The Pirate Captain (45 page)

Not again! Not again!

She struck out with her feet. Just one good kick: throat, gut, or balls, whatever luck would provide. Something hard, either a fist or a knee, drove into her gut, again and again. She slumped, too dazed to move as her legs were yanked apart. A weight came down on top of her, the thick ropes underneath grinding into her spine. His breath panted hot and ragged in her ear as his hips worked between her thighs, eagerly thrusting, but to little avail.

An incensed bellow vibrated the small space. The man on top of her lunged to his feet, jerking her with him. Cate was barely clear of the floor when she was dropped, coming down hard on the cables. Her gut convulsed, black spots swirled behind her lids. She was snatched up again. Whoever held her was knocked from behind and they shot forward together to land in a tangled heap. Her head slammed the floor again. The ringing in her ears reached a higher pitch. Bursts of red pricked the edges of her vision and her grip on the world began to slip.

The small space became a tumult of heaving bodies, filled with curses and grunts, the meaty slap of fists hitting flesh. Cate curled on the floor as they fought over her, beyond caring when she was trampled or kicked. A pleasant numbness settled over her. It promised an end to the nightmare; all she need do was surrender to the looming oblivion. She gave over to the spiraling flashes, allowing them to draw her down further and further…

Amid the voices, there was one, graveled and gruff, so familiar and very near.

“Cap’n. Nathan, yer killin’ ’im!”

Pryce. It was Pryce!

Arms roughly scooped Cate up; she shrieked and kicked. The grasp around her tightened and she heard an urgent shush in her ear, the sound thickened by ragged breathing. She opened her eyes into another pair. Bare inches from hers, they were black and wild with rage. Seeing her look up, Nathan swore in relief and clutched her to his chest with a gasping sob. She surrendered into his haven of warmth and safety, and the turmoil faded behind them.

Nathan’s heart hammered against her cheek. She was vaguely aware of shifting patterns of light through her lids as he carried her, and then the jostle of climbing steps. Amid urgent voices and pounding feet, she cracked her eyes to see worried faces trust at her, inquiries and orders colliding. There was another jolt of hastily mounted steps again and they were back in the cabin. The clatter of curtain rings as Nathan barged through told her they were back in the sleeping quarters. There, with exaggerated care, he lowered her to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Still caught up in the rush of combat, he set to frantically patting her over.

“I’m fine.” The lie came too easily, and yet Cate lacked the faculties to say aught else.

That simple acknowledgment, however, appeased him. He backed away, holding his hands out as if he feared she might topple over. Satisfied she would remain upright, he retreated another few steps to snatch what served for a towel from the washstand. Wadding it up, he pressed it under her nose. A wooden arm moved to assume the task, the cloth instantly bright red. Someone was bleeding. From all indications, it was her.

Emotions washed over her, like surf on a rock. There were so many, so fast, she felt as if she might drown. Unable to choose which one first, she responded to none. She should be crying, hysterical, screaming, shaking…laughing…something. Instead, she stood much like that rock, holding the towel to her nose and mouth.

As emotionless as she might have been, Nathan pulsed with enough for both of them. His blood still up from fighting, emotions coursed through him like lightning bolts, looking for a place to strike. He drew back and with several deep breaths in an effort to achieve a façade of calm.

Nathan’s sleeve brushed against her; she looked down to see she was exposed nearly to the waist, the full curve of both breasts taught against the tattered edges of her shift. She thought to do something, but her arms refused to move. Seeing as much, with exaggerated daintiness, Nathan tugged the torn edges together to a modicum of decency. The muscles in his jaw, however, where white.

“Thank you.” The voice was so foreign Cate thought perhaps someone else had spoken. It seemed important that be said.

He smiled, a weak attempt, but one necessary for the benefit of both of them. “No worries, luv. ’Twas naught more than what any gent would do.”

“How did you find me?” Cate asked from under the wadded towel. Her head throbbed horribly, everything still a jumble of disjointed events.

The smile grew, more honest this time, but soon faltered. “Beatrice. The bloody beast set to caterwauling; wouldn’t belay until we followed.”

A commotion rose from the ship’s caverns, the voices and scuffling of one group roughly herding another.

“What will happen…to them…?” Cate couldn’t bring herself to utter a name. The mere hearing of their muffled voices made the ship suddenly feel too small.

