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  PIRATES

  Linda Lael Miller

  Anna Dorfman

  Deborah Chabrian

  POCKET BOOKS

  New York London Toronto Sydney

  First Pocket Books paperback printing April 1996

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  PIRATES authorKEYvalue000000

  $7.99 U.S.

  $11 99 CAN.

  TWO MAGNETIC LOVERS. ONE VOLATILE PASSION.

  LINDA LAEL MILLER LIGHTS UP THE NIGHT IN HER HEART-POUNDING NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

  DON’T LOOK NOW

  Available from Pocket Star Books

  KEEP YOUR EYES ON BREATHLESS SUSPENSE FROM LINDA LAEL MILLER—DON’T MISS HER ALL-NEW NOVEL

  ONE LAST LOOK

  Coming in trade paperback from Pocket Books

  EAN

  PIRATES

  “Sensuality, passion, excitement, and drama … are Ms. Miller’s hallmarks.”

  —Romantic Times

  PRAISE FOR THE WARM, WONDERFUL NOVELS OF NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR LINDA LAEL MILLER

  PIRATES

  “Lively … a dashing hero.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An incredible adventure of love and desire…. A timeless story to capture the heart…. The pages sizzle with passion.”

  —The Literary Times

  “PIRATES is Linda Lael Miller at her scintillating best.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  SHOTGUN BRIDE

  “An exciting, action-packed tale starring two delightful lead protagonists…. [A] story that will keep the audience breathless in anticipation.”

  —Harriet Klausner, thebestreviews.com

  “Pure delight…. I laughed out loud in some places and had a warm heart in others…. The McKettrick Cowboys a great series—not to be missed.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  HIGH COUNTRY BRIDE

  “Linda Lael Miller is one of the finest American writers in the genre. She beautifully crafts stories that bring smalltown America to life and peoples them with characters you really care about.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Miller ably portrays the hardscrabble life of the American west … [in a] winsome romance full of likable characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Just the beginning of a fantastic new dynasty…. Join the gang at the Triple M Ranch and share in the love and laughter with some of the most wonderful characters to come your way in a long time.”

  —nettrends.com

  THE LAST CHANCE CAFÉ

  “The Last Chance Café delivers powerful romance flavored with deep emotional resonance.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This novel is dead-on target … [with] suspense, down home comfort, and sizzling tension… Ms. Miller has a timeless writing style, and her characters are always vivacious and appealing.”

  —Heartstrings

  “[An] enriching tale.”

  —Romance BookPage

  “An entertaining story.”

  —Booklist

  SPRINGWATER WEDDING

  “Fans will be thrilled to join the action, suspense, and romance….”

  —Romantic Times

  “Pure delight from the beginning to the satisfying ending … Miller is a master craftswoman at creating unusual story lines [and] charming characters.”

  —Rendezvous

  “The perfect recipe for love … Miller writes with a warm and loving heart.”

  —BookPage

  Discover a side of Linda Lael Miller you’ve never seen before…

  READ HER PAGE-TURNING NOVELS OF ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  DON’T LOOK NOW

  “An exciting romantic suspense thriller…. The story line is action-packed…. Linda Lael Miller at her intriguing best.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “[A] fantastic plot.”

  —Readertoreader.com

  “Heart-stopping suspense…. A great read that moves along at dizzying speed.”

  —Winter Haven News (FL)

  NEVER LOOK BACK

  “[An] exhilarating police procedural romance…. A thriller that never slows down until the final confrontation…. The return of the cast from Don’t Look Now will excite readers…. Romantic suspense fans will look back on the two Clare Westbrook novels as fond Miller time.”

  —Allreaders.com

  ALSO BY LINDA LAEL MILLER

  Banner O’Brien Corbin’s Fancy Memory’s Embrace My Darling Melissa Angelfire Desire and Destiny Fletcher’s Woman Lauralee Moonfire Wanton Angel Willow Princess Annie The Legacy Taming Charlotte Yankee Wife Daniel’s Bride Lily and the Major Emma and the Outlaw Caroline and the Raider Pirates Knights My Outlaw The Vow Two Brothers Springwater Springwater Seasons series: Rachel Savannah Miranda Jessica A Springwater Christmas One Wish The Women of Primrose Creek series: Bridget Christy Skye Megan Courting Susannah Springwater Wedding My Lady Beloved (writing as Lael St. James) My Lady Wayward (writing as Lael St. James) The Last Chance Café High Country Bride Shotgun Bride Secondhand Bride Don’t Look Now

  For Diane Kirk and Anita Battershell.

  Thanks for your confidence in the romance genre and your commitment to the empowerment of women. You are two terrific females!

  Linda Lael Miller

  PIRATES

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Linda Lael Miller

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-87316-4

  ISBN 978-1-439-10814-7

  eISBN 978-0-671-87316-5

  First Pocket Books paperback printing April 1996

  10 9

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Cover design by Dorfman; Cover illustration by Deborah Chabrian

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected].

