My Lady Pirate (6 page)

sweat broke out the length of his spine.

Nelson was in the Indies.

He swallowed once to moisten his throat, twice because he couldn’t, and then spilled out a string of curses so blue they made even the Pirate Queen raise a brow.

“Pirate?”

He had to get out of here!

“Don’t you up and die on me,” she commanded in her imperious tone. “The Sight said that

you are my Gallant Knight and I can’t have you dying when you just
might
be my only chance at happiness—”

He seized her shoulders, his eyes maniacal, and in a black fury spawned by dread and anger with himself, roared, “How do you know Nelson is in the Indies? He has no reason to be here!

Where did you come by such information and how the bloody hell do I know you’re telling the

—”

“Now, see here!” she stormed, drawing herself up with regal hauteur. “I am
royalty,
and you must first request permission to touch me—”

Gray grabbed her by the throat, cut his hand on her necklace of shark’s teeth, and cursing, hauled her up to within an inch of his face. “Answer me!”

Maeve looked up into that dark visage, those fathomless eyes just two inches from her own

—and smiled, for her pirate was turning out to be a dangerous man. She
liked
dangerous men.

Respected them. A thrill of excitement shot through her blood.

“I know everything,” she said haughtily, with a lofty turn of her chin. “I have the Sight, remember?”

“Answer me!”

He jerked her forward. Glittering gold eyes clashed with wicked indigo ones. She felt his knuckles against the pulse beating rapidly at her throat, the heat of his breath against her face, the merciless pressure of the sharks’ teeth driving into her nape. He glared down at her. She glared back. Then her gaze went, deliberately, to the angry slash of his lips, and with a preoccupied smile, she reached up to touch his mouth.

This time, there was no flash of insight, no Vision,
nothing,
and she felt vaguely disappointed. “No, pirate, you will answer
me.
You see, I want to know why you’re in such a damned hurry, all of a sudden, to leave. Do you fear the mighty Nelson as the French Admiral Villeneuve does?”

Gray released her abruptly and stood staring as she reached up to massage the spot where

the necklace had pricked her throat.

“What, do you think I lie?” she said prettily. “I have my own deeply personal reasons for hating the French. And as for Nelson . . . the French are
not
at Tobago, as he will be led to believe. What a pity, that the noble admiral will go chasing after wild geese when the real
fowl
are nesting at Martinique—”

“How do you know this?!”
he thundered.

“You needn’t roar, pirate. I can hear you just fine. But since you are so keen on

knowing . . . Tavern talk. Swifter than the wind, it is, and far more dependable. I heard the news from some of my most-trusted crew members who heard the news on a neighboring island.”

“Bloody
hell.“
Gray slammed a fist against the stone wall so hard he nearly broke every bone in his hand. The French were in the Caribbean. The zealous Nelson had come chasing after them. And he—despite the Pirate Queen’s charms, despite his vow to have her—had to get out of here. Duty came first, and the fate of his nation could very well rest upon whether or not he escaped her clutches! But could he tell her who he was? Could he trust her? For God’s sake, she was a
pirate!

He turned, faced her, and said desperately, “You must release me.”

“Why should I?” Again, she fell to paring her nails with the knife, slanting an amused look at him from beneath her long lashes. “You have an excessive amount of fear of Nelson . . . it makes me ponder the
real
reason you jumped ship and deserted your navy. . .”

A cold chill seized Gray’s heart.

The Pirate Queen gave him another sidelong glance. “Makes me wonder, perhaps, if you’re

not merely a deserter, but a traitor . . . You see, I loathe traitors even more than I do deserters.”

The knife’s motion stopped and she raised her head, staring hard at him. “You’re not a traitor . . .

are you?”

He swallowed thickly.

“Are you?”

“Now Majesty—”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she cried suddenly, slamming the knife into the scabbard with violent fury. “You were selling out to the French! To
Villeneuve!
Spying for them! No wonder such fear of Nelson! No wonder such sudden desperation to leave here, so you can go off and tell Villeneuve everything I just told you about Nelson!” Her eyes blazed, as though he had betrayed not his country, but her. “You are despicable, you know that?
Despicable!”

