The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 13: What Friends Are For

It was late afternoon by the time Cate and Nathan returned to the shore, the sun a torrid globe a hand’s breadth above the island’s jagged backbone.

Much had changed in their absence. The pirates were striking camp.

With the fresh water casks filled, firewood loaded and the galley beams hanging with fresh game, the two ships collected their crews like mother hens calling back their chicks. It was a slow process, men and provisions incrementally returning in longboats and makeshift barges.

The Morganse’s decks were astir with stores to be loaded, and with what Nathan explained as exchanging her Number One anchor for kedges, lighter and therefore more readily retrieved, a significant advantage for a ship lying in wait. The Grisellers operated under the pressure of time: if they were to keep to their Captain’s plan, it was necessary for them to win her anchors, clear the bay, cross the Straits and settle to lie in wait while there was still enough light. Even in Arabic, there was no mistaking the bawl of her boatswain and his mates, urging the men to their tasks.

Cate bore a hand with packing stores and loading boats. In between, she sat on a storm-cut ledge of sand, blotting the sweat from her face. Nathan and Thomas stood at the water’s edge, arms crossed, intermittently interrupting their conversation to bark orders. Aided by the breeze, they were near enough that she could hear them detailing their attack plan, spoken in a tongue known only to mariners. It was a fascination how two men could communicate so much with so few words. A nod, a grunt, a shrug, a lift of two fingers, not to be confused with that of three, and volumes were spoken.

Business complete, Nathan dropped cross-legged in the sand next to her.

“We’ll hold off until the last boat. I thought you might desire to remain ashore as long as possible.”

“Firm ground has felt wonderful.” Cate leaned to add in a lower voice, “But hot water felt even better.”

Nathan ducked his head, grinning shyly. “’Tis pleasing to hear.”

“You think the ship will pass so soon?”

He surveyed the offing with a one-eyed squint. “Aye. A premonition, but a strong one.”

“Then what?”

He pursed his lips and counted off on his long, ring-laden fingers: “Deliver the ransom note, arrangement for an exchange and hide the hostage until said exchange.”

Cate winced at the word “hostage.” She had been—and for all that matter, could still be—a hostage. It was an uncomfortable word, with connotations she was disinclined to explore.

“Will Creswicke pay?” The mere mention of the man’s name gave her a sense of creeping evil.

“Oh, aye,” Nathan said with emphatic satisfaction. His arms came to rest his on bent knees. “He’ll pay, if for no other than the simple reason he can’t bear the thought of telling anyone she was taken, let alone taken by me.”

“What will he do then? I mean, after he’s gotten her back?”

His chuckle was heavily tinged with anticipation. “Everything in his power to catch us…catch me, that is.”

Nathan shook his head and smiled crookedly. “I pity anyone around him for the next while. He’s going to be insufferably insufferable. And he’ll do everything in his power to wreak his revenge.”

“On you?”

“Who else?” He spread his arms in a prideful display, more like a boy bragging on toppling the neighbor’s privy.

“You don’t like each other, do you?”

“Not much,” Nathan said indifferently. “One does have to admire a dedicated enemy.”

“Thomas told me some of it,” Cate said carefully, worried of possibly breaking a confidence.

Nathan twisted around. One brow arched in derision “He did, now? Rotting ol’ looby never could keep a stopper on his gob. Not as smart as he thinks his is, however.”

She waited. The lilt in his voice suggested there was indeed far more.

“There’s more?” she eventually prompted.

He squirmed, leaning away. “’Tis nothing. Trifles. Inconsequential indiscretions.”

“Apparently not, at least in Creswicke’s mind.” Cate inclined her head into his line of sight. “What did you do, Nathan?”

He twitched, fingers drumming a tattoo on his leg.

“Nathan, what happened?”

He shifted on his rear. Clearing his throat, he gave a wobbling smile. “Well…I might…just possibly,” he clarified, holding up a cautionary finger, “may have…” His voice faded; his throat moving as he gulped. “I may have bedded his mother,” he finally blurted.

Her mouth fell unbecomingly open. “What?” Cate cried with a force that caused several of the men to turn and look.

“How was I supposed to know?” he said, sounding even more like that privy-tipping schoolboy.

Stricken speechless, her mouth moved like a fish for air. “The name would have been a hint.”

“All I knew was Lady Arthur, or Anthony, or one of those ‘A’ names. Bloody royals and their pompous falderal!”

For all his amatory escapades—which were legion, to be sure—this one seemed particularly insidious, perhaps due only to the severity of its consequences. She had never thought of him capable of being that scheming and insensitive. Inconsequential, indeed.

“Nathan, how could you?”

“Allow me to point out, in me own defense, that she never said. I had no idea who she was, so it didn’t count, not really. There is something to be said about the older ones,” he sighed wistfully.

“Apparently it counted to Creswicke. No wonder he was so angry. Obviously he found out. Did he catch you?”

“Not that time.”

“There’s more?” Her jaws were beginning to ache.

“Very well, if you must.” Nathan heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I bedded his sister.”

Cate groaned and slapped her forehead.

“Lovely, plump little thing she was, fair of hair and blue-eyed,” he said with a blissful lilt. He sobered, his jaw twisting aside. “At least, I think that was her.”

“Why am I hoping that you’re lying?” she said into her hands.

