“My, my, looks like we’re going to have some company, doesn’t it, lad?” Dark eyes bored into him with promised menace, and his fingers stroked—no, caressed—the hilt of the dagger. “And seeing as how you were so intent upon displaying yourself, I’m sure you’ll find this a most opportune moment to demonstrate your attributes. Surely, your neighbors will appreciate them far more than young Maria would have, don’t ye think?” Again that cold smile, the merciless humor that backlit those devil’s eyes. “As for me”—he crossed his arms and stroked his chin—“I think I’ll enjoy what promises to be a very amusing performance.” The grin widened, showing teeth that were unfairly white and straight, teeth that were the only spot of light in a face made all the darker by a moon that had suddenly, wisely, taken shelter behind a cloud.
Unable to comprehend the implications of the pirate’s words, Adam could only stare at those massive seaman’s arms crossed so casually over that broad chest, at the dagger peeping beneath one elbow whose subtle appearance was anything but casual. Droplets of sweat popped out on Adam’s brow, raced down his temples, and mingled with the dirty tracks of his tears.
“Now, step out of your breeches.”
“What?”
“Ye heard me.” Sam gestured with the knife. “Step out of them.”
And now Adam understood. His bloodless face went the color of ash. “Sir, no. Please, oh please, I beg of you—”
“Maria, lass, please turn your head.” Sam’s voice was deadly calm. And then, unexpectedly, he exploded. “I said off with them, ye blithering, stinking cur!”
Behind him, Maria retreated into the woods, her knees weak, her hands shaking. She heard Adam’s sobs, the soft scrape of fabric sliding down his legs. She waited for the agonized scream—but there was only Sam’s laughter and the voices of the villagers as they loudly made their way up the street.
“Ah, listen…your friends are coming.” Again, that unnerving calm. “’Twould be a shame to keep them waiting, wouldn’t it? Now go, and show them, not an innocent young woman, what a pitiful excuse for an organ ye have!”
“Sir, please—”
“Now, damn you, before I lose my patience and geld ye where ye stand!”
The knife flashed in the starlight, but Adam was already fleeing, his bloodcurdling screams hideous enough to raise the dead, his shirttails flapping wildly around his bare buttocks like a loose sail.
From down the road came howls of laughter, the horrified shriek of a woman.
Sam made a noise of disgust. Damned, miserable, filthy, stinking cur! Feeling somewhat satisfied, he turned and shoved the dagger into its scabbard. “Maria?” he called. But the road behind him was empty. “Maria? Where are ye, lass?” And then he heard the crackle of underbrush, a sharp cry—and silence.
He found her lying on her side, her hand gripping her ankle. She looked up at him. Her lips were white with pain, the lower one trembling, and in her eyes he saw apprehension, fear, and absolute misery.
Wordlessly, he bent down and gathered her up in his arms. She was a featherweight, all legs, skirts, and not much else save for the tumble of hair that draped her tear-streaked face. He pulled a damp strand of it out of her eyes, kissed her eyelids, and held her face against his chest. “Little fool,” he murmured, rocking her, and the words were both an endearment and an unspoken plea for forgiveness.
He did not know if she would give it. God knew, he didn’t deserve it. But she didn’t fight him as he carried her, and for the moment that had to be enough.
Chapter 14
If I leave all for thee, will thou exchange
And be all to me?
—Browning
Branches clawed at the stars, brambles tore at their clothes. Sam skirted the marsh, avoiding the mud that ripened the night air with the pungent scent of rotting vegetation, salt, and low tide. Cattails and rushes engulfed them, rough grasses swished against Maria’s legs, but he didn’t stop until he reached the still waters of Billingsgate Harbor.
Down the beach he carried her, and straight out onto the pier. Boats rocked quietly at their moorings. The tide sucked and lapped around the pilings. Sam continued to the end of the pier, his boots striking a tattoo upon the planking, his face set with determination. Finally he halted, and silence reigned again as the night enclosed them.
His arms tightened around her. Maria heard his breath moving harshly through his lungs, felt the dampness of his chest as it rose and fell against her cheek. The long trek through woods and marshes had taken its toll on him, but never would he admit it and never would she provoke his temper by reminding him that he was not fully recovered. But as she waited for him to set her down his breathing steadied, his heartbeat leveled out beneath her ear, and she felt the weight of his chin upon the top of her head.
He held her until the silence between them finally grew louder than night. Burying his lips in her hair, he said softly, “Aren’t ye going to curse me to hell and back? Scream at me, rage at me? I deserve it, ye know. Anything but your silence.”
“What would you have me say?”
“What would you have me say?”
“‘I’m sorry’ would be a good place to start.”
He looked away. “I’m sorry, Maria. For tearing your house apart. For my display of temper. For frightening ye so, though I swear to God I’d never hurt ye.” He looked at her. “For everything.”
She nodded.
“Your rage frightened me, Sam. I hope never to see it again.”
“I’ll endeavor to ensure that you do not.”
