Righteous Side of the Wicked: Pirates of Britannia

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “We sail for Fairlie. The girl is convinced a slaughter awaits rebels in Oban should they follow through with an uprising. We dispatch Redd on shore to secure a courier to relay word by way of Glasgow. And we send Jonesy into Taylough to find Angus.”

  “Oban isna our concern. We’re not collectin’ payment for sending word to Oban.”

  “Nay, but we winna get any future commissions to get us through the season should we be delayed in our return home if the rebels are squashed now, either.”

  “Ye believe what this woman is saying? That the English are there?” His skepticism in Coire’s decisions threaded in his tone. “We’re to get the cargo to the rebels in haste lest we lose our commission.”

  “They winna get their arms at all if we’re intercepted by the English or we’re blown to the hereafter. We take what precautions are necessary.” He shoved his empty bowl aside and stood to gather bread and cheese for Treva. “Get us under way by the morning watch. The storm will have passed and we will still have the advantage of the dark hours.”

  Jonesy stopped short at the galley threshold upon seeing Coire. His gaze hit the floor and he left without a word. Coire shook his head and put the food in a cloth. The lad had designs for Treva. He didna know what the jack thought he’d accomplish by catching her eye. Was he looking to retire from the sea and settle down with a wife? That’d be good and well, would surely extend his lifespan. But with a woman like Treva? Perhaps, if the right one were to come along. Treva wasna the right one. Not for Jonesy, anyhow.

  Coire wasna prepared for what awaited him back in his cabin. She lay sound asleep upon her belly, blunt locks of her mahogany hair falling across her serene face. His sheet covered most of her bare body from the waist down except for one delicate foot. He was as enthralled with her tiny ankle as he was with the rounded mound of her breast pressed against the mattress. He craved to touch every inch of her, hardened at the very idea of it.

  He quietly set the food down and settled into a chair with a flask of Caribbean arrack. The Scottish whiskey simply wouldna do now. He twisted the cork out and drank deep. If he wasna careful, he would have to get his head on straight, too.

  She snored softly, a small bit of drool dampened his pillow. So deep in slumber, he was willing to wager she’d wake from the best rest she’d had in a long time. He could crow with pride for being the cause of her peace. But a niggling in the back of his mind had him fearful of what that meant.

  He pulled a hearty swallow from the bottle. Tonight, he’d drown out that damned niggling voice.

  ’Twas just as well the crew kept a wide berth of Coire. The arrack had done its job too well and he was suffering for it even late this morn. Stabbing behind his eyes intensified as he looked to the bright clouds draped high in the sky. Though the sun tried to poke through the overcast, more rain was inevitable, curdling his mood further. He was tired of the damned dreary weather.

  He probably woulnda be so snappish if it hadn’t been for the English frigate that had been following them for the last glass. The strait from which they followed them through had been narrow, but since widening and giving way to the sound, the ship continued to tail them. In fact, they were gaining on Kelpie.

  Mr. Shaw sidled cautiously up to him. He was the only tar with the ballocks enough to do so when Coire was in a temper. “Cripes, lad, ya smell like ya bathed in arrack. Didya save any for me, ya greedy bastard?”

  He glanced at the first mate who wore a lopsided grin. “Not tired of whiskey, are ya?”

  “Eh. Like to cleanse me palate with variety, m’ boy.” He shrugged. “But I’m long past the navy dogs plaguing us.” He tipped his scraggly chin to the vessel closing in on their wake. “She’s the same Andrew cornering us up at the Corryvreckan.”

  Which confirmed what he’d known all along. “Order the men to prepare for boarding. Keep weapons out of sight but at the ready.”

  “Not rollin’ the bones on our luck this time, eh, Capt’n?”

  Luck for a pirate was fleeting. “We’re due for a hot fight.”

  “Lads are itching for one. ’Tis been an age.”

  Lord knew he was, too. Coire had more pent up aggressions than he cared to admit—Graer holding out on him, Dread’s threats, too many months away from his Caribbean home, the Royal Navy beleaguering him like pesky flies, and her. “Keep ’em at bay. We’ve a mission to complete.”

  “Aye, Capt’n.” Mr. Shaw strode off to deliver the directives.

