Her mother wasn't much help either. Her solution to everything was to go to church and pray. Incessantly. She was forever in the pastor's office, seeking counseling. The poor man was probably sick of her by now. Even her prayer loop grew tired of the constant requests for every petty little thing. If God answered prayer, then why did her mother need medication for anxiety and depression?
Morgan laid her head on her knees and tried to focus on anything but the filth and smell around her--and worse, on her. No wonder her parents had divorced. Her father was an alcoholic who worshiped money and power, and her mother was a religious zealot hooked on pills. Of course Morgan had no right to judge on the pill front, though she wondered whether her addiction to them wasn't her mother's fault as well.
Morgan had been sent to counseling at age twelve--trauma from the divorce, her mother had told the psychologist. Though Morgan hadn't felt traumatized. Whenever Morgan had trouble making friends at school, whenever she was teased and bullied because she was smart and plain, whenever Morgan's heart was broken, or she wasn't picked for the girls' soccer team, her mom sent her to the shrink for more pills.
Pills and prayer, the answer to everything.
But neither had helped her mother. Or Morgan. She was still plain and shy and insecure and nervous. And she still had to keep everything in her life as ordered as possible--tidy and in its place--or she might go off the deep end.
Funny choice of words, seeing as the water seemed to be creeping up the side of the crate instead of retreating. And what was that squealing? Something scampered on a beam overhead. No way. Her father wouldn't have put real rats on the boat.
She shivered and tried to focus on something else. What had she been thinking about? Ah, yes, her miserable life. Despite her crazy upbringing, she'd been able to get through college with a degree in Information Systems. Which landed her a great job at Qualcomm Holographics, along with the ability to finally move out of her mother's house--also known as loony town--and into her own place.
Cussing echoed through the boat, followed by sloshing and stomping, and finally the distant glow of a lantern disappeared. Great. The men had given up on the pumps and left.
"Hello!" she shouted. "Are you going to let me drown down here?"
But her only answer was the creak and groan of the boat as it tipped to the right. She placed a hand on the moist hull to keep from falling from her perch. Wherever this boat was going--and she hoped it was back to San Diego--they better get there fast before they sank. That cannonball and the hole it made were quite real. Another nice touch by her father.
And so she waited in the pitch blackness, serenaded by the slosh of water, the scrape of wood-on-wood, and the squeal of rats, many rats--the sounds of which must be piped in from an MP3 player somewhere.
She supposed her father wanted her to use this time to think about all the good things she had in life, instead of her cancer, but all she could think about was her queasy stomach, the putrid stench that filled her lungs, and the sensation of being roasted alive.
They couldn't leave her down here much longer. Could they?
Yet an eternity passed. Morgan's head bobbed in exhaustion, and more than once, she had to pinch herself to stay awake, fearful she might fall into the sewage.
Finally a pinprick of light appeared in the distance, blossoming like a bud into flower as someone headed toward her. A middle-aged woman with dark skin came into view, holding a lantern and wearing a look of concern.
"Let's git you outta here, child," she said as she inserted a key into the lock, clacked it open, and removed it from the gate. It dropped into the water with a splash, drawing Morgan's gaze to the now four inches of slime covering the floor.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, I dunno what the Cap'n be thinkin', leavin' you down here like this."
Relief unwound a few of Morgan's nerves. "Finally. Thank God."
The woman swung open the gate, and Morgan slid off her crate into the water. Warm muck saturated her jeans, and she swallowed down another burst of nausea. "Are we almost at San Diego?"
"I dunno 'bout no San Diego, child." The woman led the way through the water, the bottom of her dress sloshing back and forth.
Morgan sighed. Would no one admit to this charade?
"If I'd a known you was down here, I'd a come sooner."
"My father called you?" At least the man has some heart. "That uncouth Neanderthal would have left me down here all night."
The woman looked confused for a moment but then chuckled. "Oh, you mean the captain?"
"Who else?"
"Who d'ya think sent me to git you?"
