“There is only so much Fletcher can do, Jack. She can assist him.”
“Send Bastian for her.” He gave a wry smile. “Tell him to go carefully. I gave the lady a pistol. She might shoot him.”
He pointed at the broken body of one of his crewmen. “Best get the dead over the side. Tell Bastian to bring my Bible.”
“A good haul,” Pete said.
“So it would appear. We’ll have a council over dinner later and divvy up the spoils.”
Left alone, Jack stalked about the waist, pausing to talk to the wounded, his eye on the companionway, but she had not appeared yet. He knew Lydia to be brave and stronger than any female he’d known, but still feared the effect the sight of this would have on her. Did he suffer a fever of the brain to think he could shield her from the worst aspects of his life?
Finally, a knock on the door. When she rushed to open it, Bastian stood there sending another shaft of fear through her.
“The…the captain?” she gasped.
“I’m to escort you to him on deck, an yer to bring yer medicines.” The big man went and picked up the Bible.
Apprehension and an eagerness to help where she could made her rush to obey.
Malek followed her.
“The lad stays ’ere,” Bastian said implacably.
Lydia wholeheartedly agreed, but she hated to see the fear and disappointment in the child’s eyes. He bowed his head and went back to the window, the bird fluttering to land on his shoulder.
Bastian took her case. Moans and cries greeted Lydia as she emerged from the passageway. The sight on deck made her shudder and draw back. Broken bodies lay everywhere while blood was swabbed from the boards. Fletcher, who operated as their surgeon, was tending to a fellow whose arm hung by a thread.
Smoke drifted across the sky, blotting out the stars, the tang of blood in the air, raw and acrid. She swiveled, searching anxiously for Jack. She found him leaning on the quarter rail talking to Pete.
He came down to greet her. She gasped. He was covered in blood, his armor dented. “Where are you hurt?” she blurted, then wished she hadn’t.
“A slight wound to my arm,” he said scowling. His harsh gaze was more like the pirate she’d met in the jungle than the man she’d come to know. “Do what you can,” he said shortly.
“I will tend it later,” she said, aware he did not want her singling him out. “I shall see to those in desperate need.”
An expression she didn’t recognize flashed into his blue eyes. He gestured around him. “My crew first, Bastian will help you. Then the prisoners.”
Well, at least he wasn’t going to send the wounded Spaniards over the side. She was struggling to equate the man she admired who read Shakespeare with this pirate. But what did he have in mind for them?
Lydia knelt beside a man who lay on his back bleeding profusely from a wound in his side. It was the pirate with the eyepatch.
He opened his one eye and glared at her. “Get away from me, woman! Fletcher will tend me.”
“Fletcher is busy,” Bastian said.
The man closed his eye and grimaced. Aware that Fletcher had produced a saw, she took a deep breath and knelt beside this man who hated her and wanted her gone.
She pulled away his shirt to expose three wounds which peppered his stomach. It must hurt.
“Caught by hail shot,” Bastian explained without a trace of sympathy.
“I’ll give you something to ease the pain, Mr. Dale,” Lydia said.
He clamped down his teeth. “Kill me more like. Don’t want no female fussing with me.”
With a glance at the cutlass by his right hand, she forced herself to remain calm. “I’m afraid this female is about to,” she said in a firm tone. “And you are in no state to resist.”
He scowled and turned his head away. “Don’t waste that stuff on me. I’m done for.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that.” With a swift intake of breath to steady her hands, she took out a cloth and began to dab away the blood. The flesh was punctured by metal fragments, which would have to be removed. She took up her tweezers, working silently while he held still but breathed heavily.
When the last bit of metal was removed and the wounds treated, she covered the area with a bandage. “How did you lose your eye, Mr. Dale?”
“Mr. Dale?” He laughed and coughed. “Never been a mister. It’s Dale I be.” He flipped up the eyepatch, an unfriendly green eye stared back at her.
