Chapter 3

 

Captain James Steele gave the order for full sail, as a rush of men scrambled up the rigging with practiced precision. Soon the pride of King George’s fleet, the newly appointed frigate HMS Lion, pounced like its namesake over the waves. The ship had been made flush for speed and power. Even with a company of more than three hundred men and fully armed with sixty cannon, the golden Lion could attack out of the blaze of the sun and seize her prey with speed and might. Perfect for her new assignment.

With the fresh rank of Post Captain, James Steele stood in the bow with his hands upon his hips and his legs splayed as he rode the ship through the wide-open waters. Salt air cooled his face. The wind lifted the tails of his heavy woolen coat.

As James marveled at the beauty and strength of the new warship, he couldn’t help but wonder what his father’s reaction would be to the news of his commission. Securing such an important post after only three years of captaining the Carlisle came as a surprise. As did his orders.

His father had passed along the seawater flowing through James’s veins. A marquee now, but a captain once himself, Captain Jaxon A. Steele had been the pirate of a great ship called the Scarlet Night. He’d argue that, added to the seawater pumping through James’s heart, there was pirate blood as well.

James smirked. Oh, beg pardon, “privateer” blood. In the years leading up to the decision to leave his lawless way of life, his father held tight to his Letter of Marque and Reprisal making him a privateer. A great distinction once. The ultimate honor among thieves. But now, that lofty distinction wasn’t worth the parchment it was written on.

A frown tugged at his brows. James pulled a great breath of crisp air into his lungs. His new orders weighed heavy on his head. His loyalty to his father was strong, but his sworn oath to king and country must overrule his nagging conscious.

James was to take the Lion and her seasoned crew, prowl the seas, and capture pirates. Six months past, the Crown had revoked all the Letters of Marque. Privateers who had fought and pillaged the Spanish, French, and Dutch in the name of Britain were once more labeled criminals and charged with crimes against the king. Treason was now their offense. Death, their ultimate fate. Their choices were few. They could surrender, whereby they’d be transported to the nearest British prison to be hanged. Or they could ignore the king’s call for surrender and await capture before meeting the same end. Either way, they would all die a few inches taller wearing a hemp cravat.

The once golden age of piracy had tarnished like brass in the salt air. With more sea traffic came more protection and less opportunity for these thieves. Their time of pillaging for profit was over. James’s duty was clear. The list of criminals, their ships, last known locations, and preferred routes awaited him in his quarters. He’d receive a healthy bonus for each capture and, if successful in bringing the most notorious to trial during this sweep of the Atlantic, he would be elevated to the rank of rear admiral of the blue. His career would be secure. He could return home a hero. Wed his fair Lillian. There, at least, he hoped to emulate his father by knowing a great love and ending up happily married.

“Bloody hell, James. You certainly sucked a juicy tit this time.”

“Damn it, Dunbar, you can’t talk to your captain like that.” James hissed as Lieutenant Richard “Ducky” Dunbar moved alongside him.

“No one can hear us, you great prig.” Ducky issued a crisp salute before James noticed he only used one finger in the sharp execution of said salute together with a puckering of his lips to complete the rude gesture.

“One of these days you’ll push our friendship too far and land us both in the brig.” James returned the proper statute of salute and headed toward the aft of the ship and his quarters.

Ducky fell into step alongside. “Oh, pardon me, sir. A thousand lashes for me, sir. Feel free to keelhaul my sorry arse.”

James shook his head. He and Ducky had served together since their first day of training. They had both been lieutenants upon the Carlisle until James’s rise in the ranks. When appointed captain of the Lion and asked which officers James might want to accompany him, Ducky had been first on the list.

Even given his cheek, Ducky Dunbar was a fine seaman and a good man to have around when the fighting started. They had protected each other’s backs on more than one occasion. Ducky was his best mate. He was to stand up for him at his upcoming wedding, too.

“I’ve never seen a more impressive ship, you lucky sot.”

James led him into the rich appointment of his quarters. He hung up his hat and baldric as Ducky helped himself to a brandy and flopped into the nearest padded leather chair. James snatched the etched crystal bottle from his greedy hand and corked it. “I’d like to think luck had little to do with it. I’ve worked hard for this.”

Ducky raised his glass. “Far harder than I, for sure, and yet…” he glanced around, “here we both are, walking her fine decks, lounging in the richness of the captain’s quarters, drinking fine brandy.”

“If you drank a bit less brandy, you could have your own ship.”

Ducky only smiled. “True. But if I were captain of my own tub, I would carry all the burden and headache. And I wouldn’t get to see your ugly face every day.” He lifted his feet to rest upon the corner of James’s desk.

“Please.” James shoved his feet off their perch. “A little respect.”

