Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  Unlike most girls, she’d frequently worn breeches throughout her childhood; as he’d heard it, her grandmother had advised her daughter—Isobel’s mother, Anne—to accept the fact that Isobel would always be a tomboy, that that was her nature, and as she was destined to inherit the shipyards, perhaps that was no bad thing, and if wearing breeches allowed her to safely scramble over the ships being built and learn what she would later need to know, it was a small and, indeed, sensible price to pay.

  Sensible because there were many places in a working shipyard where skirts would constitute a hazard. As Isobel spent considerable time in the yards, he wasn’t surprised to learn that she still occasionally wore breeches. He hadn’t, however, seen her in breeches for over eight years.

  After securing several knives about his person, he shut the trunk and turned to see her repinning her long hair into a tight bun on the top of her head. Standing as she was, with both arms raised and the long lines of her body displayed in short jacket, breeches, and riding boots, the impact of her appearance was every bit as bad as he’d feared.

  How in all the hells was he going to corral his thoughts into sufficient coherence to argue rationally with Decker while she was standing beside him looking like that?

  How was he going to react to Decker seeing her like that?

  Or his crew?

  With a final pat to her last pin, she lowered her arms and swung to face him. “Ready.” Her expression was plainly eager, but steely determination infused her eyes and informed the set of her lips.

  Faintly disgusted with his own susceptibility, he mentally gritted his teeth and waved her to the door. “Let’s get going. We need Decker to move before morning.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, the tender slid all but soundlessly into the deep pool of shadow beneath the prow of Decker’s flagship. They’d approached via various stealthy tacks, using the bulk of other ships to screen them, then timing their crossing of the last short stretch, when they’d been on open water and clearly visible, for the moment when Decker’s watchmen were as distant as possible.

  No challenge had yet come their way. All remained silent on the deck of the big ship.

  The plan was to board and reach Decker in his cabin without being seen and challenged by the watch—and preferably to leave equally secretly. The fewer to know of their visit, the better.

  As most naval commanders would when in their home port, Decker had only two men on watch, pacing slowly around the deck. Even from the tender, the pair were easy to track by their footfalls; given the usual clutter on the deck of any ship, let alone a navy vessel of this size, avoiding being seen by the watchmen wouldn’t be difficult.

  Reaching the deck was a different problem. They couldn’t risk the clatter of a grappling hook. That left the anchor chain. As usual with a ship of such tonnage, there were two anchors out, both chains attached at the bow. With the current in the harbor running as it was, both anchors had been set to starboard, the chains angling into deep water about ten feet apart, helpfully within the shadow cast by the prow.

  Royd glanced at Isobel, seated on the middle bench beside him. She’d studied the ship and the anchor chains and was listening to the watchmen pace. He leaned close and whispered, “You take the left chain. I’ll take the right. We climb when the watchmen reach middeck, pause when we get to the top and wait for the watchman to pass, then we go over.”

  She nodded, then glanced at him, met his eyes, and grinned—all reckless delight. Then she breathed, “Let’s go.” She rose fluidly and, without rocking the tender, stepped to the left chain.

  He mirrored the movement. Grasping the chain, he looked at her. They held each other’s gazes as they listened, waiting... “Now,” he mouthed.

  She swung onto the chain and started swiftly climbing, hand over hand, feet bracing on the chain.

  She was fast. Stifling a curse, Royd swung onto his chain and started to climb.

  Isobel had more difficulty suppressing the impulse to laugh with sheer exhilaration than she had with the climbing. She’d climbed ropes, chains, netting, and webbing all her life, and the chain’s links were large enough for her boots to slide in.

  A glance to her right showed that Royd wasn’t catching up to her; his larger boots didn’t fit into the links, and he was having to work to gain purchase on the chain.

  She reached the side of the deck first and swung on the chain to lean her shoulder and hip against the ship’s side; protected by the overhang of the deck, she wouldn’t be seen unless the watchman leaned right over the side. She was breathing faster than she had been, but was by no means out of breath.

  Several seconds later, Royd wedged himself into the same position on the other chain, less than a foot away.

  They waited, listening; the footsteps of the approaching watchman were clearly audible.

  The man paused in the bow, more or less directly over their heads, then walked on, pacing down the deck.

  They waited for two heartbeats, then Royd shifted—but she was quicker. She tipped back on the chain, got the sole of one boot onto the sill of the slot where the chains left the ship, then she pulled up, flung one arm over the upper rail, and hauled herself up so she was standing on the slot, her head well above the rail. One swift glance showed the watchman’s back steadily retreating. Courtesy of the bulkheads, masts, furled sails, hatches, capstans, winches, and other equipment that filled the center of the deck, the other watchman, pacing toward the bow along the port side, had no clear view of them.

  She tipped forward and flipped over the side, landing silently in a crouch.

  Half a second later, Royd joined her. She didn’t wait for him to take the lead but darted from the shadows of the raised side and melted into the deeper shadows cast by a bulkhead. From there, she flitted to the cover afforded by a sail locker. The differences between commercial and navy vessels weren’t sufficient to give her pause; she barely needed to think to know what structures lay ahead and which would afford them the best protection from the watchmen.

