A Pirate's Wife for Me (7 page)

So she stepped into the taproom, armed with questions.

At once the squint-eyed sailor spotted her. In an accent that sounded as if it had come straight from the back streets of London, he announced, "'Tis the lass what shot our cap'n."

In unison the benches scraped back and every man stood.

Placing her fist on her waist, she looked them over. It would not do for them to think they intimidated her. "Why, gentlemen. Your manners are impeccable. Methinks pirates have been maligned … and I would have thought you'd take it ill that I'd shot your beloved captain."

"It's not like ye killed 'im or anything." The squint-eyed fellow lithely leaped over his bench and came to her side. "Or like ye used a real gun. Hell, that li'l popgun ye used couldn't take down a turtle. But the point is, ye made 'im bleed and if you'd had recourse to a real gun, you'd have hobbled him considerable." Taking her hand, he pressed his lips to her knuckles, and looked up at her with twinkling brown eyes. "'Course, then we'da had to kill ye."

She removed her hand with alacrity. "You could have tried."

The men oohed and cackled.

The top of Squint-Eye's head was shiny and bald, which she noted readily for he reached no higher than her chin, but his bushy eyebrows rose long and high on his face. Blotches on his cheeks and ears marred his tanned skin, he was missing a top front tooth, and she would be hard pressed to guess his age. Forty, perhaps. Or fifty?

Did pirates live so long?

He scratched his stomach and grinned. "Aye, ye're a sharp un. No wonder ye put a bullet in the cap'n. I'm Blowfish. Blowfish Burnham, at yer service."

"Don't ask him how he earned the name of Blowfish," the sailor with the eye patch advised in an upper class British accent. "Or he'll tell you."

She glanced around, not understanding, and that was a cause for more laughter.

"Now hush up, men," Blowfish said. "She's a lady. Any damned fool can see that, and ye're all damned fools." To her, he said, "I'm the first mate of the Scottish Witch, the sweetest sailing ship ever to cruise the seas."

"The Scottish Witch is Captain Taran's ship?" As if Cate had to ask. Of course it was Taran's ship, and obviously, he had named it after her.

The louse.

"Aye, and she's as lithe and lovely as ye are." Blowfish put his hands to his cheeks and sighed as if overwhelmed by her beauty.

Which he might well be. She knew she looked her best in her stylish pelisse-robe of a striped taffeta in alternating shades of dark green. Her small squared collar was neat, and the trim of black velvet allowed her to wear mourning without actually advertising her grief. She worse a reticule belted at her side, one large enough to carry the essentials to grooming in such a rough environment — and, when necessary, her lockpick tools. Right now, she considered it necessary, and the tools rested snugly inside. On Mr. Throckmorton's advice she'd sewn a pocket in each of her skirts. But she would keep that a secret. She knew of no reason why Blowfish should know she kept a thin, sharp knife with her at all times.

Going to the head of the table, Blowfish clapped his hand on the one-eyed sailor's shoulder. "This smart-mouthed young feller is Quicksilver. A lady, disappointed in love, named him."

Quicksilver grimaced. "Pay no attention to Blowfish, ma'am. He imagines himself a wit, but he's only half that."

Blowfish rolled his eyes. "Very amusing, my good man." He was trying to do an imitation of Quicksilver, but he couldn't wrap his tongue around the noble syllables. "This is Dead Bob. He was named fer his sparkling personality."

Dead Bob nodded at her, his unlined, handsome face deadpan.

"We've got a reward fer the first person who can make him laugh," Quicksilver said.

"This is Mucus," Blowfish introduced a remarkably clean-nosed sailor.

"Maccus," the sailor muttered.

"Mucus," Blowfish insisted.

Color rose in the sailor's thin cheeks, and he looked up at her. "Beg pardon about last night."

The man obviously needed help. She was willing to provide it. "I would hope so. You'll never get a girl by offering yourself to her in a pub. If you'd like advice on courting, I'd be happy to assist you."

Dead Bob gave a crack of laughter.

