My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  Hearts of oak, are our ships, jolly tars, are our men! We always are ready, steady boys steady, we’ll fight and we’ll conquer, again, and again! Da dum da dum da dum da dum, da dum, da da da!”

  He had a rich, deep baritone voice, and he knew how to use it. To drown out all thoughts. To drown out other voices. To drown out sounds that she didn’t want him to hear, to drown out sounds he knew she didn’t want him to hear— And suddenly she realized why he’d taken to singing so lustily, so loudly—so she could do what she must without suffering the embarrassment of him hearing her do it.

  Maeve held up the hem of her nightgown, and did what she had to do.

  And when she had finished, she squeezed his hand and without pausing in his singing, the

  admiral swept her up into his arms, kissed her cheek, and gently deposited her back onto the sofa. He peeled off the sodden nightshirt, and with an almost clinical detachment for the womanly charms so blatantly revealed to his gaze, put her in a new one that was dry and clean and comfortable. And then he kissed her again, straightened her braid over one small shoulder, and stood gazing down at her, his eyes fond, admiring, soft.

  “No matter what you think,” he said gently, and took her hand, “I love you. Now, always,

  and forevermore. Nothing you may say or do will sway my affections, for they're as constant as the swing of the tides, the rise of the moon and stars.” The dark navy eyes gazed down at her with quiet adoration. “I love you, Maeve.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, kissed it, and replaced it tenderly at her side. And then he stood, just looking down at her, while a fond smile curled his mouth.

  “Now, go to sleep.” He strode to the door, pausing only to point a finger at her in warning.

  “And that’s an order.”

  Chapter 18

  El Perro Negro, locked in a small, choking hold deep in the bowels of HMS Triton with the six surviving members of his bloodthirsty gang, woke at about the same time the Pirate Queen, several decks above him, did.

  He might have slept forever and died in his own blood, had Pig-Eye’s ministrations not

  penetrated his unconscious haze.

  “Capitan!” There, the voice again, drifting into his swimming senses, and a slow awareness of pressure ringing his arm as someone drew a bandage tight. Ah, yes, he remembered, now. The merchantman . . . the schooner . . . a savage fight between pistols and cutlasses . . . and the African, charging out of the smoke and cutting him down as he’d emptied his pistol into her captain. At least he’d had the satisfaction of seeing the disbelief on the Pirate Queen’s face, extinguished by that one savage blast, before his own world had gone dark . . .

  He hoped she rotted in hell, the whoring bitch. Cursing, he clawed himself up through sheets of pain and opened his eyes.

  “Ah, Capitan, you are awake! Thank God!”

  It was Pig-Eye, his face barely discernible in the thick gloom. “Idiota!” el Perro Negro snarled, for with consciousness came a deep, searing agony in his left arm that spread fire all the way up and into his shoulder. “Why didn’t you just let me be, you stupid shit?” But even as he sat up, tugging at the too-tight bandage the faithful wretch had made from strips of his own shirt, he realized he was in a grave situation and his survival instincts, honed by years of running from the law, took over. Shoving Pig-Eye aside, he pulled himself to his feet, stumbled over a sprawled, groaning body, kicked it in fury, and groped desperately at the seams of a shut and locked door.

  “It is no use, Capitan,” Pig-Eye said, dejectedly. “We have already tried to escape. El almirante is no fool. Not only is the door bolted shut, but he has placed a marine guard outside to make sure we . . . behave. There is no way out.”

  “What do you mean, there’s no way out? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’re prisoners, Capitan, ” he said, nervously. “After you shot the Pirate Queen, her crew snatched her up, fled back to the schooner, and loosed a broadside into us that killed most of our crew. We may be fine fighters, but we are only flesh and blood—no match for a cannon shot.

  Next thing we knew, they’d overpowered those of us who were left and dragged us off to Nelson

  —”

  “Nelson?!” El Perro Negro snared Pig-Eye’s filthy collar and yanked him savagely forward, nearly snapping the man’s neck. “We’re on Nelson’s ship? You damned fools, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Pig-Eye shrank back, his eyes white in the darkness, the sweaty stench of his terror ripe and hot against a background of other, fouler smells—bilge water, damp wood, and closer, the stink of vomit and blood. “I did not say we are aboard Nelson’s ship, Capitan, ” he gasped, trembling.

