by C. K. Brooke
Morrow ignored her. “Did they know of your sex? Were you a stowaway? Or perhaps you were mistress to someone aboard?” Abi opened her mouth in indignation, but Morrow continued. “Mayhap ye were the crew’s comfort girl?”
The last thing she wanted was to tell the truth, but when the captain continued to insult her with compromising possible titles, Abi could no longer endure the degradation. “I beg your pardon,” she interjected, “but I’ll have you know, I am Abner Clear’s daughter.”
Morrow didn’t attempt to conceal his surprise this time. He blinked, looking her up and down. “Daughter?”
A shadow of intrigue crossed his eyes, and Abi suddenly did not like the way they seemed to warm over her, like embers reawakening in the glow of a fresh spark. “Then you can tell me all about your father,” he rumbled. “Where he’s gone, what he knows…” he stepped in, overshadowing her, “and how to find the Spanish Treasure.”
Abi was disgusted. Disgusted that this man should try to intimidate her, daughter of the most notorious pirate of the Colonies. And she was especially outraged that Morrow so much as entertained the fancy that she might betray her papa. Eyes smoldering with scorn, she heaved a gulp and spat at his feet.
The captain glanced down at the off-white puddle settling on the tip of his polished boot. Dismayed, he removed his hat, and Abi gasped—for along with it, the tidy strands of ribboned brown hair lifted as well, revealing a thoroughly bald scalp underneath the disguise. As the lantern light flickered between them, Abi could make out a long, curved scar coursing up the side of his head.
Abi could do nothing but stare. She didn’t mean to. Only, she hadn’t expected him to be bald. Yet she realized, studying him, that he looked rather more authentic to her now. She’d thought the limp tress, tamely tied, hadn’t suited him. And while the hard look accompanied by the scar made the privateer appear tougher than any pirate she’d seen, Abi wasn’t so afraid. The absence of hair only drew attention to the rest of him, which was strong-looking and muscularly built. She hated to admit, but he wore the look so well, it was almost…attractive.
Grimacing, the captain slammed the barred door in her face. Abi jumped. Without a word, he relocked the cell and left the brig, taking the lantern with him. Abi listened to his footsteps disappearing, feeling sure he was never coming back.
It was certain. She was going to die down there.
Chapter 2
“A woman, Pengley?”
The sailor scratched his stubbly chin, fidgeting on the spot. “I swears, Captain, I didn’t realize…”
“But how could you not?” James Morrow kicked the door closed, shutting it against the eavesdropping ears of the crewmen repairing the walls outside his cabin. Mr. Calahad stood by the bureau, eyes politely downcast. “You were the one who captured her!”
“I thoughts it was a lad what could have knowledge, sir.”
“She’s dressed as a cabin boy, at best,” countered Morrow. “Why couldn’t ye have taken anyone of importance?”
Pengley’s eyes appeared penitent.
The men stood in silence as Morrow bit his lip to bridle his anger. At last, he turned his broad back to Pengley. “You may go,” he grumbled. The gray-haired man was swift to open the door and slip out.
Morrow exhaled. He couldn’t be too hard on his crew. They relied on him. And in turn, he needed their loyalty. His task depended on it.
Left alone with Calahad, the captain assumed the desk chair. But instead of engaging in anything productive, he merely rested his elbows on the surface. “We were so close,” he bemoaned. “Clear was right under me thumb.”
His first mate nodded sympathetically.
“What am I supposed to do with a girl?” Morrow knocked a fist on the bureau in irate emphasis. “Regardless of her parentage, she’s no wanted pirate. She’ll yield us no bounty whatever.” He frowned. “All we did to get to Clear—his scoundrel contemporaries we paid off, the cannonballs we lost at sea, the holes in me decks—was in vain.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Captain,” said Calahad, betraying what could’ve been a conspiratorial smile—Morrow wasn’t certain; he was in no mood for the man’s optimism. “Woman or not, her sire is Captain Clear. She could still prove worthwhile to us.”
“But what would a lass know?” Morrow had never an inkling that Abner Clear even had a daughter. Probably one of many illegitimates.
