My Lady Pirate (20 page)

I am, most respectfully,

Nelson and Brőnte.

Brőnte was the name of the dukedom given him by the grateful King Ferdinand of the Two

Sicilies—it still seemed odd, sometimes, to use it as part of his signature. Leaving the letter on his desk, Nelson nodded to the marine who stood guard outside his cabin, and, purposefully made his way down through the decks.

“Afternoon, milord.”

“Blessings, sir.”

“We’ll catch that bugger Villeneuve soon, sir, an’ that’s no mistake!”

Nelson nodded in his kind and quiet away, acknowledging the humble greetings of the

seamen who spent their lives packed like sardines on these crowded gundecks, the sons of

England who were all that stood between Britain and Napoleon’s tyrannical ambitions. He

continued downward. A ship’s boy, carrying a pail, passed him, nodded reverently, scurried off into the darkness.

“Easy there, young fellow.”

He kept going. He felt the ocean pounding against
Victory's
massive timbers, then there was only muffled, shadowy gloom as he descended down past the waterline and entered the grim

domain of the surgeon.

“Dr. Beatty.”

“Sir.”

“How is your patient?”

“Holding, sir.”

Nelson nodded quietly. The girl had been bloody and unconscious when
Victory’s
seamen had carried her aboard and down to the surgeon’s area, where Dr. Beatty and his mates had spent the last two hours desperately trying to save her young life.

She was only a girl. Nelson clenched his fist in helpless rage.
Just a girl, by God.

He began to pace, his face anxious as he passed in and out of the dim glow of a lantern. “Is she going to live, Beatty?”

“I don’t know, milord. The wound itself is not serious, as the ball merely pierced her side and went clean through—but it’s the head injury that concerns me most. Granted, she’s a game little thing, but one can never tell with these sort of injuries—”

“That is not what I asked you!” Nelson snapped. “Is she going to live?”

“Prayers, milord, would not do her any harm.”

Nelson continued to pace. He tried not to look at her, but the soft fall of red-chestnut hair spilling over the table beckoned his eye. She was just a girl who had run away from home on the same day the Battle of the Nile had been fought, a girl who had brought Gray back to him, a girl who had done the navy a greater service than she might ever know.

A girl who deserved to live.

He went up to her, and stared down at her face, pale with shock and loss of blood. He had seen death too many times in his life not to recognize the signs. The shallow, labored breathing.

The faint blue tinge to the lips. The pale, ethereal skin that looked more fragile than tissue paper.

The girl’s lashes fluttered. He saw a tear welling up at the corner of one closed eye, seeping out from beneath the fringe of dark lashes to begin a halting, rolling path down one cheek. Her lips moved. Another tear followed the first, this one tumbling down the opposite cheek.

“Milord . . .” Her voice was the merest whisper, but she knew that he had come, knew that he was there. “Please . . . don’t leave me. . .”

Something caught in the little admiral’s throat. He swallowed hard. Then he reached out to take the girl’s hand.

It was dry, callused . . . cold.

Like death.

“Please . . . don’t leave me,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die alone . . . “

“Damn me if I’ll let you,” Admiral Lord Nelson snapped, and squeezed her hand.

“I tried . . . tried so hard to . . . survive . . . you’ll tell my father, won’t you? I want him . . .

to be proud of me . . . “

Nelson’s mouth tightened. He looked down at the lovely, still face that now, unguarded,

looked all of ten years old, the hair, matted with blood, sweeping in damp, sweaty tumbles off her forehead.

Hardy entered, stooping almost double to fit beneath the gloomy deckhead beams. The

admiral glanced up and bestowed upon his flag-captain his most penetrating glare. He placed the hand he held under the blanket and, with an impatient gesture, led Hardy out of the range of Maeve’s hearing.

“Thomas.”

“Sir?”

“There is a letter lying open on my desk. Seal it and put it with the rest of the mail to be delivered at the next landfall we make. And is
Triton
still within signaling distance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then please dispatch our fastest frigate to recall her. Tell Captain Colin Lord to bring his admiral back to me, immediately. The girl is dying, and there is only one man who has a prayer of saving her. One man who might convince her that life is worth living.
One man, by God, who
has the power to command her to live when I cannot!”

