My Lady Pirate (26 page)

“The nation will still love you, sir.”

“Will it, Hardy?
Will
it? Oh, if I fail to find the enemy—oh, Hardy, pray God we receive word at Antigua!”

Raising the telescope to his good eye, the admiral trained it on the dark sea, as though he could summon his nemesis from the waves themselves.

But it was empty, and even Lord Nelson could not know that the panicky Villeneuve had

already received word of Nelson's pursuit and, against Napoleon Bonaparte’s orders, was fleeing the Caribbean as fast as the wind could take him.

###

The convoy that he was taking back to England with him was—as it had been for a week—

waiting at Barbados when H.M.S.
Triton
had finally arrived and dropped anchor there several hours after sunset. Now, the following morning, 130 merchant ships of every size, shape, and degree of seaworthiness were hastily preparing to get under way. From the massive 1200-and 800-ton Indiamen and three-masted ships down to the brigantines, barkentines, schooners, and sloops, the convoy made an impressive sight beneath a pale morning sky smeared with haze.

Three smart and dashing frigates from Sir Graham’s fleet of warships, commanded by equally smart and dashing young captains vying with each other to impress him with their prowess, cruised between the merchant ships like sheepdogs rounding up a flock, and towering protectively over the entire armada of fighting and merchant ships alike, her gunports open to catch every lazy bit of breeze, was the powerful flagship of Sir Graham himself, H.M.S
Triton.

For some—the young flag-captain Colin Lord, the homesick men of the fleet, and the

admiral himself—the several-hour stop at Barbados to pick up the convoy was far too long. Most of them had not seen their beloved Britain for years, and were impatient to gaze upon those misty shores once more.

Their course was already plotted. They would use the westerlies, turning their prows

northward, swinging in a long, gentle curve parallel to the North American coast, before crossing the Atlantic and going on to England. Sir Graham anticipated no trouble—though he, like most navy men, detested the laggardness of the merchant ships and the characteristic sloppiness and disregard for sailing efficiency for which their captains were noted.

Now, with most of the convoy safely clear of Barbados and a lieutenant waiting to carry his dispatches off the ship, Gray was still below, finishing up official business. He hated writing, and his penmanship—a long, sloping scrawl that looked like waves parading before a storm— reflected it. Indeed, he was the only one who could read it, but then, there was a reason that admirals were afforded a secretary and several clerks—to do the pen-pushing for them.

His secretary, Shoesmith, looked up, his eyes pedantic behind his tiny spectacles. “Will that be all, sir?”

“No, one more memorandum, Shoesmith.” Sir Graham had been walking back and forth,

thinking on his feet, dictating his wishes aloud for the past two hours. Since arriving in Barbados the night before, he’d dictated a letter of farewell to the governor of Barbados, settled a dispute between two of his captains, answered a request from a commander on Antigua for additional marine support, dispatched two frigates to investigate reports of French harassment of fisherman off one of the Leewards, declined an invitation to dine with the premier planter on Barbados, declined another to attend a ball given by a Lady Sarah Wanderley, responded to another flag officer’s request for supporting warships, made a report to the Admiralty in London, ordered some flowering plants and a dozen roses to be brought aboard his flagship, and sent a polite note to Lady Catherine terminating their brief but passionate affair.

An average day in his life as an admiral. Thank God he was going home for a while after

two years of continuous Caribbean service.

He dictated one last memorandum giving final instructions to the senior captain he’d be

leaving behind and dismissed the loyal Shoesmith. After seeing his dispatches delivered to the waiting lieutenant, he donned his coat and hat and, nursing a headache brought on by the series of mundane matters in which he'd spent his morning, went topside.

A blazing sun beat down on the deck. The convoy was still filing out of the harbor to the tune of foc’s’le chanteys and fiddles, the shouted commands of captains and lieutenants alike; capstans heaved and groaned, men sweated, anchors were catted, and boatloads of fruit merchants and prostitutes, lavishly dressed ladies and dapper gentlemen went to and fro and lined the shore.

Someone coughed, and the officers on the quarterdeck snapped to rigid attention at Gray’s appearance.

