by Susan Grant
“Yes, your high and mighty sir.” With that, she slammed and bolted the door.
Chapter Twelve
Andrew stood outside the door, inhaling deep lungsful of air. It seemed he was caught in the momentum of his life, rushing toward a fate his despicable deeds had set in motion. He could no more stop the imminent outcome than he could stop his heart.
There’s no turning back.
He plowed his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and marched away from the cabin. But not from the image of Amanda’s—Carly’s—incredulous, anguish-filled gaze. He remembered well the wariness in her eyes during her first days on the ship. Now it was back. He’d brought it back.
His chest squeezed tight. Damn her eyes. Damn her for making him believe he could be like other men. That he could love.
And for making him love her.
“Mr. Egan,” Andrew called out upon sighting his first mate. “I take it you’ve disposed of the last of the Longreach’s milksops?”
“Where were ya?” Relief was etched on Cuddy’s exhausted face. “I thought we’d lost you overboard.”
“There was a problem at the stern. ’Tis solved.” The lie tasted bitter. “As soon as we are in range, Cuddy, have the men aim for the rudder post.”
“Aye, sir.”
Andrew clasped his hands behind his back and walked toward the helm. After surveying the damage to his ship and discussing the casualties sustained with Willoughby, he spent the last tense moments before battle pondering the identity of the woman in his quarters.
The extraordinary pistol had scuttled his lingering doubts. She was not Lady Amanda; thus she was not betrothed to the duke. The possibilities frightened the hell out of him.
She could be yours.
But this was a woman who could vanish into the future as abruptly and unexpectedly as she’d come into his life.
Don’t let her, he thought crazily.
If she stayed, what then? What had he to offer her save a nomad’s life and the shame of his sorry past? Furthermore, his loyal, profit-driven crew expected to divide the promised ransom upon her release. Andrew’s honor and his word as their leader were at stake if he did not follow through with the plan.
Bloody hell. ’Twas a seemingly unsolvable dilemma.
A cannonball tore through the ship with a hideous screech of splitting wood. Carly dove into her nest of rolled hammocks and flung her bare arms over her head—flimsy protection should one of the twenty-five-pounders hit the cabin.
The Phoenix answered with cannonfire of her own. Carly prayed the men would be successful in their dogged attempt to hit the warship’s rudder.
The Phoenix shuddered and turned. There was a moment of blessed silence. Then Cuddy bellowed, “Fire!” and it started all over again.
It reminded her of the time she’d served temporary duty in the Middle East and the Iraqis had shelled the barracks in which she’d been sound asleep. It had scared the stuffing out of her. But this—hands down—was a hundred times worse.
More silence followed as the ships maneuvered in the breeze that had strengthened as the morning wore on.
Carly detested the silence. Even the terrifying interruption of the cannons was preferable to the quiet, aching emptiness in her heart.
What a fool she was! How could she have misinterpreted Andrew’s friendship as something more?
He hadn’t developed feelings for her. He’d intended to trade her for a few gold coins—and still did. End of story. Still, unlike Rick, at least Andrew had been truthful about it all along. Give the man two points for honesty. And another for remaining loyal to his men. Duty above all else—that was Andrew’s credo. In a way that made her feel better, but not much.
She touched her fingertips to her puffy lips, the tender places on her chin and cheeks where his whiskers had scraped her, remembering the joyous relief on his face after he’d fired her gun and accepted who she was. But she must have misinterpreted it. Lovemaking was the farthest thing from his mind this morning. He’d only wanted to rut with her like an animal. He’d been on a combat high, fueled by the adrenaline and aggression that filled men whose lives were on the line, the same emotion that caused some soldiers to rape. But he’d come to his senses; his icy aloofness had returned.
Carly got the message loud and clear. Andrew didn’t want anyone too close to him. He preferred isolation to revealing who or what had hurt him in the past. That at least was something she could understand.
“Fire!” Cuddy shouted from the deck. The cannons thundered in answer.
. . . Because until recently you felt the same . . .
“Fire!”
