Day Dreamer

by Jill Marie Landis

  “You know me too well already, I see. Actually, putting you out of your misery is not a bad idea. I can’t say I’m looking forward to another night like the last.”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “Did you long for me in the middle of the night?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I took Edward and Foster’s cabin. I’ll be staying there from now on. They have moved to the ’tween deck.”

  “They were very kind to me last night, which is more than I can say for you. I’m sorry they were put out.”

  “It’s their job to be kind. But it’s not mine, especially when I’m forced to wear used dinner. You need not worry about them, however. I’m not so heartless that I would make them stay in less than desirable accommodations. There are only three other passengers down there this trip. Aside from Edward’s sudden illness, they seem quite comfortable.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” she said.

  He sat down near her feet at the edge of the bunk.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to see what he was up to.

  “You don’t need to worry. Your virtue is quite safe for now. The way you look, I don’t think you could even tempt a shipwrecked sailor.”

  “Thank you.” She wished he had not chosen this particular morning to find a sense of humor. “The motion seems to have lessened.”

  “Becalmed.”

  “I am calm.”

  “The ship is becalmed. The winds have died.”

  “So we’re forced to bob like a cork at the mercy of the wind?”

  “I’m afraid so. Unless you can commune with nature. Are you sure you won’t even take a little water? Foster thinks you should.”

  “If Foster had my stomach, he might think differently.”

  He watched her try to swallow and grew concerned when he thought her eyes were about to roll up into her head.

  “Celine?”

  “At least you finally have the name right.” She closed her eyes and flopped back on the pillow.

  Aside from frequent hangovers, he couldn’t recall ever being sick. Henre wouldn’t have allowed it. Cord had no idea how to deal with any ailing individual, let alone an ailing wife. He stood up and poured her a cup of water from a flask in a cupboard beneath the basin. When he was beside the bunk again, he held the water out to her.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  She gazed up at him as he stood holding the cup at arm’s length, very careful to keep his shining boots away from the bed.

  “Your bedside manner is terrible,” she said.

  “Let’s just say I’m far better in bed than standing alongside it.” Cord sat down beside her again, watching her closely so that he could jump out of the way if the need arose. He reached out and slipped his hand beneath her head, cradled her gently and held the cup of water to her lips.

  “Drink it slowly,” he warned. “Just a few drops at a time.”

  Celine did as he asked: took a sip of water, let the blessed moisture roll over her tongue and then swallowed. She waited until she was certain her stomach was not about to react violently and then took another sip.

  “Better?” he asked when she had swallowed a few more drops.

  “No. But not as miserable as before.”

  “Would you like to try standing? Maybe a walk in the fresh air?”

  “I would like to get off this boat.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Will it be much longer, do you think?”

  “Not if the wind picks up and holds steady. Forever if it doesn’t.” He looked down and found her watching him closely. He hadn’t moved from her side, hadn’t even taken his arm from around her. When he realized he was still cradling her like a babe, he gently laid her back down.

  “You seem to have acquired a sense of humor,” she noted.

  “I am looking forward to going home.”

  He was as happy as he dared let himself feel about anything. Home to St. Stephen. It had been a dream for so long that he knew he wouldn’t really believe it until he was standing on island soil. He never dreamed he would be returning with a wife, though. It was still too foreign a concept to consider for more than a few moments at a time, so when she shut her eyes, he began to dwell upon her looks instead.

  She appeared younger, more vulnerable with her dark, wild hair spread out on the pillow. She seemed to have shrunk inside the lawn nightgown. It drooped off one of the smooth shoulders visible above the edge of the sheet. Her skin was soft as silk, and far too tempting a reminder that she was his to do with as he pleased.

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  She opened her eyes again and followed the direction of his gaze. He was staring at her bare shoulder. When their eyes met, she shook her head.

  “If I said I thought I was feeling better, what would you say?”

  “After last night I’d want to be very, very sure first.”

