The Pirate Captain (35 page)

Cate scanned the wreck and ruin. It was rather shocking the damage that could be wrought by no more than musket and blade. The dead scattered about was testimony enough. A thin crimson stream poured from a scupper amidships, several triangular fins thrashing in the water directly below.

She flinched.

There it was again, that same stab, like an onset of the gripes. It was like a great fist seizing her gut and twisting.

The great hand of guilt.

It struck after every engagement, at realizing what she was a part of.

Pirates.

She couldn’t reproach the Morgansers. To blame them would be to blame the hound for howling. She could see them on the
Valor
—easily, for they were the only ones clothed—and their familiar faces, the ones she lived among, the ones she laughed with and mended their bodies, now taunting the defenseless and naked Valors. The bitter taste of revulsion rose in her mouth at seeing the injured and dead had been stripped. The sight called to mind the aftermath of several battlefields. The scavengers picked through the bodies, going so far as to cut off fingers for rings and bashing out teeth for the gold.

And so, regret for what? At what point do you think you could have caused a different outcome?

“What a cold-hearted bitch you’ve become,” Cate said under her breath.

Too late, my dear. That happened the day Brian left.

There had been no massacre, nor atrocities here, and there well could have been after such a gross deception. She was no neophyte; she knew what was done in the heat of battle, in war or when fighting for one’s life. And fighting for their lives was exactly what the pirates were doing; their blood smeared her apron and crusted her nails. If anything, the pirates had been the ones to fight by the rules.

It was kill or be killed…wasn’t it?

The glass grew slippery. She wiped her palms and peered again.

Still no Nathan.

Cate choked down the fear that tightened her throat at thought of him lying somewhere, that it was his blood draining to the sea.

She cursed Nathan for this damned feud of his. In a moment of honesty, she knew what troubled her: all of this destruction was because of it. This drive to best Harte and Creswicke went far beyond anything she had witnessed, including the Highlander clan wars, which could span generations over a mere patch of land.

Nathan’s was a blood vengeance, to be sure. Over what would probably never be hers to know.

“Tut, tut. Ogling, are we? What would your mother say?”

Cate spun around to find Nathan standing behind her, grinning, still flushed with the exultancy of battle. Blood spattered his sleeves and he had a scrape on his chest, but he was whole…blessedly whole. Her heart warmed at the sight of him. She was caught between throwing her arms around his neck with joy and giving him a piece of her mind.

“Where did you…? How did…?” she cried. Then anger won out. “Damn you, you bastard. How dare you go running off like that. You could have been shot…or killed…or…” Her mouth moved like a fish gasping for for air as she searched for words.

Nathan shook his head, jangling his bells, and flipped a braid. “Charmed.”

This exchange was made while he spun her about and patted her down, seeking to assure that she was well. He held up the side of her skirt to exhibit a hole, much like that which might have been made by a musket ball. The corner of his mouth tucked up and he gave her a paternal glare. His displeasure at her failure to find safety deepened at finding another.

“What happened?” she asked, interrupting the berating that was in the offing.

Nathan shrugged and dabbed the sweat from the side of his face. “Everything and nothing. Opened fire on our heads, the dung-souled maggot. Sharks what had been following the ship got those what fell in the water.” A bit shaken at that recollection, a disgusted noise related the pursuant carnage.

“I can’t believe they fired on you, not after a white flag.”

“Pirate.” Under his mustache, his mouth took a grim curve. “Nothing so low should reap the benefits of anything so gentlemanly.”

“But you…”

He waved her away. “We did no different than every pirate from Bartholomew to Teach: took every shred of clothing. Clothes, tarpaulins, blankets, right down to the hammocks, the table napkins and the cook’s apron: we took anything and everything what could be possibly shifted to cover one’s ass.”

Nathan looked judiciously to the
Valor
’s shattered rigging. “’Course the sails remain, but that Number One duck will be blessedly rough on one’s bum.”

Cate recalled seeing the boats being loaded. “But you—?”

“Burned every stitch.” He proudly rocked on his heels. “Allowing the men their pick, of course.”

“Of course,” she muttered to herself.