  Coire searched the ship for Jonesy. The fellow couldna hide from him forever and he finally found him, trying and failing to avoid eye-contact with him. Coire snarled. He was going to have to have a word with him. Something he didna want to do. Nor have the time.

  Within a half-glass, the Royal Navy had secured Courser together with Kelpie and armed soldiers were crowding Coire’s ship like vermin.

  Coire was familiar enough with the naval captain, having avoided conflict with him and his soldiers in an altercation in months back.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Rush.” He’d shake the man’s hand had he’d meant the greeting. Instead, he rested his hand upon his sword’s hilt hanging from his hip.

  “You were Captain Bane’s man,” Rush acknowledged. He studied the crew, the ship, as any wise captain trespassing on an enemy ship should. “You’ve taken over for him, I see.”

  “He’s handling his affairs in Skye. And there’s been no more trouble.”

  “Yet, just last night, a mutual acquaintance forced you into the Corryvreckan whirlpool. I’d consider that troublesome.”

  “Not troublesome when ye consider Captain Dread is a pox to all.”

  “True. Seems to me the devil favored you over Dread. I’d be remiss if I didn’t investigate further. Especially since contraband is being shipped to traitors under the nose of the crown.”

  Coire spread his arms wide. “No traitors here. We claim no country, being men of the sea.”

  “Nevertheless, your ship will be searched.”

  “Ye will be disappointed in yer findings.”

  Captain Rush gestured for his men to fan out. “For your sake, you better hope so.”

  Coire’s crew, seasoned as they were, ignored the slanderous remarks of the soldiers shouldering past. On the surface, the jacks seemed compliant, yielding to a superior power. They were anything but. One sign from Coire and blood would flow swift and thick.

  Treva burst through the hatch at a fleet-footed speed and came nose to nose with the naval captain, startling everyone. The lass couldna have stayed in his cabin? Blast it! Coire reached for his cutlass. How readily he was to defend her. He cursed to himself for his impulsive reaction.

  “Oh my!” She bowed in deference and kept her head down. “Pardon me, captain.”

  “Who’s this?” Rush frowned dubiously.

  “A passenger,” Coire rushed to answer. “Needing travel to family of failing health.” Not entirely untrue if Treva was to be believed and her cousin was in danger.

  “You accommodate passengers now?”

  “I do nothing that doesna come with compensation.” ’Twas hard to imagine a pirate lived by so many verities. And here he was with another honest answer. He will get remuneration for all he has done for Treva. Money, possessions, the next commission, relations with the right people, or a debt to be paid—something would come of this.

  Rush narrowed his gaze. “Lieutenant Geary.”

  A lieutenant in an equally crisp uniform stepped forward. “Sir.”

  “That escaped woman from Man, you’ve seen her before.”

  “Once, sir.”

  Coire’s blood thrummed. This was fast spiraling out of control.

  “Is this woman her?”

  Coire tightened his grip upon his hilt as Geary’s scrutinized Treva, his gaze slithered over her. She stood stock still, frowning as if she didna understand what the fuss was about.

  “Nay, sir. It is not.” Geary spun away to return to his commander at the forefront.

&nb
sp; Satisfied, Captain Rush moved on. “What’s in your hold, captain?”

  “Rum. Bound for Greenock.” ’Twas the pretense he used with Captain Pullings and relied on regularly. They had rum and all of Europe traded for it.

  “Rum.” Rush repeated the word as if the likelihood was nonexistent. “This is not Liverpool.”

  “If I may, sir.” Treva took a step forward. Coire could throttle her for not keeping her tongue. “Is it not true that the burgh outside of Glasgow is growing due in part to Caribbean imports? Able to trade salted herring, iron, and cloth?”

  Rush tilted his head at the lass’s forward interruption. “And you know about this how, Miss…”

  “Douglas.”

  Douglas? A convenient name loyal to the British she probably used often. It hadn’t slipped notice that she hid her accent.

  “My family has been in the shipping trade for centuries. Cattle, mostly.”

  Coire suppressed a derisive grunt at that. The MacDougalls were certainly into trade—trading coins for weapons. And clearly this MacDougall couldna keep out of his precarious business.

