The Noble Pirates (34 page)

I sighed. “Yes, I’ll stay on the ship.” Howel looked at Sam, and Sam nodded once. I became angry. “You don’t need to have Sam keep an eye on me!” I cried. “I can take care of myself.”

Howel reached out and stroked my face, a warmth in his voice, his eyes. “Aye, I know you can. It’s more for me peace of mind, lass. Because you are me heart.”

I was stunned. It was the closest thing Howel had come to telling me he loved me.
You are me heart.
“Be careful,” I replied.

With a grim expression on his face, he turned and strode back to his officers. Howel’s House of Lords then climbed into a boat to go ashore, John Roberts looking as unperturbed and austere as ever. I heard Sam sigh deeply.

“Howel Davis has a big weakness,” he said, looking solemnly down at me. “You,
nwanyi
.”

The sky darkened, and Sam and I sat together on the deck, drinking and listening to the distant playing of music. Few pirates had remained aboard the ship, as most had wanted to partake in the revelry on shore. Only the hands that had been designated the watch for the evening had stayed, and they drank as well, sullenly watching the flickering warm lights ashore.

Sam began to sing a native song to himself, whittling some wood with a knife, while I sat back, a mug between my legs, gazing up at the stars. My mind wandered for a bit, then I began to listen to the conversation of the pirates who sat drinking nearby.

“What think you o’ John Roberts?” one of the men asked the other.

“Hmm,” the second, an older pirate with graying hair, replied. “I cain’t says. He’s a hard one to read.”

The third man in the group spoke up. “He knows a hell o’ a lot about everything. He’s a brilliant seaman. An’ not afraid o’ nothing, that man. Fearless, he is.”

The second pirate, the older one, rumbled in disapproval again. “A Black Celt, that Roberts, with those jet black eyes an’ swarthy skin. An’ he ain’t just black on the outside – ye can see he’s black on the inside as well. Dark an’ brooding, thinking things not a one of us knows, smiling from time to time like the Devil himself. Black through an’ through.”

I had all but stopped breathing. I suddenly tingled from head to foot, feeling slightly light-headed.
Black through an’ through.

Oh my God!

John Roberts. Suddenly things began to fall into place, things that had seemed off about the man – his unbelievably white, straight teeth. His knowledge of things that no one else knew. His reclusiveness, the way he stood apart from the other men. The fact that everyone was struck by him, struck by the same magic that had struck them about me…. John Roberts was from the future, I was certain of it. Could he also be my black pirate? I had automatically assumed “black” had meant “African.” I hadn’t thought to interpret the word differently. Black… dark… maybe even evil…

Sam looked at me. “
Nwanyi
, you look pale. Is something wrong?”

I stood. “Sam, I need some privacy. Er…
nwanyi
troubles have begun, I believe…”

Sam winced and held up a palm. “Please, say no more. Men do not want to hear about such things. Do what you need to do.”

I hurried to the forecastle, my mind reeling. I suppose normally I would have gone to the head to take care of things, but instead I crouched in the shadow of the foremast. Who was John Roberts? And what did he want with Howel Davis? It was possible that he had found himself here unexpectedly, like me, but… something in his gaze, in his smile, made me believe he knew what he was doing, that he had motives. And if he were, in fact, “black” in the “evil” sense, then Howel Davis was in danger.

It hit me like a lightening bolt: Could John Roberts be the cause of Howel Davis’ death?

Oh my God. I had to find Howel. I had to warn him. I knew that this “pirate business” could take a while, and I wasn’t just about to wait for them to come back. I had… to find them. This couldn’t wait.

But how would I get off the ship? I could explain to Sam what was happening, and maybe he would help me. Or maybe he would think I was a crazy
nwanyi
and insist that we follow Howel’s orders. I didn’t have time to explain, and I couldn’t take the chance that Sam wouldn’t go along with me… No, I had to find Howel as quickly as possible. I sat wondering how I was going to get to shore without drawing Sam’s attention when one of the pirates walked by me, not seeing me. I hissed at him. “You! Come here!”

