My Lady Pirate (24 page)

The admiral was watching him intently, too intently. Carefully, Colin said, “I would range around her stern, sir, out of the reach of her big guns and broadsides, where she would be most defenseless. I would rake her, cripple her steering by taking out her rudder, and then, once having annoyed and distracted her thus, I would fall off, and try to get in another shot, perhaps in her bows . . .”

“And if that method was to fail, Colin?”

“We are considering that surrender to the enemy is not to be considered?”

The admiral smiled. “It is not even an option.”

“Well, then, I say there is no other recourse, sir, but to confuse her, get to windward of her, grapple . . . and board her”—Colin smiled sheepishly—“in the smoke. Works every time . . .

sir.
”

Sir Graham finished his rum-laced tea and set the cup down on the table. “Very good,

Captain. I am delighted to see that our great minds think alike.” He grinned, his eyes alight with the anticipation of challenge, his jaw dimpling boyishly. Then he rose to his feet, and still smiling, strode for the door.

“Sir?”

The admiral paused, arching one black brow.

Colin flushed. “Good luck.”

###

red rose on the pillow beside her.

She reached out and with an angry motion, swept it to the floor.

Oh, how he had played her. Fooled her. To think he'd allowed her to believe he was a

traitor,
of all things; to think she had cried over his supposed death! He, Admiral Falconer, one of the most renowned flag officers in the British navy and surely, the worst libertine to hit the West Indies since—since
Blackbeard.
And she had lain with him, given her heart to him. He must think her a damned easy conquest. How he must be laughing! And Nelson! He was no better, a slinking dog in the guise of a hero, a wretched, insufferable little peacock totally undeserving of his laurels, his titles, her respect. It was a cruel betrayal, an ugly realization, and she felt sick.
Nelson.
She couldn’t even trust
him,
the gallant, honorable Nelson!

Her curses pierced the stillness of the cabin.
Men!
She hated them all, trusted none of them, and after this she’d never trust another again.

She couldn’t,
wouldn't,
stay here, to be made a fool of again. Clutching the side of the sofa, Maeve dragged herself to an upright, sitting position. She swayed dizzily, and felt the snug press of a bandage around her waist. Blast it, no wonder she was so hot, no wonder she couldn’t breathe—and what the devil was this wet garment that had tangled itself around her body?

Vexed, she gazed down at the sleeves that ended several inches beyond her fingers, the

seemingly yards of excess material that had twined and bunched and wrapped itself around her torso, and realized she was not in her own clothes, but a soft, fine nightshirt that must surely belong to Sir Graham himself.

Cursing, she plucked at the fabric, pulling it away from her damp skin. Even that simple

exertion tired her, sickened her, and made her dizzy. Oh, would this humiliation never end? Had he stripped her clothes away as she’d lain senseless? Touched her body, invaded her person, taken liberties that she would never let him take again?

Blast him!
Her strength was failing her, but with every gasping breath her resolve mounted.

Her body screaming in pain, in protest, Maeve pulled herself up and stumbled across the cabin.

Nausea rose in her throat and sheer will alone kept her from vomiting. The cabin spun about her, the paintings of the long-dead pirates with it, and she made a wild dive toward the bulkhead, where an ancient cutlass rested beneath a portrait of Sir Henry Morgan, the undisputed King of the Spanish Main nearly a century and a half before— She missed, her nails gouging into the wood, her fingers hitting the sword and knocking it from its precarious perch. It struck her heavily on the shoulder and Maeve fell with it, feeling the wound open beneath the bandage as she hit the deck, where she lay gasping with fury, pain, and the refusal to admit defeat. The sword lay several feet away, just out of reach; she dragged herself across the deck on her belly, pulling her body with her arms, pushing herself with her feet, the nightshirt tangling around her body, suffocating her. The sword, just out of reach, was now in her hand . . . oh God, could she lift it?

Desperate, groping fingers closed around the ancient hilt and pulled the heavy blade toward her, inch by torturous inch.

