The Pirate Bride (11 page)

“Come on, let’s go,” he said.

“I’m the captain here,” she insisted.

“Fine. You build the shelter.”

“I am willing for you to be the carpenter.”

“Ah. And were you going to sit somewhere on your arse while I worked?” he demanded. “That’s no captain’s privilege, not on a pirate ship.”

“No, I was simply…setting the record straight.”

“Let’s move.”

“You are still my prisoner.”

“Indeed? Well, I’m a hungry prisoner who knows that night will come. And that it may rain again. And I’d like to get a shelter rigged up. So I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t pretend I’m in chains and you’re wearing a brace of pistols.”

She picked up the chest of tools and started ahead of him, then stepped back and watched while he plotted the strength of the trees and their position. He quickly set forth flattening his chosen ground and mentally drawing the dimensions of the abode he intended to erect, and then got started with timber and nails, creating a frame. He couldn’t have been happier with his find.

He realized she was missing at one point and began cursing beneath his breath. Had she gone from being a pirate to a princess?

But as he turned to head back to the beach to look for her, he heard the sound of something being dragged along the sand.

She was bringing back a huge mass of canvas.

A sail from the broken ship that had given them both the cargo and the corpse.

Tugging the canvas, she looked slim and frail. And yet he realized that though she
was
slim, she was well-muscled, and that all her pretending and parading as a pirate had certainly given her an excellent physique. But she was tiring, so he hurried forward to help.

“I thought we might be in need of a roof,” she said dryly.

“I had certainly planned on one,” he said. “But palm fronds would have sufficed.”

“Canvas will be better.”

“I agree.”

She actually smiled.

“So you admit I’ve been helpful,” she said.

The canvas was heavy. He had to admit it: he was impressed that she had lugged it so far. “I’m going to take part of it up that tree to get leverage, then drag it over the frame. I’ll need your help, handing it up to me.”

“Aye, aye,” she said, but she looked irritated.

“What?”

She didn’t say anything, just pushed the canvas toward him. With the first side done, he had to climb down, then shimmy up a farther tree, so he could lean out across the frame and pull the canvas over and down. He just managed not to let her see that he nearly fell during the effort. The near miss sobered him. It was one thing to be stranded on the island. It would be quite another to be stranded there with a broken leg.

When he came down from the second tree, he was sweating and exhausted. Red must have been tired, as well, but she didn’t complain, and she looked at their pathetic little structure without criticism.

“Well?” he said.

“Bugs,” she said.

“Bugs?”

“Bugs come out at night.”

“The mosquitoes will no doubt make a meal of us—unless the poor souls on that ship carried netting.”

“What about food?”

“We can start here,” he told her, catching hold of a coconut, a chisel and a hammer. He could break a coconut with the best of them. He offered her a half, sloshing with coconut milk.

“Drink up.”

Thirst won out over manners. She slurped at the milk and started to gnaw at the meat. He tossed her a knife from the chest. She caught it deftly and dug into the meat. He turned his attention to his own half, realizing he was ravenous.

“Back down the beach?” she asked, when they were done with their impromptu meal.

“Back down the beach,” he agreed.

He brought the hammer and chisel. This time, he made quick work of the barrels.

They had a lot of rum.

And rancid water.

But finally the fifth barrel yielded dried biscuit.

They both dug in. It didn’t have any taste whatsoever, but at least it was free of weevils, and Logan knew that it would, at least, sustain them. But after a few bites, Red was on her feet again.

“Done already?”

She graced him with a smile. They were both sweaty and dirty, but there was something appealing about the streaks on her face.

“I haven’t begun, but we need to build a fire.”

He looked out at the sea. They needed to be rescued, but he was still afraid of the wrong ship coming upon them.

He stood, still chewing. The biscuit was…hard.

“All right,” he said, after he managed to swallow. “You want to boil water and soften this?”

She flashed him another surprise smile. “And improve it,” she assured him.

