Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  “I’ve brought what you requested.”

  “Divide everything else equally among the men, then change course for Ceresus.”

  “Are we heading home?”

  “We are. Inform the crew.”

  Home? Hope soared through her heart. Home meant land, and on land, she could escape... or at least have a fighting chance. She just needed to survive Captain Shaw’s wrath until they reached port. Which direction could they be heading? She’d never heard of Ceresus. Her mind sifted through the facts—or rumors—she’d heard about Captain Shaw. Not once did she recall hearing about him owning property. Did pirates have homes?

  A smile pulled at Mr. Hayward’s mouth, revealing a chipped gold tooth. “I am eager to see Martha again.”

  “You should just marry the girl and be done with it,” replied Captain Shaw. Crossing the room, he stopped behind the desk, set the bottle on the desk, and draped his shirt over the back of a gilded chair.

  “She’s a prostitute!”

  “And you’re a pirate.” Captain Shaw tilted his head, studying him. “Mr. Hayward, in all the years I’ve known you, fear has never been an attribute of yours.”

  “I’m not afraid,” grumbled Mr. Hayward. The blood oozing down Captain Shaw’s left arm drew his attention. “Need any assistance?”

  Captain Shaw dropped his gaze to Alana, his eyes gleamed. “Does Mr. Hayward need to perform the task for you?”

  Alana glared at him, forcing the word through her clenched jaw. “No.”

  “Pardon?” He cupped his hand around his ear.

  “No!” She pushed herself into a sitting position, collecting the needle from the floor.

  “Your skills are not necessary this evening.” His gaze slid over Alana. “As Mr. Dubois will be occupied, send my dinner with Mr. Wickes.”

  “He’ll want to stay on deck for distribution.” A hint of fear crossed through Mr. Hayward’s face a moment after the words left his mouth.

  Arching an eyebrow, Captain Shaw dropped into his chair, touching his fingertips together and placing them to his mouth. “Are you volunteering to bring it for him?”

  “Yes, Captain,” replied Mr. Hayward, mollification in his voice.

  “Dismissed.” He waved his arm.

  Saluting, Mr. Hayward spun stiffly, marching to the door. He paused, his hand outstretched toward the door handle.

  “Should I bring anything for Mr. Dubois?”

  “Concerned for another man’s welfare?”

  “Even a dog deserves water,” replied Mr. Hayward, speaking to the door.

  Captain Shaw snorted, his gaze sliding to Alana. “Then, the dog can have my scraps.”

  Without another word, Mr. Hayward opened the door and exited, pulling it closed behind him. Captain Shaw jerked his head, indicating Alana rise. Climbing to her feet, she winced, sinking her teeth into her lip. Don’t cry. She leaned over slowly, collecting the box, and placed the needle inside, next to the spool of thread. Taking a deep breath, she straightened, rolling back her shoulders, and crossed the room. Resting his arm on the chair, Captain Shaw gestured to the floor. Alana knelt beside him as he lifted the bottle to his mouth.

  “I need that,” said Alana, reaching for the bottle, her fingers closing around the base.

  He choked, surprise coloring his eyes. “I thought it was too strong for you.”

  “It is. However, I have no intention of doing this sober.”

  Snorting, Captain Shaw released the bottle. “You surprise me.”

  “I surprise many people.”

  That was the truth. Captain Shaw would certainly be surprised to learn his manservant was really a woman—not that she had any intention of revealing that fact. If he was this cruel to a man, what would he do if he discovered she was a woman? She shuddered.

  Tipping the bottle, Alana swallowed a mouthful of the strong liquor and coughed, her eyes watering. The second sip didn’t burn as much as the first, and a pleasant numb feeling quieted the fears circling in her mind. Rubbing her hand over his arm, she stretched out the skin, marveling at its dark color, then poured the liquid over the wound. He turned away with a hiss, his teeth grinding together.

  “It was necessary,” said Alana, her eyes flicking to his face.

  “I know.” He hissed again as she poured more of the liquor over his arm. “Must you waste it?”

