Bristol flung herself onto her side, pressing her face against the rough pillow. Her fingers reached to touch her pewter cup, and she tried to imagine how the fields in Salem Village must look now, with the snow melted and spring in the air. But she couldn’t concentrate. Jean Pierre’s image teased her mind, and she remembered his lean, hard body pressing against her breasts and hips. Abruptly she pounded the pillow with a fist.
She loathed him, so why did his face appear to haunt her night after night? This wasn’t the first time she’d tossed awake thinking about the handsome captain. An embarrassed flow of warmth rose along her body, and suddenly she discovered herself remembering Caleb and the settler’s cabin. A confused tumble of feelings whirled through Bristol’s head. She didn’t know how she felt about Caleb. Enough time had passed that she realized how unreasonable she’d been, demanding that he give up his inheritance. Still, the ugly words had been spoken, and she didn’t know how deep a rupture she’d caused. Or whether she still cared for him, or how much.
As usual, Bristol drifted to sleep thinking about Caleb Wainwright. But a different man dominated her dreams. He stroked her quivering dream flesh, his searching mouth bent to her parted lips... but the face was not Caleb’s. The man warming Bristol’s sleep stared into her face with gray eyes... and a scar streaked his jaw.
She awoke with an irritated sense of vague longing and frustration, producing an annoyance that lasted until Mr. Aykroyd unlatched the door. He offered the women their morning beer and slabs of bread and cheese. Then he placed his hands on his hips and looked at Bristol with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Bristol’s mouth flew open, and she cried out in happiness, “You did it!” Had the trunks not obstructed her path, she’d have flung her arms around his neck no matter what Jane thought. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
Jane lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “For what, if I may ask?” Her tone was stiff. Mr. Aykroyd’s appearance ruffled Jane’s nerves. She’d confided to Bristol that she fully expected Mr. Aykroyd to knife them in their cots before the voyage ended.
“We can go up on deck!” Bristol almost shouted, her excitement pinking her cheeks. “We haven’t seen sunshine in over a week!” Immediately she began stuffing handfuls of red curls beneath her dust cap. She loosened her apron sash, pleased at the sudden eagerness lighting Jane’s face.
Mr. Aykroyd lifted a hand. “Now, slow down, little gel. They’s conditions.” Bristol froze. “Ye aren’t to speak to any of the men. Ye are to stay put on yer stools and not walk about. Ye are not under any circumstances to interrupt the captain unless he addresses ye first. Understood?”
“Aye,” they chorused.
His face cracked into a smile. “Then what be the delay? I haven’t got all day.”
Gratefully they followed Mr. Aykroyd through the passageway and up the stairs, Mr. Speck hovering behind, his sword in hand. On deck, a brilliant sky opened overhead, and the water sparkled as if strewn with diamonds. Bristol sucked in her breath and stared, only gradually becoming aware of an unnatural silence.
She heard the creaks and groans of the ship and the whisper of sail puffing beneath the yards. Animal sounds drifted from the hatches and on-deck pens. Below, a cook roundly cursed an assistant. But not a single man’s voice sounded above deck.
Uneasily Bristol glanced to the side. Two men leaned against the foremast, their hard narrow eyes devouring her body as a brisk breeze toyed with her cloak. Bristol snatched the cloak ends and jerked them close. Everywhere her eyes darted, she met hungry stares. It seemed that every man on the ship stood frozen on deck or leered down from above. Beside her, Jane nervously cleared her throat and inched closer to Bristol.
One of the men moved, stepping back when Mr. Speck growled and shifted his sword to a more visible position. Mr. Aykroyd’s face tightened into an ugly scowl, and his fingers knotted around the hilt protruding above his breeches. The small group moved toward the elevated quarterdeck, and their shoes striking the planking seemed the only human sound on deck.
A harsh voice roared, “Back to work, you whore-sons! Do you beg for the lash? Have you never seen women before? Scum!” The captain waited at the top of the quarterdeck stairs, his face dark as thunder. He looked into Bristol’s eyes with a tight expression, letting her see he understood she had instigated this foolishness and he did not fully approve.
