nearly tore the lining out of the sleeves. Maeve caught her lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling, to keep herself from saying the words she longed to say, that he longed to hear.
But then she thought of her family of pirates she would be deserting, and the words just
wouldn’t come out.
“Good day, madam,” the admiral said coldly, and turning on his heel, strode swiftly from the cabin.
###
“Really, Falconer, you are the last man I would expect to have trouble getting a lady to marry you.”
The two admirals walked Victory’s stately quarterdeck, working off their suppers and listening to the band playing “Hearts of Oak.” They were a familiar sight, Sir Graham munching a biscuit and staring glumly off at Kestrel, Nelson fretting with his empty sleeve and staring anxiously out to sea. Tonight, like every night for the past week, they were together, commiserating over their mutual despair.
For Nelson, the likelihood of catching up with his panicky nemesis Villeneuve grew more
and more remote the closer the British fleet got to Europe. His face was pale and haggard, and he was in desperate need of rest. His nights were hellish, and he managed no more than two hours of sleep before violent coughing spells woke him; then, huddled in his coat against the damp night air, he would go up on the lonely quarterdeck and stare dismally out over the darkened sea.
His thoughts were sadly transparent. He had crossed the ocean in search of an enemy, and
failed to find and destroy him. He had let England down. He would no longer be a hero.
Villeneuve was still loose, and probably safely back in some French or Spanish port by now. But the threat of invasion still remained, and Nelson could not sleep, could not eat, could not think of anything but his frantic desire to annihilate the enemy fleet—and the brilliant new plan he was working out for doing just that.
“You think it amusing, do you?” Gray was saying. “The one woman in the world I have ever
truly loved, and she won’t have me.” He stared off at the distant schooner. “By God, sir, I don’t know what else to do to convince her of my love for her.”
Poor Falconer, Nelson thought. He would not have a practicing pirate for a wife, and she would not have an admiral for a husband. Two stubborn people, neither willing to make
compromises . . . a fine mess, the two of them were in.
“Persist in your chase, Gray, and I daresay you’ll be up with her soon enough!”
“No. She refuses to give up her life as a pirate.”
“And it is unthinkable, of course, for you, as an admiral, to marry one.”
“I don’t know what to do, dammit.”
“She’ll come around.”
“I don’t think so.”
“For God’s sake, Falconer, the girl’s in love with you! If only you could have seen the state she was in when she came to me with the news you’d found the enemy fleet.”
Gray perked up, ever so slightly. “Really?”
“Aye, really.” Nelson smiled with remembrance. “’Twas quite affecting, if I do say so
myself.”
Victory hit a swell, and spray hissed along the great hull. Nelson thought of the letter he’d sent the girl’s parents when she’d lain so close to death, and wondered idly if he should mention it to Gray. But maybe some matters were better left alone.
“Well, she still refuses to marry me. You’d think that any woman would want the life I can give her, but no. Not Maeve. She refuses to exchange her life as a she-wolf for one of
comparative dullness, boredom, and wealth.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Gray.”
“No? Well, I have been chasing her as ardently as you have the French with the same
fruitless results!”
Nelson sighed, stopped, and looked the younger man straight in the eye. “Let me tell you a little story about the French, Gray . . .”
Just off Victory’s weather quarter, Triton awaited her admiral’s return. Framed in the space between bowsprit and forecourse, Gray could just see Kestrel, a lone speck on the horizon.
Maeve, he thought, bleakly. What will it take?
“For two years I blockaded the enemy at Toulon,” Nelson was saying. Then, irritably:
“Damn you, Falconer, are you listening to me?”
“Why yes, sir, of course—”
Nelson pursed his lips and made a noise of impatience. “For two years,” he said again, “I blockaded the enemy at Toulon. Call me impatient, but I was not happy keeping them bottled up, safely in port. I wanted them to come out so I could fight them.”
Gray looked at his friend. Nelson was staring out to sea, his sharp face in profile, his bold nose as straight and true as the tiller of a sailboat.
“And?” he prompted in mild annoyance, wondering what Nelson was getting at.
“And so I devised a scheme to tempt them out.” The setting sun turned the sea to molten
gold. Nelson stared at the fiery orb, his poor, abused eye beginning to water helplessly. “The French admiral was like a mouse playing bo-peep at the edge of her hole, creeping out to see what I was up to, darting back in, tormenting me, teasing me—” He paused, seized by a spell of coughing, then he turned to Gray, his eye penetrating and fierce. “And I knew that as long as I hovered near her hole, that mouse would never come out. So you know what I did? I shall tell you! I took my fleet out to sea, and in so doing, I tempted the mouse out of the hole!
“Veal-noove,” Nelson declared, wagging his finger before Gray’s nose, “may have escaped me at Toulon, but when I catch up with him— as indeed I will! —I shall pounce, I shall destroy, I shall annihilate him! And to that end, Falconer, it is time for me to tell you about my plan, my plan to defeat him and any hopes that devil Bonaparte has of invading England. Now come with me, and I will explain it to you!”
With Nelson leading the way, they strode beneath the poop deck—and it was there, in the
gloomy shadows, that Nelson revealed the true magnitude of his genius.
