The Siren's Song (7 page)

If he were to believe her, and she once sang for high society, why did she work her talents in a tawdry tavern? How did an elegant lady like her wind up stowed away in the filth of a bilge? What could have her running scared that she would risk her life so carelessly? He was curious, but he had his own demons to slay. He had no room to contemplate hers. No. ’Twas better not to know what torments haunted her.

He took a long pull from the bottle, still staring at the door Gilly had slammed shut. She may have played coy, may have meant it when she said she didn’t invite his advances. But she lied about not enjoying his touch. Oh yes, the lass lied. Her quickened breaths and the way she relaxed under his careful strokes and alleged otherwise. A war raged across her features even as she declared no.

But alas, he had grown weary, weary of the bantering game she played. He was unwilling to share the rest of his evening if she was unwilling to warm his bed.
Come now, Drake, aren’t you as guilty as she for deceptive pursuits?

His demons called now that he sat alone and he greeted them as he always had. He swallowed half the bottle of rum, wiped his wet lips with his sleeve and slouched down in his chair. He waited, waited for the dizziness to abate and the liquor to dilute his body. His heartbeat slowed as the rum replaced his blood. Distant sounds crept out of the shadowy realms of his mind. Horse hooves stamped the dry ground. Dust swirled around its legs. A sword scraped across its metal scabbard. Drake could still make out the distinguishable cries from the dying. He swallowed the remaining rum to dull the memories he wished to forget.

One more drink should do.

He rose, unsteady on his feet. Making his way around the room, he extinguished all the lanterns with the exception of one. He removed it from its hook and plucked another bottle from his treasure of spirits. Rounding the desk, he set the items on top, removed his shirt and opened a window. Burnt drafts fanned over his face. The murmur of the sea whispered becalming lullabies. With ballads, booze and a fair maiden to dream of, he may get sleep this night.

Drake twisted down a bent nail from the pane and hung the flickering lantern from its crook.

“Here’s to bloody fools.” He raised his bottle, reciting his favorite overture to the powers that be. “May the light lead you to the reefs and your fortune be mine.”

A last swill of the rum and he sank down onto his bed, kicked off his boots and closed out the light with the heavy black curtain. He draped his arm over his eyes and a vision of a blonde, angelic songbird materialized then slowly faded away.

* * *

Blast! What was that rapping sound? There it was again. Drake moaned. He had indeed fallen asleep, for how long, he did not know, and now someone knocked at his door.

“Shove off!” he snapped.

“Captain. The
Alligator
has dropped anchor on our larboard.”

“Lynch.” Drake ground out the Bahamian conch’s name through clench teeth. “Sonofabitch.”

He flung open his curtain. Night’s shroud still cloaked the dawn. He took the lantern from the window and peered up into star-studded sky. Morning winds had not yet begun to push across the horizon ahead of first light. The world outside lay asleep.

“Enter.”

Valeryn walked in and handed Drake a mug. “Your tea.”

“Obliged.” He sank in his chair and sipped the hot drink. Its warmth coated his dry mouth and satisfied his thirst. The herbal aroma awakened his senses.

“You look like shit,” Valeryn said.

“You say that every morn.”

“Aye. This morning you look more haggard than usual. The lass keep you entertained last night?”

“Not the way a tavern girl should.”

Valeryn sat across from him and pulled out a pair of papayas and threw one to Drake.

“I’d not imagine her to be a disappointment.” Valeryn bit into the fruit, wiping the juice from his chin. “Especially as fair as she.”

“Nay. Quite the opposite.” Drake rolled the ripe fruit around in his palm. The skin was smooth and pliant, and not unlike the bosom rounding over Gilly’s corset. How he wanted to taste her flesh. He sighed and placed the papaya on the table. “But the evening did not end with her trembling below me.”

“Too bad,” Valeryn said, chewing on another mouthful.

Drake couldn’t agree more. He scratched his head and rubbed his hand down his face. “What time is it?”

“Half a glass past four of the clock.” It was early, but with the
Alligator
on site, not early enough.

“Has Lynch sent a messenger?”

“Nay. Not yet.”

“He’s become a pain in my arse as of late. Bloody bastard’s pilfering our salvaging profits. He’ll want to put his divers in the water at first light. Take what’s left of the
Rowena.
”

“Shame you just don’t kill him, Drake.”

