The Pirate Captain (30 page)

Cate looked up at the moon once more, lopsided and waxen. “Our last night was a night like this, except cold. It was Brian’s last opportunity to see stars and breathe fresh air, so we slept outside. We took quilts and found a quiet spot.”

There were no tors or lochs, and the stars didn’t sparkle with the same brilliance as in the crisp mountain air, but she saw that night just the same. She couldn’t tell Nathan everything of that night. There had been no tears; those had been used up. They barely spoke, for there was little more to be said. His was going to be the easiest: imprisonment, trial, and then death, probably all within a moon’s cycle. Hers was the worst: to keep living, alone, half of a whole. She watched the dawn rise from over his bare shoulder as they made love for the last time.

Nathan looked off to the phosphorescent glow of the ship’s wake.

“Your husband was a wise man.” His graveled voice was a tight rasp. “I know what it ’tis to lie in some stinking cell waiting for me final dawn, whilst trying to decide which I fancied more: to see the sky or draw a clean breath. The sword or a noose is preferable to entombment.”

She had managed to delay matters for a bit, but there was no way around it, the inevitable always being exactly that. “So,” Cate said softly. “How’s it to be: the nearest garrison or all the way to Port Royal?”

“For what?”

“Turn me in.” She leaned back against the window frame, drinking in the heady mix of freshness and salt. “I want to enjoy every last moment of freedom I can. In a way, I’m ready to be done with it. It will be a relief to not live in constant fear.”

“’Tis painful to deflate your hopes,” Nathan began carefully, “but you shan’t be turned in anytime soon, not if this lot of oysterheads have anything to do with it.”

Cate swiveled around, curious to see what he was playing at. “How can that be?”

“They voted.” He jerked a thumb toward the cabin door, and then held up his hands in defense. “Upon me word, I had nothing to do with it.”

“But there’s a reward.” Pulse racing, she curbed her soaring hopes, afraid to believe.

“There’s barely a man on this ship what doesn’t carry some kind of a price on his head,” he said, rising to his feet. “Turn in one, and I would be obliged to do them all. Bloody inconvenient, that. I’d have to press a whole new crew.”

Nathan paused at her elbow and bent to peer at her. “You’ll be well tonight, then?”

“I think so,” Cate said unsteadily, bracing her head in her hands. Protection. Safety. Caring. Haven. Home. She now had it all.

Nathan hesitated near the mizzenmast, inclined toward leaving, and yet reticent to do so.

“So, let’s see…” he said, coming back. Rolling his eyes in affected consideration, he sat amid the creak of leather, his knee brushing hers. “We’ve treason—that’s to be admired; I’ve never managed that one—Murder. Conspiracy…” he said, ticking off the charges on his fingers.

“Defamation against the Crown,” she put in. “Mayhem—there was a war, after all. Espionage—an assumption on their part, but it’s impressive on the broadsheets. Lewd conduct—a woman traveling with an army of men couldn’t possibly do otherwise, could she? Sorcery and witchcraft—I suppose my eyes had something to do with that.”

They laughed quietly. He had alluded to the evil-natured color of her eyes many a time.

“You’ve a charge sheet to be proud of,” Nathan declared, with a flash of ivory and gold between his lips.

“And now, I can add piracy, I suppose.”

Her intent had been light, but his expression darkened. “Not if I have aught to do with it. We’ll claim you were a hostage, and if necessary, were used most egregiously.”

“That won’t help the reputation, but then I suppose I have none to defend.”

“It will keep you from the noose,” Nathan said with conviction.

To what end, if you’re gone?
The bitter thought swept in without warning. She quickly batted it down. Besides a home, Nathan was offering a future. He and his ship were a godsend and she would take it, be damned the cost.

He leaned to touch her arm and she was suffused with a flush of warmth. She looked up into a walnut-colored gaze, intent with concern.

“You’ll be well tonight?” he asked again.

“Yes.” Cate’s throat tightened, touched by his sincerity. Now she would be, better than ever. “I still think I’ll stay here for a while; I’m enjoying the night too much.”

Nathan laid a hand to her shoulder and frowned. “You’re shivering.”

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”

In nearly a single motion, he tossed the baldric from his shoulder, slid off his coat and whirled it over her.

“Better?” he asked, tucking it in.

