by Susan Ward
He took another long drag from his pipe. What part of him would the girl be? The best, or the worst of who he was? Which part was him, in true? It was a disquieting self-confession to admit that he wasn’t sure any more, and to wonder when that had happened.
“So, that is all this is to you? A good hunt?” Tom Craven said in tight-lipped displeasure.
The reproach in Thomas’s eyes was masterfully done. Craven was, and always would be, a rigid moralist at heart.
Morgan’s ringing laughter flooded the decks. “For God’s sakes, no. Only a foolish man would risk his life for the hunt. You, Tom, have forgotten the fuck.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A warm October morning greeted Merry as she went topside. All around her the crew was busy at work. Shay sat at the bow, a lone figure. Something about the jeering from the port side told her the Irishman had done something to get into trouble again. In front of her Morgan stood, tall and flat hipped, his fine boned elegant features taut, without expression as he peered through the glass at something on the horizon. Mr. Seton gave her a sparkling smile of invitation, but to get to him she had to pass Mr. Craven.
Not bloody likely.
She resolved to find Indy. She found him sitting on the gun deck casings, a raucous group dicing near his feet.
Much to her dismay, the young pirate had never looked more unapproachable. His black eyes stared coldly through her. Pride kept Merry from standing there like a fool staring after him.
She left quickly for the spot on the bow where she’d spied Shay earlier. Hurrying across deck, she slammed head first into Mr. Craven. His long, calloused fingers closed painfully around her arms, as he set her back away from his chest.
His thin, dull set eyes held no malice, but then again, they didn’t have to. Instinct warned her of his dislike of her and the danger of this man.
“Who the hell let you free?”
It was the kind of greeting she’d come to expect from Craven. Expecting it didn’t make it one bit easier to respond to with composure.
Morgan’s sudden presence saved her from that challenge. Amusement minced lightly through the occult blackness of his eyes, as he said, “I did, Tom, and we can discuss it in private if you have a care to.”
It wasn’t really an offer for discussion. Mr. Craven muttered a curt reply and walked off.
A neat movement of Morgan’s hand set the tumbling curls from Merry’s face.
“You don’t have to be afraid of Tom. He won’t hurt you. Not unless I tell him too.”
She had forgotten, over the interval of being locked below decks for seven days, how terrifying Morgan could be topside. There were no subtle differences on the surface of the captain, to be picked up by her eyes—handsome face, sardonic mouth, and elegant posture—but there was much to be felt in her keener senses. A latent dangerousness, like a resting coiled spring, ready to strike at any moment, and an omniscient awareness tucked behind an unsmiling mask of boredom.
She made to move past him, and felt his hands warm on her shoulders, holding her in place. To her surprise, she was pulled inward into the firm angles of his body and her mouth brought quickly to his. The fast explicitness of the kiss caught her off guard.
Inside of her quivering muscles, she was reeling from the hot run of blood caused by her body’s betrayal in enjoying this. When her body became limp to his will, he gently put her against the mast and let her go.
His laughter, quiet and enticing, made her shiver.
“I’m the only man aboard ship allowed to touch you, without permission.”
He said it in that way, like an order. Without thinking, she snapped, “If that’s meant to be reassuring—-”
“It’s not.”
Morgan gave her a smile that’s effect was its opposite. She stood frozen in place, watching his retreating back, wondering what the devil that was about.
Merry couldn’t stop the faint color that began to stain her cheeks, and quickly made her way to Shay at the bow. She had almost joined Mr. Seton, his conversation would be a more lively entertainment, but there was something in the way the men around him stared at her that had kept Merry from going there.
Sinking down on the deck beside the Irishman, Merry muttered, “What the devil is wrong with everyone today?”
“Too long from port, Merry lass.” His burly fingers did a harsh trek over the shredded rope in his lap. “Tempers always flash the last week before we reach land. Worse than a full moon, if ye ask me. Half the crew want’n to brawl, half the crew with their sheets in the wind. Best watch yer step, lass.”