  “We are on the ship of el almirante, aye, but this admiral is not Nelson—”

  Which admiral is it, then?” he roared, heaving Pig-Eye backward. He heard the man hit a bulkhead and fall on a cry of pain.

  Frightened silence. And then:

  “Sir Graham Falconer.”

  El Perro Negro went stiff. Fear crept up his spine, and he dragged a hand over his face,

  smearing sudden, cold sweat over skin that had gone dry and waxy. Falconer. The English admiral would make short work of him, especially after he’d so ruthlessly taken the

  merchantman that had been destined for the convoy Sir Graham would be escorting back to

  England. Not to mention the fact he’d killed its crew, including the young capitan. But yet—

  But yet, he was still alive.

  Why?

  Jack, seeming to read his mind, spoke from the darkness of a corner. “You can thank

  Renaldo for the fact we’ve been spared, Capitan. He told el almirante we hold a letter of marque from the French Admiral Villeneuve back on our brig, right, Renaldo?”

  The sprawled figure that el Perro Negro had kicked earlier, rolled into an upright position.

  “Aye . . . and he believed me, too.”

  El Perro Negro let out his breath on a shaky sigh, and released a short, hysterical burst of laughter. “Well, well, Renaldo, you never fail to surprise me.” He moved to the mate, reached down, and hauled him roughly to his feet. “Perhaps you have bought us some time, after all.”

  “I’ve bought nothin’,” Renaldo said, bitterly. He rubbed at the spot in his ribs where his captain had kicked him. “Once Falconer learns we ain’t got no letter of marque, and thus, ain’t entitled to any rights as prisoners of war, he’ll hang us for sure.”

  “Not if I can help it,” el Perro Negro said softly, and moving back through the darkness, sat down on the damp floor amidst his little circle of followers. “For you see, my good piratas, I have a plan. I have already killed an English capitan; why not an English almirante as well?

  After all, we have nothing to lose. We shall bide our time—and then, we’ll act. And when we do . . .”

  “Yes?” they cried, excitedly.

  “And when we do, escape and freedom shall be ours.”

  ###

  It was sunset, and the clouds were on fire above a molten sea. Barbados, dark against the

  blazing sky, was speared on Triton’s massive, thrusting bowsprit and growing larger by the minute, and Nelson’s fleet had fallen beneath the horizon several hours past. Now, a fine wind had sprung up to fill Triton’s huge courses and royals, spread to catch every hint of the breeze that had been stingy and soft for most of the day.

  The quarterdeck of any warship is the domain of its commanding officer, and even the

  captain trod that sacred place lightly when it was occupied by an admiral. Tonight was no exception, and the brilliant sunset found Sir Graham pacing thoughtfully back and forth, quite alone, quite preoccupied, his tactical mind mulling over pursuit, strategies, the chase— conquest.

  Maeve.

  His rank make him as far removed from his men as a king from the common people, and

  those on watch regarded him with no small degree of awe and respect as they went about their work. What mili
tary secrets, what thoughts that could potentially shape history, went through the mind of a man as highly placed as their admiral? From the seamen hauling on braces to bring the huge ship onto the opposite tack, to Captain Colin Lord himself—who had a better idea than most as to just what had his admiral so preoccupied—nearly eight hundred sailors watched him and wondered why their commander looked so lost in thought.

  Sir Graham made another turn, hands behind his back, head bent, walking forward, walking

  aft, walking forward . . .

  Thinking.

  He paused only to gaze thoughtfully at the little schooner Kestrel, keeping station just to windward of the mighty battleship. Then he looked to the north, where Nelson had taken the Mediterranean Fleet.

  Two admirals, both on a desperate chase. One after a Frenchman’s fleet—and the other,

  after a Pirate Queen’s heart.

  ###

  “Sir Graham!” the voice outside the flag-captain’s door announced.

