by Regan Walker
“Come!”
Russ peeked his head around the door. “Am I disturbing anything?”
“No, just some pondering. Where is our passenger now?”
“Coiling line on the bow with Jake Johansson and Nate. How did your talk with her go?” Russ opened the door wider to enter.
“I don’t suppose the impudent chit will act the lady, but I’ve made clear she’s to stay out of the rigging.”
“How did she take it?”
“Not well, I think.” In his mind’s eye, Nick could still see the indignant look she’d given him at his order. “She has a bit of a temper that one.”
Russ shut the door behind him, chuckling. “Well that should make for an interesting crossing since you’ve a small temper yourself.”
Nick frowned. Russ was a good friend and entitled, when they were alone, to take liberties, but Nick needed no reminder he was short on patience just now. “I wonder if she’ll tire of playing the part of the crew.”
“I doubt it. I heard her tell Nate she was glad to be at sea again working on a schooner.”
“She mentioned something about having crewed on her father’s ships. I suspect he indulged the chit, allowing her too free a rein. You don’t suppose she sailed with the American privateers in that last disagreement between our two countries, do you?”
“I can’t think her father would have exposed her to such danger,” said Russ, “but one never knows. She’d have been young. Hell, she can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen now.”
“I doubt she sailed during the war. The privateers were the only navy America had.” Nick thought about how young she had seemed as she stood before him in his cabin a few minutes earlier. Young and vulnerable, despite her brave front. “I suppose I should have a word with the crew to assure no harm comes to her.”
“I’ve already seen to it. At the risk of your ire, to a man I believe they will comply. Smitty’s none too pleased, of course. You know he abhors women aboard ship. But he will not give us trouble. As for the rest of them, any who might be inclined to take advantage will be quickly dissuaded from such a path with Jake her watchful protector.”
“Good. I’ve no wish to be defending the virtue of a woman roaming the decks.” Changing the subject, he asked, “How is the crew faring?”
“A few are still recovering from their last night in London and their last wenching for a while. I had to send Jake after a few of them. The new crew, Billy Uppington, is going to be a challenge, as you have seen, but the men seem up for it. Young John Trent said he would help the lad and you know old Nate will see he completes his chores. Oh, and I had the extra stores of food loaded that McGinnes requested.”
“You should have heard McGinnes talking in the galley this morning, rambling on about some sign of his Irish fairies and impending disaster. I swear he actually believes those myths.”
“The men love his tales, Nick. Staves off their boredom at sea. Much like the singing on deck in the evenings. Not all of them read like you and I do.”
“I suppose you’ve the right of it. There are few pleasures we can give the men while at sea, save their rum and their songs.”
Russ leaned over the top of the desk to pet the cat, but the feline jumped down and strolled toward the stove. “I see your cat still prefers only your company.”
“It’s not my cat.”
“Tell that to the animal.” The first mate gave the cat a parting look, then turned his gaze to the charts scattered in front of Nick. “Ah, the West Indies.”
“Yes, it’s time I told the crew where we’re bound and the task we’re about.” Nick leaned back to give Russ a better view. “I’ve been going over Cofresí’s territory and the list of prizes he’s seized. It seems the Retribución preys on ships caught anywhere near Porto Rico not flying the Spanish flag—and with great success, as Prinny noted.”
“Are we to engage?”
“The prince asked only that I make inquiries regarding the pirate’s operations and his hiding places, I suspect for later engagement by the Royal Navy. But I’m certain our monarch would be pleased if we disarmed the pirate ship or captured it as a prize. He hinted as much, though I have no desire to risk the Raven or the crew. Nor do I want to drag a damaged Retribución into Baltimore. If we wish to avoid a direct engagement, there is always stealth. A significant theft of gear and spiking their guns when they are in port, perhaps.”
“The crew would enjoy that. And I made sure the Spanish flag and other markers of a Spanish merchantman were loaded. We’ve only to change the name to Viento del Cuervo when the time comes and raise the flag of Spain.”