“Fine. Your ugly face, Sir.” Ducky swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “I should thank you, I suppose.”

“For your new assignment?”

“Nay, for getting me away from Virginia’s shores….and Justine’s claws.”

“Justine?” James searched his memory. Ducky’s list of female admirers was larger than his good friend’s ego. “I don’t remember a Justine.”

“Of course you do. Met her at the Harvest Ball last week. Red hair, pink gown, overflowing corset.” Ducky’s hands indicated an abundance of breasts. He propped his heels back on the desk. “Never fails. Give a woman more than one night of pleasure, and they’re ready to grab a fistful of flowers, find a preacher, and march you down the nearest aisle.”

At the mention of the Harvest Ball, James once more thought of Samantha Christian. The surprise of her heated kiss, followed by her blatant lie about being drunk, had thrown him. Forgive me. She had worried his mind for days. He couldn’t make sense of what happened, nor could he stop thinking about the way that Wessler cad had physically dragged her from the ball. The hostess, Missus Whitmore, had been most distressed after they left. James had been filled with the uneasy feeling that Mistress Christian was in need of his protection. He was tempted to inquire as to the whereabouts of Blackwater Plantation and visit to ease his concerns; assure himself she was well. But business with the admiral precluded any such plans. Days later they’d set sail.

Still, Samantha flitted into his thoughts with surprising regularity. Her kiss had jolted him in more ways than one. He could still taste the sweet fullness of her lips. Remember the narrow span of her waist between his hands and the smell of magnolia in her hair. There was something unique about her that was difficult to name. She was an amazing contrast in contradictions. A gentle Northern English woman with a headstrong American independence. She hid a sharp, delightful wit behind those soft doe-brown eyes, and a decided vulnerability beneath a tempting bit of bravado. An honest truth under the disguise of an unskilled lie. He’d never met anyone like her before.

“Hello, James? Did you hear what I said, or are you dreaming of the fair Lillian and your own imminent death march down the aisle?”

James glared at Ducky. He couldn’t help the twinge of guilt at hearing Lillian’s name. Shouldn’t it be her kisses filling his mind? “I was thinking about the night of the ball.”

“Exactly. I asked about the girl you were dancing with. The one in the hideous mud-plum gown. Dark hair. Slight build. Lovely mouth.”

Were his thoughts that transparent? Ducky had an infuriating knack for reading his mind. “Mistress Christian.” James fingered the sealed document containing his list of conquests. He should forget her and get back to what was important. Ducky’s conversations never strayed too far from some mention of women, however.

“Was that her name?” Ducky cocked an eyebrow. “Caused quite a stir, you dancing with her.” He tsked. “Whatever would Lillian have said?”

“She would have said we have more urgent matters to discuss than balls.” James scowled at Ducky’s adolescent snicker before breaking the seal on the new orders.

Beyond the high windows, the day darkened behind a cloud. James raised the wick of the lamp to read the list before him. The roll of names filled the page, but one stood out, blurred the rest, and caused his stomach to lurch. He lifted the sheet closer to the light and pressed his fingers to ease the crease in the parchment. Perhaps he had read it wrong.

He hadn’t. “Bloody hell.”

Ducky rose and came behind the desk to help himself to more brandy. “What is it?” He peered over James’s shoulder.

“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

“Doubt it. The British Navy is not known for its humor. What are you finding so funny?”

James handed him the list and poured himself a finger of brandy. “Third line.”

“Bloody hell…” Ducky repeated. His eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Isn’t that…?”

James nodded as the liquor seared a path into his belly. “It is. Father’s old ship. We’ve been ordered to capture the damned Scarlet Night.”

“You know, I heard she’s captained by a woman. This gives the name T. Quinn.” Ducky handed James back the missive. “What does the ‘T’ stand for, I wonder?”

James scowled at the page. “I don’t know. Father passed command of the ship on to a Captain Gavin Quinn decades ago, but I understood he was lost in the earthquake of ninety-two, which brought down Port Royal.”

“So this would be his kin? Sister, daughter, wife?”

“Wife, I imagine. Jamaican, or African. Quinn had strong ties to the African coast. He was a fierce objector to the slave trade. The report says they still frequent the gold coast.”

“Must be a hardened ox of a woman to take command of a ship of thieves.”

“She’d have to be tough, but wives taking their husband’s place are not unheard of. It’s up to the crew to decide if the woman is worthy.”

“The Scarlet has a vicious reputation along the southern routes. T. Quinn’s made quite a success at it. What more do we know of her?”

“Nothing short of her cunning. Over the last few years, she’s been caught dead to rights on numerous occasions, only to slip away at the last moment. The ship is a sloop. Small, but lightning fast. Flaunts red sails and smoke. Crew can’t number more than sixty, but the reports tell of a fierce loyalty. Once they set upon a prey, they’re relentless. I’ve not seen any accounts of outright barbarian behavior unless forced. But once provoked, they give no quarter.”