Sheets in the wind. Merry was alarmed she didn’t need that explained to her. It was clear, whether she wanted it or not, her days aboard ship were accompanied by a salty education. Settling her chin in her hand, she asked, “And which is Morgan? Brawl or sheets? His mood has been more confusing than usual of late.”
Stretching his legs before him, Shay thought it over carefully.
“Neither. Morgan is the devil. From where I sit, lass, if ye’ve got to be someone’s property, it’s best to be his. At least he’s not of a mind to share ye.”
“I’m not Morgan or any man’s property,” Merry corrected indignantly.
For the first time ever, Shay gave Merry a sharp, angry look.
“Now listen, lass,” he said to her on a terse whisper. “Ye best let them believe ye are his property, unless ye be want’n to find yerself in a dark corner of this ship busier than ye know what to do with. Even the lad ain’t allowed to be with ye topside. Don’t want the crew get’n anything in their heads watch’n ye cozying up with the boy beneath Morgan’s nose. Dammit, lass, the crew wanted to have a vote on ye.”
That made Merry sit back and stare. “A vote?”
“More’n a few didn’t think it was right ye sit’n in Morgan’s cabin and the mon not sharing. Strictly speaking, lass, yer cargo.”
The effect of his words on Merry made Shay’s manner softened instantly.
“The last week of a sail is a dangerous time fer a woman aboard ship. It’s best ye be know’n it. Stay put, lass. Watch ye I will, have no fear of that.”
Before Merry could question him further, Shay had pulled her into the task of his punishment.
Sitting in the early afternoon sun, picking oakum proved a good excuse for keeping her face down and avoiding the notice of the crew. Morgan had left the decks an hour ago, and the men’s notice had intensified and changed. Shay’s brow had moved to a scowl and remained there. There were winks, predatory smiles, and looks she couldn’t even put a description to.
Was life always so unpleasant for a woman in a world exclusively of men? She welcomed the rain when it sent her from deck, so that she could leave without looking like she was running.
Alone in the cabin, Merry rummaged through her pillows and blankets for the book she’d been reading earlier. It had been dreadful topside, and her mood was anything but bright.
Hours later, Merry was still sitting in the chair. Pipe smoke drifted under the cabin door from the watch and someone, somewhere, was singing “A Soldier and a Sailor”.
With the coming of night the weather had grown worse again. The light drizzle that had spanked the polished decks, had turned into a furious downpour. The ship lurched beneath her, up and down, in a tumult that matched her own internal unrest.
She touched her lips, feeling Morgan’s kiss there. The memory of her own response seared through her brain. There was not a single thing about this man that did not warn danger. Yet, fear as a protector failed her too often. There was no logic to why she was so afflicted by him.
Even after many weeks with him, Merry didn’t know what manner of man Morgan was, in true. She was no closer to separating truth from myth than she had been her first night aboard ship.
The door opened.
Without a word, Indy crossed to the table. She noted the tray he carried had more than two plates. The boy went through his tasks in silence, spreading the white linen cloth across
the polished tabletop; setting fluted wine glasses before each chair; and arranging the settings with a care that would have rivaled mother.
What was Morgan about now? There were eight settings at the table and polished silver candlesticks set ablaze, to boot. Morgan did not entertain.
She didn’t know why, but the sight of the table elegantly set made her nervous. “Is something going on that I don’t know about?”
“Wear your hair up. Morgan is selling you at midnight,” he jeered, then seeing her eyes cloud over with dismay, he relented. “Damn you’re skittish tonight. It was a jest, Merry. What are you imagining in the foolish head of yours?”
“Shay told me the crew wanted a vote. And now Morgan is entertaining. It seemed odd.”
Indy shook his head as he continued with his task.
“There is no need for panic, Merry. Tempers run short. Foolishness runs high. Life on ship is predictable. It’s a captain’s job to nip them both in the bud, before there is trouble. It’s apt to be a grim drama tonight, but it’s not directed at you. Try to remember that.”
With that, the boy was gone.
