The Pirate Captain (9 page)

“No, Catherine Harper has no one, absolutely no one,” she said to the night.

“Any slab-sided dolt can see that you are a lady by speech and carriage, in spite of your clever disguise,” he said dryly, rising behind her.

“Disguise,” she cried, spinning around. “You were the ones who—”

“Details,” he said, with a dismissive flutter of fingers. He circled, regarding her again as if she was prized livestock. “In spite of a sojourn at sea, you’ve the skin and teeth of a lady as well. Someone has paid dearly for your maintenance.”

“There’s no one.”

“Did your mother not teach you not to lie?”

Cheeks heating, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not lying. There’s—”

She was cut short at seeing his gaze drop to her hand.

“You wear a wedding ring,” he observed in a cunning tone.

“Please don’t take it.” She clutched her hand to her chest.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, his face screwing in puzzlement.

“You pirates take everything, don’t you?” She didn’t scruple uttering the word now, employing every bit of the loathing that boiled to the surface.

“Aye, that we do, but I can assure you one silver ring wouldn’t signify,” he said amiably, but then his tone hardened. “And I beg that you spare me the stuff-and-nonsense of you being the good Captain Whatever-His-Name’s wife.”

“I told you, there is
no
one.”

She bit her lip with the realization that with that succinct declaration, she might well have sealed her fate: by her own admission, she was worthless as a hostage. The list of possibilities of what might be done with her had just narrowed.

She looked into one of the gallery’s thick panes. The face looking back from amid a bramble of hair was that of a stranger: blank-eyed and haggard, a hag, no better than the beggars and whores who roamed the streets, someone to be used and abused with little regard. She felt the ship shift under her feet and the sails catch. Their momentum building, she watched the lights of the
Constancy,
and any hope of escape, fade into the twilight. With it, too, went her meager bag of possessions.

Everything was gone.

In spite of the quilt about her, a cold desolation settled over her. It was the final kick in the gut, Providence telling her once again that she was to have nothing…
ever
. Anything she ever managed to gain would be taken.

“What of your husband?” Blackthorne’s blurred reflection in the glass moved as he circled behind her.

She rolled the silver ring between her fingers. Ornate, yet simple, with small rosebuds twining over a latticework background, it was now all that was left. Clutching her hand to her chest, she closed her eyes in benediction of all she had lost.

“He’s gone,” she said dully.

“Gone? Gone, as in to another island? Or, gone as in…?”

“Gone, as in prison,” she cried. Spinning around, the quilt fell from her shoulders. “Gone, as in never to be seen again. Gone, as in I’m totally alone. Gone, as in there is not a single soul to know if I’m alive or dead!”

The weight of the day had taken its toll. Terror, battle, near drowning, and now captivity were all too overwhelming. Rage overcame sensibility. Squealing, she balled a fist and swung. He chuckled as he easily fended her off, infuriating her all the more. Fingers curled, she lunged, seeking to claw his throat, face…anything! Artfully dodging her attempts to knee him in the groin, he seized her wrists and pulled her against him. She screamed in anger more than fear.

“Quiet! Belay!” he hissed.

He pressed her face deeper into his shoulder, the pistol at his waist digging her ribs. Cate bucked against his body, lean and hardened by years at sea. Wrestling with her brothers had taught her how to fight; he flinched and grunted when her blows found their target. She felt a tug at the neck of her shift and heard the sound of fabric tearing.

Cate landed a solid kick to his knee and broke free. She leapt for the broad sill of the windows and hooked her fingers on the ledge, clinging to the slim chance of escape. Freedom was just below: a sea glittering in the starlight. The water was further down than she had imagined, but rational voices didn’t prevail. He dove after her and seized her by the waist, striving to pull her away. Her fingers burned, the joints tearing. She kicked out and knocked his leg out from under him. He sprawled on top of her, one arm trying to pull her back, the other reaching to break her hold. Failing at that, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed, digging his fingers deep between the bones. A searing pain raced up her arm and shot down into her hand. Her fingers went numb and she lost her grip with a suddenness that sent them both tumbling along the sill.

