My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  “Balderdash!” Hardy exclaimed. “You don’t even sound Irish!”

  “I’m American.”

  “You’re mad. “ Hardy stood and pivoted on his heel. “I shall call the guards!”

  “No, Hardy, I wish to hear what she has to say about Veal-noove. “

  “Surely, sir, you would not believe the word of this—this pirate?”

  “My mind is an open one, Hardy. I shall hear her out. Captain Lord? For God’s sake, do sit down, you look fair to fainting!”

  “I er, cannot, sir—”

  The tip of Orla’s sword was pointed at his groin, and held so close to the stainless white breeches that the captain could not move without risk of injury.

  Maeve plucked the folds of her wet shirt from her body, smiled, and took another bite of her apple. “Be easy, Orla.” Crunch. “Let the poor man sit down, as His Lordship says.” She watched in high amusement as Captain Lord, who was still staring at her, moved warily to a chair. “Now that we are all happily seated, let me state my business.”

  “Yes, please do,“ Hardy growled, clearly annoyed.

  “Damn your business,” Nelson said anxiously, “just give me news of Veal-noove!”

  “Villeneuve,” Maeve said, casually motioning with her apple, “has been at Martinique,

  where he joined forces with the Spanish admiral, Gravina. I knew that already, of course, thanks to tavern talk, and had it confirmed while speaking a ship on my way to find you. As we sit here talking, the Combined Fleet is passing Dominica on a northerly course. You’d do well to come about and steer after them, milord. There is nothing for you at Tobago, nor Trinidad.”

  Nelson looked thunderstruck. He glanced up at Hardy.

  “Folly, sir!” the burly captain exclaimed. “General Brereton insists the French are at Tobago! I urge you to think carefully before considering the words of a pirate. “

  “But Hardy, her words are in keeping with my own hunches!” Nelson cried, thumping his

  fist against his chest. “And when have they ever steered me wrong? What if she is right and the French are indeed heading—oh, dear God—toward Antigua?”

  “What if she is lying, sir, and we come about, steer north, and find afterward that Brereton’s information was right? You will be the laughingstock of the Fleet, of England, for heeding the advice of a soothsayer.”

  “’Twould not be the first time I believed such advice, Hardy, indeed it would not!” But then Nelson looked at Maeve, and the wisdom of Hardy’s words sank in. Could he risk his career, indeed, England’s safety, on the word of a pirate?

  Maeve held out her apple and perused it for a moment, then took another bite. “Funny thing about apples,” she soliloquized. Then she turned the half-eaten fruit toward them, exposing its pale flesh, the pocket of seeds. “Did you ever stop to consider, when you eat an apple—or an orange, or any other fruit, for that matter—that what you’re looking at is something no other person on earth has ever looked upon before?”

  They stared at her, each and every one of them.

  “Think about it,” Maeve continued, still holding the apple up. “No one else has ever seen the inside of this particular piece of fruit. Therefore, it is a blessing, and a gift, given from God just for us.” Crunch. “Think about it next time you peel a banana, or bite into an apple.”

  “Get her out of here,” Hardy said, in disgust.

  “No, no, that is quite an extraordinary observation! My own father was of the clergy,

  Captain Merrick, and I’m sure he would have appreciated your wit and insight, as do I. Now tell me”—Nelson’s voice grew a shade harder, and she realized that the mind working behind that penetrating gaze was a sharp one, indeed—”you must have a reason for bringing me this information about Veal-noove in person.”

  “I wanted to meet the Hero of the Nile,” she said mildly.

  “And how do I know you are not betraying me?”

  “I hate the French as much as you do, milord—and wish to see you destroy them. Which

  you will do, of course.”

  “She has the Sight,” Hardy drawled, by way of explanation.

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Nelson said excitedly.

  “However, the primary reason for my visit is of a slightly different nature.” Still chewing her apple, Maeve looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes bright with playfulness. “I came to demand payment.”

  “Payment? For what?”

  “You see”— crunch—”I have in my possession a certain English sailor who has professed to be a deserter and a traitor, now spying for the French. I thought you might like to have him back.”