“As God is me witness,” he intoned, extending a palm to the sky.

“Somehow I don’t think He would care to witness this. Was this before or after Creswicke’s mother?”

“After. Decidedly and most certainly, after.”

Cate arched her eyebrows expectantly, while Nathan examined his fingernails with great intent.

“Fight ensued,” he finally relented. “I emerged victorious, of course.”

“A fight? A sword fight?” The initial shock waning, she was beginning to follow his train of thought—a convoluted and dizzying ride, to be sure.

“Had to defend me honor.”

“Your honor. What about the sister’s?”

His pride deflated at that. “Turned out she was working her way through the alphabet of Company captains. The perverse wench started at Z; the B’s came at the last.”

Cate braced her head in her hands and groaned again. “So that’s why Creswicke hates you so much.”

“Could be…part of it…maybe.”

She gave him a narrow look. “There’s more?”

He hesitated, then a slow smile grew. “During the fight, I may have wounded…nicked him.” Illustrating with two barely parted fingers, he wrinkled his nose. “Just a bit.”

“May have?”

“Certainly was a lot of blood.”

“Where…?” She stopped, afraid to hear the answer, yet driven to ask. “Where was he injured?”

Nathan waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “All I’ll say, is it was a hell of a place to be wounded. Ah, they're ready,” he said, returning a beckoning wave to the hands standing at a boat.

He rose lightly. Dusting his bottom, he handed her up. “C'mon, luv.”

Thomas stood at the water’s edge, overseeing the last boatload to the Griselle. “You’ve got a bit of a problem, Nathan,” he declared, splashing toward them. “Your last boat barely has room for one. You go on, n’ I'll toss Cate in mine, drop ’er off as we pass.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Nathan already had Cate by the arm, and was pushing her toward the Morganse’s boat. “We’ve plenty of room.”

“Nonsense.” Thomas seized Cate by the other arm and pulled her back. “Look, the bloody thing is near to the gun’ls now. Be damned embarrassing to founder right here in the bay. Certainly you don’t mean to take her to the bottom?”

Nathan frowned; Thomas gave him a friendly shove, urging him on.

“Go on. Go on. Don’t be such an old grandmother. At the rate your men row, she’ll be handing you aboard. Now, go!”

Casting a wary look over his shoulder, Nathan waded to the boat and adroitly stepped in. Thomas and his men heaved heartily to set the craft on its way. Nathan stood at the prow, waving a two-fingered farewell, eloquent with trepidation.

“Stretch out! Stretch out, there, I say!” in Nathan’s gruff-voice carried easily on the breeze.

Shielding her eyes against the lowering sun, Cate watched the boat pulled across to the Morganse, squinting in order to see the men clamor up the black hull. Nathan was easy to spot, hand-over-handing it up a manrope. Once aboard, he stood amidships and waved. She waved back.

“Have they stowed the boats yet?” Thomas asked, coming up next to her. He didn’t wait for an answer, seeing for himself they still laid alongside. “Very well. Call out when they have.”

He walked away, leaving Cate to stare curiously after him.

The Morganse’s boats—longboats, gigs, dinghys and such—were commonly left afloat. If stowed aboard, they tended to dry out in the tropical sun, causing them to leak, or leak worse, that is. Cate was yet to see one with a dry floor. And so, the boats were rigged to trail like ducklings on a string at the Morganse’s stern. As the last was being secured, Thomas came from behind and scooped Cate up with startling swiftness. Carrying her in his arms, he splashed through the surf to set her down in the Griselle’s boat.

“C’mon, lovely,” he declared, stepping in beside her. “Let’s get you home.”

Pushing off, the oarsmen settled to their task, pulling in strong even strokes. His leg snug against hers, Thomas sat hunched forward, elbows on his thighs.

He chuckled in eager anticipation. “You watch Ol’ Nathan. He's going to have kittens.”

She was about to inquire, but his plan suddenly became obvious: they were not heading for the Morganse, but the Griselle, instead. Thomas’s laugh grew in direct proportion to her alarm.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“We're getting his attention. Don’t worry, lovely, you’re safe. It’s just that he won’t know that, will he?”

“You lied.”

“Being ’round Nathan this long, I expect you are accustomed to that,” he said, grinning.

“I told you I didn’t want to play juvenile games,” Cate hissed.

His laugh boomed across the water. “He needs a little wake-up call, that’s all. Nathan has never been canny about what he wants. We'll just give him a little shove. I feel like a bloody goddamned Cupid!”

Thomas gave her knee a fatherly pat. “Stick with me, lovely.”

“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, attempting to squirm clear of his reach.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, spewing with mirth. “Yell a bit louder, so he can hear you.”

“Go to bloody hell!”

Thomas drew away in mock fear. “Ho-ho! Outspoken lass, aren't you? I’m beginning to understand what Nathan sees in you.” Elbow on the gunwale, he looked away across the bay, thoroughly pleased with himself.

The boat latched onto the Griselle’s blue hull. Cate rose and tucked her skirt hem into her waistband. The bay’s one or two foot swell meant a difference of between two and three feet in locating her first step. As she reached for it—“timing it with the swell” as she had heard seemingly time out of mind—she privately cursed the nameless fool who decided women should wear skirts. Clearly, it had been a man, because no woman would ever make a decision so markedly impractical. Halfway up the side, a pair of strong arms came over the side and lifted her the rest of the way.