“I suspect such a disguise will be needed,” said Nick, wondering what it would feel like to sail his ship under the Spanish flag. But like his brother Martin, a spy for the Crown, Nick was not above donning a disguise for his country.
“What about the Laffite brothers? Any word?”
“They are caught up in squabbles with their associates just now.”
“Perhaps they will stay farther north?” Russ suggested.
“We can only hope.” Finding the chart that showed North America, Nick shoved it toward his first mate. “The gulf is their usual playground. But there are others around. It seems that many privateers have turned to piracy since the end of the wars with America and France.”
A loud thud sounded from the deck above. Exchanging a questioning glance with Russ, Nick rose from his chair. “I’d best see what that’s about.”
“I’ll join you,” echoed Russ.
Once on deck, Nick searched for the source of the sound. The ship was holding steady and all was in order—save for their passenger on her knees before a seaman lying on the deck. Nate Baker stood over them, a concerned look on his wizened face. Jake Johansson rested a hand on the rail nearby, shaking his head.
“Looks like young Trent,” Russ offered.
“What happened?” Nick asked, striding toward the small group.
“It were the batten on the shrouds, Captain,” said Jake, walking toward him. “Just snapped in the middle, ja? Took a slice out of the lad’s leg as he fell. Miss Tara is tendin’ him.”
“’Tis a nasty gash,” added Nate, “but the lad will live.”
Knowing Nate as he did, Nick was surprised by the look of admiration on the old tar’s face as he watched the girl carefully checking the wound. Nate was treated more like an officer than a member of the crew and had many jobs of his own choosing. One was tending wounds, and he’d saved many a life over the years. As he watched the older seaman, Nick realized he’d seen that look on the Nate’s face before, usually when he was talking to Nick’s mother. Odd that.
His passenger looked up. “He’ll be fine, Captain, as long as the wound is kept clean and allowed to heal. I’ve some ointment in my cabin that works wonders. And thread. The cut will need stitching.”
John Trent smiled up at his nurse with a look of awe. “Whatever ye think is best, Miss Tara.”
Oh for Christ’s sake. His crew was turning to mush in the girl’s hands, though he thought he saw resentment in the eyes of a few who remained on the sidelines watching.
“I’ll get the salve and bandages,” his passenger said as she rose and hurried toward the hatchway, casually acknowledging him as she passed.
“Mr. Greene!” Nick yelled, realizing it came out more harshly than he’d intended. His cabin boy miraculously appeared, as he often did.
“Yes, sir?” The lad stood at attention, a few brown curls blowing in wild abandon across his forehead.
“Fetch some whiskey from Mr. McGinnis, Peter, and see that Mr. Trent here gets a good dose. As for the rest of you,” Nick looked around at the gathering crowd, “back to work!” The crew, who had left off their morning chores to watch the girl tending the downed seaman, scurried like rats before the ship’s cat to quickly resume their tasks. The bos’n, Jake, followed, advancing to the rigging.
Nick tilted his head to the sky and gazed far into the distance, grati
fied to see there were no clouds gathering on the horizon. For a while, at least, they would have fair weather. By his side, Russ said, “I’ll stay on deck, Captain.”
“Fine.” Nick headed toward the aft hatchway that would return him to his cabin. There was still the ship’s log to see to.
He had just descended the ladder when Tara McConnell, racing to the companionway with her hands full and looking down at her feet, plowed into him, losing her balance. He reached to steady her, bringing her body flush with his chest. When she looked up, her lips were mere inches from his.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” she said, flustered. For a moment their gazes locked. Her cheeks were reddening as she quickly stepped out of his arms. “I…I was hurrying to see to John.”
She might be young, but she had all the feminine parts he favored. Tall, slim and with breasts sufficient in size so he noticed. Somewhere she’d left her ridiculous hat behind, and wisps of honey-colored hair had pulled free from her plait and were blowing about her oval face. Light from the hatchway caught the golden strands framing her aquamarine eyes. For a moment, her beauty robbed him of breath.