“I’ll make you pay, Sir Graham . . . so help me God, you’ll pay . . . no one makes the Pirate Queen look like a fool . . . damn your eyes . . .” With the last of her strength she pulled the sword up and under her breast and fell atop it, her brow touching the deck, her lips against the old metal. There she lay panting, her eyes clenched against her reeling vision, her arms folded beneath her, the sweat racing down her heaving sides to soak the bandage around her waist. But there was more than just sweat running beneath that bandage, she
knew
there was more than just sweat running—
I’m bleeding,
she thought, and raised herself on trembling arms. Her hair hung in a mussed braid over her shoulder, her face dripped sweat, and beneath her, the sword caught her tormented reflection.

Thick, ugly warmth spread from her waist, and she tried not to panic.

I'm bleeding. Dear God, I’m bleeding to death.
She shut her eyes, wrapped her fingers around the sword hilt, and felt the blood running from her side, now soaking the nightshirt wrapped around her waist Dizzily, she raised her head once more. Gained her knees. Fell. And on her elbows, began to drag herself back across the deck flooring to the dining cabin.

The door was only ten—twenty?—feet away, but she knew she would never reach it.
Try,

Maeve. You can do it. . .
She paused, pushed the sword ahead of her across the carpet, followed it, cursed, struggled, bled.

Oh God, help me . . . I just need to reach the door . . . just help me get to the door, God,
that’s all I ask—

It opened and the admiral walked in.

“Maeve!”

He saw a trail of blood, and Maeve, his beloved Maeve, wrapped in his nightshirt like a little child and lying helplessly on the floor, head drooping, forearms digging into the rug, pulling herself along by her elbows and leaving a slick crimson ribbon in her wake.

He dived forward, caught her as she collapsed, and swept her up into his arms. Without

breaking stride he pounded from the cabin, nearly knocking over the sentry outside, and raced down companionways, through deck after darkened deck, in his blind haste to reach the surgeon.

She’ll be fine, Sir Graham,” the surgeon said, as he bound Maeve’s ribs with a fresh

bandage by the light of the swinging lantern above. He worked swiftly, for the admiral was pacing frantically, beside himself with worry, and the young woman’s blazing glare, hot enough to blister the skin off a seaman’s hands, followed him back and forth. The surgeon was not anxious to be caught between the broadsides of the two of them. In fact, the sooner he could finish his task, the sooner he could get to the bottle of rum hidden beneath the bench in the corner— “Well, thank God for
that,”
the admiral exclaimed. He took the girl’s hand, his thumb caressing her palm before raising it to his lips. Her eyes flashing, she opened her mouth to deliver a scathing rebuke that the admiral effectively cut off: “I daresay, she has taken a decade off my life with the amount of worrying I’ve done about her. Do be careful there, man. She’s to be my wife, you know.”

“Like hell I am,” Maeve snarled.

“She’ll not bleed anymore, I trust?”

“She may, sir,” the surgeon replied, working faster now, as nervous sweat began to stream from his brow, “but not to worry. Wounds of this nature often do, especially under exertions that you, young lady, should not be engaging in. My orders to you—”

“The devil take your orders!”

“I'll
hear you out, man,” the admiral commanded, irritably. “She’ll answer to me.”

“I don’t answer to deceivers.”

“You were saying, Doctor?” Sir Graham prompted, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

The surgeon’s hands were fluttering, his heart racing. “My orders to
you,
Captain Merrick, are complete bed rest for the next several days. Sir Graham, a bit of air would not do her any harm either; perhaps you could have your captain rig an awning on the poop deck to shade her from the sun so that she may sit out—”

“Yes, by all means, I will have that attended to immediately.”

“And I would advise no exercise yet. And no exerting yourself, madam.”

“I want to return to my ship.”

“She will not exert herself, Doctor, you have my word on that—”

“I want my crew.”

“And also, Sir Graham, the wound must be kept clean and dry—”

“I want my blasted freedom!”

“Watch your mouth,” the admiral chided mildly. “You’re in mixed company, my dear, and

the good doctor deserves some respect.”

“You and the doctor can both go straight to hell where I hope your balls burn off and your

—”

“Really, Doctor, should it be wrapped so tightly? I don’t think she can breathe.”

“She can breathe.”

“Can you breathe, dearest?”