The Griselle’s decks swarmed with activity. The jibs and mizzen filling, the larboard anchor was already on its cathead. Understanding that she was about to go on an unexpected trip, she whirled around on Thomas.

“Where are you taking me?” Cate demanded.

“Stand easy. The point is, you’re not with him.”

“And the point of that?”

“The point of that is Nathan will be half out of his wits, wondering what’s happening to you over here. That little walk on the beach last night was just the beginning.” His grin—seemingly having taken permanent residence on his face—grew even further.

“So I’m just a piece in your little game?”

A burst of laughter broke from Thomas. “No, no. You’re the prize, my dear. You’re the prize.”

Nathan’s enraged shouts reached them. Cate drew a breath to reply, but was cut off by Thomas’s hand over her mouth.

“She’s fine, Nathan. See you in a couple days.”

The deck shifted under Cate’s feet as the ship gained headway. Over the shouts of the crew, she could hear Nathan’s vehement oaths as they slid past.

“That’s Nathan for you,” Thomas mused, leaning on the rail next to her. “Always did have the vocabulary and the imagination to be one of the best cursers ever heard.”

Cate wrapped her arms around herself and hunched her shoulders. “I don’t think I can bear to listen.”

She cast a wary eye up at Thomas, and considered she might have misjudged him. His jovial manner, his friendship with Nathan and, most of all, his resemblance to Brian had caused her to throw caution aside. She fancied herself a keen judge of men’s character and their motivations, and yet with Thomas, had dropped her defenses. Such carelessness could have dire consequences.

“Then don’t, or go below. It’s no matter. We’ll be out of hearing directly,” said Thomas.

Chuckling, Thomas strolled away. She felt the stares and the press of the unfamiliar men surrounding her. It hadn’t been that long ago that she had stood on the deck of another pirate ship, as much a stranger and captive then as she was now. At least, English had been spoken there. That the Griselle had spent most of her time on the other side of the world was revealed in the foreign tongues now heard. The afterdeck there was as crowded as the Morganse’s: afterguard, watchmen, helmsmen, and the like. It was because of Thomas’s presence—as incensed as she was with him—and the safety his nearness provided, that she remained.

Cate stood at the lee rail as the Griselle made weigh. There she could keep an eye fixed on the Morganse, and therefore, Nathan. At first, the Morganse’s red-dripped hull was in full view. When the Griselle rounded the headland, her view was reduced to only the Morganse’s spars and rigging. And then, as the Griselle plowed across the heavy swell of the Straits, nothing. The Morganse’s topmasts would have been visible, had they been swayed up, but those were on deck, her head still bowed.

The oddments of her bracelet clattering softly as Cate touched the decorative knot of her necklace. Nathan was with her; she wasn’t alone after all.

Crossing the Straits turned out to be the minor issue. Faced with the hazards of coral, rock, and sand, and a treacherous current, impending darkness lent urgency to the Griselle, her captain, and her crew in finding an anchorage where to lie in wait. Once his ship was secure, however, and the watch lamps were being lit, Thomas fetched Cate and escorted her to his cabin. Beneath the quarterdeck, the Griselle’s Great Cabin was smaller, but still spacious. It was cozier, with Turkish rugs jig-sawed on the floor, soft elbow chairs, pillows and hassocks. Stacks of books nestled against chair legs, on the gallery sill, chart table and a corner desk. The room spoke of a man who enjoyed his comforts, but not his excesses.

“Plan on sleeping over there,” Thomas said, waving a vague hand toward a curtained corner. “You’ll find the bunk and necessaries. If there is something you lack, pass the word for either me or the cabin boy. Where has that little snip skulked off to now?” he muttered, looking about. “Anyway, he’ll be around. Vittles should be directly. I hope you like Spanish and Moroccan; the cook’s from there, so that’s what we eat,” he finished, with a half-apologetic shrug.

Cate nodded vaguely. Spanish food was familiar; Moroccan was quite another thing.

They stood in the middle of the room, looking anywhere but at each other.

“I think a drink would answer,” Thomas said finally and strode purposefully to a leaded glass cabinet. Returning with bottle in hand, he saw her seated.

Thomas poured with hands as battered as Nathan’s. Some knuckles were slightly misshapen from bits being severed away. Like Nathan’s, several of his fingertips ended at odd angles. The backs of his hands and forearms bore a fine latticework of scars, light against his deep bronze. Judging by the scar on his right hand—starting between the second and third fingers and going up—it had been nearly cleaved in half. A miracle that he had its use, it bothered him, for he often flexed it.

The wine proved to be a heady one, a deep burgundy, complex with layers of oak, moss, and berry, and a spicy bouquet. The complaint against red wine was that it didn’t ship well, but this one had managed quite nicely. Cate closed her eyes with each swallow; it had been a very long time since she had enjoyed something so good.

They talked one bottle dry, and then another. The third disappeared somewhere during supper: a seafood stew, served over rice, and warm flatbread. After came dessert: a caramelized custard.

“I think they call it flan,” Thomas explained over his shoulder as he rummaged through the cabinet anew. “And, if I can find that port…hah!” he exclaimed, holding up a bottle in triumph. “Now the evening can begin.”