“Sir!”

He found Colin near the helm, anxiously watching each ship make her laborious way out of

the anchorage and into open sea. The flag-captain looked up and touched his hat. “Any change in formation, sir?”

“No, Captain Lord,” Gray responded, formally. “If we can keep this miserable lot in

something of a rectangle, with our three frigates ahead, astern, and on the wings of it, I shall be most happy. A devilishly impossible wish, of course, but see what you can do.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Signal the frigates
Harleigh
and
Cricket
that I'll want them ahead and to windward of the weathermost column of the convoy, so they can quickly run down to wherever they may be

needed. Damn this sun, it’s hot.”

“And the little
Kestrel,
sir?”

“Eh?”

“The Pirate Queen’s schooner . . . I’m sorry. You wouldn’t know. She sent one of the Irish girls to me an hour ago and volunteered the ship for our use.
Kestrel
is to accompany us back to England. I—uh, already gave them a copy of the signal book.”

“Surely, you’re not serious.”

Colin shrugged and looked at him patiently.

“Very well then. If they want to play navy, signal them to run up British colors. Whose idea was this, anyhow? I cannot, for the life of me, imagine Maeve allowing the crew of that little toy to assist
me
in any way.”

“With all due respect, sir, then perhaps you should ask her. She and the two Irish girls are on the poop deck, er, watching you.”

“Is that so, now?” Sir Graham grinned and drew himself up like a rooster thrown amidst a

flock of hens. “And who’s commanding the schooner?”

“Her lieutenant, sir. I tried to explain to my cousin that this is
not
how the navy operates, but

. . . ”

The admiral shook his head. Now that the paperwork was out of the way, his headache

fading, and most of the convoy clear of the harbor, he could afford to feel obliging and tolerant.

“No, it’s not, but I will make an exception in the interest of . . . amusing her. Especially since she’s a convalescent and quite unhappy about it. Advise that she-viper she left in command of the schooner to station herself just to windward of Captain Warner’s
Harleigh,
where she might find a use for herself in acting as lookout. That ought to keep her out of trouble, harm’s way,
and
my hair.”

Colin nodded formally and kept his eye on Sir Graham, looking resplendent, capable, and

yes, annoyed, as he watched a brigantine struggling to set her mainsail.

The admiral thinned his lips and turned away from the sight. “I would like to see topsails up shortly, if you please.”

“Aye, sir.” Colin turned and stiffly barked out the order. “Topmen aloft!”

“Topmen aloft!” the first lieutenant repeated through his speaking trumpet, and moments

later, a swarm of men were leaping up the shrouds and streaming out along the yards. Gray, his hands behind his back, nodded in quiet approval as bright curves of sail came spilling down, arcing to the wind and thundering with power and anticipation.

Forward, the anchor cable was vertical and taut, the lieutenant there turning to signal to Captain Lord that the mighty ship was ready to show her heels to Barbados.

“They’re watching you, sir.”

“Really, now?” His face instantly brightening, the admiral turned aft to face the poop deck, swept off his fancy gold-laced hat, and saluted the Pirate Queen.

Beneath the awning, Her Majesty—wearing the admiral’s long nightshirt and wrapped in a

light blanket— sat in a chair flanked by two of her ladies-in-waiting, Aisling and Sorcha.

“The admiral just saluted you, Majesty.”

“The admiral can go to hell.”

“He’s very nice, Majesty. Do you know what he did?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“You should care, Majesty, after all, he
did
send that note over to
Kestrel
inviting us aboard to keep you company.”

“How magnanimous of him.”

“Do you want to know what else he did?”

Maeve yanked her straw hat down so she could gaze at Sir Graham without him taking note

of her perusal. But he had caught her stare, and even from this distance she could see his smile, the devilish glint in his eye. “No. And I don’t
want
to know.”

Obviously, Aisling was determined that she
would
know, whether she wanted to or not. “He sent over a shipment of pistols and gunpowder to Enolia and Orla. And he gave me this—” She angled her head to the side and showed her very annoyed captain the mermaid charm that rested on a rope of serpentine gold around her neck. “Isn’t it pretty? He gave Sorcha one too. Show the captain
yours,
Sorcha.”

