Immortal Pirates (Vampires of London #4)

Chapter 1

Raine St. Albans, known throughout London society as Lord Norringford, realized he despised the collection of islands—and its surrounding sea—known as the Caribbean.

It hadn’t taken him long to come to that conclusion.

But the fact that the sun was constantly beating down over beautiful sandy beaches where rolling, white-topped waves splashed in all their refreshing glory—something he could only enjoy from the safety of shade—probably had something to do with it.

Surely the ocean that wrapped England in a cold, dull gray blanket couldn’t be the same body of water as this sparkling sapphire and emerald beauty, could it?

One thing was certain: London, with all its fog-laden streets and dreary days—not to mention the crème of Society and all those lovely, silky throats and wrists—was infinitely more accommodating to the life of a Draculia vampire than the bloody, sun-drenched tropics.

And the fact that Raine had been sent here on a fool’s mission gave him even less appreciation for the palm trees, with their delicate fronds fluttering in the breeze, or the sweet, lush scents that filled the air from countless bright and cheery flowers.

The huge sun—far larger than any he’d seen in England—was blinding, and seemed to taunt him with his need to cover himself from it.

At least, he thought ruefully as he huddled under an unseasonably warm greatcoat and horribly unfashionable wide-brimmed hat (his hands were gloved, of course), it was bloody unlikely he’d encounter any pine needles or evergreen boughs on the ship he was meant to board.

The Black Lass, it was called, and it was captained by a female pirate of all things.

Supposedly she was feared and revered throughout the Caribbean and beyond.

He’d see about that.

Raine refused to dwell on the ridiculous image he made, striding up the gangplank beneath the voluminous coat. He was damned glad neither Corvindale nor Woodmore were here to see him—though at least the Earl of Corvindale might commiserate with Raine’s predicament of needing to shield himself.

Chas Woodmore, the mortal vampire hunter who was an unlikely ally of the Dracule, would likely snicker behind his tumbler of whisky and call the inconvenience no more than what Raine deserved for selling his soul to Lucifer in exchange for immortality.

The dark, ugly Mark on the back of Raine’s shoulder twinged as if in agreement.

“Ahoy there!”

Someone shouted—presumably at Raine—and he looked up to see a tall, burly man with coffee-colored skin standing at the top of the gangplank.

The mate had clearly enjoyed an incredible amount of onions in whatever he’d recently dined upon, for the scent fairly oozed from his pores, wafting to Raine’s sensitive nostrils—along with a faint tinge of ale, and the fishy scent that clung to every sailor with whom he’d ever come in contact.

That was another thing about being Dracule: everything was a soupcon of scents—the good, the bad, and the putrid.

“What is it ye want there, matey?” asked the man, who, unfortunately, was standing downwind of Raine. “No one comes aboard widdout the cap’ain’s permission, and we’re about to leave port.”

Raine straightened as much as he dared, which necessitated coming out from beneath some of his coverings. It was a temporary discomfort, to be sure, but one he couldn’t avoid. Yet, he found to his surprise, some of the sails above provided an unexpected shade from the rays of the sun.

“That, my dear fellow, is precisely why I’m here.” In this godforsaken place, bundled up like it’s a damned blizzard and wearing a hat that belongs on a country maid. “To gain the captain’s permission to come aboard.”

He looked into the mate’s eyes and allowed his own to take on that special glow…the one that always got him what he needed or wanted.

It took only a moment for the sailor’s tension to ease and his will to become malleable. The large man gave a subtle shudder and his gaze became less clear and sharp as it was captured by Raine’s thrall.

“Now if you’ll tell me where to find the captain—”

Something broke the connection of their gazes and Raine blinked as he realized it was a person who’d stepped between them. A woman.

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” She stood in front of the massive sailor, wide-legged, hands on her hips, looking up at Raine with an expression that could only be described as incensed.

The woman would barely reach his shoulder, but what she lacked in stature she made up for in energy—for it fairly sparked off her.

She had dark brown eyes flecked with gold—and fury—and a long braid of black, brown, and gold tresses.

There was even a streak of white in there too.

Her skin was surprisingly fair for a life at sea, and her nose and mouth were as delicately wrought as the most lovely of society ladies Raine generally eschewed back in London because they were boring and predictable.

