It was a few days later that the wind stiffened and the Ciara Morganse slowed to a crawl. Instead of seven or eight knots, the log lines now barely reeled off three.
Having easily given way to the ship’s cutwater for the last several hundred miles, the waves now broke high over the bow with the regularity of drums in a distant band. Any man whose duty was forward of the mainchains was now soaked through, the deck often running several inches deep in foaming water. Cate and Hermione were both obliged to retreat from the f’c’stle, the latter irritably lurching from her roost at the first wave in the face. Cate was more reluctant to give way, Nathan’s complaints of her becoming “wet as a whale” forcing her aft.
“Only thing you can depend on about the wind is its undependability,” Nathan grumbled. In spite of his attempts to appear to be taking the change in stride, tension radiated off him like spines on a porcupine. “Wretchedly fickle mistress.”
To Cate’s mind, it was an ill wind that blew no good. This one blew advantages her way, allowing her time to wrangle with Nathan, time to convince him to take her with him to Tortuga. He proved to be an unyielding and resolute opponent.
“Then am I to assume your business is with someone you’d rather I not meet?” Through clenched teeth, Cate made no attempt to hide what she was thinking, and Nathan was no mean observer. Neither was he pleased.
“Do not beat around the bush with me, missy. I know what you are thinking, and your thinking is entirely erroneous, because that is not what I am thinking, a’tall. It’s…something else,” he finished lamely, looking away. “Unfinished business… odds and ends… left hanging about… from time to time.”
Seething, caught between wanting to believe him and fearing she would be proved a gullible fool if she did, Cate paced the cabin, kicking at anything in her path.
In a burst of colorful curses, Nathan slammed the flat of his hand on the table, then snatched her around to face him. “Listen to me. Listen!” He shook her in admonishment until she quieted.
“I’ve told you,” he said in a threatening rumble. “There is not another woman on this earth what interests me. Not one! Those whores can dance on me lap all they desire, it shan’t make a wit o’ difference. I’ve had all that, and now I’ve found what I want.”
Wary of her blazing glare, he ventured a peck on the cheek to punctuate his point. “And I’ll keep it safe, thank you very much.”
She jerked away, moving closer to the window. “It’s not just the women—And yes, I’m not ashamed to admit I see six shades of red at the thought of any of them going near you—but—” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m scared, more scared than I was the first day aboard. I can’t shake the feeling that something is going to happen, something bad.”
It wasn’t just a matter of battling the red-eyed monster known as Jealousy. Her fears were real, the same kind of dread which came with walking into a dark room, knowing someone was there but with no idea where. Knowing her days with Nathan were numbered didn’t help matters; the sense of time running out was even stronger. Putting her fears into words came with difficulty, lest she might somehow inadvertently enable whatever powers which sought to tear them apart. Nathan’s inherent need for freedom was the strongest; Fate, Providence, Calypso… any number of forces pulled at them and were all now the stronger.
Yes, her fears were real and worsening the closer Tortuga came.
Nathan came up behind her and slipped his arms around her. “Are you going witchy on me?”
She jabbed a half-hearted elbow at his ribs. “Damn you, don’t you dare laugh at me.” The tears, which had been lurking just under the surface for days, threatened to erupt. She sniffed hugely and roughly swiped her face, determined not to cry.
“I’m not,” he said, his body quivering with the need to do that very thing. He blew a long sigh, for they had been over this time and again. “Darling, it’s—”
“I know it’s what you do and I know what you are, but it doesn’t change this feeling.” She twisted around to face him, looking up, beseeching. “Stay. Please. We’ll be the only ones here. We can do things that will scare the rats.”
He grunted softly; he had said that very same thing to her some weeks since.
Feeling her begin to shake, he drew her against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “Shh, darling. It’s only Tortuga. I’ve been there enough times that—”
“It’s just like home,” she finished grimly, pulling away. “With friends and faces I’m sure you’re so very anxious to see,” she huffed.
He eyed her narrowly. “I know what you’re saying. Yes, there are those I know. And no, that’s not why I’m going.”
“Then why…?” She caught her lip between her teeth.
Another tactic came to mind. It was devious, underhanded and so very, very desperate. As Nathan had claimed many a time, desperate men do desperate things; desperate women could resort to the same thing.
Much to his surprise, Cate slipped her arms around Nathan’s neck and kissed him. “Are you sure, Nathan?” She moved her hips against his in suggestion.
“As sure as any man what drew breath could be.” He spoke with effort as she slipped her hand inside his shirt. She ran her fingers through the springy hair of his chest, his breath catching when she brushed his nipple. A devilish glint sparked his eyes that made her stomach and several other places, tighten.
“You needn’t all this foolery, tho’ ‘tis pleasing…very pleasing.” His usual graveled voice was stretched to a thin rasp.
With Cate now nuzzling his neck, Nathan had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. “Is there some method or means you might have in mind which might persuade me?” His mustache twitched as he strained to maintain his composure. “Because, if you were inclined to, shall we say, issue extra insurance, I would be open to negotiations, as it were, being the open-minded and equitable fellow that I am.”
Rolling his nipple between her thumb and forefinger, she took his earlobe between her lips and sucked like it was a succulent grape. Flicking her tongue on the underside, she smiled privately when he shuddered. Just as predicted. She pulled away, the lobe coming free with a little popping sound.
The bell rang, eight times—Yes, she carefully counted this time—and she posed a small pout. “You’ve your watch now?”
Nathan gulped, barely able to squeeze out “Aye.”
She kissed him again, a long, languorous exploration of his mouth, her hips grinding more insistently against his. “Four hours?”
“Aye… four—” His response was cut off by her mouth again.
