The Pirate Captain (65 page)

As politely as could be managed, she extracted her hand from his grip “You said you would come get us when it was safe,” she said hissed at Nathan as she sat.

Nathan batted his lashes in overt innocence. The bruising now faded to a purplish blue looked like kohl around his eyes. “Did I? Bloody insensible, that. Although, it might be said no woman is safe with Thomas about.”

Punctuated by a shift of the eyes, the comment carried an undercurrent of tension. Ducking her head, she looked up from under her brows to find Nathan, smile gone, one eye narrowed, watching Thomas watching her.

“Pray tell, how did you two come to know each other?” she asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.

Nathan smiled at that. “Thomas and I were mates years ago. About fifteen, were we not?”

“You were. You've always been the older one.”

“Not by that much!” Nathan said, puffed in mock indignation. “But, in addition, I also happened to be the wiser.”

“Aye, we were on the
Gryphon
—“

“No, no, ’twas the
Nautilus
first, then the
Gryphon
,” Nathan corrected.

They laughed knowingly, a private joke. Cate sensed it wasn’t a prudent time to inquire further.

Cate watched the two men for the next while, her brothers frequently coming to mind. As they recounted one escapade after another, they ricocheted from something akin to a competition, of who could weave the biggest lie about the other, to mellowed mutual admiration and lauding praises. On rarer moments, they sobered as reminisced about shared hardships and lost friends.

More cautiously, she watched Thomas. She had tried to imagine what Nathan’s friends might be like; Thomas was nothing like what she had expected. They were exact opposites: Thomas was tall, broad and fair. The dark blue eyes shining over broad cheekbones and the honey blond hair pulled back into a heavy tail gave him a Viking-like appearance. No woman would have been safe with this dashing pair in port. Possessing the same easy manner and dazzling smile as Nathan, Thomas wore his handsomeness as matter-of-factly as the brace of pistols crisscrossed at his waist, and the massive baldric, its dagger scabbard perched at his shoulder. The mat of golden chest hair at the opening of his shirt was marked by a diagonal scar. It was proof life had battered him as much as Nathan. Like Nathan, too, he talked with his hands, his blunt-tipped fingers punctuating his conversation rather than illustrating.

She looked down at her lap to find her fists clenched—painfully so—her knuckles gone white. She knew why, at the sight of Thomas, her heart had lurched and then sped, and cold prickles raced down her back. She also knew why she had paraded herself just a bit as she walked past him, and why she now sat teetering between cold dread and the urge to throw herself at him.

He looked just like Brian.

The sound of his laugh echoing down the beach had hit her in the chest like a fist. The eyes had been the next shock, the same dark blue to which she had lost her heart. The voice, deep and soft, resonated in her bones. Many similarities ended there. Brian’s hair had been the color of bronzed copper, his mouth wider, lips fuller. He had been slimmer built and had spoken with a soft Highlander lilt. Brian would have never leered at a woman the way Thomas just had, nor mentally undressed her as he kissed her hand. But the mannerisms, the smile…

Damn! It was him!

Nathan regarded her, sensing something amiss. Cate tried to rearrange her expression to something more common, but Nathan’s concerns weren’t appeased. Saying something could have broken the ice, but the only thing that came to mind was, “He looks like my dead husband.”

Unable to sit any longer, Cate lurched to her feet, both men jerking at her abruptness.

“I’m…I…er…” She searched the beach for an excuse, finally landing on a water bucket a short distance away. “I need to wash…Digging!” she declared, displaying her hands. “I’ve been digging and…”

She spun away, stalling in mid-step to execute a wobbling curtsey and mumble a barely intelligible nicety to Thomas. Then she scurried off, leaving the two somewhat slack-jawed.

“Wash?” she heard Thomas say in her wake. A disbelieving smirk edged his voice.

Nathan sighed indifferently. “From what we’ve been able to gather, ’tis a matter of women. Bloody perplexing; strikes without warning. All in all, ’ tis best left to lie.”

Once at the bucket, she was compelled to do something or look the complete liar. She bent to splash water in her face and found a pleasant surprise. It was filled with island water, sparkling and fresh compared to what she was accustomed to on board. Sluicing it again and again, it washed away not only the day’s sweat and grime, but the light-headedness that had seized her since seeing Thomas. As she discreetly turned her back to use her hem as a towel, she discovered she was directly downwind from them. Apparently, there were no secrets on a beach either.