“Any number of things,” Nathan said distractedly. “Anything short of a slow, agonizing death being too lenient by my estimation.”

Clucking his tongue in admonishment, Nathan took the towel from her and dabbed the blood from her chin. “I’ll be called up as well.” He smiled grimly. “I’ve drawn blood, killed an unarmed man. On that offense, I’ll be meeting me own judgment.”

“Because of me?” Panic surged at the thought of another mutiny.

“No,” he said with measured patience, “because four miscreants took a crack-brained notion.”

Like learning to walk, putting one thought in front of the other, she strove to comprehend. Nathan stood before her, disheveled and blood-smeared. He had killed a man, his own crewman, because of her. The nightmare she thought to be over was just beginning, the hellishness spreading to everyone near. She could lose him, and would have only herself to blame.

“He couldn’t have been unarmed. Everyone carries a knife,” Cate said.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “Aye, like coppers to a cook, they are, but that will be a matter for them.” He canted his head toward the unseen deck.

Cate felt rather than heard the ship come alive with a rising tide of agitation, the air charged like St. Elmo’s fire. The voices of eight score of men rose to a feverish pitch, demands colliding with explanations. Pryce’s bass cracked out and they fell quiet.

“What will they say?” she asked.

“Anything they want and nothing that will stick. Justifiable, plain and simple,” he added, more for his own benefit than hers.

Nathan’s fist closed around the sponge with a force that whitened his knuckles, the water dribbling on the bed between them. “I killed what needed killing. If only God can take a life, then call me Jehovah, for I’ll do it if it needs doing and with a clear conscience on me judgment day.”

“Cap’n?”

Startled by the voice at the curtain, Nathan whirled, seizing his pistol with one hand and shoving her behind him with the other. He made a guttural noise of both relief and frustration, and lowered his weapon.

“Aye, Mr. Pryce?”

“A word, sir, if ye please,” came a voice through the cloth.

“Come.”

Barely stirring the velvet, Pryce slipped in. Cate cringed, the space suddenly too crowded. More aware of her dishabille than she, Nathan moved to block her from Pryce’s view. Pryce averted his eyes, nonetheless.

“She’s the right to accuse,” Pryce said without preamble.

“Do you think that’s entirely necessary, Mr. Pryce?” Nathan shot back testily.

“She’s a right to declare and witness her justice.” The proclamation came evenly, without prejudice.

Nathan barely glanced over his shoulder at her. “The lady declines. You know me wishes.” His voice dropped to a rumbling vehemence. “I want them dead, the worst way possible. If that means a slow-match to their balls, allow me to be the one to light it.”

An arch of his brows indicated Pryce didn’t disagree. “One didn’t live to face his crime.”

“A knife to the liver is known to do that,” Nathan said laconically. “You be the Quartermaster, Pryce. Dispensing of justice is at your pleasure. You’ve always proven to be most imaginative.”

Pryce’s composure faltered. Cate’s fogged mind was able to grasp his surprise: Nathan had just absolved him of any hesitancy or guilt, freeing him to deal with Nathan’s fate the same as anyone else. If Nathan were to fall under the hammer of ship’s justice, Pryce’s likelihood of assuming command would hinge on his lack of prejudice or allegiances. He would also be the only barrier between her and the rowdy mass outside.

“Carry on, Master Pryce,” Nathan said, cutting off Pryce’s attempts to object. “I’ll attend directly.”

Puffed with displeasure, Pryce touched his forelock and left.

Nathan’s braids fell in a curtain about his face as he studied his blood-caked hands. Would the men the blood as hers, or that of the man he killed? Surely, if they saw the one, they would realize the other, or would pirates only see the blood of a fallen comrade and want more in the name of revenge?

“I’ll be fine. Go.” It was surprising how effectively she was able to lie again.

Nathan looked up and curved a wry smile. “Do you ever say that and mean it?”

His smile broadened in gratitude. “This shan’t take long.”

It was unclear if he spoke for his benefit or hers.

Cate glassily watched him leave, straining to fully appreciate what he was about to face: a court of his peers passing judgment on the slaying of a mate, a member of the Brotherhood. Murder or justifiable? It was reasonable to believe justice would come swiftly and wouldn’t be gentle. Beyond that, her concussed mind was unable to fathom.