. . . and would have lived your life that way . . .
“Fire!”
. . . had Andrew not smashed the door to your heart wide open.
A cheer went up, louder than the cannons themselves. She popped upright and looked expectantly out the long window that faced the stern. Within seconds, every man onboard the ship was yelling, whistling, and whooping.
Only victory could make chaos sound sweet.
Carly leaned over the sooty windowsill. Turning southeast, the Phoenix leaned into the wind that had eluded her for so many weeks.
The warship didn’t follow. Because she couldn’t follow.
“Way to go, guys!” Carly raised both fists in victory. “You did it! You really did it!”
At twilight, Carly lit more lanterns, placing them close to the wounded men who had been brought to the makeshift sickbay—a partitioned area with a hatch in the ceiling as its only source of light. Because it was where she figured she’d be the most useful, Carly had offered to help Willoughby tend the wounded.
The cook was as skilled using the primitive tools and medicines of nineteenth-century healing as he was at creating meals from the limited resources onboard the ship. She’d helped him clean an assortment of cuts and burns, and even a few bullet wounds, though Willoughby had dug out the balls first. Luckily he hadn’t asked her to stitch the wounds. It was not a task for the fainthearted. She’d felt the blood drain from her face the first time she watched him push a needle through a man’s skin. Upon hearing her muffled moan, Willoughby had said, “I left a kettle of broth in the galley. See if it’s bubbling, milady.” It had given her an excellent opportunity to escape.
Now only two men remained in the hammocks. Jonesy—who’d been stabbed in the shoulder—and a cheerful, burly man with a broken leg: Angus MacVey. They were resting quietly, thanks to liberal swigs of gin and doses of what she guessed was a form of opium.
So far, Angus hadn’t developed a fever. His color was good and his eyes were clear. Poor Jonesy, on the other hand, had a fever that defied all attempts to bring it down. Willoughby had confided to her that his chances of recovering weren’t good. Again, she’d found herself wishing for the miracle of antibiotics.
Amazingly, there had only been two deaths. Andrew had conducted a brief funeral before their hammock-wrapped bodies were gently tipped overboard. After a pensive moment of silence, the raucous sounds of hammers, saws, and shouting resumed. Only at twilight had the repairs ceased. Carly was certain the crew was on the deck by now, drinking their grog and solemnly toasting their fallen comrades in the starlight.
Carly settled onto a stool between Jonesy and Angus. She lifted a wet rag from Jonesy’s forehead. “Can’t wait to hear you play your fiddle again.”
He licked his dry, cracked lips and tried to smile. “Can’t think of anything sorrier than a one-armed fiddler.”
“If you keep talking like that, sailor, I’ll pour the rest of your gin overboard.”
He chuckled, then gave a raspy cough.
She wrung out the cloth, still hot from his skin, and dipped it in a bowl of cool, precious fresh water. “Well, you’ll be back fiddlin’ before you know it.”
“Aye,” he whispered. “That I will.”
With a light, tender touch, she stroked his hair with her flattened palm, the way she used to do as a child when her m
other was bedridden. When she’d been in pain, this had never failed to put Rose to sleep.
Jonesy closed his eyes. “Feels nice, miss. ’Tis like bein’ cared for by an angel.”
“Aye,” Angus piped in. “And we thank ye.”
She shook her head. “I thank you. You and Jonesy and the rest of the crew sure beat the pants off that ol’ man-of-war.”
Both men chuckled.
“Captain Spencer’s fortunate to have such a courageous crew,” she insisted.
“’Tis the other way around, miss,” Angus said. “We’ve served with Cap’n Spencer since he was our lieutenant in the navy. We’d follow him anywhere. He’s the best there is. He was knighted for valor by the king himself. For his deeds in the war.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“The Americans outnumbered him that day. Everyone said he’d lose the fight, but win he did.”
“Like he did today,” she murmured.
“He’d be on his way to bein’ an admiral if it weren’t for that blasted duke.”
Her mouth tightened.
