Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  “I repeat the question,” I say. “Who are you?”

  She shakes her head then raises her chin, although fear still lurks behind her eyes. “I’m Samantha Gilbert. How the hell did I get here? Did you bring me here? What do you want?”

  Samantha Gilbert. She sounds so sincere, but I will be damned if I believe her. Anne taught me the lesson of never trusting beautiful women. I walk around the desk towards her and watch with satisfaction as her eyes crawl over me and she swallows. Then she frowns as though in recognition. If she is afraid, she is right to be. I will not tolerate thieves or spies on my ship, no matter how pretty.

  “Miss Gilbert,” I say, “I did not bring you anywhere. You came here, to me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  She rises to her feet, and I can’t help appreciating the view. She is petite and slender, the hemispheres of her breasts protruding deliciously under the freely falling material of her dress.

  Whoever sent her, they chose right because she is very distracting.

  And for just a fraction of a second, I lose my focus admiring her, and she darts to the doors. But I have been trained for this, have fought battles where a moment thinner than a hair means the difference between life and death.

  My hand lands on the doors just as hers reach the handle. She is panting, pinned between my body and the doors. Her scent reaches me—sun, coconut, and something citrusy. My pulse beats loudly in my ears.

  I gently turn her around to face me. And as I meet her dark eyes, I have to remind myself to stay in the moment and not drown in their beauty.

  “And where is it that you are going, Miss Gilbert?” I ask.

  “Away from you and your gun. Where am I?” she says, her voice a croak.

  I narrow my eyes, looking for any sign that she is playing me. She is an excellent actress; she seems utterly sincere. But her questions do not make sense. If she came for the clues, would trying to seduce me not be a better tactic? If she is a whore, why is she behaving as though someone placed her here without her knowledge?

  “If you are a jest of one of my crew,” I say, “I am not laughing. It is obvious that you came for something, and are pretending—very poorly, I must say—that you lost your memory.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not pretending.”

  “If you are a whore, which”—my gaze travels down her body, and her cheeks flush—“judging by your attire is the most likely option, I am not in the mood.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” she yells. “How dare you!”

  “Who are you then? Who sent you?”

  She swallows and looks around the room, frowns, and then her face relaxes as though in revelation. I do not care for it. She smiles and crosses her arms. They brush against my chest and send a light buzzing through my veins.

  “I get it, Mr. Barrow,” she says, “I just need to help you get to the ball. We find Cole’s treasure. I win the escape room.”

  She finally admits it—she is here for the treasure. I knew it was all just a ploy. I must learn how she found out and who is behind this.

  “How do you know about Cole’s treasure?” I ask.

  “Come on. I’ve been in the museum. Adonis is a great guide. You have the map of the island and the location of the treasure. Now you just need the coordinates. And to get them, you need a date. I’m your date. I can get you to the ball, Monsieur…de Bouchon if I remember correctly?”

  Blood drains from my face, and I feel my lips pull into a snarl. She knows too much. She knows everything.

  I put the pistol under her chin. Her smug smile is replaced with terror. She pales, her eyes as wide as saucers.

  “I am asking for the last time,” I say slowly, “who sent you? Think carefully about your answer. It might be the last one you ever give.”

  Her breath comes out in a shaky rush. “My name is Samantha Gilbert. I was sent by Cole the Black to help you find the treasure.”

  “Cole is in the East Indies.”

  She nods. “He is. But he left me behind, just in case.”

  I apply more pressure to the pistol. “Prove it.”

  “Ehm. You need to find a Chinese cricket box at the governor’s. There is a jade necklace in the treasure chest—among other things, like gold and silver and gems. You want to stop pirating, get married, and buy a villa. He told me that,” she adds.

  Could she possibly be telling the truth? Those were things Cole would know. No. I know a liar when I see one, and even if she knows this information, I do not believe it came from Cole. She is lying about who she is, and her sole purpose is to distract me and disorient me to get my treasure. She is as dangerous as a plague. And I am not taking any chances.

