Pirates (7 page)

Phoebe didn’t protest that she wasn’t in need of mending, because she wasn’t entirely sure, given all that had happened to her since the night before. Besides, she felt a deep and elemental craving for the sea and the sky and the tropical breezes that roared and whispered between the two. She rose slowly, her gaze locked with Duncan’s for a long moment. Then, conquered in some subliminal and utterly delicious way, she lowered her eyes and turned to follow Old Woman out of the room.

After the women had gone, Duncan gathered up Phoebe’s uncanny possessions, one at a time, and tucked them back into the bag. All except for the likeness she had called a “photograph,” that is—he kept that, gazing into the masculine face and wondering if this was the man Phoebe loved.

In the deeper regions of his mind, of course, he was considering the evidence he’d seen with his own eyes, touched with his own fingers. He wanted to believe Phoebe’s story, despite the unsettling prediction of a war between the colonies themselves, because it meant the Continental Army would prevail. Despite the terrible odds, the deprivations, betrayals, and disappointments.

Tucking Phoebe’s bag into a deep drawer in his desk, Duncan turned and resolutely left the room. That night, he and Alex would ride to the opposite side of the island, where a watch was posted, in case the long-awaited signal of a ship’s approach should come from that direction. The vessel in question, christened the
India Queen
, was rumored to be all but sinking with the weight of its cargo: gunpowder, barrels of the stuff, along with crates of muskets and balls. General George Washington’s militia was in dire need of all the munitions that could be begged, borrowed, or stolen.

Now, there were plans to be laid. The British ship would, without question, be well defended, her course set for Boston Harbor. The task of intercepting the vessel and confiscating the weaponry required flawless timing, and the slightest mistake might well result in disaster for Duncan and every member of his crew. According to his information, the man at the helm of the
India Queen
was a seasoned captain, with an understanding of the sea and its ways that seemed imprinted on his spirit like some unseen tattoo. To get the better of such an adversary was not easy.

Duncan descended the main staircase and left the house by a side door, looking neither to left nor right but straight ahead, lest his gaze fall by accident on Mistress Turlow, who was surely somewhere nearby. He did not wish to be distracted from the business at hand—securing arms for General Washington’s army.

He walked through the gardens, lushly scented and flamboyant with color, even after the ravages of the recent storm, past Italian statues and marble ponds and elaborately carved stone benches. Van Ruben, the Dutch merchant and planter, had come to this island seeking solitude, but he had brought the beauty of the Old World with him, to savor in private moments.

Duncan passed through an opening in a hedge taller than he was, and descended a steep, pebble-strewn path snaking down the verdant hillside to the beach. The cove where his ship rode at anchor was down the shore, fairly wreathed by trees and foliage.

He was pleased to see members of his crew on deck,
preparing the vessel for a swift journey. Apparently, he thought, he wasn’t the only one who expected the signal; Alex, as first mate, had already given orders that the
Francesca
was to be made ready for a voyage.

Seeing their captain standing on the beach, two of the men lowered a skiff to the water, fully rigged, and one climbed down a rope ladder to take up the oars.

Duncan waded out into the cove without troubling to remove his boots—they were of sturdy leather, after all, and expected to hold up under hard use. When the small boat drew near enough, he climbed deftly aboard, barely rocking her even though he was a man of considerable size.

“She’s a fine sight, isn’t she, Captain?” boasted the sailor, whose name was Kelsey, as proudly as if it were his own.

That sense of pride and personal interest was a trait Duncan valued in a crew member. He smiled, looking up at the
Francesca
’s sturdy masts and trim sails. “Aye,” he agreed, with affection. “She is that and more.”

Reaching the ship, where the ladder dangled in wait, Duncan and Kelsey made the skiff fast to her side and then climbed aboard.

Alex was waiting on deck, hands caught behind his back, ruddy of complexion and bright of eye. He plainly relished the prospect of a mission, just as Duncan did, and there was reason to hope, from his happy countenance, that he’d left his dark mood behind, like a ship outrunning a sea squall.

“You’re expecting the signal tonight,” Alex said.

Duncan nodded, taking in the bustle of preparation with a glance. “Aye. And you are in agreement, it would seem.”

