Pirate's Wraith, The (13 page)

She lifted the eggs out of the tea and put the slotted spoon back in its place. When she turned to leave, she saw the cook glaring at the two eggs in her hand.

“Um ... sorry. I was hungry.” Her pulse raced.

He lunged for her, but she sprang away and ran onto the deck. Moving forward, she tucked herself into a corner behind a barrel next to the chicken coop. The chickens narrowed their eyes and made angry clucking sounds.

“Sorry,” she whispered. She cracked the eggs open and savored each heavenly mouthful. Hardboiled eggs had never tasted so divine—maybe that’s because she had never been so hungry.

Yesterday had been horrible but today with the sun shining down on her and a substantial amount of protein in her stomach, she had hopes she would fare better. She tossed the eggshells overboard and crawled out of her hiding place. Then she saw the crew gathered around Mr. Moody. His stentorian voice carried across the deck despite a brisk wind.

“We have a thief on board
! It’s worth five doubloons to the man who brings the thieving bastard to me. You know the lad. The captain’s cabin boy!”

Dammit.
Her blood ran cold and she scurried back into her small corner. What could she do now? She should have kicked Moody’s balls even harder last night.

The crew dispersed. Some wholeheartedly threw themselves into the search. Some did not appear eager to join the hunt. A flicker of hope stirred in her breast. Maybe the captain had more supporters than she thought. Or maybe they knew Mr. Moody
’s true temperament--a spiteful, bombastic, perverted bully. Then again, there could be a few who pitied her.

The eggs swirled uncomfortably in her gut.

She touched the side of her face. Still tender, it ached and she wished she had some ice to ease the swelling. She drew her hands into fists. Mr. Moody needed to learn a lesson. What could she do?

She peeked from behind the barrel. The men must have gone below to ferret through the bowels of the ship, though a few poked around in the boats apparently thinking she had climbed into one of those to hide.

Mr. Moody, confident and smug, stood on the poop deck and surveyed the scene. He paced back and forth with as much pride as a peacock spreading out his magnificent tail feathers. The long green jacket he wore today appeared iridescent in the bright morning light. She wanted to wipe the evil smile off his face.

She scooted behind the barrel again, next to the chicken coop, beside the ship’s bell and weighed her options. There weren’t many. If she got caught there would be no hope for her.

She hated Moody. If she knew how to load a gun she would put a hole in his head.   

She stared out at the ocean off the starboard side. The bright blue sky had not a single cloud in it and reminded her of the captain’s eerie light eyes. The ocean beneath held the same deep blue as a sapphire. The breeze though brisk had a mild warmth to it. The weather seemed utterly perfect for sailing. Jim would be out sailing his boat on such a day. The ocean did not look any different in 1711 than it did in 2011. She wished a big, modern ocean liner would appear on the horizon and take her home.

Grief tore at her heart. She should have been more magnanimous to her niece and nephew on their birthdays. She should have given them huge gifts so they would never forget her.

Unexpectedly, that unusual hum fired up inside her. She peered out from behind the barrel once more to see the captain join Mr. Moody on the poop deck. The captain wore no jacket and no hat—and she smiled as she watched the sunshin
e glinting in his sun-bleached hair. The wind pressed his loose shirt against his firm muscles and she touched every one of them with her eyes.

Damn. He looked delicious. Keeping her hands off him would be a challenge.

The captain and Moody talked for a while, scowling at each other they but did not come to blows. Another cabin boy summoned the bosun who then blew his whistle. The crew assembled and the captain told everyone that his cabin boy had not stolen anything—that the incident had been a misunderstanding.

Everyone went back to their stations, many of them muttering oaths. After a few minutes, the captain turned, stood at the rail, and scanned the deck. When Moody turned his back, she crept out a little further and waved to the captain. His gaze fell upon her and the hum inside her grew into a vibration—like the purr of a cat. The laser-like beam of his eyes locked with hers. He nodded and she returned his acknowledgement while a blaze of heat suffused her body. She thought she would melt. 

All at once the lookout high above in the crow’s nest called out frantically. She had no idea what he said, but the captain’s attention left her. With the connection between them severed, a sudden chill dampened the heat of only a moment ago.

The captain shouted orders, Moody shouted more orders, the bosun gave several shrill blasts on his whistle and men scrambled down from the ratlines with their buckets of tar as the ship heeled to larboard.

Then she turned her head and saw what caused all the commotion. A wall of water—a rogue wave, which looked like a cliff—plowed toward the
Lyrical.
Would the wave crush the ship into toothpicks? Inside, she went numb.

The deck tilted sharply as the helmsman brought the ship about to face the monstrous blue mountain head on. Up until now, she had never been seasick—not for a moment, but looking at that wave had those delicious eggs churning about uneasily at the pit of her stomach.

She looked around for the nearest sturdy object, which happened to be one of the posts that held up the ship’s bell. Wrapping her arms about it, she knew she did not stand a chance in the open sea. Nevertheless, if the ship broke apart, she might be able to float for a while on the post. She closed her eyes and remembered lines from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea.

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

Why did she recall Coleridge’s ancient poem when she was about to drop in on Davy Jones locker?

The ship went down into the trough of the wave and she closed her eyes to whisper a prayer. In that instant, the captain’s sheltering arms surrounded her. He came from behind and covered her body with his. His strong arms pressed her even more tightly against the post. The electric hum inside her returned full force, but sheer terror soon drowned it out.

“Do not weaken, not for a moment
!” he shouted as the wave struck.

