The Pirate Captain (88 page)

“And that would be—?” Nathan said.

“Damnedest thing I ever seen,” Thomas said more loudly to the crowd. “The last one…well, two, come to think on it, but the last one most particular,” he added aiming a meaningful look toward Nathan. “One flick of the blade, the poor sod’s cock was cut off, clean as you please. Well, except the blood.” He frowned. “Bled like a stuck pig, he did. I saw him a year or so back. He carries it around in a jar o’ gin around his neck. His mates call him Pickle-cock.”

That brought a fair amount of laughter. The young challenger paled, and then went an interesting shade of green visible even in the moonlight. Cate found herself wondering what on earth the boy could have seen in Prudence—and so quickly—which could have driven him to this. Or was the lad just a natural raving romantic?

Young love.

“Then pistols,” Nathan cried.

Thomas’ countenance clouded. “Don’t you remember the last time—?”

“Lucky shot ’twas all,” Nathan said with a flip of the hand.

“Providence,” Thomas said significantly. He turned to the crowd. “One shot, square in the eye. Dropped like a stone. Least he never knew what hit ’im,” he finished with a brief display of compassion.

“Aye, regrettable, that,” Nathan said abstractedly. Then he brightened. “We could have a go at knives.”

“Noo…Remember Mahon? Oh, and then, there was Porto Praya. Slow deaths are ugly deaths,” Thomas said under his breath, though still heard by all.

Both gave a dramatic shudder.

“Then cudgels,” Nathan offered.

Thomas squinted a thoughtful eye. “You know, I saw that last one you fought in Maritan. Hit him square upside the head,” he said for the benefit of all, tapping a finger to his temple. “All he does is drool and cackle like a chicken.”

Cate averted her face to hide a smile.

Thomas crossed his arms and pensively propped his chin in one hand. “There’s gotta be something.”

“I know, I know,” Nathan grumbled. “Ease off and stand by. Blunderbuss? No, not that. Nasty mess, that was.”

Still deep in thought, Thomas nodded distractedly. “Difficult to look a man in the eye with only half a face.”

“Fisticuffs?”

Thomas chuckled. “Made such a mess o’ that one. He’s obliged to pay the blind whores extra just to have him.”

Biggins followed the conversation intently. Bold at first, his conviction faded with each description.

Chin, Mute Maori, and several of the larger Morgansers pressed to the front of observers, which had now formed into a loose ring. Weapons in clear evidence, they stood arms crossed, shoulder to shoulder, imposing with their presence. Biggins noticed and sagged.

“Pray, don’t mind them,” Nathan said, seeing the lad weaken. “They took some blood oath ages ago, pledging avenge the death of their captain, or some such nonsense. No basis to it a-tall.”

“Still there was…” Thomas warned.

“I still say ’twas a shark what got him,” Nathan shot back.

“Bloody difficult to tell with what little was left,” Thomas said with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

“Arm wrestle?” Nathan said, after a prolonged silent debate.

“I’m surprised you’d suggest that after Calcut. You swore never again, after his arm came off in your hand.”

They shuddered together.

“Boarding axe?” asked Nathan.

“Nay! Remember Ol’ Crossjack Johnson? One swipe and guts are spilling all on the beach, baking in the sun. Too quick; no justice,” Thomas concluded with a dismissive swipe.

Biggins’ dulled senses finally pricked, and he realized that the two captains were having a go with him. Many of the onlookers had long seen as much and were having a good laugh at his expense. The remainder stared at Nathan and Thomas in slack-jawed wonderment.

“Very well,” Nathan conceded. He sighed. “This is a bother. There has to be a way. The lad deserves his justice, field of honor and all that.”

“True, true.” Thomas nodded pensively. He hooked a fatherly arm around Biggins’ shoulders. “Come to the fire, son, and we’ll drink on it, whilst we ponder. ’Tis ill-advised, it is, to go off killing, before your mates have been allowed to properly toast your success.”

With a smooth bit of manipulation, Thomas handed Biggins off to several Grisellers, who shepherded him away amid a barrage of hails and hearty backslapping.

Thomas watched to assure the lad was well away, before asking the remaining crowd, “Any of you drunk or stupid enough to have declared yourself his second?”

Quiet murmurings and shaking heads was his answer.

“Then there’s nay harm, unless you desire your justice now,” Thomas said turning to Nathan.

