Once a Pirate (22 page)

Why not just free Andrew, get into the longboat, and escape?

No. Richard was relentless—she’d already learned that. Left alive, he’d hunt them down and kill them. If not her and Andrew, then Bern and the others.

Exploding the ship with him in it was her only option.

Again, she gazed at the beach. If she did anything at all, it would have to be tonight. Who knew how much longer they’d follow the coast? In a longboat without a compass or water, she and Andrew wouldn’t last long on the open sea, though she made a mental note to bring a bag of supplies with her later . . . just in case.

Forcing a pleasant smile on her face, she opened the
door and breezed inside. Time to feed the demons their breakfast.

“Andrew,” she whispered against the solid wooden door, glancing nervously behind her into the darkness of the hold. No one had followed her. “Andrew, can you hear me?”

“Carly!” The familiar deep voice sounded hoarse.

“There’s been a mutiny,” she quickly told him. “Almost everyone jumped ship last night.”

“Who is left?” His voice sounded nearer now, and more alert.

“Richard’s here. And those two jerks who captured you.” Again she peered into the dank, lantern-lit hold. “And the little troll who usually guards your cell. Except, at the moment, he’s too busy sailing and steering.”

“Four? Are you telling me that only four men are left?”

“Yes. And they’re all so preoccupied by the mutiny that they left me alone to cook their meals.” She’d attended them charmingly and docilely all day, keeping them well stuffed. “They ignore me, so I listen to them talk, and they talk a lot. They intend to patrol the coast. They’re going to use a cannon to terrorize villages and other ships until they track down the sailors. I can see the coastline, but I don’t know how much longer we’ll follow it without enough men to work the sails.”

“We have to act tonight.”

“That’s what I think, too.”

Something scrabbled down the companionway. Carly gasped. A tiny shadow scurried past. A rat. Relieved, she shut her eyes. “I told them I had to clean
the galley and make dinner, so they don’t know I’m here. I have a plan to run by you before I search out the powder room.”

Silence.

“And I have keys, Andrew. Bern left me keys. I can get you out!”

“Not until after dark,” he said briskly. “And only if you’re certain the guard is occupied elsewhere. We’ve no weapons.”

“I know,” she murmured. “I’ll come at midnight. Are you shackled?”

“Aye.”

She flattened her hands on the door, pressed her cheek to the rough wood. How she ached to hold him again.

“You mentioned the powder magazine, Carly. Why?”

“This is my plan: I’ll light a candle in the powder room and we’ll escape before the ship blows.”

“Woman, do you have any idea how risky such an operation is? Candles throw sparks. Hot tallow drips.”

She clenched her hands into fists. “Richard said he’d kill you before we got to England. Because of the mutiny, I think it might be sooner rather than later. So, yes, I think it’s risky, and, yes, I stand the chance of destroying us all, but I’m sure you’ll agree that possible death beats certain death any day.”

She heard his deep sigh. “If it costs me my life to see you safe,” he said, “so be it.”

“But I won’t be safe,” she shot back. “The duke already said he wants to marry my sister, so I don’t have high hopes for surviving this voyage, either.”

More silence.

Meaning he was now considering the possibilities, the risks, the consequences of her crazy plan.

“Do you remember everything you learned about the magazine?” he asked finally.

She breathed silent thanks. “Yes, most of it.”

He quickly reviewed the dangers and the setup of the room, nonetheless.

“I’ve been researching candles, too,” she said. Each time she returned to the sweltering galley, she lit them, her chest tight with anxiety. Afraid to risk jotting down figures, she struggled to keep the results clear in her head. “I’m studying how they burn, Andrew, the individual characteristics. Tallow versus beeswax, fat versus thin. By the time I’m through, I’ll know exactly the length of wax we need.”

“Two hours,” he said. “I’ll want two hours.”

She exhaled. “Okay.”

“If you haven’t already, determine how many minutes a knuckle’s length of wax gives us. Then five knuckle lengths.”

“I will.”