“Mm, thank you.” Cate snuggled deeper, the place on her arm where he had touched her still glowing. The burgundy-colored folds might have been worn, but they were strong his warmth and scent. She felt a bit voyeuristic for using him thus, but was eager for anything that brought him a bit closer. “Seems impossible for someone to be cold in the Caribbean.”

“I learned long ago, nothing is impossible; improbable, maybe, but never impossible.”

###

The next morning, Nathan stood at the weather mizzen chains. Heeled nearly four strakes, the
Morganse
raced through the water, the waves curling in a high arc over her nose, soaking the deck in rain-shower thoroughness.

The
Morganse
was always testy about setting a starboard tack, griping, threatening to fall away. Like any woman, there was more than one way to make her sigh.

Aye, me darling. As you wish.

There was but one soul between them, and she took the share. Justifiably so; she possessed the greater heart, the courage to face the sea every day and the will to make it her own. He was but a means to her ends: to give her enough canvas, a light hand at the wheel, and a fair course.

An imprudent vessel she was, always asking for that bit more canvas than she could carry, not like other ships what cranked and shuddered, with spars that creaked and popped like an old tar’s bones at the adding of so much as a staysail. Her spirits ran high, extending past ration as she fought to kick up her heels like a high-blooded horse, willing to run until her heart burst. He found it best to entice her with what she desired most: a full complement of jibs and staysails, shaking out the reefs in the mizzen top to keep her true. Give her her head, and then creep in the braces, when she wasn’t looking. Let her royals and courses fly, and she was as happy as a fat whore with a full purse.

The chains buried in the foam, he swayed with her motion as she ate the waves, shaking off one while reaching for the next. He closed his eyes and grasped the shroud. Some claimed the wheel was the way to a ship’s heart. Her shrouds were her pulse, a direct line to her lifeblood: the wind. He bent his head to listen to her song, her tempo of water and wind, sough and whistle, thrum, and roil.

No need for log lines. She was making 11 knots if she made a fathom; and the wind a bare four points off her nose.

Damn! How she loved to point!

If it weren’t for that skirt of weeds she carried—Gotta careen her soon—it would be 12 for sure. Still, 11 was sufficient to overrun any vessel to suffer the misfortune of putting across her bow.

She continued to gripe—no need for a hand on the wheel to know it—reminding him the stowage required a bit of a shift aft; she preferred not so heavy on the peak. Nothing to be done, until at anchor. With a full day of the hands sweating it out in the hold, a night of revelry ashore would be the only balm.

Once she hummed, the helm steady, he could relax and attend on other matters, ones that had pressed since before the Midwatch.

He checked over his shoulder toward the quarterdeck. Too wet to sit at the bow, where she preferred, Cate perched in the lee of the afterdeck, working. The woman didn’t know the meaning of rest. A working fool she was, going until she fell over, if saner heads weren’t brought to bear. A few days prior, her scissors had needed sharpening, and a skill for the honing of edges was discovered. When asked how that came to be, she answered: “I had five brothers.”

Knives, swords, broad axes, hatchets, and harpoons—the
Morganse
bristled with a host of sharp-edged objects. Consequently, she spent a portion of most every day sharpening. Hone stone, oil, leather, and rags became her constant companions, all stowed in a small basket. This day was no exception; she busied with several rigging knives the men brought, anxious for a few minutes of conversation while she worked.

Pryce slipped aft to the quarterdeck as he made his way forward. The odd wave caught him now and again, but he knew the feel of his ship well enough to know when to duck. To his mind, a man who couldn't bear being wet had no business at sea, but by the same token, it was a wretched fool who didn’t have the sense to avoid a wave square to the face.

Mr. Fox, master of the larbolin f’c’stlemen, hovered at seeing his captain approach. The man tended toward being as fastidious as an old schoolmaster about his realm. He waved Fox off, just to set the poor man’s mind to rest. This was not a matter that reflected on his crew, reeving new foretackle blocks, at the moment. Keeping his distance, but with a canny eye, Fox touched his forelock and returned to his duty.

“You, sailor,” Nathan called, tapping one on the shoulder. “Name’s Cameron, am I right?”

“Aye, Cap'n!” The man knuckled a hasty salute, disconcerted to find his commander so unexpectedly close, and addressing him directly, at that.