  There was a shout from above and the sound of many footsteps running on the poop deck.

  “What is it?” She took advantage of the opportunity to tug the sheet up to her neck.

  Cord stood up and stretched. “Probably sighted another ship. I’ll come back later on and see if you’re ready for some food or a walk on the deck.”

  He watched her flop back down on the bunk and cover her eyes with the crook of her arm. “Just ask Captain Thompson to get us there with as little movement as possible,” she requested.

  The shouting had intensified. He hadn’t thought of taking a gun on deck, but by the time Cord had cleared the doorway and was standing on the main deck beneath the maze of sails and tangle of rigging, he wished he had. He found himself in the middle of a small invasion. A rugged schooner flying a flag he failed to recognize had come alongside and the ill-prepared crew of the Adelaide was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a shipload of unsavory-looking characters. Pandemonium had broken out everywhere.

  He ducked back inside the double doors to the saloon and returned on the run to Celine’s cabin.

  “We’re being attacked by pirates. Lock the door and for God’s sake, don’t be an idiot and go out on deck.” He raced through the adjoining door to his new cabin, slammed it behind him and pulled a pistol out of a small trunk. In less than three minutes he was back on deck.

  Foster, armed with a pistol and a paring knife, was just clearing the ladder from ’tween decks. Edward, apparently having made a miraculous recovery, brandished an antique-looking pistol.

  “This way!” Cord called out to them as he threaded his way around the masts and through the melee, pausing once to dispatch a pirate with his fist as he headed up the ladder to the poop deck, where the first mate was locked in hand-to-hand combat with a giant, toothless invader.

  “Pirates?”

  The noise overhead had become thunderous with shots and shouts and the unmistakable thud of men falling against the wooden deck. Celine jumped to her feet and shoved her hair out of her eyes.

  Lock the door? Was he mad? Did he think a locked door would keep out a band of brigands?

  She heard a gun fire and spun around, leaned over the bunk and tried to see out of the minuscule porthole. Mile upon mile of water and the ever-shifting horizon were all she saw. When she felt her stomach quiver, she deemed it better not to look. The sounds overhead appeared to be dying out. She was not going to wait like one of the chickens in those cages on the deck to see who came to get her.

  Celine cracked open the door and peered around the saloon. It was empty. The ship was no longer rocking, but blessedly still. All of the doors to the adjoining cabins were closed save the one to the pantry. She could see the tall cabinets against the wall and decided the room probably held nothing of value to a passel of pirates. She dashed across the saloon, opened the door to a lower cabinet, hurriedly pulled out three huge soup pots, set them on the shelf opposite and then climbed into the empty space.

  Curled up with her arms locked around her knees, Celine pressed against the back of the cupboard
, closed her eyes and listened, trying to distinguish Cord’s voice in the shouting overhead.

  The confrontation was over.

  Captain Thompson, being of sound mind and determined to live to see his precious wife again, surrendered before there was any loss of life on his side. Cord was of another mind as he stood alongside the crew of the Adelaide and his fellow passengers, all of whom were bound and lined up at the rail.

  A burly, bearded fellow called Cookie, whose girth attested to his culinary skill, stood three men down from Cord. Before the truce he had been wielding a deadly-looking knife as well as a skillet. “We could have taken ’em,” the cook grumbled. “Now there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Cord followed the man’s gaze. Across the deck, most of the motley pirate crew had gathered around a fallen comrade while the remaining four stood guard over the prisoners.

  As Cord watched, their leader knelt down, felt for a pulse in the wounded man’s neck and then stood up. The pirate captain was no more than five foot three at the most, nearly as wide as he was tall and garbed in a mismatched assortment of clothing. He wore an oversized saffron shirt, an undersized brocade waistcoat, purple satin trousers cut off just below the knees and shoes that had absorbed so much saltwater in their day that the color was indistinguishable and the toes curled upward. A half dozen gold chains hung about his neck and two emerald earbobs dangled from one lobe. A saber was sheathed at his side.