  “A deserter?” Nelson cried, in sudden disappointment. “By God, I care more for news of Veal-noove!”

  “Milord, I’ve told you all I know of Villeneuve. He’s off Dominica and headed north. What more can I say? Believe me, I’d like to see you give the French the drubbing they deserve, but this English sailor, this deserter, well”— crunch—”he has really been a burden to me, and I would like to be rid of him. However, I can’t let him go for free; I am a pirate, you know, and even pirates have to eat. . .”

  “Guards! Remove this woman!” Hardy yelled.

  Maeve held up her hand. “Oh, don’t be so hasty to dismiss my offer, gentlemen. He really is a fine-looking prisoner, and shall make a fine-looking corpse at the yardarm of your Victory. In fact, I would’ve strung him up from my own little Kestrel but I thought he’d be worth more to you than to me—”

  “I said, remove this woman!” Hardy shouted.

  “Sit down, Thomas,” Nelson said. “Please.”

  Maeve ignored both Hardy and the very discomfited Captain Lord—funny, but didn't she

  have an English cousin whose surname was Lord? It must be a common surname— and twirled

  the apple by the stem. She looked at Nelson, and smiled playfully. “Ah, milord . . . you don’t realize what you’re passing up. I mean, what use do I have for a roguish devil with a pierced ear, a roving eye, and the audacity to wash up on my island, only to insult me, attack me, and then try to pass off an obviously made-up name like Gray—oh, never mind.” She rose to her feet, a regal queen despite her wet and bedraggled state. “If you don’t want him, I’ll just offer him to Villeneuve instead. . . “

  But the admiral had gone stiff, and Captain Lord as white as his breeches.

  Maeve tossed the apple core out the shattered window with a haughty flick of her wrist. “It really has been a pleasure to meet you, milord. It’s not every day that a person gets to meet a real hero! May you find Villeneuve and give him the thrashing he deserves. I hear you prefer the word, annihilate? Oh, and please accept my sincerest apologies about your window . . . I would send payment for it, but I do believe my information regarding Villeneuve should take care of that—”

  “Wait!”

  Maeve smiled, a slow, cunning smile, and turned to face him.

  Nelson shot a glance at the very pale Captain Lord, then looked at her, his eye sharper than an eagle’s and just as piercing. “Captain Lord . . . I seem to recall you recently had a deserter from your Triton . . . did you not?”

  “Aye, sir,” the young captain murmured, as he glanced from Nelson to Maeve and back

  again to Nelson, “I did.”

  “A tall, knavish sort—black-haired, I believe, with rather unusual . . . obsessions?”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir. Indeed, that describes him perfectly.”

  Nelson narrowed his eyes. “Does your prisoner answer this description, madam?”

  “Aye, milord,” she said, grinning in triumph, “that he does.”

  Nelson’s mouth curved ever so slightly, and that was all that he would allow in terms of a smile; but it was enough, and Maeve was hard-pressed not to rub her hands together in glee. She saw him glance at Captain Lord, and the silent words that passed between them. How valuable this deserter, this traitor, must be, to warrant such interest! And how proud her father would be of her,
if he could see that she’d outmaneuvered an English admiral!

  Nelson drew himself up, his shoulders stiff and erect beneath his epaulets. He was smiling, faintly, and the tense lines about his mouth had relaxed, lending him a look of boyish good humor. He put out his hand toward her.

  “Ah, dear lady . . . you have indeed done our navy a great service,” he murmured,

  eloquently. “And I wouldn’t dream of allowing you to sell this deserter to the French! I must, of course, heed my prior intelligence that Veal-noove is at Tobago, you do understand, don’t you?

  But if you do indeed have this Sight, you will know where to find me. Bring me your pirate, this vile deserter, and by God, I shall see that you are paid twice what Veal-noove or any damned Frenchman would offer you!”

  Maeve smiled back, quite proud of herself. “Indeed, milord. I shall have him for you when you return from Tobago, for you will not find the French there.” She saw a shadow pass over his face, and remembering that she was the Pirate Queen of the Caribbean, put out her hand for him to kiss its Royal Knuckles.