“Mine’s a seahorse.”

“Lovely,” Maeve said, acidly.

“And he was worried about how few people we have to crew
Kestrel,
so he had his captain send over some seamen under the command of a lieutenant with a front tooth missing. Is Captain Lord
really
your cousin, Majesty? He’s so
handsome
!”

“Sorcha’s in love with Captain Lord! I saw the looks she was giving him!”

“And you’re sweet on that toothless lieutenant, Aisling.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Sir Graham was grinning, looking her way.

“Stop it, both of you,” Maeve said, irritably.

“I think you should be nicer to Sir Graham, Majesty,” Aisling declared, and sat down on the deck beside Maeve’s chair. “After all, he
did
give you these roses.”

“And that pretty dress.”

“And that poem on your breakfast tray.”

“I think he wrote it himself. He did, didn’t he, Ash?”

“Oh, he must have. We should ask the flag-captain.
You
should ask the flag-captain, Sorcha, since you’re so in love with him.”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Maeve was getting a headache. “Leave Captain Lord alone; he’s busy getting his ship under way.”

“Sir Graham says we’re going to England. El Perro Negro’s going to go on trial there, but I’ll bet Sir Graham hangs him all the same. At least I hope he does!”

Maeve said nothing, for she had plans of attending to the Spaniard’s disposal herself.

‘I’ve never been to England, have you, Majesty?”

“No. And I have no desire to go to England. If Sir Graham, damn his arrogant eyes, wasn’t forcing me to stay on this ship, I wouldn’t have had to volunteer
Kestrel’s
service just to keep her with us. I’ll be damned if I go
anywhere
without her or my crew.”

Above, wind thundered in sails that waited impatiently to be sheeted home. Instinctively, Maeve glanced up at the mizzenmast, where a white flag emblazoned with a red cross streamed proudly in the wind.

Aisling followed her gaze. “I’ve never seen so many flags in my life. What does that one

mean, Majesty?”

“That an admiral is aboard this ship.”

“Why’s it white?”

“Because Sir Graham is an Admiral of the White.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The Royal Navy is divided into three squadrons, blue, red, and white. Don’t ask me any

more because I don’t know and I don’t
care
to know.”

“So, you mean that when the admiral is aboard, his personal flag goes up? What if he goes aboard another ship?”

“Aisling—”

“The English have flags for everything, don’t they? And speaking of England, Majesty, why don’t you want to go there? Just think, all those princes and kings and lords and ladies—”

“Because
he’s
going to be there.”

“He told us he’s going to marry you. You’ll be Lady Falconer! Doesn’t that sound grand?”

“It sounds vile,” Maeve muttered, and shut her eyes.

“But why, Majesty? Think of what a fairy-tale life that will be!”

“Playing host to a bunch of gossiping naval wives, attending stupid balls, dressing in

restrictive clothes and watching my husband go off to sail the seas while
I’m
forced to stay home and breed babies is not my idea of a damned fairy tale! Now leave me alone, I’ve got a

headache.”

The girls giggled and turned back to stare at Sir Graham and the handsome young Captain

Lord, their youthful chatter drifting in and out of Maeve’s attention. From beneath the shadow of her hat, she watched the activities on the quarterdeck, saw the two officers striding back and forth in quiet conversation. In their fine blue-and-white uniforms and cocked hats, they looked tall, competent, and handsome, and despite herself, a thrill shot through her at the thought of the admiral,
her
admiral, being in command of all these ships and sailors—and
these
were just the ones she could see. Sir Graham also commanded a fleet of over forty battleships and frigates, most of which would remain here in the West Indies during his leave of absence. To think that their every movement, every action, was done in direct accordance to his orders, his wishes . . .

Stop it, Maeve.

She put her hands over her eyes and bent her head.

“Majesty? Are you all right?”

“No,” she murmured, and sagged forward, even as dizziness and darkness swept in and the

Vision seized her . . .