Twenty minutes passed before Morgan entered the cabin, his manner careless and relaxed. Somewhere he had changed his garments, he was in his severe costume of black. There was both a gun and a knife tucked into his belt when Morgan never carried either. The unexpected presence of weapons caused her unease to heighten.
Morgan’s arrival followed quickly with a knock at the door. Six men entered the cabin. Three men Merry knew well. Mr. Seton, Mr. Colerain, and Mr. Boniface. They were the three most senior crewmembers after Mr. Craven. With them, were other three men she would have preferred never to have known. The gunner Reade, the shipmate Tanner, and a vile little weasel known as Sails.
For all of Morgan’s gentlemanly introduction of her, it soon became clear she was nothing in this gathering, though her presence at the table among the men was deliberate. How she knew this, she wasn’t sure.
It just came to her as the evening progressed, an abrupt finger tilting up her chin, the way Morgan’s gaze narrowed when it met hers. The tight hold of his blood-warmed fingers atop her hand.
The purposeful contact with her was completely at odds with the wispy gentleness of his usual touch, but there was something artful and calculated in the way each gesture was made. Strangely, it brought to her mind the memory of his kiss earlier on deck. Artful and calculated. That was what it had been.
The meal was far more extravagant than what Merry had grown accustom to aboard ship. A fine barley soup and curried rice cakes preceded a roasted chicken, procured from the small supply of livestock kept below decks for the captain’s consumption.
Before dinner ended, Merry felt a small measure of her tension uncoil from her body. The grim drama that Indy had warned was going to happen hadn’t, and she was beginning to believe that it wouldn’t. Nothing had changed. Morgan, with an urbane mask covering his attractive features, seemed satisfied to listen to the conversation over brandy.
It was not really a pause in the conversation, it was more like a breath, where Morgan smoothly injected on a low voice, “A vote.”
That effortlessly, he silenced the room. The entire chemistry changed. Merry would have sprung from the table if Morgan’s hand hadn’t fixed brutally around her wrist, holding her there.
“Which one of you thinks I share what’s mine?” Morgan asked. “And, which one of you is foolish enough to think there is safety in numbers to defy me?”
Mr. Seton turned on his chair toward Morgan. “Varian—”
The captain cut him off so smoothly, it was hard to tell that was what he did.
“The problem with you, Brandon, is you fuck your genius to death. It was a rhetorical question.”
Morgan’s dark, unkindly gaze moved like a stalker among his startled companions.
“A bullet between the eyes. I thought it would end this. It did not. So the crew would like a vote on the girl? I have a better idea,” said Morgan with a menacing grin.
He rose to his full height and tossed the gun onto the table. He subjected Merry to a critical survey before he pulled the knife from his belt to stand behind her chair.
“Let’s see if one of you can put a bullet in me before I slit her throat.”
Merry had no chance to react before he had her curls in a cruel grip and the knife against her neck.
“Try not to move, Little One. I can make this rather painless.”
Merry stared in horror at the gun. She became aware of the rapid expansion of her chest that came with each panicked breath. Her eyes anxiously searched the men across the table from her. No one reached for the gun, but no one would meet her gaze either.
It was Mr. Boniface who first moved back from the table. “Let her go. You’re scaring the girl to death.”
Morgan jerked her hair hard and Merry cried out.
“I would rather slit her throat,” Morgan said, “than let any man on ship touch what’s mine. Which one of you thinks they can get a bullet in me and live? Or better still, which one of you wants the girl after she’s dead?”
A long pause stretched the tension in the room until it was unbearable.
“Oh, my.” Laughter stirred from deep in Morgan’s chest. “Six of you. And not one of you is brave enough to try it. I thought the circle in the f’cle thought it time to challenge my command and authority. Six to one. Excellent odds. Or, is my crew only brave when they think I cannot see or hear them? Perhaps, I should rethink my crew.”
The knife fell away as his fingers slowly relaxed in Merry’s hair. Morgan tossed the jagged blade onto the center of the table before returning to his chair and brandy.
