light slipping through the hatch and closed gun ports, below decks was bleak as her future. Grace grabbed the bars of her prison, pressed her forehead to the cool metal.
She needed a plan. It mattered little that she had no weapon on her person, no allies willing to risk their lives for hers. She wouldn’t lie down and die, wouldn’t forget what she wanted from this life. What she’d wanted ever since being forced from Ireland—freedom.
There’d been a glimpse of it before Roche had taken her from one kind of hell to another and Grace vowed she’d have it again. With a crew of seventy men above decks, however, ’twas a lofty goal. And escaping wasn’t her only dilemma. Once she was free she had nowhere to go and no currency. She had nothing to barter with but her body.
Grace tightened her grip on the iron bars, turning her knuckles white. She wouldn’t trade her body. She hadn’t a choice with Roche, but she would from this point forward. If she survived.
“I’ll do more than survive,” she declared, even as she wondered how she’d manage it.
Ever since she’d first tried to gouge out Roche’s eyes with a hairpin, he’d seen to it there was nothing within reach she could use against him but her fists. They’d proven ineffective against his brute strength.
Grace peered beyond her prison. He’d never put her in the brig before and she knew what it meant that he did now. He had tired of her and meant to rid himself of her. There was one advantage she intended to use in her favor. Roche loved to torture. He could have killed her in his cabin, but instead he’d brought her here. No doubt to let fear build, to give her plenty of time to fret over her fate.
However Roche’s depravity was such that he wouldn’t simply fire his pistol through the bars. He would be after terrifying her further, which meant he’d be opening her cell. And when he did, she needed to be ready. Pulling an Irish ballad from her memory, Grace hummed as her mind worked quickly to form a plan, as her eyes darted about for something, anything, which would help her escape alive. The music calmed her, helped her think, and kept the hopelessness from overwhelming her. She reached for song whenever all seemed lost as it not only took her back to the best parts of home, it reminded her of what she was fighting for; to go back.
The hatch lifted. Dull grey light accompanied the man who stepped onto the ladder. The bottom fell out of Grace’s stomach and the music died in her throat. She needed more time! Her eyes hunted the dimness but fear blinded her and no amount of blinking helped. She shoved her thick mass of ebony hair over her shoulder and moved to the corner of her cell—as though Roche couldn’t reach her there.
He approached with determined purpose. Neither the swaying of the ship nor the water creeping over the toes of his boots slowed his long strides. Her gown, which had once been a simple and modest garment until Roche had hacked open the bodice until it barely contained her bosom, offered as little protection as it did modesty. With nothing else to hold onto, Grace wrapped her arms around herself.
Roche’s meaty fingers closed over the bars. Soulless eyes raked her from the tip of her shoes to the crown of her black hair. He sniffed as though he smelled her terror and his lips twisted beneath his mustache. One hand snaked around his back.
Grace pressed herself harder into the corner. She was all too familiar with what Roche kept in the small of his back. Terror assaulted her when he brought his arm round. Even in the limited light, the blade of his dagger gleamed ominously. He pressed it against the pad of his thumb and drew a drop of blood.
Digging into the pocket of his vest, Roche withdrew the key. “If it’s any consolation, wench, I will miss plunging my cock between your thighs.”
Grace had lived through her share of indignities as in indentured servant, but it was Roche who’d shown her the true meaning of horror and shame. He’d thrust them upon her despite her screams and struggles. Even now her skin shriveled at the thought of his hands on her.
Lord, if she had but a weapon she’d be showing him the same mercy he’d shown her.
The key slid into the lock and clicked open. Only an act of sheer will and a hand pressed firmly over her mouth kept Grace from retching. But a plan, such as it was, had come to her and she needed to keep alert and focused on the pirate.
The door swung inward and Roche prowled toward her.
How she’d love to throw herself at him, carve her nails into his face and leave permanent scars, just as his touch had done to her. But she couldn’t reveal her intent, not yet. Best he think her weak and completely at his mercy.
“Roche, please.” The tremors in her voice, at least, were real. “I’ll be doing anything you want. I won’t—” She swallowed the lie along with the panic. If this didn’t work… “I won’t make any further plans to escape.”
“You expect me to believe the word of a whore?”
He raised the blade, twisted his wrist from side to side. In a whirl of movement, he lunged and the dagger sliced across her sleeve.
Grace yelped, yanked her arm away. She expected pain but there was none. He’d only cut the fabric.