“Unlike the aforementioned sea rogues, we left them a boat, dinghy, truth be told. They shan’t die of hunger or thirst, although sunburn will be a definite hazard,” he said, curbing a smile.

“Won’t they wash that off?”

Nathan looked with little remorse at the haloed skull and wings that had been painted on the
Valor
’s side, shockingly white against the deep blue hull. “I pity the poor sod what will have to hang his bare ass between the Devil and the deep blue sea to do so.”

Nathan shrugged as he turned away. “A week or so, and someone will come looking.”

“And Commodore Harte?”

He stopped and turned, his smile broadening. “Will be oh, so very annoyed.”

Whoops and hoots of celebration broke out as more men topped the gunwale, returning from the raid.

The celebration was on.

The
Ciara Morganse
was on the prowl again.

Chapter 7: Havens

I
f the sails were a ship’s heart, then the tar was the
Morganse
’s lifeblood. The black goo coated every inch of the standing rigging, the sun’s heat often causing it to drip in glob-like rain. In combination with oakum, it was tediously packed between every plank, literally keeping the ship afloat. Tarring, consequently, was a never-ending task, the smell of tar stoves, hot pitch, and loggerheads as prevalent as the sea itself. That same lifeblood, however, in swinging bucketfuls on lurching decks was a hazardous combination. Burns were commonplace.

On tarring days, Cate came to keep the stoneware jar of burn ointment and bandages in a basket at the ready. She knew the high-pitched scream unique to burns. Of all the injuries, she found burns to be the most difficult to face. Pirates were a stoic lot, but burns often pushed them beyond the pale. Her patient often gone white with pain, herself feeling a peculiar shade of green, she swallowed down the rising bile as she tweezed the raw, seeping flesh clean, applied salve, and then the wrapping.

One such day, she heard the familiar scream. Rising instantly, she grabbed the basket at her feet and followed the commotion to her next patient. He sat on the forecastle steps, hunched over his arm, rocking in silent agony. The offending tar had been yanked away, leaving an open, oozing blister nearly the size of her palm. With eyes only for the injury, she knelt to inspect, setting the basket next to her.

“I knew eventually I’d have you servin’ me on yer knees.”

She froze at the voice and looked up into Bullock’s scarred face. He saw her surprise and grinned insolently. She ducked her head, intensifying her focus, but could still feel his brooding glare. Resting his arm on his thigh, he didn’t extend it as much as he might, forcing her further between his knees. He groaned and swore, making a large show of his suffering, all the while leaning back, obliging her to come nearer yet. His breath blew hot on her neck. She inched away, but not far enough for comfort’s sake—at the taffrail would have been too close. From the corner of her eye, she saw the grimed fingers pluck a lock of her hair from on his leg.

“Hmm! Be yer quim the same color, darlin’?”

Cate tried to rise, but was stopped by his foot on her skirt. He made no attempt to move it.

Bullock's comment had been uttered loudly enough so that there was no mistake, yet low enough for her ears alone. Glancing around, Cate saw that Bullock had timed the comment well. A burn was nothing new, this one too minor to draw comment. On a deck filled with men, they were alone.

She jerked her hair free of his grasp. Biting back several retorts, she prayed her hands to be steady, determined not to let the bastard think she was afraid of him. Still, she couldn’t meet his gaze and he knew it. Over the smell of tar and burned flesh was his reek, a combination of sweat and animal lust.

Bullock bent, his lips brushing the top of Cate's head. “The Cap’n thinks we’re over here a-exchangin’ love notes.”

She shook with the effort to not flinch, carefully measuring what it would take to land an elbow squarely in his crotch. Loath to cause a scene, she refused to play into his game, although she fancied an accidental slip of the tweezers, gouging the raw flesh.

Keeping her eyes fixed on her work, Cate strained to recall where she had last seen Nathan: on the quarterdeck, virtually the length of the ship away. Of course. Bullock wouldn’t have had the courage, else. It was a small blessing: Bullock was dangerous in more ways than one. A “goddamned, swivel-tongued, son-of-a-double-eyed Dutch whore,” as Pryce had called him, the man was the contagious type. His agitations could spread through a ship faster than wharf fever. Causing a scene, obligating Nathan to take action, could only fan the fires of dissention.