“Then multiply and divide, snuff out candles, and start new ones. Break off bottoms and try different wicks.”

“Yes, I’ll do all that.”

“And then, my little spitfire, I want you to get down on your knees and pray for all you’re worth.”

A prolonged roll of thunder rumbled in the distance as Carly left the cabin. By midnight, wind had transformed the sea into a seething sheet of foam. With most of its sails wrapped, the warship plunged and rose on the swells.

Except for the sounds of the rising gale, the decks
were deathly still and deserted. Complacent, Richard hadn’t posted a single lookout. Cruel dictators made such sloppy leaders.

It didn’t surprise her to see Andrew’s warden asleep in his hammock, clutching to his chest the bottle she’d just happened to leave near the wheel after dinner. For a typical seaman, brandy was rare and precious, an unexpected treat she knew would put him under for the night.

The stage was set.

Now all she had to do was perform.

The lantern she carried scarcely lit the length of her shadow. The duke had locked her in when he retired for the night, but as she’d discovered that morning, Bern’s keys worked from the inside, as well as the exterior.

The ship yawed, and she staggered to a stop outside the powder room. The storm was getting worse. She’d have to wedge each candle even deeper between bags of powder to keep them from tipping. That would leave them less than two hours, but how much less, she didn’t know.

She withdrew one of two identical, long, thin beeswax candles from the folds of her dress. Hands shaking as much from apprehension as excitement, she lit one wick with the lantern flame, then fastened the lamp on a hook on an exterior wall made for that purpose. Powder rooms weren’t lit from within; too dangerous. Instead, lanterns were hung outside double-glazed portholes, allowing illumination—but not sparks—inside.

She stripped to her chemise. Then, feet first, holding the candle straight out in front of her, she shimmied backward through a tiny hatchway barely wide enough
for her thighs and hips. She grunted, pushed herself with her hands until her rear end cleared, then eased down to a crouch between the wooden barrels inside the powder room.

She stayed like that for a long moment, unable to move, her breaths hissing in and out. She was actually sitting in her underwear, holding a lit candle in a room stacked from floor to ceiling with gunpowder.

Swallowing hard, she stretched her arms outside the hatch and lit the second candle from the first, insurance in case one burned out. Then, working swiftly and carefully, she jammed the candles between cylindrical linen bags of powder—deeper than she’d wanted to, but the heavy seas left her no choice.

The warship lurched, then rolled.

Not breathing, she stared at the candles. The flames danced, but the stems stayed upright.

Thank you.

She scrambled out, dressed, and snatched the lantern.

The clock was ticking . . .

Her insides felt watery as she dashed to Andrew’s cell. Leaking barrels blocked her way. Stumbling, she flew forward, scraping her palms over the rough floor and jamming splinters into her knees. On her feet again, she ran through the darkness, crunching over filth left by a crew that didn’t care about the state of their ship. She lifted her skirts higher. They were heavier than she was used to and slowed her down. Startled, rats scampered by, bumped into her, scraping her shins with their sharp little claws.

She halted by Andrew’s door. “Andrew!” She fought to catch her breath while she sorted through the
keys. “It’s done. I had to push them in pretty far because of the swells. I don’t know how much time is left.”

“Open the bloody door!”

“I have to find the key first.”

In her haste she dropped the key ring. She aimed the lantern at the floor, groping blindly.

The clock ticked. . . .

Her fingers closed around cold metal. She scooped them up, her hands shaking as she tried each old-fashioned key in turn.

She shoved the second to last key into the opening, and the lock turned with a heavy metallic click. She flew into Andrew’s arms. Wrapping her fingers in his hair, she met his desperate, hungry kiss.

He pulled away, breathless. “Come on, love. There’s little time.” She unlocked his shackles.

They raced up the companionways and out to the deck. A line of thunderstorms was fast approaching. The ship pitched on the waves, its helm unmanned, its sails useless. Andrew gripped her tightly, guiding her to the stern, where a single longboat bounced in the wake. She could hear his ragged breathing above the booming of the surf and her pulse.