“Yes.” Alex paused and cleared his throat diplomatically, but he couldn’t help grinning. “What of the mysterious Mistress Turlow?” He pretended to search the shore, tilting his head to peer around one of Duncan’s shoulders. “I half expected you to bring her along, poor chit, and hang her from the yardarm for a traitor and a spy.”

Duncan did not appreciate the reminder; he’d put forth a considerable effort, after all, to set aside all thought of that troublesome personage. He scowled and moved past his
friend to descend the steps and proceed along the passageway toward his quarters. His desk was there, with his charts and logbooks and navigational tools. “We have more important matters to discuss,” he said, for Alex was practically on his heels. “The
India Queen
may well have an escort, given the cargo she carries, and in any case, the British can be counted upon for a respectable flight.”

Alex sighed, closing the cabin door while Duncan opened the portholes to air and light.

“We’ve been planning this raid for weeks,” the first mate reminded his captain. “What else is there to say?”

Duncan took a chart from a cabinet affixed to the wall and unrolled it on the surface of his desk. “Plenty,” he replied. “Should our first strategy fail, we must have another at hand. And still another after that.”

Alex’s jaw tightened, then relaxed again. He could manage any weapon, from a slingshot to a cannon, with uncanny accuracy, and he was a fine horseman as well as an able sailor and swordsman. There could be no question of his courage, and his skills as a commander were also above reproach. For all of it, he was sometimes hasty, due to an impatient nature, and had been known to take rash and therefore, to Duncan’s way of thinking, foolhardy risks.

“The British won’t be expecting us while they’re still so far from the coast,” Alex said after a moment’s pause, used, no doubt, to regroup.

“The British,” Duncan answered, frowning thoughtfully as he studied the chart, measuring distances with his eyes and probabilities with his mind, “are always expecting us. They did not assemble the greatest navy on earth by leaving the security of vital supply ships to chance.” He looked up, at last, and saw that Alex’s neck had reddened, probably with suppressed irritation. “Have you any suggestions,” asked the captain, “or must I labor over the problem alone?”

Alex had been offered an opportunity to salvage his dignity, and he did not refuse it. He bent over the chart, examining it thoroughly, and then offered an idea …

*   *    *

The signal came as soon as darkness had settled over the long and tangled chain of islands, a bonfire blazing on a distant shore, and Duncan saw it from the terrace outside his room. The
India Queen
would be within their grasp, if they sailed with the next tide and the winds were favorable. Once they’d boarded her, and subdued the captain and crew, the vessel would be diverted to a harbor just south of Charles Town, where a band of patriots waited to claim the muskets and gunpowder for use against the King’s men.

Duncan turned to go back inside the house just as the bells in the small chapel Van Ruben had built for his wife began to toll. He smiled, grimly pleased that the watchman on duty had been paying attention. The crewmen, who had huts and houses of their own all over the island, would converge on the cove where the
Francesca
bobbed on the rising tide, ready to set sail for the colder waters to the north.

Candles and oil lamps filled the hall and the foyer with a pleasant glow, and Duncan felt a twinge of sadness because he had to leave. He was, he told himself silently, getting too attached to his comforts. Ten days or a fortnight at sea would be good discipline.

He had not seen Phoebe, there in the warm shadows of the drawing room doorway, and when she stepped into the light, he was arrested by the surprise of her presence. She was wearing an ill-fitting frock that Old Woman had probably salvaged from the bottom of some trunk, and her strange hair gave her a fey look, like a nymph or a pixie strayed from the musty pages of some ancient folktale. There was a fragility about her, a bereft air, that tugged at Duncan’s heretofore invulnerable heart.

“I haven’t managed to go back to the twentieth century yet, as you can see,” she said. “I take it those bells are some sort of rallying call?”

Duncan was in a hurry, and he could not have said why he was tarrying in the foyer. His thoughts, usually so orderly, tumbled over each other like apples spilled from a cart, and several moments passed before he managed a reply. “Yes,” he said. He didn’t move.

“You still think I am a spy, don’t you?” she asked, and there was a bruised expression in her enormous blue eyes, as though it did her injury to think he didn’t trust her.