She sat back on her heels in surprise.
“Helps me see in the dark,” he said, flipping it back again with a chuckle.
“Well I never,” she murmured and couldn’t resist a small smile.
It didn’t seem to be a mortal wound. But in the ravaged, pulpy flesh she wasn’t sure if she might have missed one or two fragments.
“If there’s still pain, I’ll examine you again.”
“Not bloody likely,” he muttered.
“Will you take something for the pain?”
He shook his head.
“Take Dale down,” she said to Bastian.
“I’ll stay right here. Want to know about the divvy up of spoils,” Dale said.
Bastian frowned. “You’ll hear when the Cap’n is ready to tell you.” As he heaved the wounded pirate up over his shoulder and walked off with him, Lydia moved on to treat the next fellow.
As she worked, nearby, Fletcher was removing a man’s arm. Her stomach threatened to revolt, and she tried not to retch as the poor devil screamed in agony.
Lydia was fighting to stay on her feet by the time she finished with the last of them. She feared her skills were inadequate, for she was not a trained surgeon. Fletcher was skilled as a sawbones. He dealt with those badly wounded.
One man breathed his last as she worked over him. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she wiped the sweat from her forehead with her forearm. She sniffed, wanting to give way and weep. But she would never let these men witness her weakness.
Jack appeared beside her. “Well done,” he said quietly.
She swallowed hard at his praise. “I’m yet to see to that wound of yours, Captain.”
“A mere scratch. Go to my quarters, I’ll be there shortly.”
Lydia knew better than to argue with him, and she didn’t have the energy. As she packed her medicines away, Bastian stepped forward. “I’ll carry that for you, miss.”
“Thank you, Bastian.”
She could not quell her shivering, but at least the desire to be sick had gone. In Jack’s quarters, Malik ran tearfully to greet her. Lydia took a while to comfort the distraught child. He was still very upset about Alex. As was she. She had not been able to give him a Christian burial. What would her cousin Charles think? She shivered and rubbed her arms. But did it really matter? He must have anticipated such news when they’d embarked on such a journey. And Charles’ home in Devon seemed so very far away.
She turned away to wash herself, as if she could scrub away the horror she had witnessed.
Chapter Ten
Dusk had fallen and the heat of the day eased. Jack stood at the poop rail in the golden arc cast by the lanterns. By all accounts, a good haul. And one less Spanish pirate ship to attack British naval ships. A council would be held with five of his crewmen later tonight. Below him, the bawdy men on deck laughed and joked, and drank their grog. The Irishman, Will, who had a fine voice, began to sing a shanty, and others joined in.
Jack had made a decision and must remain true to it. Since he’d become a pirate out of necessity rather than desire, he had done many things he was not proud of. It now behooved him to do the right thing and return Lydia to her family. It would not be easy. With no Letter of Marque, if he was captured, he would be hung. He would make plans while recovering at his home base. This journey would prove more dangerous than tackling Cordova. Fighting a pirate ship was straight forward. You knew what you had to deal with. The English represented an unseen danger, and if caught, there would be no escape. He and Lydia must go alone. He wo
uld not ask it of his men.
He washed and changed in the officer’s quarters, wishing he could call for a bath. But he needed to see her. When he entered his quarters, Malik ran at him so fast, Jack was forced to catch him up. Swinging him high sent pain racketing through his wounded arm. He clamped his teeth on a groan, lowered the lad, and smiled. “How is my brave young sailor?” If Malik didn’t understand the words, he knew Jack was pleased with him. He stood straight and thrust out his chest.
Jack turned to study Lydia’s white face. Her eyes, dark with distress, told him what he already knew. That the horrific sight of injured and dying men affected her deeply. His instinct had been to spare her from it, but in a way, he was glad he hadn’t. Let them both face the truth. “Are you all right?” he asked, convinced that his decision was right.
“Yes.” Her brown eyes met his, her brows slightly raised.
“Not something I wanted you involved in.”