Hardy’s eyes searched the anguished face of the little hero. “Sir?”

But Nelson, tight-mouthed, was looking at the girl.

“Her pirate,” he said softly. “Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer.”

HMS
Triton's
grandest cabin did not belong to its captain, but to another, more powerful man, who outranked not only Colin Lord but the thousands of men in the more than forty ships that made up the Royal Navy’s West Indies Fleet.

That man sat in the cabin now, a chart of the Windward Islands spread out before him, the ship’s sailing master and captain looking over his shoulder and glancing bleakly between

themselves.

On a black snarl, Gray shoved the chart away and sent his fist crashing down on the table.

“Bloody hell, that damned island is not even
charted!”
he raged, lunging to his feet and pacing the sunlit chamber with the restless energy of an angry panther. “By my reckoning it’s near Barbados.
Barbados!”
He glared at the frightened sailing master. “You mean to tell me you don’t know of one miserable, stinking island a stone’s throw from Barbados?”

“Sorry, sir. As you can see, it’s not on the char—”

“I know it’s not on the damned chart!” Gray flung up his hands. “Just get out. Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

The hapless officer nodded and beat a hasty retreat. Colin Lord, however, never flinched.

“Really, sir,” he said calmly, “I’m sure we will find the island.”

“As though I have all the time in the world! The convoy’s already waiting for us at

Barbados, assembled and ready to go. I’m already late; I don’t have time to go looking for uncharted islands!”

Very carefully, Colin said, “No one said you
have
to, sir.”

Gray whirled, eyes blazing. He started to say something, to rebuke his captain for his

impudence; then, he sighed and turned away, raking his hand through his hair. Colin did not deserve his anger. The sailing master did not deserve his anger. No one did.

“Forgive me, Colin,” he murmured, and strode to the panoramic stern windows. He rested

his hands on the brocaded bench seat. “I am not myself.”

His gaze moved far out over the blue sea. In his mind's eye he saw Maeve’s lean body

beneath him, her eyes beautiful and trusting as he entered her and made her his own. Again, he felt the tender warmth as she’d confided in him, let down her guard, confessed her fears and hopes and cried for the loss of her family. And again, he felt the searing, horrible ache at what he’d had to do in order to facilitate his return to the British Navy.

“If I may speak, sir?”

Gray said nothing, merely looking down as he traced a pattern on the sunlit brocade with his finger.

“You’re in love with her . . . aren’t you, sir?”

Gray never moved. He felt the sun burning hot against his face, his hands, the wind

sweeping through the open windows and playing with his hair. He gazed out to sea once more, and his shoulders settled with something like defeat beneath the glittering epaulets that capped them.

“I don’t know, Colin.” He looked out at the distant horizon. “Maybe. Hell. Yes, I guess I am.
Christ.
”

The flag-captain’s voice was steady, reassuring. “We’ll find that island, sir. It may not be on the charts, but surely, someone in these waters must know of it. In fact, when we arrive at Barbados—”

The thump of the marine sentry’s musket just outside interrupted him. Both officers turned.

The door opened, and a young lieutenant stood there, his hat in his hands.

“Mr. Stern’s respects, sir, and one of Lord Nelson’s frigates is closing fast on us from the north’rd. It’s
Amphion.
”

“
Amphion?”
Colin Lord exchanged a puzzled glance with Gray. “Didn’t Lord Nelson take the Mediterranean Fleet to Antigua in search of Villeneuve?”

“Aye—but perhaps he has found his nemesis and requests our assistance . . .”

Colin grabbed his hat. “Excuse me, sir. I must go topside to receive
Amphion'
s captain.”

Gray sighed and watched the two officers leave. There was nothing he could do but wait for whatever urgent news
Amphion's
captain had brought.

And think.

You’re in love with her, aren’t you, sir?

He smiled.

Yes. I guess that maybe I am.

