The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

by Louise Allen

  ‘Tsk!’ She stood regarding it, hands on hips.

  ‘You sound like my mother,’ Nathan said, standing unrepentant in the middle of the damp disorder.

  ‘Why are men so messy?’ Clemence demanded. ‘Women aren’t messy; at least, I’m not.’ She bent to pick up a towel and started to mop at a puddle. ‘Mind you, that’s easy to say when one has servants, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you keep slaves?’

  ‘No! Papa never did, we don’t agree with it. And since the trade was abolished ten years ago, he was campaigning to abolish keeping slaves, too. But, of course, the planters say it is uneconomic to grow sugar using waged labourers and the Americans rely on slave labour as well, so our planters say it is uneconomic to change because of the competition. It was easier for us, being merchants, to stick to our principles. Uncle Joshua and Cousin Lewis,’ she added with a grimace, ‘are planters.’

  ‘I’d like to meet those two,’ Nathan remarked. She saw his fist clench against his thigh and once again entertained the fantasy of it lifting Lewis off the floor with a solid punch to his insipient double chin.

  ‘I hope I never see them again. Are all those clothes dirty? Only I’ll use them to mop up with if I’m going to have to wash them anyway.’

  Nathan started to scoop dirty water out of the tub. ‘You shouldn’t have to clean and wash for me.’

  ‘I’m your cabin boy, remember? And I don’t expect there’s a fat, cheerful washerwoman on board, now is there?’

  ‘No. How’s your head?’

  ‘All right, unless I touch it.’ In fact, strangely, she felt better than she had for days. Food and fresh air must be helping, but perhaps it was also the stimulus of taking events into her own hands. From somewhere her courage had returned; however awful this was, at least she was no longer a passive victim. And Nathan knowing she was a woman was not awful at all, although it should be.

  It was not going to end happily, this odd relationship with a gentleman gone to the bad. Of course, if this was a sensation novel, she would redeem him by the end of the last chapter and they would sail off into the sunset together to a life of idyllic, romantic love on some enchanted island. Kept alive, presumably, by tropical fruits, fish and the odd shipwreck. But how did you redeem a pirate?

  Clemence rolled her eyes at her own folly. She could just imagine Nathan’s reaction to her sitting him down and questioning his motives, suggesting he ought to reform because, basically, he was a good man. He had told her about his fall from grace with the navy, the downhill path that had brought him here. His heart wasn’t in it, she was sure, but he was not going to admit that to her.

  And did she want to sail off with him? Of course she didn’t, she was destined for London, a Season and a gentleman of impeccable breeding, wealth, manners and prospects. Miss Ravenhurst could set her sights just as high as she pleased, she thought, finding them resting speculatively on one well-muscled back just in front of her. And she was independent enough to do just as she wanted.

  But now she was a laundry maid, not a lady, and likely to be for the foreseeable future. She began to scoop up sodden washing. That olive-oil soap seemed to lather fairly well in salt water and Mr Street would tell her where to hang the laundry to dry.

  The door banged back, making her start and drop the clothes. Peering up through the table legs as she crouched to pick them up, Clemence saw the figure in the door. McTiernan.

  ‘The wind’s picked up,’ he said abruptly to Nathan, ignoring her. ‘You’ll take us through the passage tonight, Stanier.’

  She saw Nathan’s bare feet flex on the deck, as though adjusting his stance for action, but all he said was, ‘That’s a tricky passage in daylight, let alone in the dark.’

  ‘There’s a moon. You’re supposed to be the best, Stanier. We touch anything, I’ll have you keelhauled.’

  ‘When was the last time Sea Scorpion had her bottom scraped?’ Nathan asked, as though the question of being dragged under the barnacle-encrusted belly of the ship was an interesting academic point.

  ‘It’s overdue,’ the captain said as he turned on his heel, leaving them in silence.

  ‘How many times have you done that passage?’ Clemence asked as casually as she could.

  ‘Never.’ He began to gather up instruments, polishing the lenses of his sextant. ‘I’ve heard about it, I’ve studied the charts, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh. Mr Cutler will help, won’t he?’ she worried, throwing the wet bundle into a corner and fetching his notebook and the roll of charts, her stomach swooping with apprehension.

