Bound by the Buccaneer (2 page)

The downside was that they had made enemies with some of the most dangerous, cut-throat bandits in the Caribbean, and this had her and Gaston worried.

Shaking her head in a futile attempt to dislodge the concerns that resided there, she stood up lazily and stretched like a kitten in a sunny spot. Ambling over to her trunks, she focused on the business of getting dressed.

She liked taking her time to choose what to wear, because it was one of the few girlish pleasures in her distinctly masculine world. She’d earned many gold doubloons along the way pirating, but Gaston had been generous with her, too. He liked to spoil her, and so she had two trunks filled with lovely clothes. Her wardrobe was more extensive than any other pirate she knew of. And that included Gaston, which was saying a lot.

Choosing a sapphire blue full skirt and a white blouse, she topped it off with a black lace-up corset vest and her tall, chocolate-colored, leather boots. She was almost finished when there was another knock at the door, “Miss Frederica!” a frantic voice shouted.

“Yes?” she answered, smoothing her skirt and trying not to sound alarmed.

“It’s Marcus. ‘E’s awful sick. ‘E’s in the sick bay. Can you come?”

“Certainly, I’ll be there in a moment.” She looked at herself in the fist-sized piece of mirror she kept. It was one of her prized possessions, as mirrors were a rare find in the Caribbean. Pleased with her reflection, she took a deep breath and steeled herself for whatever horrible ailment awaited her this day.

Chapter Two

Frederica knew the main reason she was tolerated by the all-man crew aboard the
Ocean’s Knave
was not because their Captain appreciated her presence. Rather, it was because she had more medical knowledge than anyone else on the ship. They’d once had a doctor, but he’d been killed in battle before Gaston met Frederica.

Replacing the doctor had proved next to impossible. It was not an easy task finding a doctor willing to sail with a pirate crew. Most had to be commandeered from a settlement on land or from another vessel. Frederica was a happy exception.

She’d learned medicine at the knee of her father, an English physician who was quick-minded and influenced more by successful outcomes than whatever medical theory was fashionable at the time. Frederica’s position on the ship was that of doctor, though the men knew she did not technically have the credentials. They’d been skeptical at first, but her kind, bedside manner won them over.

Most men on the crew had been surprised to witness Frederica’s skill with a cutlass and her cool head during a battle, but they were just as impressed and grateful to see her softer side when she nursed the sick and injured.

The majority of illnesses and war wounds the men suffered proved fatal. So while she could help alleviate symptoms for some of what ailed the sick, she wasn’t always able to cure them, and it was the nurturing and kindness she showed them that meant the most. For that reason, the crew was loyal to her, and they protected her as they would their own mother.

Arriving in the sick bay she was confronted with a man who was doubled over on one of the cots. Frederica laid a hand on his shoulder. “What’s troubling you Otis?”

“Arggh! Me belly tis, Miss Frederica,” he said with a groan.

“Show me where it hurts,” she said. As Otis described his symptoms Frederica nodded, formulating a diagnosis.

The gripes. She’d had success treating this sort of stomach problem with lavender water. “Lie down and try to rest while I make you up a tonic.” She rummaged through her supplies and found what she needed. She mixed up a cup and gave him a dose. It was a relief to have a patient with something she could treat. The most frustrating thing about her job was that so often there was nothing she could do to improve a patient’s condition.

When he’d finished it, she took the cup and patted him on the arm. “You just rest now and we’ll see if that doesn’t fix you right up.”

She checked on her two other patients, also confined to the sick room. Both men had come in a few days ago with fever. There wasn’t much she could do for them except make sure they had rum or whiskey to dull their aches and pains. When they grew too warm she bathed their heads with a cool cloth.

She found them both sleeping. One man lay peacefully and she took his pulse. Relieved he was still alive, she wiped her brow. It was already hot as Hades in the cramped little room. The other man’s sleep was fitful. He thrashed and mumbled unintelligibly, his body drenched with sweat.

