The Pirate Captain (55 page)

“Now she’s gone, but you are here, and I have resolved to seize this opportunity.” He hesitated, and then with a choked gasp, clutched her close. “My heart swells at the thought of the bravery and courage you’ve shown.”

Not the only thing swelling
.

Cate wriggled, trying to push away. Harte whispered something unintelligible, probably meant to be quite romantic, and then kissed her, so very chaste. Protesting against his mouth, she flailed. He was inexplicably encouraged and his arms around her tightened.

“Let ’er go, mate!”

His grasp firm, Harte straightened as Nathan stepped out of the shrubbery shadows and into the moonlight, pistol in hand. “Well, well, Nathanael Blackthorne.”

“Commodore.” Nathan sketched a mocking bow. Sobering, the pistol was brought more to bear. “Now, if you please, let ’er go.”

Harte’s arms still around Cate, the air between the two snapped with mutual hatred. “And if I refuse, do you propose to shoot me?”

“I might.”

The Commodore made a low sound that might have been a taunting laugh. “There are Marines everywhere. All I need do is shout.”

Nathan canted his head, considering. “Fair enough, I’ll be captured, but she’ll be dead.” He gestured with the pistol, his voice dropping to a menacing low. “Now, let ’er go.”

Harte gave Cate a sharp push, hurtling her at Nathan. Meant as a distraction, instead Nathan caught her smoothly, his eyes never leaving Harte. He swung her around, up against his chest and pressed the pistol to her jaw hard enough for her to yelp in pain.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harte sneered. His fists balled uselessly at his sides; in deference to Lady Bart’s hospitality, he wore no weapons.

Nathan chuckled. “Really, now? In that case, watch this next bit.”

“Na—” Cate began.

Nathan cut off her protest with another jab of the pistol, clacking her teeth together. “Shh, quiet. You’re coming with me, darling. As I recall it, we’ve unfinished business.”

Nathan nuzzled her neck and nudged his hips against hers. Harte’s expression darkened.

“You can have ’er when we’re done with ’er, mate. I bid you good e’en.”

The pistol firmly in place, Nathan backed away, taking her with him, the foliage closing in around them. Several more steps later, he pulled her around and gave her a solid shove.

“A path, just there. Go!” he hissed in her ear.

Cate hitched her skirts and ran, Nathan close behind. The shadows crisscrossing the path rendered it nigh impossible to see. Within a few strides, a shoe came off and she stumbled, going down hard on her knees. He jerked her back up onto her feet and propelled her forward.

“Marines! Marines!” cried Harte.

Footsteps and heavy crashing of several men could be heard converging on them.

Nathan pulled to a stop and looked back. “Keep going. The fatuous twosome is just ahead. Go.”

“But—?”

His fingers dug her shoulders as he spun her around. “Go!”

The urgency in his voice and the sound of oncoming footsteps spurred Cate away as he braced to meet their pursuers. From behind came the grunts and thuds of fighting. Then all was quiet, except the rasp of her breathing. The urge to go back was strong, but Nathan’s last words had been for her to run, and so she did as best as possible with the cumbersome skirts. At length, she broke out onto a road, but had no idea of which way to go. She was startled when two men popped from the bushes on the opposite side: Towers and Smalley. They motioned her across. She fell in between them as they sped away.

They kept up a rapid pace until at the beach once more. Pryce stood by the longboats, waiting like a protective father. Several more familiar faces loomed out of the night, coming up silently behind him.

“’Bout time ye’s got back,” Pryce barked without ceremony, then craned his neck to peer behind them. “Where be the Cap’n?”

“He fell behind,” Smalley reported.

“He said he would catch up,” Cate said, worriedly looking back.

Pryce eyed her in her finery, considerably now worse for wear, and then stared in the direction of town. Decision made, he seized her by the arm and propelled her toward the waiting boats. “Orders is orders, and ours is to clap on and ship ye directly.”

“But, Nathan—”

“If he’s a-comin’, then he’ll come. Otherwise…Else he’ll come when he might. It’s back to—”

“No!” Cate shrieked and yanked free. “I will not leave him!”

Pryce gave the benefit of a glare known to turn a subordinate to stone. “’Tis not to be a-leavin’, ’tis to be followin’ orders, just as—”

“I will not! You can’t make me.”

Brows arched, he said with menacing lowness, “Ah, but Mr. Cate, can and will.”