“Please,” Gray said, dropping to his knees before her, bowing his head and showing her the respect her self-proclaimed sovereignty demanded. The French, the English . . . either navy would pay handsomely for him, but if he ended up in the hands of the wrong one . . . Dear God above. But how to play this hellcat? Which would serve him better—the truth, or a lie?

He made an instant decision.

“For the love of God,” he said shakily, and looked up at her, “I implore you, Majesty,

please,
do not bring me to Nelson!”

“I will bring you to whoever pays the most for you!”

“The English will not pay you! They’ll merely seize me and hang me from the yardarm

without benefit, even, of trial!” He got himself under control, knowing he was playing a

dangerous game indeed. “I beg of you, Majesty . . . please, don’t turn me in! Don’t bring me to Nelson, he will certainly hang me—”

‘Traitor, you
deserve
to hang!”

“But I am your Gallant Knight, remember?”

“I never said I
wanted
a Gallant Knight! And such an idea is naught but rubbish, anyhow.

There are no Gallant Knights, at least not for me, and as for
you,
you’ll do nothing but break my heart. I wanted an honorable man, someone I could admire, a handsome, decorated sea-officer
,
but there’s not a heroic bone in your body.
Not one!”
She was scarlet with rage, her eyes bright with sudden, unshed tears. “You hear me? Not one! You’re nothing but bilge rot, a vile, wretched
traitor
with as much honor as a slinking eel!
Tomorrow I bring you to Nelson!”

And with that, she spun on her heel, stormed across the room, and damning him to hell and beyond, slammed the gate in his face.

He was forty-six years old and going blind. He loved little children. He’d lost an arm at Tenerife, the sight of an eye at Calvi, and had his brow laid open to the bone at the Nile, where the destruction of Napoleon’s fleet had earned him a barony and the love and adoration of his nation. Constant anxiety had taken its toll on his body, two years of blockading the French off Toulon had left him haggard and ill, and now, fears of failing the England that entrusted
him
to save it brought him nothing but anxiety and distress.

Mighty Britannia’s confidence rested on small shoulders that seemed barely wide or strong enough to support the glittering gold epaulets that rode atop them. He was a little man, with a pale and sensitive face, a pointed chin, a compassionate mouth, and once-brown hair that had faded to gray. His good eye shone with fervor and intelligence, his nose was strong and bold.

Slight in stature, kind of heart, irascible in temper, and suffering from all manner of illnesses both real and imagined, he did not evoke the image of a national hero, for the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson—Knight of the Bath, Duke of Bronte in Sicily, Knight of the Great Cross of St. Ferdinand and of Merit, Knight of the Order of the Crescent, and of the Illustrious Order of St. Joachim, Vice Admiral of the White and Commander in Chief of His Majesty’s Ships and Vessels in the Mediterranean Station—was no bigger than a schoolboy. Yet there, beneath the empty sleeve pinned so carefully across a chest ablaze with the decorations of valor, lay the heart of a lion, the fierceness of a tiger—and a burning hatred of the French.

But Horatio Nelson did not look fierce at all this morning, as H.M.S.
Victory
drove toward Barbados with the might of the Mediterranean Fleet spread in glorious array behind her. He had invited his little midshipmen to breakfast with him after they’d come off their watch, and on this bright morning in June, he was sharing in their childish, giggling jokes and behaving with youthful abandon, when calls from the masthead— and moments later, the appearance of his flag-captain, Thomas Masterman Hardy—brought him news that the returning frigate
Amphion
was hull up on the horizon and closing fast.

Nelson, ecstatic, set down his tea and leapt to his feet. “Now, my young gentlemen, we shall learn what Captain Sutton has found out about our friend
Villeneuve”
—he pronounced it
Veal-noove,
for Nelson may have won mastery over the French fleet but never their language—”and whether or not he is indeed here in the Indies!
May we bring the French to battle at last!”

Cheers, all around the polished mahogany table, from a circle of children and a grinning

admiral whose height could not rival the shortest of them.

He saw the wild eagerness in their eyes. “Dismissed!”

They fled topside, but a sharp reprimand from Captain Hardy reminded them to walk like

young officers and not undisciplined children.

