by C. K. Brooke
A short, capped and aproned man with a rotund belly entered the quarters. In stubby hands, he carried a cast iron pot.
“Ah,” Morrow greeted him. “Cook.”
Rather ungracefully, Cook dropped the heavy pot onto the table between them, wrinkling the satin runner. He lifted the lid, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam. Abi coughed. It smelled like every herb she could name—and a few she couldn’t.
The portly man dug a ladle into the mix and, without a word, poured a helping of his concoction into each of their bowls. Abi involuntarily twitched as a fleck of broth splashed onto the table. Morrow thanked him, and the cook departed with a bob of his capped head.
“Man of few words, isn’t he?” Abi observed, once their server was gone.
“Cook doesn’t speak much English,” explained Morrow. In a wry mutter, he added, “Sometimes I wish none of the crew did.”
Abi looked down into her bowl. Unexpectedly, her stomach moaned. Chunks of potato, bread, and onion floated on top, glittering with crystals of salt. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until face-to-face with a hot meal.
Without awaiting permission, she snatched up her spoon and dove in. The first thing she tasted was a chewy block of red meat. The flavor exploded on her tongue. She shoveled another spoonful into her mouth before she had even finished chewing the first. She didn’t know the next time she’d be privileged enough to taste meat again, after all. They seldom ate fare like this aboard The Succubus.
She was halfway finished with her bowl when she noticed the captain watching her, evidently entertained. He hadn’t even lifted his spoon. Abi wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, growing abashed. “I know I said I wasn’t hungry,” she admitted. “But this is smashingly good.”
“I don’t doubt it is.” His eyes flitted with amusement. “But were ye not planning on sayin’ grace?” Abi’s expression must have appeared blank, for he asked, “Are you not familiar with the custom?”
It wasn’t that Abi had never seen someone pray over a meal before. Her father had taken aboard seamen who observed the practice—though Abi suspected it was more out of superstition than real reverence. It was only that she hadn’t been expecting Captain Morrow to suggest it.
She watched as he bowed his head over his bowl and intoned a rote blessing.
“So, you’re a pious person, Captain?” she had to ask, once he was finished.
He picked up his spoon and stirred his stew around before taking a bite. “Perhaps not very.” He chewed. “But my mother was.”
Abi resumed her dish as well. “And does she approve of your work at sea?”
“Don’t know.” He scooped another spoonful from his bowl. “She’s gone to the angels.”
Abi blotted her mouth on her sleeve. Her own mother was long departed too. She hardly remembered the woman, and had nothing more to add on the subject.
“A privateer,” she hummed, glancing at his desk strewn with parchment. “You aren’t a very well-known one, are you? At least, I’ve never heard of you.” Again, she was administering a poke, trying to ruffle him. She longed to break whatever spell had seemed to come over him, inclining him to play nice with her. It only made her trust him less.
Morrow looked up from his bowl.
Abi squinted at the framed documents hanging haphazardly on the walls over the bureau. “Where is your Letter of Marque?”
At last, the man betrayed a twinge of annoyance. “It’s hangin’ up there. Though, I s’pose you can’t read?”
“I can, a little.”
“No offense,” he rested his spoon on the table with a clang, “but what is that peculiar burr with which you speak?”
Abi involuntarily stroked her throat. Did he not like her voice? “I’m of the Colonies,” she said, a bit defensively. “We hail from Delaware.”
He looked more alert. “So, that’s where your father’s from? Did he rear you there?”
Abi clamped her mouth shut.
“Or have you spent most of your life at sea?” His eyes glinted with intrigue. “To where have you two traveled? What sort of exotic lands has a youth like you been privileged to explore?”
Abi got to her feet. She didn’t care how loudly her chair scooted against the paneling beneath it, or if it should leave a mark on the polished floor. “That’s what this is about.” She finally understood. Her nose wrinkled as she pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You’re only trying to dig up information on my father and where he’s been.”
Morrow didn’t deny it. Instead, he simply appraised her from this new vantage point, as she stood over him.