“Now pay attention,” he snapped.
Snatching up a pencil, the little admiral flipped over a chart and drew a line of ships while Gray leaned over his shoulder, watching with growing attentiveness. “The British navy,” Nelson said, sketching madly, “has always put its ships in a line alongside that of the enemy, the victor being determined by whichever side has the superior force of guns. But I am devising a new plan, Gray, a singular, brilliant plan which cannot fail.
“This is Veal-noove’s fleet”—Nelson dashed off a line of wedges representing ships—“all sailing in the traditional line-of-battle formation. And these”—he penciled in three short columns, all spearheading toward the long enemy line on a right-angled collision course—“are my ships. I will break the line, Falconer. I will smash it in three places and thus overwhelm them!
Do you understand, Gray? Tempt the mouse out of the hole, then divide and conquer! It is the only way . . . and it— can— not—fail! ”
He slammed the pencil down and looked up, his eyes penetrating, fiery.
“You are . . . brilliant, sir.”
“I said, do you understand, Gray?!”
Gray met that intent stare. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “I understand indeed.”
A plan to tempt the mouse out of the hole. A plan to divide and conquer.
Not a French fleet—but a Pirate Queen’s heart.
“Very well then,” Nelson snapped, but his eyes were gleaming. He smiled, faintly. “Now get back to your ship, Falconer, and be about it!”
###
Maeve’s first glimpse of England was one she would never forget, a distant sighting of surf—
beaten rock stretching away into a long coast swallowed up by mist. Clutching the rail, she choked back the seasickness that had been hers for the last week, and stared bleakly off into the fog.
She had never been seasick a day in her life.
And she knew that her nausea was n
ot mal de mer. Now, as the convoy and the little squadron that accompanied it beat its way up-channel—the two frigates that had survived the battle on station to windward, Triton lumbering along with the rear admiral’s flag at her mizzen, and Lord Nelson’s Victory, minus the Mediterranean Fleet which had been left at Gibraltar, in the van—Maeve could only view her future with dread and uncertainty.
“Gray,” she whispered, as the cool mist drifted across the deck and touched her face. She thought of him the last time she’d seen him, when he’d broken down the door to her cabin and in a towering rage, forced her to listen to him.
Forced her to love him.
No, she thought on a little smile. Not forced . . . He would never have to force her to do that
. . .
But then her smile faded, for he’d left her after that stormy scene—and she hadn’t seen him since.
Night after night she’d lain in her bunk aboard Kestrel, burning with desire for him, staring out at the lights of the mighty Triton and pining for him with a desperation that burned a hole in her heart. Night after night she cried herself to sleep, wishing she dared trust him enough to give up her hard-won life of independence. And day after day a boat had put off from Triton, carrying a cheeky midshipman with a packet of sealed dispatches for her. Except they weren’t dispatches at all, but ardent declarations of love and devotion written in the admiral’s atrociously unreadable hand.
And then, unexplainably, the letters had stopped coming.
Just like that.
Now, the only contact she had with the flagship was a daily exchange of signals—signals
that advised where Kestrel should be positioned, signals that conveyed the admiral’s annoyance when she strayed too far from the Fleet, signals that spelled out friendly invitations to Aisling and Sorcha to have dinner with him and his flag-captain, Colin Lord.
You’ve got to tell him, Maeve.
No. She couldn’t. She couldn’t even tell her crew, whose loyalties she no longer trusted.
Would your life as an admiral’s wife be as bad as all that? He said you could go to sea with him. He said you could always stay near him. He said you could have all the freedom you wanted. His only wish is that you give up the pirating. And given that he’s an admiral, that’s really not such an unreasonable request . . . is it?
“I can’t!” she whispered.
Why not?
“Because . . . I don’t know any other life! Because I’m scared, dammit!”
She saw the mist drifting around his flagship, making the great man-of-war look like a ghost vessel in the dim gray light of morning. Kestrel surged on a swell, and again she felt the nausea curling in her belly, and with it the terror . . . the joy . . . and the realization that she was soon going to have to make a decision.
If not for herself, then for the tiny life that grew within her.
Do you want his baby to grow up to a life of thieving, piracy, and killing, only to die some day at the end of a noose? Or do you want it to have what you once had . . . two loving parents . . . a belly that is always full . . . a fine education, a safe home, and a solid understanding of decency, morals, and guidance?
A father.
Doesn’t that innocent little life deserve more than what you alone can give it?
Her hand strayed protectively to her belly.
Doesn’t it?
She could smell the land now, the fishy stench of a harbor, the smoke from chimneys, the
ripe scent of grass and vegetation. A father. She thought of her own, who had once served this country and later fought against it, and wondered if he had once glimpsed these same shores, strode the very streets she would soon walk. She thought of the proud schooner that had carried her here, which had once fought against Britain’s fleet and now sailed in company with not one, but two English admirals. To have British colors flying from her gaff didn’t seem right—but yet, it was. It was poignant, strangely ironic, almost as though Kestrel had come home.
The mist parted and she had a clear view of Sir Graham’s massive man of war. There was a
cluster of officers gathered on her quarterdeck, and it was all Maeve could do not to raise her glass and try to find him in its circular field.