The meal finished, they reclined in the elbow chairs, with cups of Arabic coffee, thick and dark, and port. Cate couldn’t decide which she enjoyed more. Coffee was always a favorite, but the port was exquisite. Thomas lounged with his legs extended and ankles crossed on a hassock. Once more she was reminded of Brian and their nights before a fire.

Settling her head against the chair’s back, Cate lifted her glass. “Where did you say you got this?”

“Card game. The poor dumb bugger was so drunk he didn’t know a king from a trey. I could have taken his whole damn ship. I decided I desired the port more.”

Conversation came easy and they talked, the hour candle burning down through its rings, the omnipresent watch bells pealing. At one point, the demands of command called Thomas away. He reluctantly rose and excused himself.

Deep in the chair, with her feet propped up, Cate felt a pang of guilt for being so content in such luxury. It was only a small one, fleeting, barely more. Truth be told, she enjoyed the freedom from Nathan’s watchdoggedness. Thomas was proving to be a fascinating delight, sweeping her away with his exuding charm and infectious laughter. His openness was refreshing and the lake-blue eyes held promise of…

“Another refill?”

Startled, Cate jerked, the port sloshing onto her hand. She looked up to find Thomas at her knee, looking down with a lopsided grin.

She sat up to recompose. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Thomas took her glass, eyeing her as he filled it. “Daydreaming?”

“What would I be daydreaming about?” The room had suddenly gone warm.

He drew up the hassock and sat, his knees bumping hers. His elbows resting on the long line of his thighs, he meditatively rolled the bottle between his hands. Finally, he looked up and cocked his head slightly. “You don’t know very much about men, do you?”

“Excuse me? I had five brothers.”

“And I had four sisters. What bearing does that have on anything?” Thomas countered without malice. He fell quiet, the broad forehead furrowing.

“Years ago, I watched Nathan throw away happiness with both hands. Did he ever tell you about that? Maybe not. It’s not my place to say; you’ll have to hear that from him, if he wants you to know,” he added with a warning eye.

Cate stared, confused by this sudden cryptic manner. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then, ’tis of little matter,” he said, with a dismissive shift of his shoulders. “It was a very, very long time ago, and there has been a fair bit of water over the decks since. The fact is, as clever as Nathan might be, he’s never been particularly sharp on knowing what he wants. Most times, it takes someone else to show him. Sometimes, it requires a sharp blow to the head,” he added, with a distant smile.

Cate idly traced the rim of her glass. Cryptic as he was, Thomas’ aims were quite transparent and she was reluctant to be led down a path she had strictly not allowed herself to follow.

“But how do you know—?” she began with great trepidation.

“Haven’t you taken a good look at the man? He’s smitten. He’s like a love-sick puppy—”

“Nathan doesn’t—”

“As you said already,” Thomas interrupted, impatiently flapping a hand. “And as I said, he doesn’t always know what he wants.”

He hunched forward and peered into her face. “What do you want?”

She risked a peek from the corner of her eye. The candlelight played across the sharp ridge of his nose, flaring across his cheekbones, sparking in eyes that searched hers.

“Are you trying to bait me into saying something outrageously foolish, so you can go running to Nathan with it?”

The wide mouth curled at the corners and he coquettishly batted the thick fringe of lashes. “Now, why would I go and do a thing like that?”

“Because you’re friends,” Cate said meeting his teasing look with a level one. “And you want to protect him from a scheming woman.”

“If I thought that, I would have left you back there on that island. Is that what you think you are?”

She gave a tight smile. “What I think hardly matters.”

Sobering, Thomas propped his chin in his palm. He pensively stroked the scar that angled across his chest. “To my way of thinking, there’s only two involved in this venture: you and Nathan. From that perspective, what you have to say figures an even share. We know Nathan is on beam ends as to what he wants. I’m asking about you.”

“Maybe I’m just looking for adventure and fortune.”

“With Nathan?” Grasping his knees, Thomas leaned back and laughed. “That’s a good one!” he wheezed.

Dabbing one eye, he reached for his drink. “I’ll wager he still lives like a monk.”

Cate couldn’t prevent smiling at Thomas’s accuracy.

“If you claim to be looking for fortune, I’d call you a damned fool, because anyone what’s been around Nathan for more than a day would know he doesn’t give a damn for fortune,” Thomas went on. “Aye, he talks about it, but only to keep his ship and crew. Next, I’d call you a liar, and a bad one at that, because one look and any slab-sided dolt would see you don’t care two licks about fortune, either.”

Cate stiffened at the insult. A large hand came to rest on her arm.

“No, no, no, please,” Thomas said earnestly. “That’s not what I meant. You’re a beautiful woman, even in near tatters and a rope necklace. No money-grabber would settle for that. Nathan is generous to a fault. He’d give a swag pile, if a woman was to demand it, but it’s clear you haven’t.”

One eye narrowed as he regarded her. “I figure there’s only one reason you’re still on the Morganse, one reason you’re willing to endure that hardship.”

She dodged his all-knowing eyes, her grip tightening onto the glass.

“Nathan said there was nowhere safe enough to leave me,” she said in a small voice.

Thomas snorted. “And I’ll wake up the King of England tomorrow.”

“We’re friends.”

With the tip of his finger, he brought her by the chin back to him.