  Colin Lord was making a notation in his log when the unexpected thump of Sergeant

  Maitland’s musket against the deck outside jarred him from his thoughts. Taken off guard by his admiral’s unannounced visit, he leapt to his feet and snapped off a stiff salute.

  “Be easy, Colin, this is nothing official,” Gray said mildly, putting his hand on the younger man’s arm. “May I come in? There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

  “By all means, sir. Pray, please do.” The flag-captain gestured to a chair, brushed a wrinkle from his shirt, called for a servant to bring tea, and led the way to his fine mahogany table, the surface of which glowed warmly beneath the lantern that swung from the beams overhead. The log lay open on his desk and he snapped it shut, his habitual neatness evident even in this small action. “With the wind as it is, we’ll anchor in Barbados by midnight, Sir Graham. The master assures me that we should be on our way out of the Indies with the convoy by tomorrow afternoon at the latest—”

  Sir Graham nodded, and moved with easy grace across the cabin. He settled himself in a

  chair, deliberately affecting a relaxed pose, one arm lying across the chair’s back, legs crossed, and a pensive look about his swarthy face. Then he spotted the ship’s cat, sprawled lazily in the sun streaming through the stern windows; he bared his teeth and made a face, the cat fled, and the admiral burst out laughing.

  “Kitty, kitty, kitty!” Sir Graham coaxed, scowling playfully at the cat, who now glared at him from beneath the safety of Colin’s desk. A loud, angry hiss met his summons, and, again, the admiral’s rich, booming laughter filled the cabin.

  The servant, looking harried, brought a silver tray in and set it down before the two officers.

  Colin picked up the teapot. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

  “No, just rum.”

  “Just rum, Martin. As the admiral likes it.”

  The servant returned with plates and a fine lemon cake frosted with sugar. Colin poured the admiral’s tea, added the rum, and, lifting a steaming cup to his lips, eyed him with wariness.

  And then he saw the thoughtful crease in Sir Graham’s brow, the determined but

  preoccupied look in his eye, and knew.

  The Pirate Queen.

  “Colin, my lad . . .” the admiral began, and the flag-captain braced himself.

  “Sir?”

  Sir Graham took his time about it. He sipped his tea, pushed the crumbs around on his plate, fixed Colin with his dark stare. “I have a scenario for you.”

  Colin set down his tea. Here we go, he thought.

  The admiral looked out the opened stern windows and thoughtfully tugged at his earring.

  “If,” he said slowly, his gaze distant, preoccupied, “you were to find yourself in say, a small frigate, confronted by a squadron of enemy ships-of-the-line, and, given that just one—one, mind you!—of the ships that said squadron was protecting—we shall make it a merchantman, for the purpose of this discussion—was rich enough to enable you to live out the rest of your life in relative happiness—given this situation, Colin, would you let that mighty fleet and its rich merchantman alone, or would you attack and risk all, even though the odds were surely against you?”

  Colin looked at him, wondering what his shrewd superior was leading up to. That it was a

  test, he had no doubt—the admiral often engaged such methods to keep him sharp, to teach him, to prepare him for his own promotion to flag rank some day—but Colin knew that this was more than that. And he would have wagered the lace from his coat and both epaulets off his shoulders that Rear Admiral Sir Graham Falconer was not talking about ships . . .

  “Well?”

  Colin answered carefully. “Why, I would attack and risk everything, sir . . . of course.”

  “Of course. You are an Englishman, after all.”

  “As are you—sir.”

  “Very good. Point established. Now tell me, my dear Colin, how, given this situation, you would go about defeating this formidable enemy whose guns are run out, this enemy who is

  determined not to let you get close enough to board and take him?”

  “Every vessel has a vulnerable area, sir,” Colin said, moving his chair back slightly so the poor, harassed cat could jump into his lap. He stroked the feline’s back, choosing his words with care and precision. “As you well know, both bow and stern have comparatively insignificant firepower and are therefore quite vulnerable to attack. Or, one may consider the structural weaknesses of a particular design, or vulnerable areas provided by nature herself, such as at the waterline, or below it if one happens to be to windward of a ship that is heeled hard over on her beam.”

  The admiral smiled, his dark eyes gleaming.