  Pirates

  *

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  1

  When the dog deserted her and moved in with Jeffrey and his new bride, it was, for Phoebe Turlow, the proverbial last straw.

  She had weathered the divorce well enough, considering how many of her dreams had come crashing down in the process. She’d even been philosophical about losing her job as a research assistant to Professor Bennin
g, at a time when finding a comparable position was virtually impossible, given recent government budget cuts. After all, the professor had been writing and lecturing on the subject of American History at Seattle College for forty-five fruitful and illustrious years; he was ready, by his own admission, to spend his days reading, fishing, and playing chess.

  Phoebe had held herself together, through it all. And now even Murphy, whom she’d rescued from the pound as a mangy, slat-ribbed mongrel and carefully nursed back to health, had turned on her.

  She lowered the telephone receiver slowly back into its cradle, gazing at the dismal Seattle rain sheeting the window of her rented house. The glass reflected a hazy, pixielike image of a woman with short chestnut hair, large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and fair skin.

  But Phoebe was looking through herself, mentally reliving the phone call she’d just received. Heather, Wife Number Two and widely proclaimed light of Jeffrey’s life, hadn’t been able—she probably hadn’t even tried—to suppress the smug note in her voice when she called to relay the news that the hound of hell was “safe and sound” in their kitchen. To hear Heather tell it, that furry ingrate had crossed a continent, fording icy rivers and surmounting insurmountable obstacles, enduring desperate privations of all sorts—Phoebe could almost hear the theme music of a new movie, rated G, of course. Murphy, Come Home.

  Muttering to herself, Phoebe crossed the worn linoleum floor, picked up the dog’s red plastic bowl, and dumped it into the trash, kibbles and all. She emptied the water dish and tossed that away as well. Then, running her hands down the worn legs of her blue jeans and feeling more alone than ever before, Phoebe wandered into her small, uncarpeted living room and stared despondently out the front window.

  Mel, the postman, was just pulling up to her mailbox in his blue and white jeep. He tooted the horn and waved, and Phoebe waved back with a dispirited smile. Her unemployment check was due, but the prospect didn’t cheer her up. If it hadn’t been for her savings and the small amount of insurance money she’d received when her mother and stepfather were killed in a car accident years ago, Phoebe figured she would have been sitting on a rain-slicked sidewalk down by the Pike Place Market, with a cigar box in front of her to catch coins.

  Okay, she thought, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. She could last for about six months, if she didn’t get a new job soon, and then she would join the ranks of Seattle’s panhandlers. An inspiring prospect, for somebody who was all of twenty-six years old.

  Snatching her blue hooded rain slicker from the peg beside the door and tossing it over her shoulders, Phoebe dashed out into the chilly drizzle to fetch her mail. She’d sent out over fifty résumés since losing her job with Professor Benning—maybe there would be a positive response, or one of the rare, brightly colored cards her half brother, Eliott, sometimes sent from Europe or South America or Africa, or wherever he happened to be. Or a letter from a friend…

  Except that all their friends were really Jeffrey’s, not hers.

  And that Eliott didn’t give a damn about her, and never had. To him, she was a trifle, an unfortunate postscript to their mother’s life. She wished she could stop caring what he thought.

  Phoebe brought herself up short; she was feeling sorry for herself, and that was against her personal code. Resolutely, she wrenched open the door of her rural mailbox, which was affixed to a rusted metal post by the front gate, and reached inside. There was nothing but a sales circular, and she would have crumpled it up and tossed it into the nearest mud puddle, but she couldn’t bring herself to litter.

  She walked slowly back up the cracked walk to her sagging porch and the open door beyond it. The bright yellow envelope, now sodden and limp from the rain, was addressed to “Occupant,” and the street numbers were off by two blocks. Damn, she thought, with a wry grimace. Even her junk mail belonged to somebody else.

  The letter was about to join Murphy’s kibbles and toothmarked bowls when an impulse—maybe it was desperation, maybe it was some kind of weird premonition—made Phoebe stop. She carried it to her kitchen table, sat down—wondering all the while why she hadn’t just chucked the thing—opened it, and smoothed the single page inside with as much care as if it were an ancient scroll, unearthed only moments before.

  SUNSHINE! screamed the cheaply printed block letters at the top of the paper, which had been designed to resemble a telegram. SPARKLING, CRYSTAL BLUE SEAS! VISIT PARADISE ISLAND ABSOLUTELY FREE! WALK IN THE FABLED FOOTSTEPS OF DUNCAN ROURKE, THE PIRATE PATRIOT!