And then he heard the side party being mustered, the pipes shrilling, footfalls echoing on the deck just outside his quarters. He sat down at his table, the picture of unruffled calm despite the turmoil that buffeted his heart from all directions. A moment later, the marine sentry was rapping his musket against the deck and announcing Captain Sutton of the frigate
Amphion.

“I come with grave news, sir, but his lordship wanted you to know.” Captain Sutton pulled a sealed missive from his pocket. “It concerns the Pirate Queen. She’s been hurt and he thought—”

Gray was on his feet and across the cabin before the startled captain could even hand the missive over. He snatched it from Sutton’s hand and hastily scanned Nelson’s scribbly words, the blood draining from his face.

Colin was there, steady and true and dependable. “Your orders, sir?”

“Put the ship about and lay a course back toward Antigua.” Gray crumpled the note and

shoved it into his pocket.
“Now!”

###

drifting out . . . his hand on her wrist.
Don't leave me, Admiral
. . . snug pressure around her ribs as a surgeon, yes, he must be a surgeon, bound them tight, tight, tighter . . . the admiral squeez-ing her hand . . .
please, milord, don’t abandon me!
. . . darkness . . . Daddy—
Gray.

She heard the deep baritone of his voice as he talked to the admiral and knew then that she was dead, because
he
was dead, Lord Nelson had hanged him, she had killed him . . .
Killed
him
. . . She was hot, so hot, sweating . . . feverish . . . movement . . . being lifted up, being carried . . . darkness.

Killed him.

Someone plaiting her hair with gentle, loving fingers . . . Time, passing. Darkness. Voices.

She opened her eyes, but it took too much effort to keep them open, so she lay there

miserably, sweating in the intense heat and unable to move.

She tried again. Shadows. Light. A quiet room, lantern light, soft pillows under her head, a light sheet over her body. Oh, how her head ached. Agony sliced across her ribs with every shallow breath.

Don’t breathe and it won’t hurt.

“Breathe,” a voice commanded, and that voice was Gray's.

But Gray was dead. She didn’t want to breathe. She wanted to sink down, down, down, to

where
he
was . . . She wanted to give up. She wanted to be with her Knight, her pirate; she wanted to die.

She stopped breathing.

“Breathe, sweetheart.” A warm palm cupped her cheek, lips touched her brow. Gray. He

wanted her to breathe. He was
ordering
her to breathe, and she hadn’t the fight in her to refuse him. Yes, for him, she would breathe . . . Air moved into her lungs and she whimpered with the pain of it. Dizziness swept over her and sweat ran down her temples and into her hair. She felt sick. Spent. Weak as dishwater.

Breathe.

Oh God, it hurt.

Breathe!
the voice commanded, again.

She moved her head, the slightest fraction of an inch, and felt a damp lock of her hair sliding down over her brow, over her eye, dragging the lid shut with it. A hand, broad and strong and tender, was there, brushing it back, the thumb lingering lovingly at her temple, caressing her cheek.

Someone came into the room. She heard footsteps, sensed someone looming over her,

peeling back the sheet to take her pulse and check the bandage.

“She may not make it, sir.”

“She damn well
will
make it if I have to cross into the hereafter and drag her back!”

Through the slit of one half-opened eye she saw shapes and shadows and colors. White that was crisp and clean like fresh snow. Gold that appeared to be buttons and lace, and blue fabric, lots of blue fabric. The colors and the buttons were fuzzy, blurred, sharpening now into distinct lines and folds and patterns—becoming a coat, like Nelson’s.

But the voice was not Nelson’s, it was Gray’s—and Gray was dead.

“Blast you, is there
nothing
more you can do for her, Ryder?”

“No, Sir Graham. With a head injury, one can never tell the extent of damage until the

patient awakens. Nelson’s surgeon has already done all that man can do. The rest is up to God.”

“Very well then. Kindly leave us.”

Maeve lay still, listening to the fading footsteps, the perspiration tumbling down her brow, soaking the sheets beneath her back. She sighed, wishing she had strength to move her head, to fully open her eyes. She saw one of the buttons on Gray’s coat. That was all. It was gold, highly polished, with the Royal Navy anchor in raised relief upon it.

Like Nelson’s.

“But you’re dead,” she whispered.