For it was not the dreaded cat-o’-nine-tails that lay there, but an oily pile of rags.
The crew, confused, instantly quieted. There was no sound but the hiss of spray at the bows, the whine of wind through the shrouds. In the shocked, ensuing silence, Rico Hendricks threw back his head in laughter, bent, and casually tossed one of the rags to a stunned Arthur Teach. Then he turned as two bosun’s mates, sweating and swearing, dragged a huge chest across the deck and up to Teach’s bound feet. With his foot, Hendricks broke the latch and kicked the lid wide.
The crew stood frozen, motionless, silent.
“God strike me,” someone murmured.
In the chest was a gruesome collection of axes, pistols, knives, and boarding pikes. As the crew stared, gaping with shock, the big Jamaican reached inside and handed the first weapon he found—a boarding axe—to a bug-eyed and gaping Teach.
Several feet away, the Lord and Master leaned casually on his sword and watched with faintly smiling eyes.
And then the crew of HMS Bold Marauder witnessed the most unorthodox—and effective—punishment the Royal Navy had ever doled out, as, with each roll of the drum, an oiled rag and a weapon from the chest were given to Blackbeard’s hapless grandson, and he was forced to clean every axe, knife, tomahawk, and pike it contained.
Two hours later, Teach was finally finished. Wearily, he oiled the last pistol, tossed it back into the chest, and, wiping his brow, glared up at his new captain. But in his black eyes was something that hadn’t been there before—a wary gratitude, a grudging respect.
The Lord and Master had not whipped him.
The captain met his gaze. Then he picked up his fat little dog, who had come waddling up on deck to join him, and, cradling her to his chest, swept the crew, staring at him in amazement and shock, with his hard gray eyes.
“I cannot abide abuse,” he snapped, his voice rising over the wind. “But I will, by God, have obedience and respect from the lot of you. Test my patience, and I promise you that punishment will be swift—and fitting to the crime.”
Overhead, black storm clouds came together and the first raindrops began to fall, as if they, too, had obeyed the will of the Lord and Master.
His flinty gaze swept over Deirdre, passed on.
“You are all dismissed,” he said coldly and, touching his hat to them, went below to his cabin.
Chapter 12
“Twenty-two years at sea and I ain’t never seen anything like it!”
“Bloody bastard the captain is,” Skunk exclaimed, putting his mug down atop the wardroom’s scrubbed mess table, “Arthur’d’ve been better off with a whippin’! At least there’s dignity in that!”
“Aye, dignity,” Russell Rhodes muttered as he dealt a fresh hand of cards to his shipmates. He slapped his palm down atop them, holding them as the ship tilted in a steep swell and then crashed down into the trough. “’Twas a humiliation, making Arthur clean all those weapons . . . Wasn’t it, Arthur?”
Teach, sitting moodily in the corner with his back propped against a bulkhead, looked away, unwilling to take a stand for or against what the Lord and Master had done to him.
Or, more correctly, what he had not done to him. Rhodes glanced sideways at Teach. “Well, don’t forget what he did to your beard, Arthur.”
The big seaman looked down, his thumbs grazing the blade of his knife. But the fury had gone out of his eyes, and that had Rhodes, Skunk, and the rest of the troublemakers more than a little worried, for Teach, normally full of fire, was behaving like a tame bear in a traveling fair.
And he wasn’t the only one. Ian MacDuff, still topside with the watch, had shed his Scots garb and donned a proper lieutenant’s coat for the first time in anyone’s memory, and the Irish girl, who’d come aboard vowing to kill their new captain, was strangely quiet, her lovely eyes troubled.
No, things were not going well at all. The Lord and Master was proving to be a cunning strategist—and no one knew quite what to do about it.
Skunk, who’d been leering at—and down—the bodice of Delight’s gown, leaned over and leered down Deirdre’s instead. She flushed, yanked the warm woolen shawl that Delight had given her around her shoulders, and leaned away, trying to escape both his eyes and his scent. But Skunk only laughed and laid a grimy paw over her hand. “Yer lookin’ a bit pale around the gills, girlie. Scared? Sick? Now, don’t ye worry none ’bout this little storm. ’Tis just a mere blow and it’s gonna get worse before it gets better. The ship’ll be all right. After all, the Lord and Master commands it, eh, lads?”
