Capture The Wind (15 page)

Angela sank wearily onto the hard bunk and looked around her. The cabin was stark and neat. A table tied down with ropes nestled three chairs beneath it. A desk was set into one wall and flanked by shelves that dovetailed into one another. A narrow ledge held in the books on the walnut shelves. A wing-back chair squatted in a corner beneath a lantern and porthole. Drawers with bright brass handles and carvings of whales and porpoises decorated one wall in utilitarian beauty, and as in Saber’s cabin, lanterns hung at intervals. Two narrow bunks made up as neat as Mrs. Peach’s kitchen pantry were on one wall, one over the other. She spared a moment of gratitude for Mr. Buttons’ generous displacement. At least they were in a cabin, and had not been locked in a damp hold somewhere in the bowels of the ship. She sighed, and heard Emily snuffle dolefully.

“Oh, do not cry, Emily. I don’t think I can bear it. It is bad enough that we are here. If we panic at every turn, it will be unbearable.” She leaned over to give Emily a gentle pat of comfort. “Strange as it may sound, I have all confidence in Captain Saber’s ability to take a ship without harm to himself. He seems quite adept at piracy.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” came a query muffled by Emily’s palms and a scarf. Angela smiled.

“Yes. Oh, don’t give me that look. It hardly helps to ponder the possibilities. Let us focus on other things. Such as an extreme need for a proper bath and unsoiled clothing. I fear that my gown has undergone a great deal of stress, and yours looks dreadfully wrinkled from having been slept in last night.”

Emily looked down at her wrinkled muslin and sighed. Once it had belonged to her mistress, and in fact, had been one of Angela’s favorites. The seams had been let out to fit around Emily’s more generous curves and the shoulders altered a little for her shorter stature. Before their capture, Emily had looked quite nice in it. Now, the skirts were torn in places, and soot smeared the hem. Angela’s blue bombazine gown had fared little better.

“See? More practical concerns can ease our minds if we really—”

A loud crack split the air, cutting off the end of her sentence and making both of them jump. An instant later, another gun was fired, and she felt the reverberation shiver through the ship’s timbers. With a quickly beating heart, Angela stepped to the small round porthole over the desk. She dragged the edge of her palm across the damp glass and peered out.

The other ship was closer now, and as she watched, she saw the bright shimmy of its flag rapidly descend a mast. It had apparently decided not to fight, and relief flooded her. She turned to Emily.

“They have surrendered. There will be no battle.”

“Thank God,” Emily murmured, and Angela realized that she felt the same deep gratitude. Despite her brave words, the thought of a sea battle had terrified her.

In the long hours that followed, Angela noted the transfer of ship’s goods from one vessel to the other, huge casks and trunks, and bolts of paper-covered cloth that looked like silk. Piracy could be quite profitable, it seemed.

It took the better part of the day to transfer cargo, and by the time the
Sea Tiger
pulled away from its prey, the western sky was a collage of pinks and saffrons and setting sun. Angela wondered idly if they had been forgotten, then regretted that thought when she heard the clink of a key in the cabin door. She turned with quickened pulses, expecting Captain Saber.

It was Dylan, however, his jeweled gold eyes bright with laughter at some unshared joke. He was wearing a fine coat of carmine velvet, with frogged fastenings of twisted ebony and decorative cord on the wide cuffs. Beneath it his chest was bare, his trousers a supple leather that clung to well-formed legs. A floppy hat with broad brim and a curling feather perched atop his head, looking incongruous with his fall of long black hair and the huge gold hoop in his ear. He swept them a graceful bow and grinned.

“Look the proper swell, don’t I?” he said cheerfully. “I took a fancy to this coat, and the gentleman who owned it was willing to part with it.”

“I daresay,” Angela said tartly. “At swordpoint, no doubt.”

Dylan gave her a reproachful look and turned to Emily. “You like it, don’t you, Miss Emily?”