She sank back on her heels. Pryce could and would. She was a woman alone against a gang of pirates, looking particularly menacing in the dark just then. They could do anything they darn well wanted, and there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about it. Years of dealing with a stubborn-as-a-rock Highlander, however, had taught her the wisdom of alternative approaches.

“Isn’t there something in that precious Code or ship’s book or whatever, of yours that requires the crew to save their captain?” she asked of all of them.

An unexpected tack it was. The men rocked back, puzzling it out.

“Could…mebbe be.” Pryce cast a pensive gaze to where the
Morganse
laid at anchor, and then said under his breath, “Haven’t ever read all of it.”

“Sounds likely,” said Squidge, pondering.

“Not savin’ ’im could almost be seen as mutinying.” The import of Smalley’s point struck them all, and distasteful it was.

“If isn’t, it should be.” Cate waited and watched. “I say we make all efforts to preserve the Code and go get him.”

There was a quiet cheer in favor.

“You’ll not be a-goin’ anywhere,” Pryce said, grabbing her by the arm once more. “Yer goin’ aboard.”

Her victory plummeted to panic and the tears welled. “Allow me to at least stay…”

“Mr. Cate, by yer leave. The Cap’n desires ye aboard, and direct as direct orders could be.”

“I am safe. I have all of you around me,” she said, spreading her arms toward the circle of pirates. “If something happens, I promise to swim for the ship. How’s that?”

“Well…” Pryce ducked his head and kicked at the sand. “Aye, but if anythin’ wuz to happen—”

“I’ll make sure he knows it was my doing. He won’t shout at me near as much.”

Pryce made a caustic noise. “He wouldn’t dare.”

Chapter 9: Paths Cross

T
hey waited. The moon made a steady path, its shadows tracking an arc across the sand, and they waited. Cate paced, Pryce close behind, determined she was not to be out of his sight, and they waited. Several times she tried to persuade him to go find Nathan, but the First Mate was staunch in his determination to obey orders.

She grumbled loudly about men and their silly rules. She stalked the beach, kicking away her skirts, with the sounds of Nathan fighting the guards echoing in her head. She couldn’t rid herself of the vision of him lying in a pool of blood. She cursed men in general. Then she cursed men who insisted on being noble and trying to save others who could—if given enough time—have managed their escape on their own.

The prick of a pin in her ribs broke Cate’s thoughts. The half-hanging stomacher was yanked free and pitched, pins and all, into the darkness. She wished a moment’s privacy to rid herself of the underskirts and attend a more pressing matter brought on by copious amounts of wine. She veered toward the bushes. A glaring Pryce blocked her within a few steps, arms crossed and as imposing as Goliath.

“’N what be in yer head?”

“I need to…umm…” Cate made a vague gesture, and then gathered her poise. “I desire a bit of privacy which cannot be denied.”

She realized too late that Pryce suspected her of sneaking off, which she would have, had she thought of it.

“Yer word on it?”

Pryce saw her hesitation and the complete side of his mouth tucked up grimly. He put out a hand to his side with the authority of one accustomed to having subordinates always near, and said, “A length, if ye please.”

The rope was brought. Pryce knelt at her feet and looked up expectantly. Cate lifted her hem and watched with a sinking heart as he secured the rope around her ankle with one of those insufferable knots that she had never mastered and had no hope of undoing.

“I’m not a ruddy dog,” she said to the top of his head.

“Fair enough, ’cuz the Cap’n wouldn’t give a rat’s ass, if ’twas nay but that,” he said without looking up.

Cate pushed through the bushes, now mindful of not tangling the rope. When she was reeled back in, a pair of underpetticoats were strung on the tether, blazing bright in the darkness. As fearsome as the First Mate of the famed
Ciara Morganse
was, it was a wonder at how readily Pryce was discommoded by a few women’s underthings.

“You left me little choice,” she said evenly.

Her regained freedom was limited. Her pacing path was confined to short passes, Pryce never more than a stride or two away. At length, he blocked her path and sternly pointed to the sand at the base of a tree. She sat, reluctantly but without protest. He plopped down next to her, drew his knife from his back and set stropping it on his boot.

“Pryce, what is it between Nathan and Harte?”

Intent on his task, the destroyed mouth drew up into what might have been meant as a smile , not wholly surprised by the question.

“Ah, now there be a history, but ’tis likely a matter the Cap’n should be a-tellin’. ’Tis not my place to be a-sayin’. Can’t say as I’m familiar with all the particulars.”