Clamping down on the impulse to pull her into his arms, Nick spoke gruffly, “Miss McConnell, please take it more slowly in future.”
“You may call me Miss Tara, sir; everyone on my brother’s ship does.” She gave him an impish smile and looked aside as if remembering something. “Well, almost everyone.” With that she scooted sideways in the tight space, obviously trying to avoid touching him. The top of her head passed under his nose as she reached for the ladder. The unmistakable scent of jasmine wafted to his nostrils. He’d had too many well-tended women in his bed not to recognize the alluring smell. Now why would an American tomboy smell of jasmine?
The flowery scent and the memory of her warm breasts pressed against him produced an unwanted ripple of desire. Surprised at his reaction to what was no more than a sprout of a woman, and needing the distance her formal name would provide, he said, “Miss McConnell, while I appreciate your concern for my crew, do take care not to become a casualty yourself, hmm?”
“Of course, Captain,” she said over her shoulder as she deftly climbed the ladder. “I shall endeavor not to be a burden to you!”
“Oh, Miss McConnell, I should tell you, as I will the crew shortly, we will be making a stop in Bermuda for supplies, and another in the Caribbean. I am sorry but it will, of necessity, delay your arrival into Baltimore.”
She stepped down to the deck to stand next to him. “What? But I must get to Baltimore as soon as possible. My father—”
“There is nothing I can do, Miss McConnell. I was not free to inform you before we sailed. When you insisted on taking passage on my ship, you accepted the risk of the itinerary changing.”
She grimaced but said nothing. He could feel her displeasure as her blue-green eyes glared at him before she turned again toward the ladder and abruptly began to climb.
Nick shrugged as he glimpsed her long legs in dark stockings and rounded buttocks covered in breeches ascending the ladder—and ordered his body to relax.
Yes, definitely trouble.
* * *
Scrambling up to the deck as fast as she could, Tara let a curse escape under her breath, one she’d learned from her father’s crew at an early age. The captain was insufferable! And now there would be a further delay in her trip home. Weeks more, likely. And he’d seemed not at all apologetic for adding those weeks to her travel. Nor did he care that she was desperate to reach her father, who was ill and perhaps getting worse.
She remembered the captain’s penetrating gaze. Though he was as tall as her oldest brother, he had none of George’s mirth. She recognized that look when she saw it. It was that of a domineering male regarding with disdain what he obviously considered a lesser creature—a woman. She’d seen the look before on the faces of her brother’s new crew before they were given strict orders to respect her as one of them, the same look she’d seen on some of the Wind Raven’s crew.
But Tara would not dwell on the captain’s biases, nor the feel of his muscled chest as she’d careened into him, nor his fresh masculine scent mixed with sea air, which oddly made her want to linger in his presence. Nor could she do more for her father at this point.
Instead she hurried toward the place where she’d left the downed seaman, and dropped to his side. He was a young man, John Trent was, and attractive, with his mussed brown hair and eager blue eyes. She thought he’d probably been only a few years on the ship, though already his face was weathered from the sun and the salt.
The bleeding from John’s wound had worsened, not unexpectedly, as she’d removed the pieces of wood. Jake had returned to his bos’n duties, but old Nate crouched next to her, trying to humor John as she assessed the wound more carefully.
“I cut away a bit of his pant leg for ye,” Nate said.
“Thank you, Mr. Baker.” Tara examined the wound. Lodged in the gash in his leg were pieces of wood that must be removed. “This may hurt a bit as I pick out the splinters,” she told John.
The young seaman looked at her, a bit dazed. “I don’t mind, Miss Tara, not if you’re doing it.”
“Can I help ye?” ventured Mr. Baker.
“Some water from the scuttlebutt would be welcome. I’ll need to clean the wound.” She thought that given his years at sea, Mr. Baker had likely treated many wounds and was being kind to let her take the lead. She was grateful to offer what skills she had and happy to feel useful.
The cabin boy, Peter, stood nearby holding a bottle of whiskey. “Is that for John?” she asked.
The boy nodded.
“He could use some, I wager,” she said, smiling at John.