Using a pulley, he towed the boat closer. “Jump!” he shouted, never letting go of her hand.

Cold seawater gushed up her nose. Andrew was a powerful swimmer, and he dragged her upward to the surface, then propelled her through the swells to the boat.

They fell onto its bottom, panting. Then he cut the line and they spun free. “Hold on!” Andrew grabbed the oars. “I’m going to row like hell.”

Rain came down in cold, slanting spikes. She sat, facing her husband, her teeth chattering. Andrew gasped with the strain of his efforts. The current and the winds were working against them.

The clock ticked. . . .

Behind Andrew loomed the warship. She kept her eyes trained on the deck, scanning for signs of the duke or his men. But not one of the cowardly murderers ventured on deck. Even so, knowing what was about to happen to them nauseated her. She shivered uncontrollably now, unable to pull her gaze from the
Longreach,
looking so lost without its crew. Driven by the gale, it slowly listed to one side.

Oh, Lord, the candles.

Carly’s voice was flat, guttural. “Andrew . . . row . . . faster.”

He saw the fear in her face and turned to glance over his shoulder. An earsplitting crack tore through the rain. Then the ship rolled sharply. “Bloody hell.”

The
Longreach
blew up.

A fireball shot into the air, a half-mile high or more.

For an instant they were bathed in a flickering sunset, then the roar of the explosion plowed into their bodies like a physical blow.

Andrew dove for her, sending her sprawling onto her back.

It grew quieter, just wind, rain, and the crackling of burning timbers. Clearly alarmed, and intent on escaping a threat she didn’t see, Andrew righted himself and began rowing, harder and faster than she’d thought was humanly possible.

A freight train–like rumble came out of nowhere.

The sea dropped out beneath the little boat.

“Oh, Carly,” he said sorrowfully, releasing the oars. “Oh, my love.”

Her fingers clamped tight over edge of the hull. “What! What is it?”

Desperation etching his shadowy face, he seized her in his arms and squeezed the breath from her. “I’ve got you,” he said. “Hold me. Hold me tight.”

The stars winked out one by one as something unimaginably huge arced over them. Then, falling slowly, ever so slowly, the wave descended.

Her skull exploded in white-hot pain. Seawater roared in over their heads and wrenched Andrew’s hands from her waist to her hips. They flipped over. His fingers raked down her hips to her thighs. Then he was gone.

“No!”

So dark . . . can’t breathe.

“Jolly Roger One, this is Jolly Roger Four.”

Lightning flashed, intense and painful.

“Mayday. Mayday,” she called to the other aircraft. No one can hear me. Fifteen thousand feet and dropping. The storm wrenched and kicked. Her fingers slipped off the throttles. Start, start, start, please start.

One thousand, eight hundred . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut and bailed out.

So cold . . .

A vibration built above the thunder until the very air drummed with the beat. Rain slashed across searchlights. She yearned to clasp the hands that reached for her.

“I’ve got you.”

Blessed warmth. But it was taken away so quickly. Metal shrieked, a hideous howl, then scraping, a chop,
chop, chop of blades striking the sea. The deep voice was no longer with her.

“Where are you?” she cried out, groping blindly.

Rain and the frigid wind battered her. She was too heavy, too exhausted. Arms came around her this time.

“Come on, stay with me. Don’t sleep!”

She tried. Oh, God, she tried, but she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing. . . .

Carly became aware of a fuzzy white light, then a faint, steady beeping. She couldn’t fathom where she was. The white light grew brighter if she tried to open her eyes, dimmer if she rolled them back. She gave up after a while and let the warm, familiar nothingness engulf her.

Consciousness tiptoed in. The white light was still behind her eyelids, the beeping ceaseless. There was music. Familiar, somehow . . .

It was the unmistakable theme song of
The Price Is Right.

The world roared back. Carly plunged into awareness. Moaning, she draped her arm over her face.

“Welcome home, honey.”

Carly peered over her arm. A smiling woman stood
over her, her enormous bosom straining against a crisp tan uniform. Calm, efficient, she adjusted a tube running into Carly’s arm before she tucked a blanket around her waist.

