Kidnapped by the Pirate

Perhaps it was Plum’s clear innocence that tugged at him. Sodomy was strictly forbidden in the Royal Navy, and Hawk’s fumblings with John had happened only in shadow. But as a privateer and now a pirate, it was hardly unusual. Men fucked as they pleased, jaded and far from the giddiness of youthful discovery.

He hadn’t thought on John for years, and it was weak and foolish to do so now. But even as he banished John’s specter, he couldn’t take his eyes off his captive. As Plum’s nipples went hard, his cock now unmistakably swelling in his breeches, Hawk fought his own excitement, his bollocks tightening.

He wanted to sully that innocence. Steal it. Bask in it. He fought the urge to draw Plum between his thighs so he could suck Plum’s nipples, one and then the other, so he could hear his gasps of pleasure.

Instead he asked, “Have you truly never fornicated with a man?”

“Of course I haven’t!” Plum whirled away, dropping to his knees and splashing water over himself from the bucket, his voice ragged. “That would be unnatural. A sin.” He shook his head violently. “It’s disgusting. Shameful. No decent man would entertain such a notion. You’re a fiend.”

Ah yes. And there that is. It was foolish to be disappointed, but it settled heavily into Hawk’s limbs. Ridiculousness, especially since he might be killing Plum in a few weeks.

He shifted his chair back to face his desk, distinctly uncomfortable, stomach unsettled. He pulled his log near, running his fingers along the sturdy spine and over the worn leather cover.

It had always given him a measure of comfort to record the ship’s activities in his logbook. Report the weather and make notes on anything of interest. As if the writing of it somehow gave weight to his meaningless life.

He dipped his quill and inked a fresh page with: Prisoner is typical gentleman; hypocrite who denies himself pleasure for England’s false sense of morality.

Then he barked, “You have a minute to wash. Starting now. Do not waste it with sermonizing.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught the pale swathes of flesh as Plum stripped off his breeches, splashed water over his skin, and lathered the soap. Hawk shouldn’t have wanted to turn his head and look properly, just as he shouldn’t have been surprised Walter Bainbridge’s son insisted on nonsense about shame and sin.

Why had he thought even for a moment that there might be more to him? That there was any common ground between them? Of course Plum was just as false as his father.

“Time’s up. Bucket by the door.”

Hawk fixed his gaze on the logbook and dipped his quill. He’d had to hide his inclination to favor his left hand for years after his father had caned him for it. He supposed it was one of the benefits of being a pirate—everyone already thought you possessed by the devil.

Although he bent his head to the log, he found his eyes following Plum’s progress. Water dripped down naked flesh, his tight, round buttocks flexing as he bent.

When Plum turned, Hawk jerked his gaze back down at the page to find dots of ink all over it. Swearing, he ripped it out and started anew.

Chapter Seven

Shouts.

Indistinct and urgent, they echoed overhead, rousing Nathaniel from an unpleasant, fitful sleep in his corner atop the awful blanket. The sun was high in the sky. The stern windows acted as a magnifying glass so that sweat slicked Nathaniel’s skin and dampened his hair into a mess of curls.

There were no drapes, and all he could do was huddle in his corner as the temperature rose. They must be well and truly sailing in the West Indies now, for this day was hotter than any other on the journey.

Bolting up as thuds echoed, he rubbed his eyes and listened, breath lodged in his throat. Yes, more shouts, growing in urgency now, and the ship seemed to be changing course. He hurried to the stern windows, peering through the squares of glass framed in wood, seeing nothing but the unbroken horizon.

He waited there as minutes ticked by, footsteps pounding above and orders being shouted, none clear enough for him to make out in his prison cell. Despite the flurry of activity, time passed without anything else actually happening. Then there was a strange calm that stretched out, where the thud of Nathaniel’s heart was too loud in his ears.

More time passed. Perhaps it had been nothing at all. A change of course, and now back to the regular routine, water slapping the hull, the ship creaking.

Yet there was something in the air—a palpable sense of expectation. He waited. Perhaps they’d spotted another merchant ship in the distance to plunder. Or perhaps—

There! In the corner of his field of vision through the windows, it was indeed another ship. Three masts, bigger than their sloop. Nathaniel’s heart raced. Was it a Royal Navy ship? Or a Spanish man-of-war? He squinted, forehead to the hot window, wondering if Hawk had another spyglass tucked away in his desk.