The next few days were a tribulation for many: Nathan, clearly displeased at the prospect of two naked boys trotting about his ship; Pryce and Hodder trying to keep order to their ship; the crew, distracted and yet, feeling compelled to make the punished as miserable as was in their powers and, more specifically, the two victims themselves.
And not quite as privately as she might have wished, Cate was under a strain, as well. With their bare bums clenched in mortified indignation, her motherly instincts were triggered, much to Nathan’s alarm and dismay.
Humiliation was a strange element. It acted as a toxin for some—mostly Bristols—growing more sullen and resentful. For a far greater number, however, it was more exhilarating than grog. They took every opportunity to swat the exposed fundaments and contrived one reason after another for one of the other to have to parade from one end of the ship to the other. The grander scheme, as Nathan had alluded, was to keep those tender parts—bright and raw from being shaved, a none-so-sharp edge being used—in the sun, which had them soon glowing all the brighter. Such punishment was meant to humble, and it did, for Ben, at any rate. John, however, was made of his father’s stuff, and consequently grew even more fractious and brash.
Cate went through her blood box, selecting jars and bottles of salves and oils which might soothe their tortured skin. What stopped her—besides Nathan’s warning glares—was how she was to go about it, with the pair mother naked? Much to her frustration, she found Kirkland and Millbridge of much the same mind as their captain. Secret bribes failed to sway them, with Nathan smirking all the while, already knowing the futility of her effort.
As could be expected, gradually, the novelty wore off, and the routine of sailing returned.
“Sail ho” had no more than been heard from the tops, when Pryce appeared at the Great Cabin doorway on the third day.
“Best come see, Cap’n” he said grimly.
Nathan was already up and three strides on his way before Pryce’s first word, Cate close behind.
On deck, there was no need to guess as to which way to look. Every hand stood frozen in mid-motion with their attention fixed to windward.
A ship.
Her sails white against the indigo and cerulean of sea and sky, the vessel was near enough to see her people moving about her decks and rigging like ants. A three-master, but more like the Bristol than the Morganse: long, low and sleek. She was smaller, too, but that status appeared to have been of little consequence, for she bore down on the Morganse like a terrier after a bull, flashing out more sail along the way.
“Where the hell…?” Nathan began then glared toward the tops. “Who the hell was on watch?”
“Popped out from behind that squall.” Pryce angled his head toward a black blot of clouds now a bit aft of them, a slanted skirt of rain underneath. At that moment, the sound of thunder rumbled across the water, as if any reminder of the squall’s capricious nature might be needed. The storms raced across the Caribbean like Argonauts, striking with a fury of rain, wind and lightning. And then, just as quickly, they would be gone, rolling on toward the horizon and the next hapless vessel in their path.
“Probably been a-trackin’ us all night,” Pryce went on, fixing the ship with a grey-eyed glare. “A-usin’ it fer cover.”
“I can’t make ‘er, sir!” came from the tops. “Twenty-four, nay, twenty-eight guns.”
“Yes, so I can count,” Nathan said mildly, regarding the ship. “Bid Damerell up there, Mr. Pryce. Let’s see if he can make who the hell she is. Steady on that helm!” was directed toward the afterdeck.
The word was passed. Whether by natural asset or a product of the multitude of gold rings— famed for improving one’s eyesight—which adorned every possible nook of his body, Damerell was the keenest eye aboard. He scampered up the ratlines in a gilded clatter and flash.
“Bastard has the weather gauge, too,” Nathan added with grudging admiration as he stared at the oncomer. “And we’ve damned little time to do else.”
“She veered about the moment she made us,” said Pryce.
“I’ll wager she’s not coming over to speak to us or ask us to tea. French,” Nathan snorted at seeing the blue-and-gold fleur de lis unfurl from the ship’s backstay. “My aged aunt’s arse!”
“She’s the Falmouth,” Damerell called down.
Nathan sighed. “So disappointing when the Royal Navy is compelled to stoop so low. Very well, hoist the colors! Let there be no question who she is about to tangle with, although I sense said introduction is superfluous,” he added wryly.
“Orders?” Pryce asked, vibrating with the need to be doing something.
“I’ve no desire to spend the day with her nipping at our heels. Let’s bring this to a head. Clear the decks!”
Nathan’s graveled order echoed down the deck by way of Hodder and his mates’. The rapid slap of bare feet marked everyone racing to their posts or scrambling up the rigging.
“I’ll lay odds we can point better than that Dutch butterbox, Mr. Pryce,” Nathan said calmly amid the resulting scramble of his order. “If her captain is any kind of seaman, he’ll preserve his advantage rather than attack. Let’s see what he’s made of. We’ll tack until we can cross her stern, rake her in the process and then take the advantage. Prepare to come about!” he shouted to the helm.
Mr. MacQuarrie, Master of the Guns, and built much like one of his precious charges, drew up to report.
“’Tis a grand day, Mr. MacQuarrie!” Nathan clapped him companionably on the shoulder and swept an inviting hand toward the phalanx of cannon. “I bid you to do what you do best.”
The captains of the various posts goaded their subordinates into action, the urgency of a ship being almost in range adding to the virulence of their curses. The maneuvering for position provided extra time, but heaven help the soul caught not at his post, or a gun crew caught still ramming home shot and wad when the target presented itself. The Captain was fair, but his patience was not infinite.
Hermione seemed to know what “Clear the decks” meant, for she was already ambling toward the steps, bleating in protest as she clopped below, John and Ben bearing the chicken cages close behind. Beatrice squawked in what could only be taken as parroty anticipation as she soared higher up to the t’gallant yards.
Cate turned to leave, but was stopped by Nathan’s hand on her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Below,” she said, puzzled. Like the livestock, she was accustomed to being sent away. Not only for safety’s sake; the wounded were sent there and so that was where she would wait.
He cast a glance toward the Falmouth, the sea and then her. “I’ve an odd feeling about this one. Stand by for a bit, so long as you can stay out of the way,” he added with a wink.
Nathan turned away, and Cate heaved a sigh of relief. She loathed the hold and being so far away from him. It was vastly preferable to see what was happening, as opposed to sitting in a dark, dank hold, wondering.
Pride surged and her heart quickened every time she saw the haloed skull framed by angel’s wings. As she had come to know Nathan more thoroughly, she had come to know what those tears symbolized. In spite of his candor, she suspected he still hadn’t told her everything. What he had revealed had been heartbreaking: loss of a prior life, loss of his ship, treachery, betrayal, perhaps death and rebirth, or just a spirit walking? More recently, the tears on that flag could have been those shed while he sought her return.
The Falmouth came at them with disquieting purpose. The oncoming vessel was now close enough to see the black-and-white checks on her sides and gold leaf glinting at her bow. As Nathan had predicted, her captain opted to protect his advantage and veered to cover when the Morganse came about. The sails came around, caught, filled, and the Morganse leapt forward. The deck pitched and Cate grabbed for a handhold, her toes curling on the wood for a better grip. Still bowsed up tight, the windward guns’ trucks creaked, straining at their tackle. Once sheeted home, the bowlines twanged like fiddle strings. The water broke high over the f’c’stle and rushed past the chains, now nearly buried in the foam.
This was to be a tacking duel, an uneven, jagged-pathed race between two ships vying for the precious advantage: to block the other’s wind. Tacking meant for a ship to sail as much into the wind as possible; a fraction too high and she slowed, a fraction too low, and the desired angle was lost. This contest wouldn’t be so much a case of outright speed, like a horse race, but of handiness of both the ship and her people. Through a host of vagaries in design—hull, masts, sails, rudder—not every ship performed the same. Neither could crews perform at the same proficiency, let alone the whims of an errant wave or gust of wind, which could easily be the ultimate undoing.
Water washed the deck, sometimes ankle-deep to leeward, spewing out the scuppers. Hodder and his mates stalked the deck with their eyes fixed overhead, hoping to spot in advance the block that might tangle or give way, the sheet that might chafe or threaten to separate. Billlings, the Master Sailmaker, and his mates did the same, craning their heads toward the sails’ seams, clews and cringles. A torn sail could mean certain failure.