She grabbed the tools and started searching through the rest of the barrels. She seemed to be looking for something specific, and when she found it, she cried out with pleasure as she opened it. “Logan! We’ve got sugar!” she cried happily. “And it’s well bagged in burlap and…where’s the fire?” she inquired sweetly.

He turned with a rueful shrug and started searching for something with which to spark a flame.

“No flint?” she asked him hopefully.

He glared at her. “My pockets, madam, are empty.”

As he began hiking wearily toward the trees in search of rocks and twigs for fire-starting, he heard her cry out with pleasure once again.

“What, you’ve found a lit candle?” he called to her.

But she hadn’t found a candle. Instead—and even better—she had found a magnifying glass. She raced toward the trees, seeking the driest tinder she could find. Dead fronds would easily catch fire.

But they would need branches to keep it going.

There were plenty of the latter near their hut, and he went that way. A minute later, she brought her collection of dry vegetation to the spot where he was arranging their firewood. The sun was already beginning to set, he realized, and he longed to take the glass from her hand to speed the task, but she was determined. At last the tinder lit. He blew on it gently, and the flame grew. In moments the branches were burning and they had a real fire, although a rather smokey one, since apparently not all the wood was as dry as it had appeared.

“It’s a dreadful fire,” she said.

“It’s a fire.”

She rose. “Where is that soup tureen?” She went for it, then ran back for the sugar and biscuit. “Water!” she called to him. “We need fresh water.”

He muttered beneath his breath and followed her. Rummaging again, he found a pitcher and a silver teapot, and went off to fill them both. When he returned, he found that she had come up with a skillet and was already carefully warming it at the fire. She took the teapot from him and poured a small amount into the pan, then added the biscuit and sugar.

Then she looked at the pitcher.

He handed it to her. “Drink slowly.”

She didn’t. She finished every drop. Then she looked at him guiltily.

“It’s all right. I did the same thing at the spring.”

She flushed.

“I’ll go see if we have plates,” he offered.

They did. He was frankly surprised more bodies hadn’t washed up on the shore, given how much cargo had appeared. One trunk contained service for twenty in fine Chinese porcelain. There was silver, as well. He decided to drag the whole trunk back to their shelter, on the theory that it was better to have more than they needed than nothing at all.

He brought over silverware and two plates, and sat cross-legged before the fire. He started to fork out a piece of the biscuit turned to sugar cakes, but she spoke while he was in midmotion.

“Actually, it would be good to have a grog now,” she said, looking at him.

He looked back at her, ready to remind her that she was constantly striving to prove her self-sufficiency, but instead he rose and headed down the beach. He dragged back the sugar barrel first, then went back for the partially filled barrel of rum that had brought them to the island. When he returned, he saw that she had gotten up, as well, and came back dragging another of the trunks.

“Teacups,” she told him.

“Ah.”

Then, smiling, she mixed them each a grog of sugar, water and rum.

At last they were seated at the fire again. The biscuit was far better now that it had been soaked with sugar, and he had to admit the grog was smooth, seeming to heat and ease his muscles all at once. They ate in silence, still ravenous, and he knew they made a ridiculous picture, seated with their fine china before a crude fire and their palm tree, broken lumber and canvas shelter.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

Maybe it was the rum.

Maybe it was the setting sun painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The colored sky kissed the water, and the waves washed with a gentle and soothing rhythm onto the beach.

Whatever the cause, it was an oddly peaceful moment.

He realized his shirt was torn and ragged, his breeches frayed, and they were both streaked with dirt. Red’s hair was wild and as wickedly colored as the sunset. Her clothing, as tattered as his own, still seemed to hug her body. And she had never appeared more alluring to him.

He finished his grog, made himself another.

She arched a brow but said nothing.

“What, Captain?” he muttered, fighting to keep his distance from her. “You had wanted me to take the helm?”

“We’re not done,” she told him.

“Oh?”

“We need blankets.”