He came up on top of her, his hips grinding hers. His breath hot on her chest, she slapped and gouged, going for his eyes, nose…any point of weakness. He caught one arm in mid-air and wrenched it around under her, while nearly catching the other. As they rolled, one way and then the other, she screamed and he clapped a hand over her mouth. She bit down until she heard the satisfying crunch of flesh. Grunting in pain, he jerked back and tried to shake her off, but she hung on like a terrier on a rat. Finally, he slapped her across the face. The blow sent her reeling backward. She came hard up against a gun with a force that knocked the wind from her.

Blackthorne came at her with a thunderous look. The black eyes gleamed with a brilliance that made him capable of any act of mayhem or madness. She sagged back, the gun’s cold brass at her back another scream bubbling in her throat, but he stopped just beyond arm’s reach.

“Scream again and you’ll do it hanging from me bowsprit,” he said in a low, gasping growl.

He twisted his arm around to examine the side of his hand, a curve of red droplets bright in the candlelight. He glared in disgust at her and plunged it into his mouth. He then snatched up the bottle and trickled rum over it, swearing as he shook off the pain.

Blackthorne came at her with a swiftness that he was on her before she could react. He grabbed her up and half-carried, half-drug her across the room to the curtain and, with a low, animal sound, shoved her through it.

“And come out at your peril!” he snarled.

Cate strained to curb her own hard breathing in order to hear to what was happening on the other side of the curtain: stomping about, and a great deal of grumbles and curses, much unkindly toward women in general and her, specifically. She heard a heaving grunt and the quilt slid under the curtain with enough force for it to land at her feet.

She stood staring into the dark room. There was nothing but a curtain, no way of barricading or locking it. She inched her way forward with a groping hand extended. She stubbed her toe on the bunk and heard a smug snicker in the salon. He was still out there, listening, waiting. Sleeping on the bed seemed ill-advised. When he came in—and surely he would—he would expect her there. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound, she clamped her mouth tight and felt around to the farthest corner. At the head of the bed, she came upon a book tucked in the corner. Its hefty weight promised to make a fair weapon—the only weapon thus far—and she tucked it under her arm. Once reaching the corner, she felt for the quilt and curled up with it on the floor.

Exhaustion was an anchor dragging her down. The events of the day flashed through her head like a riffled deck of cards. The speed with which they passed had a hypnotic effect and she felt her joints loosen. Muscles tensed for too long trembled and twitched as they let go. Deeper and deeper she sank.

Cate woke with a start. With no idea what had awakened her, she tried to quiet her pounding heart in order to hear, straining to see through the darkness. She shied at a spectral light glowing at the ceiling and felt quite foolish at seeing it was only the moon through a deck prism. A greenish pool on the floor, the thin ray was the only light in the otherwise stygian void. The curtain moved and she jumped then gasped with relief at realizing it swayed with the motion of the ship.

There was a noise, the same or different as what had wakened her she couldn’t tell. She held her breath, as if listening might help her to see. She couldn’t shake the sense of eyes being on her. Severe disorientation seized her at realizing that she was no longer on the floor. She was somewhere else, but with no recollection of how she had come to be there. Shifting her weight ever so slightly, she felt the lumpiness of a mattress under her and smelt the sharpness of male. A bed, the captain’s bed most likely. Her blood pulsed in her ears as she felt with her rear, and then a hand. She was alone, so far.

The feel of eyes on her was unshakeable, however. She wormed further back against the bulkhead and pulled the quilt higher as she strained to hear what she couldn’t see.

Sometime later, she heard another sound: an eerie, unearthly cry, which seemed to emanate from the bowels of the ship. Long and querulous, it faded to a slow death. An animal was her first thought, and yet too distorted by distance to be sure. Within a few moments, she heard it again, this time seeming to originate from outside and high above.

She lay awake through the night, jumping and starting at every creak, pop or vibration. At last, when the black of night gave way to the thin grey of dawn, she dozed off, too exhausted to care.

Chapter 3: The Lie Behind the Truth

A
distant pounding jerked Cate awake. Only her eyes moved as her sleep-muddled mind strove to sort out what had wakened her. The brilliance of morning squeezed around the curtain and through the porthole in glaring shafts that sliced the cabin’s gloom.

“Cap’n!” There was no mistaking Pryce’s bellow
.
The Great Cabin’s door was knuckled again with increased vigor. “Cap’n!”

