The Pirate Captain (33 page)

“Nothing, eh?” Nathan said with something between surprise and doubt.

“Nothing except a bunch of men saluting each other on that deck back there.”

“Poop deck, darling,” he said taking the glass and gazing through it. “That is a poop deck and a glorious one, indeed.”

Pryce came alongside, pulled out a pocket glass, and together the men considered the not-so-distant ship, coming on like a charging ram.

“Nothing more entrancing than the shine of midshipmen’s buttons, unless it’s the captain’s, eh Mr. Pryce? And pray look at all those shining brass buttons,” Nathan said.

“Shining and glorious indeed,” Pryce said, his grin looking almost skeletal. “Looks like she’s usin’ yer trick o’ paintin’ canvas so as to conceal her guns.”

“Aye, well, they do claim imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

Nathan lowered the glass to glare at the triple fleur-de-lis flying from the mizzen stay. He made a caustic noise. “French my aged aunt’s ass. Well done,” he declared, patting Cate on the shoulder.

She beamed under his praise, in spite of not having the faintest idea as to what she had done.

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing ’tis what we have here,” Nathan explained to her confusion. “A Royal Navy frigate she is, looking to entertain us with her innocence.”

“’Pears to be the
Valor
,” Pryce said after further examination. “A sixth rate twenty-four and none so grand as our sixteens.”

Cate nodded, trying to appear to take the meaning of that bit of information—the
Valor
carried twenty-four guns, none larger than what the
Morganse
sported—with the significance intended.

“Commanded by Captain Eldridge Prichard, and a worthy foe he is, when he’s sober enough to find the poop. A slave to the Demon Gin he is,” Nathan added.

“The waters are fair stirred up these days,” Pryce said with significance.

Nathan batted his lashes affectedly. “Can’t begin to put me mind as to why.”

Pryce seemed inclined to make further comment but resisted.

Redirecting his attention to the
Valor
again, Nathan made a sarcastic noise. “Anyone with half o’ brain would wear ’round, and tear off like smoke and oakum at the sight of our sails. He desires us to believe he doesn’t know who we are and that we are too cod-headed to have smoked who he is.”

Nathan scanned the water and cast an eye skyward. “On to it, then.”

He stepped to the break of the forecastle to shout, “Mr. Hodder. Mr. MacQuarrie. Pass the word to your men. You know what’s to be done.”

It was a fascination to witness the next while: a delicate operation executed with the precision and ease gained only through practice. MacQuarrie readied his crews and guns, the port lids still closed, as did the
Valor
, as observed and reported by the eagle-eyed Damerell at the crosstrees. In the meantime, Hodder readied men and ship.

Closer…closer…The vessels bore down on each other.

The
Valor
was now close enough that her individual faces could be made out, peering over her rail. The next bit happened so fast, Cate wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. The painted canvas fell away from the
Valor
’s side and her foremost guns fired, but too soon for effect. The
Morganse
’s port lids flew open, the guns rammed home and the bow-chaser fired. The smoke had yet to clear the forecastle, before the
Morganse
had pirouetted—with a great deal of bellowing by those hauling on the braces, tacks, and sheets—and sped away into her own wake. The Union Jack and a commodore’s streamer broke out from the
Valor
’s peak, and the race was on.

The
Morganse
settled in like a steeplechaser, the water rushing past her sides at an ever-increasing rate. Leaning far out over the windward rail, Cate could see the
Valor
’s new press of sails and the increase of white foam at her cutwater.

“You have something in mind?” she asked Nathan.

He stood leaned against the binnacle, his arms casually crossed. His cheeks rounded with a square-toothed grin. “A man without a plan is a man what plans to fail, or die as the case would likely be. We got their attention; now let’s see what Ol’ Prichard is made of. All I require is a few hours of staying ahead—not too far, mind—the night’s new moon and a steady glass, which shows every sign of being so.”

It was a steady glass, but the seas cut up rough, with a heavy swell. The
Morganse
leaned into the waves—“close-hauled on a larboard tack, ’n the wind five points off ’er nose”—flinging a steady curl of water to leeward. She ducked her head to take an occasional wave over her bow, the spindrift flying nearly to the afterdeck.

