She glared at him. In this backward era women had babies, cooked, cleaned, and died. Oh, and maybe they did a little embroidery along the way if they had the chance, but without washing machines, microwave ovens, and the usual timesaving devices of the twenty-first century, women worked from dawn till dusk without any let up.
Good thing they disguised her as a boy. She ought to continue in the role for her own well-being.
Lesley rubbed her forehead. Why didn’t it hurt anymore? Had the pressure of being the best pharmaceutical rep for Quixotic caused her more stress than she could handle?
Or had trying to love Jim been the root of her migraines?
“Tell me who the boson is and what the whistles mean.” She went back for more of the decoction for another patient.
“Our boson is Mr. Lallyput.”
For no reason at all, she started to laugh when she heard the name. “Are ... you ... serious?” She tried to stop laughing but found it impossible. “It ... sounds ... like Lilliput ... or lollipop.” Tears eked out of the corners of her eyes. Her emotions had gotten way out of hand.
“He’s a good bosun. Always fair to the men.”
It took a few moments, but Lesley finally got a hold of herself and calmed down.
“Sorry I laughed, but this whole situation is so unreal. It’s like I’ve been dropped down into the middle of Oz.”
“Oz?”
She nearly winced. She had to be more careful about what she said. “It’s a fairy tale I heard. It’s not a real place. Just imaginary.”
“The men enjoy stories. You should entertain them.”
She thought about that, but the story of Oz involved witches—granted there was a good one and a bad one, but the whole idea of witches might not go over well. Especially since the hangings in Salem occurred not that long ago.
She knelt beside a young boy named John who shivered violently. “This is warm and Dr. Gilroy says it will bring your fever down.”
Poor John’s teeth chattered but he nodded and tried to sit up by leaning against the bulkhead. He looked about fourteen. Lesley guessed child labor laws had not been enacted yet.
The kid could barely hold the mug and got more of the brew on him than in him, but he mumbled his thanks despite his misery.
As he drained the mug, she stood up and found Mr. Hooper glaring at her with his squinty eyes. “Come with me, boy. We need more hands.”
Lesley glowered right back at him. “The captain sent me here.”
“You’re going aloft.” The quartermaster made a move to grab her shirt, but she ducked and ran to the doctor’s side.
“I’m supposed to help you. Right?” she asked.
“They’ll be stretching new canvas, Lesley. You’ll do fine.”
“You told me I’ve a talent for healing the sick.”
“Indeed, you do.” The doctor sighed as he picked up another mug. “But orders are orders and we’ll be needing a new sail if we hope to get the sick to New Providence.” He gave her a weak smile but his eyes had the glint of tears in them. “It’s a weary road we’re on. Too much to do in this life and not enough hands to do it.”
“Get moving you sniveling excuse for a sailor.” Mr. Hooper growled.
She dashed for the stairway. If the quartermaster touched her his hands could land in the wrong spot and he would discover her deception.
Her heart pounded. How far aloft did she have to climb? She thought of that poor sailor hanging by his foot in the rigging. What if that happened to her?
Mr. Hooper must have failed in getting the prisoners to help out. Either that, or he had inadvertently killed them in an effort to coerce them to join the crew.
Her body shook far worse than that of the poor young boy with the fever when she glanced up at the mast she was ordered to climb. The rain fell lightly and left everything slippery.
She had no choice in the matter. Mr. Hooper stood over her and shouted. He used a number of very strange obscenities—none of which she had ever heard until now, but she got the message and climbed upward.
She wound up at the end of the yardarm, frozen in terror whenever she looked down.
“Like this, lad.” The sailor beside her, Aloysius Meeker, showed her what to do. It would not have been a difficult task if the ship did not sway and the rain did not make her fingers slide. Though she did not have long fingernails, working with the heavy canvas broke every nail down to the nub.