  “That is quite enough Miss Douglas.”

  With his dismissal, she bowed. “Of course, Captain Fletcher.”

  Coire was suspicious of her easy smile, but the naval captain insisting to inspect the cargo took precedence.

  “Lieutenant Geary, take charge.” Rush extended his arm. “Your hold, Captain Fletcher.”

  One of his men handed him a lit lantern and Coire, Redd, and two others from his crew led Rush and three of his men below deck. They crowded into the dank hold where the stale air stank of wet, slimy wood, the hull groaning from riding the sea’s swells. His lantern illuminated the belly full of hogshead barrels.

  Captain Rush gestured a soldier forward. The soldier used a crow to pry open a barrel’s lid and without warning dumped the contents over. Rum splashed upon Coire’s trouser legs. The amber liquid spread across the planks with his anger as the scent of molasses soaked the air.

  “I will appeal to ye, captain, to be more reasonable.” He admirably kept his ire from seething through, though his underlying threat was unmistakable. “That was three hundred thirty pounds of my profit ye just wasted.”

  Rush gestured for his man to pop open another barrel. “It is my duty to make sure your cargo is legitimate, Fletcher. Under His Majesty, I’ll do what is necessary.”

  Coire expected as much. The soldier checked under the lids of several more hogsheads with the same result. Rum. His hand resting comfortably upon his sword gripped the hilt as the soldier and another with a lantern moved further to the back to where the real cargo was stored. The fellow picked a random barrel. He had a difficult time breaking open the top but when he did he frowned, leaning down to see inside better.

  Shite. Had the bastard discovered the false bottom? If he found the gunpowder, Rush would unseal every barrel finding all the ammunition and the weapons stored farther into the hold. Hell would break loose.

  “If yer man takes a drink of my cargo, I’ll have to charge him.”

  “Send your bill to the king,” Rush said dryly.

  Coire slid his gaze to Redd and gave an unspoken command. Redd eased his hand to a dagger in his belt. His other two men also got ready to quietly dispatch the British. No gunfire. No noise. Would keep them from blowing up and give them the advantage to overtake the rest topside. ’Twasn’t what he wanted, but he’d do what was necessary to stay alive and finish the commission. And protect the female passenger that had firmly wedged herself as a part of this mission.

  The soldier waved for the lantern to be shined inside the keg. Coire stretched his fingers upon his hilt one by one in anticipation.

  “Careful, mate. It’ll catch ye on fire.”

  Both men straightened away from the liquor.

  “What did you find, Fields?”

  “More rum, sir.”

  “Mm.” The naval captain exhaled nosily, flattening his lips. No fantastic discovery this day.

  “Disappointed? I warned ya, Captain Rush.”

  The irascible man faced him. “Your arrogance will catch up to you, Fletcher.”

  “And when it does, it winna be at the hands of the British.”

  Rush grunted and pushed past. “Just so long as you are not my problem.”

  Chapter Seven

  Topside, Coire, two steps behind Captain Rush, scanned the decks for Treva. He told himself it was because this was the first time she roamed the ship without an escort. ’Twas a valid concern. He expected Jonesy to be hovering about her. Instead, found her with Lieutenant Geary, engaged in pleasant conversation.

  “Lieutenant,” Rush addressed. “We will be confiscating Captain Fletcher’s cargo.”

  “The hell ye will.” Coire withdrew his cutlass. Soldiers leveled their muskets upon him, the fools. Redd and the other two pirates that had been below deck also readied their blades. But Coire held out his arm to stay the rest of his men from arming themselves. Not yet. “That is my haul, captain. I strongly advise ye to reconsider. We will fight for our livelihood.”

  “A fatal mistake, boy.”

  “Perhaps.” Coire took a step to wipe that superior smirk off the arsehole’s face. Soldiers nearest to him took aim.

  “Captain Rush, sir.” Treva stepped between them, her skirts swishing. Coire’s agitation warred with the need to shield her. “Pardon me once again. I am aware my opinion matters naught, but I wonder to the validity of your decision. Surely you do not want any man wounded or lost over the devil’s drink. Would your superiors agree with the justification?”

  She turned to Coire. Blast it, he wanted to shake sense into her. “And as a gesture of generosity, perhaps you can give Captain Rush and his men a few barrels?”