In the midst of the tacking scramble, arms chests were roused up and the great guns readied. MacQuarrie’s men hauled up armload after armload of canisters, powder, and slowmatch. Eventually, the Morganse gained position to take the occasional shot, not just for morale, but to heat up the guns, so they might be prime when the real fighting began. A cheer went up when a ball found its target. John and Ben grew grimmer as orders were fired at them from all directions.
Nathan leaned far out over the windward rail. His braids stirring about his shoulders, shirt pressed tight against his body, he watched the Falmouth, watching for the other captain’s tendencies, how the ship responded and the adeptness of her crew. All the while, he calculated the known factors of wind, distance and speed, while striving to account for the unknowns of water, wind and luck. From there he hand-signaled Pryce standing at the quarterdeck break with a speaking trumpet—as if that voice required any augmentation—in preparation for the next tack.
Nathan’s hand rose.
“Ready about!” bellowed Pryce. The trumpet rendered it not unlike the voice of God.
The bracemen—six or eight on the main, fore, royal, and t’gallant bowlines—spit on their hands and clapped on.
“Helms alee! Let go and haul!”
The bracemen bellowed and hauled, bringing the sails around the instant the starboard released theirs. Cate spread her feet to brace herself as the Morganse pirouetted, bringing her bow through the wind and to the opposite side. Fail at that, she would be caught in stays, her nose square to the wind and dead in the water. The f’c’stlemen earned their salt; waves breaking over their heads, they manned the jibs and staysails, their infamous cursing drifting down the deck with the spray. The yards and rigging complained under the new load then settled. The deck had to have been at nearly thirty degrees; to go up the ratlines meant to hang almost horizontal to the sea.
Cate stood out of the way under the afterdeck’s overhang. Through the soles of her feet, she felt the thrum of the ship, almost like a heartbeat, racing like her own, with a liveliness, the desire to prevail. Her heart lifted further with watching Nathan work his ship. They operated as one: he the mind, she the body and heart. Nathan clapped onto a mainmast shroud and bent his head. After a moment, he nodded and smiled, patting the arm-thick rope as one would the back of an old friend.
“She’ll hold,” he called for the benefit of all.
In between tacks, Nathan stalked the decks encouraging his crew, as was his habit, urging when they hauled on a line, clapping on and pulling as well, or praising a gun captain for a job well done. At one point, Bloody Bess, one of MacQuarrie’s guns, ringbolt gave way, allowing a half ton of iron to wildly careen about. Nathan threw a shoulder against Bess’s carriage along with several others, straining to hold her until she was secured. He came aft from a visit to the f’c’stle dripping, his hair hanging in wet snakes about his shoulders. Grinning, he winked at Cate as he passed.
From where Cate stood, she could see the Falmouth. Heeled over to the point her entire deck was visible. The bow peeled back the waves, a white mustache at the dark hull, her canvas drum tight, she had to have looked much like the Morganse. Cate periodically caught sight of faces peering at her and she fought the urge to wave. With that angle, however, the disadvantage of the Falmouth’s low sleek design became apparent: her lower guns were entirely useless. To open her ports would swamp her lower deck. MacQuarrie, however, suffered no such restrictions. He took great glee in driving the point home, the powder smoke curling about the deck before it was torn away by the wind.
The glass turned, the bell rang, but there was no Watch change. It was “all hands,” and would be until one or the other ship prevailed. Panting and sweating in between tacks, the men exchanged grins at seeing their efforts paying off. In spite of the uneven, zig-zagged course, the Morganse was incrementally inching closer to the Falmouth. There was little doubt that, at some point, with a fake tack or catching the Falmouth unawares, the Morganse could dodge behind the vessel and then race up to windward.
A good number of rope burns began to crop up, and little wonder. Only those to the point of bleeding and torn nearly to the bone were considered serious enough to be brought to Cate’s attention. In between tacks, she hastily applied salve and bound them. Two men busted their guts and were sent under protest to their hammocks with a dose of rum. There was little else to be done.
The wind freshened, the song in the rigging raised another octave, and the Morganse leaned harder. Nathan called for grog to hearten and encourage his crew. Staggering under his cumbersome load, still not having found his sea legs, John toted the bucket from man to man, who guzzled deeply from the ladle. Kirkland sent Ben about with pots of hot broth in replacement of their noon meal which was drank with equal relish.
John collided with Cate as he passed, slopping grog on her feet. He mumbled an apology and ducked away, darting an odd, glassy-eyed look. Under a closer eye, both boys had a curious smirk about them, like some private joke. Sometime later, she noticed the pair standing with their heads together, snickering and giggling, until a cuff from Hodder set them on their way. Cate mightn’t have been a mother, but she knew the look of two lads up to no good. What, was the question? The sight of their captain’s approach sent them scurrying away.
Nathan drew up beside Cate, the joy of the chase bright in his eyes.
“How goes it?” she asked.
He thoughtfully scanned his foe, grinned and nodded. “The next tack, I think, and then we’ll have the bloody bastard.”
Nathan moved to the windward rail near the mainmast shrouds, presumably to clap another gun captain on the shoulder, but most could see him eying the Falmouth. Directly over Cate’s head, Pryce moved closer to the rail, leaning ever so slightly, keenly aware the moment was nigh. The more seasoned hands knew it, too. They spit on their hands with even more gusto, hitched their trousers and dashed the sweat from their brows.
Nathan stood calculating the elements, glanced up to check the Morganse’s sails and then the frigate. He clasped the shroud next to him, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the wind. His other hand came up and hovered.
“Ready about!” bellowed Pryce.
Seeing the signal as well, the leeward bracemen found their grip on the sheet. Nathan’s hand fell.
“Helm’s alee! Let go and haul!”
The windward tacks were let free. The leeward bracemen let out a unified roar as they hauled. The Morganse’s bow started about. From the corner of her eye, Cate saw John lose his footing. The grog bucket flew up in the air, spilling its precious contents as he tumbled down the deck like a flesh-colored cannonball. He shot through the legs of the forecourse bracemen, knocking several off their feet.
The Morganse shuddered, staggered and then stalled.
Her nose into the wind, her momentum was lost, as was any hope of gaining the advantage. The uncontrolled flap of the forecourse reverberated down through the hull, threatening to tear itself apart.
“Goddammit! What the fucking hell…?” Nathan roared, whirling around. His face suffused into a color Cate had only seen once: the night she had been thoroughly convinced he meant to strangle her. Thought for his ship, however, prevailed.
“Hard about! Ease that damned spanker! Flatten the jib!”
The wind tore the orders from the crew captains’ throats, swirling the words as it had the smoke from the guns. It was chaos, but with purpose. All hands knew the cause was lost; it was now a matter of controlling the damage. In time, the Morganse could regain her speed, but time was the one thing neither the ship nor her people had.
Hodder snatched a dazed John up from where he had landed in an inelegant heap against Bloody Bess’s trucks and gave him a solid shake, arms and legs flopping like a rag doll’s. Cussing the lad out, Hodder flung him aside, a solid kick to the bare arse urging him along.
The Morganse began to stir from her lethargy, but it was too little too late.
“She means to board!” came a cry from the f’c’stle.
Cate looked to see that the Falmouth had already come about, aiming to come bow-to-bow with the Morganse.
“Arms and stations!”
Crew captain’s orders collided in mid-air. The men scrambled to their battle posts, snatching a weapon from the arms chests as they passed, some opting for grappling hooks, axes or pikes, instead of pistols or muskets. Uttering an even blacker oath, Nathan raced through the mass of men into the Great Cabin. He came out moments later with a cutlass in hand. He jerked a pistol from his belt, checked the prime and shoved it into Cate’s waistband.
“Won’t you need that?” she exclaimed.
“You might need it worse,” he said grimly.
He patted the side of her leg to locate the knife in her pocket. “You’ve your knife; don’t be afraid to use it.” A bit of pride touched his voice in knowing how capable she was.
The Morganse’s raised forecastle forced her foe to come alongside just behind it, at the forward quarter. A grinding rumble marked the two hulls coming together, the force nearly jolting Cate off her feet. From overhead came the groan of foreyards colliding and the pop! of rigging and spars giving way. The whir and clatter of grappling hooks was followed by the thunk! of axes seeking to severe them was next, but to no avail. With a roar similar to an infantry charge, the Falmouths poured over the rail. In a unified growl, the Morgansers surged to meet them in a clash of weapons. Initially, the defenders held, but were soon overwhelmed. Eventually, the entire deck was a heaving mass of hand-to – hand fighting, with the unmistakable dull sound of blade meeting flesh.