Chapter 4
Morgan dreamed she was in a wine cellar, one of those damp, dark basements where they kept oak barrels used to age grape juice. She'd visited several of the local wineries around the San Diego area with friends--sipping, sampling, tasting--much to her mother's dismay, and placing another blemish on Morgan's tarnished soul. Now, as she hovered on the brink of consciousness with the scent of aged oak filling her nose, the room rocked like a teeter-totter, and she feared the worst. Had she passed out in a wine cellar? How embarrassing!
She forced her eyes open. Wooden beams stretched overhead where a rope looped through a hook and lowered to a white canvas suspended in mid-air. What? Memories crept out from hiding, but not quick enough to stop her from jerking to sit up and flipping over whatever she'd been lying on. She hit the floor. Hard. Pain jolted up her arms then etched across her back. Her head began to throb. Moaning, she struggled to rise, only then seeing the hammock swinging back and forth above her.
Great. She was still on the stupid boat. Morgan hoped her father would have rescued her during the night. No doubt he didn't want to waste the money he'd already invested in this insane fantasy. Her stomach soured, and she lowered her gaze to beams of sunlight that oscillated over the floor from a round window behind her. How long had she slept?
"Good, you're awake." The female voice preceded a gust of salty wind from the open door, and the woman who'd rescued her from the sewer came in with a tray she set upon a small table attached to the wall. Turning, she took one step and shut the door, then planted hands on her wide hips and chuckled. "Them canvas bags are hard gitting used to."
"Don't they have beds on this old boat?" The scent of ginger and lemon lured Morgan to stand and approach the tray. "Is this the same tea you brought me last night? It really helped."
"Aye, glad to hear it, child. The cap'n told me to bring you some for your seasickness."
Morgan slid onto one of the two chairs and picked up the steaming mug. She found that hard to believe, unless he had now switched from the role of nasty pirate to would-be-boyfriend.
The tea was lukewarm and tasted bitter, but Morgan gulped it down as if it were a Pepsi. "Are we in San Diego yet?"
"I dunno where this San Diego is, but we's close to some island the cap'n wanted to git to."
Morgan shook her head. "Please ... Edith, is it? Please drop the act when it's just you and me? I really can't take it anymore."
Edith stared at Morgan as if she'd told her to transform into a toad. And a pretty toad the middle-aged woman would make too. Barely a few wrinkles were visible around her mouth and eyes, leaving the rest of her skin as smooth as milk chocolate. A few curls sprang loose from shiny black hair that was pinned up in a bun. She was plump in all the right places, and her eyes brimmed with both kindness and wisdom. And, at the moment, concern.
"Child, that bump on your head musta jangled something loose upstairs. Now, don't you worry 'bout nothing. You's in good hands."
Morgan groaned inwardly. Her father had probably told these actors he'd ruin their career--make it so they'd never work in Hollywood again--if they stepped out of character even for a second. Okay, she'd play along. For now. "In good hands? Hardly. I'm on a pirate ship."
"Aye, but the cap'n won't hurt you none. He's not that way."
"Hmm." Morgan set down her mug and picked up a round hard biscuit from the tray.<
br />
"Tack," Edith said. "It's not tasty but it's all we's got till we git to land. When your stomach settles, I'm making turtle stew for dinner."
Turtle stew? Morgan wrinkled her nose, not sure that sounded much better. But as she bit off a chunk of tack, she quickly changed her mind. A taste similar to the chalk she'd eaten on a bet in fifth grade filled her mouth, and she gulped her tea to wash it down. Her gaze landed on a dress and some lacy garments hanging on a hook.
"Are you the only woman on board?"
"'Sides you." Edith unclipped the hammock and began rolling it up.
"Why are you here? I thought pirates were notorious for raping every woman they came across."
"Shhh now, child." Edith scolded her, her cheeks flooding maroon. "A proper lady shouldn't say sich things." She paused and folded the hammock, then stuffed it in netting attached to the wall. "Some pirates do, I suppose ... but the cap'n don't go for sich things. 'Sides, I help wit' mending sails an' clothing, cooking, an' sometimes doctoring wit' my husband."
"The surgeon is your husband?" Or rather butcher. Morgan absently touched the stitches on her head, surprised they weren't infected.