No log line was necessary. That
Morganse
outdistanced
Valor
was clear enough, so much so an old jib was rigged over the side—to leeward, hence out of the
Valor
’s sight—as a sea anchor, intentionally slowing her. It meant it would appear to the
Valor
that the
Morganse
was sailing her heart out to escape. Cate wondered what Nathan was playing at, but he seemed disinclined to elaborate. The hands exchanged knowing looks and nods. They knew, and so would she, in time.

Their course led down a near mile-wide channel between two strings of islands. Those to leeward varied, from steep-sided and sizeable, to barely more than a dry spot in the water. Those to windward, considerably further away, were no more than monotonous low strips of white beach, fringed with palms.

A joyous whoop drew Cate’s attention to the bow. The decks were at a shocking pitch. In spite of the manropes rigged from fore to aft, every step needed to be planned. A couple of times, she was snagged by the nearest seaman to keep from taking a hazardous tumble. Reaching the forecastle finally, she looked further forward to see Nathan nearly to the tip of the jib-boom, nearly half the ship’s length out over the water, standing as casually as he had next to the binnacle. He braced an arm against a stay as he rode the rise and fall of the boom like a Roman rider. He threw his head back and let out another whoop, similar to what that same rider might have given.

“Won’t he fall?” she heard herself say.

Mr. Fox, the captain of the forecastle jacks, looked from supervising his men to Nathan with mild interest. “Nay, the
Morganse
would never allow it. Wet as Neptune he’ll be and never notice.”

He shook his head in wonderment. “’Tis the likes ain’t never seen.”

“Him standing out there?”

“Nay. Him ’n this ship. ’Tis but one soul a’tween them. Best step aft, sir, or you’ll be as wet as a whale yerself.”

A wave breaking high just then, its plumes sheeting across the deck, made his point.

The ship’s people went about their routine as they would any other day. There was no worry, no furtive glances aft to see what the
Valor
was doing. That task was all reserved for Cate and she performed it admirably. She paced, until the day faded and the
Valor
was reduced to no more than a ghostly blur of sails and lamp glows. The sea suddenly seemed overcrowded. She could still feel ship’s presence, like someone breathing over her shoulder, pressing, looming, so very…there.

Unable to bear it, Cate went into the cabin, hoping to find something to occupy her mind. She found Hermione meticulously flicking the last bits with her tongue from Cate’s dinner plate, left by Mr. Kirkland. It was just as well; her stomach was closed. She was too distracted to read, and couldn’t concentrate sufficiently to stitch. She gravitated to the length of cord lying on the gallery sill. Eager for the opportunity to practice her knotting without prying eyes, she sat and began, and began…and began, swearing under her breath each time. Somehow, somewhere, she was making the same mistake time and again.

Nathan came into the cabin and her heart sank. It would be an understatement to say he was distressed by her ineptitude so far as knotting was concerned. He seemed to have taken it as his personal mission and a dogged instructor he was.

His eyes lit at seeing the rope in her hand. “No, the shank’s too long,” he said, perching next to her. “Start again.”

They sat heads bent, shoulder-to-shoulder. It wasn’t a complete accident when Cate shifted for a better view when Nathan demonstrated, bringing the length of her thigh against his. His fingers moving like moth-wings over hers, she frequently became lost in watching his hands, the bones and tendons flexing under the bronzed skin, burnished to golden in the light. The fine web of scars across his knuckles was a constant reminder of how closely he had come to being no different than Stubbs.

A clearing of his throat and “Mind your task, lass,” set her back to the lesson.

“Now, this is the tree,” Nathan said grasping the section of cord. “The loop is the hole. And this other end is the rabbit.”

Cate checked her urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she fixed them with affected interest. The chant of a rabbit capering about, rounding trees, and popping in and out it of holes was not novel. Stubbs had repeated it seemingly time out of mind. And yet, in Nathan’s throaty rasp, his breath warm on her arm, it sent a tingling rush through her. His sleeve brushed her arm, and her fingers went thick and clubbish.

At one point, he paused, his attention veering to her. “You’re worried.”