“Captain!” Goodwife Able gushed into an awkward silence. “What a generous gesture. I do appreciate it!” She lifted her hand expectantly.
If Jean Pierre La Crosse felt an additional annoyance at this intrusion into his anger, he did not show it. Instead he swept off his cap and bowed, touching his lips to Jane Able’s hand. Jane’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. Watching, Bristol hid a smile. Surely no other man had kissed Jane’s hand. Mr. Aykroyd was right—Captain La Crosse could indeed be charming when he set his mind to the task.
However, he did not reach for Bristol’s hand. Releasing Jane’s fingers, he waved both women toward a curtained area behind which waited two stools. The curtain was arranged to afford a magnificent view of waves and sky while concealing the women from the balance of the ship. Jane settled herself and fussed with the folds of her skirt. Bristol’s smile widened. To her knowledge, this marked the first incident of vanity Jane had displayed.
Eyes twinkling with droll merriment, Bristol’s glance slid toward the captain. For an instant their gaze held, and Bristol recognized an answering flicker in the captain’s gray eyes. So, he was not immune to Jane’s apparent infatuation. Not that Jane recognized it as such, Bristol thought with a smile.
Holding her lips steady and fighting a bubble of mirth, Bristol lowered her eyes, fearing if she looked at Jean Pierre any longer, she would burst into teasing laughter. The sunshine, the snap of sail above the sparkling water—all combined in a soaring lift of spirits. She felt almost drunk; nothing could spoil this glorious day.
Happily Bristol took her stool and folded her hands demurely in her lap, resisting an urge to arrange her own skirt. She dared an impish glance at La Crosse, who leaned against the rail watching her. He grinned as if he’d read her mind.
Surprising herself, Bristol returned the smile of secret communication. With a slight flush she realized this was the first time she’d smiled at him. The color in her cheeks deepened. What had he said the day they met? “If you are this lovely when you’re angry... what a beauty you must be with a smile on those lips!” She wondered if he too recalled those words.
Annoyed with herself, she tried to drop her eyes, but his gray stare held her. And as Bristol looked into those smoky depths, her heart quickened, her mouth parted. His eyes were like gray mist, drawing her toward a moist center.
The smile faded slowly from her lips. How long they might have stared at one another, she couldn’t guess. A voice drifted from overhead, and the moment was broken. La Crosse peered toward the upper reaches of the mainmast, shading his eyes.
“Sail to starboard! Sail to starboard!” The lookout’s shout floated from a canvas-shrouded perch high above.
Jane touched Bristol’s arm, her thin lips rounded with curiosity. She’d observed the look between Bristol and Captain La Crosse. “I think...” But Bristol shook her head, not wanting a lecture and unable to explain what she did not understand herself. She nodded toward the rail and the activity there, directing Jane’s attention from herself.
La Crosse tensed against the railing, extending a hand for the spyglass Mr. Aykroyd slapped into his palm. Pulling the glass full length, he fitted it to his eye and scanned the watery horizon in a slow sweep. The glass fixed. After a moment, La Crosse handed the glass to Mr. Aykroyd, his own eyes remaining on the horizon.
Bristol held her breath, her emerald eyes widening. Don’t let it be pirates, she prayed silently, knowing Jane’s thoughts matched her own. Both women strained forward, waiting anxiously.
“Do you make her?” La Crosse’s rich voice asked quietly.
Mr. Aykroyd lowered the glass. “Aye,
sir.” He returned the spyglass to La Crosse.
“The Cadiz,” La Crosse said. He lifted the glass and stared at a distant white patch. His jaw worked, the scar moving rhythmically. A twitch rippled down his thigh.
“Aye,” Mr. Aykroyd affirmed.
La Crosse telescoped the glass into his palm, and both men stared silently across the waves. A heavy stillness descended upon the ship; even the animals seemed muted. Every pair of eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Nervously Bristol felt a thickening tension, growing even as the white square grew. “Are we on schedule, Mr. Aykroyd?” La Crosse’s voice cut crisply through the quiet, thoroughly professional, thoroughly businesslike.
“Aye.”
“The wind?”
“In our favor. Six knots out of the west, sir, with a light sea running.”