It was all Nelson could do not to go charging up after them. He began to pace, and by the time the frigate was hove to under
Victory’s
lee and her grave-faced captain, soaked with spray and flushed with news, piped aboard and brought to his cabin, the admiral had worked himself up into a state of high excitement and agitation.

“News, Captain Sutton!” Nelson said anxiously, seizing the officer’s arm and pulling him

into the cabin. “You have news of the Combined Fleet, of Villeneuve?”

Sutton looked at Hardy, and then at his admiral, and swallowed tightly. “I spoke with the governor of Barbados, milord, and delivered your dispatches to him.”

“And?”

“Our pursuit has not been in vain, sir.”

“See, Hardy!” Nelson exclaimed, flushed with triumph. He pounded his single fist down on

the table for emphasis. “By God, the French are here and I shall have them yet, you may
depend
on it!”
He swung anxiously to the somber-faced captain. “And Admiral Falconer—he is prepared to assist me, I hope?”

Sutton looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. He glanced at Hardy, as though for

reassurance, but caught Nelson’s sharp and questioning look. Slowly, he said, “Admiral Falconer has a squadron at Barbados, sir, as well as a sugar convoy assembled there that is ready to sail for England. He has a frigate patrolling the Windwards, another stationed off Antigua, several seventy-fours at Jamaica—”

“Thank God Falconer has the safety of
that
island in mind!”

“Indeed, milord. Admiral Falconer had the safety of
all
his islands in mind.”

Had?

Nelson’s keen mind did not miss the implication of that single word. He saw the grave look on Sutton’s face, and felt the blood going cold in his heart. “What do you mean,
had?”
he demanded.

The unhappy captain shuffled his feet and looked up. “I’m sorry, sir. Admiral Falconer is . . .

dead. I went aboard one of his ships at Barbados and spoke to a Captain Warner, who confessed it was the result of a duel, sir.” Sutton paused, as he saw the look of shock and horror washing over his beloved leader’s face. “Falconer’s flag-captain has been assuming the admiral’s duties until a new commander in chief can be appointed in his place. He—he sends his regards, sir.”

The words devastated Nelson. For a full minute, maybe two, the little admiral stood staring at the hapless Sutton as he tried to absorb the shock. His single hand reached for the back of a chair, gripping it as though it was all that kept him on his feet. Without speaking, he turned toward the window, his slight body looking very frail in its glittering uniform, his face in profile, his lips pursed in visible pain, and only his throat moving, up and down, up and down.

The cabin grew deathly silent. Hardy glanced worriedly at his admiral, and Sutton developed a sudden, embarrassed interest in his coat sleeve. “Captain Warner said the duel had something to do with . . . um—with a woman . . . sir,” he added, lamely.

Nelson took a deep, shuddering breath, his excitement about the French fleet suddenly

forgotten. Turning from the window, he bent his brow to his hand and collapsed in a chair. He was aware of Hardy and Sutton moving protectively toward him; darkness swam before his eyes and he took a deep, shaky breath to ward it off. “Damn you, Falconer,” he cried suddenly.

“Damn you and your confounded philandering; I
warned
you it would come to this!”

“Sir?”

“I suppose the duel was fought with
cutlasses,
wasn’t it, Sutton?!”

“Captain Warner did not say, sir.”

Nelson raised his head, his cheeks streaked with tears he made no effort to control. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I wish to be alone.”

Sutton beat a hasty exit, but Hardy lingered a moment. He reached out, tried to lay a

comforting hand upon the admiral’s shoulder; but Nelson got to his feet once more, moving to the great, panoramic windows and staring out at the bleak expanse of the endless sea. He

remained there for a long time. Then he turned, his face melancholy. “Forgive me, Thomas. You would think that after having so many friends fall in battle, such things would grow easier to bear, but they never do. . .

“I’m sorry, sir,” Hardy said. “I know he was a friend to you.”

“He was a friend to
England.
What a shame. What a goddamned, bloody
waste.”

“Such is war, sir.”

“Aye, such is war. You lose your arm, you lose your life, you pray God someone remembers

you back home. But do they, Thomas?
Do they?
Or does anyone really care?”