The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1)

by Alex Westmore

  Rebecca grabbed Quinn’s face and kissed her over and over. “If they be yer mistresses, then I will gladly join in.”

  Quinn smiled. “Grace O’Malley calls, beautiful one, and I must answer.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen her in here many a time, but I never had the courage ta speak with her. She is... unlike enna woman I have ever seen. Is she as amazin’ as they say?”

  Quinn grinned. “More so. Let me just say she makes the myths about her pale in comparison ta the facts.” Rising, Quinn kissed the back of Rebecca’s hand. “I must be off, sweet girl. As amazing as she is, Captain O’Malley is a harsh taskmaster, and I dare not be late.”

  Patrick banged again. “I mean it, Kieran!”

  Quinn opened the door and jutted her head out. “Coming. Hold yer horses.”

  Peering over her shoulder, Patrick backed away from the door. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Had my own hands full.”

  Quinn turned one last time to Rebecca. “I shall take a chit fer the rest of our dance, if ya’d be so inclined.”

  Rebecca licked her lips and smiled. “Certainly I would, but on one condition. Call me Becca.”

  Bowing low, Quinn nodded. “Becca it is. Until we meet again, Becca.” Quinn got only two steps beyond the door before Becca called her back.

  “I believe, good sir, that ya have just ruined me fer other men.”

  Quinn shook her head. “No one can ruin ya, beautiful lady. Ya are incorruptible.”

  As Patrick pulled her from the door, he groused, “Incorruptible? Are you mad? I swear. All this time and you still don’t sound like this filthy crew.”

  Linking her arm through his, Quinn laughed as manly a guffaw as she could muster. “Paddy, I’m the daughter of a noble dressed like a man and sleeping with women before I climb aboard a pirate ship that’s captained by a woman who’s acting like a man. Of course I’m mad! Aren’t we all?”

  Together, they tossed their heads back and laughed all the way back down to the tavern.

  ***

  As Quinn and Patrick carried a very inebriated Connor back to the ship, three men stepped out in front of them, blocking their way.

  “Well, looka what we have here, William. If it isn’t Connor McBride bein’ hauled off, as usual, ta his ship. Pissed fool that he is.”

  “Whatever issue ya have with Connor does not concern us,” Quinn said, feeling very conscious of the dead weight of their friend as they stood there.

  “Yer right, boyo. Then why dontcha drop him where ya stand, and we’ll take over from here?” said the one addressed as William. He had a long red beard with extensive wiry red hair to match.

  Patrick dumped Connor to the ground, the unconscious man’s weight nearly taking Quinn with him. “He’s all yours.”

  “Smart man.”

  Rising up, Quinn calculated their chances. Connor was useless, Paddy was tipsy, and that left Quinn to do the lion’s share of the work.

  What else was new?

  Turning slightly sideways so that her sword was further away from the men, Quinn cleared her throat.

  “Oh no, Kieran,” Patrick whined. “Not for the likes of Connor McBride. Let it go this once.”

  And therein lay the greatest problem with her brother. He simply did not understand the pirate code of ethics. An insult to one was an insult to all.

  “Do you have any idea what the McBride clan would start if they found out we left their boy to get his arse whipped?” Quinn placed her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Do you have any idea what they would do to you?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care. The man is a cheater.”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow at her brother, waiting.

  Sighing, Patrick turned as well, his hand hovering about the hilt of his sword. “Fine, but this is the last time we save his arse.”

  Quinn smiled. “Agreed.”

  “Are ya both daft?” The shorter man roared. “We’re aimin’ ta crush yer pretty-boy faces into the ground, and fer what? The likes a’ this bloody bastard?”

  Quinn and Patrick unsheathed their weapons simultaneously. “Ya will have ta best us first,” Quinn said. Since her sword was on her right and Patrick’s was on his left, they both favored the cross draw, reaching for their swords across their bodies. As a left-handed swordsman, Quinn had an advantage over most right-handed men: while she was used to fighting right-handed men, they were not used to fighting a lefty. It had proven to be her advantage time and again.