  ‘I don’t think our first mate likes me much.’ Nathan squinted at a pencil point and reached for his knife to whittle it. ‘I think Mr Cutler would be quite happy if we nudged a head of coral or a nice sharp rock. Not enough to do any damage, you understand, just enough to upset the captain.’

  ‘Can I help?’ She had no idea how, and anyway, he’d just dismiss the offer. She was a girl, after all, men didn’t accept help from women, not when it really mattered.

  Nathan looked up, his blue eyes hard and steady, studying her as he had that night in the tavern. ‘Yes, you can.’ He nodded towards the bunk. ‘Get some rest now, it’s going to be a long night. I’ll come for you.’

  Clemence finished tidying up, a tight knot of anticipation and apprehension in her stomach. Nathan wanted her help, he didn’t just dismiss her or belittle her. His eyes searched hers so intently and he seemed to find something there; she had no idea what.

  Obedient, she lay down on her bunk and closed her eyes, but it was a long time before she slept.

  Chapter Six

  Clemence stood a pace behind Nathan, clutched the sextant and shivered. The evening air was not cold, far from it, but the sense of menace hung like a chill fog around the poop deck.

  ‘Well?’ She forced herself not to cringe closer to Nathan as McTiernan swung round. ‘What are we waiting for? Enter the channel.’

  ‘When the moon is up,’ Nathan said, a statement, not a request. ‘We’ll beat up and down here until it is.’

  McTiernan’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded abruptly to the steersman. ‘As Mr Stanier orders.’

  The atmosphere had changed from merely frightening to something else entirely. The pirates were hunting, she realised, the scent of blood was in their nostrils and the channel was the equivalent of a track through the forest that would lead them to their prey.

  She watched Nathan’s supple back as he bent over the chart spread out on the hatch, wondering how he managed to look so relaxed and confident under such pressure. It was, she thought, remembering that first startling glimpse of him naked, a beautiful back, unblemished golden skin over long, strong muscles.

  ‘You, boy. Fetch coffee.’ Cutler’s voice, as precise as his clothing, made her jump. Setting the sextant down carefully by Nathan’s right hand, she turned to obey.

  ‘And a lantern, Clem,’ Nathan added.

  It filled the time, getting the coffee for the men on the poop deck, finding a lantern, but not enough. What if they did hit a rock or a reef? What if the Sea Scorpion was holed and there were men, as she suspected, captive down in the dark hell of the orlop deck?

  She wished she’d mentioned them to Nathan, but now was not the time. Slowly the moon rose, then, at last, the sea was washed with silver. The land, the forest tumbling down to the sands, was stark black and white and, between two headlands, a ribbon of water marked the treacherous shortcut to Lizard Island.

  ‘Two points round,’ Nathan said to the man at the wheel, and it seemed that at least half a dozen people let out pent-up breath. ‘I suggest you reef more sail, Mr Cutler. I need control, not speed now.

  ‘Clem, get up to the bows with the leadsman. He’ll call depth and what’s coming up on the lead, but I want you to scrape some off and bring it to me, every cast. Run.’

  The mate on the Raven Duchess had shown her how to cast the lead when she was young, although she had never had the strength to make the throw that sent
the weight on its knotted cord out ahead, and she knew how the hollow in the end was filled with tallow to pick up whatever was on the sea bed.

  The hand was swinging and casting now, counting out as the knots flew past his fingers, then shouting the result as the line went slack. He hauled the lead up, dripping.

  ‘I’ve got to take some of the bottom for Mr Stanier,’ Clemence said, pulling out her knife and scraping off the coarse sand that clung to the tallow. She ran back as the man cast again, her hand spread palm-up in the lantern-light for Nathan to study.

  She was shaking. He took her wrist in one warm hand to raise it closer and his thumb caressed briefly over the delicate skin of her inner wrist. ‘Black sand and no shell.’ He picked up the notebook and made a note. ‘Again. Run.’

