Sarah was hugging the bedraggled boy and yelling at him at the same time. Sparhawk could not hear what she was saying; the ocean still roared in his ears, but he imagined it was a litany of thanks to whatever iteration of the Divine they favored in Naumkeag and admonitions never to be nearly drowned again.
He envied the boy the harangue and the embrace. He could not recall a time when anyone had ever been that happy to see him alive.
The boy finally freed himself from her arms and began speaking urgently.
Sarah looked up and smiled at Sparhawk. The gratitude on her face warmed him. For a moment he forgot that he was bone tired and dizzy and soaking wet and that his arm hurt like hell. He forgot that she was a Rebel and a smuggler and that he was a naval officer and her captive. He tried to raise his battered hand to acknowledge her, but the cold made him clumsy and his aching fingers would not uncurl.
The girl’s smile vanished. She pushed the boy toward the hatch and came striding across the deck to Sparhawk. “Let me see your hand.”
“It’s nothing.”
She cradled his forearm in her own and touched his wrist gingerly. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it felt strange. Something looked wrong about it beneath his sleeve, but he couldn’t quite tell what.
“Let’s get you below,” she said.
That sounded like an excellent idea to him.
He took a step, swayed, felt his knees buckle. The girl slipped under his shoulders to accept his weight, but she could not support him on her own. “Mr. Cheap!” she called out.
The sailing master came running and lifted Sparhawk’s good arm over his shoulder. Together, Cheap and the girl got him down the hatch, across the deck, and into the captain’s cabin.
His body felt not his own, and freed from it, he noticed things he had not earlier. The bed had been built for a bigger man than the dead captain. The chair as well. The bed curtains were a nice—if impractical—touch, with their fine blue needlework on a cream wool background. It spoke of a sort of permanence you could not expect in the navy. You commanded at the Admiralty’s pleasure. You took what ships they gave you. You did not, as a rule, mistake them for a home.
They lowered him to sit on the edge of the bed. The sensation of waves tumbling his body slowed. Cheap took a good long look at Sparhawk’s hand, grunted, and walked out, leaving the door pointedly ajar.
“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” she said. Her fingers were already lifting the hem of his shirt.
“Alas,” he said, trying for a playful tone even as his head spun and a dull ache took up residence in his arm. “I suspect I am not fit for action.”
She snorted. “Your vanity, at least, is unflagging. Lean forward.”
He did so. She was deft and efficient pulling up his shirt, careful not to touch his injured arm any more than was necessary. It occurred to him that she had done this before.
“You’re very calm in a crisis,” he observed.
“I’ve had a fair bit of practice.”
She peeled his sleeve off to reveal his injured arm. Broken, for certain. Crooked near the wrist, like a dinner fork. It was not the worst he had been hurt. He had seen enough broken limbs in the service to know that it was the good kind—nothing was poking through the skin.
“It will need to be straightened,” she said.
“Is that one of your many skills?” he asked, hopefully.
“No, unfortunately not. I can make you comfortable for now,” she said, feeling along his arm, “but I’m no bonesetter. You must see a doctor. Sooner, rather than later, or it will not set properly.”
She bent to examine his hand, and he noted how long and slender her neck was, how dainty and pink the lobe of her ear. She pressed tentatively on his wrist. Pain shot up his arm.
“I think there is only one break,” she said, “very near the wrist, and perhaps some smaller bones in the hand.”
He was not squeamish about blood—or at least he had ceased to be after his first battle at sea—but the bent angle of his normally straight limb disturbed him in a way that blood did not, and to a degree that would not have been possible in the heat of a fight. When the guns were speaking and splinters flying, you lost all awareness of your own body except as it carried you back and forth across the deck or onto the enemy’s vessel. He’d once been stabbed through the shoulder during a boarding action and not noticed until an hour later.
This, though, made him feel light-headed, and he did not want to faint in front of this brave girl. His attraction to her was maddening. Even cold, injured, and exhausted, his body stirred to her touch. “The bed curtains,” he said, fixing his eyes on them, “are very nice.”
“They’re very old-fashioned. I made them when I was fourteen,” she said. “And you’re whiter than they are.” So she was brave and perceptive. And she smelled like rain and soap and appealed to him like a hot bath on a stormy day. “Lie back and let me prop up your arm.”
“I dismasted your ship and killed your captain—you needn’t be so gallant,” he said, echoing her earlier words, and hoping she did not notice his increasingly obvious condition.
“I’m not being gallant,” she said, plumping a cushion. “Returning you to the admiral half drowned and crippled would hardly improve our situation.”
She positioned a pillow for his head. He leaned back into the welcome warmth of the feather mattress, felt the cool linen sheet at his back, unexpectedly crisp and smooth. It steadied him, reminded him of the bedding his mother had painstakingly ironed for the trundle in their rude little cottage. It had been a luxury she had brought to the island from home. He had not thought of it in years.
Another cushion found its way under his elbow. That was nice.
There were captains in the navy with a reputation for high living, of course. He had never desired to be one of them. There had been a post commander in the Med who liked to entertain in his cabin, which was lined with Turkey carpets and crammed with exotic objets d’art.