Still, the worst part of the entire procedure came from enduring the close proximity of Aloysius. He reeked of an odor reminiscent of broken sewers, decomposing flesh and mold. Whenever the wind blew in her direction, the stench had her stomach churning with nausea.
Aloysius had very few teeth in his mouth and he used the filthiest language she had ever heard. He grumbled about the first mate. In gruesome detail, he talked of how he intended to kill him. He intended to do away with the captain, too.
“He’s a high and mighty bastard, strutting on the deck, living a fine life—drinking wine while we is served putrid water. Join me, lad, and we’ll take over this ship. We’ll sail the seven seas, take what we need, and live like kings.”
She figured kings in 1711 probably didn’t have soap, lattes, central air or heat. However, more than likely they did have fine wine and other spirits to ease their distress. The potent liquor the captain had handed to her had been mighty soothing, but she far preferred the niceties of life in 2011 over living in an alcohol induced fog.
“Isn’t that mutiny?”
“And what of it?” Aloysius added a string of curses to his diatribe. “We know how to run this ship better ‘n they do. Why it’s us who does all the labor while they sits and eats fresh pork and washes it down with wine. What do we get? Water so putrid even the rats turn up their noses at it.”
“Didn’t the crew recently steal a whole bunch of rum and drink it until everyone became senseless?”
“Better to drink the rum than to puke on the water.”
Lesley admitted he had a good point there. She stared into his weather beaten face as the wind shifted direction away from her. She wondered if the venom in his heart had woven all the wrinkles on his face. “How old are you?”
“About thirty-five now. My mother said I was born around the time of Bacon’s Rebellion, in Jamestown.”
He looked more like fifty-five. She touched her face. Dry as a bone. Without her moisturizers and sunscreen her skin could become as creased and brown as that of Aloysius. He probably weighed far less than her. Maybe the putrid water had turned him into an evil, foul-mouthed gnome or maybe the man could use a slab of meat.
“What was Bacon’s Rebellion?” she asked.
“A terrible time. My mother said I came early with her being so worried.”
Lesley had never heard of Bacon’s Rebellion. Had it even been mentioned in school?
At last they completed the job and she returned to the deck. Her knees had the consistency of gummy worms and could barely support her.
“Ya did well, lad.” Aloysius nodded. “Think about what I said to ya, lad.”
“I want to go home,” she mumbled as she sank onto a coil of rope.
Aloysius laughed and went below, mentioning something about sleep and food on the way, but Lesley did not feel like moving. She thought of gnawing on more of that dreadful hardtack, but sleep sounded like a glorious option and she could sleep right where she sat. She thought of her fine percale sheets and delightfully soft mattress at home. She slid down to the deck, and leaned her head back on the rope coil. When she closed her eyes the sounds of the ship faded and she began to drift off. She smiled as she stepped into her condo and headed toward the bathroom. Turning on the hot water to fill the tub, she poured in a capful of her favorite lavender bubble bath. Scented steam filled the room and she slipped out of her filthy sailor’s uniform.
“There you are.” The voice of Christopher Moody startled her and her heavenly dream faded. “So young, so soft ....” He smoothed his sweaty
palm down her cheek. She edged away from him. “Come with me, I need you to help me with something.” His voice had a silky lilt to it, but it sent ice sliding down her spine. Every nerve in her body tensed as her own inner warning system went off.
“I am supposed to help the captain.”
“Do I hear insubordination?” Moody did not hide the threat in his eyes. “You know what we do to those who slack off in their duties.”
Fear warred with anger inside her, but anger won and she refused to kowtow to the horrid man. “If they perform their duties, they are liable to die. If they don’t perform their duties, they are flogged and then they die. It’s all the same. The members of this crew are obviously expendable.”
In the light of a lantern, his fleshy face turned a darker shade. “I see you are a shipboard philosopher. How interesting.”
Every muscle in her body ached but she had to get away from him. She stood up and though still shaky she gave her best imitation of a salute. “Goodnight, Mr. Moody.” She turned, but before she had gone a single step, Moody grabbed her arm and spun her around.