“I’ll be waiting,” she purred. “Don’t forget me.”
Wincing, Nathan drew away, plucking delicately at the front of his breeches. “Not bloody likely.”
She threw him a coquettish look over her shoulder as he took his leave, batting her eyelashes. Lord help her, she could never understand why men fell for that, but desperation drove her past caring.
*
Four hours.
Four hours, to mix the sweet oil and peppermint to just the right proportion.
Four hours, to take the lavender—usually reserved for medicinal purpose—from her blood box and sprinkle it on their bed. Rose petals, or jasmine, or something far more luxurious would have been better, but there was only so many options aboard a ship.
Four hours, to grope her way to the swag room, to find that same box she had found before.
It meant braving the hold on her own, but for this…
Four hours, to take the most thorough of baths, or as thorough as was possible at a basin.
Four hours, to rub her skin with Hermione’s milk, a bit of honey stirred in for added softness and aroma.
Four hours, to brush out her hair, until it hung in long silken coils about her shoulders. Four hours, to find a ribbon and secure it in a bow about her neck.
Four hours later, at the stroke of eight bells, she was poised on their bed, feeling quite the siren, a little naughty and a lot scheming. Initially, she had planned to wear nothing but that ribbon. Then she recalled Nathan’s comments regarding the allure of a woman wearing a man’s shirt and donned the one he had worn during Bailey’s visit. It was as sheer on her as it had been on him, and she made sure it was just taut enough over her breasts as Nathan rounded the curtain.
He drew up, his mouth rounding into a silent “Oh” at seeing her.
“Did you forget me?”
“Not in life,” he said emphatically, eyes glowing with appreciation in the candlelight.
If, as Nathan said, she was all he wanted, then she meant to assure that she would be all that was on his mind—and other places—the duration of his time in Tortuga.
The first hour was spent convincing Nathan this was all his idea, allowing him to take the lead, seducing her as he wished. She knew his body as well, perhaps better than her own. She knew how to bring him to the edge and then draw him back, only to deliver him to the edge again, breathless and begging. Once he entered her, she prolonged his final rush, leaving him spread-eagle and gasping.
They lay together after, watching the moon’s path across the floor. When he eventually roused and prepared to dress, she pulled him back, pleading a need yet unfulfilled. With a sly smile, he lowered himself over her. Taking these needs as a personal challenge, he employed a heart-fluttering array of skills which could have easily left her spread-eagle and gasping had she allowed it. Feeling much the manipulative and scheming wench, she conjured every disruptive thought and distracting image possible to delay her response while spurring him on, crying out for more.
By the end of the second hour, Nathan was trembling. Arms and legs akimbo, the mattress a damp pool around him, he stared round-eyed at the ceiling.
Laughing softly, Cate languidly stretched against him. “I’m sorry to be so hard on you.” She ducked her head and flicked his nipple with her tongue. “Again?”
His hand flailed to deflect her. “A moment… at least.”
He lifted his head enough to glare at her in wonderment. “Why aren’t you tired?”
“You make it so easy for me,” she purred against his neck.
He raised up to peer down his nose at her but dropped back down. “I need to find a way to make you suffer.”
As Nathan dozed, Cate lay and watched the flush of their lovemaking fade. The candle burned low, on the verge of guttering out. Only the moonlight remained, spangling in the moisture in his mustache, carving his profile against the walls, sharp and clean. Keeping a careful count on the bells as they rang, she curled next to him, basking in the ability to do so. She coveted every moment with him as if he were the last bottle of a rare wine: once gone, never to be enjoyed again. She had hoped joining with him might erase, or at least ease these feelings of dread. But, if anything, they were only stronger.
The time came when she bent to blow softly on his chest and watched the resulting gooseflesh ripple across his skin. He was ready.
She brought her mouth near his ear, allowing her breath to blow warm on the delicate skin of his neck and softly called his name.
Rousing, Nathan snuffled, a sleepy smile curling his lips. Then his brows knit together. “No, not yet,” he murmured, rooting his head into the pillow.
Cate rolled toward the bedstand to pour a bit of the prepared oil into her palm and then slipped her hand down between them. His eyes popped wider as she applied it.
“I’m too old to…” he began, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.
Nathan’s eyes widened in both surprise and delight as the oil took effect, the smell of peppermint strengthening between them. “Suffering…!? What is that?”
She hummed pleasurably, a firmer working of her hand her only response.
“Fingers of the devil, that’s what they—” His voice tightened, caught and then faded.
Nathan was incapable of speaking for the next while, for it was then that Cate gave him a long, slow lesson. Time was her friend and her tool as she tracked the courses she had learned. A touch of a finger, a flick of the tongue, and he was hers, to do with as she wished. Urging, while denying and prolonging, she left him teetering between Heaven and hell. Between pain and pleasure was, indeed, a very fine line, and it grew thinner by the hour.
The coarse hair of his thighs abrading her cheeks, he moaned and pleaded, his hands tangled in her hair, his fingers curving over her crown, guiding, then scrabbled at the mattress as he arched his back. She pulled back and waited until he regained himself sufficiently to curse her. Chuckling, she took him deeply again, her mouth and face tingling with mint.
When Nathan declared that he was spent, she held up the small amber bottle in offering.
“What is that?” he asked.
“From the box in the swag room, remember?”
In his depleted state, it took him a moment, but then his brows lifted in interest. “Indeed?” An appreciative eye slid her way. “You succubus.”
Cate fixed her attention on the bottle, not wishing for him to discover her plan… not yet, at any rate.
Nathan pulled the stopper and then hesitated. “How much am I to…?”