“Kept her on his ship, didn’t he?” mused Calahad. “Mayhap they were close.”
The captain snorted. “Or mayhap it was only so he could pocket a sum, whoring her out to his hearties.” But even as he uttered the crass suggestion, there was a chance it wasn’t true. For he recalled the manner in which the young woman had pulled away from his grope, down in the brig earlier that evening, terror in her eyes and panic lacing her feminine voice. Why, she behaved as a girl who’d never before been touched by a man. Which was odd, given where she’d come from—a ship full of drunken, degenerate, and assuredly randy thieves.
Maybe Captain Clear did value his daughter—enough to protect her?
“Calahad…” Morrow cleared his throat, straightening. “D’you think her pa might be willing to get her back?”
“Could be.” His mate’s smile was more distinguishable now. “At the very least, he might have told her something.”
“Right.” Morrow’s mind swam with potential ideas. “How ought we to approach her, then?”
“I know not, Captain,” murmured Calahad. “Be creative.”
***
Boot steps were approaching. Abi stared through the bars of her dark cell, unsure whether she should so much as wish they were headed for her. There was no way she would be rescued by now, so she might as well give up the hope. Although, the steps were drifting unmistakably closer.
The door swung open and lantern light poured in. There was more than one visitor, maybe as many as half a dozen. Abi tensed. If they’d come to assault her, they would have to kill her first. She’d decided that much already. She was not to endure being taken against her will, nor would she go down without a fight. Not even if they stuffed another rag in her mouth.
Abi was bemused as the last two men entered the brig, each holding up the end of a tarnished washing tub. It looked crude and flimsy, though judging by the strain on their faces, it was heavy. Abi craned her neck and saw that it was half-full of water. She eyed the men suspiciously as they lowered the tub in front of her cell.
“What’s that for?” she asked warily.
“Cap’n’s orders,” grunted the seaman in the lead. “You must be bathed and groomed if you wish to enter his quarters.”
Abi blinked. “H-his quarters?”
“It’s where you’ll be dining tonight.”
“And we’ve a dress into which you can change,” added a younger, bearded man, holding up an unsightly blue frock. It was cut to expose the shoulders and sported a scandalous bust-line fit to reach the wearer’s navel.
“It belonged to Shellig here’s doxy that left it aboard,” chortled the bloke next to him, elbowing his mate. The bearded man, Shellig, shot him an even look, but did not deny the claim. Their companions sniggered.
Abi lifted her chin. She might have been the furthest thing from a lady, but she was at least above a prostitute. “I am not wearing that.”
The sailors frowned. “What’ll you wear instead?”
She gestured to her legs. “My britches.”
The bearded Shellig shook his head, extracting a key from his pocket. He wriggled it in the lock. “Cap’n says those lad’s clothes you wear are to be burned, and you’re to be dressed properly for a lady.”
Abi objected. “There’s nothing at all proper about that—atrocity you call a dress.”
Shellig shrugged. “It’s all we got.” And with that, he hauled open the door and beckoned her out to freedom. Abi looked at him uncertainly. She still wasn’t positive it wasn’t a trick. But when the sailors only stood patiently, she inhaled, gathering her
resolve, and took a step out of the cell.
No one grabbed her, clapped her in irons, or even so much as twitched. Abi let out her breath.
“We’ll wait outside,” said a tall fellow, pulling down his cap. “When you’re through bathin’ and dressed decent-like, simply knock on the door and we’ll open it.”
Shellig carefully draped his paramour’s dress over a vacant stool in the corner while the others filed out of the brig. He set down a lantern near the washtub before closing the door behind the last of them, leaving Abi in privacy.
The young woman looked around. Judging it safe to undress, she pulled off her boots. Next, she stripped out of her trousers and unbuttoned her shirt. Her cravat and jerkin remained on the cell floor where she’d shed them during her encounter with Captain Morrow.
She was shocked at the turn of events as she dipped a bare leg into the water. Abi winced. It could barely be described as lukewarm; indeed, it was cold. Nevertheless, she couldn’t complain. She didn’t remember the last time she’d had the privilege of bathing.
