Waves of Desire (Secrets of the Seas #1)

Chapter One

Somewhere on the Atlantic coast of Florida

Samantha’s fingertips skimmed across the jagged edge of a worn shell and a piece crumbled beneath her thumb. With lips pulled tight, she tossed her find back into the surf.

Not quite right.

The screech of a seagull echoed in the distance and Samantha tucked a stray copper curl under her wide-brimmed hat. She scanned the glistening sand where the waves broke.

There.

Her bare toes curled into soft sand. The tines of a sizable shell jutted into view as crystal-blue water pulled back from the beach.

A wave crashed toward her and she strode into the sea.

When she bent to pluck her prize from its hiding spot, foam swirled around her knees, soaking her breeches, but her fingers continued their search.

A laugh bubbled forth when her palm brushed a rigid mass. She pried the shell loose, shaking sand away in the rushing water before lifting it into view. Twice the size of her hand, the conch’s pink interior reflected the bright glare of the sun. A perfect specimen.

Yes. It would do.

Samantha’s pulse beat a happy tune when she slipped the shell into the leather bag tied at her belt.

She stayed in place, letting her feet sink deep into the cool sand.

Another wave swept in and she stared out at the horizon.

A subtle urge to dive into the temperate water tugged at her while the sparkle of sunlight dancing across the water called to her soul.

“Captain?”

The voice snapped her from the ocean’s trance and she turned toward the shore. Griff, her first mate, gestured at the sun. “She’ll start setting soon. Best be on our way.”

She nodded and trudged to dry ground to join her men.

They hiked together to the single longboat resting on the beach.

Beyond it, the Siren’s silhouette loomed from where she anchored offshore and Samantha’s heart swelled with pride at the fine figure the brigantine cut on the water.

Two masts thrust into the sky with canvas sails hanging slack.

A crisp line of white paint ran below the main deck to hide a dozen cannon hatches.

Her ship.

Well, for this trip at least.

Her gaze slid back to Griff as he heaved the boat into the surf. His grey beard was trimmed short and weathered wrinkles spread from the corners of his eyes. Most days, the Siren was his ship.

She splashed into the water and vaulted into the small boat. The men picked up their oars and they glided into the calm waters of the bay.

Once Samantha’s feet landed on the solid planks of the Siren’s deck, she strode to the stairs of the quarterdeck. Griff followed her up to the helm. Puffy white clouds had sprung from the horizon to their south and she grinned.

“Looks like the winds will be in our favor tonight.”

He followed her gaze and nodded. Though the weight of the shell at her belt begged to be added to her collection, she brushed aside the need.

She needed to make a good impression. Her little jaunt to shore had wasted precious time and risen more than a few brows.

Time to prove to the men—at least the new ones who hadn’t spent the last decade with her underfoot—she wasn’t just a wealthy brat indulging in a passing whim.

Though she’d graced the decks of her uncle’s fleet since she could walk, no one on the crew would have expected her to be allowed to sail in command.

No matter how many times she’d voiced her wish to, they’d always laughed it off.

Women didn’t sail—not as a profession—and they definitely did not captain ships.

This trip might be her one chance to show she deserved a spot captaining in the fleet. So far, everything had gone as planned. Even better? A decent chance they would arrive back in Savannah early. A good impression, indeed. Her lips tugged up.

A few quick steps and she stood at the ship’s wheel. Her hand settled on one of the worn spokes. “Ready the sails and raise the anchor.”

Her command spurred the crew into action.

The sails unfurled almost instantaneously and she bit back a wry smile.

Griff’s crew—her crew—worked like a well-oiled machine, ready to be on the move at a moment’s notice.

They had already prepared the ship to sail while she’d been ashore.

Not a coincidence. They’d been trained to be the best, and that meant one thing.

Never be caught unawares.

When the anchor lifted from the sea bed, her fingers vibrated with the gentle thrum of freedom running through the ship’s hull.

A tepid breeze flitted around her face as the sails caught the wind and pushed them out to sea.

Soon, she had to press her hat to her head while the Siren sliced through the water.