“Well, she’s never faced down the Lion. I’m almost anxious to see her—the captain and the ship. Isn’t the Scarlet Night where your parents became your parents? Ah, if only those deck boards could talk.” Ducky settled back into his chair.

It was true. His parents told the tale of their meeting and hasty marriage often. As a young lad, it had embarrassed him to no end to hear the story, but now on the threshold of his own marriage, he envied them their romance. He and Lillian’s courtship had been rather cool by comparison, with proper introductions and protocol. His parent’s story was more something of an epic tale, with stowaways, heated passion, evil villains, and heroic ends. Evidently, had it not been for brave “Aunt” Alice, none of them would be alive today.

James proceeded to tell Ducky the tale of Alice Tupper and her brave rescue of his parents one fateful day in a cave along the north shore of Jamaica.

“Growing up, my sister Alicia would beg to hear the story of her namesake.” Alice was a treasured friend from his parent’s tumultuous past. James was convinced, however, the details of her heroism were largely exaggerated for their childish amusement as all fairytales were embellished. Never once could he remember meeting the mythical Alice. He was told she’d sailed off to the colonies when he was still in nappies. To what end, none could say. Aunt Alice had never been heard from again.

Looking at the name, the Scarlet Night, brought back all the stories. Whatever would his parents say when they learned about this? He could almost hear his father’s heated objections.

“Imagine your father’s reaction when you tell him.” Ducky read his mind once more.

“What he has to say is irrelevant. I am an officer. An order is an order. He, more than anyone, drilled a sense of responsibility into me. It is not in my power to do anything less. Nor would I. It is my duty.”

“Brings an interesting question to mind. If your father’s name was on your list…” Ducky pointed with his brandy glass.

James set aside the dictate and gathered the ship’s log to make his daily entry. “Why must you always play devil’s advocate?”

“Because I know you so well. A man more black and white, I have yet to meet.” Ducky returned to his chair. “Perhaps I’m hoping one day you’ll surprise me.”

“Then you know my answer.” James dipped his quill. “No one is more grateful my father is away from that life.”

“You’d arrest him?”

James lifted his gaze. “I’m honor-bound to do my duty.” He swept a hand in Ducky’s direction. “Dammit, I’d arrest you given the order.”

“Bloody hell.” Ducky jerked as if slapped. “Would you be standing there watching when the noose was fitted over my head?”

“I couldn’t go against a command, so yes, I would arrest you.” James held up his hand to stop Ducky from leaping to his feet. “But once done, I would move heaven and earth to earn your release. I’d defend you with my last breath. Cite your loyalty and upstanding character.”

Ducky bit out a sharp laugh. “And you believe that would save my neck?”

“Wouldn’t it?” James went back to his writing.

“What if it didn’t? What then?”

James set aside his quill and rubbed his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“You’re sending me to the gallows. Answer the damn question.”

“Fine. I would throw myself upon the mercy of the court, and if that failed, I would stand beside you and we could swing together.” Ducky didn’t respond. James held his gaze. “It’s my turn to play the devil and spin the table. Would you arrest me given a direct order to do so?”

Ducky snorted. “No. Of course not.”

“You bloody liar. You’re telling me you would defy the king simply because I’m your friend?”

Ducky scowled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t need to defy orders. Sainted James Samuel Herbert Steele would never do anything to earn an arrest decree from the king, so the question is moot.”

James grimaced at Ducky’s memory. He regretted telling him his full name all those years ago. Ducky threw it at him often, like a mother scolding an errant child. “This entire conversation is moot.”

“Nay, I find it rather enlightening.” Ducky leaned back and continued to sip at his brandy. “You remain true to character. There is no gray with you, James. Something is either right or it is wrong. Your military career is your highest priority, and you have worked hard to make yourself one of the finest captains in the fleet.” He lifted his glass in salute. “I have much less drive and ambition. However, I respect you highly for your level of commitment, even if it may get me strung up like a butcher’s ham.”

“You make me sound like some coldhearted tin soldier who would hang his own mother.”

“I never said you would hang your mother. God forbid, not her. I’ve carried impure thoughts about that beautiful woman since the day I met her. Hang your father and me perhaps, but, please, never such a stunning creature.” He swirled the brandy in his glass and held it up to the light. “I can’t drink brandy without thinking of her golden eyes.” Ducky took another long, savoring sip. “Now that I think on it, go ahead and hang your father, but pray, spare me. Then I could live out my fantasy and have her all to myself.”

James shook his head. “She’d rather you hanged.”