Cate flushed, not realizing she had been staring over her shoulder at the
Valor
. Nathan’s observation came with a slight quivering at the corner of his mouth, as if he was holding back from laughing at her.

“I’m not made for cat-and-mouse.” Truth be told, she had been in desperate need of a distraction, the practicing but a means to keep her hands busy.

“I see you—everyone, for that matter—go into this, like you already know you’re going to prevail,” she said, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“No, the shank’s too long. Start again.” Nathan smiled faintly. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? Aye, there is an advantage to be reaped from being the most feared ship in the Caribbean.”

“Blood dripping from the sails and deck have to help,” she said, working the rope.

“Aye, that and thirty-eight guns, deadly accurate, and sharpshooters what can lay nigh on to three barrages a minute. We out-gun and out-man most and the rest are too near pissing their britches at the thought of confrontation.”

“Even the Royal Navy?” she asked.

Nathan gave a tight-lipped smile. “They attack only when ordered, and with great trepidation at that. The loop goes this way. Start again.”

“Ordered by their commander?”

“One Commodore Roger Harte,” he announced grandly. Then he cut a sharp look, noticing her twitching reaction. “You’re familiar with him?”

“Only by mention on the
Constancy,
and here a few times.”

Cate felt his gaze on her for some time, as one might look for deception or hidden meanings. His lashes, copper-tipped by the sun, were almost golden in the candlelight.

“I get the impression there is a history between the two of you,” she prompted.

“Hmm? Oh, aye. History could be a word,” he mused. Rubbing the side of his nose, his smile grew more lopsided as he considered. “Running spurt. Difference of opinion…”

“Rivalry?”

Nathan sobered and shrugged. “That too. One does have to admire a dedicated enemy.”

“Can he do the same?”

A deep calm befell him and his lids lowered. “Oh, aye.”

Cate looked back over her shoulder. The
Valor
’s lights were like a pestilent hovering of fireflies. The
Morganse
’s stern lamps illuminated her own wake with a molten golden glow.

“It’s not you they seek,” Nathan said evenly.

She glanced at him, and then away. “Are you sure?”

He smiled with the patience of a parent with a child afraid of thunder. “As sure as the tides.”

Cate shifted, toying with the cord. He frowned at seeing that she wasn’t convinced. “Darling, there’s no worry. You shan’t ever be turned over to him.”

She had spent nearly a fortnight formulating a list of possibilities of what his plans might be for her, but so far, nothing. If she wasn’t to be turned over for the reward, then what?

Nathan saw her doubt and winced. “In the midst of all this barbarity, luv, a pirate has but one thing upon which to rely: his word. And I give you mine: you shall never be handed over to Harte, nor anyone else. You can mark me on that.”

So touched by his sincerity, Cate reached for his hand where it rested on his leg next to hers. He jerked away as if seared and launched to his feet. He was nearly to the mizzenmast when Somers, the boatswain’s third mate, appeared at the door.

“Mr. Hodder’s compliments and duty, sir. We’re standing by.”

“On to it, then,” Nathan declared and darted away.

Cate sat staring in his wake, confused and doubly defeated. It wasn’t the first time she had seen him recoil and scamper away for no more reason than her nearness. She might be a widow, but she preferred to think she might still have a little allure left.

“Don’t flatter yourself, my dear,” she muttered.

No, it wasn’t the first time she had seen him race away, but would be the last, at least with reference to anything she had to do with.

She settled to the knot once more, but the cord blurred. Squealing, she pitched into a dark corner. In pure honesty, her frustration had nothing to do with the rope. Discontent gave way to curiosity at voices coming outside, low and urgent. She went out to find a sizable cluster of men around a number of empty casks lashed together. Two staffs had been rigged at one end, a lantern swinging from each.

“Silence fore and aft!” It was a wonder how commanding Hodder’s voice could be even in no more than a loud whisper.

The makeshift barge was lowered in the ship’s lee. A line was fed out, until the breeze caught and it drifted away.

“Douse the lamps,” murmured Nathan.

The
Morganse
veered from the barge’s path. The sea anchor at her side was cut free and she shot off on her new course, like a horse given its head.