She wiped at her eyes with a knuckle and in a small, plaintive voice asked, “Then why did you take this ship when you knew how I felt about it? Why can’t you just give up piracy?”
“I had intended to give it up, before Whydah foundered. But the wreck changed all that.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He laughed without humor. “Because two men survived that wreck, Maria, as well as the prize crew I put aboard the wine pink. They’re my men. They depended upon me to lead them into battle, to guide them and keep them safe. Now they’re in the most perilous battle they’ll ever fight; now, they need me more than ever. I can’t just desert them. How could I live with myself if I left them to their fates, without hope of ever being rescued?”
“But they don’t know you’re alive. Nobody does. They’re no longer counting on you, you don’t have to rescue them.”
“That’s a coward’s way out, and I’d be lower than a snake if I were to take it.”
“Then why are we going to this…this island?”
“To rendezvous with the other two ships that were in my fleet that night. Before the storm struck we held council and agreed to meet there if we became separated. There’s a chance—a slim one, but a chance, nevertheless—they’re still there, waiting for us; if so, we’ll gather forces, then go about getting those poor lads out of the Boston gaol.”
He felt her relaxing in his arms as the wine took hold, and was grateful for it.
“Don’t worry, lass,” he murmured, into her hair. “I won’t be at this game for long, I promise. After I get the men out, ye have my word that I’ll turn over command of this sloop to her quartermaster. I’ll lower my flag, never sail under the Jolly Roger again. We will find some lovely, tropical island on which to settle—hell, maybe I’ll even grow sugarcane or something, anything to make you happy. We’ll have a big, handsome house where the trade winds sweep through and it never gets cold. We’ll have grand parties, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll even let that confounded dog of yours—Maria?”
But she was fast asleep, her head lolling against his shoulder, one thick gilded lock of hair tumbling across his arm. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
He smiled, for his little Maria was apparently unaccustomed to anything stronger than milk. But the wine had brought her peace, and though she might curse him come morning for it, he didn’t regret giving it to her. At least she was resting comfortably; he, unfortunately, would not be so lucky. He was so damned tired he could barely keep his eyes open but how could he sleep after what he’d learned tonight? Witchcraft, abuse, ostracism—and a baby. Oh God, a baby. His baby.
He stood up, cradling her to his chest as he carried her to his bunk. She was a feather in his arms, nothing more than a scrap of soft skin and silken hair encased in a tumble of petticoats and a dirt-smudged gown. As carefully as if she were made of porcelain, he set her on the bunk and drew the coverlet up over her shoulders.
For a long moment he stood gazing down at her, drinking in her beauty. His eyes were troubled. And then he bent, dropped a kiss upon her brow, and made his way to the door. On the way out, he paused only long enough to retrieve the bottle of wine. It would not, of course, ease his troubled mind any, but there was no harm in trying. And on second thought, he reached for a second bottle, just in case, and with a last look at the child-woman asleep in his bunk, quietly shut the door behind him.
Chapter 18
Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
—Gay
An ear-splitting roar startled Maria awake and bolt upright in the bunk. She stared, momentarily confused at the unfamiliar surroundings, and then her heart settled back into her breast as the booming echoes died away and a loud chorus of cheers drifted down to her from above.
Of course. She was on a pirate ship, its crew was cheering, and its captain was teaching a ten-year-old how to fire a cannon.
The headache struck as she swung her legs off the bed, driving a moan of pain from her lips and her fingertips to her temples in a vain effort to contain it. Her mouth was lined with cotton, her stomach as sour as week-old milk, her unkempt hair falling over her eyes. The creases in her skirts were mute testimony to the fact that she’d fallen asleep fully clothed.
She gained her feet with a good deal of assistance from the corner of the bunk and none at all from the sloop, rolling pleasantly on the long ocean swells and taking a cruel delight in framing a glaring, diamond-studded sea between its open stern windows that made her feel as though someone had taken off the top of her head and dumped hot coals behind her eyes. Just how on earth was she going to survive aboard this ship? One night and she was already dying. And the food…she didn’t want to even think about what the food would be like.