“Ezekiel Pryce, you know more particulars than any man on this ship, including quite possibly Nathan himself. Pryce, please? I need to know. Otherwise, I’m left thinking I’m the cause of what’s between them.”

It was a categorical overstatement—she didn’t flatter herself that much—but it was her best ploy. Pryce snorted, whether in disbelief or at the outlandishness of her assumption being unclear. With a bit more prodding, he gave way.

“Not so sure as t’ how it all come to pass. ’Twas afore I was with ’im. It’s my notion the Cap’n was captured early on. Harte had ’im in the brig, a-headin’ for Fort Charles, when somehow or another the Cap’n contrived to escape. Blew the ship’s magazine, and then waved g’bye as he floated away on a hatch grate. Aye, he’s managed to escape the Commodore’s clutches three, mebbe four times.”

Pryce fell into a considering quiet. Cate tried not to stare at the damaged face, but it was blessedly difficult with it squarely before her.

“Harte chased the Cap’n through a storm the likes of which no man worth his three squares woulda dared. Led the entire Royal Fleet square into a royal disaster. They lost three ships, with a Butcher’s Bill longer than could be counted. Meanwhile, the Cap’n was a-ridin’ out the storm in Tortuga, with a bottle o’ rum and a whore on each hip…beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Pryce added hastily, swiping his hand across his mouth.

“I seen fer my own eyes, when the Cap’n delivered six street whores to the Commodore’s big birthday doin’s, promisin’ a hundred pieces of gold to the first one what could bring ’im off, beggin’ yer pardon again, sir,” he hastened to add again. Even in the poor light, a dark flush could be seen rising from his collar.

“There was the Commodore with his breeches undone and all his glory right for all to see, all six applyin’ every trick they knew!” he said, laughter fizzing through the exposed and broken teeth.

“I can tell ye plain—bore a hand, I did—in causin’ for a hogshead to be delivered to the Commodore’s ship. Just as it swung over, the thing busted open…” Pryce’s shoulders shook, tears of mirth welling in his eyes. “The Cap’n must o’ looked like Saint Patrick o’ the West Indies collectin’ up them snakes. They spilt out on deck…men runnin’ and screamin’, clambering up the mast and jumpin’ ship whether they could swim or no.”

The mirth overtook him. It took several minutes for him to recover sufficiently to continue. “A little piece o’ paper floated down congratulatin’ the Commodore on his genius on riddin’ the ship o’ rats, signed by the Cap’n.”

He paused to check the knife’s edge with his thumb, and then resumed honing.

“I’ll tell ye plain, to my way o’ thinkin,’” he began over the rasp of metal against leather. “The bitter end was when the Cap’n got the Commodore so arsey-farsey, he was a’firin’ on his own ships—sunk one, in the doin’—a-seekin’ to protect a town. Whilst the Commodore and his men were all a-roil, we slipped in, cleaned it out as easy as kiss yer hand, and then cut out the Commodore’s barge.”

“So, Harte blames Nathan for his setbacks?”

Pryce stopped to regard her through a squinted eye. “Ambition is a merciless master and, as black’s the white o’ my eye, Harte is its slave. The Cap’n has managed to break many a rung off Harte’s ladder to success. The good Commodore wuz set on bein’ Admiral-on-High by now, if it weren’t for Cap’n Nathanael Blackthorne.”

“That explains several things,” Cate murmured more to herself. Old rivalries and jealousies were a volatile mix. It went a long way to explain Nathan’s sudden touchiness.

“Could be part o’ the reason how Harte and Creswicke come to be so tight,” he said, looking off across the water. Lamps doused, the
Morganse
sat like a serene dark mistress awaiting the return of her lover.

“Mutual enemy?”

“In a manner o’ speakin’. Could be the Fates wuz a-bringin’ them together anyways, and the Cap’n just the happy convenience.”

Pryce checked the blade once more, and then experimentally scraped a patch of the several-day stubble on his cheek. Satisfied, he slipped the knife back into its place.

“Or, he’s managed to make two very devoted enemies,” she said, considering.

“Aye.” He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “There be that too. The Cap’n sure and certain has a way about ’im, in that regard.”

It put the kidnapping of Creswicke’s fiancée into a new light, going well beyond lust for money or adventure.

“And then I came along, right in the middle of it,” Cate sighed.