“She’s stunning,” Thomas was saying.

She kept her face to the rough linen of her skirt a little longer lest anyone see her reddening cheeks.

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed,” Nathan said, offhandedly.

Thomas laughed, a deep and infectious sound. “Either you’re blind or a goddamned liar, and a bad one at that.”

“She’s a…guest.”

Cate’s cheeks heated further with the sting of Nathan’s disinterest.

Thomas gave a derisive snort. “How long have you had her? Any chance of you might be tirin’ of her yet?”

“Hold your tongue, mate,” Nathan said, evenly. “She’s not that kind.”

“Oh, come now, Nathan. This is me, not some shave tail still on his mama’s tit.”

“I mean it,” Nathan warned, without malice. “She's a good league above us, better than anything either one of us could ever hope for.”

“Well, we can always dream, can't we?”

“I wouldn't dare,” Nathan said after an interval, so low-voiced she could barely hear. “I wouldn't dare.”

###

As evening threatened, the work details converged to deliver their bounties: basketfuls of crabs, turtles, oysters, and shellfish from the bay; nets of fish from the sea and river, and game, two pigs, and a goat. With the exception of the last, Kirkland used it all, along with cabbage, pickled vegetables, olives, and spices from the ship’s stores to make a stew of sorts.

The
Griselle
’s cook was a man by the name of Youssef. Black-eyed, solemn, he was as territorially intransigent as Kirkland when it came to his galley. Given the language differences, it required the negotiating skills of both captains and a second cooking fire a designated distance away before armistice could be achieved. At his fire, Youssef jealously oversaw his own version of stew, a more pungently spiced version, enhanced generously with garlic, wine, and rice. Hermione blithely grazed while a wild cousin turned on a spit next to a brace of pigs.

As the purple hill shadows replaced the sun’s brilliant yellows, pot lids were clanged to beckon one and all. Cate sat against stacks of bagged coconuts, with Nathan barefoot at her knee, wielding a small mallet. Several lobsters had been thrown on the coals, and now he sat with a board across his lap, cracking shells. Swearing each time a finger was hit, he doggedly refused suggestions that his rum intake might have influenced his accuracy. Amid the merriment, interjecting his own embellishments to any story being told, he dredged fingerfuls of meat through melted butter and fed them to Cate. Chin dripping, eyes rolled in delight, she insisted several times she couldn’t take another bite, but couldn’t resist the elegant, slippery fingers stuffing the morsels between her lips.

Hunger sated, the sea rovers fragmented into smaller, more intimate gatherings, their fires dotting the shore like amber jewels. The
Griselle
’s crew brought an exotic texture to the gathering, most of her people hailing from African or Asian ports. As their music drifted on the evening breeze, the different strains melded into a multi-cultural, somewhat off-key refrain. Pirates they might have been, but first and foremost they were men, and engaged in what men did best: drink, smoke, tell insufferably unlikely stories of outlandish bygone deeds, recount legends, myths, and folk tales, sing raucous songs, and tell ribald jokes, salting it all with a heavy dose of laughter.

Glowing with spiced rum—another of Youssef’s specialties—Cate reclined against the bags in pleasant agony. His culinary task complete, Nathan joined Thomas in entertaining everyone around the fire with the chronicles of their adventures. Launching to their feet, they performed recreations, cavorting and pirouetting to the delight of everyone. Nathan was mesmerizing. With an audience at his feet, he was in his glory. Animated hands and exuberant expressions, flashing teeth and devilish eyes, he shamelessly told story after story. The two personalities created a whole, one beginning a sentence, the other finishing. Imitating each other to perfection, they jeered and jested at the other’s expense. It was friendship at its purest, and a grand sight it was.

Men filtered from their fire, until only Nathan and Thomas remained. Nathan’s guard slowly lowered, and became someone Cate thought might be the closest to the real Nathan, the one kept so meticulously enshrouded. He glanced at her frequently, his self-consciousness outweighing his curiosity. It was another aspect rarely revealed: vulnerability, uncertain if she would accept him for what he was rather than what he appeared to be, asking with a faint smile or a twitch of the eye, “Is it too distasteful? Too disappointing? Too ordinary?”