  With Royd on her heels, she reached one of the ship’s companionways; they slipped into the cave-like cowling shielding the entrance from rain and spray just as the bored watchman neared.

  They barely breathed as he plodded past, but as soon as he had, she slipped out and hurried on. They had to take cover again, this time crouching behind a winch casing, as the first watchman passed them again, then they reached the aft companionway.

  She’d opened the door by the time Royd joined her. They paused and listened, but no sound reached their ears. With a touch on her back, Royd urged her on. She went silently down the stairs. In the corridor, she turned to the door that led deeper into the ship. As she’d expected, there were two bolts, mounted high and low, so the door could be secured; she slid both into place, then swung around and followed Royd as, soft-footed, he led the way to the door of Decker’s cabin.

  On reaching the door, Royd put his ear to the panels.

  She squeezed in and did the same.

  No talk. No footsteps or hint of anyone moving. But there—the sound of paper being shuffled, followed by the scratch of a pen.

  Royd straightened and reached for the doorknob. He flicked her a hand signal: Me first.

  She had no argument with that; she stood back and watched him open the door and walk boldly in.

  Decker glanced up, a peevish frown on his face—then he saw who it was who had dared disturb his peace. His eyes widened, and his jaw slowly dropped; an expression equal parts horror and outrage infused his features.

  Battling a grin, she slipped into the room and quickly shut the door.

  In the next instant, Decker surged to his feet and all but bellowed, “What the devil’s the meaning of this?”

  Calmly, Royd replied, “Keep your voice down. I’ve been sent to discuss a certain laxity
on your watch.”

  Decker blinked. The vice-admiral wasn’t unintelligent; he caught the implication of “I’ve been sent” and probably guessed that there was some double meaning in the “laxity on your watch.” Regardless, Decker scowled. “What’s the meaning of this?” The words came out in a low growl.

  Royd reached into his jacket and drew out a folded sheet. He tossed it on the desk. “New orders from Melville. Read, then I’ll explain.”

  Decker eyed the folded sheet as if it were a serpent, then, reluctantly, reached to pick it up. As he unfolded the sheet, from under beetling brows, he glanced at Royd—and that was when he saw her, standing before the door.

  His first glance showed him what he expected to see—one of Royd’s crew. But although she wore breeches, she never pretended to be a man, and something in her stance, or perhaps her shape, made Decker look again.

  His eyes widened, and he straightened. If he’d been shocked to see Royd, he was stunned to see her.

  His mouth opened. “Ah...”

  “Please sit,” she said. “I prefer to stand.” When Decker simply stared, she nodded at the missive in his hand. “You need to read that.”

  Her tone earned her a suspicious look from Royd.

  Decker blinked, then he tore his gaze from her, refocused on the orders—and then he slumped into his chair.

  His face grew pale. He read the orders twice.

  Neither she nor Royd showed any sign of impatience while he did.

  When Decker finally looked at Royd, his face had set in belligerent lines. “This is preposterous!”

  Royd merely arched his brows. “You saw the signature.”

  “Pshaw!” Decker’s lip curled, and he flung the offending order on the desk. “Melville wouldn’t know the first thing about commanding at sea.”

  His calmness unimpaired, Royd tilted his head. “That might well be true. However, in this instance, although it falls within your bailiwick, the problem doesn’t lie at sea but here.” With a wave, Royd indicated Freetown and the harbor. “In the settlement and beyond.” He caught and held Decker’s gaze. “If you knew what’s been happening, you wouldn’t be surprised to see me here or to receive those orders.”

  That Decker did not have the first clue about any problem in the settlement could not have been plainer. He humphed and fidgeted, then, with a frustrated gesture, waved Royd to one of the chairs before the desk. “For God’s sake, sit down—and tell me what the devil this is about.”

  Royd reached for a chair. He looked at her and arched a brow—there was a second chair—but she shook her head. She was too tense to sit. As she watched him draw back the chair and, with nonchalant ease, settle, she had to wonder how he did it. How he concealed—or was it controlled?—his emotions so well during such an engagement. This was a side of him—the secret side—she’d never before seen; she shifted so she could watch his face as well as Decker’s.

  With an economy of words and, indeed, facts, Royd told Decker what he needed to know to comprehend the enormity of what had been occurring in the settlement—as Royd had phrased it, under Decker’s watch. At least in part.

  To give him his due, Decker didn’t flinch from accepting responsibility, or at least his portion of it. He asked several pertinent questions, which Royd answered candidly.

  Avidly, she watched the exchange. In some respects, it might be seen as the old meeting the new, but she thought it more correctly cast as the reckless but effective meeting the hidebound conservative. Decker was certainly the latter.

  He was specifically charged with holding the line against slavery of all kinds, but most especially slavery involving His Majesty’s citizens; although his remit primarily concerned the shipping lanes, that such a crime had been committed in his home port, literally under his nose, would be a blot on his record he wouldn’t easily expunge.