He turned, puzzled, a hand on his pistol, when his eyes finally focused on me. “The pirate lad, is it?” he said.

“Be quiet,” I instructed. “I need to go ashore. And I need Sam – ” I jerked my head in the direction of the big African “—to not know about it.”

As the pirate began to shake his head, for there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t fear Sam, I pulled a small sack of coins from my sash. As part of the crew, I’d received my portions of the booty, and since I had no real need for them, I’d simply saved them. Now, the sack was heavy as the coins clinked together, a most beautiful sound to a pirate.

“This is all yours, if you can supply me with a boat and keep Sam from noticing I’ve left,” I said.

The pirate looked at the bag of coins for a moment, then met my eyes and asked, “Can you row quietly?” When I shrugged, he said, “I’ll have Withers row you to shore. He be stealthy.”

It was all done quickly and smoothly, with hardly the sound of an errant splash. These were, after all, pirates. My heart pounded against my chest as I looked back at the ship, afraid I would see or hear Sam bellowing curses at me. But I had been wise, telling him I’d been having female troubles, for there was no sign of him, not even when we reached the shore. I’m sorry, Sam, I thought as I climbed out of the boat and dragged my feet impatiently through the surf. Hopefully he would forgive me for deceiving him when he realized why I had done it.

“I’ll wait for ye here,” Withers said to me. He clearly did not want to be on the ship when Sam realized I was missing.

Armed with both a pistol and a knife, I set out to look for Howel Davis and John Roberts. I was running on pure adrenaline, and a feeling of imminent doom. There was only one place I knew to look, and it was in the nameless pub I had gone to with Sam earlier that day. The town was not very big, so there were only so many places they could be, right? I would find them. And even though Howel would be angry with me, I would quickly soothe his anger with my discovery.

The town was active with merry sailors and laughing women, despite the late hour. Trained monkeys performed tricks for passers-by and vendors beckoned, trying to sell wide-brimmed hats made of straw. Chickens and dirty-faced children ran freely in the streets, and little boys tossed a lopsided ball to one another.

The pub was where I remembered it was, and I pushed past two drunken sailors to get inside the open door. It was warmly lit and crowded, smelling strongly of sweaty bodies and stewing fish. I stood on my tip-toes, trying to peer through the crowd. John Roberts was hard to miss, and I knew that I could recognize Howel even in the most difficult situations. I made my way through the pub, glancing at the sun-burned faces around me, and once I was fairly certain the men I sought weren’t there, I turned toward the entrance of the place, feeling a stab of disappointment. As I gently squeezed past two hot bodies, I stumbled and fell, landing against a pair of sturdy legs.

“Here, now, ye little clod! Watch where ye be going!” A hand reached down, pulled me up by my shirt, and shoved me away.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I mumbled, adjusting my hat and looking into the face of the man I’d offended. “I didn’t mean to – “

My mouth was open, but words no longer came out. The sounds around me faded into the background, and all I heard was a humming in my ears and my own heartbeat, which slowed to a near stop. He’d been colored by the African sun and had a gold hoop in one ear. He wore the typical pirate mix of fine gentleman’s clothes and sailor’s slops – a long, forest-green coat with gold buttons over worn canvas breeches. A giant parrot was perched on his shoulder, its head tilted to the side.

The parrot whistled and peered through one eye at me, looking exactly like the man on whose shoulder it sat: the pirate Jack Blaine.

Chapter Thirty-Six

  My brain was not, at that very moment, functioning properly, by any means. However, I had been surviving in the eighteenth century long enough to grasp that long before I could even begin to understand what was happening, I had to
run.

  And run I did. I slammed past the people in the pub, indifferent to their shouts and curses, my heart hammering away all other sounds. I scampered blindly out into the street, not knowing if Blaine was chasing me, and headed for the beach. My legs pumped hard, my now-callused soles barely feeling the pinch of the tough leather shoes I wore. Somewhere behind the frantic whirl in my mind, a voice spoke: Jack Blaine. The man who had helped Ned Taylor lead a mutiny against Howel Davis aboard the
Cadogan
. The sailor who had sworn he would find me when the time came because he believed – and rightly so – that I knew his fate.