Carly’s gaze dropped. A row of faded blue letters adorned the sheet’s starched border.

USS
Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Carly grabbed hold of the bedsheet. No wedding ring adorned her left hand.

“Know this, love. You’ll not be alone anymore. No matter how fast you run, I will catch you. And no matter where you go, I will find you.”

Utter desolation choked her. “Where’s Andrew?”

“Easy, Lieutenant.” The woman’s kind, dark eyes belied her stern tone as she sat at the edge of the bed. “You can call your Andrew on the phone as soon as you feel up to it. Aw, smile, honey. You’re fine. No broken bones. You’ll be back in your jet before you know it.”

Your jet.

Carly took in the details of the room. Dividers surrounded her bed, affording some privacy from the rest of the bustling infirmary, but not much. Just outside the hatch stood a group of sailors. One young seaman wore a Walkman, his lips moving in time to the music.

Carly winced. Shiny silver fixtures blinded her; everywhere lights blinked on and off. She swerved her gaze back to the television, where a woman caressed a shiny new car before a cheering crowd. The modernity of her surroundings was overwhelming—the light too white and crisp, the bulkheads too clean, too sterile, the sounds too sharp.

“What’s happened?” Carly blinked rapidly. “This is the twenty-first century.”

The medic chuckled. “You’d think it was the caveman days, judging by the men on this ship.”

Carly stared. The woman frowned. Then she pressed a button by the bed. “Do you know your name, honey?”

“Yes, ma’am. Carly Callahan.”

“Good morning, Lieutenant Callahan,” a male voice sang out. “Hope you’ve enjoyed your leave. Time to get back to work.”

A grinning man strode past the partition. He had blond hair, a sunburned nose, and flight surgeon insignia on his uniform. As he aimed a penlight into Carly’s eyes, the medic adjusted the IVs. She picked up a clipboard and copied information from a monitor by the bed.

“You were out for three days,” the doctor said. “Due to medication, for the most part.”

Carly’s hopes plunged.
Three days.
“Felt longer,” she replied glumly.

“Usually does,” he said cheerily. “No damage to the noggin, though. I’ll clear you to fly when I get the thumbs up from the chief surgeon and Commander Martinez.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. How could six months have happened in three days?

Her husband was dead.

Her throat tightened. Oh, God, how could she accept the fact that Andrew wasn’t real? That her life with him had been nothing more than a hallucination? A delusion that had run its course.

Coming awake slowly, Carly flexed her left arm. Tubes tugged on the inside of her elbow. The plastic led to an IV stand, where an upside-down can of Coors
Light was crudely taped to the top rack, sprouting a tube that appeared to wind down to her arm. “What the—?”

“Mornin’, Carly.”

Commander Martinez was ensconced in the chair by the bed, his feet propped on the blanket. “So,” he said, grinning, “I give you the keys to a jet, and you throw it in the goddamned pond. Think they grow on trees?”

She stifled a resigned sigh. Here she was, back in her old life, like nothing had ever happened. It made her sick. “Hey, Skipper. Who put the beer can up there?”

His eyes shone. “Guess.”

She managed a smile. “Where are they?”

“On their way down. They miss ya.” He smoothed one hand over his black crewcut. “How do you feel? You weren’t in the best shape when they hauled you in here.”

She shrugged stiffly. “Sore. My neck hurts.”

And my heart has been shattered into a million pieces.

He crossed one black flight boot over the other. “Have they told you everything yet?”

“Like what?”

“Ah—” He pushed at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “What do you remember?”

Her squadron mates burst past the partition, startling her with their rowdy energy. She used to think nothing of their noise and perpetual motion, but now she felt overwhelmed as they fired off one remark after another.

“We missed you, squirt.”

“You’ll do anything to sleep in.”

“You look like shi—I mean doggy-doo.”

“They give you them funny pills? The good stuff? Have any extra?”

Despite her heavy heart, she laughed. “It’s good to see you again, guys.”

