My Lady Pirate (17 page)
“My being here,” Maeve said, ignoring his long-suffering look as she straightened the
tasseled epaulets atop his stiff, erect shoulders, “is merely to return the traitor to you. Surely, your Emma will forgive you my assistance in such a noble matter.”
Nelson stared at her, amazed that she had read his mind, astounded at the education and
upbringing reflected in her speech. But no. Captain Colin Lord—her
cousin,
by God—had told him all about her, this proud daughter of a New England hero. She was no mere pirate, but a misguided young girl who had run away from home and had likely learned some very harsh lessons in her life.
“I know what you’re thinking, milord,” she said quietly, “but no, I cannot read minds, only predict the future with occasional frequency.”
She smiled then, a sad, lonely smile that was instantly quelled by a tightening of her lips and a quick blinking of her eyes. If her demeanor wasn’t so fierce, he would’ve sworn she was, or had been, crying. He frowned, his brows lowering, as he considered that Gray might be the source of those tears. “Come, milord,” she said, tugging at his empty sleeve. “Let’s get this unpleasant matter over with. The sooner this bast—I beg your pardon, the sooner this
traitor—
is out of my sight and delivered into your justice, the happier I’ll be.”
She strode toward the door, her spine stiff with pride, her hair tumbling down her back in tangled glory.
“Wait.
“
She paused, and he saw her pass a knuckle under one eye, then the other, hastily, in the hope he wouldn’t notice. His suspicions burned like acid in his breast and he fixed her with his most penetrating glare. “Has this
traitor
hurt you, madam?”
Her chin jerked up and she gave a defiant, unconvincing hoot of laughter. “Hurt me? No one can hurt me, milord, I passed beyond
that
realm of feeling long ago. Now do you want him or not?”
He guessed that Gray had indeed done something to hurt her, and Nelson, who was well
aware of that rogue’s philandering ways, had a damned good inkling of just what it had been. His jaw went tight and fuming, he turned, fumbling in his desk. “Payment,” he snapped, unable to keep his anger with his former midshipman from his voice, “you must have payment for rendering this service to my country—”
“Keep your money, Admiral. I do not want it.”
“No, no, I must insist—”
“Please.” She held up her hand. “The only payment I expect is for you to take him off my
hands. I hope to God I never set eyes on him again.”
She opened the door. A marine stood outside, and he gaped at the sight of her, made as if to grab her arm, and shrank back at the blistering look she gave him. Head high, the Pirate Queen strode past him and out of the cabin, leaving Nelson staring after her with no small degree of dismay and concern.
Damn you, Gray!
Snatching up his hat, the furious little admiral strode swiftly from the cabin.
Gray stood on the broad quarterdeck of H.M.S.
Victory,
bound at the wrists and watching the schooner melt off into the night with a wistful, calculating look in his dark eye.
He was going to catch hell for this one, that was for damned sure. He was wearing snug
black breeches. His hair was wind-tousled and far too long, trailing partway down his back. His feet were bare, his shirt smeared with blood, his jaw cloaked with a rough mat of black stubble, and his ear pierced by a very
piratical-
looking hoop of gold.
It was no way to appear before an admiral, and he instantly set about deflecting the
impending attack. Tearing his gaze from the sea, aglitter with waves caught in the glow from
Victory's
stem lanterns high above, he turned, met Nelson’s furious gaze—and grinned.
“So, sir. Are you going to hang me now?”
Nelson’s lips thinned out, his eyes flashed, but the quick movement of his throat betrayed his emotion. “You ought to be damned ashamed of yourself!”
“I know.”
“You, a King’s officer and Knight of the Bath, going about dressed as a goddamned
pirate!
By God,
now
I know why you so desperately wanted the West Indies command, so you could play out your fantasies and pretend you’re the scourge of the Spanish Main, am I right?”
“But sir”—Gray’s dark face split in an innocent grin and he held his wrists out so that a midshipman, at Nelson’s impatient beckoning, could cut him loose—”I
am
the scourge of the Spanish Main. Ask any lady in the Indies and she will tell you so.”