Innocence was easily posed, for she truly had no idea. Neither she nor Brian had ever availed themselves upon such things—if anything, potions of the opposite effect had been suggested by those around them—so there was no guidance there. With illiteracy so commonplace, it was rare for such philters or charms to bear written instructions. They usually were handed to the charm – worker’s customer with the briefest of guidelines. Judging by his hesitancy, it was Nathan’s first, as well.
He held the bottle, barely taller than the two fingers holding it, up to the light and squinted at its contents. “’Tis half gone; might one assume that was one dose?”
Cate bit her lip, second thoughts now beginning to rise, bringing with them visions of a great number of ill side-effects. The small bottle looked innocent enough, in and of itself. Striking him ill to the point that he couldn’t go ashore had its appeal. Prolonged illness would be a concern, but the opposite loomed as an even greater worry: the effects being long-lasting enough to reach Tortuga. In that case, exhaustion would still be her purpose, in whatever way it could be achieved.
Yes, dammit… she was desperate.
Trailing her fingers down the sworl of fine hairs down his belly, she felt the muscles flutter and then tighten. She lowered her lashes and said huskily “Whatever you fancy it will require.”
He eyed the bottle, shrugged and downed the entirety, making a face and a disgusted noise at the end. Lying back, he dramatically rolled his eyes, waiting. Feeling her watching, he guided her over him, her knees straddling his hips.
“Come to me, darling. I feel the need for a bit of inspiration.”
Inspiration was exactly what Nathan found.
Cate urged Nathan beyond where either had ever gone, far beyond her needs, but her needs weren’t the question. When he was finally naught but a quivering wreck, hissing at the mere touch of her tongue, Cate declared his education complete. Sated, for reasons he would never imagine, and tingling—the peppermint oil having found its way to a great many places—she settled her head on his sweat-slickened chest, his breathing a ragged rasp under her ear.
“Hands of an angel, I swear,” Nathan murmured sometime in the darkness, his voice roughened by exertion. “But fingers of the devil.”
At one point, eight bells rang. Long moments passed, and Nathan didn’t stir. Eventually, footsteps marked someone entering the salon. They stopped, expectant. She raised her head the fraction necessary to confirm that the curtain was closed. Every soul aboard knew where the captain was, their imaginations doing a fine job of filling in the rest, but none had the nerve to interrupt.
A heavy exhale and rumbling chuckle, Pryce—by the sound, it had to have been him—took his leave, going to the unprecedented extent of closing the cabin doors behind him.
Cate ventured to intertwine her fingers into Nathan’s where they rested on his stomach, the metal of his rings cool against her palm. His hand flexed in acknowledgment, but he was otherwise still.
Together, they slept.
The next morning was a rare event: Cate woke before Nathan. She lay propped on one elbow, enjoying the unique opportunity to watch him sleep, seeing that face usually so animated, in repose. The thick crescent of his lashes fanned dark on his cheeks, his mouth was slack, his lower lip slightly plump giving him an inordinately innocent look.
His eyes opened, his dreamy smile wrenching back into a grimace when he moved. That small motion was accompanied by the heavy scent of peppermint, and he swiveled a severe eye at her.
“Bloody hell, I thought it was all a dream.” He squirmed defensively away, a virtually impossible feat in the narrow berth. “You’re not going to attack me again, are you? Would have thought you’d be at least a bit satisfied, by now.”
“If you’ll recall, you were the one satisfied,” she said, walking her fingers up his arm. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind a little—”
“Oh, no you d—!” He launched up and over her, out of bed. Landing wobbly-legged, he grabbed the edge of the bunk and shakily sank back down next to her, with a muffled curse. She rolled toward him, molding herself around him. Flicking her tongue in his ear, her fingers trailed down the flat of his stomach.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he warned, seizing her wrist. “Succubus, that’s what you are, leaving me weak and half a man.”
“You aim to stop me?” she teased, experimentally flexing her fingers.
“You’re damned right!” he growled, then settled his head on the pillow. “Just as soon as I find the energy.”
The hands had already breakfasted, the decks holystoned and flogged dry when Nathan finally staggered from the night cabin into the salon. Sitting gingerly in his chair, he rolled his eyes moodily at Cate, seated at the table and had been for some time. She buried her nose into her coffee cup, in order to hide her smile.
“Don’t be so bloody proud of yourself.” Glowering, he squirmed. “For all you know, you could have done damage.”
“Do you want me to look to see?” she asked, preparing to rise. She was sore as well, but wasn’t about to let on. The last thing she needed was him prancing around like a stallion.
“No!” His hand reflexively dropped to his lap, a knee drawing up self-defense. “Just take me word!” he finished primly and cautiously adjusted himself.
He took a drink of coffee and made a face. “That damned stuff you fed me left a taste in me mouth like I’ve been at the kill-devil all night. Me gut feels the same,” he added, pressing a hand there.
Cate squinted one eye, trying to recall the label on the bottle she had chosen. Truth be told, the taste had been her last concern in the selection process. She watched him carefully for any signs of the dreaded long-term effects. His ill-mood seemed to be quashing whatever lingering effect there might be.
Kirkland’s cheery face appeared, bearing a large platter of sausages, chops, eggs and toasted soft tack, which he set before his captain. “I fancied you might be a bit gut-foundered this morning,” he said, fighting a losing battle of curbing a smile.
“Away with you, you meddlesome miscreant,” Nathan said malevolently, at the same time stabbing two chops onto his plate.
A meaningful clearing of a throat announced Pryce’s arrival. He drew up just aft of the mizzenmast and took in the domestic scene. His nose twitched at the smell of mint, still strong in the air. The grizzled brow arched higher and the distorted mouth drew back into a wry, knowing smile, far more knowing than was comfortable.