Angus looked positively stricken. “My apologies, miss, but there’s bad blood between the two. ’Twas a shame about the court-martial. Lies, all of it. Cap’n’s an honorable man. He wouldna done what the duke said he done.”
Jonesy patted her hands with his hot, dry palm. “When Cap’n came for the Phoenix—he and Booth—he told us we were free to go. We said we were staying. Ain’t that the way it was, Angus?”
“Aye. And we stayed.”
“Cap’n didn’t like it much. Said he didn’t want us tossed in prison for his sins.” Jonesy, too weak to continue, lay back against his pillow. “Tell her, Angus,” he rasped, closing his eyes.
“The cap’n’s only sin was sharin’ the duke’s blood.” Angus’s ruddy cheeks colored further. “Something he’s been payin’ for all his life.”
Heavyhearted, Carly propped her chin on her hands. Angus and Jonesy were telling her what she already knew: Andrew possessed every quality she’d ever admired and wished she’d find in a man. He was brave, loyal, honorable . . .
Considerate and loving . . .
He’d held her in his arms as though she was the most precious thing in the world.
Passion and power; that was Andrew. A magical combination that had unlocked her heart. They might have had something wonderful had she meant more to him than a profitable piece of cargo. Or an instrument of revenge.
“His loss,” she muttered with a conviction she did not feel.
“My apologies, miss.” Angus was peering at her. “Me and Jonesy, we shouldna gone on about the duke so. Frightened ye, we have. I pray ye find happiness with the duke.”
“You didn’t frighten me. I couldn’t care less about Westridge. I’ll go to him, so you can get your money. But I’m not going to marry him.”
Angus shifted in his hammock, wincing. “Where will ye go?”
“Probably America. As far west as they’ve settled. I’ll be a seamstress, or maybe a teacher. Independence is what I’m after,” she declared, lifting her chin. “Relying on no one but myself.” Then she sighed. Her lifelong I-can-take-care-of-myself credo seemed to have lost its appeal.
“Whoever wins yer heart someday will be a lucky man,” Angus said quietly.
Tears blurred her vision, and she glanced away. She must be more tired than she’d thought.
She remained with the men until they’d fallen asleep. Worn out, she rose to her feet, massaging the small of her back.
Willoughby walked into the sickbay holding his ledger in one hand, a towel-wrapped teapot in his other.
“They’re asleep,” she told him.
“You look weary yourself. I’ll fetch Mr. Gibbons to bring you back to your quarters.”
The last person she wanted to see right now was Andrew. “Can I sleep here? Come on, I know you could use the help with your galley duties and all.”
The cook smiled at her with gentle eyes. “I can manage, Miss Carly.”
“Please. I don’t want to go back to the cabin tonight.”
“Then I’ll tell the cap’n you’ll be staying.” He lifted the ledger. “After I tally the day’s figures.”
“Thanks,” she said as she trudged toward the extra hammock.
Willoughby extinguished the lights, save one candle on his desk, and sat down to work on his ledger, while Carly crawled into the hammock. Every bone in her body creaked and ached as she settled onto her back. Her stomach rumbled, too, but she’d lost her appetite for dried hunks of beef and couldn’t face the stale biscuits that even the bugs had abandoned lately. She yearned for fresh fruit and real bread. A huge crunchy salad. And french fries, a bowl of cookie dough ice cream, and . . .
“Oh, what I wouldn’t do for a slice of pizza,” she murmured.
Willoughby glanced up. “Was Pete your cook in Delhi?”
“In America.”
“America,” he repeated dutifully, stroking his wispy beard.
She lifted her head. “Wait a minute. Pete who?”
“You said you wanted a slice of Pete’s zah.”
“Pizza,” she said with a soft laugh. “It’s an Italian dish.”
“Italian, eh?” He raised his brows in interest. “How is it prepared?”
“Well, you start with dough. The best pizza places toss it—like this.” She lifted both palms, then jerked her hands upward.