“Cate,” he began, with the measured patience. “There’s only one reason Nathan has you with him. You know it, and I know it, and every damned jack tar on that ship knows it, except Nathan.”

His finger moved to stroke her cheek, the blue look softening. “Now tell me, lovely, what do you want?”

Heart racing like a cornered rabbit, she took a barely-tasted gulp of port, in a futile search for courage. To engage in wild fantasies about what could or might be, was to pick at old wounds and served little purpose.

“What importance is it to you, anyway?” she asked, pulling away from his touch.

Thomas drew a breath to say something, then thought better. Blowing out a tired-sounding sigh, he took a drink. Rolling it in his mouth, he pensively studied the glass.

“Nathan’s a friend,” he began, carefully measuring each word. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had or hope to have. I haven’t seen him in years, but I know I can trust him and I think he trusts me.” He looked up, his eyes darkened with solemn earnestness. “It would do my heart good to see the man have a little dose of happiness. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I could have sworn you were just as taken with him as he is with you.”

Cate stared at her fingers as they twisted the fabric of her skirt. She slid a nervous look from the corner of her eye, deep blue intently meeting hers. She still felt the sting of mortification after Nathan’s cruel taunt the night before. Nathan didn’t want her. It had been made eloquently clear time and again.

Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, she said, “I don’t know if—”

“God’s teeth,” he exclaimed, rocking back. “You don’t know what you want either?”

Dropping his chin to his chest, he heaved an exasperated gasp. “’Pears as though you two were made for each other. Heaven help you both,” he finished, raising his hands in benediction.

Slapping his thigh, he rose. Emptying his glass in one gulp, he set it on the table with an empathic thump.

“Well, as I said, the bunk is over there. Don’t be shy, but if as you say, you’ve five brothers then you’ll know how a man lives and shan’t be shocked. I’ve the watch, so if you need me, just call out,” he said, waving vaguely toward the open skylight overhead. “Sleep well.”



###



Pryce rolled his eyes starward, while the Cap’n paced the quarterdeck. The Cap’n took an enraged swipe at the darkness, and in the general direction of where the Griselle laid, and demanded for the hundredth time, “What the f*cking hell is she doing over there?”

He slammed his hand on the rail and wheeled around. “Did he take her or was this her idea?”

“Don’t rightly know, Cap’n.” Pryce dared to glance about the decks for anyone or anything that might serve as a diversion or distraction, but the hands had scattered like the weak-livered cowards they were.

“What am I supposed to do?” the Cap’n demanded. A rhetorical question, Pryce considered. “I can’t just sail over there and get her.”

“You represented as he was a friend.”

“He is, but what the goddamned, bloody hell does that have to do with it?”

Growling in disgust, the Cap’n jerked an irritated hand and stomped abaft. Pryce slumped with relief leaned against the rail. The reprieve, however, was too short-lived. He inwardly groaned at the sound of the Cap’n’s approach. He knew the sound of that footstep, and the storm and thunder it promised.

“What am I to do?” Oddly, the Cap’n sounded almost desperate.

“Well,” Pryce began delicately. “D’ye trust her?”

“Trust? Her?” Puzzled—as if the word was altogether foreign—the Cap’n paused to consider. “Of course…but, not around him.”

The Cap’n absentmindedly rapped a tattoo on the rail, staring off into the night. “It’s just…I’m not sure she is aware trust is expected…here…now…exactly.”

His troubled scowl deepened. “She wanted to leave—said as much—and I thought I’d steered her clear, what with the way the men felt about her, and all, of course.”

“Of course,” Pryce said circumspectly. His mum raised no fools; he knew better than to argue the finer points of that convolution of the truth.

“’Pears to me yer facing the pirate conundrum: once ye’ve got yer treasure, then what’s to do?” Pryce ventured, once the Cap’n calmed sufficient.

Failing to grasp the point, the Cap’n frowned expectantly.

“Consider, Cap’n. What have we, and every member of the Brethren, spent our lives doin’, eh? Lookin’ for another man’s treasure. Think on it! We search and scrabble, raid, pillage, and plunder, lookin’ for the gold or silver what some other poor slob found and hid to keep it safe from the next pirate what seeks that same treasure. And as soon as he finds it, he’s trying to hide it from the next.”

The Cap’n’s mouth took a sharp downward curve. “So, you’re saying, immediately upon finding said treasure,” he began slowly, “you’re invariably and inevitably cursed to a life of maintaining and securing its safety?”

“Aye. And, so long as it be treasure, yer forever to be lookin’ over yer shoulder, a-worryin’ about who is comin’ to take it.”

“But, she’s not a chest of Spanish coins, she’s…oh, I see…”

Leaning on the rail, the Cap’n buried his face in his hands. He rubbed hard and groaned. “Seems I’m doomed before I begin. So where might I put said treasure?” he asked tiredly, peering through his fingers.

“Dunno, Cap’n,” Pryce sighed. “Some treasures be more difficult to hide than t’others.”



###



"Is that the ship?” asked Cate.

“Good chance.” Thomas lifted the spyglass to his eye. “She’s the look of a merchant and flying Company colors.”

The next day had broken brightly, Cate waking shortly after first light.

Thomas’s bunk had proven to be far more pleasant than anticipated. His appreciation for finer things extended to sheets, and feather mattress and pillows, as opposed to the canvas, oakum-stuffed one on the Morganse. It had smelled of him: a male mixture of musty and sharp. It wasn’t offensive, in fact quite the contrary. Sleep hadn’t been long a stranger.

