My Lady Pirate (27 page)

Guns crashing around and about them, ships fading in and out of the smoke, cannons

booming, men dying, masts falling across shattered decks, into the sea, musketfire—open sea,
run, run, run, get Nelson and bring him back!

“Maeve?”

Hurry, find Nelson and bring him back!

“Maeve!”

Confused and blinking, she opened her eyes and saw Barbados moving away from them,

turquoise sea around them, and Sir Graham kneeling down before her, his hand on her wrist, his fingers beneath her jaw, his eyes dark, concerned, anxious,
afraid.
He was breathing hard, and Maeve guessed he had run all the way from the quarterdeck, where even now, her cousin had turned to watch them with stiff attention.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shakily. “Just . . . a Dream.”

“Get her some water,” the admiral commanded, and the girls ran off to obey.

Frowning, he looked into her eyes. “What did you see, sweeting?”

Her eyes were huge and frightened. “Enough that I can tell you
not
to make this journey. A sea fight. Death, gunfire, the French Fleet—”

“The French
Fleet?”
The admiral laughed and waved his hand in dismissal. “Yes, yes, of course, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Gray, I’m
telling
you—”

“Dearest heart,” he said patiently, “what you no doubt
saw
was Nelson finally catching up to Villenueve’s fleet and drubbing the hell out of it. That’s what
I
think. And you know what else I think? That you’ve been far too long out in this heat. I shall bring you down to the quarterdeck and set you beneath the shadow of the poop deck; ’tis much cooler there, and I can keep a better eye on you.”

“Gray, you
must
believe me!”

He paused and his face grew serious. “Maeve, I don’t doubt that what you saw seemed real, but I can’t change our charted course, or Nelson’s, based on a Vision. I’m sorry. I can only proceed as planned and hope that God will be with us.”

An hour later, they were well clear of Barbados, and the convoy—130 merchantmen

guarded by three frigates and the mighty ship-of-the-line HMS
Triton
—was heading steadily north-northeastward, baking beneath a blazing sun, driving along under set stuns’ls, and happily oblivious to the fate that the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean had seen for them.

Plan I—Plying the Enemy with Flowers and Gifts—was not working.

Plan II—Bringing Aboard the Enemy’s Crew— seemed to be failing miserably.

It was time to put Plan III—Enticing the Enemy Out of Port—into action.

As soon as Barbados was well astern of them, the convoy herded into a lumbering, barely

manageable pack, Sir Graham left the deck to Captain Lord, went below, and summoned the two Irish sisters, Aisling and Sorcha, to his quarters. Turning on every ounce of his considerable charm, he plied them with lemonade, biscuits . . . and feigned despair.

“You’re so nice to invite Sorcha and me aboard, Sir Graham!” piped young Aisling, happily munching a biscuit. She, like her sister, was dressed in shirt and trousers, with a dirk at her waist and her hair scattered in a bright cloud about her shoulders. “We’ve never seen a mighty ship of the line get under way! Even Her Majesty was in awe, and it takes a
lot
to awe
her,
right, Sorcha?”

“Huh?”

Aisling kicked her sister under the table. Sorcha was gaping at Sir Graham in his handsome uniform, her eyes starstruck.

“I
said,
even Queen Maeve was in awe!”

“Oh, yes . . .”

Sir Graham walked to the window, very aware of two worshipful pairs of young eyes on his

back. He knew well how to make himself noticed; he knew well how to draw a lady’s eye, and with this in mind—and despite the heat—he had purposely and cunningly exchanged his

seagoing frock coat for his finest full-dress uniform. The dark blue coat was carefully brushed, with bright gold bars of lace at sleeve and lapel, more lace at collar, cuffs, and pockets, and the epaulets with the single star winking proudly from each shoulder; the waistcoat and breeches were snowy white, and a cocked hat was framed with even more gold trim. Uniforms— especially full-dress ones usually reserved for formal occasions—were a sure bet for winning female hearts and with this in mind, the admiral turned just so, knowing that the sunlight would

—move a little more to starboard, Gray
—he heard one of the girls gasp—
yes, that's it
—touch upon the gold fringe of his epaulets with blinding brilliance. With a private, wicked smile, he struck a deliberate pose, relaxed yet commanding all at once; and then, affecting a great sigh, he stared out at the flagship’s swirling wake, placed his hands on the sill, and murmured, “Queen Maeve. I fear that my efforts to soften her are failing miserably, ladies.”