“I was glad to help. It was better than…” her arm encompassed the room. “Waiting.”
He wanted to reach out to her, but instead, roamed the cabin, pausing to tickle Oskar’s feathers. Something now stood between them. He didn’t imagine the shadows in her eyes. The cruel life he lived had been laid bare. Had she now come to distrust him?
She smoothed her skirts in a nervous, unconscious gesture. She had changed her gown for one of deep purple brocade and old lace. The voluptuous style revealed her charms. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, as lust tightened his loins. Dear God, what was she doing to him?
His attempt to hide the effect she had on him must have failed, for she flushed slightly. “The blue gown will have to be laundered. It’s stained.”
“I imagine it was,” he said inanely, at last dragging his gaze away.
Her manner brisk, she went to pour water from a pitcher into a bowl. “I will see to that wound.” She washed her hands. “How did you come by it?”
Her tone sounded as if she was asking what he’d had for dinner. “One doesn’t remember such things in the heat of battle.” As it was the last action perpetrated by the Spaniard, Cordova, it didn’t seem prudent to mention it.
There was disbelief in her eyes as she dried her hands. “You don’t want to tell me.”
“A knife wound,” he said with a shrug. “Hardly worth fussing over.”
She bustled forward, pulling up her sleeves. “That is your opinion. I shall make my own judgement when I see how bad it is. Please sit.”
Smiling wryly, Jack drew out a chair with his foot and slid into it. He watched her peel off the rough bandage around his arm with her deft fingers. He wanted to take up her hand and kiss each finger. Then kiss all over her naked body. But his desire turned to concern when she bent her head close to his. Her usual neat appearance was absent. Another sign of mental torment. Long wisps of her glossy, dark hair hung about her ears, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am in need of a bath.”
“You don’t smell any worse than anyone else I’ve tended today. Rather better, actually.” Pink painted her cheeks, and she lowered her head, intent on examining the wound. “It is quite deep. It will need a stitch or two,” she said finally. “I’ll get my needle and thread.”
He sat still as she tended him, enjoying being near her. He was no different to any of his men when it came to a woman fussing over him, it seemed. If it weakened him, so be it. He struggled not to lean forward and kiss the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. Damn, but he was tired. Not too tired to want to slip his good arm around her waist and pull her down on his lap. After she stitched him up, she added some of that powder she used, before bandaging his arm.
“You’ll do,” she said at last, turning away. “Malik and I will leave you to your quarters. Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“No need.” He stood. “Stay. I shall join you for breakfast.”
“Thank you, but I shall not turn you out of your bed.”
Better that I join you in it, he thought.
“I am eager to learn more about our destination.”
“You are?” He cocked a brow, urging himself not to put too much store by it. She would leave him in a little while. “Then I shall tell you at breakfast.”
He strode to the door.
“Jack?”
He smiled. “Yes?”
“What will you do with the Spanish prisoners?”
“Toss them overboard,” he said, his lips in a wry twist.
He had no intention of doing so, but he’d keelhauled men and strung some up from the yardarm when violence broke out and he’d been forced to keep order, though he refused to let her believe otherwise. Better that she had a clear picture of who he was, what he’d been, and would be again, if they were ever to… He banished the foolish hope.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
For a moment, her words warmed through him like mulled wine. “It would be better if you did.” He left with the vision of her dismay writ large on her face.
You will believe that and more before we part. She was an angel, so far above him. If he gave in to the lure of the unattainable, and took her as his, it would be the worst thing he’d ever done. It would surely damn him to hell, if he wasn’t on his way there already.
Lydia walked about her small cabin. With only one window, it felt confining after Jack’s quarters, which was so light with the big windows and the skylight. “I wonder what we’ll have for dinner?” she asked Malik who had brought the parrot with him. He was feeding the bird a grape which had no doubt come from the Spanish ship. A bunch had been delivered to her cabin, but they failed to tempt her.
