“Avast there, me hearties!” the pirate captain cried. “Weigh anchor and belay the mizzenmast! We set sail on the marning toid!”
“Oh, Reechar,” Mad Meg, who had once been Margaret of Anjou and was now a pirate queen said, her flaxen hair whipping around her head courtesy of the stiff seabreeze. “Let them get on wiz eet and come back to bed. My timbers could do wiz a bit more sheevering!”
The pirate captain, who had once been the Earl of Warwick, swept her up and kissed her heartily. He hadn’t quite decided on what his name should be because he balked completely at the idea of calling himself ‘Dick’ despite the fact that there were a lot of D words that went nicely with it, like dastardly and demonic.
“Then come with me now, Mad Meg,” he said. “And I shall shiver your timbers for you with my very own hands, amongst other things. I shall shiver them good!”
The Bastard of Fauconberg had tried hard to be good, he really had. He liked Dakota, and if she’d been just a little less insufferable, he might have waited for her to cave in to his masculine irresistibilities a little longer. Now he found himself in a quiet corner of the deck, his hands full of the flesh of a wench, the kind that one finds quite unaccountably on a pirate ship, her magnificent quivering bosom heaving and her skirts just itching to be lifted.
“I tried to be good,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear. “I really did. But I find that, after all, I much prefer being a pirate and a Bastard and an unequivocally heterosexual studmuffin. So, my dear, prepare to be boarded!”
Which she did with quite a practiced hand. The Bastard of Fauconberg was much relieved to find that he still preferred the company of women who made boarding them easy. Within seconds of his polite request, the gangplank had been lowered and his hand was closing in on the that part of the map that is customarily marked with an X, his unequivocally heterosexual manliness not far behind.
In the meantime, Dakota FitzPercy was searching for him high and low, her encounter with Anthony Woodville in Bruges still branded on her memory* and her need to be disarmed, disrobed and disshevelled stronger than ever.
When she found him at last her heart practically broke to see him brought so low by such a indiscriminate slattern! She kicked him in the arse, for which she was rewarded by a yelp and a big smile from the harlot pinned beneath him, and stalked to the other side of the ship.
“You don’t look very happy,” a rather fetching young man of about her age said.
“I’m not. My latest rehabilitation project has backslided rather alarmingly.” She sighed bitterly. “I was looking forward to letting him plunder my treasure box, if you know what I mean.”
Edward, late Prince of Wales and toying with the idea of calling himself something like Eddie the Elegant, fell silent for a moment. He was thinking.
Dakota thought he was even more better looking than she’d first thought and edged subtly closer to him until their hands were almost touching on the rail of the ship.
“Tell you what,” he said nervously. “I’ve never actually plundered a treasure box before, though it has been on my list of things to do for quite some time. So if you, you know…”
“Well,” she said shyly. “My entire horde is intact, so, well…”
He turned to her and she turned to him and they kissed each other. It was different than the Bastard of Fauconberg or Anthony Woodville and Dakota rather liked it. So she took his hand when he held it out to her and followed him to his cabin where he, rather surprisingly for one so inexperienced, plundered her treasure box with both enthusiasm and exuberance. And her breasts had spilled into his waiting hands more than satisfactorily.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms, both of them stunned by what had just occurred and how very much they’d enjoyed it.
“I’d rather like to do that again some time,” Edward said finally.
“I could give you the key if you like,” Dakota said. “Then you could come and plunder me any time you wanted.”
Edward kissed her again and they did some more plundering on and off that day and pretty much the whole of the next. In fact, by the time they’d got to the other side of the ocean, there wasn’t an inch of her treasure box he hadn’t…
Oh, for pity’s sake, they rooted like rabbits the whole way across the Atlantic! And they weren’t the only ones.
*What encounter with Anthony Woodville in Bruges?” I hear you ask. Well, you’ll have to buy the book to find the answer to that one… Just be assured that it involved breasts straining at doublets, the prospect of them spilling into a pair of waiting hands, a tightness in a certain man’s breeches, mesmerising eyes and the backroom of a tavern…