Giving the burn only a perfunctory cleaning—his arm could fester and fall off, for all she cared, the longer and more agonizing the process the better—she fumbled with the jar’s cork. She scooped out the mixture of tallow, wax, and sweet oil, and took great satisfaction at seeing him flinch when she touched the raw flesh, admittedly rougher than might have been required.

Bullock gave a lewd smirk. “A man can’t help but wonder what it would be for those hands to be a-greasin’ his cock.”

Cate lurched backward, ignoring the sound of her skirt giving way as she stumbled to her feet. The jar crashed to the deck. The hands nearest paused, looking interestedly on as she backed away, rigid. She kicked the cork from the shattered crockery and splattered ointment, hitting Bullock in the shin. Smiling, he regarded her with the cold eyes of a shark, his leering chuckle echoing behind her as she stalked away.

Cate's path aft intersected Nathan’s as he came forward. She sought to brush past him, but he seized her by the arm, his countenance dark with concern.

“Did he…?” Nathan eyed her skirt and the section of torn waistband.

“No.” Cate jerked away, continuing to the cabin.

“But I saw—” Nathan said, close on her heels.

“No!” she shot back over her shoulder.

“But you look—”

Cate whirled around, balling her fists. “No!”

She spun away and headed for the cabin. Nathan gave chase, but pulled up short when she ducked through the curtain. The shadow underneath the velvet’s hem revealed that he lingered. He exhaled loudly enough to make his displeasure evident. In her sliver of privacy, she gave way to a mute tantrum, grunting with the effort of pitching the pillow at the bulkhead again and again.

“Are you well?” came Nathan’s voice through the curtain.

“I’m fine,” she said between ragged gasps.

There was a fair pause. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m fine,” Cate said with far more anger than intended. She took a deep breath, collected herself, and said in careful measure, “I’m…fine.”

She heard Nathan draw breath to say something, and then thought better. Grumbling darkly under his breath, she heard him stalk away. Hodder bellowing, “Swabbers!” blanketed his footsteps.

Once alone, Cate resumed her fit, swearing to herself colorfully enough to make a sailor proud and her mother appalled. Seething, she paced the tiny space. A part of her screamed that she should tell Nathan. An appealing thought, pictures of flogging and keel-hauling coming to mind. Her pride argued it would be too much like running to someone else to solve her problems.

Cate watched Bullock for several days after, unscathed and as brash as ever. With “No secrets on a ship” echoing in her head, she vacillated between hoping Nathan knew of Bullock’s comments and dreading that he did. If Nathan knew, then he might feel compelled to retaliate. That could lead to refueling the mutinous fires, stirring the burning pot called Bullock.

And so, Cate kept her counsel and lived more cautiously, conscious of not allowing herself in compromising situations: never in the company of just one crewman, never going below or to isolated corners of the ship alone. On a ship with over a hundred men, it wasn’t difficult. Living in such close quarters suddenly didn’t seem such a burden after all.

###

Besides care-giving, another responsibility was thrust upon Cate one day.

When the
Valor
’s stubbed masts had still pricked the line between water and sky, Mr. Cameron, hat in hand, had sidled closer.

He repeatedly cleared his throat. “’Cuse me, mum…sir!” The blunder prompted a more vigorous twisting of his hat.

He cleared his throat again, a tortuous sound. “Compliments, to ye, mum…sir! A word w’ ye?”

“Certainly, Mr. Cameron,” Cate said, mildly curious and a lot wary.

“Well, mum…sir!” Eyes downcast, Cameron's mouth moved in search of words. “I was recallin’, from before, when we wuz marchin’ to Stirling.”

…marchin’ to Stirling…
Caught unawares, the memories those few words brought was like a punch in the gut: freezing weather, hundreds of Highlanders, hungry, trudging toward a battle.

She could only manage a wheezing “Yes?”

“Ye can write, sir.” The simple observation was tinged with awe.

Cate blinked at the unexpected turn of subject. “Well, yes, I both read and write.” Aside from landed gentry, few women could. She had been taught only through her mother’s intransigence.

“I knew it!” Cameron beamed, then sobered. “Well, mum…
sir
, I recollected seein’ ye at the fires, writin’…for yer husband’s men.”