Edith studied Morgan's wound. "He did a good job, my Farley," she said with pride.
"Ah ha! He's white and you're black. People didn't marry outside of their race back in the day, right? My father should have thought of that!"
Edith's brow wrinkled. "I dunno what you're saying 'bout the day an' your father, but yes, whites and Negros don't wed. But you see, Farley rescued me." She sat across from Morgan. "I was a slave to the apothecary in Port Royal, an' Farley was the butcher down the street. He'd always make an excuse to visit me, some new ailment he had which needed a special potion. But the apothecary was a cruel man, an' Farley couldn't stand to see me beat, so's one day he up an' stole me away." She smiled. "An' we got married an' joined wit' the captain. Been wit' him ever since. Someday, though"--her dark eyes sparkled--"when the world accepts our marriage, we's going to open our own apothecary an' help heal people when they's sick."
Wow. If any of that was true, Morgan would be touched by the romantic story. Good grief. Had her father given everyone on board their own history?
"Was God's doin'," Edith continued. " I prayed an' prayed to be free an' God not only freed me, but He sent me a husband--a good man."
Morgan snorted. "Does my father know you're religious? I doubt he'd have hired you if he knew."
"I dunno nothing 'bout that, child, but I know you seem confused. Do you remember how you come to be here? Seems like you jist appeared out'a nowheres."
Morgan finished the chalk, hoping it would absorb the acid in her stomach. "If you don't know the answer to that, I'm in bigger trouble than I thought."
Edith tilted her head. "I will pray for you, that God makes your path clear."
"You can pray all you want, but God isn't listening." As evidenced by her mother's prayers for Morgan all these years--for prosperity, happiness, and health. None of which had happened.
Edith gave a sad smile but no rebuttal. Instead, she grabbed the gown off the hook and held it up. "Now, child, let's git you cleaned up an' dressed proper."
At first Morgan protested. Not the cleaning part. She was more than thrilled to use the water in the pail Edith brought earlier to wipe off as much muck as she could. The problem was the dress. Morgan hadn't worn one in years--not even to church--and she wasn't about to start now. But there was blood on her t-shirt and sludge on her jeans, and a smell emanated from both that would make a sewage worker faint. She could hardly believe she'd slept in such a condition, but when Edith had brought her to her room instead of the captain's and given her some soothing tea, Morgan's nerves had begun to unwind. And she must have fallen asleep.
"Okay, but I don't suppose you have a clean pair of jeans handy?"
Edith pretended not to understand. So, an hour later, holding her stomach with one hand and the ladder railing with the other--and looking like a stuffed china doll--Morgan followed Edith onto the main deck. She'd begged the older woman to take her above so Morgan could see for herself how far they were from the California coast.
Edith agreed but would only leave her there if the captain was on deck.
He was. Standing one level above them by the tiller. Hair blowing in the wind and earring winking in the sunlight, he raised a scope to view something in the distance.
Morgan didn't have time to see what it was when the boat shifted, and she stumbled forward, nearly tripping over her gown ... skirts ... whatever they were called. What ridiculous things women had to wear in the past. Something called a chemise that was like her grandmother's old nightgown, then multiple petticoats, stockings, stays, and a bodice so tight Morgan could hardly breathe. At least she'd be safe from any stray bullets, for nothing could penetrate the stiff stays that covered her stomach and chest. On top of all the layers, Edith had flung an emerald green over-skirt embroidered in gold braid.
Edith pointed toward the railing. "Excuse me, child, but I have things to do below." And off she disappeared down the same hatch.
Morgan tripped again, and the actors chuckled. With narrowed eyes, she scanned their filthy faces, only to find all gazes fastened upon her. She wasn't used to having men look at her, but she supposed there wasn't any other woman on deck to slobber over at the moment. When she reached the railing, the sea spit in her face. Groaning, she closed her eyes against the sting of salt but found the water cooled the sweat already forming on her neck and arms from the blaring sun and humidity.