“And have a bounty on our heads?”

He glanced up at Valeryn and together they laughed. A hearty laugh was good for waking up his tired bones.

“The larger the bounty, the more worthwhile the pirate’s course,” Valeryn said.

“And the shorter the fuse,” Drake added. “Nay, it would hurt our profits to kill Lynch. He’s too well liked in New Providence and we’d sever our auction ties with the Bahamians.”

“So we get Sam in the water first.”

“Sam knows where those last chests lie. He has recovered goods from hulls with visibility black from foul water. I’ve no doubt he can bring them up without the benefit of light. If the sea is calm enough, we put him in before daybreak.”

“I’ll go wake him.”

Drake nodded and Valeryn took his leave.

A familiar ache ebbed and flowed behind his eyes and throbbed in his temples. He looked to the mug warming his palms. He had a fondness for tea, but not the way he did for his rum. Tea was like a magical salve, an antidote, to his debauchery. His tea and a bit of sweat, and Drake would be remedied from the ill-effects of too much liquor, if there were such a thing.

He finished off his mug and searched for his boots. He would be topside when Sam went into the water.

* * *

Gilly froze. Footsteps outside her door. She clutched her purse tighter to her chest. The hard bottles inside reminded her of how little laudanum she had left. After leaving the captain’s quarters, she came close to finishing them both off. It had been a miracle she had the discipline to ration herself since taking flight from Florida. She reminded herself to make the few spoonfuls she had left last until they arrived in Nassau. A beam of light broadened across the dark walls of her cabin. She dared not move, careful to keep her breathing steady so the unwelcome visitor would not presume she was awake. She prayed that whoever crossed the threshold was the captain. To be anyone else was unthinkable.

What if the captain came to her now? Would he ravish her with his kiss again? Would she stop him once more?

She had to stop thinking of the captain that way. She must remind herself of his cruelty. The harsh way he molested her. The crush of his hungry mouth. The heady way he made her feel with his roaming dexterous hands. His want, her need. Those moments scarcely left her thoughts since she laid her head down, tossing and turning in restless bouts of sleep.

The light retreated with the closing of the door and the soft click echoed in the silence. No one had entered. She sighed. Just as well.

* * *

Sam and two other tars secured the sodden chest. He looked up to Drake and let him know the box was ready with a thumbs up. Drake tightened his grip on the rope. He signaled the command to the men behind him also holding the line. “Heave!” They tugged, the pulley jerked, and the wooden beam creaked under the load’s weight. Steady and swift, the crate came into view. Drake grabbed a fixed line and pulled it onto the deck.

“See about recovering any exposed copper sheathings or iron plates,” he called down to Sam.

The sun had crested the horizon, but already sweat covered his body. The crates were heavy and unwieldy, making the job laborious. Once the first chest was on board, he had insisted on doing the bulk work—prying it open, helping inventory the goods, and then loading the crate into the hold.

The undertaking cleared his head. ’Twas good, he bled out the rest of last night’s rum. The beauty of becoming sober was in the task of getting drunk again.

Willie marched up next to Drake as he worked the crow into the chest’s seam.

“The conch is askin’ for ya.”

Drake took a rag from his pocket and wiped his brow. “He’s late,” he said. Handing Valeryn the tool, he picked up his pistol and shoved it in his waistband. He strolled to the rail with Willie alongside. Below, Jonah Lynch stood in a longboat, his boot propped on its bow.

“Mornin’ to ye, Captain Drake.” Lynch tipped his hat. “Permission to board.”

“Granted. Throw him a ladder, Willie.”

The portly man had no trouble scaling the ladder, but he sounded like a snuffling hog swinging over the railing. Another fellow, the conch’s strong arm, followed.

“What do I owe the pleasure, Captain Lynch?”

The conch yanked down his dark blue jacket that had inched up over his rotund belly in his climb. The buttons strained against their confines and it crossed Drake’s mind that any moment they could become deadly projectiles. Someone might lose an eye.

“Our occupation brings us crossing paths frequently, does it not, lad?”

“’Tis an unfortunate fact, I’m afraid.”

Lynch eyed him beneath bushy eyebrows the same shade of coppery red as his hair peeking beneath his hat. He fished a clay pipe from the inside of his jacket and stuck it in his teeth.