  Rush’s chin lifted, his jaw tightening. “You have an impertinent mouth, Miss Douglas.”

  “Nay, captain. I just have an urgent desire to reach my family in time.”

  The naval captain considered Treva for a long, uncomfortable moment. Uncomfortable in that she stood too close while guns were trained on him. He plotted out how he’d have to push her aside and plunge his sword into the soldier to his left first.

  “Your negotiation skills lack, but I do find the compromise agreeable.” Rush nodded to Coire. “What of you, Captain Fletcher?”

  “Verra well. Three hogsheads, not a drop more.”

  The smile growing across Rush’s imperialistic mug meant he’d take more if he wanted. Coire was in the mood for a fight. Perhaps Rush sensed it. But the accord was made.

  After the barrels were transferred to Courser, Captain Rush ordered his men to disembark.

  “I bid you farewell and a fair breeze from here, Captain Fletcher. It is my humblest hope we do not cross paths again.”

  The feeling was mutual. As much as he didna like the man, he respected him. “Luck be with ye, Captain Rush.”

  Courser sheared off on a northeast course. As soon as they were at a safe distance, Coire snatched Treva’s arm and spun her for her full attention. “What the devil, woman. Ye could have gotten yourself killed. Dinna ever play war games.” Her mouth popped open to object. “Nay.” He silenced her with his finger pointed in her face. “Dinna ever play war games with me and my men,” he hissed.

  She yanked from his grip. “Ye’d be dead if it weren’t for me.”

  Oh, the cat-claw couldna hold her tongue. “And how long do ye think you would have survived,” he spat back. “My cabin. Now.”

  Treva gathered her skirts and marched away. Coire fixated on her retreating backside. He hankered to swat it with as much might as ’twould take to rein in her defiance. He cracked his neck to relieve the tension and handed out directives to seal up the open barrels and clean the spilt rum.

  As he checked on their coordinates, Jonesy finally made an appearance, joining him at the bow.

  “She’s trouble, capt’n. Through and through.”

  This he knew. “Ye dinna feel that way before. Ye come
up with that after barging into my cabin?”

  Jonesy flushed, though it could very well have been from anger as from chagrin. “You don’t have enough respect for her to have her ridin’ ya St. George?”

  “I allowed her to seduce me, Jones. Hear me and heed my words, my business with her is no concern of yours.” Coire scanned the horizon with his spyglass. Ailsa Craig should be in sight soon. Then they would set a northeasterly course to Fairlie.

  “You’ve greater reason to not trust her.”

  He was the last person in the world that needed reminding to never trust a female. Any female. “And so ye felt it yer duty to warn me. Or do ye have some other design with the lady in mind?”

  Jonesy curled his fingers into fists. Coire almost wished the poor lad would strike him. ’Twould give him an excuse to pummel him. Release some building agitation. But he was being an arse. He couldna blame him for pining after Treva. She was a hell of a woman—a vivacious, shrewd, peculiar doxy.

  He’d call a truce. “What has ye singing a different tune over the lass? Ye’ve been quite taken by her.”

  “I heard her talking to that Lieutenant Geary. Told ’im to direct full attention to Taylough. That the plan to capture the Hanoverian family was not a rumor and would happen within days.”

  Coire snapped closed the telescope. Shite! Why would she do that? His gut roiled with the sour upheaval of betrayal. Why was he surprised? Same story, different girl. “Casts a foul light upon her, all told.”

  “She also said there was trouble in Glasgow. Don’t it seem odd this lady we pluck from the water coincidentally has all this information on the same rebels we are running arms for?” Jonesy looked over his shoulder. So, his quartermaster didna want the others to know lest they call for her treasonous head. He was still looking out for her even after he caught her duplicity. Did that make him a better man than Coire? Nay. He’d spit on that notion.

  “What should we do about it?” Jonesy said.

  “Nothing.”

  Jonesy’s head snapped back. “What?”

  “Our objective stays the same. Ye sneak into Taylough to find Angus. If he’s there, we offload the contraband and get our reward. We can warn him that the British may be onto them, but their plot is no concern of ours. Redd gets word to Glasgow.”