The Pirate Fairy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  The Pirate Fairy

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-438-7

  ©Copyright A.J. Llewellyn 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2016

  Edited by Sarah Smeaton

  Pride Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  THE PIRATE FAIRY

  A.J. Llewellyn

  Denny Derrick Dalton is the most feared pirate on the high seas, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s just having a very bad day…

  It’s 1841 and the high seas are a dangerous place for anybody. Denny Derrick Dalton’s the most feared pirate in the choppy waters, but his risky reputation takes a hit when a wicked old witch curses him and gives him a pair of fairy wings. It’s hard to boss your crew around when you look ridiculous. Not only that, he has no idea how to fly.

  Denny’s depressed. The witch, hiding as sweet Princess Fortunata, has left his ship and taken her brother, Prince Merritt, the man Derrick deeply loves, with her. Can his luck get any worse? Oh yes, it can. His crew mutinies and sells him to a slave ship.

  But it’s not just any slave ship. This one’s bewitched, and Denny’s soon taken to a magical court where he must explain his rotten behavior and fight for his life.

  But can he save himself to rescue Merritt, who’s at the mercy of his wicked sister’s magic?

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my wonderful friend Gary Hill, in honor of the lengthy discussions and passions we share about adventuring in the high seas. Aloha Nui xxxx

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Oh, Tell Me How from Love to Fly: A. Clifton

  ‘In a galaxy far, far away’ (Star Wars): George Lucas

  Chapter One

  1841

  Somewhere on the high seas…

  “Don’t hurt me,” the naked young man whimpered.

  Denny kissed his captive’s smooth cheek, inhaling his masculine fragrance. Denny detected a hint of soap beneath some kind of woodsy oil on his skin. The young man’s fear spiced up the sheen on his muscles. He groaned as Denny squeezed his biceps.

  “I’m not gay,” the young man insisted.

  Denny chuckled. “That’s what they all say.”

  The young man bit his lip, but writhed toward Denny’s probing fingers, not away from them, igniting Denny’s passions anew. He ran his hand down the young man’s face. A knocking sound came from somewhere, distracting him.

  Ignore it. They’ll go away. He slid his hand across the young man’s throat, letting his fingers pause to feel the quickened pulse. Denny kept moving down the smooth, taut torso. He couldn’t resist handling the juicy, buoyant cock begging for his touch. He cuffed the young man’s shaft with his fingers, trying to hold the blue-eyed gaze before him, but the knocking continued.

  What’s the use? It’s just a dream anyway. I’ll never get him back.

  Prince Merritt.

  Only in his dreams did Denny allow himself to utter his name. He still couldn’t believe he’d lost his beloved prisoner. He rarely dreamed about Merritt anymore.

  Even if I saw him again, he wouldn’t want me the way I look now.

  The knocking intensified.

  Burrowing his head deeper under the covers, Denny fought to return to his twilight world, enjoying the temptations awaiting him there. And there they were. How wonderful. It hardly ever happened that he returned to the exact moment he’d been interrupted in a dream, but Merritt’s smile drew him in once more. His blond-haired lover smiled, beckoning him. The bashing on his cabin door grew so loud the bed shook, wrestling Denny Derrick Dalton with a jolt from his sleep. So annoying, too, right in the middle of the good part about his captive prince chained up in stowage, and Denny about to shove his cock up Merritt’s ass.

  This had become his favorite dream, but one often denied him. One so real he could feel the excited prince’s breath on his face, his feverish, whispered words, ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ the very things that made Denny want to do wicked, wanton things to the tethered male beauty.

  But the insistent rapping continued, and Denny had to come back to reality. And for the furious pirate captain of the La-Di-Da, reality wasn’t so hot these days.

  “Cap’n. Sir. There’s a boat up ahead,” came the timid voice from the other side of the door.

  Denny stirred in his bed. Once again he’d made a mess of the bedding, and for a moment he hated what had happened to him so much that he wanted to find that—

  “Sir? Are you in there? There’s a boat.” The voice rose to a squeaky pitch.

  “I heard ya. Keep your breeches on.”

  “But they are on, sir.”

  He knew now it was Sorenson, the stranded Swedish idiot he’d picked up in Port Victoria, in the Seychelles. Sorenson, the alleged cook who’d bought rancid flour from a tradesman with a fake mustache and an indecipherable accent. Sorenson had thought the bits of black stuff in it was caraway seeds and not weevils and rat droppings.

  “So? What’s the big deal? Attack it. Do I have to do everything around here?” Irritated, Denny punched his pillow, rolled over on his stomach and stared balefully out of the porthole. He’d expected it to be early morning but was surprised to see the sun high and probably hot. He hadn’t left his quarters much in the last three months, and his sheets were getting a bit stinky.

  It suddenly occurred to him. Why’s the cook coming up here? Why isn’t he making my porridge? Where is everybody else?