“Jesus and Mary, no. Was he drunk?” Nathan asked looking in the unfortunate Biggins’ path.

“Not yet and not enough,” Thomas said, with a half-smile. “Pitiful wretch can’t hold it, either. In an hour, he’ll be face down, and by dawn he won’t remember a thing.”

With nothing of any further interest pending, the small crowd dispersed and returned to their revelry. Thomas excused himself with a “Don’t you dare touch that board,” to Nathan.

When they were finally alone, Cate came up beside Nathan. “How many duels have you been in?” she asked in a low voice.

One side of Nathan's mustache lifted in an odd quirk. “Not. A. One.”

His attention shifted to Biggins’ direction. “Barely has hair on his balls. Tonight, I let him live, so he can curse me for it when he’s old and decrepit.”

“Hell’s fury. A fine kettle o’ fish,” Nathan steamed at length. “These upstarts nowadays can’t be trusted. No upbringing. I blame Thomas for this. He’s had the lad under his wing for a time. Certainly long enough to have taught him a man’s responsibilities.”

With a sweep of his hand, the matter was dismissed. Nathan returned to the chess game. Studying the board with renewed interest, he glanced to see where Thomas might be, and then hunched with intensity.

“Let me see…this knight would be ever so much more advantageous over here…” he said under his breath, reaching delicately for the game piece.

Several unkind thoughts surged to the surface at the sight of Prudence some time later standing at the edge of the light, drooping with weariness, first and foremost being Nathan’s suggestion to turn her skirts and spank her as her parents apparently never did. In her less generous moments, Cate considered that the manipulative little busy-body and Creswicke deserved each other.

Cate felt Nathan stiffen beside her. Seeing the muscles in his jaws go white, visible even in the dim light, brought her to think perhaps it would be best to allow cooler heads to prevail. Berating Prudence would only serve to stir a pot that had barely ceased to boil. There had been enough excitement on for one night.

A more generous side prevailing, Cate rose; a desisting hand to Nathan bid him to stay. Under his glower from where he sat, and a series of incensed huffs and sputtering, Cate retrieved Prudence, scooped out a spot in the sand, spread the quilt and guided her to bed. The child was asleep, before Cate rose to her feet.

Cate almost collided with Nathan when she turned around.

“Where the hell are you to sleep now? Couldn’t the little—?”

“Shh.” Cate pressed her fingers to her lips and pushed him several steps away. “Just allow her to sleep. I’ll manage.”

“That’s the trouble.” Nathan's shoulders jerked under his shirt. “You’re always the one to
manage
.”

Muttering, he disappeared into the darkness. He returned shortly, a piece of canvas in tow. Moving nearer to where he and Thomas sat, he scooped a depression in the sand, and then spread the canvas over it. Straightening, he swept an inviting hand. Too tired to object, she did as she was bid.

“Sleep well, luv,” Nathan murmured as he knelt and spread his coat over Cate. His eyes gone to near black in the fire’s shadows, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her neck. “You’re safe tonight.”

Lying only a few feet away, Cate could see Nathan and Thomas, knee to knee, hunched over the game board. The flames gilded them in gold and flickered on their profiles as they sat dark head against light. If she was to look through one eye, with pistol and cutlass at their sides, they were like two Teutonic war gods. Looking at them through the other, they could have easily been sitting in a library before the hearth.

She closed both eyes and listened, not necessarily to the words, but their voices. Thomas’ was a deep rumble, so very familiar, but Nathan’s provided more warmth and comfort than his coat over her shoulders. At one point, Nathan launched into a lengthy dialogue. She drifted to sleep to his throaty gravel detailing the pros and cons of the Lucen position versus the Greco counter gambit.

Sometime in the night, Cate woke. She wriggled to get more comfortable. Sand could be insufferably hard. The fire had burned down, the embers a red-orange glow under their cape of white ash. Hushed voices and muffled laughter drifted from down the beach, Artemis’ plaintive whistle coming from nearby. Cate raised her head enough to could see where Prudence slept some distance behind her, the moonlight outlining her shapeless hump.

A shape in the opposite direction caught her eye. It was Nathan, barely an arm’s length away. He lay on his back, sprawled like a broken rag doll, on arm flung toward her. His braids fanned in black fingers on the sand about his head and shoulders. She listened carefully. Through the distant sounds of surf and merriment came the throaty rhythmic rasp of his breathing.