Their eyes met. Nelson swallowed, hard. Gray’s grin faded. The years fell away, and they
were again as they had once been, as they had always been. Gray saw the emotion in Nelson’s eyes, emotion he had never been able nor willing to hide, emotion that even here, on the decks of the mighty
Victory
in full view of Hardy, his lieutenants, and several hundred watching men, he was not ashamed to show. His throat worked, and, as though not trusting himself to speak, he reached up, put his hand on Gray’s shoulder—and embraced him.
Then he drew back and, turning smartly, beckoned Gray to follow.
The crew watched them go, their famous admiral and the dark pirate, both radiating the
power of command but so drastically different from each other in appearance and manner as to make the crew exchange excited whispers, comments, and speculations. Who was this
mysterious stranger brought to them by a comely pirate wench? Who was he that he could
address their beloved admiral as though the two stood on common ground? Who was he that
their poor Nelson had nearly wept upon embracing him?
Hundreds of eyes flashed to Captain Hardy, whose face was shadowed from the glow of the
deck lanterns by the brim of his hat. Hardy knew. They could tell just by the way he suddenly looked down and scuffed his toe against
Victory's
deck planking. Then he glanced up and, frowning, barked out an order to trim the main course.
###
Victory's
gleaming paintwork, her neat rows of guns, the detail and workmanship that had gone into every beam, every carving, every turn of wood that made her the formidable machine of war that she was. Magnificently beautiful, the proud first rate was the best the Royal Navy had to offer its most famous admiral, and Gray felt a warm glow of approval on behalf of his friend and mentor.
“Victory,”
Gray said softly, running his fingers over a paneled bulkhead. “It’s about time she wore your flag.”
Nelson paused outside his cabin. “Yes, and
she
will be the one to carry me to triumph and immortality.” He impaled Gray with a penetrating stare that was zealous, determined, and
defiant. “Mark me on
that.”
Gray smiled sadly. “Let us hope, sir, for your sake and our country’s that such a fate does not come about too soon.”
Nelson shrugged. “I am in debt. My body is a shattered and pitiful carcass. I am racked by guilt, grief, persistent spasms in my chest, and God knows what else. Far better to be done in by a Frenchman’s guns than my own poor health. After you, Gray.”
Nelson. Ever the fatalist, ever the romantic, still expecting to die in every battle and live forever as the immortal savior of his beloved country. Gray wondered if he still kept his coffin—
carved from the mainmast of the French flagship he’d defeated at the Nile—in his cabin. Even now he could remember the morbid delight Nelson had taken in showing off the grim
masterpiece to anyone who cared to see it . . .
But no, as they passed through the palatial dining cabin with its long, mahogany table
gleaming beneath the swinging lanterns, its chairs lined neatly around it, Gray didn’t see the coffin—though Emma, of course, was in her usual place on the bulkhead. He saw Nelson’s eyes flash to the portrait and was happy to know the fire still burned between them.
Gray thought of his last glimpse of
Kestrel,
melting into the darkness, and felt pain washing over his heart.
Nelson waved him toward a chair. “Some champagne perhaps, after your little
excursion?”
“Rum, sir, if you have it.”
“Of course. How could I have forgotten?
Blackbeard’s
favorite drink.”
Gray smirked, dropped into a chair just beneath the black, mirrored row of
Victory’s
stern windows, and leaned his head back against the soft padding.
Aah, it felt good just to sit.
With assessing eyes, he watched his friend pour the drinks, and frowned with concern. Nelson’s hand was shaking and he did not look well. The admiral was pale and wan, his cheeks sunken with stress and his respiration marked by a persistent, deep-rooted cough. But there was nothing amiss with his stare, and it was this penetrating eye that he turned on Gray as he handed him his glass and toasted Emma, King, and Country.
Emma, King, and Country.
Nelson’s three reasons for life, service, going into battle, and, no doubt, for death. No, his friend had not changed at all. A little older, a lot wearier, perhaps a bit calmer, but the same obsessions still drove him. Gray lifted the glass to his lips, let the sweet-harsh liquid burn its way down his throat, and, with an effusive
aaah!
to signify his approval, balanced the glass on his drawn-up knee.