A bowl and pitcher stood on the table, and Maria felt slightly better after washing her face. Easing the tangles from her hair, she plaited it, tossed the braid back over her shoulder, and sank down on the bunk to consider her situation.
She assumed that Sam had slept topside beneath the stars, a thought that made her feel empty and annoyed at the same time. But last night, with its turbulent then tender memories, was fresh in her mind. Mixed feelings pummeled her from all sides. She didn’t know whether to be grateful to Sam for his tactical methods of making her reveal all, relieved that she’d finally done so, or angry that despite her wishes, he’d still taken the sloop.
Oh, it had been heaven to be held so tenderly in his arms, to finally relinquish all the heartache of the past year to his very capable shoulders. But what were his feelings on the whole matter? After all, he’d had a whole night to dwell on the things she’d told him—things that made her all the more vulnerable to him, things he could use against her if the need suited him.
She watched the pages of his open journal flutter in the breeze. Annoyance with her own loss of control, irritation with his persuasive ways, fear of the knowledge he now held—and the headache that was, after all, his fault—made her feel peevish. Another deafening crash from above and an answering boom of resounding thunder sent her temper spinning toward the edge. Irascibility won out; smoothing the creases from her skirts, she marched from the cabin.
Topside, water tossed and tumbled about the ship in every direction, rolling away to the north, the south, growing deep azure toward the west and so dazzlingly bright in the east that it hurt her eyes, and her head, to look at it. Yet she made a charming sight as she appeared on the sun-drenched open deck, her face still flushed with sleep, her hair shining like Egyptian gold. As usual, Maria was unaware of the effect she had on men, and that effect was no different upon this rough pack of sea dogs than it had been on the besotted lads back in Eastham. She mistook their good-natured elbow-bumping, roguish grins, and raised rum pots for mockery, not compliments. And if she’d been peevish when she left the cabin, now she was growing downright angry.
No doubt they assumed that she and Sam had spent the night together—in bed. And for that matter, where had he slept? Her face flamed, and she avoided their eyes as she stumbled across the deck, nearly tripping over a pile of coiled rope and lurching drunkenly as the sloop rolled beneath her feet.
Oh, they probably thought she was a harlot all right, if not a witch, thanks to that meddlesome busybody…what was his name? Spot? Stripes? But then she looked up and saw no condemnation coming from this rowdy group in seaman’s skilts and leather vests. Several even raised their tankards to her in an odd gesture of respect as she passed.
But their seemingly good manners would not last for long. They’d only been pirates since yesterday. Give them a few more days of Sam Bellamy, a prize or two to get the blood-lust and gold-thirst running in their veins, and they’d never be the same.
As if to reprimand her for her thoughts about its captain, the ship nosed into a swell and tossed its bowsprit toward the sky. Thrown off balance, Maria stumbled and grabbed at a line, only to find it sticky with tar. She clung there on the
open, wind-raked deck as the ship plunged through foamy seas and flung spray back into her face, her stomach in knots while she tried to focus her attention on a gull wheeling just off the bow, now diving to pluck a piece of fish out of the air as the cook heaved the scraps of last night’s meal overboard.
She was just starting to relax when her nerves were blown to bits by another calm-shattering detonation. An acrid cloud of smoke drifted past, and as it cleared she saw a group of men gathered around a gun on the larboard side of the quarterdeck. In their midst, holding a smoldering match in his hand, was the boy, Johnnie. His hair was rumpled, his hands were black with powder, and he was listening with rapt attention to the patient words of his captain, who stood beside him.