  A second voice piped up, “But, sir. Cap’n. Sir. There are thirteen of ’em, sir. Fishing boats. All like sittin’ ducks in the port, like.”

  Denny rolled his eyes. Parlayne Foster was his first mate and originally from New England, where they’d been headed for two weeks after bad storms steered them from Honduras, their original planned destination. Foster, however, had taken to his new life so well he and Sorenson had started talking like all the other Cockney gits Denny employed. And this from a Bostonian missionary’s son.

  Thirteen vessels? Denny’s cock got hard. Only two things aroused him these days. A hot young man’s ass wanting a royal fucking, and mu
ltiple vessels awaiting his attack. Fishing boats meant fish, and probably gold.

  “Hoist the flag,” he yelled and got up out of bed. He visited the head then contemplated his wardrobe. He had to look the part. Tight black pants, thigh-high boots, crisp white shirt with a few ruffles. Aye. That was the ticket. It was easy getting on pants, but negotiating socks was difficult. He had no balance. He got so frustrated he stuffed his boots on, and with the scrunched-up socks inside, he fell down. Unbelievable. He’d been so sure the curse would have worn off by now, but it hadn’t. He slipped on the shirt and wanted to cry. He’d had to put two slits in the back to accommodate his new deformity. It just wasn’t fair. On top of this he threw on a long coat. That kept his little problem well hidden.

  Outside the cabin, he inhaled fresh ocean air for the first time in weeks and almost keeled over in shock. He caught the gazes of a couple of deck hands. Both seemed surly. He’d spent years on the high seas with both of them, fucking them alternately and occasionally together. Denny had rejected both since the dreadful curse had hit him. He’d shunned all human contact. The only good thing about their grumpy expressions was that it seemed that Foster hadn’t told the entire crew of his misfortune.

  Denny took a deep breath and climbed the companionway up to the deck. He’d forgotten how gorgeous the ocean was first thing in the morning. It glistened like glass and he could have allowed himself to become mesmerized, but he had work to do. He surveyed the deck of the La-Di-Da, a former British Navy privateer. Spotless. It had once been named for Queen Victoria, but Denny, a former midshipman who had staged a mutiny two years ago, before the ship had reached India, had renamed it. He’d always had a notion he should have been born in high places, and not in the shameful East London dump where he’d rubbed with others grouped as The Great Wen.

  He tried to picture himself walking down the streets of his old neighborhood with his new affliction and couldn’t. For one thing he was unable to control his, er, condition. For another, he’d always prided himself on his good looks. Dark-haired, dashing, handsome.

  Cursed.

  Damn.

  Denny felt the weight of the crew’s watchful gazes on his back. Maybe they did know. His whammy made him looked hunchbacked. And who’d ever heard of a hunchbacked pirate?

  He nodded at the few crewmen scattered around him. Denny had never liked taking orders, but he adored giving them. Denny had plotted against his ship’s captain, Lester Piggins, from day one. Denny had left England eight years ago at the ripe old age of seventeen, under dubious circumstances. His good looks, impressive stature and fearless protection of the crew had ensured that all one hundred and fifty of them had chosen to stay with him when he’d accomplished his mission two years later. One hundred and fifty one, if you counted Theodore, the formerly starving kitten that had stowed away on the ship during a brief call into the port of Diego-Suarez in Madagascar.

  Renaming the ship the La-Di-Da, Denny thought, was a good laugh at his former delusions of grandeur. He was no upper-class twit. In his heart of hearts he wished he were. And in some ways, he adopted their mannerisms. Not to mention their clothes and money. He robbed the rich and gave constantly to the poor, as in himself and his crew. They had set off to seek their fortune and to terrorize other ships in the Indian Ocean. They had done both with a beautiful success rate for five years now, thanks to the two tanks and sixty guns on board plus those they stole in their frequent attacks. They’d also been helped by the increased speed of the La-Di-Da, following a complete restructuring of the vessel on the small island of Ruatan off the coast of Honduras.

  A year ago, Denny Derrick Dalton had come up with the brilliant idea, which increasingly seemed less so, to switch his activities to the North Atlantic Ocean. He’d managed to hide gold in various caves throughout the Caribbean and had even bought a house on a hill above the seaside in Cornwall, England. He’d looked forward to an early retirement, until he’d been cursed. Things had gone from bad to worse since rescuing Prince Merritt and his sister. Sisters were bad news. Denny knew that from experience. But Merritt’s sister was the worst.

  Damn that woman. I can’t retire until I find her and make her take her whammy off me. Aware now of all the crew members’ scrutiny, Denny frowned at Sorenson. “Where’s my porridge?” he fumed.

  “But, sir.” Sorenson pointed a shaky finger at the boats in the far distance.