  Back and forth, back and forth, for what seemed like hours. The leadsman’s monotonous chant was the loudest noise on deck and her palm grew sore from rubbing off sand and shell. There was hardly time to watch Nathan as she wanted to, his face rapt and remote as he studied chart and notes, the outline of the dark land and the set of the sails. He sent a hand forward to climb out along the bowsprit to watch ahead for the tell-tale foam of waves breaking over almost submerged rocks, but the real danger, she knew, were the heads of coral that lurked unseen just under the surface, ready to rip the bottom out of a ship.

  The islands on either side grew closer and closer as they crept along on reefed sails. Cutler put two men on the wheel. No one was speaking now, except the leadsman and the watchers.

  Then Nathan picked up a telescope, strode to the side, caught hold of the rigging and began to climb until he reached just below the yards, hooked one arm into the ropes and leaned out, his eyes fixed on the sea ahead.

  ‘He’d better know what he’s doing,’ a soft voice said in Clemence’s ear. McTiernan. The hair on her neck stood up as he laid a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘He does, Cap’n,’ she said stoutly, staring up at the dark figure silhouetted against the sky, and found she believed it. There was a call from the bows. ‘I’ve got to go, sir. The leadsman.’

  She wriggled out from under his hand and scurried off as Nathan began to call down course corrections to the wheel. What sort of captain put his whole ship at risk, just to test out one man? An insane one, the voice in her head said. It was almost as though McTiernan saw Nathan as a threat.

  ‘No bottom!’ the leadsman sang out, pulling up a clean weight, and she relaxed a little, leaning against the rail while he prepared to cast again. Nathan was coming down the rigging now, moving like a shadow to jump on to the deck and go back to stand beside the captain.

  Yes, no wonder McTiernan was wary of him—they both had an intangible natural authority, a charisma. Cutler could dominate, but she couldn’t imagine him leading, whereas McTiernan had the mesmeric quality of a snake and Nathan simply exuded the confidence that what he said, went.

  He had found the deep channel, it seemed, the lead kept coming up clean, or with white sand at depth, and on the last call he brought her back to stand by his side.

  ‘All right, Clem?’ She nodded. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  Enjoying myself? Is he mad? We’re on a pirate ship captained by a homicidal maniac, sailing through a dangerous channel he’s never sailed before in the dead of night and he asks me if I’m enjoying myself? ‘Yes,’ Clemence said, realising it was true. For the moment she was one of this crew, with a role to play—that was part of it. And she was close to Nathan, watching him work, and that, overwhelmingly, was the whole of it.

  ‘Good. Pass me the sextant, will you, and find something to take notes.’ He began to take star sights, calling out figures for her to write in columns.

  ‘Where did you get your education, boy?’ Cutler, bent over to look, far too close at her shoulder.

  ‘School, sir. Spanish Town, before we lost our money, sir.’

  ‘Clem, those figures.’ Nathan put down the instrument and jerked his head. She came to stand at his side, holding the notebook flat while he ran his finger down the column. ‘Good, you’ve a clear script, boy.’

  ‘How much longer?’ she ventured, wanting to slip her hand into his, whether in gratitude at the praise or for giving her an excuse to move away from Cutler, or simply to touch him, she was not sure. But it was not hard, in this company, to resist the urge.

  ‘Soon.’ As he said it, the hand in the crow’s nest shouted down.

  ‘Open water dead ahead!’

  ‘I suggest we drop anchor, Captain.’ Nathan made a mark on the chart and turned it towards the man. ‘It will be dark soon, with moonset. I imagine you do not want to be in open water when the sun comes up, not without a chance to reconnoitre first. We won’t be the only craft seeking shelter in this group of islands.’

  ‘Aye.’ McTiernan looked down at the map, then up at Nathan. ‘It seems you’re as good as you say.’ He nodded sharply. ‘Make it so, Mr Cutler.’ Nathan snapped his fingers at Clemence and began to roll up his charts. She hurried to pick up the sextant and telescope, stuffing the notebook into the pocket in her waistcoat tails. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mr Stanier?’

  ‘To correct this chart and then to sleep, Captain.’ His voice was level, but Clemence caught the challenge under it and her heart began to pound. He waited, a long few seconds until McTiernan nodded again, before he deigned to explain. ‘If we need to bolt back up this channel in a hurry, I want this chart accurate, because it most certainly isn’t now.’