Emily nodded, brown eyes as huge as plates, admiration evident. Angela was startled. Admiration was not an acceptable reaction to a pirate, no matter how magnificent his body or charming his manners. Though Dylan seemed to take great pains to be courteous, there was no doubt in her mind that he would dispose of them without a qualm should he feel it necessary. Or should Captain Saber order it.

Angela cleared her throat meaningfully, and gave Emily a sharp pinch on her arm.

“What we would really like, Mr. Dylan,” she said, “is to be allowed a change of garments ourselves. Ours have become stained and, quite frankly, odorous. Do you suppose it possible to find us something suitable in the trunks you pilfered from the
Scrutiny?
Our things are probably below in the hold at this very moment, if we could search for them.”

Dylan frowned. “I thought you might want to eat, not go shopping.”

“Eat? That bilge you fed us earlier was quite enough, thank you. Did you come to threaten us with another meal?”

“Yes.” He smiled slightly. “And to see if you needed anything.”

“And as I have just told you, we do. Would it be possible, do you think?”

“Doubtful. But I’ll ask around.” He hesitated. “If I ask Saber about new clothes for you, I want a promise in return.”

Angela exchanged glances with Emily. “What promise?” she finally asked.

“That you stop pissing him off. Every time he talks to you, he ends up in a mood as foul as the bilge on a whaler. Let up, will you?”

“Pardon me, but I do not see how you can hold me even slightly responsible for your captain’s foul moods. As he is the sole ruler of the
Sea Tyrant—”

“Tiger,”
Dylan cut in.

“Excuse me. A natural enough error.
Tiger,
then—it seems to me that he is solely responsible for his own moods. Can I help it if he enjoys terrorizing innocent victims?’

“You can help how you react,” Dylan said frankly “Not that anything
I
have to say will matter, but if you’d just be a bit more agreeable—”

“Agreeable!” Angela stared at him in angry amazement. “If I were any more agreeable, I’d be in his bed.”

“That might help.” Dylan gave her back an angry stare. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re on a bloody pirate ship. If you were on a ship with any other captain, you might already be a ride-under for most of the crew, in case that helps you make up your mind.”

Tension roiled thickly between them as Angela and Dylan glared at one another. It was Emily who broke the tension.

“Excuse me, but isn’t there a less intimate and demanding manner in which to appease Captain Saber?” she asked in a quavering voice.

Dylan visibly relaxed, and his gaze shifted to Emily’s face. “Aye. Placate him instead of prod him. Truthfully, he’s never had much use for women that I can tell, but he’s not deliberately cruel, either. He can be congenial most of the time.”

“I’ve not noticed his congeniality,” Angela remarked, “but I will endeavor to placate him at every turn if you will get us clean clothing. And a bath,” she added as an afterthought. “We could both use one.”

The pirate’s eyes widened to the size of Spanish doubloons. “Jeezus. Does this look like a royal pleasure yacht? A bath. Why not ask for steak and kidney pie, something that might be remotely possible?”

“I take it you mean a bath is impossible.”

“Nearly. It’d most likely cause a riot if the crew got wind of it. Two naked females in a tub of water? God forbid. I can imagine Saber’s reaction if I were dumb enough to even ask.”

“I did not request a bath on the main deck for the entertainment of the crew,” Angela pointed out. “Only a few minutes of privacy.”

Dylan swept off his hat, stroking the curved ostrich feather between his fingers. He looked thoughtful. “Jeez. Do you have to look at me like that? It’s not as if I care if you bathe. It’s the crew. Not a man jack of ’em wouldn’t give their best to take a peek. I’m not even certain there’s a tub on board anyway. Isn’t there something else you’d like more?”

“Freedom, but right now a bath is the most practical and likely necessity that occurs to me.” Angela crossed her arms over her chest. “It seems to me to be a simple enough request, especially in light of the request you made for me to throw myself at Saber like a harlot.”