  She must be isolated and put under constant guard.

  I take her by the upper arm and pull her after me, opening the doors and dragging her across the deck. I ignore my crew’s astonished, hungry looks at Samantha Gilbert.

  She begins to struggle, and I tighten my grip. “Let me go!” she cries. “Right now! Where are you taking me?”

  “To the brig. If you think I believe you, you are a fool.”

  Chapter 3

  Samantha

  The eyes of at least ten pirates bore into me, undress me, eat me alive.

  The brig is divided into grated sections, and there’s a man in one of the farther ones, also staring at me from under his eyebrows. They are all unwashed and unshaven, stinking of stale male sweat. How does James keep so clean? Oh, right, they’re all just actors, I try to convince myself.

  The ceilings are low, and heavy beams run along them. There are no portholes. The rocking motion is stronger here, and I’m starting to get slightly seasick.

  I’m admittedly terrified, somewhere deep. But I refuse to go there, because in the back of my mind, there’s a voice telling me I might be in the eighteenth century. If I believe that voice, I might as well admit the existence of unicorns, elves, and dwarves. I concentrate on my anger. James, or whoever he really is, had the audacity to put me in here. I’m furious. So furious I’m shaking. He was a jerk to me. How could he just throw me in the brig with all these nasty pirates? I was right about him. Despite his charming looks, he’s as vain and selfish as I thought, without a kind bone in his body. His appearance is the perfect disguise for a pirate.

  I thought for sure my quick thinking would get me out of this escape-room adventure. Or whatever it is. But it’s clear now that there will be no quick exit.

  I guess I need to look for clues to get out of here. I close my eyes and try to calm down, try to block out the dirty pirates and think about what to do. This is not me. I don’t panic. But there’s something about nasty men looking at you like you’re dinner that makes you freak out.

  Back to rational thinking. Breathe in, breathe out. Adonis said if I want to go back, I need the jade necklace. That must be how I win this and get the hell out of this pirate insanity.

  I look around, but the nausea is getting worse, and I close my eyes again and breathe—not too deeply. Cracking my eyes open, I note that the pirates are still staring at me as if I’m a juicy New York steak. They are talking to each other in muffled voices, chuckling, pointing at me. Their glances are like filthy fingers touching me without permission. I’ve never felt so disgusted in my life.

  I shiver, wrapping my arms around my chest to cover anything I can, and turn my back to them.

  “Hiya, molly,” someone says next to me—too close—and I turn around.

  One of the men is pinned to the bars, holding the grating with both hands. He’s middle-aged, bald, has bad teeth and a shaggy beard.

  “What did ye do to make the cap’n dump you here?” he says. “He dinnae like the shag?”

  I’ve had my share of being hit on by drunk guys in bars. But none of them were so disgusting, and none of them had openly suggested I was a prostitute. And I had never been trapped with so many of them. My feet and arms are heavy, my pulse drums in my ears.

  I begin to look for some sort of a trap door in the fl
oor, running my fingers against the old, chipped wood.

  “Nae, how could ye not like the shag when a molly sports dairies like that,” another man joins in, standing beside the first. He’s smaller, and rounder, but he’s actually drooling, looking at my chest. I think he means my breasts. Prickling heat spreads through my cheeks and my neck. I’m not a saint, but oh my gosh! I wish the floor would open and swallow me whole. I’ve never felt like this, as dirty as a floor mat.

  Man, I’d love to kick this guy’s ass.

  If this is really an escape room, there must be a way out. But the floor is just a floor. I stand up and study the wall. They smell like sea water and tar, and there’s not a single indent or crack to indicate an secret door or give me a clue how to get out. This is starting to seem pretty extreme for a museum.

  “Yeah”—a third man joins, and the rest of them follow to stand behind the grating in a dark wall of grimy faces—“she looks like a good shag.”