“I come to inquire as to whether ye fancied to make this next watch, or if I should be seein’ to someone else, if ye find yerself unable. Ye missed the last and the one a’fore.” The First Mate’s tone was stern, but the cock of his brow suggested he was surprised such a thing hadn’t happened before.
At the word “unable” Nathan’s head came up to fix an accusing eye on Cate, who declined from looking up.
Cate’s hand tightened around her cup. Tortuga tonight. Perfect!
“Cap d’Mole ‘tis off to starboard bow. We should round it within the next glass. Landin’ parties are a-formin’ up; might I assume ye be a-wishin’ all them Bristols off straightaway?” Pryce inquired.
“Make sure those sea-lawyers are the first away. Hell, I’ll row the boats meself, if that’s what it takes to be rid of every last one of them,” said Nathan.
“Includin’ the lads?”
“Most definitely those ragged-arsed little scrubs,” Nathan said, chewing industriously.
“Surely, you don’t plan to leave the lads here,” Cate pleaded in a low hiss.
Nathan stopped chewing to eye her coldly. “Too damned right I do.”
Catching her glare, Nathan stiffened and threw down his fork. “A moment, if you please, Mr. Pryce.”
Pryce was already perceptive enough to be on his way. In truth, it made little difference; every word passed between her and Nathan would be heard from above, below and out on deck. It was only the premise of privacy in which they functioned.
“They’re just boys. You should know, as well as anyone, what those streets will be like,” Cate said.
“So, you giveth, so shall ye reap,” he intoned balefully. He resumed eating with sharp, jabbing motions. “I have a few enemies on that island I might wish those two upon.”
“Please, don’t.”
“Suffering—” he sputtered, choking off the rest. “Those two seeds o’ Satan have done everything possible to make every soul aboard miserable. They’ve insulted and assaulted you, and now you defend them?”
“Not defend,” she qualified. “I’m not making excuses. I just think, all things considering,” she added, with significance, “that you might wish to look out for them.”
“I’ll look out, all right,” he shot back heatedly.
“You know what it was like for you.” She knew she was on dangerous, but necessary ground. “Do you really wish your son to have to suffer the same?”
Nathan narrowed his eye, knowing full well what sympathy she sought to play upon and wished to have none of it. “At least at that age, I knew what’s what. I knew enough to mind me mouth and recognize when I had it good.” Each word was accompanied by an emphatic rap of his finger on the table.
“You despise Beecher to this day for when he cast you into Mate… Mate…”
“Matelotage.” Each syllable was mouthed as if it were foul-tasting bolis.
“Whatever,” she said with a vague wave. “You hated him for taking you to that hell hole.”
He stabbed another chop from the platter and waved it. “That was different.”
“Was it? So much so?”
“Tach! The lad despises me already.”
“Then don’t add fuel to the fire.” Leaning across the table, Cate peered at him until he finally relented and looked at her. “Please?”
Once more, she found herself doing what she hated: using their friendship, what small feelings he might have for her against him. It was manipulative and underhanded, and yet the only way to save the boys, his son from a horrifying fate.
His eyes fixed on hers, Nathan shoved another bite into his mouth and moodily chewed. Finally, he threw his fork down with a clatter and sat back. “Mr. Pryce,” he called, his gaze unwavering from her.
Having retired no further than just beyond the door, the First Mate dutifully stepped back in and assumed a non-assuming countenance.
“As I said, Mr. Pryce, see to it those ill-begotten Bristols are off this ship straightaway.”
“The lads, too?”
His gaze still locked with Cate’s, Nathan opened his mouth and then clapped it shut. “Nay, allow them to bide aboard. The streets of Tortuga don’t deserve them,” he went on over Pryce’s sputtering. “They’d open the guns on us, never allow us in the harbor again for that one.”
Pryce’s jaw worked in disapproval, but he remonstrated no further. A severe gray eye shifted several times from Nathan to Cate and back. “Very well.” He spun on his heel and left, eloquent in displeasure.
“Thank you,” Cate said earnestly when Pryce was out of earshot.
One corner of Nathan’s mouth quirked. “I have a strong feeling I’m going to live to regret this.”
He shifted in his seat and winced. “You planned the whole damned thing: bedded me until I’m near raw, knowing I couldn’t do anything, even if I wanted to, which I might add in me own defense, I don’t!”
“And so what if I did?” she replied tartly.
He drew a breath to retort. Instead, he groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Bloody woman!”
When the Ciara Morganse opened Tortuga Bay, the sun hung in a low, hot ball over the hills upon which the town was precariously perched. The mains and royals sails drooped when those same elevations blocked the wind. The t’gallants, however, were able to catch the meager air, propelling the Morganse to her anchorage in a far corner. Cables laid, stoppers set, a “Clear away!” and she came to rest. The Morganse’s decks were a flurry of activity: stowing sails, securing anchors or making all fast the bundles of swag to be sold. The men were in soaring spirits, a bounce in their step and voice unequaled by anything Cate had witnessed.
Tortuga had been no more than a low hump on the horizon when Cate had become increasingly aware that she was on a ship full of men who hadn’t made port of this magnitude in some time. The air was heavy with a charge called Lust, which incrementally grew with every mile they drew nearer. The men were already scrubbing their faces, some even going so far as to shave with their rigging knives. Tie-mates busily plaited pigtails, sashes were wound about waists, ribbons and feathers added to hats. Feet that had gone bare for months were squeezed into boots or shoes which had been oiled and buffed.
All the while, Cate watched, knowing she was to have no part in it. She had no desire to taste the local fare of rum and whores, although she had been assured by several of the men that there were offerings available for a woman’s tastes, as well. The thought of land under her feet was enticing, the possibility of a real bed with Nathan in it positively tantalizing. In a moment of sheer honesty, however, her drive to go ashore was but one: defend her man like a dog over a bone.