Oh, Daddy. I wish you were here to advise me . . . I don’t know what to do.
Marry him, of course. You love him, don’t you?
She hugged her arms to herself and bent her head, torn, scared, and never feeling so alone in her life . . . while forward, Kestrel's jibboom thrust through the mists, steady and true as an arrow.
###
Aisling and Sorcha had come aboard Triton the previous evening with the declaration that they wanted to make biscuits for Colin Lord, and had ended up staying the night—safe, of
course, in a lieutenant’s cabin under the grumbling protection of Sergeant Handley after the culinary deed was done. Now, Gray wished that his heart wasn’t so damned soft with regard to letting them stay, for his belly was sick after overindulging in the treats and he was nursing a headache of thundering proportions.
So much for drawing the “enemy” into his own camp, he thought wryly. He had all of them
eating out of his hand except Her Majesty herself.
He glared off across the misty water at the schooner as Triton entered the Spithead anchorage, fired her guns in salute to the port admiral, turned into the wind and let her massive anchor splash down into the sea.
He turned to his flag-lieutenant. “Mr. Stern, make a signal to Kestrel. Tell Captain Merrick, repair to Flag immediately. I wish to see her before I’m called to pay my respects to the port admiral.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gray caught the arm of a midshipman as the boy hustled past in the lieutenant’s wake. “Mr.
Hayes!”
“Sir!”
“Go and ready my barge. And be quick about it.” Off to starboard, he heard twin splashes as the frigates Cricket and Harleigh dropped anchor nearby.
“Kestrel not acknowledging, sir.”
Gray swore beneath his breath. It was bad enough his own lust for the Pirate Queen had kept him up every night with an arousal as hard as his sword hilt. It was bad enough that he could think of nothing to prove the depth of his love for her. And it was bad enough he’d been forcing himself to stay away from her when he wanted nothing more than to storm aboard that damned schooner, love her until she couldn’t see straight, and carry her off as his bride.
But no. His á la Nelson plan of tempting the mouse out of the hole by retreating seemed to be failing miserably.
“Fire a gun and get her attention,” he snapped.
His order was promptly carried out. “She’s still not acknowledging, sir.”
Nelson’s words came back to him. Divide and conquer.
He stared at the little schooner. Then he yanked his hat down over his brow and calling for his barge, strode to the rail.
His patience had reached its end.
Chapter 31
“The admiral's here, Captain!”
‘Thank you, Orla. Please show him in.” The Pirate Queen went to the stern windows and
leaned out over the water, her hands shaking. She had known it would come down to this, yes, even hoped it would come to this, after her blatant refusal to answer his summons—
The door crashed open and Sir Graham stood there in full uniform, magnificent in his fury, his eyes blazing.
He strode forward, slammed his hat down on the table and roared, “By God Maeve, I don’t
know what the bloody devil you’re up to but I can assure you I’ll tolerate no disobedience from any ship under my command! I ordered you to come aboard the Flag and you blatantly ignored my summons!”
Head high, the Pirate Queen merely shot him a scathing glance and moved gracefully across the cabin, her green satin gown whispering on the deck behind her, a shaft of stray sunlight gilding her lovely profile. She was haughty, poised, aloof, the choker of sharks’ teeth emphasizing the elegant
grace of her neck, her hair piled atop her head and anchored there by a tiara of pearls. She looked every inch a queen. She looked every inch a warrior preparing for battle. She looked every inch a lady.
She turned and met his black glower. “Sir Graham.”
Reining in his temper, he folded his arms and leaned against the door, watching her and
wondering what game she was playing now, what pretense she was up to, what she was trying to prove—and what she was really trying to say but couldn't.
“Let me clear a few things up for you.” She lifted her chin, trying to look down her nose as any good queen should, but his height made that a bit difficult. “I am not part of your navy. I fly your flag as a courtesy to you, and do not forget it. Therefore, you cannot order me to do anything.”
He smiled, and looked at her through the long sweep of his lashes. “Of course. I had
forgotten.”
She turned away, her nose rising once more, her voice lofty with challenge. “Furthermore, I have decided to weigh anchor. I don’t like the looks of this place, am sick of your high-handed ways, and am leaving on the evening tide.”
“Oh?”
She faltered, her aloof composure shaken by his casual acceptance of her impending
departure. “Yes, that’s what I said. I’m leaving, Gray—”
“I heard what you said, dearest, and you’re not going anywhere as long as your ship is still a part of my squadron. Which, at the moment, it is. Sit down.”
“I beg to remind you that you are speaking to the captain of this ship—”
“And I beg to remind you that I am your admiral and you’ll obey my command.”
She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “How dare—”
“I— am— your— admiral.” His tone was low and dangerous. “Is that understood?”
They stared at each other, he commanding, unbending, secure in his power and authority,
she glaring at him and refusing to back down. Her mouth began to tremble and he saw her suck her lips between her teeth; then, on a hoot of laughter, she threw herself in a chair and tilted her face to look up at him. “Oh, Gray. I love it when you get angry.”
“Look, Maeve—”
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