“Well, I’ll never tell you anything,” Abi declared, “so you might as well toss me overboard!” And she meant it. She was an excellent swimmer.
The man uttered a casual laugh. It was throaty and sharp and gave Abi goosebumps on her bare shoulders. “Believe me,” he grinned up at her, “I’d never waste such beauty.”
Abi flushed, slowly crossing her arms over her chest. What gall! Her father’s crew had never been permitted to speak to her in such a way. Captain Clear had made it plain that his daughter was off-limits. And Abi had never seemed to appeal to any of her papa’s crew, anyhow—for why would she, a greasy-haired, sooty-faced girl scampering about in men’s clothing?
Yet she supposed that wasn’t how she appeared to this man, Captain Morrow, now. She was of age, after all. And for the first time since she could recall, she was dressed femininely, with her hair washed and her clean skin on display. He was certainly taking notice. Why, somewhere, deep within, did she almost enjoy this forbidden, unfamiliar sort of attention?
But he was a privateer, she staunchly reminded herself. He was only trying to manipulate her. Most likely he wasn’t being honest about anything, not even about thinking her a beauty. And yet, there was nothing artificial about his shameless gaze, the way it swept across her figure, a twitch of hunger in the eager curve of his mouth…
Captain Morrow rose abruptly, setting his napkin down onto the table. Abi couldn’t fathom what he planned to do next. She kept her arms folded and her stare adhered to the high back of her chair while the man moved about the cabin. In her periphery, she saw him fussing with the great curtain at the end of the room. He extinguished all but one of the cabin’s oil lamps, muting the room to a shadowy glow.
Her skin grew hot as he returned to her side, just behind her, and brushed a hand against her arm. Abi turned to look at him. She was puzzled to see he’d removed his waistcoat. A white cotton tunic was tucked rigidly into his belted breeches. She hurriedly removed her eyes from his rather well-formed thighs and fixed them back upon his face, when an unexpected current of satisfaction rushed through her. He’d shed that silly hat! His head was bare once more, as it should be, his distinguishing scar blending naturally in the dim candlelight. She opened her mouth to comment, but Morrow pulled her forward.
Abi faced ahead, realizing he was guiding her to what lay beyond the parted red curtain. A broad, low bed, clad entirely—of all fabrics—in black silk. He stopped to fondle her exposed shoulder with large, calloused fingers. “I apologize if we got off on the wrong foot,” he grunted, now toying with the lace on her collar. “If ye’d like to get properly acquainted, we don’t have to be on our feet at all.”
An expression of shock rouged the man’s face as she smacked his hand away.
“You have no right to touch me,” hissed Abi, stumbling back. Her chest heaved in immediate alarm. She never should have been so naive to accept a supper invitation alone in the captain’s quarters. Of course this was what he would have in mind!
The man’s features contorted. At last—his true colors. “I have every right to touch you,” he growled. Gripping Abi by her upper arms, he forcibly steered her to his bed. The young woman arched back and lodged her knee against his groin. He loosened his hold at once. Ducking, Abi escaped him.
“You’re a pirate’s brat!” the man snarled after her, cupping himself. “Aren’t you used to being
passed about from shipmate to shipmate?”
Abi was outraged. “My father gave strict orders that anyone who so much as laid a finger on me would have his throat slit. And I cannot wait until he slashes yours!” Relishing in the image, she fled the cabin, leaving the flustered man keeled over behind her.
Chapter 4
She could barely catch her breath. Boots pounding the steps and dress billowing at her ankles, Abi stormed all the way up to the quarterdeck. She swallowed the open air in huge, gaping gulps, as though never having breathed properly in all her life. She seriously considered launching herself over the edge and into the opaque waters below. But the ship was large, and the freeboard steep. She wasn’t sure she could survive the impact with the water’s surface from such a fall.
The young woman closed her eyes, clutching the rails and pretending she was back aboard her home ship. Tears of regret threatened to spill through. How had she gotten herself captured? If only she’d hidden herself sooner, or fought harder.