La Crosse nodded, smacking the glass softly into his palm. Once, twice, then a pause. Once, twice, then a pause. And again. “We can outrun her,” he said, as if speaking to himself.
Mr. Aykroyd agreed, his face expressionless. “That we can, sir.”
Nothing on deck moved; not a man spoke. The only sound was a screak of rope and the flutter of overhead canvas. Bristol’s eyes ached from staring, and she leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe. She’d overheard enough to understand the Cadiz must be a pirate ship. What she couldn’t grasp was La Crosse’s hesitation. If the Challenger could outrun the pirates, why didn’t every hand leap to do so?
Jean Pierre La Cross stood at the rail like a stone statue. He might have been alone, unaware of the nearly tangible tension mounting across the ship. He stood wide-legged, lost in private thought. His stony eyes focused on the square of approaching sail, and those eyes looked into memory.
Beside Bristol, Jane lifted a shaking hand to her throat and shifted on her stool. Mr. Aykroyd turned from the sea to the captain, his-blue eyes patient. The entire ship quivered with expectation. Everyone held his breath and waited.
The pressure built to fill hearts and lungs to bursting. Bristol’s nails cut into her palms. Every eye focused on La Crosse’s hand, slowly rising to trace the ridge of scar disappearing into his collar.
“Sanchez,” he murmured. Listening, Bristol heard something in his whisper of a caress, almost the eagerness of a denied lover.
Abruptly La Crosse turned and strode to the stairs of the quarterdeck. Slate-colored eyes stared over the silent decks, gauging the multitude of waiting faces. Then he lifted both arms and shouted, “We engage!”
Instantly the tension split in a deafening cheer bursting from every throat. The deck exploded into activity. The planks came alive beneath running feet, and the air vibrated with a hiss of rope and shouting, swearing voices.
Jane Able slid to the deck in a silent faint. Bristol blinked at Jane’s crumpled form, the sight not registering.
La Crosse had chosen to fight the pirates! He chose to risk all their lives, and every man on board cheered him. It was unthinkable. And terrifying.
7
“Reef and furl!” La Crosse stated evenly, and Mr. Aykroyd cupped his hands to his mouth, shouting the orders. But the men anticipated the command; already they swarmed the shrouds, climbing aloft. High above, they threw themselves across the yards, hauling at the sail.
By waiting, the Challenger gained a vital advantage: she had time to stow canvas, whereas the Cadiz needed her sail to catch them. The Cadiz would present a far greater target exposure.
“Store spare rigging in the scuppers, batten the hatches, sand the decks,” Mr. Aykroyd echoed La Crosse’s steady commands. “Arm the guns!”
Shouted orders followed hard one on the other; Mr. Aykroyd’s voice boomed above the melee of sound and frantic activity.
Skilled forms swung from the yards, heavy muscles straining and bulging; slowly the sails disappeared. Animal cages and pens vanished into hatches, loose objects were lashed into place. Movable bulkheads came down, mauls and short plugs for leak repair appeared. Men scattered tubs of water over the decks and laid out boarding grapnel both fore and aft. From the gun room came ammunition, and someone passed muskets to all the men.
Distracted, Bristol helped Jane to her feet, and both women watched with white faces. In the excited burst of preparation, they seemed to have been forgotten. A man appeared to strip away their curtain, and another grabbed up their stools, but neither man spoke. They huddled near each other at the rail, uncertain what was expected of them.
“We should go below and pray!” Jane advised, wringing her hands.
Bristol couldn’t stand the thought of staying in the cramped cabin, of not knowing what happened above. She swallowed hard. “I can’t do that, Jane.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think we should...” Jane broke off, her eyes wide and frightened.
“You go if you like,” Bristol said stubbornly, her eyes darting across the activity swarming the decks. “But I have to stay here.” Despite a hard kernel of fear, Bristol felt a part of herself swept up in the excitement. She scanned the ship, her eyes focusing on the flurry about the cannon.
Under the gun master’s harsh eye and screaming voice, the long guns moved inboard for loading. Men slammed woolen bags of powder into brass muzzles, and a loader tamped the bags home with a long-handled rammer. Next, someone secured the powder by stuffing cloth wadding into the barrels. All along the deck, men juggled twenty-four-pound balls to the barrel mouths, then rolled them into position. Another wadding pack followed the balls into gleaming muzzles.