I had almost forgotten all about him; I had been so caught up with Howel’s notoriety as a pirate, his pending death, and now the revelation regarding John Roberts. Blaine’s threat had come to seem so insignificant compared to these things.

But now…

Although I had arrived at the beach and had only to look for Withers, I felt this overwhelming desire to hide. Pulling my pistol from my belt and cocking it, I dove into a patch of trees and underbrush, pressing my back against the trunk of a palm. I felt sharp branches scratch at my face, legs, hands, and heard the mosquitoes as they hovered near my ears. I sat as still as possible for several minutes, trying not to pant. My flesh crawled as I listened to the sounds all around me, the rustling and buzzing and crunching. When my breathing finally slowed and my frenzy subsided some, I wiped my palms on my breeches and slowly began to stand.

I had to get back to the ship. I would be safe there. Dammit, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have just waited for Howel and Roberts to return? I was so impulsive. I –

“Sabrina, the Charmed Woman, is it?”

The voice was the same, maybe a bit more threatening, a trace more abrasive. I spun around, my pistol gripped tightly in my hands, and fired at the man behind me. Had the pistol not been a flintlock, I’m certain I would have shot Jack Blaine right between the eyes. The pistol went off with a bang and a coil of smoke escaped from the barrel, but the main charge was not ignited.

My pistol had misfired.

Blaine grabbed my arm and pried the pistol from my hands, cackling. “A flash in the pan,” he said mirthfully. “What a fateful turn of events, eh, lass?”

Fateful indeed.

“To think I was looking for ye, and ye came stumbling straight into me arms!” He laughed with abandon, his head back. “Now,” he murmured, bringing my face close to his. I could smell the tobacco, the rum, the days’-old sweat. “I needn’t tell ye how ye’ll suffer if so much as a whimper leaves yer lips, do I?”

“You won’t hurt me,” I said, trying to sound brave but feeling nothing but despair and panic. “I’m too valuable to you.”

Blaine squinted his bad eye at me and grinned diabolically, showing his blackened teeth. “Ye are mistaken, milady. I’d not kill ye, ‘tis true. But hurt ye? I’ve no qualms with that.” To drive his point home, he tightened his grip on my arm and dragged me through the sand, not stopping when I tripped and fell.

Bound and gagged, I was taken aboard Blaine’s ship, the
Delivery
. I was locked up in the hold, which smelled strongly of human excrement. In all my time in the eighteenth century, I had never suffered poor treatment, and counted myself very fortunate for it. Now, I saw my luck had run out. I was amongst real pirates, and I would now be treated as a real captive. Fear oozed from every pore, causing me to whimper from behind the dirty rag that gagged me and great big tears to roll down my cheeks.

No one came for me for what felt like days, although it was probably merely hours. I could tell we had set sail, and now, without food or water, nor a way to gaze at the horizon, my seasickness returned. I needed to relieve myself, but had no way to do it. As time crawled on, I found myself sinking into a personal hell, wishing myself dead. The rope dug into the flesh of my wrists, the gag dug into the sides of my mouth. Nausea overwhelmed me, making my head spin and my breath come in ragged gasps. When, finally, I heard the anchor drop, tears began to rush down my cheeks and into my gag. This was all my fault.

Please, God, keep Howel Davis safe. Don’t punish him for my mistakes.

Finally the hatch opened and down came Blaine. I didn’t look up, I was so plunged in misery. But I knew it was him.

“Ye stink, lass,” he said, somewhat mirthfully.

I couldn’t answer, but I gave him a glassy-eyed look. Had I been able to speak, I probably would have retorted with “You’re one to talk.” I didn’t doubt that I stank – I had thrown up multiple times against the gag, which forced me to swallow most of the vomit back down. I was more nauseous now than I had been those first dismal hours aboard England’s ship.