Laughter met his remark, but it was guarded, and Deirdre sensed that something had changed about the crew’s feelings regarding the captain.
Something that was changing within herself as well.
The thunder rolled again and she said a silent prayer as the ship began to climb the next towering swell, there to hang suspended before thundering down into a trough.
The captain. She closed her eyes and wiped damp palms on her skirts. Sweet Jesus, she’d feel a lot safer if she was in his presence right now, secure in his assurance that Bold Marauder would not go down—
Her head snapped up. Dear God, what was she thinking?
“The Lord an’ Master,” she spat, in defiance of her thoughts. “A curse on that poxy blackguard!”
“Well, I’m glad to see that not all of us’ve taken leave of our senses!” Rhodes said, with a sidelong glance at Teach. “By the way, Deirdre”—his gaze dropped to her bodice, then back up again—“Elwin tells me you helped yourself to one of his amputation knives. You wouldn’t be thinking of using it for your next murder attempt, now, would you?”
“Murder attempt?” Skunk cried gleefully. “On his bloody Lordship? Why, show us the knife, girlie!”
“Aye, show us the knife!”
Slowly, she picked up her canvas bag, which she’d put protectively beside her leg. One by one, the objects came out and were carefully, reverently, placed upon the table. The loaf of Irish bread. The flagon of Irish air. The pouch of Irish sand and shells. The wool of an Irish sheep. The pebble from Irish land. Trying not to think about the jar of Irish water—which he had so heartlessly broken—Deirdre at last found the knife. “Here,” she said, shoving it across the table toward Skunk.
“Murder weapons?” Delight asked, staring at the odd collection and grinning as her hand roved down Teach’s side and over his thighs.
“No. Keepsakes from home.” Deirdre said tightly, her tone of voice forbidding further discussion about the curious items she was quickly stuffing back in the bag.
Skunk grabbed the knife and held it up for all to see. “Now, have ye ever seen a finer weapon, lads?” He swung around, his raised arm overpowering them with fresh stench. Then he pressed the blade’s hilt into Deirdre’s hand. “Now, when his bloody Lordship comes down from the deck, ye’ll be waitin’ fer him in the cabin, just like ye did before. But this time ye won’t fail, girlie. When he opens that door, bring yer arm back, like this.” He gripped her wrist and pulled her hand up and back. “A real vicious chop to the throat oughtta do it.”
“Go for his jugular,” Elwin hissed, grinning.
“Aye, don’t stop till he’s dead and twitchin’ at yer feet!” Hibbert added, hiding a grin as he elbowed Edgar Hartness, a freckle-faced midshipman who was making his first cruise on Bold Marauder.
“Then plunge it into his heart for good measure!”
“But first, do avail yourself of his handsome body,” Delight purred, smiling. “’Twould be a shame to let such a fine specimen of a man go to waste, no?”
Deirdre stared at her, temporarily forgetting her fear.
“Of course, if you don’t want to, I’d be happy to oblige,” Delight added with a wink. “I’d find great delight in melting our Ice Captain!”
Again thunder boomed outside, echoing up through the timbers of the ship and drowning out the sounds of their laughter. Deirdre swallowed hard, picturing hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet of cold, mer
ciless ocean beneath them. If Bold Marauder went down, the sea would swallow them up like the whale with Jonah. Dear God, she thought, shivering. Her very life depended on the sturdiness of a scant bit of wood and canvas, the seamanship of a crew whose abilities she was already beginning to doubt, and the leadership, intelligence, and ability of a man they did not trust, did not respect, and certainly did not like.
It was his will alone that kept Bold Marauder from going down. His—and God’s.
The ship rolled atop a particularly long swell, and Deirdre felt cold sweat prickle up her spine.
“Ye forget one tiny important detail,” she said, trying to keep the terror out of her voice. “The Lord an’ Master has banned me from his cabin and put me in the one next t’ him. There’s no way I can . . . ambush him.”