A long awkward silence passed between them. “Though,” she finally said, “that same temper of yours sure did succeed in scaring the living daylights out of Adam, and I have to confess, that was quite mollifying.” Her lips twitched as she remembered her assailant’s terror. “And no wonder—you looked more forbidding than the devil himself!”
Her attempt to lighten the mood, to offer forgiveness, lightened his mood as well and smiling, he stroked his chin. “Did I, now?”
“’Twas no wonder poor Adam thought you were a ghost. What that little scene will do for your legend, I can only imagine.”
He sobered somewhat. “Too bad I can’t stick around long enough to find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must leave here. And so must you.”
She stared up at him in confusion. “Leave?”
“Maria.” He reached up to cup her cheek. “After tonight, ye don’t really think I can stay here, do ye? They’re probably searching your hut already. And you read the governor’s proclamation—anyone found hiding, harboring, or nursing any survivors from Whydah will share in their punishment. They will hang me.” His eyes darkened as he leveled his gaze upon her. “And they will hang you.”
Devastation was merciful; it didn’t bring pain, agony, or tears—yet. Just a spreading numbness that drained the blood from her face. From far away she heard her own plaintive, quivering voice. “But they don’t know you’re alive….”
“Nay, but they will if I stay here long enough. ’Twill take only one bullet to prove that a ‘ghost’ is naught but flesh and blood.”
She stared at him. He was right, of course. And the villagers would be swarming over her hut like a cloud of angry hornets, looking for him; they could not go back, not for her meager possessions, not even for Gunner. If Sam were found, he’d be sent to Boston for trial and certain execution and she, who had nursed him back to health, would be tried right along with him. Eastham was no longer safe for either of them; they had to leave.
And now they heard shouts, calls, and the sounds of the villagers moving through the night.
“Let’s go,” he said, taking her arm.
But Maria hesitated. What about Gunner? What about her aunt? What about the fact—
“Come, Maria, we must make haste.”
—that Sam was a pirate?
“But Sam—”
“What, damn it?”
“I can’t.”
“And I won’t go with you unless you denounce piracy and become an honest man.”
He swore again, harder this time. Lanterns were shining through the trees now, the voices getting louder. Any moment now the villagers would discover them.
Sam seized Maria’s arms and stared down into her eyes. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. If piracy’s what’s needling ye I’ll give it up.”
“You’ll give it up? Honestly?”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes, now enough prattle, let’s go!”
And as Sam Bellamy scooped her up once more, he thanked the gods above that she knew nothing of his real plans for if she did, she wouldn’t follow him any farther than the edge of this warped and weathered pier. In fact, she’d probably push him off it. But he’d die before he’d leave her alone in Eastham, especially after tonight. Besides, she was his.
His.
He eyed the fishing boats that lay tied up to the pier until he saw one that would suit his purposes. “Now, dry those tears,” he said, smudging a track of moisture into her cheek with one callused finger. “I’ll have no wet-nosed brats in my crew!”
Just then Gunner came racing out of the woods, across the beach, and down the pier.
“Gunner!” Maria gasped.
“Oh, for God’s bloody sake!”
“Sam, we have to take him!”
Swearing, he vaulted down into the boat and easily maintaining his balance in the small craft, reached up for her. Lights were shining upon the beach now, stretching toward them across the water.
“Call the sniveling whelp and let’s go!”
“But—”
“Call him,” he snapped, arms still outstretched and fingers beckoning.
“But Sam, we can’t do this! This is someone’s property, and to take it would be stealing! It’s…it’s—”
“Piracy? I prefer to think of it as survival.” His voice grew firm, his motions hurried. “Now, take my hands. Now.”
He was right. What choice did they have? The only safe, sure way off Cape Cod was by way of the ocean. Gunner, whining, jumped hesitantly down into the boat, looking expectantly up at her. And before she had time to protest further, Sam’s hands were around her ribs, snatching her from the security of the pier and down into the boat.
Untying the mooring line and shoving an oar against the dock, he sent the craft gliding out into the bay in a gurgling swirl of foam. Gunner put two paws on the bow and looked down at the black water rushing past. The pier faded into the darkness behind them just as the villagers’ lanterns streamed out along it, searching for them.
She glanced at Sam Bellamy, her heart in her throat.
She didn’t even dare to breathe for fear they’d be discovered.
But Sam was in his element. He handled the boat with skill, letting the boom swing freely in the gentle breeze as he raised the sail. He secured the halyard, took up the mainsheet, and settled himself at the windward side of the boat, one hand on the tiller.
Neither dared to speak as the boat slid silently toward open water. Once there the wind freshened and the vessel picked up speed, heeling slightly on a starboard tack.
“I’m sorry, Maria,” Sam said. “I know ye’d have liked to bid farewell to your aunt, your home. But we had no choice.”
“I know.”
She looked over at him, the wind tugging at his hair and the moonlight in his eyes. “Ye won’t regret coming with me.”
“Then I beg you, don’t give me reason to, Sam.”