Dylan sighed. “I didn’t mean it that way, though it would probably put him in a much better mood.” He paused, then said, “I think there might be a tub in Saber’s cabin. Nothing fancy, though. He usually does like the rest of us.”

“Without?” Angela snapped, nettled by Dylan’s obvious indifference and refusal to understand.

Instead of being chastened, Dylan grinned. “I admit that my usual baths are taken in a hard rain, but if I soap up quick, I can get most of the dirt off before the rain stops.”

“How enlightening. It conjures up a wonderful image.” She drew in a deep breath. “However, we prefer being allowed the luxury of bathing in the privacy of our cabin.”

“Jeez, you don’t mind asking the impossible, do you.” Dylan’s grin removed any sting from his words. He shook his head, long hair brushing like dark silk over his shoulders. “I won’t make any promises, but I’ll see. Remember
your
promise. I’m tired of catching hell because Saber ain’t getting what he really wants from you.”

She should have been affronted by this last, but somehow, with Dylan’s sunny smile and engaging face, she found it difficult. An unwilling smile tugged at the corners of her mouth despite her efforts to look disapproving.

“You’d best get used to it,” she said. “I do not intend to give him whatever it is you think he wants.”

Dylan looked frankly disbelieving, but was polite enough not to argue that point. Instead, he said earnestly, “Theory aside, you need to watch your step with Saber. He’s not a man to trifle with on some things.”

“Don’t I already know that?” she retorted.

“Apparently not. Last I heard, you half crippled him with your knee. A man’s not likely to forget that blow to his ego—or his manhood.”

With that subtle warning echoing in her head, Angela allowed the pirate to coax them into eating. He had wooden kids in the passageway, he announced, with tasty treats just for the ladies. Would they care to try some honey cakes before the weevils got them?

His wheedling was hard to resist, and soon both Emily and Angela were seated at the small table with trays in front of them. Once the covers were removed, they found to their delight that the food was, indeed, quite edible.

“Umm,” Emily said dreamily, with sauce still smeared on her upper lip, “this is quite good.”

Dylan smiled as if he were personally responsible for cooking the meal. “You’re lucky it was me in charge instead of Turk, or you’d be eating weeds and seeds. I told Beans to outdo himself. I even gave him a book with recipes, so you’re his first experiment. What with our recent take, this food would only spoil, I told Beans. And don’t he need the practice? Why cook for mates who don’t have the experience to appreciate fine food near as much as you two ladies?”

Knowing that it was filched food did not deter Angela’s pleasure in the least, which only proved to her that she had already abandoned some of her more refined principles. She devoured the chicken baked in a clever sauce of herbs and vinegar, crusty rolls that were flaky and soft on the inside, and fruit sautéed in butter. The honey cakes were the crowning glory, rich and heavy, sprinkled with chopped almonds and garnished with ripe red cherries.

Dylan watched silently, straddling a chair and swinging his hat idly from the tip of a finger. The feather fluttered with the movement. Once he got up and opened the door wide, “To let in fresh air,” he said, and sat back down.

Angela eyed him. “Would you like a portion?” she asked, indicating her half-finished plate. Dylan shook his head and said cheerily that he had eaten already, but thank you very much. His gaze strayed again and again to dark-haired Emily, to her pretty, plump face and generous curves. Angela silently fretted. It would never do for a pirate to form an attachment for Emily. Or would it?

The idea came to her with such sizzling clarity that she was astonished she had not considered it before. Why could they not use Dylan’s obvious admiration for Emily to gain their freedom? Women had been doing that sort of thing since time began—all it took was some ingenuity and subtlety. Surely, Emily could manage to coax Dylan into helping them if he believed that she cared for him.

It was certainly a solution, though a risky one. She would have to think on it a bit more before presenting it to Emily. After all, it would require much more than a bit of flirting, she was certain, but she did not know how far Emily would be able to go without blurting out the truth or fleeing. Emily’s plain, honest, nature did not lend itself to duplicity, which did not say very much for herself, Angela considered with a silent sigh. But then again, she was desperate.