This was something different. Not luxury. Comfort. Perhaps someday Sparhawk might have a trim little schooner like this, with a paneled captain’s cabin, and bed curtains embroidered by a pretty girl. One who would not be harmed by his attentions, as this one would.
Ned entered the room, clothes dry but golden hair dripping, with a bundle under each arm—muslin and kindling, it appeared. He had a tankard in his hand, and Sparhawk’s bedraggled blue coat thrown over his shoulder. He passed the bundles and the coat to his sister. “Mr. Cheap sent these,” he said. Then he turned to Sparhawk. “Thank you for going in after me, sir. I brought you my ration of grog, if you’d like it.” He held out the tin cup.
“I suspect Captain Sparhawk would prefer some of our late skipper’s brandy, Ned,” his sister said.
The boy looked crestfallen.
“By no means. Grog is just the thing. Thank you very much, Ned.” He took the tankard in his good hand. “But from now on, when you’re in the rigging, remember: one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself.”
The boy nodded and beamed. “I shall, sir. I promise.”
Sparhawk detected a whiff of hero worship. He supposed he had looked at old Captain McKenzie that way from time to time. Sarah only eyed him with suspicion.
As well she should. Despite his best intentions, he was trying to charm her.
Oblivious to his sister’s disapproval, the boy went on. “Mr. Cheap says to convey his thanks as well, and tell you that he probably won’t have you killed.”
“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” Sparhawk replied.
“That’s practically a billet-doux where Mr. Cheap is concerned,” the girl said.
“He’s been threatening to kill Benji for years,” Ned added.
“Who is Benji?” Sparhawk asked, sipping his rum. It was dark, rich, and indeed quite warming. Better stuff than the navy bought and less liberally
watered. Smuggled, no doubt.
“He’s our older brother.”
“And where is this older brother?” And why isn’t he here looking after you?
“Away,” said Sarah curtly. It was clear that she did not want to talk about this Benji. Interesting.
“He’s in London,” supplied the boy. “But he is coming back.”
“And what was he doing in London?” Sparhawk asked.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but his sister forestalled him. “That’s enough, Ned. You mustn’t tell the captain your name or anything that might help him identify us.”
Ned looked uncertainly at Sparhawk.
“I already know your names, Sarah.” It was the first time he had used it. He’d never thought the name pretty before. “I take it the Sally is your namesake. Is that what you prefer to be called?”
“No.”
“Sarah, then.”
“Altogether too familiar.”
“I’m not some old retainer. I can hardly call you Miss Sarah.”
“You may call her Miss Ward,” uttered Ned, with a gravity beyond his years. “But you mustn’t offer her any insult. Then I would be obliged to call you out, even if you did save my life.” A very adult speech, Sparhawk thought. Then the boy added, “Though you would probably win. I am not the swordsman my brother is.”
“Just as well,” advised Sparhawk. “Fancy sword work is not much use in the navy. It’s all hacking and slashing when you board the enemy.”
“I believe we have already had this conversation, Captain. He won’t be entering the navy.”
“No. Not as a common sailor,” Sparhawk agreed. “Although he is a very good hand.” The boy beamed. “But he could go far as a midshipman. I did.”
“You were not a colonial.”
“I was an orphan.” Or at least that was what the world thought. “I had no interest save that of the captain I served under.” That part was true enough.
“But you were still English. It makes a difference.” She gently lifted Sparhawk’s arm and directed the boy to slide a length of muslin under it. Together they wrapped his wrist, using the wooden splint to provide stability, and when they were done he had to agree that he felt altogether more comfortable.
Too comfortable. She dismissed Ned, shut the cabin door, and placed her hands on Sparhawk’s fall front.
He used his good hand to stop her. “There’s no need,” he said.
“I am not giving you my ration of grog, so to speak. Your skin is cold to the touch, and your wet breeches are soaking the bed. They must come off, and we must get you warm.”
“Give me a blanket, then. An unmarried girl shouldn’t have to do such a thing.”
She raised one golden eyebrow. “There’s no one else to do it, and you don’t know for a fact that I’m not married.”
“Yes, I do. Mr. Cheap is too old to be your husband, and no sane man would let his wife go to sea on a smuggler’s ketch alone, particularly if she looked like you.”
“Flattery does not sway me, Captain Sparhawk.”
“It isn’t flattery. You’re a charming creature, and I have been on station for three months. The combination produces a rather predictable result.”
His meaning penetrated. “Oh.”
“It would be best if you left me to my own devices now,” he said. “Unless you’re going to offer me your ration of grog . . . so to speak.”
• • •
He was teasing, of course. His battered arm had claimed all of her attention up to that point. It was a bad break, but she had known better than to let him see that on her face. It must be set, well and quickly, or he would lose the use of his hand.
But he was as comfortable as she could make him now, and it was impossible to ignore the fine proportions of his body: the broad chest, defined pectorals, narrow waist, and strong, muscled thighs.
He was a very well-made man.
And inconveniently heroic.