“—cocks smolder away into ashes! I hope you all rot in hell forever, do you hear me? I hope

—”

“Yes, Doctor, I fear she can breathe very well. Wrap it tighter, if you please.”

“Ouch!” Maeve gasped, feeling the pressure.

“Not that tight, damn you!” Sir Graham snapped.

“Ease up there, yes, that’s better. Is that better, my love?”

“I’m not your
love,
you blackguard.”

“Is that better
my love?”
he repeated, firmly.

“Yes,”
she bit out, from between clenched teeth.

“Very well then. A fine job, Doctor. I must remember you in my report tonight. Oh, bother, I hate reports. I shall recommend it to Captain Lord, he doesn’t mind paperwork in the least.

Should’ve been a lawyer, damn his eyes. Maeve? Maeve, sweetheart, can you sit up now? No, your shirt covers you, no need to blush, here, take my hand—”

She tried to jerk away from him.

“Maeve, dear, I said,
give me your hand.
”

“I’ll give you a knife to the gut, you snake. Get the hell out of my life; just go away and leave me alone.”

“Women!” he exclaimed, with a smile that drove a boyish dimple into his jaw. Black lashes, almost feminine in their thickness and length, swept down to conceal the twinkle in his eyes.

“Really, Doctor, why do they insist upon giving us such a devil of a time? I’ve instructed the cook to prepare something light and nourishing for you, my dear, and he also makes frightfully good lemonade. Why, we’ll have you back on your feet in no time, if I do say so myself.”

“Aye, that we will, Sir Graham,” Dr. Ryder said hurriedly, sweating harder now, and

obviously ill at ease in the presence of one so highly ranked as Admiral Falconer.

“You’ve done a splendid job, as always, Ryder. Huzzahs to you, she looks as right as rain.

Ready, love? No, don’t even
try
to stand up, I won’t allow it. Has anyone ever told you how lovely you look in braids? So innocent and sweet; no, don’t scowl, it doesn’t become you at all!

Up we go!”

“Got her, Sir Graham?”

“Of course I have her, you fool,” the admiral said, but good-naturedly. Above Maeve’s head, he shot the surgeon a wink, then kicked the door open with his foot. “Damned comely burden, if I do say so myself. Hold that door for me now, will you, Doctor? Yes, thank you. You’re a fine man, Ryder, a fine man. Splendid work!”

“Thank you, sir,” the surgeon said, beaming.

“Pray, go reward yourself man, you deserve it. In fact, Ryder, why don’t you have an extra tot from that bottle you’ve got hidden beneath the bench? Rum, is it not? I say, ’twas Morgan’s favorite beverage!”

The surgeon blanched. “B-but sir, how did you know that I . . .”

But Sir Graham had already swept out of the room, leaving the surgeon gaping in disbelief, for surely, the admiral could not have known he had that bottle hidden there!

He remembered Captain Lord’s warning, spoken so many times:

Never underestimate Sir Graham.

One of these days, he’d remember there was more than just charm and good looks to the

man in charge of the Royal Navy’s West Indies Station.

And so, he predicted, would the Pirate Queen.

###

up through the decks, his shirt smeared with her blood, the waves of his black hair caught in the gleam of swinging lanterns as they passed beneath them. She saw the fury in the tightness about his mouth, felt it in the tenseness of his arms beneath her back.

“You scared me, Maeve. I know I hurt you, but believe me that I would cut off my right arm before I would hurt you again. Evening, Lieutenant Pearson, carry on, carry on!” He paused beside a bulkhead and without warning, exploded, “
But so help me God, if I catch you with so
much as a FOOT out of bed against doctor's orders again, I’ll personally blister your damned
hide, do I make myself clear?”

The breath burst from her lungs on a loud guffaw—

“Hang it, woman, do I make myself clear?!
”

She met his blazing eyes, smiled malevolently, and spat, “Very.”

He stared at her for a long moment; then he sighed and to her surprise, crushed her fiercely to his chest, burying his face against her hair and tightening his arms so hard about her that she couldn’t draw breath. “I love you,” he murmured, his body shaking beneath and around her. “By all that’s holy and all that’s not, I love you.” He held her for a long, long moment, then raised his head and said hoarsely, “Don’t
ever
do that to me again.”