  I’ve had enough. “Okay,” I say. “Now that we’ve all established that I would be a good shag, can we please move on with our day, guys?”

  As if I hadn’t made a sound, the first guy turns to the rest of them. “How long since ye had yerself a molly?”

  They shrug and mutter. “Probably as long as you,” says the third pirate.

  They all turn to me again, but clearly they are talking to each other. “Do ye think the cap’n would mind?” says another one.

  They study me, contemplating.

  “Even if he would, he ain’t goin’ to be cap’n for long,” says someone, but without any confidence in his voice.

  Right, the possible mutiny. James needs the treasure to stop his crew from overthrowing him.

  “Go away, all of you!” I yell. I know the guy who plays James would not want them to have a go with me. “I’m not for the taking. Shut up and stop looking at me. Go away!”

  They listen, shocked, then erupt in laughter. “Feisty,” says one of them and nods in appreciation. “A bit of fire in ye, eh?”

  “Who has the key?” someone asks.

  Now that sobers me up like a cold shower. I frantically look around. Maybe I’m meant to have the key in my cell? It’s one thing to tolerate this stupid game when they are behind the grating. It’s another to have to physically fight them off.

  “Cap’n,” says one of them, and they all sigh in disappointment.

  “But there’s a spare,” says another.

  No!

  “Where?”

  “Mr. Killian has it.”

  “Ah, the quartermaster, of course. Go fetch it then! What are ye waiting for.”

  One of them separates from the crowd and climbs the stairs.

  “I’ll scream,” I say.

  They guffaw. “Told ye, feisty,” one of them says.

  “Dibs on the first round,” says the pirate who came to the cell first. “I like ’em fresh and juicy.”

  One of the big ones standing at the back shoves him. “What makes ye think you can call dibs? I like ’em fresh and juicy, too. She’ll lose all her fire after a couple of ye.”

  Now cold sweat breaks through my skin for real. I don’t think I ever felt that. Even in nightmares. “You fuckers,” I mutter. “If one of you lays a finger on me, you’ll be missing it!”

  “Then Mr. Finn should have the first go,” a man at the back says. “His plug tail is no bigger than a pinkie!”

  They all erupt in laughter, making me shiver. Only the first pirate doesn’t laugh.

  “No. She’s mine,” he says. “Where’s that key?”

  As he says that, the men stop laughing and begin to quarrel. Quickly, it gets loud. Their faces are furious, and they’re shoving each other, yelling. The first guy grabs the grate and starts shaking it, his eyes bulging, his mouth a snarl.

  Trembling now, I retreat several steps until my back is pressed against the wall. My throat clenches so tight I feel as if someone is choking me. More men descend the stairs and join the mob. The very air—heavy with moisture and smelling of bad breath, rum, and unwashed bodies—is charged with aggression. Then the fight starts…

  As men punch and kick each other, I crawl into the corner and squeeze my eyes tightly closed. This is not an escape room. This must be a dream. A nightmare. Wake up, I tell myself. Wake up!

  Then a deafening bang rends the air, and the smell of something acrid and burned reaches my nose. It’s suddenly quiet. So quiet I hear my ears ringing.

  Maybe the nightmare is over.

  One, two, three. I open my eyes.

  I’m still in the cell, surrounded by filthy, horny pirates, but the actor who plays James Barrow has his pistol pointed at them. There’s so much power in his gaze, my knees melt.

  Next to him stands another man, older, with two pistols in his hands. But their barrels are directed towards the floor. It’s a warning not a confrontation.

  “What’s the source of this?” “James” demands. I’m simply going to call him James in my head, I decide. His voice is calm but steely.

  They are quiet for a few moments, then the guy who came to my cell first says, “The molly.”

  James glances at me, worry in his eyes, and I stand up, letting him know I’m all right. My legs and arms are still shaky.

  “What did she do?” he asks.