“I hope it’s hot and tasty.” Her appetite was gone, she was merely rattling on.
Malik seemed to like to listen to her, despite the fact he wouldn’t understand much of what she said. She gazed at the lad. He needed proper clothes. There might be more trunks of clothing taken from the Spanish ship. There! She was already succumbing to their ways. Next, she’d be dressing the child as a pirate. What would be best for him? It didn’t distress her overmuch that he could not return to his village. He had been unhappy there, which was why he had adopted her. He’d come to her beaten and sick. She had an idea what had happened to him. Maybe one day he might be able to tell her. He would be better with her. But where would that be? Could she condemn him to this life?
Could she ever grow used to this life herself? And did she have a choice? She was torn between wanting Jack and wishing for some semblance of the life she’d left. Not that he’d invited her to share his life, she was quick to remind herself. He’d kissed her, true, but pirates would kiss women at every opportunity, and worse! She’d heard how they raped women. She couldn’t imagine Jack behaving in so beastly a fashion. In any event, he would have many women wishing him to take them to bed.
Her hands went to her hot cheeks. She must wait until she was sure of what she wanted. And then she would fight for it. She’d wear these gowns and was even prepared to don a pair of dainty slippers. But she would not wear the jewels. Aware she was a mass of contradictions, she turned as the door opened and their dinner was brought in. Despite herself, her mouth salivated at the smell of roasted meat.
After the hearty meal, Malik slept. Lydia curled up on her bed. The distressing cries and moans of dying and wounded men still disturbed her, but whenever she closed her eyes, it was Alex she saw, dropping dead at her feet. The loss of his life and the dreams he’d nurtured wasted in a moment’s violent action by someone who didn’t even know him. She turned her face to the pillow and finally fell asleep.
Lydia was awakened the next morning by the clanging of the bell. She dressed and organized Malik, whose new clothes had dried sufficiently for him to wear, then they made their way to Jack’s quarters. He greeted them dressed in a coat of black velvet embroidered with silver thread and cuffs of silver lace, white shirt, black waistcoat with silver buttons, and black boots. His long hair had
been drawn back in a queue, exposing his strong jaw. It changed his face, made him more like an English gentleman, although there was a hardness and strength to him she’d never found in the English.
The steward, Adao, a Portuguese mulatto, had set the long oak table with silverware and fine china rimmed with gold. A large silver bowl of fruit sat in the center.
Jack stood as she entered. He pulled back the chair for her. “Coffee? Or would you prefer chocolate?”
“Oh, chocolate.” She almost sighed at the sight of her favorite morning drink.
How she’d love to sip it looking out at her garden in Devon. Jack poured the thick brew from a silver pot. She was struck again by the luxury of the setting and the elegance of his gestures, it seemed so incongruous that she almost had to pinch herself to make sure she was actually on a pirate ship, and he the captain. And the brutality she had witnessed the previous day merely a nightmare.
While the horror of Alex’s death still deeply distressed her, in the light of day, the shock lessened a little. She had cried into her pillow last night, muffling the sound so as not to disturb Malik. In the end, her brother had not treated her well. He had not cared that she might wish for a different life for herself. She would miss him, but she would not cry for him again.
“I would like to see how the wounded men fare,” she said to Jack who was thoughtfully sipping his coffee.
A smile lit his blue eyes. “I’ll have Bastian take you.”
It was so very pleasant to share a meal together. As if they were a family, albeit an odd one.
Adao entered and crossed the bright eastern carpet with a silent, careful tread with a tray laden with steaming plates. He deposited them on the table and departed. How very civilized and elegant it was. They might have been in Mayfair, but for the rolling boat, the sunlight showering them through the skylight above, and the birds swerving in the cobalt sky beyond the big windows. The hot food blended with the ever-present salty tang of the sea.
A plate of eggs was placed before her. “Hen’s eggs?”
“My crew call them cackle fruit,” Jack said.
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