  All three men drew their swords.

  “It doesna have ta be like this, laddies. All we want is ta roust up yer boy there. Have a little fun wi’ him.” This came from a string bean of a man with a gap-toothed set of teeth that looked like they belonged in someone else’s mouth.

  “He may be a gambler and a cheat, fellas, but he’s our gambler and cheat, and we don’t take kindly ta those who want ta ‘roust’ our own.” Quinn took her fighting stance. Every time she did, she silently thanked her father for using her as a training partner for Patrick for all those years. She couldn’t imagine her father approving of this reversal of roles where it was Quinn diving into fights and pulling Patrick in with her. “So, if ya don’t mind, we’d like ta finish this so we can get back ta our ship.”

  The three men paused.

  “Yer ship?” String Bean asked.

  Quinn nodded. “The Malendroke. Perhaps ya’ve heard of it.”

  All three men froze.

  “Yer men on Grace O’Malley’s ship?” The shorter one asked.

  Quinn pressed her advantage and stepped forward. “That we are, and as such it is our duty––nay, our responsibility ta cut ya down where ya stand like the vermin ya are so others after ya know what it means ta attack Captain O’Malley’s people.” Quinn raised her sword, and Patrick did the same.

  No one moved.

  “Do ya really want ta be on Grace O’Malley’s bad side? Because if the answer is no, then we can show ya the kind of mercy the O’Malley clan exhibits by letting ya turn around and walk away.”

  Two of them slowly started backing away. William maintained his stance. “I’ll not be afraid a’ no female captain from some good-fer-nothin’ pirate ship. O’Malley clan or not, yer friend owes me coin.”

  “And ya alley rats think beatin’ him will get ya that coin?” came a strong voice from the shadows behind William, who turned.

  “Show yerself!” he called out, none too confidently.

  From the darkness stepped none other than Grace O’Malley. Her height made her an imposing figure by anyone’s standards. “Not at all certain which I like least: the comment about a female captain, or yer slander a’ my good-fer-nothin’ pirate ship.” She looked around William and nodded to Quinn. “It appears ya gave these blowhards a chance ta save their skin. This one chose not ta accept yer gift. I find that quite rude.”

  “I... ”

  “No, no,” Grace said. “Ya are done speakin’. I’ll give ya one chance ta come at this female, and then I’ll give ya somethin’ ta take back home ta tell yer kin, though I am not sure which body part that is gonna be.”

  William looked from Quinn to Grace and back. “I... I apologize fer––”

  “And why is it men can do all manner a’ horrible things ta people and then believe a sorry apology will erase their sins? Not this time, ya land-lovin’ bastard. Come. Take yer best shot at me before I change me mind about lettin’ ya go home at all.”

  Quinn watched in quiet fascination as William struggled with his decision.

  “Oh, fer god’s sake,” Grace said, reaching down to one of five small sheaths strapped to her thigh. “I don’t have time fer this.” In one swift motion, she withdrew a throwing knife, flicked her wrist at William, and let the dagger fly end over end until it embedded itself into his left side.

  William went down on one knee, his hand on the hilt of the dagger protruding painfully from his shoulder. The other men, who had paused to watch the scene unfold, backed away in silence, disappearing into the shadows.r />
  “Uh-uh. Pull that out and I’ll behead ya where ya kneel.” Grace walked over to him and yanked the dagger out, blood coming with it. “Now then. Be afraid a’ this female captain. Be very afraid a’ her pirate ship, and be extraordinarily scared a’ what her clan will do ta yers if ya ever show yer face around here again. Now run along.”

  William rose unsteadily to his feet and shambled down the alley, blood oozing through his fingers.

  “Thank ya, sir,” Quinn said, sheathing her sword. “We weren’t trying ta get into trouble.”

  “I had no doubt ya and Patrick could handle it, but we’re still a dozen men low, and I won’t have me numbers trimmed by the likes a’ them.” When Grace stepped further out into the moonlight, her untamed red hair moved as if it was still in the wind of the ship. Her broad shoulders and heavy thighs made her appearance intimidating, but it was Grace’s voice that commanded people’s attention. “Go on back ta the ship. I’ll deal with Connor McBride in the mornin’.”