Cate had witnessed the Morgansers attack other ships, but never had she seen them defend her. The sheer masses made her feel thoroughly invaded. Sea battles were an entirely different thing. On land, there was always the possibility of retreat. At sea, it was a fight to the death, for there was nowhere else to go. The air quickly became thick with the stench of blood, sweat and pierced gut. The noise and smoke added to the confusion as MacQuarrie’s great guns had their way with the Falmouth’s bow. The Morganse’s guns on the main deck sat too high to be effective, but her lower guns were in direct line with the Falmouth.
As the battle advanced aft, Nathan stood defensively in front of Cate. “Chin! Maori! Squidge! Hodder!” He pointed toward Cate. “Her!”
The four shifted to form a protective wall, Nathan at the middle, shoving Cate deeper behind him.
“There he is!” came from amid the boarders.
“There she is!” cried another.
“A hundred pounds for each!”
A cheer went up and a river of men surged toward a single point: Nathan and Cate. Never had Cate felt so helpless; to make any move might distract Nathan or the others. All she could do was not be an impairment, shifting out of the way when he swung or back-stepped. At one point, she thought he shouted something to her, but it was lost in the chaos. As the attack became more intense, the protective wall around Cate broke apart: Chin working one direction against his foe, while Hodder and Squidge inched another direction against theirs. Three Falmouths took the advantage and moved in to surround Nathan. He shoved Cate further back, causing her to stumble over a body and then a nearby club. Snatching up the club, she swung hard at the head of the one attacking Nathan, a stinging sensation shooting up her arms when she found her target. Fixing her sights on the next of Nathan’s opponents, she realized she was empty-handed. She felt rather than saw someone coming at her from the side, jerked the pistol from her waistband and fired, point blank into the oncomer’s belly. That one had barely fallen before another lunged at her; Cate whipped him in the face with the pistol’s butt. She spun to do the same to another, but the weapon was knocked from her hand, skittering out of sight.
Her blood up now, Cate grabbed the knife from her pocket and slashed at the back of the legs of another Falmouth fighting with Nathan. Her movement caught Nathan’s eye, distracting him enough for him to be punched in the jaw. At that same moment, an arm came around Cate’s waist, swept her up and carried her off toward the bow. She screamed; Nathan turned, only to take a musket butt to the stomach. Whoever held her was a bear of a man, the hairy arm at her waist nearly the thickness of her leg. He carried her as if she were a small child, her feet several inches off the ground, bludgeoning anyone who came in his path. Cate kicked and struggled, groping for his eyes or any other vulnerable point. At one point, he stopped. She looked up into the faces of Hughes and Cameron. The heavy whir of an ax caused her to duck her head, and she felt the warm spray of blood on her arms. The beast carrying her lurched and gasped. Cate cringed at seeing a pike come at her side. Instead of it hitting her, however, the brute shuddered and staggered. The arm at her waist gave way, and she fell to the deck with a force that sent spots dancing at the edges of her vision.
Cate pushed up on her hands and knees, and shook her head to clear it. Through the tangle of bodies and legs, she caught a glimpse of Nathan lying face down on the deck, a Falmouth standing over him, his sword poised to strike. She shrieked and bolted toward him, but slipped in the blood and went down hard on her side, nearly knocking the wind from her. Gasping, she struggled to her feet and ran, but it was like a too familiar dream: needing to run but couldn’t. The deck became a quagmire… No, a gray, wind-swept muddy moor.
Through the heaving bodies, Cate shoved her way toward Nathan, now pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. At some point, she had snatched up a cutlass and with a two-fisted swipe knocked the man standing over Nathan away. Suddenly, “away” wasn’t enough. She wanted him dead, gone, wiped from existence. Standing over the prone body, she swung, again and again, squealing with each blow.
The cutlass was snatched from her hand. An arm swept her from behind and spun her around, a hand clamping over her mouth.
“Avast and belay!” Nathan’s bellow came from next to her ear. The edge of his blade was cold at her throat. “Move and she’s dead!”
Word quickly passed; the clash of combat faded and then died. Amid the groans of the wounded were resentful growls at the fight being stopped before a clear victory had been gained.
Nathan’s fingers dug into Cate’s cheeks, bidding her to be still. He was breathing so hard from fighting she wondered what kept him from slitting her neck. Fury surged at being so rough-handled. She jabbed an elbow backwards, but it skittered off his ribs. Then she kicked, aiming for his knees, but missed. Finally, she sank her teeth into the mound of his palm. He flinched, muffled an oath, but the hand remained in place. He gave her an admonishing shake and growled something deep in his throat.
“Who commands this muddle-handed, gallowsy lot?” Nathan barked to the deck.
The crowd parted, and a man stepped forward. His shirt, sodden with sweat and blood, hung open nearly to the waist. A sleeve gaped over a gashed arm and he was showing the makings of a prime black eye. The strawberry blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes made him appear to be younger than Nathan. What was particularly eye-catching, however, was his sword, an elegant weapon with a damascened blade.
Chest heaving, he dashed the sweat from his face and ducked a formal bow. “Captain Charles Morehouse Wolverton, of His Majesty’s Ship Falmouth.”
“Flog the bastard,” Beatrice croaked from somewhere above. Sombers’ maniacal cackling laugh came from the afterdeck.
A shift of those around Wolverton allowed three more to come forward, their dark blue uniforms marking them as officers. At the same time, from the corner of her eye, Cate saw Pryce and Hodder slip nearer their commander.
Nathan returned a considerably more abbreviated bow. “Captain Nathanael Blackthorne, commanding the good ship Ciara Morganse.”
“I know who the hell you are,” Wolverton shot back.
“Very well, then know this: I declare you, including your ship, as mine.”
“And if we refuse?”
It was worth noting that no man on either side had dropped their weapons; everyone stood ready to resume what they had so abruptly stopped.
Nathan chuckled. “Forgive the impertinence, but in spite of all your finery, you don’t appear that stupid.”
“I’ve been directed to give no quarter.” The proclamation came almost as a boast.
“Really?” Nathan said, mildly amused. “Bloody shame you forgot to show your flag, announcing said intentions. Had we known, we could have obliged by killing you all straightaway. As it ‘tis, now you’re left with the embarrassing business of parlaying.”
“Go to hell.”
The Navy officers blinked at Wolverton’s profanity, while a good many Falmouths nodded in grave approval.
“Sorry, mate, already been there. I shan’t recommend it,” Nathan said affably.
“Commodore Harte represented there would be a hostage aboard.” Wolverton’s sympathetic gaze came to rest on Cate then swiveled to Nathan with glittering hatred. “He’s prepared to pay handsomely.”
Nathan snorted. “His Pompousness only wishes her for his own use.”
Wolverton went rigid with indignation. “The Commodore—”
“Doesn’t have the balls to serve a woman properly. Besides,” Nathan went on, nuzzling Cate’s neck as best as he could while holding a cutlass to her throat. “She offers far more pleasures than what a pitiful hundred pounds might purchase.”
“Thrice-damned princock!” croaked Beatrice.
“Help! Save us!” a pair of young voices cried from somewhere aft. There was the slap of running bare feet, and John and Ben burst from among the Morgansers. The Navymen gasped in shock at seeing the two naked boys.
They ran to Wolverton and seized his hand, tears streaking their cheeks. “Save us! Please! We were on the Bristol when she was taken.”
Wolverton grabbed John by the shoulders. “Taken? The Bristol was taken?”
Round-eyed, John nodded eagerly. “These butcherly fiends hunted us down and murdered our captain. They tortured and killed the crew. We’ve suffered horribly, sir.”
John was to the point of blubbering now. Sniffling, he shot a loathing glare at Nathan. “He’s mad and craven… and… unnatural…!”
“Just as I suspected; a bunch of rapacious pederasts,” sneered Wolverton. “Using these poor, young lads to satisfy your sodomic animal lusts?”
Nathan went rigid. Cate cringed, expecting his hand to slip and slit her throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw an unhealthy shade rush up Nathan’s neck. A rumbling growl emitted from the Morgansers, sounding far too much like the aforementioned animals, their fists going white on their weapons.