  “I am not wasting it.” She paused, taking a third drink. “I am cleaning the wound.”

  He grabbed the bottle from her hand, locking his dark glare on her face.

  “For a man who isn’t used to strong drink, you certainly developed a taste for it.”

  Alana shrugged, enjoying the strange feeling floating through her limbs. Her tongue felt thick. “What is it?”

  “My own personal whiskey. I make it.” He thumbed to himself, a faint note of pride in his statement.

  “You make it?” She raised up on her knees, holding out her hand for the bottle. He returned it with a grin.

  “I own a private distillery.”

  “Then why do you…” She gestured around her, then took another drink.

  “Plunder?” He held out his hand.

  “Murder.” Glancing down, she shook her head, lifting the bottle to her lips again.

  “It’s expected of me.” He yanked the bottle from her mouth.

  Encouraged by the liquor, she leaned toward him, arching her eyebrow.

  “You’re expected to be a pirate?”

  “I’m expected to kill people who disobey me.” He slammed his hand on the desk, causing Alana to jump.

  Pursing her lips, she retrieved the needle and spool from the box. After several attempts, she threaded the needle and tied a knot at the end of the string. Lifting her eyes to him, she held up the needle.

  “This will hurt.”

  “I am aware.” He saluted her with the bottle, taking a long drink.

  She pinched the sides of the wound together, pushing the skin into a puckered line. Exhaling slowly, she stabbed the needle through his arm. Captain Shaw did not flinch, his only reaction was to take another sip of brandy.

  Drawing the string through, Alana repeated the process—stab, glance at Captain Shaw, draw the string through—until the wound closed. Tying off the string, Alana returned the needle and spool of unused thread to the box, closing the lid. “I have finished, however…”

  “Yes?” Captain Shaw’s head whipped toward her, his eyes dropping to the wound, inspecting her stitching. “I see no problem with your surgery. Perhaps you can replace Mr. Hayward in those duties; he lacks the ability to keep a straight line.”

  Alana forced a smile. “I have no intention of remaining in your employ if you attack another ship.”

  Slamming the bottle on the desk, he leaned down, his hand wrapping around Alana’s wrist. “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do?”

  “I will jump in the water.”

  He laughed. The mirthless sound reverberating off the cabin walls. “You cannot swim.”

  “True, but I can float long enough to be rescued by the lifeboat.”

  His face tightened. “What makes you think there will be a lifeboat this time?”

  This time? Alana’s jaw dropped. “You released the boat!”

  “I have no idea to what you are referring.” He threw away her wrist away, rising. The chair scraped across the floor, slamming into the wall. Snatching up his shirt, he yanked it over his head, stalking toward the armoire.

  “If you rip open the stitches, I will have to sew your arm again,” said Alana, her soft voice barely carrying across the cabin.

  He spun around, his eyes cold. “Where did you see a lifeboat?”

  “Off the stern of the ship.” She gestured at the window and held out the box. “You saved those women’s lives.”

  “I did not.” He ripped the box from her hand, turning away, and shoved it into the armoire.

  “Why do you deny your good deed?” Alana stepped toward him.

  Captain Shaw s
pun around, his stone face held no emotion. “Because I am not a good man, Mr. Dubois. You would do well to remember that.”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” said Captain Shaw, his gaze flicking to the door. Mr. Hayward scuttled into the room and set a tray on the corner of the desk. “Mr. Hayward, your skills are lacking.”

  “Captain?” Mr. Hayward glanced nervously at Alana.

  “Mr. Dubois is a better tailor than you. I am relieving you of your duties.” He crossed the room, removing his shirt. Mr. Hayward inspected the stitched wound, dragging his thumb across the line, his tongue caught in his teeth.

  “I did not agree to those terms,” said Alana. Both men’s heads whipped up at the exact same moment, anger rolling through the room.

  “I have my rounds,” mumbled Mr. Hayward, rushing from the room, the door slamming behind him.