A bone which quite probably would prefer to be tasted by any number of others, she thought ruefully as she stood at the rail.
Hunched between hill and sea, Tortuga, the town, was squalid and mean. Only traces of ancient color which clung its ramshackle buildings interrupted the otherwise sun-beaten drab.
“Not like the old days,” said Pryce nostalgically, coming up beside her. He nodded toward the harbor, the yards and masts like a small forest against the skyline. “’Twas a time when ships were so thick, one could cross the bay with nary wettin’ a foot, every man-jack a brother of the Brethren. ‘Twas called the Sodom of the Caribbean. A thousand and more whores the governor imported just for the taking. Alas, ‘tis none so much that anymore.”
Night fell, cloaking the town’s ugliness. Torches and faggots were lit, and the town became a twinkling jewel at the hillside’s throat. The harbor’s ebony-satined surface was afire with the reflection not only from the town, but from the ships’ stern lamps and lanterns. Amid that was a slow dance of the lights of bumboats to barges, jolly boats to canoes, cockleshells, dinghies, gigs, tenders, skiffs, punts or rafts, as the seamen found any means possible, flocking to shore like gulls to a dead fish.
Cate watched as Nathan checked the prime in his pistols and then slip a pepperbox into his boot. Extra powder and shot were added to his belts, as well. She recognized as he put it into his pocket the pouch containing the jewels and coins he had taken as his share of the swag. She also recognized the pouch he took from inside his shirt, hanging from a leather thong around his neck. He had shown her its contents one night: the two balls from when he had been shot by the mutinous Maubrick and his precious Hattie. Nathan bounced the pouch in his hand, checking its weight and then tucked it back inside his shirt. His coat had been brushed, his leather hat buffed, straightening himself as if preparing to meet royalty.
In a band of starlight through the thick-paned stern windows, Nathan took his leave. Since they had dropped anchor, he had gone inward. He held Cate tentatively at first, wary she might attempt a repetition of the previous night. Then his arms tightened and drew her closer, his braids coiling about her shoulders as he kissed her thoroughly. They ended with a gentle jousting of tongues, neither able to utter “Farewell.”
“What’s so important in Tortuga that you don’t have right here?” she murmured against his neck. “Your ship’s here; I’m here; the rum’s here…?”
He settled her comfortably against him and sighed. “That’s just it, darling. Everything I desire is right here.”
He chuckled softly. “One more round with you and I shan’t walk for a week. I’ll have to be lifted to the pissdale.”
“Then don’t go.”
He leaned back and tipped her chin up. “I’ve told you,” he began levelly. “I’ve been yours since I saw you lying there like a half-drowned rat, puking on me deck. I rise to no others.”
She jerked free of his grasp and crossed her arms. “I imagine you’ve said the same to all the others,” she huffed. She didn’t like sounding like a shrewish fishwife.
He winced and looked to the floor. “Not quite.”
“Then why…?”
“It’s… it’s… something else,” he finally landed on, looking thoroughly haunted and miserable.
Voices from on deck interrupted them, hails of greeting from alongside. Someone, several someone’s, were coming aboard. Female laughter rang shrill among the male. Cate had been one among nearly two hundred men for so long, the sound of another feminine voice on the Morganse was both puzzling and startling. Nathan bolted out the door with a determination that Cate couldn’t quite put a name to: anxiousness, to be sure, but whether eager or annoyed was a question. She followed behind, but was barely over the coaming when she skidded to a halt.
A bevy of women—whores, for there could be no mistaking what they were—had invaded the deck, and more pouring up the side, a half score, at least. Some milled about chatting with the Anchor Watch, while others were already getting down to business, hitching their skirts as they receded into the deeper shadows. Near the gate, Nathan stood with one in his arms. A short one, the top of her head barely reaching his chin, she was slightly plump, a “soft ride” as Nathan had once claimed to prefer. She nibbled his neck as she busied with his flies.
Cate crossed the deck, a fist doubled at her side; whether it was meant for Nathan or the whore, she had no notion. The whore’s powdered face and bosom shone bright in the twilight, as did the brighter-than-a-carrot hair. A feather of some unknown creature was stuck in her hair at what must have been thought to be an appealing angle. It tended to make her look more like an alarmed banty. Nathan spun around at Cate’s approach with something between surprise and horror.
“Away, bitch! I’m first,” the whore cried in a Cockney twang.
She abandoned her prize and launched at Cate, fingers curled for her face. She clawed and scratched, snatching at Cate’s hair, while Cate felt punch after punch land at her midriff and jaw. The whore might have been plump, but there was nothing soft about her. She was street – toughened, accustomed to brawling. In a fug of what must have been intended as perfume, they tumbled in a tangle of skirts. Squealing and snarling like she-cats, they pinched, bit, gouged, twisted and scratched. The sting of each slap or blow Cate took only fueled her fury.
Cate was vaguely aware of the men gathered around, either cheering them on or bidding them to stop; few men had the fortitude to interfere with two women fighting. At length—too soon, so far as Cate was concerned, for she knew she could thrash this harlot—an iron arm hooked her by the waist, and lifted her up and away. Her feet several inches from the deck, she kicked and screeched, arching her back against Nathan, wanting one more go at that bitch.
“Get those harpies the hell off this ship now!” Nathan growled at Pryce, who clutched the spitting and hissing whore in much the same fashion.