Someone stirred in the salon. The rustle of clothing and creak of leather was followed by a groggy, “Eh?”

“Beg pardon, Cap’n, but you’re desired—”

“You can come in, Master Pryce.” Neither was there mistaking Blackthorne’s throaty growl.

She heard the halting clump of boots, and then a hesitant, “Cap’n, if you be of leisure—”

“Bloody hell, Pryce. Come in the damned room and stop caterwauling like a wretched fishwife!”

Even at her distance, Cate jumped at Blackthorne’s roar.

The footsteps sidled further.

“Beg pardon, sir. ’Twasn’t wishin’ to intrude.” Pryce’s insinuation wasn’t lost: a woman in the captain’s cabin was apparently a familiar scenario.

“There’s no intrusion to be made, Master Pryce.” Blackthorne’s reply came around a huge yawn.

“Some o’ the hands represent as they heard screamin’ last night, of the womanly sort.”

The comment came not in the way of accusation, but advisably, a delicate suggestion that a bit more discretion might be exercised the next time.

“Did they now?” said Blackthorne coldly. The scrape of a chair was followed by the stomp of a foot and labored scuffle of walking with one leg asleep. “And pray, what did the remainder hear?”

“Nuthin,’” came dully, after a brief pause.

“Uh-huh. I thought as much. She’s in there, if you desire to inspect for damages. ’Course, that would be to risk stirring her up
again
. You fancy caterwauling, do you, Master Pryce?”

Pryce sputtered and humphed.

“Was there an initiating purpose to this visit?” Blackthorne prompted.

“Huh? Oh, aye, sir! The bosun sends his compliments and, if yer of yer leisure, desires ye to attend. He says the larboard lift blocks an’ crosstrees on the fore gallant won’t answer. And the Company muster will be a-waitin’ yer leisure at eight bells.”

“Very well, lead on, Master Pryce,” said Blackthorne through another yawn, and the two left.

The salon now quiet, Cate took the opportunity to wake further.

Through a dull headache, she sought again to come to terms with where she was. A part of her concussed mind clung to the familiarity of her surroundings—the watch bells still pealed, the boatswain still bellowed, the holystones still scraped and the caulking mallets still rapped—and insisted if she was to close her eyes, she could still be on the
Constancy

“This isn’t the
Constancy
, it’s the
Sara Morgan
or
Carry Morgans
, or whatever,” she said aloud. She had been aware of Pryce calling the ship by a different name, but was at a loss as to what it had been.

Cate opened her eyes and blew a long sigh. Yesterday, she had prepared to never see the sun rise again. Seeing the morning rays cut the cabin’s gloom had to be taken as a victory. The bone-rattling terror had given way to mere gut-knotting dread. Her hands no longer shook, the quaking reduced to no more than sporadic tremors, and her heart had slowed to a rate that promised it wouldn’t leap out of her chest after all.

Awaking in Blackthorne’s bunk, with no idea of how she had come to be there, was unsettling. Even more worrisome was to think she had slept through being moved and wrapped in the quilt. With all the fitful waking, she didn’t think to have slept so soundly. Wondering what else she might have slept through, she ducked her head under the blanket to delicately sniff and took a meticulous inventory of her body. There was no stickiness or soreness, nor any trace of the aftermath of sex or violation. It was another befuddlement: a visitor in the night had been expected, and yet none had come…or had he?

The smell of a man rose from the sweat-stained mattress and pillow. Musty and sharp, it was mingled with hints of rum, cinnamon, tar, and orange oil. It wasn’t objectionable. If anything, it made her realize how much she missed the smell of a man of a morning. It had been a long time, a very long time.

As she lay there, she heard the scamper of feet. At sea or land, the sound of rats never changed. She reflexively checked her toes, fingers, lips, and nose to assure there had been no nibbling, as she watched the rolling red back—and a sleek, healthy beast it was—lumber along the wall. The surprise came with a brindled face poked out from under the curtain. First impressions were of a fox, but it was considerably smaller, longer of body, and shorter of leg. The creature darted forward and pounced. The rat gave a startled squeal, a feeble kick and was dead. Holding its prey by the neck, the brindled beast regarded Cate with beady, vertically slitted eyes. Seemingly a bit surprised by her presence, it pranced off with its treasure to be devoured in privacy.