Skunk braced himself against a steep, rolling plunge and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s all taken care of, girlie. Our carpenter here—where are ye, Bernie?— chopped a secret hole in the bulkhead screen between your cabin and the Lord ’n’ Master’s, just this afternoon. It’s deck-level and just big enough for ye to crawl through, not that our fearless leader’s ever gonna notice it anyhow— right, Bernie?” He clapped the beaming carpenter on the back. “Bernie here fixed it so the door opens beneath his Lordship’s desk. You ought to be able to crawl in and out between the two cabins with him bein’ none the wiser!”
Deirdre’s mouth went slack.
“Why, that sounds like something I'd enjoy doing,” Delight mused. “Imagine, if our bold captain happened to be sitting at his desk at the time . . . I suppose, that being deck-level, that would make me come out at just about the level of his love-organ. Lo, I can just imagine his surprise to feel slow fingers stroking his more sensitive parts as he was trying to work . . .”
Every man in the room flushed. Young Hibbert clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as he put his hands over his groin to hide his sudden arousal.
“Here, now, Delight, ye’re disturbin’ the children!” Skunk cried, hooting with laughter.
“Perhaps, then, some children ought to be in bed, no?” Delight returned with a wicked smile and a pointed glance at young Hibbert’s groin.
Her face flaming, Deirdre got up to leave.
“Here, now, girlie, get back here,” Skunk said, grabbing her arm. “Poor Bernie didn’t go through all that trouble fer nothin’”
“Fine, then, let Delight do it. I despise the man, but I can’t kill him. I’ve already tried twice.”
“Ain’t nothing to it,” Skunk said, still gripping her arm. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “All ye gotta do is crawl through the hole, wait for yer victim, and then stick yer knife squarely in the middle of his gut—”
“Aye, carve his liver out and bring it up on a platter!”
“And his heart, too! Don’t forget his blackened heart!”
Sudden, awful images crowded Deirdre’s mind . . . of the captain lying in a pool of blood, dying. Of his cold eyes staring up at her in death, accusing, unforgiving.
Is that what ye really want, Deirdre?
She stared at the glittering blade with something like horror.
“The coast of Ireland will soon pass far off our starboard beam. Forgive me, but I merely thought you’d like to see it a final time.”
“Aw, don’t look so scared, Deirdre. He won’t feel a thing,” Skunk said, picking up the knife and forcing it between her stiff fingers. She stared at it, bracing herself against the roll of the ship and therefore missing the mischievous glance he exchanged with his shipmates. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get you up there and into his cabin before he retires fer the night. Hibbert, take her up, would ye?”
The middie, still staring at Delight’s bosom, got up.
“I told ye, I don’t think I have it in me t’ commit murder—”
The door crashed open and Ian MacDuff poked his head inside. Water streamed from his ruddy face, his beard, his hat. “I couldnae help hearing your conversation,” he said desperately. “Listen, laddies, perhaps we can reach a peace with the captain—”
“Aw, Ian, don’t go gettin’ all soft on us,” Skunk complained, waving his hand with a dismissive gesture that released a fresh cloud of stench from beneath his armpit. “Hibbert, get the girlie up there, would ye?”
Hibbert, still staring at Delight, grabbed Deirdre’s arm and bolted from the room.
Ian turned angrily toward his shipmate. “Skunk, you go too far. I cannae permit this, ye ken?”
“Piss off, Ian. Ye know as well as the rest of us that the girlie hasn’t the will or the guts to kill his bloody Lordship. We’re just havin’ a bit of sport and ye know it. Hell, if’n I was serious about wanting ’im dead, I’d do away with ’im myself.” He clapped a big, meaty hand across Ian’s back. “Besides, ye know none of us really want to kill the bastard . . . we just wanna shake him up a bit. Ye know, make him a little aggravated.”
“Oh, ye’ll aggravate him, tae be sure. At the wee lassie’s expense!”
With that, Ian stormed from the wardroom, slamming the door behind him.
At the wee lassie’s expense.
He couldn’t have issued a more prophetic statement.
###
Leaving a master’s mate and four experienced hands at the helm, Christian, exhausted, made his way through the stormy darkness toward the hatch.