“The ship, she had to be burned, did she…” pulling out his tinder box, he struck a spunk, lit the tobacco and puffed on his pipe to get a burn, “…for her cargo?”

“Aye. She couldn’t be saved.” Blunt was the best strategy with any man who angled for advantages.

He replaced the box back in his coat and gave it a pat. “That so?”

“Aye.”

Most men smoked a pipe for enjoyment. Not Lynch. The paddy puffed, sucking in his paunchy, whiskered cheeks, to give an appearance, an illusion to be sure, of a wise and important man.

“My men can help ya with the rest of the salvage.”

“Your generosity is ever kind, but as you can see, she’s been picked clean.”

Smoke curled up from the pipe hanging from his lips, causing Lynch to squint. “Mayhap ya need another wrecker to help bring in the cargo.”

“Your persistence is admirable.” Drake crossed his arms.

“Free up space in your hold for another salvage.”

“Do you wish to say something, Lynch? Speak up plain.”

“Aye. I do.” He removed the pipe from his mouth. “How is it the
Rissa
is always first at a wreck this side of Cape Florida?”

“Fortune smiles upon us.”

“Nay, not likely. Methinks something else is at work here. Something more…deliberate.”

“Mind yourself, Lynch. Of all captains scouring the Keys, I would never have pegged you for one so foolhardy to rattle off accusations.”

Lynch’s crony tensed and rested his hand on his pistol. The poor sap would be wise to ease off.

“No accusations, only truths. Talk is ships are lured by a single light before running aground. By the grace of God, Captain Drake and his mangy crew appear and are duly serviceable. But ya not the Almighty Lord’s design, are ya, lad? Trickery is a parasitic pirate’s game.”

Drake would stand for no more insults. He pulled his pistol on Lynch. The conch’s mate pointed his pistol at Drake. And Willie, too, pulled his piece, pointing it at the lackey.

“None of your slurs for me, Jonah.”

Lynch pursed his lips tight on the pipe’s stem. His stare narrowed.

“The
Rissa
has done no wrongdoing,” Drake said. “Me and the boys are making an honest living off the sea’s bounty.”

“Bounty, ya say.” He smacked his bristled chops. “Humanity be damned.”

“Ha! We’re not trolling the coasts for the sake of humanity. I daresay, neither are you. Our business is to know the dangers of these waters. Not to keep ships from them. We, just as you, Lynch, are out here for gain.”

“Is it humanity you seek from these men?”

Drake clenched his jaw at the feminine voice. What the devil was she doing out of her cabin?

“No lives were lost.” Gilly whisked in to stand among the draw. Lavender mingled with the sea breeze before the stout stench of tobacco smothered it out. She was like a pink flower in the midst of sea urchins, delicate and poised and naive to the dangers surrounding her. Drake lowered his gun, but Willie kept his sighted on Lynch’s mate.

“Stow ya pistol, Jamison,” Lynch said.

Only when the man complied, albeit slowly, did Willie lower his.

“The
Rowena
was sinking,” Gilly said. “Men surely would have perished if not for the bravery of this crew. Why, Captain Drake, himself, dove into the raging sea to save me from drowning.”

Drake groaned inwardly. She made him out to be some kind of hero. His kind were not heroes.

“Well now, lassie, indeed that was mighty charitable of the captain.” Lynch reached out keenly for her hand. He took an interminable notice of the purple purse hanging from her wrist. “And who are you, dearie?”

She hesitated to answer and passed a glance to Drake. Had he not a sheer dislike for Lynch, he might let her squirm her way out of the introduction.

“She’s a passenger aboard the
Rissa,
” he said. “One who should be in her quarters.”

Lynch’s smile reached the crow’s feet of his deceitful eyes. “When the mornin’ sun shines on a beautiful woman, a man’s heart is gay like the lilt of Irish laughter. As mine eyes gaze upon you, the laughter is everlasting. Surely this striking maiden has a name.”

She brightened at his compliment and granted him a curtsy. “Gillian McCoy, sir.”

“Ah.” Lynch appreciatively nodded. “An Irish lass.”

“My father was Irish, yes.”

This was no social party. The pleasantries would end, now.

“You’ve made a serious claim, Lynch, and have disrespected me. Unless you want to take this disagreement to a final conclusion, you should be off my ship.”