Nelson was staring at him, his eye shrewd, penetrating, questioning, appraising. Gray’s
answering gaze was casual, patient, relaxed—humorous.
Nelson slammed his glass down atop the table. “Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“By God, Gray, just what do you have to say for yourself?”
So much for pleasantries and fond reunions,
Gray thought, wryly. He draped an arm over the back of the chair. “Say for myself? Well, to start with—damn, it’s good to see you again after all these years, sir. You really should come visit more often.”
“Hang it, Gray, you know very well what I meant! Here’s Bonaparte poised to attack
England,
Veal-noove
and the combined fleet romping through the West Indies, and
you’re
off carousing with Maeve, the Pirate Queen! You know, you put me in the most distressing position of having to play along with your little game! Do you thing that makes me feel good in
here?”
He pounded his fist to his chest. “Do you think I enjoy having to lie for you? This had better be a damned good story, Gray!”
Gray smiled, looked heavenward, and, spreading a hand over his chest, gave a theatrical
sigh. “And here, sir, I thought you’d applaud my cleverness, my shrewdness . . .”
“I will choose whether or not to applaud it
after
you explain what you’re doing dressed as a pirate—”
“Making a raid upon a Barbados beauty,” Gray countered, smoothly.
—”flying a damned
Jolly Roger
from a
King’s
ship—”
“A pirate-aspirant must display a suitable flag.”
—”and concocting this
ridiculous
story about being a traitor, just to fool Captain Lord’s poor cousin!”
Gray sat straight up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Maeve Merrick, Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you?
Your own flag-captain didn’t know and he’s been in these waters as long as you’ve been! Don’t look so damned shocked. She and Captain Lord are
cousins.”
Nelson tightened his mouth, obviously enjoying the fact he had, as usual, the element of
surprise.
“Well . . .” Gray raked a hand through the damp, glossy waves of his hair, his thoughts
awhirl.
Maeve was Colin’s cousin?
“That is indeed a shock! How did
you,
sir, of all people, learn of such a thing?”
“Captain Lord told me. He recognized her name, and her schooner’s, when she crashed in
here several nights ago and announced she had a deserter she wanted to sell to me! Seems the girl ran away from home seven years ago and no one’s seen her since. Her parents have long given her up for dead. Damn you, Gray, what am I to do with you?”
Given her up for dead?
Gray felt the shock hit him squarely in the gut. If they’d given her up for dead, then, contrary to Maeve’s beliefs, they
must
have been searching for her! Somehow he had to find her, tell her, take her away from that damned island and set things aright—not only between Maeve and her parents, but Maeve and
himself.
“Damn it, Gray, I asked you what I’m to do with you!”
Gray was swift to recover. “If I could impose upon you, sir, to have Captain Hardy signal
Triton
—yes, I saw her sailing in consort with you—so that Colin may come collect me? I have some important business to oversee, sir, before I go home on leave.”
“How good of you to think of that
now.
A convoy to meet and escort back to England, I believe?”
“Aye, if it has not already left.”
“Indeed, it has not. It is anchored at Barbados, where Captain Young of His Majesty’s
frigate
Cricket
is waiting, and rather anxiously, I might add, for his
commander in chief
to arrive.”
“Young is a patient man,” Gray said, and absently swirled the rum in his glass. “Besides, what’s another day or two, eh?”
Nelson exploded. “Damn it, Gray, must you be so damned
blithe?
Do you know what angst you have caused me these past few days, worrying about you, what absolute
hell
you have put me through? I swear, you have taken ten years off my life! Men of your rank do
not
act out their pirate fantasies and then expect no repercussions from them!”
Gray grinned, embarrassed. “You know then about my . . . um,
acquaintance
with Lady Catherine?”
“I know about Lady Catherine, I know about Mistress Delaney, I know about General
Walsingham’s wife, I know about the Somersby sisters, and I have a feeling I
know
about Maeve Merrick! And don’t look so damned surprised,” he added, tartly. “Your faithful Captain Warner was willing to lie through his teeth to protect what reputation you have left, but Captain Lord, bless his soul, is honest to a fault. It distressed him to have to tell me the truth, but tell me he did!”