  He didn’t seriously just assume I did something! I knew he was full of himself. “What? Typical man! Always blame the woman first. I didn’t do a thing!”

  He shoots a quick glance at me, and the pirates start to yell. The room fills with noise again, and they stab their hands in my direction.

  “We were just deciding who gets the first go at her,” says one of the pirates.

  James’s face straightens, his violet eyes dark. “What?”

  The whole room is so silent, we can hear the muffled splashes of the waves against the ship.

  “Ain’t she—”

  “I’m not a prostitute, you jerk!” I yell.

  “But she’s dressed— Those dairies—”

  James’s lip crawls up into a snarl. His eyes glow with fury. “If she was a whore, I’d have told you. She is just a prisoner. Under my protection.”

  Under his protection… The words make my chest feel lighter. I’ve never been under anyone’s protection. Not even the first man I ever loved said that to me.

  A rumble goes through the crew, but it stays low, then dies.

  James continues. “I put her here because she might be a thief. A spy. Because she might disrupt our discipline and get what she’s after. The same thing you and I are after. The treasure.”

  They are completely quiet now. Looking guilty as naughty dogs.

  “Sorry, Cap’n,” says the first pirate who wanted to plunder me, then glances at me. “She looks like a spy. Distracting with her dairies like that.”

  James purses his lips angrily. “I’ve made a mistake. I had thought it would be safe to keep her here, away from my cabin. But I was wrong.”

  He moves towards my cage and his crew give way. I breathe easier now. His gaze finds mine, and my heart skips a beat.

  Goddamn.

  He turns the key in the hole and my heart beats again, faster this time. He opens the door and holds his hand to me.

  “Even if you are a spy or a thief, it seems the safest place for you is with me,” he says.

  His violet eyes glow in the golden light of the torches, looking right into my soul.

  And what I see is hope.

  I take a few steps and place my hand in his. Mine is all clammy from sweat and cold. His is warm and dry and strangely reassuring.

  “Come, Miss Gilbert,” he says, and his gaze melts my insides. “It seems we have a ball to attend.”

  Chapter 4

  James

  I shut the doors of my cabin behind me and study Miss Gilbert’s back. I am still seething after what happened downstairs. This beautiful, brave, stubborn woman with raven hair and eyes as deep and dark as hell had almost caused a mutiny.
r />   Though it is not her I am angry with. It is myself.

  Tonight is the only chance I have to get the last clue, and I am desperate, distracted. I did not think of the consequences of putting her in the brig, dressed like that, and underestimated the tension in my crew. They have not been ashore for a month now, and are itching for spoils—and for women.

  Miss Gilbert—Samantha—turns to face me, her eyes wide. Damnation, look at her. The flawless skin, the elegant arches of her eyebrows, the soft lips that call for a kiss. Any man would feel tempted.

  She is hugging herself protectively, but her chin is high. A proud woman with a backbone. I cannot help but be impressed.

  But what am I doing, worrying about how she feels? She is not my responsibility, and I ought not feel anything for her but suspicion. I still do not know who she really is. Her story about being sent by Cole is too convenient. After Anne, I cannot trust another woman.

  “Your coworkers went a little too far downstairs, don’t you agree?” she says. “I want to go. It’s hard to imagine that your museum bosses will be too happy after I complain. I’ve had enough adventures today. I want to go back to my hotel.”

  Is she speaking in code words that I ought to understand? Another piece of Cole’s puzzle, perhaps?

  “Museum bosses?” I say.

  She gestures to the ceiling with one arm. “Don’t you have someone you report to?”

  I roll my shoulders back, her words making my neck muscles as tense as ropes at storm, just like they had always been in Bristol. “I did not become a pirate to report to anyone. If I wanted someone to run my life, I would have stayed in England, run the company alongside my father, and led the life my family had in sight for me.”

  The day Cole and I had decided to become pirates, to end the tyranny of the captain of my father’s trade ship, had been the happiest day of my life.