“Careful, mate. You might be revealing a bit more knowledge on the subject than what’s fitting,” Nathan said.
John’s grasp tightened on Wolverton’s leg. “They made us do unspeakable things! We didn’t wish to do it, sir! We… didn’t…” All was lost in his sobbing now and very effectively done. The boys’ tears were not quite as genuine as one might have wished, by Cate’s judgment. They were effective, however, before an audience hearing what it expected to hear.
“You two-tongued, little rogueling of a sprat,” rumbled Pryce under his breath.
“You pederasting bastards,” Wolverton cried over the boys’ moans.
A surge of contempt from the Falmouths finally erupted in “Fucking arse bandits!”
“Silence fore and aft!” Pryce’s bellow carried sufficient authority to affect both factions.
“Will you at least allow us to help these poor innocents?” Wolverton pleaded.
“Noo…” Nathan said, as he narrowly regarded the two. “We’re not quite done with them… yet.”
Several of the Navymen’s lips curled in disgust as Hodder stalked forward to seize both boys by the hair and drag them off, yipping in protest like a couple of scolded puppies.
Wolverton slid a covert glance toward his officers then straightened. “If you value the lady as much as you say, then there is no danger in you harming her.”
With a grumble from deep in his chest, Nathan handed Cate off into the custody of Maori and Squidge.
“You bastard! What the hell—?” she shouted the moment his hand lifted away.
Nathan cuffed her across the face. “Clap a stopper on it, bitch!”
Wolverton and his men gasped and lunged forward, the pirates raised their weapons a bit higher yet.
Cate gasped. Her eyes watered, not from the sting of the blow, but the shock of Nathan striking her. She struggled against Maori’s iron-like grip, his massive hand engulfing the lower half of her face. On her other side, Squidge’s mulatto features were pulled back into a near snarl, the necklace of dried fingers around his neck adding to his hellishness. Sweating and blood – spattered, Nathan looked all the more the barbarian.
A deft flick of Nathan’s blade slit Cate’s shift and stays to the waist, and her breasts fell free. Modesty had never been her burden—five brothers had divested her of that—but to be put on such display was shocking. The betrayal is what cut the worst; that this insult was all by the hand of the man she had come to trust. She wrenched once more against being held. The effort only caused her breasts to bob and make a greater example of her exposure. Coughing in embarrassment, several Morgansers fixed their attention on their feet. The rest, however, craned their heads in interest. Some, however, damned their eyes, outright leered!
Cate glared at Nathan over Maori’s knuckles with an intensity which caused several Morgansers to retreat. Nathan, however, was careful not to meet her eyes. Instead, he fixed his attention on Wolverton as he fondled her breast with the same gentleness as he might have handled a mango. Fury seized Cate, her vision dancing at the corners. She would have spit in Nathan’s eye, if she could. Instead, she drove a foot toward his crotch. He artfully dodged and glared.
Wolverton’s face flushed a deep crimson, but said nothing.
“Ah, so you still think me bluffing,” Nathan said mildly. He sighed and reached for his flies. “See that she doesn’t scream so loudly this time,” he directed to Maori and Squidge. “The last time was enough to wake the dead,” he added to Wolverton.
“You next,” Nathan said to Maori. He hooked a beckoning finger to Hodder. “Then you; ‘tis been a while, I know. Oh, but I beg pardon,” he declared, turning back to Wolverton. “Decorum requires visiting officers should be next. Might you care for a go?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” hissed Wolverton.
“Indeed?” Nathan mused and then said over his shoulder “Hold her.”
This was Nathan. He wouldn’t? He couldn’t!
Cate glared over Maori’s hand, willing Nathan to look at her. Nothing. She watched in disbelief as Nathan undid his flies. A part of her knew he wouldn’t go through with it, and yet the other part—screaming quite loudly at this point—didn’t know this version of him enough to know what he was capable of, especially with his crew and ship at stake. Squidge bent to seize her leg, Maori, his hand nearly encircling her thigh, grabbing up the other. Nathan shoved her skirts up, his fingernails scraping her skin. The press of sweating bodies, her legs wrenched apart, and hips wedging between her knees brought a surge of panic. Nathan’s face, so intent on his task, merged with those of so long ago, predatory and lusting. She screamed and twisted, frantic. Cursing into the hand over her mouth, she finally clamped her teeth into one of the sausage-sized fingers there.
“Surrender!”
A clatter of weapons hitting the deck nearly drowned out Wolverton’s cry.
His hand still at his flies, Nathan turned expectantly. Cate’s gasps rattled so loudly in her ears, she could barely hear the exchange between Nathan and Wolverton as her feet were lowered to the deck.
Wolverton lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Very well. Your terms?”
Nathan chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Well done! You’ll find I’m an amiable chap. I desire your ship, no more. You can have your lives, your boats and as much in the way of possessions as you might carry. You can claim your dead and wounded as you wish. Be it known,” he said louder for the benefit of all, “that, upon my word and the honor of this woman, any of you who wish to join us, shall do so without recourse. You’ll sign the company book and join us as an equal in the shares.”
There was a noticeable shift as several Falmouths inched toward the Morgansers’ side.
Nathan swiveled back with a cold eye on Wolverton. “You have one hour. On deck there!” he directed to the quarterdeck. “Flip the glass.”
“I suppose you wish the prisoners freed,” Wolverton said.
Nathan stopped in mid-step and slowly turned back. “Ehh, aye, of course.”
“More of your fellow blackguards and scourges upon humanity; you’ll be in good company,” Wolverton added with a sneer.
Nathan flapped a hand, waving the Royal Navy on their way. “Get aboard and bring that hulk ‘round to my lee.”
With considerable less verve than they had boarded, the Falmouths retreated, pausing to assist their wounded or reverently bow their heads over the dead. In the meantime, the Morgansers went about the business of setting their ship to rights. Hodder and Monfils, the captain of the foremast, craned their heads towards the rigging. The periodic grind of yard against yard made everyone cringe.
“Cut that goddamned hulk free before she does any more damage to our yards and rigging,” Nathan called forward. “Once she’s aweigh, get a detail over and see to releasing these infamous prisoners, whoever the hell they are. Offer them the usual choices and good riddance to them all.”
Casting an eye toward the Falmouths still aboard, Nathan directed Maori and Squidge, Cate still in their grasp, toward his cabin. “Take her in there, but don’t let go… just… yet.”
Maori’s hand still over her mouth, Cate bounced on her toes in a fury. Maori’s usually impassive face showed a hint of remorse, far more than his insufferable, cold-hearted, suppurating arse of a captain. She made a mental list of the names she meant to call the aforementioned arse and which bodily part she meant to mutilate first. Visions of catching him sleeping, spreading his legs, that precious cutlass of his in hand.
Nathan followed into the Great Cabin. A mute nod signalled her release.
“Get the hell away from me!” Cate shouted as Maori and Squidge sped out.
Nathan pulled the handkerchief from his sleeve and came at her with it, apparently meaning to wipe something.
“Don’t touch me, you sneaking bastard!” She launched at him, fingers curled for his eyes. Shrieking with rage, she threw several punches, aiming for his face, gut, anything. Temper robbed her of the clarity of thought to be effective. Growling, she aimed a knee at his crotch. Dancing aside, he grabbed her by the arms and twisted them behind her.
At hearing her shout, she saw from the corner of her eye several Falmouths outside turn and race toward the Great Cabin in her defense. The pirates intercepted them and, after a brief scuffle, sent them back from whence they had come. Still, Nathan shoved Cate deeper into the cabin, out of the line-of-sight. As soon as his grasp loosened, she doubled a fist and flew at him again, but was again deflected.
Finally, she retreated, chest heaving. “What the fucking hell was that about!”
Nathan jerked his shirt off and pitched it at her. “Here, make yourself decent.”
“No thanks to you,” Cate snapped as she slipped it on. “How dare you use me like I’m nothing more than a street whore!”
Flushing crimson, Nathan pitched the handkerchief aside. “I just saved your goddamned life. They came looking for a hostage, and I showed them one. Now it’s on record. Catherine Mackenzie, the pirate, would be hanged.” A rigid arm pointed toward the ship’s book she had signed barely a week hence. “Catherine Harper, the hostage, will only be returned to the ever so anxious and waiting arms of the good Commodore.”