Nathan spun away for the cabin, grunting when her elbow or heel found a target, cursing under his breath as he lugged her inside. When her feet finally touched the floor, her struggle shifted from returning to the fight to breaking free of Nathan’s restraining arms. At last, he let go. Feet braced wide, Nathan stood between her and the door, the sound of their hard breathing filling the space between them. Cate backed away, looking to the planks at her feet; raging disappointment in him and despising herself for having been so gullible as to believe he would do any different, making it impossible for her to look at him.
“You were winning,” Nathan said at last, with no small amount of admiration.
“Don’t flatter me,” she said, knocking the hair from her face.
His deflections weren’t going to answer this time. He saw as much and sighed. “Cate, I—” he began, after several false starts.
“Everyone’s gone. What are they doing here?” She was acutely aware of the stupidity of the question. She was no innocent, but it was incensing to have those whores invade her… her… home!
“’Tis common for them to seek the anchor watch… and whatever they can steal.”
Cate made a rude noise at the back of her throat. “That was no random acquaintance,” she said coldly. “That was a fight to be first in line for a best customer.”
Nathan flinched, her barb finding home. He reached for her, but she retreated another step, coming up against a locker.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, twisting away.
“Cate, you know—”
“Yes, I know what and who you are. And I know what you do, but don’t expect me to watch.”
Narrowing his eyes, Nathan exhaled heavily through his nose. “Ah, so you mean to be difficult about this.”
He glanced over his shoulder, outside. The whores were shrill in protest at being gathered up.
“Aye, very well… In a better light and a second look, I might recognize her. And yes, first laid is often best paid. But the only doing will be a coin to soften her disappointment and then see her fed, as she probably knows is my custom.”
As Nathan spoke, he inched closer until his toes brushed hers, trapping her between the locker and bulkhead. He ducked into her line of sight and bumped her with his arm. “You don’t begrudge the woman a meal, do you?” He smiled, a crooked one, the one when he was uncertain.
Cate stiffly shook her head. Too many times, while living alone in London, it had only been the random kindness of a stranger that had been the difference between starvation and flourishing.
“Ah, I thought so,” he said quietly. “You’re fierce, but you aren’t heartless.”
He nudged her arm a bit harder. “It’s only Tortuga. It’s not the end of the world, just the end of the civilized.”
Damn his black-hearted soul, he was on the verge of laughing at her.
“And what if I say I won’t be here, if or when you return?” she asked, glaring up.
Nathan stiffened. His lips drew back into what only the most generous could have called a smile, a frozen grimace, more like. He bit back the initial impulse to point out the emptiness of that threat. All the boats would soon be away; did she fancy swimming ashore? With so many ships in the harbor, the water was a stewpot of filth. And where was she to go? Tortuga? The Morganse was anchored in a far corner of the harbor, yet the wretched place’s foulness still assaulted the nose. The stench spoke for what awaited there: a concentrated version of the worst side of London. To leave Nathan meant to plunge back into that cesspool, become a maggot on that festering heap.
Nathan had the wisdom to realize that to make that point, however, could well prompt her to do that very thing, even if it meant floating ashore on an empty barrel.
Instead, he sobered. The dark dashes of his brows drew together. “You’re mine. I would hunt you down and bring you back to where you belong.”
It was a creditable pledge, considering he had just done that very thing these weeks since. He had followed the Griselle… Hunted…? Stalked…? Defended…? Use what word you will, but the effect had been the same: he hadn’t stopped until she was returned to the Morganse.
And yet now, he was departing for Tortuga with a whore under his arm.
The walnut-colored eyes held hers, while a finger ventured to the hand at her side, lightly stroking her knuckle. “Where else do you fancy I would go? I’ve two ladies in me life, me ship and you. I can exist nowhere else.”
The finger wormed in between two of her fingers and hooked around. It tightened, gripping as if it were a life line.
“You’ve held me heart and… a few other things,” he added, delicately plucking at the front of his breeches, “from the first.”
She looked up, pleading. “But why—?”
“As I’ve said, darling, there are things which must be done, needs what go far beyond the flesh, and I wish you to be no part of it. As for them…” he went on, glancing over his shoulder to where the whores now clustered at the gate. He shrugged helplessly. “I’m a ruined man; I rise to no others. You’ve the hands of an angel compared to those of that ironmonger.”
Reluctantly, she obliged to admit she had seen him flinch and shy away when Carrot-top had made an expert grab at his crotch.
His fingers had now insinuated themselves fully into her hand, his thumb stroking her palm. Damn him! He was working his magic, and she was melting like a fresh maid.
“There’s things what need doing, or I shall have no peace,” Nathan said in a low purr.
“Nathan, luv! I’m bored and thirsty,” came from outside.
Both Cate and Nathan jerked at the whore’s voice. The carrot-topped head was visible over Nathan’s shoulder, a petulant hand propped on her hip. Nathan shifted, anxious to be on his way.
Desperation swept Cate, a wave of panic that threatened to drown her, the fear that she might never see him again. It wasn’t unfounded; Providence had taught her all too well how abruptly one’s life, one’s world could take a violent change. Suddenly, she regretted the night before, foolishly wasting the last few hours she might ever have with him. Wants. Wishes.
Hopes. Aims. Desires. So many things screamed to be said, and yet she didn’t dare utter.
“Words have not served us well…”
Indeed not.
Cate threw her arms around Nathan’s neck, nearly knocking off his hat, and kissed him. He flinched, surprised. Then his arms curved around her as he responded, deep and probing, seeming to echo her every sentiment.
He leaned back at the end, his hands warm as they traced and retraced the curves of her back and hips. “So, it’s like that, is it?”
“Come back.” Tears blurred his image as she said shakily, “Damn you, you’d better come back.”
His hand rose to cup her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her brow. “Blessed cursed eyes; they’ll see me every move.”