Her wingman, Hojo, tossed a rumpled bouquet of flowers on the bed.

“Thanks.” She gestured toward the beer can. “By the way, nice touch.”

“I’ll have your hides if you boys try that again.” The medic stood by the partition, scowling, her fists propped on her wide hips. Pushing past the men, smirking and shaking her head, she yanked off the sticky tape holding the beer can. “And get your feet off the bed, Commander.”

Sheepish, the skipper scooted up to a sitting position.

“So, Squirt,” Hojo said, grinning at her, “I guess your number wasn’t up.”

“She doesn’t remember,” the skipper said.

“She doesn’t? Oh, man, wait ‘til you hear. A civilian helicopter picked you up. English dudes.”

An English rescuer? What a sick coincidence.

“Ten minutes later, they crashed. Massive rotor failure. No one made it out alive,’ cept you and the pilot.”

“He’s okay, then?”

“He has a busted arm,” the skipper replied. “Bumps, bruises, fractured vertebrae.”

Suddenly her problems seemed insignificant. “His back? Is he paralyzed?”

The skipper shook his head. “They’ve done all the tests and he checked out okay.”

Carly exhaled slowly. “Sounds like I got the better end of the deal.”

“The Brit got the better deal if you ask me.” Hojo grinned wolfishly.

The men guffawed.

Her cheeks grew hot. Uneasy, she eyed Commander Martinez. “What’s the joke, Skipper?”

“You had hypothermia by the time he rescued you. When the chopper crashed, you were exposed to the cold all over again. You were pretty much out of it, so the Brit had to lift you into a life raft. Dead weight. No one knows how he did it with his injuries.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You guys were out there for hours before you got picked up.”

“Bet he wished it was longer,” said Brad, another squadron pal. “Because he stripped off all your clothes. His, too. Then he found a blanket and snuggled.”

The blood drained from her face. She glanced from grinning face to face, mortified.

The skipper’s dark brows drew together. “Okay, guys, enough.” He balanced his elbows on his knees. “Carly, listen. As bashed up as that chopper pilot was, he thought of you first. He saved your life, squirt. Kept you alive with his body heat. He’s a goddamned hero, if you ask me.”

Her squadron mates echoed him with hearty enthusiasm.

Carly went rigid. It was worse than she’d thought. Not only was Andrew a fantasy, she’d conjured him while lying naked with a stranger. “Did I say anything? Did I do anything stupid?” To her horror, a tear made its way down her cheek. “This is so embarrassing.”

The skipper jerked his thumb at the divider. “Guys, why don’t you take off for awhile?”

Her squadron mates backed away, shaken. They had never seen her cry.

“I feel awful, squirt,” Hojo said. “I’m really sorry we brought this up.”

“You’ll feel better if you see him,” Brad urged. “He’s a real nice guy—for a Brit.” He forced a laugh. “You know, stiff upper lip and all.”

Carly dropped her face into her hands.

When the men left, the skipper leaned toward her, his dark brown eyes searching hers. He’d been married for twenty years and had five daughters. Unlike the other men she worked with, he always understood when she was upset. “He’s driving the medics crazy. He wants to see you, but he can’t get out of bed, and the flight surgeon said not to disturb you with a phone call. The weather’s cleared, so they’re gonna airlift him out to a civilian hospital. Before you lose the chance, I’d go see the guy. I know he’d appreciate a few words of thanks.”

Carly recoiled. “No way!”

“He saved your life. Don’t discount that.”

She bit her lip and sullenly played with the hem of the blanket.

“Okay,” he said tiredly, rising to his feet. “Listen, you didn’t do or say anything dumb. You were out cold, if that makes you feel any better.”

It didn’t. She stared straight ahead.

“He’s not the kind of guy who’d embarrass you,” he persisted.

Silence.

“Okay, I can see I’m not getting through right now. I’ll drop by later.”

When he disappeared behind the bulkhead, she twisted around and slammed her fist into the pillow.