A minute or so passed in agonizing silence. Then, Morgan fixed his eyes upon her and said, “Go to Craven, Little One. I’m not finished here yet.”
The blood was rustling with such force through the vein passages in Merry’s ear she hardly heard him. Morgan’s abrupt hand gesture directed her toward the door. It was then her startled gaze found Mr. Craven waiting grimly there.
She couldn’t move, even though she wanted desperately to flee. She couldn’t feel her legs. She couldn’t feel anything. Noises, sights, smells, couldn’t penetrate the numbing horror of what she’d just experienced.
Mr. Seton grabbed her harshly by the shoulder and propelled her to the door, into Craven’s waiting clutches.
With the touch of Craven, her tears let go.
Mr. Craven gave her a harsh shake of annoyance and when that didn’t silence her, he snapped, “Indy. Where the blazes are you. Get over here and take her now. I haven’t got time for this nonsense.”
She was out-of-control distraught by the time the boy reached her. She fought him furiously as he tried to drag her into the cabin. It had been too much, the knife on her throat. The way the men had stared at her. Morgan. Too much. She lashed out wildly, hysterically.
“Damn it, Merry. Tempers are short. One more scream and Craven is likely to return and beat you.”
“I don’t care,” she screamed. “Morgan was going to kill me tonight.”
“Well, I do care.”
Once in his cabin, Indy grabbed her flailing arms and pinned her on the cabin floor beneath him.
“Damn it, stop fighting, and listen to me. It wasn’t your life Morgan put at risk in there, it was his. Craven is furious. You’re fortunate Craven didn’t slit your throat himself.”
She was breathing in rapid heavy gasps. Indy could see she was beyond understanding him. Cursing under his breath, he pulled her body from the floor, shoved his scarf into her mouth, and promptly tied her up.
There was a harsh knock on his door, and the boy sprang to his feet.
“For the love of God, Merry, Morgan risked his life for you. He was unarmed and challenged those men, with only their fear of him to protect him. That grim drama was about protecting your hide. Now be still. Be silent. Things are dangerous enough at present.”
Being bound left little opt
ion to do anything else. He waited for her to stop struggling, and when she finally did, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t fight the ropes. You’ll cut your wrists.”
She was imprisoned in Indy’s cabin for most of the night. The ship was nosier in the darkness than usual. She heard Morgan’s firm tread in the hall, but never his voice. There was a trial topside. That tidbit of news came to her on the heavily accented voice of Mr. Boniface recalling the tale of dinner on a hurried whisper in the companionway.
It was nearly dawn when Mr. Craven unlocked the door, cut her free, and jerked her to her feet.
“If you make any more trouble, I’ll take you topside and hang you next to Reade. Perhaps now you’ll learn to behave with a modicum of caution.”
Merry’s eyes began to flash. How odious of Mr. Craven to blame the events on her.
Before she could respond, he gave her a hard jerk and sneered, “One would think you’d learn to hold your tongue, by now. You best hold that temper in check. If you flash it in front Morgan tonight, he’s apt to chew you up and spit you over the rail. He’s not pleased beyond half that he had to kill one of his own crew over you.”
With that, Craven shoved Merry into Morgan’s cabin.
She found the captain stretched out on his goliath bed. He was swilling rum from a bottle, resembling more a boar at a trough than the graceful acts of careless elegance, which were his usual mannerisms.
He continued to drink in silence, studied her for a moment, showing no expression, before he said without a trace of feeling, “I can’t have my men plotting in numbers every time they get excited over something. Though, I would have preferred the issue resolved without the hanging.”
Merry leaned back against the door and stared at him. There was something in his posture, his demeanor, not at all familiar to her. He looked almost hollow, a sort of soul deep weariness about him, and a strange light in his black eyes, she couldn’t begin to decipher. How odd he looks and how unlike himself, she thought. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it was not this.
If what Craven said was true, Morgan had killed a man tonight. If what Indy said was true, the captain had risked his life for her. Of all her possible reactions to the night’s events, the one to claim her, she didn’t anticipate.