  But as Nelson took her hand and raised it to his lips, she faltered and nearly fell, her face going white with horror.

  The admiral straightened up, frowning. “Madam?”

  She was staring at his coat, that glittering, decorated, medal-festooned coat, encrusted with lace, stars, orders, and glory—

  Horrified, Maeve backed away.

  “That—that coat, milord . . . She looked up at him, her eyes huge and full of fear. “It shall be the death of you.”

  And with that, the shaken Pirate Queen moved to the window, and, with Orla behind her,

  disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 7

  The pirate was justifiably proud of himself for the clever way he had tricked Queen Maeve

  —but then, he hadn’t reached his current position of authority and respect by being stupid.

  The little ship had no sooner weighed anchor than Gray had stepped out of the shackles and, using the key he’d stolen from the Pirate Queen, calmly let himself out of his prison. He’d spent the night sitting on a rock and looking out to sea, damning the winds that had prevented his knowledge of both Nelson and Villeneuve in the Caribbean, thinking about the pirates who had once sailed these waters, and comparing his captor to the inestimable Anne Bonney. Making love to Anne Bonney was, of course, an impossibility—that formidable sea-queen had been dead for nearly a century—but the she-wolf who captained Kestrel was surely a worthy substitute.

  Gray smiled, already envisioning that smooth, hard body writhing in delight beneath him.

  He’d long had a fantasy of taking a lady pirate to his bed, and if he had his way—which he would, of course—that fantasy would become reality before his little sojourn on this island came to its necessary end. As for Maeve’s meeting with Nelson—he exhaled slowly and dug at the sand with his toe—he could only hope it had gone as he predicted it would. After all, he had taken one hell of a gamble. . .

  He looked out to sea. The stars were setting, the eastern horizon glowing above the palms, the sea beginning to turn from black to dove gray. Soon, it would be dawn. But what would this day bring?

  Nelson was in the Indies.

  The pirate stared off into the dawn, his smile fond as he remembered those long-ago days

  when he, as a young midshipman, had first served under the cocky, overzealous Captain Nelson of the twenty-eight-gun frigate, Albemarle. And who else but the intrepid little admiral could have taken the British fleet right up to the anchored French one at the mouth of the Nile, pounded the stuffing out of it, and left Napoleon Bonaparte and his army stranded in Egypt? The victory had earned him a barony, the love of Emma Hamilton, the status of hero, and the mainmast of the French flagship, L’Orient, after that ship had blown up at the climax of the spectacular night battle; now, what remained of the mainmast was carved into a coffin which Nelson vowed he would someday inhabit.

  Gray picked up an old conch shell and, tracing its smooth whorls with his thumb, watched

  the sun coming up as a giant ball of red-orange brilliance. The Pirate Queen had said the admiral was here in search of an enemy squadron that had escaped his blockade of the French port of Toulon. Nelson was the commander in chief of the Mediterranean Station, three thousand miles away. Under whose authority had he deserted his post and chased the French all the way across the Atlantic?

  More than likely, Gray thought with a wry smile, no one’s but his own. And—he swore and

  tossed the conch shell into the breaking waves—the admiral would be looking for him.

  Well, he was stuck here, with nothing to do but await the return of his savage captor. He might have escaped his restraints, but without a boat there was no way off the island. He rubbed at his stubbled chin, first with thoughtful detachment, then with awareness of the chin’s state itself. His mouth curved in a rakish grin. Another few days without a razor and he’d be well on his way to looking like Blackbeard, and the thought so filled him with boyish delight that he got down on his hands and knees beside a tide pool and, using it as a mirror, surveyed his appearance with anxious hope.

  The smile faded somewhat. Well, maybe he’d need more than a few days. . .

  The sun climbed higher, painting the bay in bright, luscious tones of pink and gold. He rose, letting the tide lap around his ankles and his imagination wander where it might. Pirates. Had Morgan ever visited this island? Had Blackbeard ever careened his sloop on this very beach?

  Had Bellamy ever marooned some poor traitor on this forgotten shore? Gray smiled faintly, wishing he could go back in time and lift a mug or two with his long-dead idols. If only he hadn’t been born seventy years too late. . .