“Keep trying, Sir Graham. She’ll come around.”

“But how the devil am I to win her? I need your help, I think,” he mused, deliberately

drawing them into his plans. “Tell me . . . what is her favorite meal?”

“New England fare. Boiled.”

“With apple pie for dessert.”

Sir Graham reached up to rub at his handsome jaw. “Apple pie . . . Very well then, I shall see that my cook prepares some tonight.”

“Do you want to know her favorite color, too?” Aisling prompted, slyly.

“By all means.”

“Blue.”

“Damn,” he said, frowning, “and here I have been sending her
red
roses—”

“Roses don’t come in blue, sir.”

“Indeed, they do not. Dear me, that
does
present a dilemma . . . I shall have to see what can be done to make up for it.”

“She likes sharks, too.”

“And ale.”

The admiral was still standing at the windows, the hilt of his sword barely showing above the fine scabbard of black leather at his left hip. He was resplendent, glittering, like a tall and handsome prince, and the intended effect was not lost on the girls, who stared at him in awe, their eyes wide, the biscuits temporarily forgotten.

His deep voice broke the spell. “So, what do you suggest I do, ladies?”

He stared out to sea, knowing very well what he would do. But he wanted to involve these

two youngsters, win them over to his side.
Draw the enemy in. Drag them over to your camp,
until their commander finds herself alone and unsupported . . . vulnerable.

“Do? Um . . . I don’t know. Sorcha, give me another biscuit.”

“Get it yourself!”

The admiral turned. “Perhaps if I invite her to dine with me tonight,” he mused, tapping his chin in contemplation. He moved away from the windows, poured himself a glass of lemonade, dosed it with rum and allowed a pensive expression to steal over his face. “Tell me, ladies, has she had any . . . er, suitors, since this Frenchman she once loved?”

“A few,” Aisling piped up, “but she didn’t care for any of them. Said none of them were as fine and good as her papa, so she sent them packing.”

“I see.” He took a sip of his lemonade. “And what is her papa like?”

“We never met him, Sir Graham. Orla has, though. She said he was very gallant, right

Sorcha?”

“And very handsome.”

“Smart, too.”

“Just like you, Admiral.”

He heard the quick thump of a heel hitting flesh. “Ouch! That hurt, Ash!”

“You’re not supposed to say things like that in front of a person, don’t you have any tact?”

“More than
you!
”

Suppressing a grin, Sir Graham began a slow, thoughtful walk, back and forth in front of his windows. “Tell me, then,” he said carefully, “more about what she thinks her father did to her.”

“You mean, why she ran away from home?”

The admiral paused, angled his head, and bestowed upon them his most devastating grin.

“Aye.”

“But I don’t think she’d like that, Sir Graham . . .”

“Ladies,” he said smoothly, and picked up a biscuit, “do you want me to win the heart of

Her Majesty or”—he took a bite—”do you want me to fail?”

“Oh no, Sir Graham!” they cried, in chorus. “We would like nothing more than to see you

win her heart, and her to become Lady Falconer and live in fine, grand style—”

The admiral munched his biscuit, loudly. Crumbs broke off and fell, speckling his jaw, his lips, his neckcloth, the front of his coat. He made no attempt to wipe them away. Instead, he took another bite, his absurdly long lashes sweeping down to mask the expression in his eyes, apparently unaware of the total mess he was making of his fine appearance. The girls giggled and exchanged swift glances, thinking him amazingly boyish, youthful, endearing . . . one of them.

A partner in crime.

He reached for another biscuit. “Very well, then. I shall ask her myself. Perhaps over

dinner.”

“Oh, yes, Sir Graham! You must ask her to dine with you!”

He turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and gazed out the windows, hiding his grin.

“And,” he mused, “what do you two ladies think I should wear for such a . . .
formal
occasion?”

Again, he knew very well what he would wear, to tempt the heart of this distrustful Queen who pined for a fine and gallant officer. . .