“You’re doing nothing but moping,” the medic accused that afternoon. “They’re not gonna put you back on flying status unless you perk up. Outside the sunshine’s streaming. Finally. A sparkling Mediterranean day. I’d like to be sittin’ on the Riviera, instead of this oversized tin can, wouldn’t you?”

Carly stared at her burger and fries and aimlessly pushed the food around her plate.

“Aw, honey.” She sat on the edge of the mattress. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

Carly gave her a long look.

The big woman sighed. “Listen, why don’t you visit that nice English fellow?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All the females on duty think he’s adorable. But”—she sighed wistfully—“he’s only interested in you.”

Carly pinched the bridge of her nose. But her snub had no effect. The woman kept right on talking.

“He has a real title, lord or sir or something like that.”

Carly dropped her hand.
“Sir?”

She looked like she’d just scored a jackpot. “He’s an aviation artist, too. Well known, they say. On top of that, he owns a helicopter company. They do salvage—treasure hunting. Isn’t that exciting, honey? They were on their way home from a job when they heard your distress call.”

The medic drummed her fingers on the bedside table. “What . . . is . . . his . . . name? Ah! Drew Spencer.
Lord
Drew Spencer. His father’s a real English duke. Imagine that.”

Carly choked. “What did you say his name was?”

“Drew. Drew Spencer.”

Carly’s heart slammed against her chest. She gulped a deep breath, then another. Hope sparked to life, despite her effort to remain detached. Before it grew into a fire and burned her, she’d better do something to extinguish it. And the only way she could do that was to prove to herself that Andrew wasn’t in that other room.

Carly set aside her tray. “I’ll go see him.”

“Atta girl! You’ll make his day.”

She helped Carly out of bed and into an aqua hospital robe. Wobbly, Carly wrapped her fingers around the IV pole and used it for support.

“Good luck, honey,” the woman said.

Carly groaned. “I’ll need it.”

She crept past the other beds, all empty. Then she shuffled along the bulkhead, past the pharmacy and the clinic. The walk down the short corridor separating the two areas was the longest of her life.

One of the medics saw her coming and motioned to a partition. “Go on in, Lieutenant,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

The wheels on her IV stand rudely squealed her arrival.

But the patient was sleeping.

She watched him warily. A head of disheveled, wavy chestnut-brown hair was half hidden beneath the sheet. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown carelessly over his head, the other immobilized in a cast. She began to pant. Her fingertips felt cold.

This was a bad idea. She’d better leave.

No, get it over with.

She craned her neck. He had dimples, the barest trace of whiskers above a sensual mouth. Her heart skidded to a stop.

He was the image of Andrew.

Her heart did a flip. She backed away, tripping over her IV stand and clumsily righting herself. The clattering of tubes and bottles and metal clips woke the man. Vivid blue eyes followed the sound. When he focused on her, his gaze softened.

In their depths was the soul of the man she loved.

“Andrew,” she said on a soft breath.

Part of her wanted to panic, to flee and never return. The other part desperately wanted to believe, to cling to the plausibility of wishes-come-true, of destiny.

“Hello, love.” He held his good arm toward her.

Her mouth tightened. “Impossible.”

Unable to think, unable to speak, hoping against all hope, she inched toward him. His warm fingers closed over her left hand. After a moment of resistance, she let him open her clenched fist.

Gently, he said, “It seems the ring didn’t make it back with us.”

Her eyes misted with tears. “It
is
you.”

He held open his arms, and she hurled herself into them. Then she remembered his injured back and eased her fall at the last minute. Impatient with her gentleness, he crushed her to his chest in a fierce embrace. Her IV stand tangled with his and crashed onto the bed, unplugging his heart monitor and setting off an alarm.

Medical staff rushed in. Andrew called over her head, “We’d like a few moments alone, if you don’t mind.” Then he pulled her down to his mouth.

And kissed her senseless.

Joy unfurled in her heart. Molding herself to him, she shuddered with the raw emotion in his fierce, passionate embrace. He clamped her head in one big hand and groaned. The sound vibrated in her chest.