  They were almost at the hatch before the captain spoke. ‘Five bells, Mr Stanier.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Clemence padded after Nathan, her arms full, yawning hugely, excitement and relived tension bubbling inside her. Inside the cabin she put her load on the table and turned, unable to suppress the broad smile that seemed to crack her face.

  ‘You were wonderful! So cool with that vulture watching every move, I couldn’t believe it. And there was so much wrong with the chart, I saw all those marks you were making, all the errors you found.’ She stared at him, admiration and something else she could not quite identify animating her. ‘It was marvellous.’

  ‘It was a bloody miracle.’ Nathan leaned back against the door and let his head rest against the panels, eyes closed. ‘I never, ever, want to have to do something like that again, so long as I live.’

  ‘But you made it look so easy,’ Clemence protested. He was tired, that was all, she told herself. All her security rested on this man being invincible. Nathan opened his eyes, met hers and then held out his right hand; it was shaking very slightly. He dropped his gaze to it, staring until the tremor stopped.

  ‘That, Clemence, is the trick. Never, ever, let them see you feel fear, never, in action, let yourself believe you are afraid.’

  ‘You get scared?’ she asked, disbelieving.

  ‘Only a fool does not feel fear. Listen to it, hear what the warning is, do what you can to prepare for the dangers and then, when it is time to act, put the fear aside.’

  ‘I thought I was weak, being frightened,’ she admitted.

  ‘No, sensible. And human.’ He had closed his eyes again, leaning back against the door as though too weary to move to the chair.

  Clemence went and wrapped her arms around his waist, laid her cheek on his chest and hugged, hard.

  ‘Ough!’ Nathan huffed, half-laughing. ‘What are you doing?’ He made no move to escape her embrace, rather seemed to relax into it.

  ‘Hugging you. You need a hug. You deserve a hug—I don’t expect you get many.’ His chest moved, he was laughing, silently. Clemence felt her cheeks getting hot. ‘I don’t mean that; the sort of hugs you pay for. I mean friendly hugs.’ She unwrapped her arms and pulled out a chair, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Sit down, you are far too big to haul about. I suppose you’ll insist on doing that chart before you’ll sleep. I’ll go and get some coffee.’

  When she got back with a beaker of the thick black liquid he was dead to the world, his head on his f
olded arms, the pencil fallen from his hand, his hair in his eyes.

  Clemence set down the beaker and moved the pencil, resisting the impulse to smooth back the thick hair, play with the sun-bleached tips. Best to let him sleep. She climbed on to her bunk and sat watching him, feeling again the strapping of muscle over his ribs, the long back muscles where her palms had pressed, the heat of his tired body.

  Flawed, complex, beautiful, dangerously enigmatic. She was very much afraid that she was…Her lids drooped.

  ‘Clem!’ Nathan’s hand fell from her shoulder as she woke with a start. ‘Time to wake up, nearly five bells.’

  Her neck had a crick in it and she felt hot and sweaty. ‘Oh.’ She stretched. ‘Have you been to bed?’

  ‘No, I slept for half an hour, drank my nice cold coffee and altered the chart.’ He jerked his head towards the privy door. ‘I’ve finished with the cupboard.’

  Last night’s moment of vulnerability had gone. This morning Nathan was all business, making notes, sorting through the rolls of charts, his hands rock-steady. Clemence took herself off to the cupboard and emerged, ten minutes later, considerably more awake.

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Did you know there are prisoners on board?’

  ‘No.’ He put down a pair of dividers and stared at her. ‘Where?’

  ‘Down on the orlop deck.’ She explained what she had heard and seen.

  ‘But McTiernan doesn’t take ordinary seamen, he slaughters the lot.’

  ‘I know. So why does he want these? And some of them may be from my father’s ship. I can’t leave them down there.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can. Unless you want to join them, that is.’

  ‘Nathan, please.’ She dragged a chair up and sat down, knee to knee, her voice wheedling. ‘You can do something, surely?’

  ‘Don’t you dare try that wide-eyed stuff on me, Clem,’ he warned. ‘It irritates the hell out of me at the best of times and, just now, it’s damned dangerous.’