She lowered herself into the tub, her skin puckering all over. A shaving of lye soap someone must have tossed in for her benefit floated atop the surface. Abi picked it up and rubbed it against her skin until the sooty color that coated her began to disappear. The harder she rubbed, the warmer she felt. And so she scrubbed her face and arms and legs with vigor, until the brown color floated out from beneath her fingernails, and her skin burned from the friction.
Reaching up into the fronds of her hair, she removed the closely-fastened pins that held it tautly up, and let her ginger strands tumble free. She submerged her head beneath the chilly bathwater. When was the last time she had let her hair down? It seemed lengthier than she recalled.
Once she felt she’d done a thorough enough job, Abi stood, bathwater dripping from her body, and peered down at the floor. The privateers hadn’t thought to bring her a towel for drying. Though it seemed filthy to her now, she lifted her soiled, unbuttoned shirt from the floor and blotted at her moist skin. Sighing, she stepped carefully out of the tub and made her way to the stool. The blue dress lay upon it, looking unlaundered. Well, it was cleaner than what she had on before, she decided, dressing herself.
At first, she thought she had it on backward. But no, she realized, double checking the sleeves and hem. This was truly the front. Her breasts were barely contained. Abi sucked in her stomach, trying her best to stretch up the fabric to cover herself, but there was no getting around that plunging neckline. She pulled her sopping red hair around the bend of her neck, hoping it might cover at least some of her cleavage. Alas, her hair wasn’t long enough. How was she supposed to face the captain looking like this?
Abi fumed. Was this some sort of joke? Were the privateers mocking her? Then again, what were the odds they would have a proper dress on their ship in the first place? She was lucky they had anything at all. Even if it was a doxy’s gown.
Although she would always, always prefer trousers.
Recognizing defeat, Abi stepped back into her boots, raised a fist, and knocked three times on the door. It bowed open. She stepped out, self-consciously smoothing the dress over her knees. It felt odd, swishing about her legs like that when she moved. She wasn’t used to such attire.
When she looked up, every pair of eyes were adhered to her. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, if the sailors had changed their minds and planned to hang her, after all. But the tall one only cleared his throat and bent his arm. It took Abi a moment to understand that he was offering it to her, as though she were a proper lady, even though she was naught but a criminal’s offspring—and dressed as a harlot, to boot.
Uncertain, Abi took the crook of his arm. He wordlessly escorted her from the brig, a procession of sailors behind them. As they came to the bottom of a steep stairwell, Abi gathered her gown in her hands. Up they climbed, their boots firmly meeting the wood.
Abi’s thighs were already tired of brushing together by the time she reached the top step. How did land-dwelling women endure this sort of clothing day after day? Why, she didn’t feel she could adequately climb, kneel, or run. Her mobility seemed so limited.
Through the portholes of the cabin deck, she could see the setting sun. Abi took in the orange-smeared sky, wishing she could go above decks and savor the balmy breeze.
“Mr. Shellig.” A stern voice from the end of the hall pierced the quietude. “I thought I told you the women you take for yer amusement may not remain aboard.”
Mr. Shellig took her other arm, ushering Abi forward, toward the staunch figure that had spoken. “She ain’t one o’ mine, Captain. But this here’s Miz Clear.”
Abi was brought to a halt before him. She swallowed back the sudden tightness in her throat. Captain James Morrow stood at his full height, all stiff shoulders and stout legs and gleaming boots, staring down at Abi as though a mermaid was flopping across his cabin deck.
Although she felt tiny in his shadow, she stared determinedly back. Once again, he wore the tricorne with the tied-back hair attached, and Abi wondered why. His appearance was far more fitting without it.
She was beginning to feel terribly exposed under his unabashed gaze. No one had ever looked at her like that, as though his eyes were peeling the clothing from her very skin. She remembered the amount of bust she flaunted before him, and a furious blush roasted her cheeks.
At last, the captain checked himself. “Come.” He waved her to his side, severing their gaze. She broke away from the others’ arms, but Morrow did not offer his. He merely strode around a corner, and Abi took it that she was supposed to follow. She tried to keep up with his brisk steps.