  Captain Shaw approached, stopping centimeters from Alana. The ire vibrating through his body brushed over her skin, his deep voice sending a shudder rippling down Alana’s spine.

  “No man counters my direction.”

  “You do not determine my life,” replied Alana, planting her hands on her hips. He was going to kill her, beat her to death before the evening’s end. Captain Shaw raised his arm. She jutted out her chin and closed her eyes, waiting for the pain.

  “Why are you not afraid of me?”

  Her eyes flew open. He had lowered his arm and was staring at her curiously.

  “I am afraid,” she whispered.

  “Yet, knowing the ramifications of my anger, you still challenge me. Why?” He stepped closer, dropping his voice. “I can kill you.”

  “I do not agree with your decisions.”

  “You are aboard my ship.”

  “That was not by choice.”

  “It was,” he growled, jabbing her in the forehead. She swayed, refusing to step backward.

  “Death or servitude, which would you choose?”

  “Death.”

  Alana froze, her mouth open in shock. “You are an unusual man.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed, obviously pleased by her observation, and returned to his chair, flinging his arm at her trunk. “Remove that. Stow it beside the bed, then carry the tray to the table.” He tilted his head, a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I presume you know how to serve someone.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Snorting, Captain Shaw shook his head, lifting the bottle again. He grimaced. Lowering it slowly, he stared at her over the bottom.

  “You drank all my whiskey.”

  “You drank all your whiskey, I used it to clean your wound,” murmured Alana, chewing on her lip and staring at her trunk. She couldn’t lift it; Captain Shaw knew this fact, yet he’d assigned her the task. Her eyes slid to him. “Do you enjoy hurting people?”

  “Why do you ask?” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk.

  “You know I can’t carry that chest,” she replied, pointing at her trunk. “And I fear your anger will be worse if I fail a second task.”

  “It will.” He tilted his head, his face smooth. “But I am curious as to how you will solve that problem.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Alana placed her hand atop of the trunk’s lid. Glaring at him, she pulled the trunk toward her. It fell off the side of the desk, crashing to the floor. He smirked, rising from his chair. Crossing the room, he opened a small cabinet hidden behind the table. Extracting an identical bottle to the one on his desk, he pulled out the cork, setting it on the table. Two pewter goblets followed.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Bring me the trunk,” he commanded, sinking into one of the chairs and filling both cups.

  “Would you like the tray as well?”

  “I would.”

  Alana placed her bare foot on the trunk’s lid and kicked. It slid forward, reaching the edge of the desk. Walking around the side, she shoved the trunk toward the table. The chest scraped the floor, crashing into a chair leg. Leaning over, she lifted the tray from the desk. Taking one step, she froze. The cannonball, stuck in a groove in the wooden floor, refused to budge. She jerked her leg. Grumbling, she placed the tray on the desk again, flinging her arm at the cannonball.

  “Is this necessary?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to remove it?”

  He produced a small key, setting on the table next to a goblet.

  “If you can reach me, you can remove it. You have five minutes before I add a cannonball to the other leg.” A light chuckle echoed around her. “Do you loathe me, Mr. Dubois? Would you like to see me hanged?”

  “I have no desire to see any man hanged. However, I am certain you would deserve the sentence.” Spinning, Alana marched to the cannonball. Wrapping her hands around the chain, she yanked, digging her heels into the floor. She underestimated her strength, and the cannonball loosened, flying directly at her face. With a shriek, she dropped to the floor, covering her head. The cannonball soared over her, bouncing once, then rolled toward the table. The chain stretched, wrenching her leg, the cuff digging into her ankle again. The foulest, most despicable curse word flew from her lips, followed in quick staccato by several other inappropriate words.

  “Where did you learn such language?” snickered Captain Shaw, sipping from his goblet.

  She ignored him, climbing to her feet. Limping to the desk, she collected the tray, balancing it carefully in her arms. She shuffled toward the table, scowling at the cannonball as she passed by it. Setting the tray on the table, she reached for the key. Captain Shaw’s hand whipped out, closing around her wrist. She twisted toward him, a question in her eyes.