This female wore a loose white shirt like most pirates—ruffled and with a deliciously low vee for the neckline—with two wide leather straps criss-crossing over the breasts (pity he couldn’t make out their shape) and then around her waist. A shotgun, some rope, a dagger and a sword, along with other accoutrements, hung from various loops on the leather straps.

Good grief—she probably clinked or clunked with every step.

The wench also wore loose striped trousers—almost like a split skirt—tucked into boots that were half the size of his.

“Good day, milady,” Raine said without missing a beat. “I was merely asking this gentleman—”

“You weren’t asking Bladsoe anything,” she retorted. “Who the hell do you think you are, and what do you think you’re doing, trying that trick out on my crew?” She’d stepped closer during this last part, her voice dropping as if she didn’t want the man behind her to hear.

And with her came her scent.

Raine’s blood suddenly went hot, and his fangs shifted, wanting to erupt.

Her essence was…something. Something female, and lush and warm; “tropical” would be the word if it weren’t so obvious…

yet laced with something more, spicy and bold.

Cloves. And…sandalwood? No, it was far more unique than that.

He recovered himself and resisted the urge to step back and give himself a bit of space from… her.

The powerful and austere Lord Norringford stepping back from a woman? That would be a cold day in Hell.

That would be as unlikely as the day Lucifer released him from the hold he’d cast over Raine and his Draculia brothers.

And he knew that day would never come.

Raine pushed away the spark of misery that thought always produced, ignoring the vengeful throb of the Mark on his shoulder. He lifted his face just slightly so as to put some space between his nostrils and her uncommonly titillating scent. It helped to clear his brain a bit.

“Trick?” he replied smoothly, letting his eyes take on a bit of alluring glow once more. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He caught her gaze, and felt the shock as their eyes met. It was probably because she was so outraged, but when they connected visually, he almost jolted.

For a moment, he felt like…like prey.

That was the word that came to mind, and it was ludicrous. He was twice her size, and a Dracule to boot.

He turned up his eye-glow a bit more, like one does to a kerosene lamp, and tugged with his gaze. Come now, lovely one. Ease your fury and give me what I—

“Stop that.” Her flat command was accompanied by a sudden sharp poke: right in his chest, right over his black heart.

Raine managed to hide his shock and surprise, but barely. He looked down at the sword—no, dammit all to Hell, it wasn’t a sword. It was a wooden pike, half the length of a man’s walking stick.

His gaze flashed to hers once more, this time with surprise and—well, hell, he might as well admit it—admiration. She was a feisty one.

Now he stepped back. Just a bit. “Well, now, that’s not very polite, madame—”

“Captain.” She allowed her pike-holding hand to drop away from the vicinity of his heart.

His suspicions were confirmed. “Captain Arial Bonny, is it? How convenient—as you’re just the person I came to see.

” He stepped back a little more so he could bow properly.

Not that the captain of a pirate ship would appreciate the flourish of a societal nicety, but he did have his name and reputation to uphold.

“Raine St. Albans, Lord Norringford, at your service.”

She snorted. “At my service, my arse. I know who you are. And you are most definitely not at my service—as you’ve already demonstrated.”

His eyes must have widened more than he realized, for she continued, “Surprised you, then, have I, Mr. St. Albans?”

“Er…it’s Lord Norringford,” he said, almost hating himself for correcting her.

“How about I just call you St. Albans?” she said, cocking a hip as she placed her hand back on it. “We don’t stand on formality on the Black Lass.”

“If you knew who I was, why did you ask who I—”

“I believe my exact words were ‘who do you think you are’.” Those sharp, dark eyes were flashing again—but this time with a trace of humor. “A subtlety that was, apparently, lost on you, Lord Norringford.”

She glanced up at the sun, which, during their repartee, had moved just enough past the shading sail that it would soon become uncomfortable for him, and sighed with disgust. “I suppose I’d best let you aboard, then. Follow me.”

She turned and walked past the crew member Raine had tried to enthrall, giving him a brief nod. Bladsoe’s gaze settled on Raine as he walked through the cloud of onion and ale smells that surrounded the sailor.

“Don’t underestimate her,” the mate growled as Raine passed by. “She didn’t get here by being foolish or slow.”

“Right then, mate,” Raine said, declining to ask precisely where “here” was—this ship, the Caribbean, or some other locale he hadn’t yet placed.