Swallowed inside the c
hurning, foaming torrent of seawater, she fought against her panic. Though the captain’s hard body gave her some protection, she did not know how long she could hold her breath. What if the
Lyrical
did not rise up again from the water?

Images from her brief life passed before her—everything from kindergarten graduation to her last fight with Jim to that magical encounter in the captain’s cabin.

Dammit.
She wanted more of that.

A heavy object slammed against her ankle. She could not cry out though the sharp pain undermined what little strength she had left.

With her lungs ready to burst, she found herself growing lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. She could not die like this! She had to live.

Chapter
Nine

Harlan shut his eyes as the colossal wave smashed into the
Lyrical
with a gigantic roar and greedily gobbled up parts of the ship. Though he held on with every ounce of his strength, he knew the sea wanted him. The great monster of the deep craved the prize of human flesh and if its demands were not met, it rose up and devoured its fill.

The dead from battle did not satisfy the avarice of the ocean for it fed on energy and corpses had none left to give. It wanted life. It wanted
him.

The great weight of the water tore at his shirt. Wooden rails, belaying pins, ropes, and barrels battered him. The liquid tyrant sought to swallow him whole, but he refused to give in to it. Holding his breath, he clung to the post and fought to protect Lesley from the power pulling at them. He struggled to hold his breath and prayed she had drawn in enough air to sustain her.

There had been little time to respond to the danger. The helmsman had managed to turn the ship into the wave, but they could still drown and for the first time in years he cared about living—and not only to win back the legacy his brother had squandered away. Harlan longed to solve the mystery of Lesley and her connection to Elsbeth. Lesley intrigued him. He pressed against her softness and relished the heat radiating from her satin skin. He longed to taste the sweetness on her lips, even if her body cleverly disguised the devil incarnate.

When his lungs were about to burst for lack of breath, the water fell away. Gratefully, he gasped in the blessed air. Slowly, and indeed miraculously, the
Lyrical
rose above the water.

His limbs trembled. Reluctant to leave the warmth of Lesley’s body, he eased slowly away from her.

“Did you take in any water?” he asked. She did not move but continued to hold fast to the post.

She shook her head.

“It is over. We are fortunate. The
Lyrical
still floats.” He reached out to smooth back the hair from her forehead.

“Guess there won’t be any chicken dinners this week.”

He glanced toward the space where the chickens and their coops had been, but they had vanished. The bell, too, had been taken, but he hardly cared. He was alive. Lesley was alive.

“I do not care about the chickens.” The rough edge in his voice hurt his throat. Anger—even hatred and blind fury—were far better than this feebleness. It sapped his strength and left him shaken, though perhaps his weakness came from fighting against the force of the wave—fighting to live.

“Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea. We can eat those, but damn the eggs were good.” Her hand reached out and touched his cheek.

He took her hand in his and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes and buried his lips in her wet hair. It smelled of the sea. His tongue curled around the whorl of her ear, craving the salt flavor there. He sought her mouth and the deep warmth within.

She turned away from him. “They’ll see you and think you are a ... a bugger.”

Her words, though soft, brought him back to reality.

“I thought you would die,” he whispered. Why did that matter to him? It shouldn’t. He had seen good men die. He had lost everything he loved.

“I ... I ... I know I could not have held on without your help.” The warmth of her tender skin against his lips made him long to taste more of her, but danger lay in wait and the risk for him continued. Watchful eyes were upon him and unholy alliances could end his life in an instant.

He backed away and looked out at the deck. Sections of the railing had been ripped away as well as ratlines and ropes. One of the boats in the waist had vanished. The bowsprint had disappeared. Without a doubt, men had been lost, too. The once proud and beautiful ship had suffered a devastating blow.

Men emerged from the hold. Moody came on deck. The bosun’s whistle blew. Harlan glanced upward. The shredded ruins of the sails fluttered in the light breeze. The top of the foremast and the top of the main mast were missing.

“There is work to be done.” He barely whispered the words. He had survived. If she, as a witch, had endured the wall of water, was he a devil because the sea had not managed to loosen his grip on life? Could sheer luck and strength have been all that was needed?

Or did destiny play a part in their survival?

He closed his eyes and struggled to erase the horror. In battle, he raged against his enemies without fear, but no human enemy could match the ocean in its fury. He quailed inside at the thought of how close he had come to losing this woman. Though her origin remained a mystery to him, he could not bear the thought of being left alone without her, which made no sense. He had vowed never to marry again.

“You must stay in my cabin. Do not leave it this time. I cannot vouch for anyone’s loyalty. You must do as I say or peril awaits.”

“Um--there’s one small detail. My ankle hurts and I can’t put any weight on it.”

He glanced down and noticed the blood on her trousers. The spirit within him sank lower.

He lifted her and carried her across the deck. The men stared at him.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she whispered. “I could hop if you gave me something to use for a crutch.”

He ignored her plea. He did not care what anyone thought. He strode across the deck and glared at them. They moved away. Nobody came close. He went into his cabin and settled her on the bunk.

“I will send Gilly to tend to your leg.”

Her eyes grew round and her skin paled. “Make sure he doesn’t bring his saw along.”

“If it does not turn gangrenous, he will not amputate.”

She clutched his forearm and he realized she had tears welling in her eyes. “Tell him to bring plenty of vinegar and soap. I want to kill as many germs as possible.”

Her pain and fear sent a sick swirl to the pit of his stomach. He clenched his jaw. He must not allow this frailty to destroy him but in the face o
f her fear, he stood powerless.