She sniffed, palming her cheek dry. “And strike dead every woman who comes near you.”
“I believe you would.” he mused. His mustache hooked up one corner of his mouth into a wry smile. “Aim those elf darts well, darling. I’ll be naught but the innocent bystander.”
He regarded her intently. He bent his head ever so slightly toward her and inhaled like a starving man before a feast. Then he shifted, wincing. “As soon as I fancy I am able once more, I’ll come to you.” He kissed her again, sealing his pledge.
As his arms fell away a hand, drifted and lingered at her abdomen. He brought his mouth close to her ear and said in a throaty whisper, “Mine. Remember.”
A final peck on the cheek and he was gone.
Cate stared into the space where Nathan had just stood, trying to sort out what had just happened. She turned and sagged against the door frame. She would have to have been the village idiot to not realize what that kiss had meant. Her hand came to rest on her stomach. Surely he didn’t still think she was with child.
The commotion on deck broke her thoughts.
Nathan was in an intense one-way dialog with Hughes, Captain of the Anchor Watch, gesturing toward Cate and then stabbing a finger into Hughes’ chest. Round-eyed with import, the latter earnestly nodded and knuckled his forelock.
The whores stood coveyed up at the entry, stiff with insult, squealing in protest as they were handed down the side. With open remorse, every member of the Anchor Watch watched the women take their leave. Carrot-top stood apart, long-suffering and eloquent in her impatience. Nathan left Hughes and strode toward her, arms wide and a dazzling smile.
“My most darling and dearest Dotty! Come, we’ve tarried with this foolishness far too long. I’ve taken up far too much of your valuable time,” he said loudly enough for a topsman to hear.
He hooked an arm about Dotty’s waist, his hip bumping hers in open invitation. As he nuzzled her neck, he squeezed her bottom, eliciting a girlish giggle.
“Come, me darling, Dotty! Your chariot awaits. Let us embark on a night of revelry and enchantments.”
As Nathan steered her toward the gate, Dotty cast a “Ha-ha, I won!” look back at Cate over her shoulder. Cate’s fist curled in the folds of her skirt. One punch and she could wipe that smile off that powdered, slatternly face.
“Have a care. Mind your skirts,” Nathan cooed as he handed Dotty down.
Once the vibrant head had disappeared below the gunwale, Nathan straightened in an amber pool of lamplight to cast a final look back toward the cabin. He broke into one of those smiles meant to charm, one Cate felt all the way to her heart. He winked, and then he was gone.
As the longboat pulled away, the sound of its oars dipping the water was lost in the giggles of its female passengers, Nathan’s throaty laugh among them. The glow of the boat’s bow lantern was but one more spark amid the firefly-like dance of the town’s lights on the harbor’s glassy surface. It wove amid the vessels at anchor, disappearing too soon behind a schooner. The boat’s progress could still be followed by its passengers’ voices breaking into song. Too soon, that faded, too. A rustle of feathers marked Artemis soaring overhead, bound for land. Only the Anchor Watch remained now.
An emptiness settled in, the ship inordinately quiet and devoid of life.
Cate wrapped her arms about herself. Empty arms are cold ones, however. Neither comfort nor warmth, of which she was in desperate need, was there. She haunted the ship, looking for what wasn’t there, spurred faster by the fear that it might never be found again.
The sounds of the town’s merriment—music, singing, laughter and the random crash of breaking glass—drifting across the water rendered the Morganse that much more isolated. Cate’s heart jumped at every shot which reverberated through the humid night air, whether fired in anger or celebration she couldn’t tell. She chafed at the ensuing visions of Nathan lying face down in one of those dark, filthy streets, the drunks staggering over his body.
Knowing Nathan had left physically satisfied made his absence only slightly more bearable. It had been a half-crazed plan seeded by desperation. Nathan’s appetites were healthy; they had made love every day, sometimes twice. It was a demented mind which expected him to be sustained by one meal when his most favorite dishes were being served.
The sting on Cate’s neck from Doxie Dotty’s nails was a constant reminder of the whore’s possession of him. The perfume, still cloying in Cate’s clothes, was a harbinger of what she would need to prepare for upon Nathan’s return. Would she feel the same in his arms while he smelt of another woman, with face powder on his shoulder and lip rouge on his cheek? Could she kiss him without wondering where else those lips had been? When they laid together, could she block the images of him doing the same with Doxie Dotty? She paced faster to outrun the images of those be-ringed, enchanting fingers tangling in someone else’s hair; his tanned hand against the pale of another’s breast; his mustache tickling another’s nipple, until it rose…?
Every nook of her soul screamed “No!” The thought of Nathan with another woman, any woman was framed by a red haze of rage.
But, God help her, she couldn’t leave him.
Ducking into the cabin, Cate pressed her skirts to her face and screamed until it hurt too much to do so any longer. She shrieked, grabbed a metal plate from the table and pitched it, sending it clattering into a dark corner. Chest heaving, she waited for Kirkland’s head to pop up at the galley way, looking to see what was amiss.
Nothing.
It seemed the call of Tortuga was too strong even for him.
She sank wearily onto the gallery sill and buried her head in her hands. While marooned on that island, Nathan had spoken of trust. Now it was her turn to learn the same. In the bare glare of logic, what choice did she have?
Her heart leapt at catching sight of the light of a bow lantern of an approaching boat through the window. She raced out on deck just as the Watch hailed the vessel. A rude but friendly reply came from alongside and her spirits sank; it wasn’t Nathan’s voice.
Mr. Fox sprang up the side and purposefully sought her out. He knuckled his forelock and thrust a roughly folded scrap of paper at her. “Cap’n’s compliments, sir.”