  The outlandish character shook his head. “Jimmy’s done for,” he said in a voice as rough as gravel beneath a buggy wheel. “May the Lord bless his soul. Now toss him overboard.”

  Without a backward glance, the pirate marched across the deck, heading toward his captives. Each stride took him no more than a foot forward. His short arms and squarish hands swung back and forth at his sides with such purpose that he looked like a mechanical toy.

  He walked up to Captain Thompson, forced by his diminutive height to crane his neck to stare up at the taller man.

  “I see you’re a sensible man, Cap’n, surrenderin’ like that afore we were forced to cut all of your miserable throats.” He took a deep, sweeping bow. “They call me Captain Dundee. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  Someone near Cord choked back a laugh.

  “Although I haven’t had occasion to hear of you, sir, we are at your mercy nonetheless.” Thompson spoke in such a humble, ingratiating tone that Cord wanted to close the captain’s mouth for him.

  Thompson continued on in the same bent. “We’ve nothing of value aboard save food stores and household goods bound for St. Stephen. You’re welcome to take whatever you like in exchange for the life of my passengers and crew.”

  Cord was relieved Thompson made no mention of Celine.

  Captain Dundee puffed out his chest, which only added to his considerable girth. He squinted up at Thompson with a barking laugh.

  “It don’t seem to me you be in a position to make any kind of a bargain with me, Captain. First thing we got to settle is the matter of poor Jimmy’s murder. His dear old mother was dependin’ upon me to keep him safe and now he’s dead. I can’t go back without assuring her someone paid for what happened to him. An eye for an eye, so to speak.”

  He began to stroll past the line of prisoners, his head twisted back on his thick neck so that he could eye each of them. Cord didn’t even try to hide his contempt when Dundee halted in front of him.

  “There something you got to say to me?” With his hands locked behind him, the pirate rocked up onto his toes and down again, waiting for Cord to answer.

  Cord wanted to spit in his eye and tell Captain Dundee he was a poor excuse for a pirate. He had just begun to enjoy the recent skirmish when Thompson had waved a flag of surrender, and now he was spoiling for a fight. After the events of the past few weeks, some serious bloodletting was just what he needed, but it was hard to ignore Edward quaking on one side of him and Foster standing stubborn and proud, willing to die for him if necessary, on the other. And he was forced to remind himself that he had a wife hidden away in the main cabin.

  “I’ve nothing to say.” He looked over the man’s head, concentrating on the horizon. After another long pause, the pirate moved on.

  When Captain Dundee reached the end of the line of prisoners, he started back in the same manner, strutting like a peacock until he reached Thompson again. “I ain’t the most patient of men. Jimmy’s dead and one of you is going to pay. Who’s gonna own up to the deed?”

  Not one of the prisoners moved. Cord was afraid Edward had stopped breathing and for want of air would pitch face forward.

  “One of you did it,” Dundee shouted, pacing back along the grim assemblage. “One of you is going to die for it.”

  “This is uncalled for, sir,” Thompson said. “Your man died in a fair fight after you attacked us. We have surrendered.”

  Dundee whirled around, strutted back to the captain of the Adelaide and barked, “Shut up. I’m in charge here.”

  Cord wondered how Dundee had won control over the rest of his rough-looking crew. All of them were taller, if not broader, than Dundee, all were more sinister in appearance, and yet all of them stood with pistols and cutlasses at the ready, waiting to move on his orders.

  Dundee stopped in front of Cord once more.

  “You …”

  “Are you talking to me?” Cord looked down his nose at the man. It was a considerable distance.

  “I don’t like your looks …”

  “I don’t like the way you smell,” Cord said without hesitation. “And your wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired.”

  “Take him,” Dundee said, pointing at Cord. Before Cord could draw another breath, a pirate with flaming red hair that hung past his shoulder blades and biceps as thick as smoked hams was hauling him across the deck.