  Phoebe was an intelligent adult. She’d gone through college with zero emotional support from her family and had worked at a responsible job from the day she graduated until two months ago, when the academic roof had fallen in. She had voted in every election, and she was by no means naive—even if she had married Jeffrey Brewster with her eyes wide open. She knew a tacky advertising scheme when she saw one.

  All the same, the prospects of “sunshine” and “crystal blue seas” prodded at something slumbering deep in her heart, behind a bruise and a stack of dusty, broken hopes.

  She frowned. And there was that name, too—Duncan Rourke. She’d seen it before—probably while doing research for Professor Benning.

  Phoebe rose from the table, leaving the sales flyer spread out on the shiny surface, and took herself to the stove to make a cup of herbal tea. Knowing that the promise of a free trip to Paradise Island—wherever that might be—was a scam of some kind did nothing to quell the odd, excited sense of impending adventure tingling in the pit of her stomach.

  The kettle gave a shrill whistle, and Phoebe poured boiling water over a tea bag and carried her cup back to the table. She read the flyer again, this time very slowly and carefully, one eyebrow raised in skepticism, the fingers of her right hand buried in her short, tousled hair.

  To take advantage of the “vacation all her friends would envy,” Phoebe had only to inspect a “glamorous beachfront condominium guaranteed to increase in value” and listen to a sales pitch. In return, her generous benefactors would fly her to the small Caribbean island “justly named Paradise,” put her up in the “distinctive Eden Hotel for two fun-filled days and nights,” and provide one “gala affair, followed by a truly festive dinner.”

  The whole thing was one big rip-off, Phoebe insisted to herself, and yet she was intrigued, and perhaps just a little frantic. So what if she had to look at a condo made of ticky-tacky, watch a few promotional slides, and listen to a spiel from a schmaltzy, fast-talking salesman or two? She needed to get away, if only for a weekend, and here was her chance to soak up some tropical sunshine without doing damage to her rapidly dwindling bank account.

  Phoebe’s conscience, always overactive, pricked a little. Okay, suppose she did call the toll-free number and book herself on the next flight to Paradise. She’d be making the trip under false pretenses, since she had no intention of buying a condominium. Her credit was fine, but she was divorced, female, and unemployed, and there was no way she’d ever qualify for a mortgage.

  Still, there was nothing in the flyer specifying that buyers had to be preapproved for a loan. It was an invitation, pure and simple.

  Phoebe closed her eyes and imagined the warmth of the sun on her face, in her hair, settling deep into her muscles and veins and organs, nourishing her very spirit. The yearning she felt was almost mystical, and wholly irresistible.

  She told herself that she who hesitates is lost, and that it couldn’t hurt to call, and then she walked over to the phone and punched in the number.

  Four hectic days later, Phoebe found herself on board a small chartered airplane, aimed in the general direction of the Caribbean, with her one bag tucked neatly under the seat. The man across the aisle wore plaid polyester pants and a sweater emblazoned with tiny golf clubs, and the woman sitting behind her sported white pedal pushers, copious varicose veins, a T-shirt showing two silhouettes engaged in either mortal combat or coitus, and a baseball cap adorned with tiny flashing Christmas tree lights. The seven
other passengers were equally eccentric.

  Phoebe settled against the back of her seat with a sigh and closed her eyes, feeling like a freak in her brown loafers, jeans, and blue cashmere turtleneck, all purchased at Nordstrom with a credit card and a great deal of optimism. She might have been on a cut-rate night flight to Reno, she thought with rueful humor, judging by the costumes of her fellow travelers.

  The plane lifted off at seven o’clock in the morning, rising into the foggy skies over Seattle, and presently a flight attendant appeared. Since the aisle was too narrow for a cart, the slender young man carried a yellow plastic basket in one hand, dispensing peanuts and cola and other refreshments as he moved through the cabin.

  The woman in the battery-powered hat ordered a Bloody Mary and received a censuring stare and a generic beer for her trouble.

  Phoebe, who had planned to ask for mineral water, merely shook her head and smiled. She was making the trip under false pretenses, after all, and the less she accepted from these people in the way of amenities, the less guilt she would feel afterward.

  She tried to sleep and failed, even though she’d lain awake all night worrying, then pulled an ancient thin volume, purloined from Professor Benning’s extensive personal book collection, from her bag. The book, published years and years ago, was entitled Duncan Rourke, Pirate or Patriot?

  Phoebe opened it to the first page, frowning a little, and began to read.

  Mr. Rourke, according to the biographer, had been born in Charles Town, in the colony of Carolina, to gentle and aristocratic people. His education was impeccable—he spoke French, Italian, and Spanish fluently and had a penchant for the work of poets, those of his own time, and those of antiquity. He was also known to be proficient with the harpsichord and the mandolin, as well as the sword and musket, and, the writer hinted, he’d been no slouch in the boudoir, either.

  Phoebe yawned. Duncan Rourke, it seemed, had qualified as a Renaissance man. She read on.