My Lady Pirate (7 page)
Hardy looked down at his big hands, at a loss for words. “I am confident, sir, that when you catch up to Villeneuve you will give him the thrashing he—and Napoleon—deserve. And,” he
added solemnly, “a victory for England that will
never
be forgotten.”
###
ringing against steel, and the singing
whoosh
of thrusting, slashing cutlasses. The sounds cleaved the night as Enolia—once a planter’s concubine until her master’s ship had fallen afoul of the Pirate Queen’s—practiced her fencing skills with her formidable liberator.
The two were well matched, both honed with muscle and sleek with sweat, and while rapiers would have been far more manageable than heavy cutlasses, neither captain nor lieutenant was willing to make the trade. Slash and parry, thrust and pivot and slash again: fencing with cutlasses was an exercise in strength and endurance, essential qualities for lady pirates wishing to hold their own on a lawless sea ruled by men.
“Captain, I know he angers you”—Enolia swung her blade, had it deflected upward as the
Pirate Queen expertly parried her attack—”I know he’s a deserter, a traitor, a spy, but before you go rushing off to Nelson with him, think about what you’re doing.”
Cheers erupted from the pirate crew at their captain’s expert defense.
“I
know
what I’m doing!” Maeve cried, the sweat sheening her brow. She swung for
Enolia’s unprotected ribs and, at the last moment, the other woman danced away, the tip of Maeve’s cutlass catching her shirt and tearing it from waist to shoulder. The hit decided the match, and Maeve, her lungs heaving, tossed her damp ponytail over her shoulder, saluted her lieutenant, and then clashed her cutlass against Enolia’s in a handshake between steel. “Besides, he’s no Gallant Knight; he proved
that
to me when I visited his cell.”
Breathing hard, she tore the kerchief from her brow, mopped her face with it, and strode to the rum barrel, her shadow long and black in the orange glow cast by the flickering lanterns. She filled her tankard, downed it. Filled it again. Drank the sweet fire more slowly this time, letting it filter down and out into every cell in her body. Her pounding heartbeat begin to steady, and she felt the trades kissing her hot and sweaty skin, drying her face and arms and torso beneath the loose shirt she wore.
“Good match, Captain. I thought she had ye there,” Karena remarked, drawing her knife and paring a mango.
“And here I had my money on Enolia tonight.” Tia flung a coin into a wooden bucket.
“Should’ve known better!”
Maeve’s lips curved in a grin. “What, you think I’ve lost my touch, Tia?”
“Nay, captain, merely your heart to that handsome rake. I
knew
we should’ve shot him the moment he crawled onto our beach!”
Tia’s observation hit too close to the bone. “Have a care for what you’re saying,” the Pirate Queen growled, “or you’ll be the next one I challenge to a sword fight.”
“Well then, in that case—”
“Belay it, Tia,” Maeve said, waving her off. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
Tia, her eyes dancing, gave an elaborate sigh, for she, like her crewmates, considered it a privilege to duel with their formidable leader. After all, the Pirate Queen had learned to fence under the tutelage of her father, and seven years in the Caribbean had only honed her natural aptitude for the skill into one that few men dared challenge—let alone survived.
But sword fighting was the last thing on Maeve’s mind. She sat down on the deck and
leaned against the truck of a cannon, feeling her little ship rising on a swell, settling, rising again beneath her. Even the fierce energy she’d put into her match with Enolia had failed to drive the image of the pirate’s face—or the memory of his kiss—from her mind. She quaffed the rum in fierce, angry swallows, seeking to drown her torment in tipple instead.
“That black-haired devil again?” Orla asked quietly, discerning the reason for her captain’s sour mood.
Maeve stared mutely out into the darkness without answering.
“So, he tried to take some liberties with you,” Karena said. She stabbed the mango peelings with her dagger and flung them over the side. “What man hasn’t?”
“Aye, you’ve got to give ’im credit for trying,” Jenny pointed out.
“He’s your Gallant Knight,” young Sorcha cried, from her seat atop one of the guns. “I’m
sure of it!”
“Aye, Majesty,” her sister echoed, “your Gallant Knight!”