  Celine was certain that if she didn’t crawl out of the cupboard in the next few minutes she might never walk again. It had been deathly quiet for a while now, the ruckus having died down just after she pulled the cupboard door shut behind her. There was no sound but shifting timbers and waves lapping against the hull. The ship did not seem to be moving at all. Everyone had gone silent—or they were all dead.

  She took a deep breath, then slowly opened the cupboard door. With a bit of awkward maneuvering, she pulled her head and shoulders out by resting her weight on her hands, palms down on the deck. She could see through the open pantry door that the saloon was empty.

  Celine walked her hands along the floor until she finally extracted herself from the cupboard, stifling a groan as she stretched out her cramped legs. By the time she got to her knees she was certain she would never walk again, but a moment or two later she was on her feet, stumbling through the door. She stood beside the dining table long enough to let her legs become reaccustomed to her weight.

  She was sure she could hear someone shouting from somewhere near the fore castle. Her feet were bare, she was still wearing the none-too-fresh nightgown and her hair stuck out a foot around her head, snarled beyond any quick repair. She headed out the double doors and onto the main deck.

  The sun was so bright she had to squint and shield her eyes with her hand as she stepped out of the saloon. She nearly stumbled headlong over a coil of rope, righted herself and then gaped at the scene before her.

  Captain Thompson and his crew, Foster and Edward and three other gentlemen she had seen strolling the main deck were lined up against the starboard rail like so many trussed ducks at the market. Standing guard over them was a band of disreputable-looking, scroungy men.

  She realized with a start that Cord had not been in error when he said the ship was under pirate attack. Although pirates had once frequently strolled the streets of New Orleans, she had personally never seen one before; still, there was no doubt in her mind that each and every one of the assorted brigands standing guard over the passengers and crew of the Adelaide aptly fit the description. Not only were they brandishing all manner of frightening weapons, but they sported an abundan
ce of tattoos, gold rings and beards.

  It soon became abundantly clear that each and every one of them had witnessed her untimely appearance. They all stared at her as if seeing an apparition, and a few of them even crossed themselves. As she started to back away, intent on taking refuge in the saloon again, a shout came from near the forward mast.

  “Kujo. Get her!”

  Celine’s attention was immediately drawn to the man who had bellowed. He was short, far shorter than she, outlandishly outfitted in brilliant yellow silk and purple satin. Sunlight glinted off gold chains layered around his neck. He was pointing at her and glaring, his jowls aquiver, his complexion mottled with a hue close to that of his pants.

  As Celine stood frozen to the spot, a bare-chested black pirate in a crimson turban with a matching cummerbund around his waist was making his way toward her. She looked left and right. With no alternative but to jump into the sea, she decided she would rather see what fate had in store for her here.

  The black pirate’s long legs ate up the deck. She braced herself, ready to run, half expecting him to grab her and bind her hands as the pirates had those of the other prisoners. He did nothing of the sort; indeed, he made a point of not touching her at all. He stood over her with his arms folded across his chest and indicated with a nod that she walk toward the squat pirate, who was now shaking with rage.

  To give them less of a spectacle, she was forced to clutch her nightgown in place. It wasn’t until she was halfway across the deck that she noticed Cord standing not far away from the little man who was shouting commands. Cord’s hands were tied behind his back and a noose was settled around his neck, but neither of these encumbrances prevented him from glaring furiously at her.

  For a man who was about to die, he appeared more intent on finding a way to murder her than on saving himself.

  “It weren’t wise not to tell me you had a woman aboard, Thompson,” the pirate captain yelled at Isaac Thompson as Celine drew near.

  “You never asked, Captain Dundee,” Thompson shouted back.

  Celine never took her eyes off Cord.

  “I thought I told you to stay below.” Cord ground out the words, ignoring everyone around them, friend and foe alike.