Worried for what the day might bring, Cate had bounded out of bed. She paced under Thomas’s mocking eye as the watch bell marked off the hours. Just past mid-afternoon, legs aching and back burning from being on her feet for so long, she heard the lookouts hail.

Thomas stood watching then closed the glass. “Mr. Al-Nejem!”

An Arabic man large enough to dwarf Thomas in both height and breadth loomed forward. “Aye, sir?”

Thomas lifted his face to the wind, and then gave the surrounding water a final look. “Prepare to make way. Hands to the t’gall’nts ’n’ royals. And hoist the colors. Let’s make sure they can’t miss us.”

Touching his fingers to his chest, and then lips, the First Mate bowed and left. In a burst of what might have been Arabic, the Griselle flashed out her canvas. The sails bellied and the deck became alive under Cate’s feet. A rousing cheer erupted. The flap of something other than canvas drew Cate’s attention to the Griselle’s tops, where a black banner had been unfurled. This one bore a scarlet heart speared by a cutlass held by an unseen hand. Perhaps it was the infectiousness of the enthusiastic joy of the Grisellers, but the sight of it sent a surge of pride through here, which tightened her throat and quickened her heart.

Shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, Cate could see the approaching ship, running with the wind, by the look of her staysails and studdingsails—yes, Nathan was a thorough master. She was learning, slower than he would have preferred, but learning. The flag at its mainmast was the same as she had seen her first day aboard the Morganse, on the privateer Nightingale. Nathan had ordered it to be burned. Seeing the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company’s blue and white stripes, with the Union Jack for a canton, now carried a whole new meaning.

As the race of the water at the Griselle’s sides increased, Cate looked again across the Straits, and the island where the Morganse laid. She longed to know what was happening there, but the headland blocked any view.

“Well, they made us,” Thomas announced, the glass to his eye. “They just fell off.” He gave a satisfied smile as he lowered his arms. “Luckily, these Straits are wide enough; they can pass without raking us, which means we won’t have to fire, either.”

“So, they think the Griselle is after them?”

Thomas nodded. “For now. That’s why they’re hugging the far shore, which puts them right in line with the spider.”

He swung the spyglass toward the island’s hidden bay. “Aye, I see ’er; the Morganse’s startin’ to make her move, t’gallants and royals a-flyin’. Nathan always was a flash with the canvas.”

Cate chewed the inside of her mouth. “He’s done this before?”

“Oh, aye. More times than one would care to think. For Ol’ Scupperbait, the challenge ’tis more the prize. How he loves to best somebody.”

“She’s opening her port lids, sir!” came the call from the masthead.

“Aye, a bluff; we’re out of range.” A smug smile was directed at Cate. “He’s so busy looking at us, by the time he spots the Morganse, it will be too late.”

“Alert the gun crews, sir?” inquired Al-Nejem from the other side of the helm.

“Nay. We don’t desire a fight, just to entertain them. Pass the word to open the ports and stand by. That’ll keep her eyes on us,” Thomas said, with a devious chuckle.

Thomas went forward to attend his ship, leaving Cate alone to worry. The targeted ship pressed onward, her bow plowing the Straits’ heavy swell. She stood unable to watch, yet unable to move away. Cat-and-mouse was definitely not her game.

Eventually, the Morganse poked her masts above the treeline, her ivory-and-red sails stark against the green and blue of land, sky, and sea. A huntress rising, she rounded the point and cleared the reef as easily as a lady might sweep her skirts around a table. Then she tore on, a mustache of white water arching at her dark bow. The pursued ship seemed to cringe at the sight of the Morganse bearing down; Cate felt a touch of the same cold dread as on the Constancy, at seeing the black-hulled ship and massive banner, with its leering skull framed by wings.

The Angel of Death.

“Ciara Morganse; it’s Celt for ‘black gift from the sea,’” Nathan had told her. And a gift she was, a black and red phoenix rising from the sea, spreading her wings to swoop down on her prey. She was an even more fearsome sight in the afternoon sun. The late sun deepened the sails’ crimson crowns, “…dripping with the blood of her victims…”

“She is a sight to behold,” Thomas said, coming up beside Cate once more. “I’d heard about those sails, but I wouldn’t believe it, until I saw it. Leave it to Nathan, eh?”

Thomas stood in quiet admiration, as only a mariner would. “A bit of an antique she is, but she sails like she’s fresh off the blocks. A lot of things may have changed, but Nathan still keeps his ship shinin’ like a diamond in a goat’s ass…tail,” he corrected quickly, and tipped his hat. “Beg pardon, madam. ’Pears as I’ve away from the genteel company of a lady for too long.”

Bronzed profile sharp against the azure sky, Thomas’ gaze settled on the prey’s blue and white flag. A narrowing of an eye and a twitch of a jaw muscle were the only indication of what lurked inside. The sight of it had to have carried a unique meaning for him and Nathan.

Feeling Cate watching, he smiled self-consciously. “Nathan has a way of sailing a ship that bears no mistaking. Whether he knows it or not, that poor bastard doesn’t stand a nun’s chance in a whorehouse—beggin’ your pardon again, ma’am.”