“He is
not
my Gallant Knight!” Maeve retorted, slamming her mug onto the varnished deck and staring down each face in turn. “My Knight—God, how I
loathe
that word—will be a brave, noble officer, someone honorable and upstanding and good. This ‘Gray’ is naught but a traitor and a spy, the both of which I have no use for! Besides,” she added, glaring sullenly off into the night, “he’ll only break my heart.
”
“But Majesty, he’s not like those other men who’ve tried to court you, can’t you see? None of them were worthy of you.”
“He’s a
spy!”
Maeve cried, in frustration. “He’s a traitor! He deserted his navy!”
Only Enolia, leaning calmly against the rail and backhanding the sweat from her brow,
seemed to be on her side. “And if he could desert his navy,” she said pointedly, “he could desert
you.
“
No one spoke. They all knew their captain had been deserted
enough.
She was not to be blamed if she didn’t trust men. She was not to be blamed for not trusting
this
man, with his wicked smile and dangerous charm. And she
did
have the Sight—who could know what it had shown her?
Enolia stalked to the barrel, drew a hefty measure of rum, and, lifting it to her lips, faced the crew. “I’m with the captain,” she said. “Let’s bring him to Nelson. The British’ll pay a hefty sum for him, if only to keep him from spilling his guts to Villeneuve.”
“And we can do
far
more with British money than with a British deserter,” Maeve added, in triumph. But it was an empty triumph, for, deep down inside, she did not want to relinquish her captive. Despite his treatment of her, despite the fact he knew just how to raise her ire and seemed to delight in doing it, he had made her feel like a woman again, not the hardened pirate she was.
Imagine, chastising her for her unladylike language!
But no. She had learned her lessons too well. He would only break her heart, and it was
better to get rid of him now.
Gaining her feet, she put her mug down and went to the rail, there to stare down at the waves curling against
Kestrel's
black hull. Turlough was down there, drifting on the surface. She could see the dolphin’s pale belly as he floated on his side, one flipper free of the water as though waving at her. Then he dived beneath the schooner and emerged on the other side, blowing out his breath on a rush of sound that was melancholy in the darkness.
She gazed across the water, the beach, and toward the old storehouse, barely discernible in the gloom—where
he
was.
Then she shut her eyes, and, as her father had once done in another time and place, quietly placed her hands on the rail of her ship, listening. But
Kestrel
was unusually silent, and instead, it was her father’s presence that Maeve sensed. She could almost feel the warmth left by his hands, as though he had stood here just moments before and not all those years ago; she could almost hear his voice again, his laughter, as he’d taught her to sail this very schooner. Her father, her beloved daddy, the dashing privateer captain who’d become legendary in the American Revolution . . .
“Point her up into the wind, lass, a bit more! Faith, she’s no square-rigger, you know! Let
her fly!”
“But Daddy,” she’d cried, in her eight-year-old voice, “she’s already pointed as high as
she’ll go! She’ll be in irons!”
“Faith, lass, I designed her; d’you think I don’t know what she can do?’’
His laughter—
rich, merry, Irish laughter—had mingled with the wind before he’d come aft to wrap his hands around hers, steadying them upon the tiller, teaching her about ships and sailing, wind and waves and weather. . .
“Now, listen to your ship, and she will speak! Always listen, daughter, for she
owns the wisdom of the sea, and the day you forget to listen is the day the sea will do you in . . .”
The memory dimmed, faded, was lost to the silence of the night. Maeve bit her lip and
swallowed hard against the sudden lump in the back of her throat. High above, a million stars twinkled and winked in celestial abandon; she gazed up at them, wondering if those same stars stood watch over her father now, more than a thousand miles away in New England.
Then, as she had done every day these past seven years, she lifted her gaze to the dark
horizon. But there were no lights out there from any incoming ship. It was empty, just as she’d known it would be. Her father was not coming for her. Her mother was not coming for her.
No one was coming for her, because no one cared.
“Captain?”
Quickly, she swallowed the hot lump in her throat. At least she had
Kestrel,
and all the memories that could never be taken away.
“Captain? You all right?”
“Aye, of course I’m all right!” She spun to face them, affecting a hard smile that forbade further comment. “I’m just thinking, ’tis all. My mind is made up. We’ll go find Nelson, but
without
our prisoner, so that we may bargain. If this man Gray is so blasted valuable to both the British and French navies, I intend to play one off against the other so we’ll get the most money for him.”