  “And where, Captain, would those weaknesses be in a mighty warship? How would you go

  about quelling her into submission . . . without damaging her timbers or sacrificing one jot of her spirit?”

  The admiral was watching him intently, too intently. Carefully, Colin said, “I would range around her stern, sir, out of the reach of her big guns and broadsides, where she would be most defenseless. I would rake her, cripple her steering by taking out her rudder, and then, once having annoyed and distracted her thus, I would fall off, and try to get in another shot, perhaps in her bows . . .”

  “And if that method was to fail, Colin?”

  “We are considering that surrender to the enemy is not to be considered?”

  The admiral smiled. “It is not even an option.”

  “Well, then, I say there is no other recourse, sir, but to confuse her, get to windward of her, grapple . . . and board her”—Colin smiled sheepishly—“in the smoke. Works every time . . .

  sir. ”

  Sir Graham finished his rum-laced tea and set the cup down on the table. “Very good,

  Captain. I am delighted to see that our great minds think alike.” He grinned, his eyes alight with the anticipation of challenge, his jaw dimpling boyishly. Then he rose to his feet, and still smiling, strode for the door.

  “Sir?”

  The admiral paused, arching one black brow.

  Colin flushed. “Good luck.”

  ###

  Maeve awoke to suffocating heat, the glow of a lantern over her head, and a single, perfect

  red rose on the pillow beside her.

  She reached out and with an angry motion, swept it to the floor.

  Oh, how he had played her. Fooled her. To think he'd allowed her to believe he was a

  traitor, of all things; to think she had cried over his supposed death! He, Admiral Falconer, one of the most renowned flag officers in the British navy and surely, the worst libertine to hit the West Indies since—since Blackbeard. And she had lain with him, given her heart to him. He must think her a damned easy conquest. How he must be laughing! And Nelson! He was no better, a slinking dog in the guise of a hero, a wretched, insufferable little peacock totally undeserving of his laurels, his titles, her respect. It was a cru
el betrayal, an ugly realization, and she felt sick. Nelson. She couldn’t even trust him, the gallant, honorable Nelson!

  Her curses pierced the stillness of the cabin. Men! She hated them all, trusted none of them, and after this she’d never trust another again.

  She couldn’t, wouldn't, stay here, to be made a fool of again. Clutching the side of the sofa, Maeve dragged herself to an upright, sitting position. She swayed dizzily, and felt the snug press of a bandage around her waist. Blast it, no wonder she was so hot, no wonder she couldn’t breathe—and what the devil was this wet garment that had tangled itself around her body?

  Vexed, she gazed down at the sleeves that ended several inches beyond her fingers, the

  seemingly yards of excess material that had twined and bunched and wrapped itself around her torso, and realized she was not in her own clothes, but a soft, fine nightshirt that must surely belong to Sir Graham himself.

  Cursing, she plucked at the fabric, pulling it away from her damp skin. Even that simple

  exertion tired her, sickened her, and made her dizzy. Oh, would this humiliation never end? Had he stripped her clothes away as she’d lain senseless? Touched her body, invaded her person, taken liberties that she would never let him take again?

  Blast him! Her strength was failing her, but with every gasping breath her resolve mounted.

  Her body screaming in pain, in protest, Maeve pulled herself up and stumbled across the cabin.

  Nausea rose in her throat and sheer will alone kept her from vomiting. The cabin spun about her, the paintings of the long-dead pirates with it, and she made a wild dive toward the bulkhead, where an ancient cutlass rested beneath a portrait of Sir Henry Morgan, the undisputed King of the Spanish Main nearly a century and a half before— She missed, her nails gouging into the wood, her fingers hitting the sword and knocking it from its precarious perch. It struck her heavily on the shoulder and Maeve fell with it, feeling the wound open beneath the bandage as she hit the deck, where she lay gasping with fury, pain, and the refusal to admit defeat. The sword lay several feet away, just out of reach; she dragged herself across the deck on her belly, pulling her body with her arms, pushing herself with her feet, the nightshirt tangling around her body, suffocating her. The sword, just out of reach, was now in her hand . . . oh God, could she lift it?