Now almost abreast of the pursued ship, Cate could see her decks. She knew enough of ships to know panic when she saw it: scrambling in the rigging, sails flogging, filling, and then luffing. The ship was downwind of the Griselle, which meant the shouting couldn’t be heard, but the waving arms spoke volumes.

The Griselle ran parallel to the chase and the black ship, but in essence, it was a race between the latter pair. The cold truth was, the race was over before it began, the Ciara Morganse outdistancing her victim with shocking ease. The only unknown factor was when the slower captain would realize his disadvantage and heave to.

Puffs of blue-black smoke rose from the Morganse: her bow-chasers fired. Quailing, the prey veered and bolted, putting her course across the Griselle’s.

“Son of a bitch!” Thomas cried, more in surprise than anger. “She’s making a break for it.”

“But, I thought—” Cate began.

“Aye, well, the good captain has chosen to dance with the devil he doesn’t know. Mr. Al-Nejem! Give the Gunnery Master my compliments, and beg him to put two across the rabbit’s bow.”

There was a guttural bark and a burst of flame-sparked smoke. The Grisellers paused to track the ball’s arc and splash off the fleeing ship’s forefoot. Almost simultaneously, a second shot went off with identical results. The ship fired back, the volley whirring harmlessly overhead.

Thomas’s eyes rounded in surprise. “You cocky bastard! One through her course, Mr. Nadir, if you please,” he shouted to the waist.

And so it was, with deadly accuracy: a ball through the foresail, the mizzen pierced next. Two more, the rabbit’s foretop yard was sheared, and her roundhouse creased, marked by a burst of splinters.

With either nerves of steel or a failure to comprehend her peril, the ship returned fire. The shots came with an irregularity and inaccuracy that robbed them of threat. The peril of the “lucky shot” became more real, when a ball flew near enough over the quarterdeck for everyone to duck.

“Get below,” Thomas cried at Cate over the roar of guns.

“No!”

“Get below.”

Cate balled her fists and braced as he stormed toward her. “I will not,” she shouted up at him. Truth be told, Nathan would have never allowed her to remain on deck, but she had no intention of skulking below, amid the butts and hogsheads, left to wonder what was happening.

“Nathan would hang me by the balls if something was to happen to you.”

“Then tell him it was my fault.”

The blue eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Small help coming from the grave. Damnation! How in the hell does he manage you?”

Rumbling oaths under his breath, Thomas spun away.

Backs glistening with sweat, the gun crews labored, driven by the indignation of being fired upon by a vessel deemed barely worthy: swabbing, ramming, loading, and then, with a rumble of wheels, hauling home the carriages. The space between the ships was thick with grey clouds of smoke, the lick of flame harbingers of another incoming round.

The Griselle dealt her damage, but took it as well: a foreyard was sheared, another shot snarling the forestays. There was the pained cry, and then two more. Sections of rail amidships burst into a shower of splinters. A jet of water shot skyward when the scuttlebutt was hit.

“Sharp shooters aloft! An extra ration to the one to take out that captain,” Thomas cried.

The ratlines went dark with men bearing muskets scampering skyward. Lethal barrages erupted in overlapping waves, the smoke and smell of gunpowder curling down to merge with what already swirled about the deck.

Shying under the Griselle’s accuracy, the ship veered on a larboard tack, putting her course directly across the Morganse’s forefoot once more. The turn brought her stern into view, Capricorn emblazoned on the sternplate. In a brazen move, she attempted to rake the Morganse with a sputter of guns as she crossed, but lacked both accuracy and angle to be effective. Squinting to see through the acrid-smelling smoke, Cate could see the Morganse’s damage: holes in the sails and the occasional spout of splinters.

The two pirate ships crisscrossed each other’s path with drill-like precision, the Capricorn always in the middle. The maneuver allowed each to maintain their speed, the gun crews smoothly shifting from side to side as they carved their turns. The Capricorn found herself in the dubious position of having to maintain a two-sided barrage. The pounding from both sides would render her decks a hellish scene. Canvas and wood was no match for 12 to 18 pounds of hurtled iron. The Capricorn wasn’t without teeth, however. A volley carried away two of the Morganse’s jibs and rigging, another hitting her foreroyal.

The Capricorn finally swerved away from the Morganse. This time, she carried too much sail, too high. The wind heeled her over, until her chains plowed the water. Her crew scrambled to compensate, but not before canvas and yards were carried away. The Morganse took advantage of the resulting lull in the Capricorn’s headway to put her sails between the Capricorn and the wind.

“Well, he’s got ’er!” Thomas came up alongside Cate, and shouted to the helmsman, “Lay ’er in irons. Let’s see what this rabbit is going to do.”

The Griselle’s bow nosed to the wind and slid to a halt.

“Now what?” Unable to tear her eyes from the two ships, Cate could barely breathe the question.

His hands coming to rest on the weaponry at his waist, Thomas lifted one shoulder in a casual gesture. “Nathan sends a boarding party, finds what he seeks, and takes it.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

“It is, if the good captain there chooses to abide. If he opts to resist…” He paused, pursing his lips. “Aye, it could be a mite nasty.”

“Nasty?” Cate turned to glare up at him. “Nasty!”

“Hand-to-hand combat, blood on the decks; ’tis always nasty business.” He looked down at her with teasing glint and a wide grin. “Don’t worry! One wrong move and we’ll be on that ship like sharks on a carcass. Nathan knows what he’s doing.”