She tugged at the front of the shirt, still feeling exposed. “You could have done something else.”
“And pray what do you fancy that might be: watch them carry you off; fight until we’re all dead, and they carry you off just the same? Or should I have allowed you to continue to rampage about, until they prevailed and then see you hanged as a pirate?”
Nathan stalked to the shaving stand and bent to splash water in his face. He braced his hands on either side of the basin, face dripping, bare back heaving. “There are a lot of things I wish we might do together, but going to the gallows isn’t one.” He touched his throat and the gnarled scar there. “You’ll forgive me, but I have a particular horror of that.”
He dashed at his face with the bit of cloth which served as a towel and flung it aside as he stalked the room. “A desperate man does desperate things, and I was most desperate. I’d do a damn sight worse to save you.”
“Dammit! You could have at least said something.”
Nathan snatched the bottle from the table and took a large gulp. “I did!” He dashed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You didn’t attend, just as when I told you to run for the cabin.”
Cate was somewhat chastened by that. She did recall thinking Nathan had shouted something at her. And yes, he had growled something under his breath when he grabbed her but, in her own defense, neither had been clear.
“Besides,” Nathan said, his usual humor returning. “You were ever so much more convincing without knowing. Harte will be beside himself to rescue you now,” he added dryly.
“Then why didn’t you give me something to fight with?”
“Because you were a hostage,” he said testily. “I don’t mind saying, it was damned difficult to present you as one with three victims lying at your feet.”
His eyes found hers, bright with admiration. “Damn you were good. Don’t you ever do that again, but damn you were so brave. Christ, it damned near got me killed just watching.”
Cate went queasy at the thought any action on her part might have endangered him. “I don’t remember,” she said to the floor.
“Aye, well, ‘tis just as well, but I do,” Nathan said, considerably calmer.
He retrieved the handkerchief from where it had fallen, dampened it in the basin and ventured nearer.
“Don’t touch me!” she snarled, backing away.
“You’re bleeding,” he said with a gesture toward her neck.
With a shaky hand, Cate touched her throat and found the stickiness of fresh blood. Only then did she realize how much it stung. It had all been too much like the day on the Constancy, the first time she had been confronted by pirates; she was as shaken now as she had been then. Pryce, the ruthless and leering; Chin, the foreign; all the pirates with their fiercest faces, right down to Sombers with his maniacal, cackling laugh: it had been grand theatrics then, she the innocent victim. And now, she had a new part: the damsel in distress. In retrospect, it had been no accident that Nathan had thrown her into Maori and Squidge’s arms. They were fellow shipmates to her, but Nathan had known the effect of their size, dark skins and foreign faces on others. The boys’ act had been a surprise, but a fortuitous addition. Unplanned, unfortunate—for them—and yet it had been icing on the cake, the piece d’ resistance on the performance.
A nod gave Nathan permission. He frowned as he dabbed.
“I’m sorry for this.” The coffee-colored eyes came up to rest on her cheek, still stinging from the slap. “You know I’d never hurt you.”
“I did,” she said bitterly. “Anything to save your ship, and the Devil with whoever gets in your way.”
Once more, she fought the urge to knee him in the balls. It was disquieting how deeply she had been affected. She had been rough-handled many a time before, and far worse.
Too much like another time…
Her eyes narrowed. “Would you have gone through with it?”
Nathan paused in his ministrations to eye her coldly. “We’ll never know, will we?”
The knife of betrayal sank a little deeper in her gut.
The muscles in his jaws flexed as he swabbed the blood. “Pirate, aye? Nothing more vile; nothing lower.”
He re-wetted the cloth and pressed it over her cheek, hot and hard from being slapped. “Shan’t be a bruise, I don’t think.”
“How could I have been so inconsiderate as to doubt you,” she said tartly. She jerked the cloth away and held it in place herself.
“I made sure it was only the fat of your cheek, and not your nose or mouth. No split lips or busted teeth or noses, as it might have been,” he added as a not-so-gentle reminder of how much he could have hurt her had he wished.
He looked up at seeing someone pass the door behind her. “Mr. Hallchurch!”
“Aye, thir?”
“Pass the word for Mr. Hodder to fetch me those two miscreants, if you please. I’ll be needing a word with them.”
The smile could be heard in the replying “Aye, thir.”
“Did you hear them, the Falmouths? They were looking for both of us,” Cate said on a calmer note after Hallchurch’s footsteps faded. “Who would pay a hundred pounds for me or for you for that matter, no disrespect?” A price on her head was not something new, but this felt more like being purchased and for a princely sum.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “None taken.”
Nathan snorted caustically. He re-wet the cloth, squeezed and resumed his ministrations. “For my part, ‘tis easy: Harte wishes me head and me hide. He’ll take a great joy in seeing me hung, directly after he has paraded me about, basking in the glory of his grand success.” He glanced up at her and then away. “As for you, I should imagine his wishes are quite evident.”
Hodder appeared directly with John and Ben—now dressed, their penance complete—collars in his fist.
“Drunk as preachers they were,” Hodder reported grimly. He gave the pair an admonishing shake and shoved them forward. “Meet your maker, lads.”
The boys sidled forward, John most particularly humbled. He quailed at Nathan’s black expression, but any further retreat was curbed by Hodder’s firm hand on his shoulder. His pleading look to Cate came through the same glassy eyes she had seen earlier. Internally she groaned; now she knew. Had she not been so distracted, she would have known and perhaps all of this could have been avoided.
“Let’s have it,” Nathan said in his commander’s voice.
“We broke into your liquor cabinet, sir,” John mumbled to the floor.
Hodder cuffed the back of John’s head. “Speak up.”
“And took a bottle,” came slightly louder. A hand stirred to indicate the bosun standing over him. “He said it was sherry.”
“And then?” Hodder prompted ominously.
“Then, we… we…”
Hodder gasped in irritation. “They helped themselves to the grog, what was intended for real men doing their duty.”
“They did me a favor,” Cate said, trying to make light. “I never cared for sherry. Besides, there couldn’t have been much in it.”
As she remembered, she had been quite relieved at seeing the bottle reduced to less than a glassful.
Nathan swiveled around on her. “There will be no mercy, so there is nothing to be gained in pleading their case.”
He turned back to glare down at the boys. “A word of advice to you both: if you choose to throw yourself on someone’s mercy, mind that he’s the victor, not the loser.”
Heads bent, the two’s faces were obscured, but their necks and ears flushed to a hot crimson.
“If you have the backbone for such foolishness, then have the backbone to look at your captain when receiving your punishment,” Hodder rumbled.
Reluctantly, the two heads, one dark and one blond, came up.
“You’ve no right to punish us!” John blurted. His chin jutted and his small chest heaved. “This is a pirate ship; the captain has no say.”
Nathan’s brows shot up under the edge of his headscarf. Hodder sputtered, fist balling at his side. Nathan waved him off with two fingers of the hand resting at his belts.
“Indeed?” he mused. “You’ve got me there. You do indeed have the right to call a meeting, but just how many of your mates do you fancy will come forward in your defense, eh? They could well come down on you even harder yet.”
The boys glanced at each other, considerably chastened.
Nathan cleared his throat and assumed his commanding stance once more. “Your dereliction and drunkenness damned near cost us this ship. How many lives we lost is yet to be seen? In the meantime, men—men who were doing their duty for the welfare of all—were injured.”
Nathan waited, allowing the import of that to settle in.
“Until the butcher’s bill is known, you’ll stand the watch of every man until they are fit enough to return to duty. If that means no sleep, then so be it; if that means no meals, then so be it. Now away with you and don’t come in me eyesight the rest of the day.”
Hodder fished into his belt and extended a hand, Cate’s knife lying across the palm. “B’lieve ‘tis yours, sir. Found it stuck in one o’ those dead cove’s leg.”
A cold chill prickling her neck, Cate took it with an appropriate “Thank you.” At the same time, she was trying to recall which man or when she might have lost it; so much of the battle was a blur.
Hodder clearing his throat declared the meeting over. Ben and John shuffled out in front of him. Having several brothers, Cate was confident they were sorrier for being caught as opposed to being sorry for the deed itself.