Each subtle movement of her hand brought the ship under her control and she closed her eyes, taking in each groan from beneath her feet, each slap of rigging against the sails above. The ship sang to her, and little by little, Samantha gave herself over to the song. Until she and the ship were one.

Her smile broke free. This was what she was made for.

The minutes stretched into the better part of an hour as she stood still, content to listen. Once they were well on course, she turned to Griff. “You take her until supper.” It was still such a foreign thing to speak down to him. He’d been “Captain” to her for as long as she could remember.

He took the wheel, his hands sliding into grooves worn by a thousand hours beneath his calloused fingers and a twinge of guilt pricked at her as he stared out over the rolling sea.

Though he had accepted his temporary demotion with grace, part of him must be rankled.

Who wouldn’t be? With a heavy swallow, she walked away.

In her cabin, Samantha stepped over a pile of dirty laundry and went straight to the bookcase built into the wall. An eclectic collection of shells lined one railed shelf. She hefted the conch from her pouch and set it in the middle of the others.

Perfect.

She turned to her desk and slid open a drawer.

Nimble fingers lifted the false bottom out, and she pulled a worn scrap of parchment free.

Her fingers traced the faded lines of ink before she folded it and returned to the shelf.

She flipped the conch over and slid the folded paper into the smooth pink of its spiral.

A lump of pliable wax lay inside the drawer and she pressed it to the shell’s opening.

When all the gaps were covered, she gave the conch a good shake. The map remained secure.

Safe.

Just as her uncle had instructed when he gave it to her before this voyage.

Samantha sank into the chair at her desk and pushed aside a stack of papers.

Her ledger laid open and she pulled it in front of her.

She frowned. Where was her quill? Another flurry of papers, and she pulled it free.

Her hair stuck to her neck in the still air and she sighed.

Though she yearned to go back above and let the breeze cool her, there were numbers to be run.

Her uncle expected an accurate account of the cargo they’d picked up in Nassau. A mostly legal run, so nothing too exciting. Her quill tapped the page. Barrels of rum, bolts of cotton, and most importantly, sugar. Those crates held heavy bars of gold nestled among the fine white crystals.

A smile tugged the corners of her lips.

Uncle Henry owned one of the biggest shipping companies in the country. His merchant ships ran up and down the coast, ferrying in goods from the West Indies and storing them in his multitudes of warehouses.

All a cover.

Behind the shield of his shipping empire, her uncle ran another operation.

One in which he was known as Captain Remington, a notorious gentleman pirate.

Beneath the benign facade of merchant ships, his fleet hid extra guns, men trained in combat, and always an empty cargo hold to stash smuggled—or stolen—goods.

Shouts above chased the smile from Samantha’s face and she jumped to her feet. Boots. Where were the blasted things? With a curse, she dug through the piles on the floor. She should have worn them on her excursion instead of going barefoot.

After wasting a full minute, she found them and tugged them on before racing up to the deck.

“Ship ahoy!”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed. This far off the trade route, there should be no other traffic. When she climbed up to the quarterdeck, Griff’s stony face confirmed her fears.

“Who is it?”

He handed her the spyglass and she whipped it to her eye.

When she focused on the approaching frigate’s flag, a chill ran up her spine.

The fifteen stars of the American flag flapped in the wind, but below it, a small flag bearing the Georgian seal garnered her full attention.

None of the governor’s ships would stray this far off their route.

Unless they were pirate hunters.

“Damn,” she muttered.

“What are your orders, Captain?”

Griff emphasized her title, a clear message for her to choose wisely.

The rest of the crew gathered near and fixed expectant gazes on her.

The wise choice would be to stand down and fabricate a story to explain their location.

Samantha turned back to the sea and took another look.

Her fingers clenched around the spyglass when she zeroed in on the figure standing on the forecastle of the approaching ship.

Tall and handsome in his blue uniform.

And very familiar. She didn’t need to look at the nameplate at the bow to know the ship’s name. The USS Falcon.

“It’s Lieutenant Thompson.”

Griff yanked the glass and stared through it for a long moment. His lips drew into a thin line. “Insufferable cur.”