  Doubtless, Decker saw all that. Regardless, when Royd reached the end of his explanation, which stopped well short of revealing their plans, Decker’s jaw set pugnaciously. With his hands clasped on his desk, Decker viewed Royd through hard blue eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me how to handle this.” The words were uttered with rigidly entrenched resistance. Decker pushed to his feet, one hand rising to the cord of a bell mounted on the wall. “I’ll contact Holbrook. He and I will have this matter contained—”

  “You will do no such thing.”

  The power in Royd’s voice reverberated through the cabin; Isobel had never heard such a tone from him. The intensity in the words—the unvoiced promise—gave even Decker pause. He froze with his hand several inches short of the cord.

  Royd held Decker’s gaze mercilessly. His voice flat, his tone invincible, he said, “Make no mistake. If you attempt to act in any way that might endanger my mission, I will be forced to assume command of this vessel, and I will clap you in irons in your own brig.”

  As ruthless threats went—threats the one threatening had the power to carry out—that, Isobel felt, took the cake. If Decker forced Royd’s hand, and he did as he’d said, Decker’s career would be over. Ignominiously over, at that.

  A full minute ticked past as the men—one past his prime, the other very much in his—stared at each other. She could almost see their wills clashing—Royd’s fueled by his commitment to the mission, Decker’s by his clearly deep-seated resentment at being placed under Royd’s command. Royd, who she’d heard referred to as the lord of the privateers. No real wonder Decker was finding his new orders hard to swallow. That said, although she knew who would ultimately win, they didn’t have all night.

  She folded her arms, shifted her stance, and focused on Decker. “For God’s sake, Ralph! Do you want my grandmother to write to you? And to your wife and Admiral Harte?”

  Startled, Decker looked at her.

  She walked forward, holding his gaze; it wouldn’t help for Decker to notice Royd’s surprise. “Do you?” She halted. “Because although you might have missed the reference, there’s a Carmody involved here, and no, I do not mean me. My cousin Katherine Fortescue is in that mining compound.” She pointed to the east. “She was kidnapped off the streets of the settlement—on her way to the post office, no less!—months ago. And she’s been held against her will by the villains behind the scheme and forced to work in the mine ever since!”

  No one had ever accused her of failing to extract the maximum drama from situations such as this. Her delivery had Decker reeling. She narrowed her eyes on his and reached for her ultimatum. “If you don’t think Iona can make that your fault, you’ve obviously been out of her immediate orbit for too long. Trust me, if I do not report back that you did everything—absolutely everything within your power without any contemptible protecting of your own dignity—to aid the rescue of my cousin, Grandmama will hang you out on a very long yardarm.” She held Decker’s now-horrified gaze for a final fraught second, then more quietly said, “You know Iona. You know she will.” She tipped her head at Royd. “Perhaps you’d better do as he says.”

  Royd fought to quash the impulse to applaud and worked at keeping his expression neutral.

  When, shell-shocked after Isobel’s broadside and paler than ever, Decker finally glanced his way, he met the man’s gaze with a nonthreatening expression. The notion of Decker viewing him as the lesser of two evils made it exceedingly hard not to grin.

  Decker swallowed, then, slowly, he lowered his hand and resumed his seat. He looked down at the order from the First Lord, then raised his gaze to Royd’s face. “Very well. What...” He drew in a tight breath and managed a more conciliatory, “What do you want me to do?”

  Royd told him. He stressed the timing and the need to ensure the action was passed off as a routine exercise. “We can’t afford anyone in the settlement guessing there’s a rescue afoot. That means you’ll need to keep this from your officers. Give them the information they need, but n
o more.”

  Decker nodded. He glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. “I’ll send out the orders immediately.” He paused, then said, “I’ll say we’ve grown complacent and need to practice those maneuvers we don’t regularly use but might, at some point, be required to execute.” He met Royd’s gaze. “Some of my captains will think I’ve grown senile, but”—he shrugged his heavy shoulders—“they’ll do as they’re told.”

  “That’s all we need.” Royd pushed out of the chair, glancing at Isobel as he did. She nodded and moved to the door.

  Decker came to his feet. He tugged his waistcoat into place. “Is there any...ah, assistance I can offer? I take it you intend to depart as...clandestinely as you arrived?”

  Royd hesitated, but the man was offering—which, in his experience, was a first. “For all concerned, the fewer to learn of this visit, the better. If you could accompany us on deck and, once we’re under cover, engage your watchmen and keep them at this end of the ship for two minutes, we’ll be over the side and gone.”

  Decker nodded. He waved them to precede him.

  Royd led the way, Isobel behind him, with Decker in the rear. As they reached the stairs, Isobel pointed to the corridor door. “Don’t forget to unbolt that later.”

  Decker humphed.

  But he followed them onto his deck and did as Royd had asked.

  In the bow, Royd reached for Isobel to help her over the side and onto her chain. He grasped the second when their heads were close to whisper, “Ralph?”

  She shot him a narrow-eyed glare.

  When they were both on the chains and, much more slowly than they’d come up, making their way down, she murmured, “It helps to remember first names—sometimes they’re useful, especially to order people about.”

  The glance she threw him confirmed she wasn’t talking about only Decker.

  Immediately, he quipped, “And sometimes, they’re not.” Like most people in his life, she’d never used his full first name, to order him about or anything else.