Icy talons of shock and numbness sunk deeper into her gut. A part of her argued she should move, do something. No decision came, however, the task of standing consuming every shred of will. Her gaze drifted, eventually coming to rest on a corner of the rug upon which she stood. Not necessarily fascinating, but with no motivation to do else, there she remained.

A rap on the doorframe stirred her sufficiently to murmur a response. Jensen shyly pushed his way in bearing a ewer of steaming water. His brilliant flush stirred her self-consciousness and she tugged at the fragments of her bodice to something more decent. Frowning, Jensen’s mouth moved as he filled the basin. The words thudded in her ears, as if heard underwater. He turned with an expectant look. She nodded, only because she thought she ought. With that, he left.

Cate was dimly aware of the rising turmoil of the crew assembling on deck. Still muzzy-headed, the words were lost, but the mood was readily judged. Tension? Yes. Blood-thirst? Not yet. Her senses pricked at the sound of Nathan’s voice, loud and gruff above the rest. Commanding? Yes. Defensive? Not in the least. She tried to concentrate, wanting to know—needing to know more—but that battle had been lost before it had begun.

Wash.

The directive, simplistic enough to be grasped, came from somewhere within. Cate fumbled, the ties of skirt and the laces of her stays being maddeningly elusive. With a shrug of the shoulders, her shift fell away, landing at her feet. With arms that seemed to be someone else’s, she wet the sponge and began to mechanically dab. The room was warm, yet her skin was icy to the touch. She looked at the blood-smeared limb. Sickness rose at the back of her throat at wondering whose blood it might be. Slowly turning a hand before her face, she examined the scraped knuckles and broken nails. The sight stirred recollections, but nothing tangible enough to be grasped. The light glinted on the hairs snagged under one nail and revulsion seized her: they weren’t hers. Her gaze drifted down to her naked body. She swayed at seeing the patches of blood, oozing scrapes and welling bruises. Her thoughts moved like rusted gears as she strained to piece it back together.

From outside came cheers, raucous and angry. They quieted just as quickly, while one rang out, defensive and heated: Bullock.

Cate quailed and gasped, the sponge landing in a wet splat at her feet. Drawing a shaky breath—Breathing. Yes, breathing was important—she bent to retrieve it. She straightened to look squarely into the glass above the washstand. A wretched creature stared back, battered and bloodied, features swollen to the point of grotesque. The circular pattern of a bite marked her breast, bright red where the dark rose center met the milky pale.

Another inch, and…

She carved a slow spiral and crumpled to the floor. Curling into a ball, she wished for a shell in which to crawl. If she could make herself small enough, it…she might go away.

Cate felt more than heard Nathan’s hurried approach. Cracking an eye open, she searched the planked floor for a hole into which she could dissolve. There were none.

“I know you don’t fancy—”

Nathan's words died in his throat. Swearing, he set a bottle on the nightstand and snatched the quilt from the bunk as he knelt. He murmured little nothings as he brought her to her feet, discretely snugging the quilt about her as she rose.

“Have to bear an eye on you every minute, don’t I?” Nathan gently chided, as if she were a helpless child. A backward kick sent the discarded clothing to the corner as he guided her to sit on the bed.

Frowning worriedly, he uncorked the bottle and, over Cate's feeble objections, pressed it to her lips, not satisfied until she had taken several sips. The sting of the rum on her lacerated mouth brought tears to her eyes. The liquor burned her raw throat—had she screamed that much?—when she swallowed. It landed in a hot ball in her stomach, sending instant fortifying jolts through her.

Nathan scooped up the sponge, pulled up the stool and sat, the basin now at his feet. He dabbed with the sponge, mopping the blood from Cate's nose and mouth, being particularly cautious of the split lip. She tended to twitch and start at his every move, and so he signaled in advance, extracting one limb, and then another. As he cleansed, the basin’s contents became a brackish pink.

The washing stung, but not as badly as the fact that Nathan couldn’t bring his gaze to meet hers. Several times he tried but failed. His responses to the few times she spoke were curt. He didn’t say as much, but she knew he blamed her for having been so foolish as to fall into such a trap, his ship now in an uproar. Cate wanted to tell him he needn’t be concerned with telling her: she already knew. She stared at the top of his head, listening to him mutter darkly under his breath and slowly came to realize his anger was turned inward. He wasn’t blaming her; he was blaming himself and self-flagellation always wielded the sharpest barbs.