The paper resembled—and smelled—like something from a fishmonger. Moving into the light of one of the lanterns, she opened it.
“Fondest thoughts—and so far unpierced—the lads and me…”
Nathan’s florid handwriting shimmered in a sudden rush of tears. It was her first letter from him. Clutching it in her hand as if it were a lifeline, she continued to pace. Ricocheting wildly from peevish to despondent, she told herself to relax. In all probability, Nathan wouldn’t return until dawn, or well after. This was Tortuga—the closest thing to the Ciara Morganse’s home port—!
Which was what worried her the most.
Cate played a mental game of imagining pairs of worst-case scenarios, choosing which was the least injurious and then striving to cheer herself with the fortuitous outcome. The exercise, however, opened the flood gates of her imagination, of visions which were altogether too disturbing: blood, maiming, torture, or shooting. It obliged her opt between Nathan being stabbed or his lithe hips buried in the up-turned skirts of his favorite whore and then trying to take strength from the latter, for it meant he would still be alive. And, yes, she had managed to glean from the crew that he did have his favorites and were sure to be waiting for him upon seeing the Morganse make port. It had been nigh impossible to pluck a positive from that piece of information.
All in all, the exercise failed in every way: it consumed little time and it had Cate worked into a complete state. In times of stress, Nathan always found comfort in drink. Her throat constricted at the thought of rum, but recalled a bottle of brandy and dug it out from its locker. She didn’t stand on ceremony and tipped the bottle up to her lips. The liquor burned her throat, but exploded as a pleasant glow in her stomach. Its mollifying effects, however, proved to be minimal.
Seeing Hughes and Cameron scramble away when she burst into the cabin made Cate realize she was making not only herself, but everyone around her miserable. Sleep was the answer, a sure way to pass time quickly. Wary of the possibility of a dire emergency—like Nathan being dragged aboard, shot and bleeding—she blew out the candle and stretched across the berth, face down and fully dressed. No one was about to replenish the candle and it soon guttered out, leaving her to stare at the eerie glow of the deck prism. The cough and occasional shuffle revealed that Hughes and Cameron had returned to the salon. Their watchfulness was no doubt Nathan’s doing. Lying in the dark, she tried to find solace in his concern. To her surprise, she did feel safer, considerably so. Too many years had been spent sleeping with a tin of pebbles at the door and one ear cocked.
Exhaustion drew her down like the ship’s number one anchor. She soon drifted on a brandy-laden cloud to dreams of Bacchanalian streets and Nathan in a monk’s frock.
Cate jerked awake, already holding her breath before she had any notion of what had awakened her. It had to have been something odd, for she had learned to sleep through the noisy business of sailing, including the perpetual clanging bells. She probed through her memory, trying to sort out what it might have been: something like a boat bumping the hull.
Lying quietly, she strained to listen. Then came the sound of muffled giggles and secretive murmuring, male and female, both shushing the other loudly enough to be heard even at her distance. The whores had returned. A waft of perfume, stronger than what rose from her clothes, confirmed her suspicions. The coldness of her isolation rose once more. She curled into herself on the bunk, fighting off the renewed visions of what Nathan would be up to just then.
Drifting somewhere between asleep and not, Cate heard another noise. Drowsiness made it nigh impossible to know if it had been the same boat or another one. She stiffened and grew more wary at hearing Hughes and Cameron rise to their feet. Heart pounding, she rose, drawing the sgian dubh from her pocket as she tiptoed to the curtain. She heard an odd voice and then realized it was Beatrice; it was rare for the bird to be chattering as such an hour. Next she heard Hughes and Cameron whispering, harsh and urgent.
“What is it?” she hissed through the curtain.
“Hist!”
A burst of Gaelic curses was lost in the sound of hand-to-hand fighting: gasping and grunting amid the meaty smack and thud of fists finding flesh. Then came a high, pained shriek, followed closely by a second and then a pair of heavy thuds of bodies falling to the floor, the air growing sharp with the smell of blood and open gut.
Harsh whispers and footsteps came toward the curtain. Griping the knife, Cate took a step back. The fabric moved ever so slightly, but it could have been from the ship’s motion; even at anchor in a well-protected harbor, a ship still moved. Holding her breath, she leaned to listen. Breathing, she thought, her own heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t be sure. There was, however, no mistaking the smell of onions.
With two fingers, Cate gingerly reached for the curtain. The velvet jerked and hit her in the face. A fist. The force sent her tumbling backwards, slamming the back of her head on the floor, the knife skittering away. She struggled up to her knees and sagged. The planks vibrating from heavy footsteps was felt an instant before she was seized by the waist, arms pinning hers at her sides. As she was lifted away, she screamed and kicked, struggling hard enough for her assailant to lower her. When both feet touched the floor, she braced and whipped her head backwards. The satisfying crunch of bone and teeth was accompanied by a sharp pain at the back of her head, nausea and black spots dancing around her vision.
Bellowing in pain, her assailant grabbed his face. Cate half-dove, half-fell onto the bunk, groping for the knife Nathan kept in the corner. Gasping with relief at finding it, she swung back and around in a vicious swipe at where she judged her assailant to be, the familiar sensation of blade hitting flesh and a pained yelp confirming her guess. She built up for another swing, but he lashed out, knocking the knife away.
Heavy breathing and the sharp acrid smell of unwashed male engulfed her. The greenish – blue light from the deck prism showed several heads, all jostling to grab her. She drew a breath to scream, but was punched in the stomach. As she lay gasping for air, a strip of cloth was jammed into her mouth and roughly knotted behind her head. Her ears filled with a dull ringing, and the swirling spots in her vision congealed into black.