“I could sleep here and now.”

“But…you won’t.”

He grinned slowly, relaxing after the hard work of the day. “Blankets. Should I find a mattress, as well?”

“You are not amusing, you know.”

“Ah, but you…it’s so hard to decide just what you are—Captain Robert.”

“There is nothing to decide. I am exactly what you see.”

“Really? That from someone who dresses up like a man and pretends to be the terror of the sea?”

“I
am
the terror of the sea,” she informed him coldly.

“And after just one man.”

She stared at him. “You are more complex.”

“Me? I am an open book.”

“Ah, yes.
Laird
Haggerty. Maybe now. But I sense it was not always so.”

“No,” he admitted. “I came from war, treachery, murder, betrayal…”

“And ended up with a good life.”

“I was taken in by a good man.”

“Taken in?” she asked softly.

“I served him, and served him well. But he was a kind man, and had no son of his own, and I grew to love him like a son. And then came the Act of Union, and I was a laird again. A letter from the old country made it so.”

“You are a lucky man.”

“I let myself be lucky.”

She started to laugh. “You think a person chooses to have good luck or bad?”

“I think a person can choose to let the past take control and simmer until there is nothing left in their heart except hatred.”

“Hatred can keep a person alive,” she said.

“And hatred can consume a person from within,” he warned.

“And you hate no one?”

“Aye, Captain. I know how to hate. But I wanted to find life, as well.”

She shook her head, looking away. “You fell in love,” she told him.

He hesitated. “I fell into good company,” he said.

“What about your dear Cassandra?”

“She is…proper.”

“She must love you very much.”

“She is a loving person.”

She rose. “Well, fear not, Laird Haggerty. There’s every hope that we shall get off this island, and, as I told you, there is no need for ransom. You are a free man.”

She spoke strangely. He didn’t remind her that he was a free man already. They were both free.

And they were both prisoners. Of an island.

She walked off down the beach. He rose and joined her. As the sun set, it was growing cool, and he saw that she was shivering.

He strode past her, searching again. There were broken barrels littering the beach, those they had split, and still more to be opened. The refuse covered half a mile, he thought. There was a great deal still to be explored and discovered.

He found more fine china, crystal glassware, pewter steins, leather skins and a trunk of fine woolen cloaks. He chose a few to bring back, should they not find blankets. It was almost absurd. They had more to choose from marooned on this island than had they been given access to a king’s wardrobe.

“Bed linens!” she called out to him.

“Good,” he returned.

At last he happened upon a trunk that held several woolen blankets, and even a goose down pillow. He took all that he could carry and headed back toward the shelter. She had arrived before him and laid out the linens.

One bed on one side of the shelter.

The other as far on the opposite side as possible.

Naturally.

He spread out the blankets and handed her the pillow. She stared at him, her eyes widening. “A pillow,” she marveled.

He shrugged. “Enjoy.”

“But it was your discovery,” she said politely.

“My pleasure that it should be yours,” he said gallantly.

He returned to the fire, feeling a chill himself. He made a third grog and turned to her. “May I serve you, my captain?”

“I…yes,” she said. To his surprise, she gulped it down quickly, then shuddered.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Come, enjoy the fire.”

“I’m so tired,” she admitted.

“So sit.” He patted the sand. “You know my story. I want to know the rest of yours.”

“There is…just what you see.”

Darkness had now fallen all around them. The moon rose above, not full, but still helping to light the scene. The stars were out. And the fire burned low and pleasantly.

The breeze moved softly.

She stood there, so defiant, both fragile and strong. He wanted to reach out to her so badly, wanted to hold her, take care of her.

In all honesty, he wanted much, much more. He could almost feel her. Feel her heart beat, feel her breathe, even at a distance. He felt himself harden and quicken within, and he knew what he wanted was simple and basic and instinctive….

But there was more. Much more.

She fascinated him.

He winced, looking downward and thinking of Cassandra. He loved her. She deserved love, by God.