  Quinn and Patrick picked Connor up under his arms and continued toward the dock.

  “How long do you suppose she was there?” Patrick asked as they made their way to the ship.

  “Hard to tell. That woman has feet like a cat. Never have I seen anyone, male or female, sneak up on so many unsuspecting men.”

  “We could have bested them, you know?”

  Quinn smiled. Spoken like a drunk man who knew not his limitations. It would have been a tough fight. “I know. All the same, I’m glad she was there.”

  Patrick stumbled slightly as Connor’s weight shifted. “You like her, don’t you?”

  Quinn thought about it a moment. “Like is an interesting word, Patrick. I don’t think anyone likes Grace O’Malley. I believe they respect her. They fear her. Some even loathe her, I would imagine.”

  “Which is it for you? I mean, a woman captaining a ship, the scourge of the seas––which best describes how you feel?”

  Quinn did not hesitate. “I respect her most of the time, I fear her at others, but the truest emotion I have for her is admiration.”

  “Admiration?”

  “Aye. Grace O’Malley breaks all the rules of living in a man’s world. She is deserving of my admiration.” Quinn looked over at Patrick. “What about you, Paddy? How do you feel about her?”

  Patrick gripped Connor more firmly around the waist. “Honestly? She scares the shite right out of me.”

  “Because?”

  “Because she’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. I’ll say this much: I’m glad she’s on our side.”

  “Amen to that, brother. Amen to that.”

  ***

  There appears to be a pecking order of some sort that places the most brutish one on top, regardless of the lack of mental acuity, and the smaller, smarter males at the bottom, where they try to become almost invisible to the brute’s eyes. Then there’s the order of class: we pirates are very near the bottom, while Father’s noble class is at the top.

  I find it hard to believe that I seldom questioned life outside my class. There was us, and then there were those who served us. Everyone else, it seemed, was just background noise. It hurts my heart to think of all the times I ignored someone beneath my station.

  I have learned so much from Grace O’Malley, lessons I would never have learned or even understood as a noblewoman.

  For example, as we were on our return route yesterday, we lost a man overboard. Even as we pulled far away, men were shaking their heads at his misfortune. Drowning is a terrible way to go. All alone as the waves slap you in the face, beating you down until you can no longer stay afloat. Most captains just keep going when a man falls overboard.

  Not Grace.

  No, she ordered the ship to turn about and find that man. When we did eventually pull him from the water, she lined up the crew and strode back and forth across the deck telling us that every Irish life was worth saving, and that she would go back for any man from any clan if they were a member of her crew. And it’s genius, really—no man will ever be more loyal to her than the man she just saved.

  When she returned to her quarters, everyone cheered her and, to a man, each pledged never to let Captain Grace O’Malley down. Pirates, I’ve discovered, like their pledges almost as much as they like their ale.

  But an interesting thing happened during all of this chest pounding and fist pumping: Patrick backed away from it all, as if to remind himself that he is not one of us, that he does not truly belong. In that moment, I felt keenly sorry for poor Paddy. He never wanted this life, never was comfortable on the sea, never wished to leave the comforts of the manor. And though it is only temporary, though he will be released from watching out over his sister when we finally find Shea, I am certain he will leave and never return.

  I do not really blame him.

  This is a hard life.

  There is a crewmember named Gimp, who has a strangely deformed foot. I guess he was once a good fighter until someone cut his foot nearly off. Grace keeps him because he is still our mate even though he is not the fighter he once was.

  As a noblewoman, I have seen what we do when someone or something outlives its usefulness. We kill it. We replace it. We give it away.

  Not so in this new life of mine, where we keep the Gimps of the world.

  So here we are, returning to Clew Bay in order to unload the ship, replenish supplies, and get a couple dozen more men. It seems the violence on the seas has escalated, especially since Queen Elizabeth decided to finish what her good-for-nothing father started in Ireland. We do not wish to be English citizens... do not wish to follow that woman through the gates of hell.