After the initial shock, Cate grew accustomed to Thomas, and was able to focus on the innumerable differences, while striving to convince herself he was nothing like Brian. Thomas’s eyebrows were a little heavier, his nose a bit longer, his fingers a little thicker. The bones that stuck out at the sides of his wrists weren’t as pronounced, and his two front teeth were squarer. Brian’s voice had been softer; Thomas’ possessed the deep resonance that came with such a large chest. Still, it was a constant battle not to let down her guard. Cate was subject to minor shocks: a lurch of the heart triggered by a sound, a glimpse, or a word, and the flush of need would surge through her once again. She focused on the ways Thomas was different, but her heart clung to all the similarities.

At one point, they were distracted by a commotion a short distance away, a fight erupting.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Cate asked. She watched over her shoulder with growing concern as the confrontation between the two exploded into a brawl of over a dozen.

Thomas only lifted his head from his reclined position to observe. “Yours, I think.”

“Aye, so it would seem,” Nathan said disinterestedly. “Hold off. Those two what just jumped in are yours. No,” he said, directed to her inquiry. “Pirates.”

The single word was offered as an all-encompassing explanation. Still, as uninterested both men posed to be, they suffered that male characteristic of being unable to tear their eyes from a fight.

“If we were aboard, I’d be obliged to put them ashore and settle it there. Saves time all around, I’d say,” Nathan explained.

He glanced toward Thomas for affirmation, who readily concurred.

“Only a fool would wade into that,” Thomas added with conviction and took a drink.

As one would imagine, a pirate fistfight was a nasty, brutal affair and not limited to fists. In point of fact, anything that came within reach was employed, the combatants bludgeoning each other with everything from buckets to sticks of blazing firewood. Distance spared Cate the full visual effect of the damage inflicted, but she could still hear the meaty smacks, the crunch of bone, and pain-laden grunts.

“Maybe I should go see if anyone needs help,” she said.

“Not bloody likely!” Nathan and Thomas said in near unison, with a glare that pinned her in her place.

As predicted, such combat could be sustained for a brief period of time. The fighting stopped with the same suddenness as it had begun. It ended with handshakes, brotherly pats on the back, and toasting each other through broken teeth and spitting blood.

“So, tell me, Nathan,” Thomas said from across the fire during a lull. “Just what exactly are you doing here? How did you just happen to be anchored at the Straits?”

“We needed water and firewood and—”

“No, no, no!” Thomas waggled a finger. “Let’s cut the bull. This is no water and wood stop. You're up to something. What is it?”

Nathan glanced to Cate, and then leaned back on his elbows. Crossing his ankles, the tips of his braids sketched random patterns in the sand behind him.

“Always the nosy one, weren’t you?” Nathan said with grudging good humor. “We are awaiting the arrival of a most important newcomer to the Caribbean. But, before arriving, said newcomer shall be visiting her aunt’s home in Hopetown.”

Thomas sat up with interest and loosely draped his arms on bent knees. “Really?”

“Said newcomer,” Nathan went on, situating himself more comfortably, “arriving from Boston, is betrothed to one of the finest and most upstanding members of these waters.”

“And since she's coming from Boston, she would just happen to pass through the Straits. And, by some miracle of happenstance, the
Ciara Morganse
will just happen to be there exactly at the same time.”

“Exactly!” Nathan declared, jabbing a victorious finger skyward.

The firelight sparked on the amusement in Thomas’ eyes. “And to whom, pray tell, is this lovely creature betrothed?”

“Lord Breaston Creswicke.”

Thomas’ smile fell, the blue eyes sharpening. “Nathan, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.” Nathan returned a level gaze across the flames.

“Well,” Thomas conceded, chuckling softly. “You never were afraid to ram the stick in the hornet’s nest.”

Thomas’s amiability faded as he studied Nathan over the flames. The shadows on his features sharpened, making him more like a marauding Viking. The backdrop of music had diminished by that hour. The low whine of a distant fiddle and the chortle of a hornpipe filled the long silence.