Pirate's Daughter, Rebel Wife. June Francis

       ‘You are a penniless woman alone in a foreign land and in need of a protector, and I have decided that a wife could be useful to me.’

      Bridget cleared her throat. ‘I thank you for your offer, Captain, but does it not bother you that we scarcely know each other?’

      He raised those devilishly dark eyebrows of his and drawled, ‘Most couples who make convenient matches are barely acquainted.’

      ‘So, will you agree to be my wife?’ asked Harry, after a pause, his heart thudding as hewaited for her answer …

      About the Author

      JUNE FRANCIS’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochy dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk

       Previous novels by this author:

      ROWAN’S REVENGE

       TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN

       REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE

       HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN

      PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE features

      characters you will have met in

       HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN

       PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE

      June Francis

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      This book is dedicated to those readers of

       HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN who e–mailed me wanting to know Harry’s story.

      Also to my dear husband, John,

       who enjoys my historical romances,

       in memory of a lovely holiday on the

       island of Madeira for a special birthday.

      Prologue

       1504

      If she did not act now then she would never be free. Bridget McDonald stood on the slanting deck, her hands gripping the side of the ship. A few moments ago she had caught sight of a tall, dark figure on the cliff, but now he had disappeared as the rain swept in.

      Was the landfall ahead Madeira, the island she had been searching for? The master of the slave–trader ship and his remaining crew were frantically busy trying to save the vessel from being blown towards the rocks. This could be her only chance of escape. If they succeeded in saving the ship, then she feared its master would immediately come after her again. He had been eyeing her in a manner that terrified Bridget. Since disease had killed his woman a week ago, she had lost the one person who had provided her with some kind of protection from his lustful nature. She was convinced that if the storm had not blown up, he would have raped her by now. If he managed to save his vessel, she feared that this could still happen.

      A wave suddenly drenched Bridget, leaving her gasping for breath, and she clung tightly to the side of the ship, trying to summon up the courage to go over the side. She thought how she might not be in this position if the man she had known as Captain Black Harry had not separated her from her father, Callum, by refusing to allow her on either of his ships, destined for the New World, almost two years ago.

      She shuddered, recalling the desperate straits she was in, and knew she had no choice but to trust her fate to the waves. She might yet find her father—and if she perished in the water, at least she would not die as a slave–trader’s whore but as a free woman. She took a deep breath and dropped into the sea.

      Chapter One

      Harry swore loudly, cursing the rain that almost blinded him as he slithered down the cliff path, gaining momentum as earth collapsed with the sheer volume of the rain, sending him hurtling towards the beach. He landed on the black sand on his hands and knees to the accompaniment of falling rocks. He drew in his breath with a hiss, his face drawn with pain, and pushed himself upright. He flicked back dripping dark hair and wiped his sodden face and beard on the sleeve of his doublet.

      Had he really seen someone poised to jump into the churning sea from that ship? As suddenly as it had started the driving rain had stopped; he wasted no more time, but strode along the beach, scanning the waves for signs of that lonely figure. He was on the verge of turning back when he spotted something down by the shore. He put on a spurt and, as he drew closer, found a body sprawled face down on the sand.

      He knelt down and, to his astonishment, discovered that it was a woman; and, more surprisingly, one who was able to swim—that was a rarity in his experience. She had girded the green skirts of her gown by tucking the ends into her belt at the back—no doubt so they wouldn’t hamper the movement of her legs in the water. He eased her into a sitting position, but the upper part of her body flopped forwards against his forearm. She made a choking sound and he thumped her on the back, attempting to free the water from her lungs. The tension inside him subsided as she began to cough, seawater and mucus staining the sleeve of his already soaked doublet. Eventually her coughing ceased, but the action must have drained any resources she had left after such a swim because she lay limp in his arms.

      A single, long braid of sodden, dark red hair dangled against his thigh as he manoeuvred her gently round so that he could see her face more clearly. His heart seemed to lurch sideways. He had the oddest feeling that he had seen her likeness before. But where? Her skin was pallid, but it did not detract from her beauty. She had the daintiest of noses, full sensuous lips and a heart–shaped countenance.

      At that moment a raindrop splashed on to her face and then another and another. He thought that the rain would rouse her, but although her cheek twitched, her eyelids remained closed. God’s Blood! What was he to do with her? She would be doubly soaked to the skin if he tried to carry her all the way to Machico. It seemed he had no choice but to take her to the house of his Portuguese friend, Jorge de Lobos, where Harry was staying.

      His face tightened with concentration as he lifted her higher. Holding her close to his chest, he slowly rose to his feet. For a moment he swayed, but then recovered his balance, gritting his teeth against the pain in his thigh. He decided to keep to the beach as long as possible and prayed that there would be no landslides on his chosen path.

      Despite the weight of her sodden garments he was able to make reasonable speed, conscious, all the time, of the woman’s ashen face and shallow breathing. He took extra care on the shale when he climbed on to the main path, fearing a disastrous fall. It was a relief when he reached the house and