The toe of her brocade shoes--as Edith had called them--struck a coil of rope on the deck, and she noticed the loops weren't aligned correctly. Kneeling, she adjusted the top strand so it fit with the others.
Wait. Hot and humid?
Alarm sent her heart into a frenzy. The northern Pacific wasn't hot and humid. She rose and gazed over the waters. This was a tropical sea, with a tropical island in the distance. She blinked to focus, but the scene remained the same. Had they sailed down by Mexico? They couldn't have gone that far in this old boat. Turning, she scanned the deck. Where were all the ship signs? And the table of souvenirs and chest of soft drinks? The replica boat didn't have a raised deck at the front like this one. Or cannons lining the railing. She gulped. How could they have changed things so quickly?
Morgan must have been unconscious for quite some time. Tiffany! Morgan's father had probably paid her off. The girl never could resist a new pair of Pradas, and Morgan's father would have convinced her it was the best thing for Morgan. Yup. That was it. Her loyal friend had slipped something in her drink. The betrayal stung. Was there no one Morgan could trust?
The tightness in her chest returned, along with shortness of breath and the feeling of dread that always accompanied an anxiety attack. She needed her meds. And she needed them now. The boat leapt over a wave, and she gripped the railing. Turquoise waters, capped in creamy foam, spread out as far as the eye could see. Thick cottony clouds, so uncharacteristic of California, rolled like tumbleweeds across the blue sky.
Wherever she was, she wasn't in Kansas anymore.
♥♥♥
Whistles and catcalls brought Rowan's gaze to the deck below where the woman stood by the railing in billowing green skirts and a tight gold-colored bodice. The tip of her bound hair flopped over her back in the breeze. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and turned slightly, giving him a peek at the creamy mounds of a chest he didn't think she possessed. Lady Minx? But of course it was her. And from the looks of the crew gaping at her, he now had a problem on his hands. They'd been at sea for two weeks, and that was long enough for the men's appetite to grow to desperation. Blast it all! He hadn't thought putting her in proper attire would make her appealing. Now, what was he to do with her?
She stood there, head held high, shoulders back, appearing to harbor no fear of being ravished--in truth, no fear of anything. An admirable quality to be sure. And one that befitted a woman whose wits had aband
oned her. Not a thief. Either way, her brazenness would make his job of protecting her all the more difficult.
Wind, ripe with the scent of brine and tropical flowers, blasted over him as he glanced at the island, now just a mile off their larboard beam. It would take a few days to repair the ship. He might as well careen it as well, which meant no one could stay on board. His crew would relish the chance to stretch their legs and feast on fruit and fish. But they would also relish a woman's company. Rowan would have to assign a few trustworthy men to guard the minx. But he had so few he could count on.
She met his gaze then, the usual defiance searing her eyes. And something else. She gave him a curt little smile, a smile of power and independence as if to say she was the one in command.
Of all the ...! Obviously her time in the hold did little to assuage her pomposity. Forsooth, what a marvel! He turned to Kerr and found him staring at the lady as well. "Lower sails and prepare to navigate the shoals. We'll come in under tops."
With a nod, the first mate leapt onto the main deck and shouted across the ship, "Lay aloft! Haul taut! In main and fore!" Men leapt into the ratlines and scrambled above as Rowan leaned toward Nick and pointed to a curved outcropping that formed a small bay. "Bring her into that cove."
"Aye, Captain."
Rowan rubbed sweat from the back of his neck. "And where's Jorg with the blasted logline?"
Nick scanned the deck and found the man talking with two other pirates. "Jorg, the depth!" Jerking to attention, Jorg sped off, returning within minutes and tossing the line over the railing.
"Braces ease, trim your sheets, trim the bowlines!" Kerr continued shouting as the ship slowed and limp sails flapped in the breeze.
"Twenty fathoms!" Jorg shouted over his shoulder.
Rowan leapt down the quarterdeck ladder, glancing at the woman as he passed her on the main deck. She clung to the railing, her gaze taking in the island, the frothy water, the crew at their various tasks as if she were enthralled with it all--and completely oblivious of the attention she garnered from every man aboard.
The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates) Page 5