“Oh, Majesty, that is brilliant!”
She shrugged and turned away, her heart aching.
“But what if the admiral doesn’t believe we even
have
such a man in our possession?”
Sorcha asked, swinging her legs to and fro as she sat astride the big gun. “He may think we’re bluffing!”
“I cannot risk bringing him along,” Maeve said firmly, refilling her mug from the rum
barrel. “Not
yet,
anyhow. Lord Nelson is supposed to be a decent man, but he may view our captive as Royal Navy property and therefore refuse to negotiate. Our captive is
our
property, and as such, we should get paid for him. And believe me, if the British want this traitor so much, they’ll pay grandly to get him back. Especially if I let it be known I have no qualms about selling him to Villeneuve!”
“I
think we should bring the prisoner to Admiral Falconer instead,” Sorcha said, with wisdom beyond her years. “He may pay us more than Nelson. After all, it was from his flagship that our pirate escaped.”
Maeve expelled her breath on a hoot of jeering laughter. “What,
that
scoundrel? Graham Falconer’s naught but a rake, with his brains firmly entrenched in his breeches and standing ever at attention! He’s too busy ruining female reputations to give
us
the time of day!”
“Harsh words, Majesty. You’ve never even met Sir Graham.”
“I’ve no need to. His amorous exploits are no secret, and the stories about him are richer than Morgan’s gold.”
“Well, he
has
turned a blind eye to
our
activities.”
“That’s because I have never attacked an English ship. Nor do I intend to.” Maeve tossed
down her ale, gave a very unladylike belch, and grabbed up her cutlass once more. “Invitation or not, we will find and board the
Victory,
“she declared, “where I shall personally confront the celebrated Lord Nelson! Now, who’s coming and who’s not?”
A chorus of excited “ayes” rose on the night. Moments later, provisions were brought
aboard, the windlass was cranking, the anchor was coming up, sails were dropping, and the schooner
Kestrel
was turning her face toward a future that was hidden from even her mystical captain.
###
Kestrel
slid through the night. It had rained earlier, and now the air was fresh-washed and clean, tangy with the smell of salt and wind. She might have been a ghost ship, the schooner; the Pirate Queen had ordered all lanterns doused, and all commands spoken in a whisper. She was not taking any chances on losing her element of surprise.
Kestrel
was a formidable little vessel but she was no ship-of-the-line, and
Victory's
massive cannon could easily send her on a quick journey to the bottom.
Maeve took the tiller herself as they drew closer. “Bring in the main!” she hissed, watching the lights of the fleet rising higher and higher on the horizon. She drew her night glass and put it to her eye, feeling her hair tickling her cheeks as the gentle breeze tossed it about her face. It was hard to make out much in the darkness, but the starlight favored her situation, and she was soon able to pick out the mighty flagship of the famous English admiral as
Victory
led the fleet on a southerly course toward Tobago.
Excitement tingling through her blood, she snapped the glass shut and handed it to Orla.
“Ha! The admiral must be in one hell of a hurry to reach Tobago!” She crossed her arms, threw her head back, and planted her feet on the deck, looking every inch the Pirate Queen she was.
“Well, I’ll just have to tell him his search of
those
islands will be a fruitless one. Now, we cannot risk sailing in any closer. Dark as it is, all sailors have good night vision and I’ll not risk having
Victory
blow us out of the water. Let’s get far ahead of the fleet, then heave to.”
“What do you plan to do, Captain?” Orla asked.
“The only thing I can do,” she returned. “Swim.”
“What?”
“I’m a pirate, do you think they’ll just
allow
me aboard? No, what we must do is get well ahead of the fleet—where you and I will leap overboard and wait in the water. We’ll let the current carry us toward
Victory
while
she
drifts down toward
us.
There’s hardly any wind, those ships are barely moving—’twill not be so difficult to haul ourselves up onto
Victory's
rudder chains, gain the quarterdeck, hide on the mizzen chains, then sneak through a gunport and down into the admiral’s cabin. Now let’s go. We haven’t got all night.”