He merely smiled, glanced up at the sail, and gazed steadily off into the night. The hull cleaved the black water, and she thought of how quiet the sea was compared to the rage it had shown the night it had claimed his ship. She thought of Whydah, then, not as the ship had been in death, but as it she must’ve been in full, vibrant life with nearly two hundred pirates running her decks, Jolly Roger snapping in the breeze, white sails filling the sky. She thought of Whydah gliding over a night sea like this one, whose surface reflected these very same stars. And then her heart swelled with pride as she thought of this man whose life had become so entwined with her own, and how he must’ve looked in command of the quarterdeck, proud and handsome and ruler of not only that fine ship but the very seas beneath his feet.
The free prince of the seas, they’d called him. And suddenly, it became all-important to know what that life had been like, that stretch of time that could never include her.
“Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“What was it like?”
He looked at her, confused.
“Your time as a pirate,” she said. “Was your crew really as bloodthirsty as everyone says they were?”
He shrugged. “No more so than I.”
“Did you really kill people?”
He shook his head, a patient little smile curving his mouth. “We were masters of intimidation. There was seldom a need to kill anyone, lass.”
He told her about his lost crewmates in the only eulogy they would ever receive. About Tom Baker, who’d walked with a swagger and had dreams of becoming a captain himself some day; about Stripes, who knew every man’s business and made sure everyone else knew it too; about Simon Van Vorst, with his shock of blond hair and his great booming laugh, and poor Thomas Davis, the frightened, unwilling carpenter they’d forced to join them because his skills were so badly needed. And he told her about life before he’d found the beautiful Whydah…about old Ben Hornigold, whose reluctance to take English ships had cost him his captaincy, and Ned Teach from Bristol, his friend and shipmate aboard Hornigold’s sloop who wasn’t afraid of the devil himself. Ah, Teach…. They’d had some fine times together. He wondered what that fearless rascal was up to now.
“So, none of Whydah’s crew ever killed anyone?” she was asking.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he mused. “We did have some bloodshed among ourselves once. Things got a bit carried away before I could put a stop to it.”
“What happened?” she moved close to him, lying back against his chest, pillowing her head against his arm and staring up at the stars above. The Milky Way was a chalky path through an already breathtaking vista, the summer triangle close enough to reach up and touch. She had no idea where they were headed, but Sam was here, Sam would keep them both safe, and everything would be all right.
They were together.
Nothing else mattered.
“We had a lot of time on our hands,” he said, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts before he looked away. She wondered if that last, awful encounter in her hut had soured him on her. Wondered if he figured she was not worth the bother. “There wasn’t always a lot to do, you know. Oh, we’d dice or tell tales over a pot of rum. If things got too slow we’d fire off a cannon or two just to hear the noise. Well, one day, someone thought up the idea of staging a play on the quarterdeck.”
“A play?” Maria asked, looking up at the dark outline of his chin against the starlit sky.
“Aye. ’Twas a good way to pass the time; we did it often for lack of anything better to do. Well, this one was about Alexander the Great. I still laugh when I think of the men, ransacking every chest in the hold for fabric so that they might make costumes. Ye should’ve seen them. They went belowdecks dressed in ragged breeches and torn shirts, and came up wearing silks that looked more like harem costumes than togas.”
“So, what happened?” she asked, fascinated despite her determination not to give credit to his life as a pirate by asking him to remember it.
“Well, the rum punch was pretty strong that day,” he said, “and whether it was its potency or damned good acting, one of the gunners who was in the audience got carried away. Seems he thought the hero of the play was really going to be killed. Before anyone knew what he was about, he found a grenade and threw it among the
actors. Caused one hell of a mess, but it didn’t end there. Before I could stop it, everyone was rushing into it, thinking to save the poor ‘hero,’ who had no idea what to do.” He paused, smiling faintly in remembrance and sadness, for the gunner, the rowdy audience, those who’d played Alexander and the hero were all dead now. “As it happened, one lad broke a leg, one lost an arm, and another lost his life. Needless to say, I decided it was the last time that play would ever entertain Whydah’s lads.”
“Did you punish the gunner for starting it all?”
“Aye, but not severely. After all, he was feeling the rum punch. I couldn’t blame him for getting carried away. Besides, the play’s ‘hero’ was a pirate playing, of all things, a pirate. ’Tis the way of the Brethren to look after their own.”
His poignant memories reached out to her. Suddenly, she wanted to reach up and touch his face, to wipe away the pain, if only she could. She ached to hold this proud, unpredictable man in her arms, but no…her pride was still too hurt, her feelings too raw after the things he had said and done back in her hut.
Who is the real Sam Bellamy?
She looked at him there at the tiller and silhouetted against the stars. He had said he’d give up piracy, and she wanted with all her heart to believe him.
But could she?
Show me you’re still the man with whom I fell in love a year ago. Show me that the real Sam Bellamy did not die with his ship, but is very much alive. Show me I can believe you when you say you’ll become an honest man.
At that moment the starlight gleamed upon the hilt of the dagger he’d found after all, and the chill that drove up Maria’s spine had nothing to do with the coolness of the sea air.
Chapter 15
Pirate In My Arms Page 19