  “Serve me first.”

  Swallowing her retort, Alana lifted a plate of salted meats from the tray, placing it directly in front of Captain Shaw, followed by a plate of cheese, and a loaf of bread. After setting all the items in front of him, she stood, her hands folded together.

  “Will there be anything else, Captain?”

  He stared at her, drawing out the silence. Waving his hand, he selected a piece of meat, chewing thoughtfully. Alana snatched the key from the table and dropped to the floor, her back to him as she wrestled with the cuff. Sighing as the metal released her skin, she rubbed her ankle, blood staining her palm.

  “Here.” A bottle appeared in her vision, hovering over her head. “Clean yourself.”

  Accepting the bottle, she hesitated a moment, then shrugging, tipped her head, swallowing a mouthful of the burning liquor. Gritting her teeth, she tilted the bottle over her ankle, pain exploding in her leg. Grinding her jaw, she doused her injury again, then held the bottle up over her head. Taking it, he tossed a piece of meat over her shoulder. It landed on the floor in front of her. Glaring at it, she crossed her arms over her chest. Another piece of meat followed, landing next to the first.

  “Is my food not good enough for a refined gentleman such as yourself?” Captain Shaw’s growl rolled around the cabin, sending a shiver racing down Alana’s back.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Considering we attacked your ship prior to dinner, I suspect you are quite hungry.” His low reply held a note of warning.

  “I am not a dog.”

  “Have I offended you, Mr. Dubois? Did you think yourself a better man than I?”

  Alana spun around, her eyes flashing. “I’ve never killed anyone.”

  He selected a piece of meat from the plate, holding it between his forefinger and thumb, and waved it at her face. “Would you take it from my hand?”

  Alana bit her tongue in half, swallowing the insult burning her mouth.

  He snorted. Lifting the bread loaf, he ripped a chunk off, setting back on the plate with a few strips of meat and cheese. Pushing the plate across the table, his eyes flicked to the seat.

  “Join me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you lied to me, and before I kill you, I want to know the reason.”

  Chapter 6

  “Why do you think I lied
to you?” Alana rose, praying her voice remained even. How had he deduced she was a woman?

  “Open your trunk.”

  Gulping, she dragged it from beneath the chair, unlatching the clasp, and flipped open the lid, her eyes sliding over the clothing and the sack… with her hair hidden in the bottom. What would he do to her?

  “Sit.”

  She stepped away from the trunk, dropping into the chair across from him, her eyes locked on his. Selecting the chunk of bread from her plate, she ripped off a piece, and put it in her mouth, never breaking her stare. Chewing methodically, she swallowed.

  “How did you know?”

  “Your clothing.”

  “My clothing?” She glanced down at her shirt. It was a man’s shirt to be certain, her trousers as well. She thought her explanation for having women’s clothing seemed plausible…

  “Just now, when I offered you the meat,”—he lifted the bottle from the table, handing it to her—“what was it you wanted to say to me that you struggled so admirably to withhold?”

  A line scrunched itself into her forehead as she took the bottle. Lifting it to her mouth, she drank deeply and set the bottle back onto the table, ripping off another piece of bread.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your reaction was that of a gentleman, one whose responses have been conditioned to acceptable societal behavior, ingrained since youth.” He leaned forward, sifting through the chest, and extracted a chemise. “Your wife’s?”

  Alana nodded.

  “You said you were poor, but your clothing, your speech, your manners suggest otherwise.” Tossing the chemise back into the trunk, he pulled out the sack.

  “A man can be a gentleman without wealth.” Alana’s gaze dropped to the bag. How would she explain why the hair in the sack was the exact same color as hers?

  “Manners do not generate money, Mr. Dubois. Your education was paid for, where are those funds?” He tossed the sack between his hands, squeezing the material inside. Snorting, he held it out. “More clothing?” When she nodded, he pitched the unopened bag back into the chest.