“You do what I tell you to do or you will suffer the consequences.”
She clenched her teeth and gave him her best imitation of disdain even while she looked around for a weapon. The belaying pins appeared to be the only arsenal near at hand for clobbering him. However, the rigging held in place by those same pins could be essential to holding up something important. If she pulled one out the possibility existed for the sails above to unravel and she did not want to be forced up into the rigging again.
She steadied her voice. “I take orders from the captain, not from you.”
He slapped her so hard she staggered sideways and would have fallen but the mast happened to be in the way and broke her fall. Stunned, she clung to it until her head cleared.
She had promised herself never to allow herself to be the object of some brute’s cruelty again. She lifted her chin in challenge though her heart quivered.
The memory of the drills in the self-defense course she had taken in her freshman year at college came to her aid. As Moody stood there with a malevolent grin of triumph on his face, she rallied her strength and kicked him in the balls.
He went down. She slammed the edge of her hand into his neck for good measure.
When she turned to escape, someone grabbed her from behind. Her heart plummeted. She could not fight off the whole crew.
She shoved her elbow into the ribs of her attacker. It was like hitting a rock. He gave a small grunt, picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She stopped fighting because she knew the smell of him and the feel of him. That special hum of electricity surged through her as she gazed at his wonderful tush.
Captain Sterford had her now.
Chapter Six
“You struck the first mate.” Harlan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He could not bear to view the damage Moody inflicted upon her. The left side of her face had swelled to nearly twice its normal size and her skin had turned a deep shade of violet. He wanted to pulverize Moody. Fury seethed inside him. “According to the articles—”
“He hit me first.”
“You disobeyed his orders.”
“He intended to sexually assault me.”
Harlan brought his hands down to his sides and drew them into fists. He knew of Moody’s insatiable appetite for women and boys. The punishment for buggery on the ship was death, though the sexual act would be rape in this case. Rage gnawed at his gut.
If anyone—including Moody--discovered Lesley’s deception, Harlan would be keelhauled, or marooned. Aside from forfeiting any chance he had of recovering his fortune, he could lose his life ignominiously. “What did he say to you?”
“He ran his hand along my cheek and said I was so young and so soft ....”
She put her head down on her arms on his desk and mumbled. “I hate him. He’s a real sleaze ball.”
The need to take her in his arms again consumed him. He forced himself to resist. Danger and discovery lay close at hand. Turning his back to her, he mulled over his options.
“Were there witnesses?” He knew the man at the helm would not have been able to see either Lesley or Moody.
“No. Everyone went below after we fixed the sail in place.”
Harlan struggled for control. Until now, he had gotten along well with Moody, but at the moment he wanted to cut off the man’s balls. Without witnesses, it would be Lesley’s testimony against Moody’s. Due to his rank, Moody’s words carried more weight.
The bulk of the small toy in his pocket reminded him that he could not trust Lesley. He knew nothing about her. What she had told him so far could be a pack of lies. Her fight with Moody could be part of some larger plan—one that involved Harlan’s own downfall.
He could not discipline or dismiss Moody without cause. To prove Lesley’s innocence, he needed witnesses. Moody’s accusations would force Harlan to discipline Lesley severely, but she could not be flogged for that would reveal her identity and prove his undoing.
He could not put her in the hold either, for the other prisoners would surely discover her sex.
When a knock came at the door, Harlan tensed. He drew out his dirk and edged closer to the cabin’s entrance. “Who is it?”
“Gilroy.”
Harlan slid the dirk back into its holder at the old man’s hushed reply. “Enter.”
Gilroy glided in noiselessly as if his feet never touched the floor. “I have brought a poultice.” The scents of vinegar and herbs filled the small cabin.
“Did you witness the fight?” Harlan asked.
“A very odd thing happened. It came to me in a dream. I had nodded off—”
“Where were you?”