Now the gun crews leaped forward to man tackle, and they heaved and grunted, hauling the heavy weapons into firing position. Shoving the men aside, the gun master pointed higher or lower, directing the men with hand spikes in raising or lowering the guns, leveling them to fire true.
When the guns met the master’s exacting satisfaction, he ordered the powder cartridges pierced. At each cannon, fine-grained, fast-burning powder was poured through the touch hole, and extra balls lashed in place. The guns sat ready for firing.
“Why are they pouring sand on deck?” Bristol spoke more to herself than Jane, but Jane answered.
Bristol’s cheeks paled to snow as Jane explained that sand scattered spilled powder, lessening the danger of fire. And sand absorbed blood. “So the decks aren’t slippery,” Jane finished, her nasal voice a whisper.
Bristol’s hand flew to her throat, and she stared blankly at the naked fear in Jane’s small eyes. Sand. Blood. Guns. The words raced through Bristol’s numbed mind. She blinked and tried to clear her head. Above, the canvas had been cut to short sail and trimmed. The decks were sanded and clear. All waited in readiness.
Bristol whirled and looked out across the water. Across a narrowing distance, she could see men running over the Cadiz’s decks as both ships maneuvered cautiously, jockeying for advantageous position. An awareness jolted into Bristol’s brain, slicing through the inertia she’d experienced since La Crosse first shouted, “We engage!” She and Jane stood in the open, exposed and vulnerable on the quarterdeck, with no protection.
Her paralysis broken, Bristol grasped Jane’s wrist and half-dragged her down the stairs. “We need a place to hide!” Furrowing her brow, Bristol scanned the decks, her green eyes settling on a stack of folded canvas near the stairs leading to the captain’s cabin. “There!” she cried, tugging Jane forward. The solid pack of canvas offered an ideal spot; only their heads showed above the pile. From this vantage, they could observe all that happened, with some degree of safety.
In truth, Bristol doubted any space on the ship afforded complete protection; a barrage of ball and shot would make the entire ship unsafe. She drew a calming breath and searched for La Crosse, her narrowed green eyes dark with anger. How could he justify this decision? This was an unconscionable action, without defense in her viewpoint.
She couldn’t see him, but his crisp orders could easily be heard throughout the ship, shouting over the charged silence of the men. The men waited quietly, clustered around the big guns, touching piles of
ball and shot. The fighting would take place to leeward, and additional cannon had been moved accordingly. Those not assigned to the cannon leaned against the rail stroking their muskets or fingering the hilts of glinting swords.
The Cadiz closed distance, and she fired, white puffs exploding from her side, the sound reaching the Challenger a split second later. Too startled to duck behind the canvas, Bristol watched a scatter of balls hiss into the waves short of the Challenger’s bow.
“They’re testing for range,” the gun master shouted.
“Lie steady,” La Crosse commanded. “Hold fire.”
Bristol stared at the maneuvering ship. Figures on board the Cadiz took form and faces; malevolent-eyed men strained at her cannon, working strenuously to reload. Bristol held her breath until her sides ached, without realizing she did so. Her lip mangled beneath her teeth.
Aboard the Challenger, an eerie silence thickened the air. The only noise emanated from groaning rigging and the muted sound of penned animals in the hatches below.
Sudden footsteps jarred into the quiet, and La Crosse ran past the stack of unused sail where Bristol and Jane crouched. He took the quarterdeck steps two at a time and extended the glass, training it on the Cadiz’ forecastle. “There he is.” La Crosse spit. “Sanchez! May he rot in hell!”
He lowered the glass, continuing to stare intently at the Cadiz. His fists clenched and opened at his sides, curling around the hilt of a curving cutlass. La Crosse turned to Mr. Aykroyd, gray fire burning in his eyes. “This time we’ll send that sea vomit to the bottom! No prisoners!”
“Aye, sir.” Mr. Aykroyd wiped a grimed sleeve across his brow. His eyes expertly measured the lessening distance between the ships, and he flicked a questioning glance at La Crosse.
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