This was precisely why Abi had always felt safest among pirates. When she was the rogue, what rogue did she fear? Garbed as a man amongst men, and under her father’s fearsome protection, no one, not even a pirate, had ever dared to cross her. So who the dickens did this privateer filth think he was? She no longer cared for his rugged, bald look and smoldering brown eyes. Nay, he didn’t charm her. In fact, he sickened her. He had to be at least ten, twelve years her senior, anyway. As if some old mariner stood a chance with Abner Clear’s daughter!
She didn’t want to believe her ears when she heard someone approaching. She begged for it not to be him, hoping it was just another crewman going about his nightly duties. But her stomach sank at the unmistakable bulk of the silhouette drifting toward her, emerging up the companionway from which she’d fled.
“Come no closer,” Abi warned him, pressing her body against the rails. “Or I will throw myself to the waves, I swear it.”
“Please, don’t do that.” He stepped forward in the moonlight. Abi could see that he held up empty hands in surrender. “I won’t touch you again.”
Her heart pounded. “Promise?”
“Yes, if you promise not to jump.”
Abi did not move away from the ledge, but agreed hesitantly. “Very well.”
“Abigail…forgive me.” The man exhaled, lowering his hands to his sides. “I didn’t realize you were a…damsel of virtue.”
“Just because your men dressed me like a doxy,” she quipped, “doesn’t mean I am one.”
Captain Morrow disregarded this. “How old are ye?” He studied her. “If I may ask?”
Abi hesitated. “Nineteen.”
He paused, ingesting this. “And how is it that you, a lass, came to live aboard your father’s ship?”
Abi shot him a distrustful look, but all the same, couldn’t see the harm in answering. The man had apologized to her. She loosened slightly from the rail. “My mother died of smallpox when I was young,” she replied. “I’ve few memories of her.”
Morrow’s expression was indiscernible. “And yer father kept you, did he?”
“Aye, he’d loved my mother very much and had been devoted to her. He saw no reason to leave behind the only surviving part of her.” Abi swallowed, hoping he would find her answer sufficient. She was telling the truth, after all. “I know it’s unusual,” she added, when he failed to react. “But Papa never underestimated me.”
Captain Morrow stepped in, but stopped short as Abi responded with a reflexive cringe. A look of pain crossed his face, as though truly sorry for having squandered her trust. “If you’d give me a second chance to prove myself a gentleman, I’d like for you to return to my cabin, and tell me more of yer upbringing.”
Abi wasn’t falling for the same trick twice. But even if he was being genuine, her energy was dwindling. The evening was getting late, and she’d experienced by far the most eventful day—and night—of her life. “Honestly, Captain, I’m exhausted,” she confessed. “The least you can do is show me where I might be permitted to sleep tonight.”
Morrow inhaled. He seemed to deliberate before answering, “Of course.” He craned his neck, where a cluster of crewmen was assembled on the poop deck, preparing to switch shifts. “Mr. DuPont?” he called up.
A congenial-looking fellow peered down. “Aye, Cap’n?”
“Have we a cabin to spare for Miss Clear?”
The sailors exchanged glances. “We’ll see what we can do, sir,” DuPont replied.
“Posthaste,” Morrow told him. He straightened, returning his focus upon Abi, but said nothing more to her. The young woman turned away, watching the dark waters glide beneath them as DuPont descended the decks. She listened to the muffled hammering of nails in wood as men continued to repair the cabin deck below. The repeated smites vibrated beneath her boots.
After a time, DuPont made his way back up to them. “We’ve worked something out,” Abi heard him say to the captain. “Hopefully, fit for a lady,” he added uncertainly, indicating Abi with a jerk of his chin. It was then when Abi truly understood Morrow and his men had not expected—or intended—their captive to be female. And now that they were stuck with her, it seemed no one was quite sure what to do with her. While the situation might have been advantageous for her, Abi was too fatigued to figure out how. For now, it only made her feel less welcome. But it was better than being locked away in the brig, she supposed.