“You were fairly rough on the boys,” Cate said quietly after they were out of earshot.
Nathan winced as he turned, one eye ticking. “They’re lucky this isn’t a flogging ship. In our day, Thomas or I would have had bleeding backs and not seen the light of day, nor naught but ship’s biscuit and water for a fortnight. Before had been just childish pranks; this was getting people killed, including you. It was too close. Too goddamned close,” he grumbled moodily.
Cate glanced towards the deck. As battles went, it hadn’t been a bad one. There was none of the destruction of cannon barrages: no severed heads or torn bodies; no men speared by slivers as long as her arm. Still, there was a goodly number of wounded. Some were already being attended or carried below where there would be many more waiting. Snatching her blood box from atop a locker, she started down the galley companionway.
Cursing, Nathan raced down behind her, catching her up near the bottom. “Where the bloody hell do you fancy you’re going?”
It occurred to her to lie; she might have claimed she was looking for Millbridge or Kirkland. But dragging those two innocent souls into this was too distasteful.
Growing impatient with her hesitance, Nathan took the box and waved her back up the steps. “Stand off! A blind guinea hen could see what you’re about.”
“But they need my help,” she shot over her shoulder as she was forced back up the steps.
He made a sarcastic noise. “And who gives a damn about what I need, eh? Absolutely not! I’ll not have you skulking about—”
“I wasn’t skulking!”
“Skulking about,” he continued over her protests, “with God knows who still aboard. Besides, that’s me only shirt and I shan’t wish it to be mucked up with blood.”
“The hell with the shirt! I’ll take the damned thing off.” Cate fumbled for the shirttail, but Nathan jerked it back over her hips.
“The men will manage now just as they did before you arrived. Now shoo! Shoo!” he said louder when she failed to move quickly enough.
At the top of the steps, Nathan stood back to critically eye her. “As it ‘tis, you look like you’ve been butchering a hog.”
Cate looked down at herself. Cleaning up was going to take a great deal more than a damp handkerchief. Her skirt was streaked and smeared with drying blood. Her feet were caked with heavens knew what. Blood wasn’t the only thing which covered the deck; the smell of open gut had been strong, and many a man was known to soil himself either in battle or death.
“I’ll pass the word for hot water. Aye, Mr. Pryce?” Nathan said, swiveling to the doorway.
“Ye might should come bear an eye, Cap’n.”
Nathan followed Pryce out on deck, Cate close behind. Their attention was drawn to windward where the Falmouth stood. The Morganse’s rail and tops were lined with men, peering toward the other ship through spy and pocket glasses. The vessels had drifted to a comfortable sea room between them, backing-and-filling to hold their position. The wind, blowing from the Falmouth, brought the sounds of fighting: shouting in both anger and agony; the clash of metal, and the random pop of pistols and muskets.
Nathan snatched a spyglass from Pryce. “God’s my life! What the bloody hell?”
Mutiny was Cate’s first thought, but that made little sense immediately after a battle. Most men would be too exhausted to raise the fist of resistance again.
“’Pears to be the prisoners, sir, making an escape,” called Damerell from the foretop.
“Well, admirable timing on their part,” Nathan said, his eye still to the piece. “Distracted, disarray, and weapons ready-to-hand.”
“Shouldn’t you go help?” Cate asked.
Nathan slowly lowered the glass to regard her. “And do what? Save the Royal Navy?”
He had barely returned the glass to his eye when he said, “I’ll be a son of a Dutch… God’s death and wounds! It’s Bloody Hellbound Bailey!”
Pryce’s vile oath was nearly drowned amid a host of others.
“Can’t be!” Pryce blurted. “Last I heard the treacherous, unhung plague o’ the seas was on the spice routes.”
“He lives only because Davy Jones is afraid of him,” came from someone in the tops.
“The Seven Circles of Hell couldn’t hold him. The ruffler of an ol’ prick gives pirates a bad name,” Nathan grumbled, jerking his shoulders irritably.
The fighting on the Falmouth went on, the tang of gunpowder and blood drifting toward the Morganse thickening. Slowly, the turmoil on her deck took on a different nature. The sounds of men dying changed to long querulous ones of those wishing they might. A strained silence befell the Morganse as what was transpiring on the Falmouth became more evident. They murmured low curses at seeing the Navymen raise their hands in surrender only to be bludgeoned or hacked. The oaths grew more vehement as men leapt to the sea or were tossed overboard and then used as target practice until the sharks finally ended the wretched souls’ misery. Blood ran in a thin stream from the scuppers, blooming bright in the deep blue water.
Everyone around Cate stood too stunned and sickened to move. John and Ben were frozen and round-eyed, tears streaming down Ben’s cheeks. Nathan was grim-faced. His hand found Cate’s between them and squeezed until the bones ground together. When he finally realized his grip was so tight, he gave an apologetic smile. She smiled back as bravely as she could, the wobbling corners of her mouth giving her away. His hand flexed in a final assurance and then withdrew.
The voices from the Falmouth became high-spirited, shrill in victory as more bodies, many missing limbs, were pitched over the rail. The sharks were in a frenzy by then, the water dark with triangular fins as they splashed and rolled. The Falmouth victims, or what was left of them, drifted toward the Morganse in churned clouds of red. The bodies jerked and bobbed as the sharks fed on them, their sleek forms darting to and fro at the Morganse’s side, now directly below. One torso rolled and briefly looked up, eyes round and frozen in shock, before it was pulled under, the ashen face fading as it was dragged to the depths. Gagging, retching came from all around; sailors had a particular horror of sharks.
The Morganses’s boat pushed away from the Falmouth’s side. They rowed with the determination of escaping a nightmare, the oars periodically tangling with the bobbing bodies. The sharks’ tails slapped the boat with a hollow thud! The returning party at last came up the Morganse’s side. White and visibly shaken, they staggered and slumped on a hatch grate. As everyone gathering around, Nathan called for rum.
“It’s Bailey, sir!” they gasped in unison.
Snatching the bottle from each other, between gulps they told in halting bursts of men begging for mercy only to be shot or tortured. Nathan stood with his head bent, gravely listening, the report only confirming what he already knew.
“They ran us over, sir.” Towers spread his hands helplessly. “We’d no more than turned the key and the bloody prisoners busted loose.”
“Aye, took our weapons they did, the sneaking dogs!” said Smalley.
Towers shook his head dolefully. “Damn near came to killin’ us, ‘til we represented who we was.”
“How many?” Nathan barked. “How many were there?”
The four exchanged puzzled looks and shrugged.
“Impossible to say, sir. ‘Nuf to take the ship,” Smalley finally replied. “Nigh on to a hundred, I expect, mebbe more.”
“They’re gone, sir,” Hughes finally managed after taking a heavy pull off the bottle. He drew a trembling hand down his face. “All gone.”
“What’s all this to the damned point?” barked Pryce. The strain pulled his ravaged face back into an almost skeleton-like leer.
Hughes looked up, but it was Cameron who finally was able to speak. “All o’ them; the entire crew gone… even the boys, gone.” He fell into a blank stare at his feet.
“I think a few puir buggers might still live, God and Mary have mercy on their souls.” Hughes vehemently crossed himself several times. A large number of others reflexively made the necessary signs for seeking blessings from their deity of choice.
“They kept the officers and captain ‘til last. They—” Smalley lurched to his feet, raced to the rail and puked.
His head still bent, Hughes said in a weak voice “He cut ‘im open like he was butcherin’ a hog. Took somethin’ out and ate it.”
“The liver,” Nathan said in a tight whisper. Beads of sweat dotted his nose and chest. “He likes the liver; claims it gives him a bigger cockstand.”
“There was a basket full o’ legs—” Cameron began.
“He takes only the right.” Nathan broke from his stare to find everyone looking at him. He flashed a self-conscious smile. “He claims he doesn’t wish the ghosts of his victims to chase him.”
“He knew the Morganse, sir,” Towers said with a small spark of pride. “Claims your acquaintance. Sends his compliments.” He peered curiously up at Nathan, as did several including Cate, wondering how he came to be so familiar with one so infamous.
Ignoring Towers, Nathan clapped each man encouragingly on the shoulder with a hearty “Well, done, mates! You’ve earned your salt today. Go find your meal and then your hammocks.”