“Pray a word with you and your…mate.” Nathan urged the man aside, beckoning his comrade to follow. “To your duties, mates,” he barked to the remainder who stood gaping.

Snapped from their torpor, they bent to their tasks with exaggerated fervor.

“You spoke of the Rising last night?” he asked of Cameron, once out of earshot of the others.

What the bloody hell was the other’s name?

Cate’s scene on deck the night since had been grist for the rumor mills as it was. The captain in private conference with these two would only fan the fires, but the need to know outweighed all caution. Stiff orders could be given, but that would only serve to drive the talk further underground.

“Aye, sir,” came the response, still cautious of where this audience might lead.

“Then you knew of Mr. Cate’s man?” Nathan asked, lowering his voice.

“Captain Mackenzie?” Relieved, Cameron grinned, bobbing his head enthusiastically. “Aye, sir! Me ’n’ Hughes, we served under ’im.”

Hughes! Why couldn’t I remember the blighter’s name?

“Can you tell me of him? What sort of man he was?”

It wasn’t a comfortable matter to broach, but his curiosity vexed him all night. Any dullard could tell by the look in her eyes when she spoke of him that the woman was still thoroughly in love with the man. But it did defy all reason what manner of man would drag her through a war, and then leave her alone. To his mind, a kiss o’ the gunner’s daughter would be too good.

“The best, sir,” Hughes replied adamantly. “A man among men he was.”

“Aye, sir, we’d follow him anywhere, to hell and back.”

“And Culloden was hell, sir.”

Both nodded gravely.

“Brave?” Nathan was keenly alert for those first unguarded reactions.

A slight hesitance in the ship’s forward motion was all the warning need. They ducked as another wave broke over them.

“To a fault, sir,” Cameron answered eagerly, water dripping from his chin. “Never led a charge mounted; always afoot as the rest of us. And never left a wounded man on the field; retrieved every one hisself, if the need arose.”

“Aye, I saw him carry many a man off the field,” Hughes put in, sputtering seawater.

“Fought like the Dev’l possessed him himself,” Cameron said. “Saw ’im near cleave a man in half, once’t.”

“Aye, could swing a claymore like a child swings its rattle,” Hughes went on, both nodding earnestly.

“Then he was a big man?” Nathan asked, frowning slightly.

Cameron closed one eye in estimation. “A good head taller than yerself, sir. Had to duck his head at near every door he passed.”

“And near twenty stone, with hands near twice as wide as most,” Hughes said, fanning his fingers out in example.

Nathan looked to the deck. This wasn’t going as he had expected, at all. He had been thoroughly prepared to despise the man.

How the hell could such a bastard suddenly become a bloody hero?

“And handsome, too,” Cameron continued, clearly eager to please, dodging the tails of another wave. “’Tweren’t narry a lass what didn’t swoon at his passing.”

Sobering, Cameron paused, carefully choosing his words. “And he loved the leddy, sir. They loved each other; any fool could see it.”

“Yes, you’d have to be a doddering fool not to see it,” Nathan echoed under his breath.

Yes, a blind man could see it, indeed! Any fool could hear it in her voice, or see it in those cursed blue…green…whatever eyes!

“Took her everywhere w’ him; they were inseparable. Heaven help the man whatever gave her an off look!” Cameron finished, shaking his head dolefully.

Having heard enough accolades for one day, he waved them off, back to their duties and their mates. He stood absent-mindedly thumping the rail with his fist. So lost in thought, he was grateful for the occasional wave in the face to bring him into focus.

Smite and burn me!

She’d had a good man, and loved him well. No man could ask for more.

His worst fears had been proven correct. He had been ready to despise this Mackenzie, and deserving of it he was, judging by what he had heard…until then. How the hell did he go from shiftless bastard to saint? It was unimaginable that Cate would give herself over to anything less than a paragon, but then he knew well enough that ration and judgment were rarely matters for the heart. He’d seen many a great woman put her hearts in lesser men.

Pirate, soldier, peon, king, or otherwise, to his mind there was an order to the world: women bore children and men protected them both. It was a simple axiom, and there would be a damned sight less trouble in the world if there were more to honor it. He bore little tolerance for a man—a bloody goddamned hero or no—who failed to do so. It was only a shiftless lout what would put a woman through a war just to leave her alone to starve.