It might at one time have been possible for James Sparhawk, master and commander of His Majesty’s brig the Wasp, to take more than physical notice of fashionable Sarah Ward, heiress, but misfortune and her own mistakes had altered her prospects irrevocably. A man as accomplished and respected as Sparhawk, no matter what side Sarah took in the present squabble with Parliament, was forever beyond her reach.
She handed him the blanket. “No grog,” she said, as much to herself as to him, because grog was the only thing they could share, and if she had been able to resist temptation before, everything would now be different. “But I am very grateful to you for saving my brother. Even if it is your fault that he was in the water in the first place.”
She only half meant it. She knew that Sparhawk’s actions had been necessary. It was what her father would have done.
“It seemed a great pity,” Sparhawk said lightly, “after you turned pirate in order to save him, to let the boy drown.”
He made light of his heroism, but Sarah was a mariner’s daughter and had been bred to the sea. She knew the risk he had taken. Few sailors troubled to learn how to swim, because they understood it was unlikely to save them. Chances were that if you went into rough water, you drowned.
She fetched the Sally’s log from his bedraggled coat. “You have earned this, at least,” she said, and laid it on the bed beside his good hand.
He let out a deep breath. For the first time since their escape from the Wasp she thought about what James Sparhawk would face when he returned to Boston. He had been separated from command of his ship. It was very possible he would be court-martialed.
In this country it is a good thing to kill an admiral from time to time to encourage the others.
And heedless of the danger—both the immediate prospect of drowning and the looming threat of court-martial—he had braved the churning sea and saved Ned. There could be nothing between them. The gulf separating them was too wide for a legitimate connection, and a liaison would only drag her family further into disrepute. She could not give him what he—what she—wanted, but she owed Sparhawk something. “The man you want,” she said. “His name is Micah Wild.”
“Thank you,” Sparhawk said. “This will make my reception in Boston a good deal more welcoming.”
If Micah Wild learned of her betrayal, it would make her reception in Salem a good deal less so.
Four
Sparhawk slept deeply. It occurred to him only upon waking that he had done so in a dead man’s bed.
His arm felt stiff and heavy. He was not in pain, exactly, but he ached. His body, clearly, needed more sleep, but something had woken him. That was when he realized that the Sally was riding at anchor.
The ship’s log was still lying next to him on the bed. He had lost the schooner as a prize, but he could still return to the admiral with important evidence against the traitors who had been conspiring with the French. If the gold reached Boston, it would further mitigate the circumstances of his capture, and he might escape with only a reprimand. He ought to feel a measure of satisfaction. Instead, he felt unsettled about the girl.
The door opened. It was only when Lucas Cheap entered that James realized how much he had been hoping to see Sarah again.
The grizzled pirate had a brown coat and a crumpled hat in one hand and a jug of water in the other. “You’ll get your fancy blue coat back, but for now you’re to wear this.”
Cheap left him to wash and dress.
The coat was threadbare copper velvet with tarnished gold lace. The wide gored skirts were thirty years out-of-date, and the lavish embellishment eclipsed the martial splendor of Sparhawk’s uniform.
Unexpectedly, for he was not a small man, it was a trifle long and a whit roomy through the shoulders.
He tried the door and found it unlocked. He navigated the main deck successfully in the gloom, but the ladder was tricky with his
bound hand, nothing in his stomach for twenty-four hours save seawater and grog, and six yards of figured velvet swirling around his knees. The coat, he fancied, demanded a certain swagger that was difficult to pull off with a broken arm. That he cared so much about his appearance while in the clutches of Rebel smugglers was a testament to the allure of Sarah Ward.
When he emerged on deck it was to a heavy morning fog. There were no lights, and the crew worked in disciplined silence. Sarah stood at the side, wrapped in a heavy wool boat cloak, her honey gold hair piled like silk yarn in the hood, bright against the tar black rigging.
Sparhawk had bedded more than his fair share of beautiful women; brought many of them aboard his vessels, either out of convenience or because his paramours pretended an interest in the workings of a man-of-war. Rarely did such interest last beyond their first faltering steps on deck. Never did the color of the sun filtered through canvas or the quality of light reflected off the water burnish their beauty more brightly. More often the roll and pitch of the ship robbed their bodies of grace and the wind disarranged their careful coiffures.
Not so with Sarah Ward. Aboard the Sally she was a jewel in a setting, shown to best advantage by wind-filled canvas and pitch pine spars.
Mr. Cheap observed Sparhawk studying the girl once more, but this time he did not flash his gold-toothed smile. Instead, he dug Sparhawk’s silver gilt button out of a pocket and flicked it high into the air, then caught it. A little something to remember you by, Captain.
Sparhawk took the hint and looked away. They were anchored beside a small island, low and rocky, with bursts of color—wildflowers, he presumed—and noble stands of trees. He turned back to Sarah Ward with what he hoped was an expression of polite interest rather than lecherous perusal. “Where are we?”
“Anchored off Misery Island, near Salem.”
“It doesn’t look particularly miserable.”
“Try being stranded on it for three days in December, during a storm.”
A brisk wind was blowing off the place. “The idea does not appeal.” He buttoned his borrowed coat against the chill.
The Rebel Pirate Page 4