“With all due respect, sir,” began Smalley, still looking green. “I doubt I’ll fancy food for a good while.”
“Very well, then, here.” Nathan seized the bottle and shoved it into the man’s fist. “Drink, until you can find the oblivion what will allow your rest. The same for all.”
The rest of the crew looked on in great sympathy. Everyone looked as if they were in bad need of a drink, their Captain most particularly.
Nathan eyed the Falmouth with open loathing and then looked skyward, checking the wind. “Scupper and burn me, I wish to hell they had gotten that hulk in our lee before all hell broke loose. As it is, I can’t very well make weigh; I’m in the lee of the seed of Satan. One wrong move and we’ll be next.”
He drew a tired hand down the curve of his mustache. Jaws flexing, he stared pensively down at the water still roiling with sharks.
“Double the sentries and post the sharpshooters aloft. Make it look like they are bending sails, or rigging a horse, or knotting and splicing, or playing draughts, I don’t care what. Be warned, however, I’ll hock-and-heave the first lout I catch taking a caulk. Mr. MacQuarrie!” he called, spinning on his heel. “Guns primed and at the ready, but the lids shut. Leave the arms chests to hand,” he went on, now turning to Pryce. “Have the men keep their weapons.”
“You don’t trust him?” Cate asked rather stupidly.
Nathan angled his head toward the wedge-shaped fins churning the water. “I’d rather one of them aboard.”
“Haul yer arses t’ yer duties. This ain’t no tea social,” Hodder shouted.
The crew moved sluggishly, one eye still toward the Falmouth. The foretop crew was soon busy as squirrels on the foremast, however, repairing the damaged rigging, while Chips and his mates bemoaned the damage to hull and rail. The Morganse was still in the process of cleaning up the battle’s aftermath, Hodder’s holy deck yet to be returned to its sanctified state. The morbid task of ridding the decks of the dead began at the bow and continued aft, the sharks’ thrashing growing more agitated. A legion of swabbers followed behind, the pumps wheezing and thumping as the foulness was hosed away.
The path of the clean-up crew intersected with Nathan and Cate on their way back to the cabin. He grabbed her by the arm, stopping her before she stepped into a pool of blood, a body lying in it. She looked down and gasped. It had been savagely hacked to the point of near dismemberment, the limbs canted at odd angles. Only a portion of the face remained, but there was enough of it for her to recognize. It had disappeared when she was lost to the furor of battle, but now she saw it clearly, round-eyed with terror as he had thrown up his arms in defense as she had swung time and again. Her hands drew up in fists once more, her arms burning with every swing. Her breath quickened to the ragged gasps.
“Come away, darling.” Nathan took Cate by both shoulders and gently steered her aside to allow the men to pick up the gruesome corpse and toss it over the side.
He looked down at the bloody pool where the body had laid and then up at her, frowning. “Me first urge was to ask what the hell that had been all about, but upon reflection, perhaps I know.”
Nathan’s hand came to rest on her shoulder blade and the thick slab of scar there. That small gesture said everything: he remembered the story she had told one night, of the Stuart Uprising, of one particular battle, of seeing Brian nearly being killed, of her leaping on a horse and riding to slash the enemy to save him.
Tearing up, she nodded. “I don’t know what came over me… I just… I just…” she said shakily, allowing herself to be steered toward the cabin. “I saw him… standing over you… and—”
“And you saved me life. ’Tis a fearsome thing to see you coming with a sword at-the-ready,” he said, with no small amount of admiration.
She didn’t remember a lot, but she did recall her initial intention hadn’t been to save Nathan. She couldn’t possibly tell Nathan it had been Brian in her mind as she raced across the deck. In the bare face of it, however, it had been Nathan she had saved. And yet, that could have been achieved with a single blow not…
“Butchery,” she heard herself say.
The mindless horror they had just witnessed had been bad enough, but here it was on their own deck and by her hand. She was no better than the monster on the Falmouth.
Now inside the cabin, Nathan sighed wearily, rubbing his temple. “It’s what this does to you, darling.” A broad wave indicated the world he lived in, the pirate’s world. “You find yourself doing things you never thought possible for a human. You’re horrified and appalled by the deeds of others, whilst you wipe the same blood as they from your own hands.”
“Did I cry out or… anything?” she asked meekly.
“I didn’t—” Nathan stopped, catching himself in the lie. His countenance softened as he stroked her arm. “Aye, shrill as a harpy you were. Me heart was in me throat, for I thought you had been struck.”
Nathan took her in his arms and held her until the shaking stopped for both of them, for both realized how close disaster and death had come, in far too many ways. The larger and unspoken question was how many more times Providence could protect them?
“I would have come for you.” Nathan’s arms tightened around her, and he gave her a gentle, admonishing shake. “Wherever in this cursed world they could have taken you, I would have found you. Know that.”
A wave of queasiness took her at the thought. She leaned back in his embrace to look up and narrow her eyes at him. “Don’t you dare. I couldn’t live with your death on my hands.”
He shook his head just hard enough to jingle the bells in his hair. “Charmed, remember?”
“I didn’t get the impression you found death all that agreeable.”
Nathan settled Cate back into his arms and sighed contentedly. “I’d suffer it again and thrice over, if required.” He kissed her, sealing that pledge.
The meaningful clearing of a voice broke them apart. Pryce stood in the doorway. “Beg pardon, sir? Regardin’ the men’s supper?”
Nathan sighed wearily. “’Tis been a hellish day and makes to be an even more hellish night. Bid Hodder pipe them down; it should be the larbolin watch, by now, eh?” he said, closing one eye in estimation. “They are to eat what they can in one glass, so as the starbolins might have a chance, as well. Send what you dare to their hammocks; at least a few will be rested. And allow for the rest to take a caulk as they may.”
“How about if I call Kirkland for something for you?” Cate asked after Pryce had taken his leave. It was a rare occasion for Nathan to actually sit to a meal; his sustenance was usually gained from the plate on the table. But she hadn’t seen Nathan eat, nor even partake of his glob of honey the entire day.
Nathan frowned, considering. “Nay, anything I might manage to send down would revisit this world directly.”
He moved and winced again, one eye ticking.
“Head hurting?” she asked in sympathy.
Nathan reluctantly nodded, that small movement causing considerable discomfort. “Like a demon; bashed it sometime during the fray.”
He smiled crookedly up at her from under the heavy veil of lashes. “You don’t suppose for once you might allow me a bit of that kindness you give the men so freely? I’d love nothing more than to take you in there.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the night cabin. “Where we could wash the blood off each other, and then I could lie with you. Swordplay gives me a wicked cockstand,” he added, with a waggle of his brows. “After, I could bask in the peace what can only be found in your arms, if you don’t still mean to unman me first.”
She felt herself swaying; every joint and limb ached. If asked, her greatest wish would have been for nothing more than Nathan to make love to her, let him fill her womb as he filled her world.
“Then come with me.” She put out her hand.
Nathan took it, but his only further movement was his thumb stroking her knuckles. “Nay; would that I could. I’m in the lee of the Devil’s seed and have a ship what needs tending.”
Cate bit her lip to choke back her disappointment. She tightened her grip on his hand. “Very well, then come lay your head.”
She led him to the gallery sill and sat, patting the wood next to her in invitation. He tossed his hat onto the table and laid down, head in her lap, one arm draped over her legs. Even then, he couldn’t fully relax, lying so he could still see the door. Her hand shook slightly as she began to rub his temples. It had been close, far too close, not only the ship being taken, but Nathan killed or arrested, or her snatched away. It had been too near having her entire life erased once more; everyone and everything gone. Once more she would have been cast among the strangers, once again penniless, homeless…
She had survived it once. She wasn’t sure she could do so again.
Cate shook her head and concentrated on massaging the delicate skin of Nathan’s temple. He groaned pleasurably as she worked around to the back of his head, her fingers following the hard curves and grooves of his skull. Under the tangle of braids, the hair there was like fine silk, heavy and thick, still damp with the moisture of exertion.