“Oh, Sir Graham, you
must
wear that uniform you’re in now!”

“Aye, Her Majesty won’t be able to take her eyes off you!”

He turned, and put his arm out in front of him, pretending to examine the handsome laced

bars at his cuff. “Really, now? You don’t think all this splendor is a bit . . . much?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Her Majesty has always adored men in uniforms. She loves sea officers, you know.”

He frowned.

“But don’t worry, she didn’t fall in love with any of them, and she loves
you,
Admiral! She just won’t admit it to herself because she’s too mad at you for deceiving her. But her temper’ll blow itself out, you just watch!”

He smiled faintly, looking at his sleeve and pretending to be engrossed in studying the fine lace. “Next,” he murmured, evasively, “you’ll be suggesting I wear my Order of the Bath .. . .”

“That’s right! You’re a
real
knight, aren’t you?”

“Of course he’s a real knight, you idiot!” Aisling chided. “Why do you think he’s called
Sir
Graham?”

The admiral executed a courtly, elegant bow that elicited excited squeals from both girls.

“Yes, ladies, I
am
a knight. The king bestowed the Order on me following my actions at the Nile.” He gave them a secretive, wicked look from beneath his long lashes. “Surely, now, you’ll not suggest that I don my Order, too?”

“You mean you have it
with
you?”

“Oh, Admiral, yes, I think you should
definitely
wear your Order!” Aisling cried.

“Well, I—”

“Please, Sir Graham?”

“Pleeease?”

He shrugged, the deliberately dropped hint succeeding as he knew it would. “Very well then.

I will wear it . . . if you think it will do any good.”

“Where is it?”

“In my wardrobe,” he said, pretending indifference. The two scurried to his wardrobe,

oohing and aahing over each glittering uniform, each snowy-white shirt, until they found what they were looking for.

“Oh, my! Sorcha, look at this!” Reverently, Aisling lifted it out, and carried the Order and its red sash across the cabin as though they were the Crown Jewels. Gray bowed his head, and Aisling carefully slipped the broad scarlet sash over his right shoulder. He watched Sorcha from beneath his long lashes as she reached out to touch the elaborate, star-shaped badge that was the Order itself.

“You look grand,” she whispered, her eyes huge. “Her Majesty will be completely undone.”

“You think so, now?” He turned his head, looked at the brilliant red sash that made such a resplendent contrast against the gold bullion of his epaulets, the dark navy blue of his coat. “I’m nearly at my wits’ end, trying to devise a way to win your captain’s heart . . .”

“Well, first let us make you presentable.”

“Eh?”

“Biscuit crumbs, Sir Graham,” Sorcha said, blushing and giggling.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He raised his chin, allowing the girls to brush the crumbs from his neckcloth, then stood back to survey himself in the mirror. He straightened his neckcloth, touched his clean-shaven jaw. His men were going to think he’d completely lost his mind. Such a full rig was reserved for the most formal of occasions, interviews with high-ranking superiors, and audiences with royalty.

Royalty.

A smile curved his mouth, and the dimple appeared in his chin.

“You look grand, Sir Graham,” Aisling said, clasping her hands in front of her.

He turned, and bestowed upon them his most winning smile. “Grand enough to pay court to

the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean?”

“Grand enough to
marry
her, Sir Graham! Now, let’s get you on deck so she can see you.”

###

The effort of keeping Sir Graham at bay—and her heart protectively locked up—was

growing too wearisome for one who had fought Spanish pirates, death, and the admiral’s

affections all in the space of a few short days. Maeve pulled off the straw hat, closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the chair, and felt the smooth, easy movements of the mighty warship beneath her, a warship that dwarfed her own
Kestrel
many times over, a warship that was a floating battery of firepower and majesty and brutal, smashing force. The gentle winds tickled the thick hair lying against her damp neck; sunlight bounced off the sea, warming the backs of her eyelids, creating dancing patterns of stars and speckles, warming the side of her cheek as her head lolled to one side.

Maeve drifted, drowsing and healing and dreaming . . . of her father . . . of Gray the pirate . .

.

Of Sir Graham the admiral.

A shadow fell across her, and she opened her eyes, blinking.

It was he.