“Now, try it again, lad. Sponge her out, ram the powder cartridge home. Now, the ball. That’s it.” Maria watched in dismay as the boy followed Sam’s instructions, then stabbed a long pick through the gun’s touchhole to puncture the cartridge. Two burly men took up the cannon’s side tackle and ran the gun forward. “Sight along the barrel—carefully, now! And keep that damned match to leeward, ye don’t want a spark to set her off before you’re ready. Stand to the side, she’s going to come back, hard. That’s better. Now, wait ’til the ship begins to crest the next wave, and fire on the uproll—”
Maria clapped her hands to her ringing ears just in time. Belching smoke, the gun hurled itself back against the heavy breeching ropes. The deck shook beneath her feet. Bass reverberations rang through her head, her chest, and every part of her body. A half-mile beyond the rail, the ocean swallowed the ball and coughed up a plume of spray. As wind drove the thick smoke to leeward and off over the sea, Maria saw that Johnnie’s audience was cheering and clapping him on the back. Gunner was there too, barking wildly. Someone thrust a tankard into the boy’s hand, and Sam let him have a swallow or two before just as quickly passing it on to Stripes, who sat on an overturned barrel with bare feet swinging to and fro.
Sam. He was grinning, his teeth flashing white between the sheen of black powder that covered his face and made him look like some grinning devil straight from hell itself. His eyes looked tired and red-rimmed, and the little creases at their corners—now white lines etched into the powder grime—were sharp with weariness. His hair was still tied in a queue, though it remained so rebelliously; it, like its owner, disliked restraint of any kind and now the strip of leather at his nape had all but abandoned its efforts at keeping the glossy black waves under control. As she stared at him, he happened to glance up and see her watching him.
“Maria, lass!” he called, his eyes lighting up. “How nice of ye to join us! I was just showing Johnnie how to fire a gun.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
One black brow went up at her unexpected petulance, but he came forward and took her hand. His smile was teasing, his dark eyes dancing as he leaned down to kiss her brow. “What ails ye, princess? Too much wine last night?”
“Too much wine? Yes, and no thanks to you. I suppose you think it’s all a big joke.”
Instantly, the teasing light in his eye vanished. He was no longer grinning. “I can assure you, princess, ’tis no joke.”
“Of course not, it wouldn’t be. It’s never a joke when a ten-year-old is corrupted by the evil of his elders, never a joke when someone is caught and hung for piracy.”
An unnatural hush fell over the ship at the brazen way in which she was addressing its captain; even the sloop seemed to listen, the creak of mast and spars ceasing for a long moment until only the sigh of wind through rigging could be heard. Nearby, Stripes pricked up his ears and watched this new development the way a starving man eyes a piece of bread, and several men hid amused coughs behind their hands and glanced quickly among themselves as they wondered how their captain would react to this tongue-lashing from a mere woman. Only Johnnie, who’d hoped to fire the cannon a few more times, looked dismayed.
Sam smiled, but she could see the irritation in his eyes. “The wine has not only made ye irritable, but dimmed your memory of all I promised ye as well. Back to the beginning, are we?” he said for her ears alone.
“It would appear,” she returned.
The crew was watching intently. Their captain picked up a piece of round shot and hefted it in his hand. “Now, lass, why don’t ye go below and get some more sleep?” he advised loudly, and though his voice was pleasant, she didn’t miss the warning in his eye. “Perhaps ye’ll feel better when ye wake up.”
As though she could sleep with such racket. Instead, Maria just looked at him, and he turned away, dismissing her.
She watched sullenly as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, knelt at a bucket of seawater, and plunging his arms into it, proceeded to scrub the grime from his face and arms with a bit of sailcloth. Maria bit her lip, angry with herself as much as with him. Angry that she could be so irritated with him and yet admire him for the handsome man that he was. Angry that as he stood up, vigorously rubbing his face clean, she could feel the nether regions of her body responding to the virile picture he made. She felt like a child with a piece of candy just out of reach. A kitten eyeing a bowl of cream. Unbidden, her gaze fastened upon the water streaming in rivulets down those muscled arms and darkening the bunched fabric at his elbows, water trickling down the planes of his face and into his beard, water racing between the hollows of his powerful chest muscles. One fat, glistening drop clung there, finally losing its tenuous hold to race down his taut, hard belly and into the line of dark hair that led her eyes down an enticing path where it disappeared, almost unfairly, she thought, beneath the waistband of his breeches.