She frowned. They’d presented with the same symptoms. Her guess was as good as anyone’s which man would have the better outcome, the still one or the flailing one, but she suspected the agitated man stood a better chance of recovery. He was a fighter.

If only life were that simple. To the contrary, events occurred all the time that appeared to have neither rhyme nor reason behind them—such as the unforeseen and tragic murders of her friend Cassandra and the other passengers on the Adelaide.

Often at night, while Gaston slept, Frederica lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about Cassandra and that it was because of her that Cassandra had been on that ship. Why had it been her lot to be spared instead of her friend? It was a riddle without an answer, yet she asked herself time after time. Still, she was determined to turn her survivor’s guilt into something productive as she felt it gave her the fortitude to be strong and live her life to the fullest. Her friend’s death made her vow to help others whenever possible and to try to prevent innocents from being slaughtered for their gold or their navigational charts, or even their medicine.

She moved to the next bed and pressed a cool compress to the restless man’s head. He jerked at her touch, said something unintelligible then relaxed back into slumber.

“It’s alright. Rest easy,” she said, rearranging the cloth on his head.

While she wasn’t too pious to embrace the pirate life, she did pride herself in serving as a tempering presence—a force of
some
good in the light of much that was dark. She liked to think the men on their crew were of a higher moral fiber than other pirates, but underneath that hope was the thinly veiled knowledge that this was probably wishful thinking on her part.

Turning her attention to the semi-conscious man in the next bed she took his pulse. It was weak but steady. With a rag she bathed his forehead with cool water. When he did not respond she let go a big breath. Her gut told her this was a bad sign.

After all treatments had been given, she wiped her hands on her skirts, told the men she would be back to check on them later, and headed above deck for her lesson with Hatch.

* * *

Gaston scarcely noticed the seagulls squawking noisily overhead as he paced the deck of his beloved ship, the
Ocean’s Knave
. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the brisk salty air. This always bolstered his spirits, and with the concerns he had pressing on his mind today, he could use a boost.

“Capt’n.” a member of the crew saluted him.

Gaston nodded in return. A young man bumped into him as he trudged backward with his mop, swabbing the deck. “Sorry, Capt’n. Didn’t see ya thar.”

“As you were,” Gaston told him, moving out of the way. The vagabond crew milled around him, busily mending sails and checking their munitions in case they ran across trouble. It pleased him to see them hard at work as he took great pride in his leadership capabilities and knew that a tightly-run ship reflected well on him.

Arriving on the aft deck, he was surprised to find Frederica in the company of Hatch, his longtime friend and compatriot. The bald man was insanely tall—over seven feet—he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his perpetual scowl firmly entrenched on his tattooed face. His ebony skin appeared to be stretched to its capacity over his enormously sculpted, bulging muscles, and he wore only a pair of worn out britches. The dark greenish tattoos that covered his entire body, served to intimidate most people, which Gaston assumed was their purpose.

When Gaston realized what Hatch and Frederica were doing, his eyes widened involuntarily and it took all of his self-restraint not to intervene. Instead, he took a few steps back in hopes that he could observe them without them noticing.

Frederica closed one eye, took aim, and threw a knife twenty feet in front of her.

“How’s that?” she asked. Her intended target was an old barrel, but the knife hit one of the metal rings round the barrel and clattered to the deck.

Hatch barked a few stilted orders. Frederica nodded and strode over to fetch the knife.

Gaston’s first reaction was to put a stop to this, the way a parent would take matchsticks away from a small child, but he held himself back. More because he trusted Hatch in all matters than because he wanted Frederica throwing knives.

Hatch’s name was a derivative of the word “hatchet,” a moniker he had earned due to his remarkable ability to fell another human with his hatchet from forty yards or more. Hatch kept at least four of the weapons on him at all times, and he could often be found sharpening one of them.

A member of the crew untangling some ropes came dangerously close to where Frederica was practicing her knife throwing. Hatch shouted, “Stay clear!”