Silence fell on the table. Everyone stared from her to Dead Bob and back again. Then, reluctantly, they dug out pound notes and gold coins and, as if she were a vendor, they tossed them at her.

"Everyone." Blowfish added his grimy bill to the growing pile. "You, too, Lilbit."

Lilbit was the cabin boy: youngest, blondest, and quite the tallest of the sailors. He hung his head and tossed in his coin.

Delighted, Cate considered the pile of money. "Is this truly mine?"

The men nodded glumly.

"Well! Thank you." Her first earnings! She gathered up the coins and bills and poked them in her reticule. "Although I still don't understand what you find so amusing in my offer to assist Maccus. It was sincerely made."

Dead Bob's expression was once again deadpan. "That's why it's funny."

When she had filled her pockets, Blowfish began introductions again. "This is Plum, this is Italy, this is Dove …"

Dove was the black man. He spoke in a soft, oddly accented voice, his fingers fluttering as he spoke.

And so it went, down the line until she'd been introduced to every one of the sailors. At the top of the table, she looked them over again. "Don't any of you use your real names?"

Shoulders shrugged up and down like a wave.

"A bad notion when ye're a pirate," Blowfish explained. "Me mum would be mortified."

"Your mum," Cate said faintly. He was worried about his mother's opinion. As foul pirates went, these lads were failures.

Blowfish shoved Italy off his stool, then with a bow indicated Cate should seat herself there. "Lilbit, grab the lady a plate an' some rations from Mr. Cleary in the kitchen. Shooting the Cap'n is hard work."

The men cackled again, and Cate realized that with a single gunshot, she'd won their hearts. She thanked Lilbit for the plank of food, most of which appeared edible, and dug her fork out of her reticule.

"Oo, she's prepared," Blowfish marveled.

She said, "I like my dinnerware clean."

"Here in Cleary's Pub, 'tis spittin' clean." Blowfish spit on the floor in lieu of demonstration, placed his foot on the edge of her stool and leaned his arm on his thigh. "We've told ye our names." He grinned as if he knew a huge joke. "So, li'l lady, introduce yourself to the men."

"I'm not little." With her elbow, she knocked his leg off the stool.

The pirates roared with laughter.

She waited until the commotion had died down and Blowfish had stopped faking distress. "I'm Cate MacLean."

All merriment stopped. All heads turned. All eyes stared — at Cate.

"What?" she asked.

"Cate? Caitlin?" Maccus spoke at last.
"Ye're
Caitlin MacLean?"

CHAPTER NINE

Blowfish cackled. "Thought that would knock ye
men back onto yer conch shells!"

Some of the younger men looked confused.

But the others, the ones who looked as if they'd been around the globe a few times, exchanged glances and nudges.

Blowfish waved a hand up and down beside her as if selling her on the auction block. "Tall. Bit on the bony side. Red hair. Fair skin. Aye, she's Caitlin MacLean, all right."

"My God," Maccus said.

So they'd heard of her. She would love to know what Taran had told them, but in the end, what mattered was how she performed her post. "Thank you for assuring me of my identity."

Blowfish didn't notice her irritation. Or he didn't care. "The Cap'n runs to type, he does. Appreciates ladies of yer general stature and, shall we say, curvature."

"Does he keep them or does he sell them?" she snapped.

Blowfish exchanged a glance with Quicksilver. Quicksilver shook his head, and Blowfish said, "The Cap'n's all fer trading goods. He don't keep anything if he can help it."

"Then he hasn't changed a bit." She vigorously polished her fork on her handkerchief. "A good reason to shoot him. I'm surprised to hear I'm the first woman to do so."

"Not the first to try, but definitely the first to succeed," Quicksilver assured her.

She tasted the egg. Surprisingly, it was good. She took a bite of golden-brown biscuit. The crust was flaky, and from the inside steam roiled up like froth from a crashing wave. The bacon was crisp, not burned, and the potato patties contained a hint of parsley. She looked up, amazement plain on her face, and the men burst into laughter.