He glanced warily at the ceiling, then at the planked floor. “I fear I’d drop it.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t. Then you top it with tomato sauce, cheese, and then anything else you want—sausage, mushrooms, onions, green peppers. Sometimes Canadian bacon and pineapple. Once I even tried pizza topped with broccoli.” She grinned at his expression of unadulterated horror.
“Dough . . . sauce . . . mushrooms—I don’t know, miss. Sounds a bit odd to me. Give me a plate of kidneys and eggs, toast, aye, and a rasher of bacon. Or perhaps a bowl of that fish stew the ladies make on the island.” He patted his belly. “I can taste it now.”
Gibbons climbed down the ladder from the deck.” ’Tis getting dark. Cap’n asked me to escort you to the cabin.”
“He hasn’t spoken to me all day,” she retorted, “but it’s heartening to know he still wants his cargo close by.”
“Christian,” Willoughby cut in, calling Gibbons by his given name, “I’d like to keep the lady here. I have two sick men. Two more hands is what I need, tell him. She’ll be safe.”
Gibbons nodded.
Despite her hurt and anger, Carly worried about Andrew. “How’s he doing?”
The big man frowned. “He’s in a foul mood.”
“What else is new?”
For once, they all laughed at their captain’s expense.
“I was hoping you’d be done here,” Gibbons told her. “So you can talk to him in that way you do.”
“You’d think we lost the battle, the way he’s carrying on,” Willoughby said.
“Cap’n’s still fighting his battle. Here.” Gibbons tapped his thick finger against his head. Then he drummed his finger on his chest. “Here, too.”
Gibbons bid them good night and headed up the ladder back into the starry night. His words lingered in the stuffy, medicine-scented air long after he had gone.
“‘Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home across the sea; Rolling home to dear Emerald Isle, rolling home, dear land to thee,’” sang Gibbons in his deep, rich voice.
It was another funeral. Carly sat on the deck, Theo by her side. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and put her arm over Theo’s shoulders.
Jonesy was weak but was growing stronger every day. The funeral was his first foray up to the deck since his fever had broken a week ago.
Angus had been laid to rest, but the shock of his unexpected death from infection lingered. She was not the only one affected; the entire crew was subdued despite the brilliant blue sky and the southern Atlantic trades swelling the mended sails
above.
“Up aloft amid the rigging, swiftly blows the
favoring gale,
Strong as springtime in its blossom, filling out
each swelling sail.
The waves we leave behind us seem to murmur
as they rise,
We have tarried here to bear you, to the land
you dearly prize.”
Since the Phoenix had no chaplain, Andrew had conducted his third funeral in less than two weeks. Somber, he’d read from the Bible and added a brief eulogy before the crew joined him in singing “Amazing Grace.” By the time Angus’s flag-draped body had been placed on a grate at the lee side of the ship, quite a few of the rough-looking pirates were wiping their eyes. After the ship’s bell had tolled three times, two men hoisted up one end of the grate, allowing the body to slide into the sea.
“Full ten thousand miles behind us, and a thousand
miles before,
Ancient ocean waves to waft us to the well
-remembered shore.
Cheer up, Jack, bright smiles await you from
the fairest of the fair.
And her loving eyes will greet you with kind
welcomes everywhere.”
Carly raised her face to the sun and hummed along with the final chorus to the song.
“Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home
across the sea;
Rolling home to dear Emerald Isle, rolling
home, dear land to thee.”
“No!”
“No!” Andrew’s own yell yanked him from his nightmare. Skittering at the edge of panic, he was out of his hammock and on his way across the deck before he’d come fully awake.
Where was she? Had he lost her?
Raw fear propelled him forward. He had to know she was safe. He did after every dream, those inexplicably lifelike, turbulent nightmares in which he flew a rotor-craft—one he couldn’t keep from crashing into the sea. Carly was always there—and he could never save her.
He opened the door to his quarters, peering in. In the moonlit darkness, he made out her slender form under the blanket. Relief surged through him. “Why do you slip from my grasp?” he asked in an anguished whisper. “Why can’t I hold you? What does it mean?”