  “We have time,” Denny snapped. He did not add, Unless you’d prefer to walk the plank, because the last time he’d threatened, somebody had elected to walk it. The intended victim had somehow managed to survive the initial plunge. Denny had decided not to order the crew to have cannonballs tied to the man’s feet. He hadn’t been bound or blindfolded either. Denny had done it to teach him a lesson but the man had refused to come back on board. He’d swum away laughing at Denny. It had upset everybody. Nobody knew if the man had survived after the initial drop but several of the crewmembers were upset by the incident. And today, there was no time for hard feelings. There was, however, always time for porridge.

  Sorenson scuttled away. Satisfied, Denny studied the map his second mate, Rigby, spread out before him.

  Foster handed him a telescope and Denny put it to his eye and peered across the bay. He couldn’t see a darned thing. Everything was fuzzy and weird. He scrunched his eye hard but it only made things worse. I’m falling apart! That curse has done me in! Now I can’t bloody see out of my eyes!

  “You’re looking through the wrong end,” Rigby whispered to him. Rigby was the token Australian aboard and the only man Denny trusted. Rigby was a solid type who told it as he saw it. He liked his ale a little too well, but who didn’t?

  “Ah,” Denny said and flipped the telescope around. He was certain he heard a few crewmembers snickering. Before his affliction, they’d never had reason to mock him. He’d made certain to hide himself as much as possible since disaster had befallen him. Only two of them had seen his…shame.

  He took a deep breath and looked again. And there they were. Thirteen boats sheltering at anchor in Port Rosewater. He lowered the telescope, checked the map, looked up at the boats again then back at the map. Port Rosewater? Where the hell was that? He tried to decipher the numerous hand jottings on the map. He didn’t recognize anything. Not a single name. Even the longitude and latitude coordinates resembled no place he’d ever sailed, and Denny had covered a lot of ocean water in his time.

  He gulped. Could he ask Rigby where they were? Nah. He’ll think I’ve really lost the plot. Denny sensed tension around him. I’m being paranoid. Of course they’re tense. We’re about to take on thirteen boats.

  “Where the hell’s my porridge?” he roared.

  Sorenson scuttled back to him, a battered metal bowl in one hand, and a spoon in the other. Why were the lad’s hands shaking?

  Denny peered into the milky-looking sludge. “I hope those black things doing the back stroke in my porridge are raisins,” Denny said.

  Sorenson winced and shrugged. “Sorry, sir. No. A rat infestation.”

  “It’s rat poop?” Danny thought he’d throw up on the spot. “Where the devil is that cat? Why isn’t he earning his keep?”

  “He disappeared, sir.”

  “Disappeared?” Denny gaped at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  They all looked at him then, cutting glances to and fro between them, then back at Denny.

  “What?” he asked Rigby. If anyone could be trusted to spit out the truth it would be him. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Rigby’s gaze shifted from side to side, and he added, “Sir,” as though it were an afterthought.

  “Take it away,” Denny roared, pushing the bowl of porridge back toward Sorenson.

  “Are we ready to prepare for attack, sir?” Rigby seemed annoyed.

  “Yes, but I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  “Later,” Rigby snapped.

  “Okay.” The boats were getting a bit closer but Denny did love his cup of mornin
g coffee. As long as it didn’t have rat poo in it.

  “Awaiting your instructions, sir.” Rigby’s facial expression was neutral.

  Denny didn’t know what to make of it, because he sensed Rigby’s seething fury beneath his flat vocal tone. “Where are we?” he whispered to his second mate.

  Rigby gave him an odd look and said something that was obscured by a frigate bird’s wild cry. There must have been fish on the boats in the distance. They were always attracted to boats carrying fish. Rigby said something like, “Date with destiny.” What did that mean? Was it the name of one of the boats? Denny’s head throbbed. Was he still sleeping? Nothing made sense. Maybe Rosewater Bay was part of some bigger port with a name like Bay of Destiny. Maybe that’s what he’d heard. Some of these ports had very strange names, but he was afraid to ask Rigby in case his second mate thought Denny was losing his hearing, his eyesight, and his damned marbles.

  He took a gamble. “Excellent,” Denny said, feeling for the familiar knife in his pocket. “All hands!” he yelled. “All hands on deck! Hoist the flag!”

  His crew yelled back acknowledgments and ran around doing his bidding.

  “Fire the cannons!” he roared. He loved saying that, even though the actual firing made his ears ring for days. They currently had no prisoners. Denny was wary of taking on anymore after the last bloody catastrophe. The black pirate flag rose high as the first cannon boomed.

  Denny felt better than he had in ages. Except he was hot. Damned hot. He wished he could shed the coat but knew he couldn’t. Nobody could see the horrors that lay beneath it. His beautiful ship surged forward toward the doomed vessels and he smiled widely until he glimpsed one of his crew running past him. As soon as the man became aware of Denny’s scrutiny he gave a strange whimpering sound, clapped a hand over his badly swollen right ear and tiptoed backward away from Denny.