He was shivering and soaked to the skin. His hat dripped a steady stream of cold water that trickled down his face and neck. His damp neckcloth was tight and itchy against his throat, his uniform was wet beneath his oilcloth greatcoat, and he felt as though he would never get warm again.
His thoughts were as dark as the night.
Damn her, he thought, ducking beneath the hatch and clawing at his neckcloth. How dare she taunt him with that vulgar gown that only a prostitute would wear? He rued the years that had turned the innocent Irish girl with the huge purple eyes into the soiled creature she’d become.
Emily’s face rose up in his memory, and he was suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking of the Irishwoman, and the stab of lust he had no business feeling. His eyes hard, he stalked through the darkness, hating himself for feeling such carnal desires, resenting the girl for causing them. She had no right. She had no right!
The storm sounded furious down here, the tattoo of rain thrumming against the quarterdeck nearly deafening him. The frigate rolled beneath his feet, lurched upright. But his steps were sure, his balance secure—until he reached the door of his cabin and nearly tripped over Evans.
He stared down at the marine, his crossbelt a dim white X in the darkness. Obviously, the thundering rain did nothing to disturb Evans’s sleep. Or, his sweet dreams.
“Ah, Delight . . .” the man murmured on a sigh.
Christian frowned, and resisted the urge to rouse the marine with a toe to his ribs. “Bugger the lot of you,” he muttered. Then he stepped over the marine and stood staring at his cabin door.
It loomed ominously in front of him.
He rubbed his chin, thinking.
Then, taking a deep breath, he drove his foot savagely against the wood and instinctively jumped back.
Thwaaack!
The knife slammed harmlessly into the doorframe.
Evans shot to his feet, blinking in confusion. Ignoring him, Christian entered his dimly lit cabin. Nonchalantly, he removed his wet hat, tossed it aside, and pried the knife—a wicked, curving blade of death—from the wood.
“Really, now. Is that the best you can do?”
The girl stood in the middle of the cabin, gaping at him. Her hair hung in a wildly curling black mass about her shoulders, and her eyes were huge pools of violet in her chalk-white face. Predictably, she reached up and curled her fingers around the cross.
“I . . . I missed.”
Shedding his dripping oilcloth, Christian brushed past her, went to his table, and poured a hefty measure of brandy into a glass. He raised it to his lips, watching her. “Indeed.”
Dei
rdre saw no anger in those frosty depths. Nothing but a strange, dark heat, and a flicker of something that might have been amusement.
“Next time I won’t miss!”
“Oh?”
“Next time I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
“Save it,” he said, pulling a blanket off his bed and wrapping it around himself before settling wearily into a chair. As he raised his glass and took another sip of the brandy, Deirdre saw that his hands were red and raw with cold.
She bit her lower lip, staring at those hands.
“It saddens me,” he said at length, “that in the thirteen years since our last encounter, you seem to have turned into a woman who sees no better outlet for her charms than a ship full of men who do not know the meaning of the term gentleman. I have tried to conduct my actions, and my thoughts, in a gallant and honorable way, but it appears that you are determined to break me.”
“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”
“Do you not?” He made a noise of disgust. “What woman wears a whore’s gown and pretends such ignorance as to its purpose?”
“It’s not my gown,” Deirdre muttered, looking away. “One of the um . . . crew, gave it to me since all I had was the boy’s clothes I came aboard in.” She looked up at him then, her eyes defiant. “I’m sure ye’d be even more disdainful if I donned shirt and breeches.”
The captain just eyed her, speculatively, and took another sip of his brandy.
She stared mutinously back at him, saying nothing.
Finally, he sighed and put his glass down. “It is, I think, time for you to tell me exactly why you’re on this ship. Surely not just to avenge your brother’s press-ganging by murdering me. That could have been safely accomplished ashore without your having to subject yourself to an ocean crossing. Therefore, it must be the ocean crossing itself that you sought, not my demise.” His gaze was steady, gray, penetrating. Why?”
“I need to get to Amerikay.”
“And what could one homesick Irishwoman possibly expect to find in the colonies?”
Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series) Page 12