Wiping the water from his eyes, he looked up and caught her staring at him—and grinned. “Keep looking at me like that, lass, and I’ll personally escort ye back to the cabin myself. And if that should happen, don’t think that ye’ll be back on deck before nightfall.” Instantly, Maria’s face flamed anew, for she had no trouble understanding his meaning—and from the laughter of some of the men, neither did they. Humiliated, she tore her gaze from the handsome picture he made against the blue, blue backdrop of ocean and instead directed it toward the safety of the distant horizon.
And now she was growing painfully aware that the crew was whispering, laughing, elbowing each other. Coins were being passed. Sam didn’t appear to care. Or did he? How could he be so warm and caring last night, and so unfeeling in the light of day?
Or was he?
Was this, too, just a balancing act between placating her and being the man of legend, the fearless pirate captain his men expected to lead them?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him choose another cannonball, hefting it in his hand before tossing it to his master gunner. “Here, Phil. Let the lad have another try or two at the gun.” Johnnie’s face brightened like sunshine after a shower. “And make sure ye leave it swabbed, loaded, and ready to fire when you’re through. I don’t want to be caught unprepared should Mr. Tozier sight a sail on the horizon.”
And now he was approaching.
So he did care, then.
She heard him coming up behind her, sensed his presence. She stood where she was at the side, her feet braced against the roll of the ship, her hands glued to the rail for balance. She went rigid as he took her arm and, pulling her free, led her out of earshot of the others.
“Come, Maria. The decks are wet with spume and I’ve no wish to see ye slip and fall just because of your damned foolish pride.” He guided her to the weather rail. There, he released her and leaned against a gun, eyeing her with speculation. “Now that we have some privacy, my dear, suppose you tell me just what the devil has got under your skin this morning.”
“You are teaching a ten-year-old how to fire a cannon!”
“Aboard ship it’s a gun, not a cannon.”
“Oh why do you mock me so?” She shook her head and made a helpless gesture of frustration. “You used to be so kind, but now you’re insufferable!”
Sam crossed his arms, still glistening with wate
r. She tried not to look at that virile display of bronzy skin and defined muscle. “Allow me to clarify something, lass. First of all, if ye’re determined to treat me with the disrespect ye showed a moment ago in front of my crew, then ye’ll come to regret it.” He smiled, but it only emphasized rather than masked the hardness of his words. “I know of captains who’d lash their men for less. Furthermore, your attacks on my chosen profession are growing tiresome. Keep it up, and I swear I’ll lock you in that cabin ’til this whole business is over and done with. I told ye last night I have a mission to accomplish, and like it or not, a pirate I am and a pirate I will remain until my men are out of that gaol and free once more.”
“And you are swinging right along with them!”
“Enough, Maria.” He gazed up at the pendant to check the wind, then regarded her with dark eyes crinkling with humor. “Besides, what does the Good Book tell us about…unchastity?”
Twin spots of color flamed in her cheeks. “How dare you accuse me of unchastity when ’twas you who all but raped me in the first place, you who promised to wed me and are now putting it off in favor of other things—riches, piracy, and rescuing a pack of wolves the world would be better off without!”
“Rape?” he asked softly, arching a brow. “Do my ears fail me? I hardly think that what transpired between us that night was ‘rape.’ You were quite willing, if I remember correctly.”
Maria’s mouth dropped open in indignation, but before she could respond a sudden gust of wind heeled the ship so far over that she found herself looking across a scant twenty feet of deck, a pitifully insignificant gunwale, and down into dark, foam-flecked water rushing past the rail. A scream of pure terror rose in her throat, and then there was only the iron grip of Sam’s hand as it shot out to steady her.
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