“The captain told me to fetch it,” said Peter. “Mr. Trent’s had one swallow already, but ’tis certain he’d like another.” Handing the bottle to John, the cabin boy took a seat on the deck, sitting cross-legged as he watched her working to remove the splinters.
So the captain was considerate of his crew. He had that to his good, at least. “Save some for the wound,” she told John, seeing him take a healthy swig. “Best not to drink more. We don’t want you falling down on deck, do we?”
“Whatever you say, miss,” said John, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and handing the bottle back to Peter.
Nate returned with a bucket of water and set it next to Tara. Wetting the cloth she’d brought up from her cabin, she began to clean the wound. The coppery smell of blood rose to her nostrils and the cabin boy turned pale and winced as she carefully removed the pieces of wood lodged in the wound. Before John could anticipate the sting, she doused the wound with whiskey. He let out a screech.
“Sorry,” she said in sympathy, watching him try to brave through the pain.
“’Tis no matter,” he said in a voice too high.
Her hands trembled as she quickly stitched the gash. When it was done, John let out the breath he had been holding, and she secured the wound with a bandage.
“There,” she said, glad the ordeal was over, “you’re all patched up. And you’ve been very brave.”
The lad beamed.
Gathering up her supplies, Tara rose from the deck. Peter and Nate helped the young seaman to stand. Stuffing the whiskey in his pocket, Peter provided support for John, who slowly limped off, saying he’d better find the ship’s carpenter to repair the batten. Tara was left alone with Nate, watching the pair make their way to the hatch.
“Ye’ve done this before, lass,” Nate observed.
Yes, she had, and each time it saddened her to see the wounds, some scarring the sailors for life. “Many times on my oldest brother’s ship in the year before I went to London. After the war I was allowed to sail with him again.” Her work done, Tara plopped her hat on her head and went to get a drink of water. She sat back against the scuttlebutt, content she had been of some help.
Nate joined her, pulling his pipe from his pocket as he took a seat on the deck. He had the face of a man who’d spent
his life at sea, wrinkled and browned like leather left in the sun. It was one reason her father had insisted she wear a hat. But she liked Nate’s face. It was kind and spoke of wisdom, not unlike that of her father. She thought old Nate’s wiry gray hair might have come early. He might be younger than he appeared. His brown eyes often held an excitement that belied his apparent age, and she’d seen him move agilely across the deck. He might be only in his forties.
“Tell me about yer family, lass.”
She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “It’s just my father, my brothers and me. My mother died when I was young. It’s hard to remember her now.” A feeling of wistfulness came over Tara as it always did when she thought about the mother she’d lost when she was only six. “I was raised by my father with my four older brothers. Our housekeeper, Maggie O’Flaherty, took care of us when we were at home.”
“Yer brothers all sail, do they?” he asked, leisurely puffing on his pipe.
“Yes, though we lost Ben, the youngest, in the last war.”
“I’m sorry for yer loss. War is never a good thing. I’ve lost many friends to it, family, too. ’Tis hard.”
She gave him a sympathetic look before saying, “Ben and I were close.” Shrugging off the memories that still haunted her, she resumed her story. “Since the war, my father has been more engaged in the shipbuilding side of the business. By the time I left for London, George was sailing less, too, leaving John and Thomas as the two ship’s captains in the family.”
“They made it through the last skirmish between England and America, I take it?”
“All but Ben, though the three who survived have wounds to show for it.” The fact that at least three of her brothers had returned safely from the war gave Tara a great sense of relief. She had begged them to take her with them, if only to tend the wounded, but they had refused, leaving her at home for those few years. She’d had much time to worry.
“Ye must be spoiled being the only girl among so many men.”
“Does it show?” At his grin, she added, “I suppose they have spoiled me. They are much older than me. George and John are in their thirties, and Tom right behind them in his late twenties.” She looked at the older, wiser seaman and knew he’d understand when she said, “I arrived a bit late, or so Father tells me.” Curious about the man she found so irritating, she asked, “Is your captain from a sailing family?”