She snuggled deeper under the coat that was redolent of him, and went to sleep.

Chapter 17:
Desperate Measures

C
ate woke to a pair of worn suede boot toes staring her in the face. She blinked away sleep, the canvas beneath her rough against her cheek. The boots bent and Nathan’s face came into focus bare inches from hers.

“Joy o’ the morning, luv!” he declared brightly. Wide-eyed with enthusiasm, he held forth a steaming cup. “Kirkland was already in a snit, worried you might be going without. I swear, the bloody cove fancies you drink this in your sleep.”

Groaning with stiffness, Cate sat up. Clutching his coat around her shoulders against the morning chill, she reached for the cup, only to have it taken beyond her grasp.

“Have a care. ’Tis extra hot this morning,” Nathan warned. “I think the man has discovered a new temperature for boiling water. Pray, allow me to hold.”

Face contorted with concentration, he guided the cup for her first sip. Nathan was correct: the liquid was viciously hot. She jerked back, touching her tongue to her scalded lip.

Nathan clucked his tongue, scolding. “Let me blow on it for a bit.”

Balancing the cup well to the side, he lowered onto his buttocks on the sand and industriously applied to the task.

Yawning, Cate shook out her hair. She finger-combed the larger snarls, and then set to working one of the tortoise-shell combs through it. Nathan cocked a scornful eye, dubious of the likelihood of her success, but oddly said nothing.

“How long have you been up?” she said.

Nathan stopped blowing long enough to say, “Ages,” and then resumed.

“Where’s Prudence?” she asked, craning her neck.

“Huh?” Nathan paused in mid-blow to look disinterestedly about. Finally, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Over there, still abed.”

Surrendering to the reality that there was little more to be done with the mess, Cate twisted up the sides of her hair and shoved the combs in place. Settling more comfortably, she hunched the coat higher about her shoulders and scanned the beach, taking in the new day.

The scene before her appeared more a battleground, the casualties of war strewn where they had fallen to the artillery of revelry and rum. Some of the sea rogues still rode the momentum of drunkenness: staggering and stumbling over the still bodies of their fallen comrades. Cup, mug, or tankard in hand, the survivors milled about the cook fires, their lazy curls of smoke melding with the bluer ones of tobacco to spiral into the azure sky. Towering flat-bottomed, anvil-headed clouds, dark and heavy with moisture, hung threateningly far on the horizon.

“Enjoy land while you might,” Nathan said between blows. “We’ll be leaving on the morrow tide.”

“I thought the terms were four days. It’s been barely three.”

“Aye, but the first what arrives is the best positioned.”

“You expect foul play?” Cate asked, growing uneasy.

“Duplicity is a common middle name,” Nathan said sagely.

“Including you?”

“Jonathan Edward,” he said at length, and then added at her puzzled look. “Me middle name, or names, as it ’tis.”

A brow arched expectantly under the edge of the faded blue headscarf.

“Maureen,” she finally said. “Family name, from my father’s side.”

Nathan nodded interestedly and stopped blowing enough to say, “Then you are Scots.”

“Not that they would admit to,” she said smiling faintly. “Nathanael Jonathan Edward Blackthorne.”

“A bit grand for a tyke what wasn’t expected to live.”

“You?” she asked, canting her head. Any morsel of his past she eagerly devoured.

“Aye. Small I was. Mum claimed it was because I came early, but it was a full moon,” he added importantly. “The midwife claimed I was black when I came out—had a headful of black hair, for one thing. She announced me cursed and the Devil’s spawn. Mum had to do everything she could to keep them from killing me straight away. She put charms all about me basket and named me Nevan.”

“Nevan?”

He shrugged indifferently. “’Tis Celt for ‘little saint’ or some such. As I grew up, everyone kept getting it wrong, calling me Nathan. She knew well how burdensome a Celt name might be, so she changed it…for everyone but her, that is. She called me Nevan until her dying day.” The corner of his mouth drew up on a crooked smile of such tenderness it seemed a violation of his privacy to say anything further.

Nathan gave the cup a final puff, and then tested it. “Aye, ’tis ready.”

“Thank you for sacrificing your safety for my pleasures, Captain,” she said teasingly, and batted her eyelashes.