At the captain’s behest, she followed DuPont back downstairs and found herself near the crew’s quarters. A tiny door punctuated the end of the hall. DuPont opened it. There were shelves built into the walls, holding netting and other light supplies, while in the center of the floor rested a sleeping mat and worn-looking quilt.
“A supply closet?” Captain Morrow hitched an eyebrow, coming up behind her.
Abi stepped into the little space, which was better described as a nook than an actual room. It had no porthole for escaping an emergency, and no latch on the door to prevent anyone from walking right in while she slept.
“’Twas the best we could do,” apologized DuPont, “seein’ how our cabins are already quite crowded as it is.”
Was the captain smirking? “Well,” he gurgled, “your choice, Miss Clear. Here…or my quarters, with me.”
“Here,” said Abi at once, seating herself on the edge of the mat. Morrow chuckled good-naturedly, though it was clearly for Mr. DuPont’s benefit. She knew his offer had been serious.
“Sleep tight, Abigail,” the captain said, as DuPont rested a candle and saucer on the shelf above her mat and backed out of the closet. “And, er…” Morrow fingered the doorframe, “I know you don’t much fancy that gown. Perchance I can buy you a new dress, when next we make port?” His eyes found hers. “Would you like that?”
Abi winched her brow. She couldn’t tell if the captain really cared, or if this was just more of the same façade, to soften her into feeding him her father’s secrets. She rose and clasped the little door handle. “Stop being nice to me,” she snapped, “because I see right through it.”
***
Captain James Morrow massaged his scalp as the supply closet door slammed in his face. The wench who had shut him out was, without a doubt, the most infuriating creature he’d ever encountered. Especially volatile too—one moment enchanting him with those sparkling green eyes, and the next screeching like a banshee and injuring his manhood.
The man climbed his way up to the helm to relieve Calahad, who’d been covering his post that evening, allowing him to deal with Miss Clear. But what good had it accomplished? With every step, Morrow couldn’t tame his uncoiling indignation. Where did the little chit think she got off treating him that way? It was his ship. Didn’t she know how effortlessly he could have opened that door right back up, tossed her curvy little hide onto the mat, and exercised his authority over her, then and there? He was twice her size—it would be too easy.
Though he ached to indulge himself while he had the chance, he wasn’t base enough
to force an unwilling maiden. Nay, and he especially could not afford this one’s eternal hatred. For he had concocted a plan for her, all right. And he intended to see it through. She was just going to take some more time, was all.
Either way, the girl was a nineteen-year-old virgin. And virgins were like ducklings, imprinting upon the first man they experienced. If Morrow could lure her into his arms, Abigail Clear would surely shift her loyalties to him and provide him the information he coveted—expressly, where her father was headed, and where the scoundrel had hidden the treasure. Only, apparently niceties wouldn’t be the way to go about it. Abigail had said it herself, that she saw straight through it when he tried at kindness. Perhaps the captain needed to find a way to make her come to him? Perhaps he had first to intrigue her…
And then, he would simply have to play hard-to-get.
***
For the longest while, Abi sat on the edge of her mat, staring down at her grimy old boots. The candlelight in the little closet flashed with the rhythm of the ship, but she wasn’t ready to snuff it. She needed a few more minutes to clear her head, before her mind should catch on to her body’s fatigue and feel prepared for slumber, as well.
Curious what else was bunking in the room with her, the girl stood in her cramped quarters and examined the shelves. There was some spare rope, an empty box or two. Just beneath the candlelight, a shimmer caught her eye. Abi extended up to her tiptoes, and noticed the saucer was made of glass. She had caught a glimpse of her reflection.
Carefully, she lifted the burning candle from its plate and peered into the sight of her own face. Could it really be her? She’d never seen her eyes so bright. And her skin, while tan and a little ruddy in the cheeks from a lifetime at sea, still looked clear and smooth. Her hair too, when washed and dried and spread down over her shoulders, was rather eye-catching.