  We. Are. Not. English.

  It was a conversation Shea, Kennedy, and I had all the time: What would happen to Ireland if the English ever succeeded in conquering us?

  I do so look forward to seeing Kennedy––after being on the water for a month, it will be good to get word of home, to have conversation with someone who knows who I really am. I hope she’s heard some news about that captain who ripped Shea from the streets and carried her to a ship whose figurehead was, of all things, a Medusa head.

  I’ve drawn a picture of that figurehead many, many times, I could draw it in my sleep. It is the most bizarre figurehead I’ve ever seen, and yet no one has seen it except the merchants who were up that early in the morning, and me. I saw it. I was about to go after Shea when one of my father’s favorite merchants grabbed me about the waist, preventing me from following.

  So, for now, I will head to Kennedy’s home for a visit and to catch up. I do not know how long our shore leave will be, but I have heard the men remark that the captain leaves punctually, so when she says noon, she does not mean two.

  I must finish writing now. I am quite tired from too much food and far too much ale. God, how can they like that stuff? It is horrible.

  ***

  Clew Bay had been chosen by Black Oak, Grace’s father, as the place to erect his castle. It was an ocean bay in County Mayo, overlooked by Croagh Patrick to the south and the Nephin Mountains to the north. Clare Island guarded the entrance of the bay. Black Oak built Clew Bay on Clare Island because a ship the Malendroke’s size could only navigate there during high tide. This meant that to get to the island, ship captains had to know the tide, know how to do an about, and be able to keep excellent track of the weather, which could change hourly. They had to be able to manage their time well lest they got caught in the bay. It was a great place for a naval man to build his home––a home that was inherited by his seafaring daughter.

  As they sailed past Clew Bay toward the village of Kilkenny, Quinn stood in the sun with her eyes closed and felt the beauty of it. There was nothing like being on the deck of a ship when the sun was shining, the wind was warm, and the gulls cawed in the distance, letting them know they had landed. She had really grown to love being on this ship.

  When she opened her eyes, she was startled to find Murphy, the ship’s gigantic cook, standing
next to her.

  “Here. I got some a’ these from the Delphine.” Murphy tossed an orange in the air, and Quinn managed to snag it before it fell to the ground. “I know how much ya and yer brother love ’em, so I set a bunch aside fer ya.”

  Quinn smiled up at the mountain of a man. Cook, as most referred to him, had taken a liking to her right out of the gate when he asked her to taste a dish, and she had suggested the addition of a combination of spices. The crew had loved it, Murphy loved her, and since then, he’d been plying her with special treats when he could in exchange for tasting his latest meal.

  “Thank ya. There’s almost nothing better than a fresh orange.”

  They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the hustle and bustle of the dock as the ship’s crew finished disembarking, hugging friends and family who had gathered to greet them.

  But just then, she felt it before she saw it –– Murphy’s countenance transformed from that of a man sharing oranges to that of a man on high alert. The hackles went up on her neck as she followed his gaze.

  “This is why moorin’ off shore is better than dockin’,” he grumbled, his eyes never leaving the dozen or so men making their way toward the ship. “That spells trouble right there.”

  “Just about everraone else has left the ship,” Quinn said. “Who are they?”

  The dozen men cut a wide berth around those crew members who had not started filtering into the taverns of the port town.

  “By the looks a’ them, I’d say O’Donnells, but ya can hardly tell ennamore.” Murphy extracted a long sword that hung from his belt without a sheath. “I’ll meet ’em at the plank. Ya go get the captain.”

  Quinn turned in time to see Grace stride around a corner, a short sword in one hand and a long sword in the other. “The O’Donnells? What in bloody hell do they want with us? Early deaths?”

  Quinn pulled both of her swords as well. “Most of the crew have gone ta the taverns, sir.” Quinn said. “It’s just us topside.”

  “Then it looks like it is the six a’ us against the lot a’ them. I’m thinkin’ that’s a fair fight in enna book.”

  Quinn looked for the other three men Grace was referring to. There were none.