His head grew heavier, a warm, reassuring weight. His bare shoulder peeked through his braids, the silver bells glinting bright when the sun caught. She allowed her gaze to follow the ivory skin down to the arch of his ribs, rising and falling as he breathed and then further down the slope of his waist and curve of his hipbone at the sash edge. Without the press of sail to steady her, a ship tended to wallow and roll with each swell. There was a particularly long, slow one just then. Combined with the slow rhythmic motion of Cate’s fingers, it had a hypnotic, lulling effect. Her joints loosened and some of the tension fell away. She closed her eyes and tried to put herself on an island where she would have to share him with nothing or no one. Shouting, bracketed by a flood of curses coming down through the skylight jerked her back. Not alone then, but alone for a bit.
“What do you mean to do with the boys?” she asked conversationally.
Nathan heaved a long sigh. “There for a bit, part of me wished I’d allowed Wolverton to take them and good riddance. But after…” He bit off the thought and stammered. “What happened on the Falmouth I wouldn’t wish on a wharf cur.”
“It shan’t be gentle,” he said a few moments later. “They’ve cost the ship much. The men will be wanting—and deservedly so—their restitution, if for no other reason than to set the example for the next sea lawyer who fancies doing the same.”
“Surely you won’t cut off their ears.” Her first day aboard, she had witnessed pirate justice. Towers’ earlessness was a constant reminder. Granted, she had witnessed far worse and to far younger than John or Ben, but she liked to think a little more compassion might be found among these democratic thinkers.
Nathan scoffed. “That was for drunkenness, aye, but he only caused injury. There’s sure to be a butcher’s bill for today’s action. The men require justice.”
Her first urge was to point out that it was his problem; John was his son. Surely he couldn’t overlook the blood relationship or had she been around the Highlanders too long? The lads’ previous disciplining had been a delicate matter; Nathan couldn’t be perceived as playing favorites. If anything, he needed to be even firmer.
“That leaves the captain out of it, praise the gods!” Nathan had declared directly after the ear-lopping with a relieved roll of the eyes. More than once she had come to appreciate the value of rule-by-the-masses. No one person would be blamed, just as no one could feel guilty. The burden was evenly spread on the shoulders of all.
“You’ve hands of an angel, I swear,” he sighed dreamily, his breath warm through her skirt’s linen. “I wanted nothing more than for you to do this whilst I was in fever.”
“You were calling for…for… Hattie,” she blurted, nearly choking on the name.
Eyes still closed, Nathan snorted. “The woman shot me. I’d have to be some kind of doddering, cod-headed mutton to fancy her.” He jerked his shoulder indignantly. “Besides, no man should be held in account for what he says in fever bed.”
He settled his head more comfortably on her legs. His hand came to rest on her knee, his fingers following its shapes. “I don’t remember that part, but I do remember calling for you, wishing for those lovely hands to come give me ease.”
“I was there.”
“I know, or knew… sometimes. My greatest fear was—”
Nathan was interrupted by the rapid approach of footsteps, Hallchurch at the door.
“Mr. Prythe’s complimenths and duty, thir. She’s signaling for a parlay.”
Nathan swore and lurched to his feet, swaying slightly as he did. Snatching up his hat, he followed Hallchurch out, Cate behind him. He drew up next to Pryce at the windward rail. The First Mate merely angled his head toward the white flag at the Falmouth’s backstay.
“Parlay my Spaniard-lovin’ arse!” Nathan growled. “More like the master rogue wishes to come see what there is to plunder.”
He sighed, resigned. He glanced over his shoulder at Cate and winced. “Very well; there’s no choice to it. Either we speak to him or he’ll sink us. Signal back. Pass the word for Mr. Hodder. And get those boys below and well hidden. God help ‘em if—”
A clatter of ivory rings marked Hodder’s arrival. “Aye, sir?”
“Prepare a boarding party, only this will be on our own goddamned ship. Keep them under-hatches and out of sight… but ready,” he said, stabbing a finger at him. “This is a slippery one.”
Cate went back into the Great Cabin just in time to see Millbridge coming out through the sleeping quarters’ curtain, knuckling his topknot as he passed. His failure to speak wasn’t unusual, but his business-like air was. Curious, she went inside and found a steaming ewer of water on the washstand. She bit her lip as she shook her head. With all that was going on, Nathan had somehow had the forethought and found the time to send for hot water for her.
“The man is a wonder,” she said to the room.
As she slipped off her skirt, she thought longingly of soap. There was none, other than the kind which burned one’s skin. Shortly after her arrival, during one of his ventures ashore, Nathan had obtained a sliver of soap, finely milled, with bits of lavender and rose petals. “Someone who worships cleanliness as much as you should have something to put upon its altar,” he had said upon presenting it. But that had long been used up.
She had never been one to pine for finery or luxuries, not for herself, at any rate. But she did wish for what might please another: Nathan. She found herself frequently imagining his reaction if she were to have enough soap and a hot bath to be totally clean. Shampoo for her hair; fragrant cream, so her skin might be soft and smooth; a ribbon tied in her hair and another at her neck, to set off a delicately gauzy chemise, all which might taunt and delight.
“Someday,” she sighed aloud.
Her ruined shift and stays slipped down over her hips easily. She reached to pull off Nathan’s shirt next, but hesitated. Wearing it was like having him next to her. She pressed her nose to the fabric at her shoulder and smiled. It still smelled like him, spicy and something else she couldn’t put a name to which never failed to stir her.
She filled the basin, dipped the sponge and began to wash. She was bent over, washing a foot propped on the stool, when she heard a strange noise, something between a gasp and a grunt. She looked up to find Nathan standing at the curtain. He wore a crooked smile and a look of such overt hunger she blushed. His shirt she wore hung down well past her knees, but being bent over as she was would have provided a considerable display of thigh.
“What is so alluring about a woman wearing naught but a man’s shirt?” he said as he came in, eyes rounded in lusty appreciation. “I know now why I didn’t give you mine that first day you boarded. You running about in naught but a shift was damn near my undoing.”
Having him going about in naught but his breeches then was almost her undoing. Seeing the smooth back, the twist of his body as he moved about, was more than she could keep her eyes from. She was confronted with shirtless men all day, but with Nathan it was quite different, perhaps because it was such a rare occasion. His tan lines were muted enough to prove he had done so often enough before she arrived, but not since, not until now.
“Move and destroy a man’s dreams,” he said.
“Well, I can’t very well stay like this, now, can I?” she asked, still bent. She straightened, dropping the sponge in the basin.
“Damn,” Nathan murmured and plucked delicately at the front of his breeches.
He tossed a pair of stays on the bed. “I fished these from the trunks below. You’ll need to be dressed for this occasion.”
Holding them up, Cate recognized those of Mrs. Littleton. She and her daughter, Lucy, had been shipmates on the Constancy, during her Atlantic crossing. Mrs. Littleton had been at least a head shorter and twice the breadth of Cate, while Cate would have made two of the sixteen-year-old Lucy. To hope for a spare shift would have been to hope in vain. The one she had worn her first day aboard and most of everything else in the women’s trunks had been long ago cut up for bandages. Unlike her own soft, jump-style stays, Mrs. Littleton’s were the more traditional style, heavily-boned and stiff. They would be huge on her, but along with Nathan’s shirt, she would at least be covered.
Nathan went to the hanging locker to take out the fine lawn shirt he had given her to wear her first few hours aboard.
“I could just stay in here,” she suggested hopefully. Laying in the quiet dark sounded so very inviting just then.
His brow furrowed as he considered. “Nay. With that pack of sharks aboard, I’d rather have you next to me and in me eyesight.”
“He’s really that treacherous?”
Nathan smiled ruefully as he stuffed the shirttail into his breeches. “If you only think him treacherous, then I’ve flattered him. He’d gut his own mum if he thought she’d swallowed a copper. I’ve seen him perform horrors which would give you nightmares. Certainly, did me,” he added under his breath.
“I have no idea who he has with him now,” he said, frowning. “Whoever they are, they won’t piss without his say. Regardless what they do—and a grand show they will put on—mind him. Keep your knife ready to hand; I’ll show you where the loaded pistols are hidden. Whatever happens, stay with Pryce and Hodder.”
A finger to her chin lifted her eyes up to his, before he said solemnly “Listen to me carefully, darling. Don’t speak. And, for God’s sake, don’t look at him, not directly.”
The concern in his voice sent a chill through her. “You’re beginning to scare me.”
“Good,” he said emphatically. He kissed her lightly on the end of the nose. “Now we’re finally of the same mind.”