“On orlop deck. I sat down for a moment to list the dead, but weariness overtook me ... and I dreamed of Lesley.”
Lesley lifted her head. One eye had swollen shut. Harlan’s fury burned white hot.
“Moody is a pervert.” Lesley told the old man.
“He is ruled by his passions.” Gilroy soothed as he turned her head to one side. “Ach. This will take time to heal.”
“Lesley refused his order.” Harlan paced in the cabin.
“An excellent decision,” said the doctor.
“Why would he want me in his cabin? He’s a creep.” Lesley’s voice wavered.
Harlan clamped his jaw together. He could not guarantee he would leave her untouched. He wanted her—in every way a man wants a woman. Even if she was a witch or a demon.
If she took him to hell with her what did it matter? As a pirate, he would certainly wind up there in any event.
Could he blame Moody for what he had done? No doubt, he had been tempted by her sorcery as well.
“If Moody accuses Lesley of assault, I have few options.” He hated seeing the fear in her eyes, but the ship had become egalitarian. “Every man has a vote in all events of the moment.”
“It would not serve him to admit that Lesley laid him low.” Gilroy spoke in a near whisper.
Harlan considered the old man’s advice. “Yes, perhaps I can persuade him to let this incident pass.”
“It’s a good thing I did not have a knife for I would have stabbed him with it.” Bitter wrath laced her tone.
Her voice affected him with an unusual intensity, tugging at him as if a thin thread had wound itself around his heart. Yet he knew any association between them would be perilous. He fought for mastery over his emotions and won because the truth persisted. He knew nothing about her. He would be a fool to trust her. She could plunge a knife into him if she had a chance.
There must be a connection between her and Elsbeth. At the end, Elsbeth hated him. She had sworn her revenge upon him and vowed to come back to make his life a misery.
Could Lesley be Elsbeth in disguise? Or was she a wraith--a vaporous spirit sent to taunt and tempt him?
As Gilroy placed a poultice on the side of Lesley’s face, a thunderous knock ca
me at the door.
“Hand over that wretched cabin boy!” Moody’s voice roared. Without waiting for a reply, the first mate shoved the door open and stepped into the cabin.
Harlan whipped out his pistols and aimed them at the angry intruder. “The boy stays here.”
“Insubordination must be cured by the lash.” Moody surged forward.
Harlan cocked the pistols. “I cannot miss at this distance. If you take one more step forward, you will be dead. I will tell the crew you took to buggery.”
Moody’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I can accuse you of the same.
“Not with two bullet holes in your head.” Harlan did not move a single muscle.
Moody shook with rage but he did not step forward. “Where did you pick up that mutinous urchin? You never mentioned how he came to be on board this ship.”
“Gilroy found the lad. Now get out of my cabin.”
“You bastard.” The first mate spat out, “You will pay for this.” He left the cabin, slamming the door on his way out.
Harlan stared at the door for a minute as the sweat beaded on his forehead. Could he ever trust Moody again?
Slowly, he lowered the pistols. Moving to the door, he latched it. His gaze slid to the looking glass hanging above the chest. Would a wraith appear in a mirror? He lifted it off the hook and held it in front of Lesley. Her image appeared, whole and complete.
“Dammit.” She moaned when she glanced at her swollen and distorted features. “Have you got a mask I could wear?”
Gilroy guessed Harlan’s intent and shook his head. “We do not know how Lesley came to be here, but she is not a ghost, cap’n. Her soul and body are one. She must have nourishment, warmth and air—the same as you or I.”
Harlan put the mirror back on the hook. “Tell us your history,” he demanded.
She cleared her throat and drew in a great deal of air. Her fingers drummed against the desk. “You won’t understand it.”
“That matters not.” Harlan barely comprehended most of what she said as it was.
“Okay, you asked for it. I came from the year 2011, but it’s not my fault that I’m here. I am not a witch. I don’t want to be here. I hate it here.” The quiver in her voice twisted something painful inside him.
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