As he led her down another hall, Abi noticed his sailors were no longer behind them. “Captain?” He didn’t turn. “Did I hear your crew correctly, that we’re to be dining in your quarters this evening?”
“Aye,” he grunted.
“Then why aren’t the others coming?” She glimpsed over her shoulder again. “Don’t they get supper too?”
“Of course they do.” Morrow stopped before an ornate closed door. “In the galley. But ours,” he pulled on the door handle, “is a private meal.”
And then, for the first time, he grinned at her. It was a calculating grin, so revoltingly smug, it was almost a leer. And Abi would rather be sick than return it.
“Right this way, Miss Clear,” he purred, pushing the door ajar.
Chapter 3
Abi had no choice but to step inside. Captain Morrow remained behind her, waiting by the door as Abi gathered her surroundings. The cabin was even larger than her father’s on The Succubus. It boasted a grand mahogany bureau swimming with books, maps, and scrolls, and a yellowing globe on a stand in the corner. In an alcove lit by a grid of wide, salt-caked windows awaited a massive dining table with a satin runner, circled by carved chairs. Abi detected some gilding in the design, and didn’t doubt it was authentic gold. The table, she noted, was set for just two. The porcelain looked costly, even if a bit chipped.
Morrow shut the door, enclosing them together, and Abi cast one final, overwhelmed glance around. In the back of the room hung a bold scarlet curtain, a dramatic backdrop to the setting, which emphasized the reds in the wood furnishings.
The captain pulled out a chair at the great table, the one beside the head. “Please, be seated,” he entreated her.
Abi didn’t budge. “No, thank you.”
Morrow simpered at her. It seemed forced. “Wouldn’t you like to eat?”
“I’m not hungry,” she lied.
The man honed in until the toes of their boots nearly touched. Abi was disconcerted to be standing so proximate to him. She could make out every fleck of stubble shadowing his chin, and the golden rings in his brown eyes that encased his pupils. “I realize ours was no proper introduction,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’d like to formally welcome you aboard me ship.”
Abi wasn’t sure how she would bring her lips to move, bu
t all the same, managed to respond, “A formal welcome for a prisoner?”
“It doesn’t have to be so unpleasant,” his gruff voice was low, “for either of us.”
Her heart jiggled in her chest. What did he mean by that?
“So, Miss Clear,” he brought his mouth near her ear, “welcome aboard The Indomitable. And if I’m not mistaken, I’ve yet to learn yer given name?”
She shuddered at the tickle of his breath at her cheek. “A-Abigail,” she said.
“Abigail,” he repeated curiously, and Abi despised herself—wanted to kick her own shins—for reveling in the way he pronounced it. His accent curled the word into a cadence she could stand to hear again…and again.
She lowered her eyes beneath his stare. “What does it mean?” she mumbled.
“Come again?”
“The name of your ship.”
“Indomitable?” he supplied.
“Yes.” In spite of herself, Abi looked back up at him.
His rich eyes examined her a moment before answering, “It means no one is capable of subduing her. She cannot be dominated.”
Abi spoke her mind. “Well, that’s rather arrogant, isn’t it? After all, we blasted holes in your decks.” She motioned to the spots of damage she’d seen in the walls, just beyond his closed door. “Nothing about your ship is any more invincible than my papa’s.”
She was trying, in part, to rile him, hoping for a flash of that anger she’d seen down in the brig. His mellow tones seemed manufactured, and Abi was suspicious of his sudden attempt at kindness. Where was the formidable man with the presence of thunder, who was bald and scarred and dangerously enticing?
The captain merely shrugged. “Yours was the vessel that was invaded, not mine.” He indicated the chair once more. “Please, take your seat.”
Relieved that he was no longer breathing on her, Abi finally assumed the chair. Morrow lowered himself beside her. The final rays of sunlight were trickling in through the windows, illuminating half of his face, while casting the other half in shadow. Abi stroked the silver cutlery and studied the empty pewter bowl before her. Before she could think of anything more to say, the door reopened.