The Turncoat (46 page)
Authors: Donna Thorland
Tags: #Romance, #Fiction, #General Fiction, #Historical, #Revolutionary Period (1775-1800)
The man’s cabin was of a piece with his sailing. Merchant crews were allowed to dabble in private ventures, of course, as long as they did not consume space meant for the owner’s cargo. Normally that meant some small objects of high value, such as might fit in a sea chest. A conscientious captain did not cram his living quarters—which were his work quarters as well—with bolts of cloth and boxes of pepper. James had to resist the urge to sneeze after examining the chests.
If the prize court ruled the
Charming Sally
a legal capture, he would see a share of the pepper, the cloth, and the French molasses weighing down her hold. And when she was sold, or more likely bought into the service—Admiral Graves was desperate for seaworthy ships—James might see a share of that as well. Some captains had made fortunes patrolling the Massachusetts coast for smugglers.
But the gold was another matter entirely. It smacked of foreign intrigue, the kind the Admiralty wanted to keep quiet. The kind every officer in the ragtag North American squadron feared, because the Rebels had a thousand miles of tricky coastline and enough ships, if they found the money to arm them, to spit in the eye of the British Navy. Something the French, the Dutch and the Spanish—in that order—would enjoy seeing.
James returned to the deck. He counted sixteen American sailors, only two of them boys, formed up in a human chain from the hatch to starboard, heaving sacks of flint over the side under the watchful eye of a five-man marine detail.
“The chest is stowed in your cabin,” Graves reported.
“Very good, Mr. Graves. Take the boys on board the
Wasp
and return with a prize crew.”
Graves took a step toward the American boys, and every Yankee sailor on the crowded deck paused and tensed, all eyes fixed on those two small forms. The Americans were suddenly ready—as they had not been when boarded—to do violence.
James looked at the boys again. The smaller one was no more than eleven years old, the same age James had been when he’d unwillingly gone to sea. The youth’s fair hair was sun bleached, his skin deeply tanned, and his gray eyes wide with fear.
The older boy was taller, slimmer, perhaps as old as fifteen, but James could see nothing of his face beneath the broad-brimmed hat. The boy pivoted, sensing James’ scrutiny, and in one fluid movement pulled the younger child behind him. It was a protective gesture, and spoke of courage in the face of the enemy, but it had nothing of masculine bravado about it.
Because the older boy was no boy at all.
“Belay that, Mr. Graves.” James crossed the deck to confront the boy who was not a boy. Her face was still obscured beneath the hat. Her form, now that he was aware of her gender, was plainly feminine: wide hips, narrow waist, and fine bones in her slender wrists. Not an ordinary sailor’s trull either, to judge by the pale skin of her hands. And no one would bother with the precaution of disguising a trollop during an enemy boarding. Only a lady merited such treatment.
She looked up.
He was right. Fine skin, wide luminous eyes, and a dusting of freckles to complement hair much like the boy’s. Her disguise had been hasty. Pearl bobs still hung from her ears, and a fine gold chain circled her neck. She took a step back, out of his reach, barring his access to the child with her slim body.
“Your son?” he asked, but he knew as soon as he spoke that this could not be the case. She was too young. Twenty-five or six at the most.
“My brother,” she said. “He is a passenger.”
“The calluses on his hands say otherwise. I am very sorry, but the King’s ships must have men.”
“He is a child,” she said.
“Can you reef and hand?” He addressed the boy, who looked nervously up at his pretty sister.
“Every child on the North Shore can do as much,” she said. “I can reef, hand, and steer the
Sally
, but you’re not going to press me.”
She did not intend a flirtation. He knew that. She had none of the jaded sophistication of the Boston ladies he entertained himself with, but he could not resist a smile. “The thought is tempting.”
The girl paled, and he regretted the statement immediately. This was not a London drawing room, or even a Boston parlor. She was alone on a smuggler’s ship, with only a small boy to defend her, and his suggestion, in this context, must sound far from playful.
“Your brother,” he assured her, “will do well on the
Wasp
. It is a good ship, with,” he lied immoderately, “an excellent crew. We hardly ever resort to the cat.” That much was true. “You may come aboard to see for yourself, and we’ll get you safe to Boston, or wherever home might be.”
The girl narrowed her eyes and scrunched her nose. It was wildly unbecoming and charming all at once. So charming, he realized too late, that it was a signal. He heard a scuffle behind him. He did not turn to look, because she raised one slender arm and captured his full attention.
“I have a better idea,” she said, leveling her pistol at his head. “Order your lieutenant and marines off our ship.”
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