  He stretched and yawned. It was growing hot now, the morning sun toasting the air and

  making the water sparkle out on the silvery bay. He pulled his shirt off, reveling in the feel of the breeze kissing his skin, the sand squishing between his toes. Then he stepped out of his breeches and tossed them away. For a moment, he stood glorying in the morning, his naked body bared to the sun and gilded with light, the incarnation of some Greek sea-god of classic proportions. With easy, natural grace, he strode along the frothy edge of the sea, moved into the surf, and dived beneath the waves.

  He swam with strong, powerful strokes, as comfortable in the water as any creature born and bred to it. Surfacing, he filled his lungs with air, dived again, scraped his skin clean with handfuls of sand until it was raw and tingling, and then whiled away his time exploring. He saw a vivid, orange starfish nestled within the waving vegetation carpeting the seafloor, and rippled globes of coral, peppered with little fish of every color. Strangely, the dolphin that had brought him here was absent. No doubt, it had gone with the little schooner . . . or in search of another hapless sailor pretending to be a pirate.

  Pirates.

  He dived again, swimming through the patterns of sunlight that slanted through the depths and shimmered upon the sand, the coral, the fish themselves. But there were no pieces of eight left by some long-dead buccaneer, no bejeweled daggers gleaming from behind a burst of pink coral, no bleached skulls, no treasure chests, and no ancient ribs that had once shaped the hull of a long-wrecked pirate brig. But it was fun to pretend, and when he finally grew bored he surfaced, floating on his back, blinking in the sunlight, and lazily propelling himself with gentle kicks. He dived once more and then, naked as a babe and feeling vigorously refreshed, strode out of the water and onto the beach.

  He dried himself with his shirt, slung it and his breeches over his shoulder, and, wearing nothing but the piratical hoop of gold in his ear, sauntered up the beach and toward the house, his stomach growling.

  ###

  “Captain Lord here to see you, sir!” the marine standing guard just outside Lord Nelson’s

  great cabin aboard H.M.S. Victory announced.

  The door was opened by the admiral himself. “Ah, Colin!” he said, smiling warmly and
>
  ushering him into his richly furnished quarters. “Do come in—I trust you have recovered from our unexpected visitor last night?”

  “Indeed, sir, that is what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

  Tucking his hat under his elbow, Captain Colin Nicholas Lord stepped into the huge, sunlit dining cabin that stretched from port to starboard and, together with the adjoining day cabin just aft of it, took up the entire stern of Victory's upper deck and made up the admiral’s private domain.

  “Please, have a seat, Colin. Some wine?” Nelson offered, closing the door behind them.

  “Cheese?”

  “No, thank you,” Colin said, but Nelson was already waving him toward a small, roundtop

  table beneath the panoramic stem windows, where a tray of refreshments waited. Colin was not hungry, but to be polite, he pulled out a chair and took a glass of port.

  “So,” Nelson said, seating himself comfortably in a heavy, padded leather chair. He smiled and regarded Colin patiently. “What is it you wish to talk to me about, Captain?”

  Nelson’s gray eyes were kind, his smile genuine, and Colin suddenly felt ashamed that he’d been dreading this interview. “I’m sorry that I didn’t come to you earlier about this, sir,” he said, lamely. “In fact, I feel rather foolish coming to you even now, but I thought you should know—”

  “Nonsense, Colin,” Nelson said, leaning over to take a bit of fruit. “I would be much

  aggrieved if you did not come to me with a problem. Pray, what troubles you?”

  “It concerns the Pirate Queen, sir.”

  Nelson could not prevent an involuntary glance at his newly repaired window. “Yes?”

  “After she crashed in here last night, sir, I got to thinking. Though I had my suspicions, I didn’t want to say anything at the time—but now, in the light of day and after much thought, I have come to the conclusion that Maeve Merrick is . . . well, someone who is, uh . . .”

  “Yes?” the Admiral prompted, kindly.

  “Related to me.”

  Lord Nelson raised a brow and leaned back in his chair.

  “You see, sir,” Colin continued, obviously ill at ease, “my mother has a cousin named