"Why do ye think we stay here when we're in port?" Blowfish asked. "Cleary cooks like a dream, and after a long sea voyage, all we asks of life is a pat of butter an' a frothy pint of ale."

Cate considered them skeptically. "Is that
all
you ask?"

"That's all we can tell
you
, ma'am." Lilbit spoke with an odd accent. "The Cap'n says we're not supposed to talk about whores in mixed company."

Dead Bob smacked Lilbit on the back of the head.

Blowfish sighed. "Ye'll have to excuse the lad. He's as strong as a winch, but his mechanism is wound a little loose."

"It's all right," she said to Lilbit. "After a long sea voyage, I'd worry if you weren't interested in women."

"See?" Lilbit smacked Dead Bob right back.

Cate smiled at him. She wanted information about Taran and she thought Lilbit was the man to provide it. She told herself it was good to know your enemy, especially when you were to work closely with him. She told herself that knowledge was power. Most of all, she told herself that after her ordeals, she had a right to her curiosity. "You're so young. This must have been your first sea voyage."

Lilbit straightened his shoulders. "No, ma'am. I first put to sea outta Boston Harbor when I was nine."

"An American! That explains so much." She scrutinized him. Strong, virile, with blond hair that flopped in his bright blue eyes and the kind of wide open smile that made a woman want to hug him. "You must be … eighteen or nineteen now."

"Nineteen, Miss, that I am." Then he had been aboard when Taran had arrived.

"Did you first ship out with the Cap'n?" she asked.

"This Cap'n? No, we had a different cap'n then. This Cap'n was a fellow we were supposed to dump as soon as –" Nobody hit Lilbit on the back of the head this time, no one made a motion or said a word, but he stopped. He glanced around at the censuring faces, and the whites of his eyes showed. Ducking his head, he mumbled, "I forgot."

The silence that fell was ponderous, embarrassed, and filled with sidelong glances and disconcerted nudges.

Oh, no. Lilbit couldn't fall silent now. Not when she was on the verge of discovering how Taran had come to be the captain of a pirate ship. "So the Cap'n came on board as a sailor, too?"

"No." Lilbit jumped as if he'd been kicked. "Dunno."

Cate pressed the matter. "Is he related to one of you?"

Blowfish snorted. "Not 'ardly."

"How long ago did he come on board?" Cate insisted.

Quicksilver looked at Cate from the corners of his eyes. "Years ago."

Men were louts. They banded together to keep her in the dark about a matter that was surely of no consequence to any of them – and was a matter of much curiosity to her.

Then Blowfish roared, "Look lively, Cap'n's on board!"

As they had done when she walked in, the men rose in unison, but this time their respect was real and reverential. The Cap'n was their leader; they honored him as such.

From the stairwell, Taran said, "Be seated."

With a clatter of boots and a scraping of benches, they obeyed.

He bowed to Cate, a great, sardonic obeisance. "If you want to know how I came to my present position, Miss MacLean, ask me."

Actually, she wanted to ask him how, with a mother like his, he had come to be such a cheating betrayer of women and all-round snake in the grass. But last night she had resolved she would do her job with dignity and honor, and that meant she could not fight with the big liar, at least not in front of his men. "Certainly, Cap'n, I'm glad to ask you," she said. "Would you like to have this conversation now or in private?"

Blowfish chuckled, then sobered and cleared his throat. With his gaze on Taran, he pulled the single thin wisp of hair that hung over his forehead. "Sorry, Cap'n. Not funny at all."

Taran wore the somber black jacket and trousers of an English businessman, and the dark material contrasted with his pallid complexion. His white shirt was crisply pressed. His arm was in a sling. His boots were polished to a shine.

When she scrutinized him, she clearly saw the differences nine years had wrought.

His body had been honed to hard muscle held in coiled power. His cold gaze and stern lips were those of the Cap'n, leader of a pirate ship and of a mission that could end in death for all of them. His youth had been burned away in some great, harsh crucible of command, leaving only a hard man untouched by compassion or generosity.