The man looked up unaware then saw Frederica aiming inches away from him. He jumped to the side hollering, “Me apologies, Miss.”

Hatch scowled at the man. Gaston had no doubt Hatch had warned the men not to travel past his training area. An escaped slave, he’d learned that vigilance was a key to survival. A risk taker Hatch was not.

Their complementary natures made Hatch and Gaston a good pair. Gaston was known not only for his skills as a Captain and a marauder, but also for his keen ability to make big risks pay off handsomely.

Upon their first meeting, Gaston had saved Hatch from a band of men intent on sending him back to the owner of the sugar plantation where he’d been a slave. Over the years, the man had paid Gaston back by saving his life numerous times. Their bond was deep, spanning the years and the hardships they’d endured cementing their friendship, if one could call it that. For Gaston, Hatch felt more like a family member, though he’d never be so sentimental as to voice this opinion.

Gazing at Frederica, he stifled a smirk. There was no doubting it—he had turned the English rose into a true pirate. When she’d prevailed upon him to bring her with him on the high seas, he’d taken it upon himself to teach her to use a sword. After an unsteady start, she began to improve her parrying skills rather dramatically, and now she was easily considered a fine swordswoman.

As he observed them, Gaston saw that Hatch’s instructions were slowly sinking in. With each toss of the knife, Frederica’s technique improved.

He studied the curve of her bosom as she bent over to retrieve a knife. His cock pressed hard against his pants. No matter how many times he took her, he would never be able to get his fill of her. No other woman had ever affected him like she did. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, with blue eyes so transparent they gave a man the illusion that he might see into her very soul.

She wore blue ribbons threaded through her long, flowing, chestnut mane, and her masculine boots mixed with that incredibly flattering corset she wore gave her a wild, yet extremely sexy appeal. It puzzled him how the other men endured being around her without being able to have her, when he himself was driven mad with desire for her on a consistent basis.

His immense attraction to her was likely the reason he even considered her proposal to rob other pirate vessels rather than preying on whatever meek ship they came across. But the more he considered her idea, the more positives he saw with it.

Attacking other pirates had quickly made them the scourge of the pirate community. There were many ships sailing the seas who’d like to see his head on a pike.

The thought of his head leaving his body made him uneasy, and Gaston tugged on his collar. Drawing himself up to his full height, he straightened his jacket and peered over the bow. They were heading toward a parlay he hoped would offer a solution to their problem.

His mission was to convene with the commanders of several other ships in hopes that they could form an alliance and offer one another protection in addition to greater financial reward for all concerned. There was strength in numbers and he hoped the other captains would recognize the wisdom in forming a coalition in which fellow seamen had your backs. He would use his most persuasive arguments and trust he would be able to bring them aboard, so to speak.

For, without an alliance, Gaston feared his luck would soon run out. A feeling of trepidation gripped him, and despite the sun’s scorching rays beating down on him, an eerie chill trilled down his back.

Chapter Three

When they were in port, Frederica liked to walk along the beach in the early morning. The night before, the
Ocean’s Knave
had anchored off the coast of Oyster Cay, a small port several hours southeast of Nassau in preparation for the meeting this afternoon.

Frederica awoke before dawn and climbed down the ladder alongside the ship into a rowboat which she took to shore. The water lapped softly against the side of the boat, and the fog slowly lifted, unveiling the island ahead of her. She loved being the first one to stir on the ship, the solitude of the silent morning with the exception of a few stray seagull cries. In these moments she felt as though the whole world was created for her to enjoy, and she took a moment to take in the beauty of the blue-green water that surrounded her and the beach with its sugary white sand.

After basking in her surroundings for a short time, she beached her vessel and strolled up and down the shore, gathering interesting seashells for her collection and wishing she could take the thick, heavy air and raise it off her sagging shoulders. Her body drooped from the humidity, but her spirits remained high. She and Gaston finally had a plan to help protect their crew and soon they would be able to set sail again. She smiled at the prospect of new adventures.