“I do not know what you are,” he replied succinctly and in all honesty, as his wits returned at last. “Mind that you cause no trouble in this household while I’m away, and do not attempt to flee the island. You shall be watched, be assured of that.”

Phoebe flushed. “I didn’t plan on trying to swim to Florida,” she said. Her eyes seemed to shimmer with tears, but perhaps that was merely a trick of the candlelight, for she blinked and the effect was gone. “I wonder if anybody has even noticed that I’m not there.”

Duncan resisted a foolhardy impulse to take her into his arms and shelter her against his chest for a few moments. The chapel bells were still pealing, more insistently now, and he was conscious of the fact that most of his men would reach the ship before he did, and wonder at his delay. They might begin to doubt his resolve, or question his authority, and no good could come of either.

“Old Woman will look after you,” he said. He left Phoebe then, but he knew she stood in the doorway, watching him go, for he felt her gaze upon his back.

Phoebe closed the door and leaned against it, worried. She wished she’d read all of Professor Benning’s book about Duncan before tumbling through the time warp; suddenly it was important to know, for instance, how he would die, and when.

It wasn’t hard to guess his mission—he was off to bedevil a British ship and probably seize its cargo. According to Chapter Three of his biography, Duncan made a career of that, and Phoebe recalled that he’d been wounded once, rather badly, in a sword fight with an English sea captain who’d refused to surrender.

A knot formed in the pit of Phoebe’s stomach, threatening to expel the supper she’d taken by the kitchen fire with Old Woman, just an hour before. She was not in love with Duncan Rourke—she hadn’t known him long enough for that—but she had begun to care what happened to him. She
would have liked to believe it was because he was to play such an important part in American history, but Phoebe wasn’t very good at fooling herself. Or others, for that matter.

She was attracted to Duncan, not just physically, but emotionally. Of course, she reflected a little sorrowfully, pushing away from the door, it was probably only because she was afraid. Something very weird was happening to her, and Duncan, despite his suspicions and brusque manner, was like a lighthouse, towering in the dark heart of a storm. He was a touchstone—the only person she knew to be real, besides herself.

Wishing she could stow away on Duncan’s ship, like the heroine of a book, and be part of the action, Phoebe took herself slowly up the main stairway. She wasn’t clever enough to pull off such a feat, she thought. He’d discover her, for sure, hiding behind a barrel or facedown underneath his berth, and either toss her overboard or lock her up in the brig.

She moved like a wraith along the upper passageway, which was only dimly lit, and, examining her mind and heart, marveled at the lack of panic she found there. Sure, she’d been terrified when she’d first realized that she had accidentally wandered into another time, as easily as if the eighteenth century were one room in some great, rambling museum, and the twentieth another. Now that she’d had a day to assimilate things, however, she had a feeling of rightness. Just as Old Woman had predicted, the other world, the world of Seattle, and condominiums, and Jeffrey, already seemed unreal.

There was a fire burning low on the hearth in her room, intended to give light rather than heat, for the night was balmy. Phoebe removed her dress—Old Woman had told her it was part of a trunkful of goods salvaged long ago from a shipwreck—and looked around her.

The bed dominated the room, a gilt and tapestry-draped affair fit for Marie Antoinette’s boudoir, along with an exquisite writing desk and a settee upholstered in embroidered velvet. The carpets were Persian, the draperies scallops of
intricate lace. A fabulous lacquered armoire, with a bureau to match, completed the decor.

“I could get to like this,” Phoebe told her reflection in the looking glass above the bureau. “In fact, I already have.”

There was a soft rap at the door, and in answer to Phoebe’s summons, Old Woman entered the room, carrying a pitcher of steaming water and a towel.

“That’s a poor dress for the mistress of such a grand house,” the dark-skinned fairy godmother remarked. “Mr. Duncan has money, though. He’ll see that you have gowns befitting his wife and the mother of his children …”

Weary color surged into Phoebe’s cheeks. She had just come to terms with the fact that she was there, in 1780. It was an accomplishment she could be proud of—undergoing such an experience without losing her mind. She wasn’t quite ready, however, for a husband, be he Duncan Rourke or not, much less children. Not even if that husband was a handsome pirate/patriot, and the children had dark hair and eyes as blue as indigo.