“People could be getting killed over there,” she called to Thomas’ back..

“Then don’t watch.”

“Damned pirates,” she muttered under her breath.

Thomas took his leave, his laugh carrying back to Cate as she pushed the hair from her face. The Morganse’s momentum had carried her slightly past her prey. Sails luffing, her bow came into the wind, and she drew to a halt. The Capricorn, for the most part, blocked Cate’s view of the Morganse. She saw the longboats pulled alongside, but little else.

“At the ready, mates, just in case she decides to do something else crack-brained,” Thomas called from somewhere behind her.

The ship being downwind, listening for gunfire wouldn’t serve. Arms clutched about her middle, Cate fondled the oddments on her bracelet like a rosary as she watched for the dreaded puff of smoke from a musket or pistol being fired.

Cate squinted to make out the Capricorn’s deck. Unable to see, she snatched the spyglass from the binnacle and snapped it open. Her sails now luffing, the Griselle pitched wildly, requiring Cate to brace against the rail before she could bring it into focus. At last, she found the Morgansers first by their strips of red: weapons brandished, as barbarous and wild-looking as that day on the Constancy’s deck. She held her breath and progressed incrementally along the line of familiar sea rogues, until she arrived at Pryce. Pistol and sword at the ready, his pose brought a chilling recollection of the first day she had met him.

Wherever Pryce stood, Nathan would be near. She moved the glass ever so slightly and found him, squarely before what appeared to be the Capricorn’s captain. She felt an odd pang of jealousy. Her own abduction hadn’t prompted such personal attention.

“Have they found what they seek yet?”

Cate looked up from the glass to find Thomas peering down at her, the late sun gleaming on the stubble of his cheeks.

“I don’t think so.” She put the glass to her eye once more. “It’s difficult to say. No, wait. I think I see a woman.”

A small frisson passed through her. She watched with a surge of sympathy at the misfortunate being snatched away. The terror and isolation she had suffered that day crawled like fingers into her chest and constricted.

Lifting the spyglass from her hands, Thomas looked for himself. “Aye, so it would seem.”

It was an all-too-familiar sight: the lick of flames and curl of smoke, as the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company flag was dropped over the side. It floated on the water for the barest of instants, and then sank.

“Nathan’s always loved to ram that stick into the hornet’s nest,” Thomas said, more for his own benefit. “Damn his soul, he hasn’t learned yet, has he? One of these days, his luck is going to run out.”

Cate rubbed her arms to press down the gooseflesh. She couldn’t disagree.

“We’ll be making weigh soon. Mr. Al-Nejem,” Thomas called, turning away.

The entire affair seemed to have taken forever in the coming, and then was over so quickly, it almost seemed a figment of the imagination. Within what felt like barely the flip of the glass, the Morganse’s longboats had pushed off, and the chastened and battered Capricorn filled her sails. The Morganse stood, until the Capricorn was well away, then pirouetted and spread her wings to go back through the Straits.

“Bring ’er about!” Thomas bellowed.

The Griselle turned, found her wind, and fell in behind the Morganse.

“Just stay in her wake,” was Thomas’s only directive to the helmsman. “When she’s hauling wind, there’s no catching her. We’ll be a spot astern in no time.”

Through the day, the Morganse’s course paralleled a sharply peaked strand of islands. The Griselle, her decks a furor with the activity of putting her to rights, followed her ever-diminishing pyramid of sails. It was late afternoon when the Morganse made her turn, now no more than a white patch pricking the line where sky and water met. By the time the Griselle cleared the reef and stood into the small bay, her shadow was long and distorted on the water. The Morganse was settled on her moorings, wings folded, roosted for the night. In need of room to swing on her anchors, the Griselle tucked into the opposite corner and settled.

The deck lamps were being lit when Thomas appeared to invite Cate to his cabin.

“Cook says he’s got a bit o’ supper for us,” he said, a light hand at her waist. “I don’t desire you to go back to the Morganse hungry.”

Cate stopped short. “The Morganse?”

Thomas laughed while urging her onward. “Nathan will be here within the glass, two at the most, you mark my words. I wish you a decent meal before you’re obliged to face his ranting, because, if I know Nathan, he’ll be spouting all night.”

She sagged in the doorway. “Thomas!”

He grinned boyishly over her shoulder. “You like it?”

The room was awash in the waxen glow of candlelight. Candelabras and sconces sat on every surface that might support one. So many setting about would have been considered a hazard, if not at anchor; it was a vast extravagance. The focal point was the table, bracketed by a pair of candelabras, towering nearly as high as Thomas’ head, with multiple tiers and arms.

“Madam,” he said softly. The candles sparked on the tease in the lake-blue eyes as he offered a chair.

Still grinning with pleasure, he made a dramatic show of pouring her a glass of wine. He filled his own and sat. The candlelight shone on his freshly shaven cheeks. Dark streaks of wetness ran through the blond hair, smoothed and tied in its leather thong.

“If you liked last night’s meal, you’re going to love this one.” He lifted his glass, his eyes holding hers. “To lovely ladies who don’t know their own strength.”

The candles shot orange scintillas through the wine as she sipped. The previous night’s meal had been a simple affair, with worn china and serviceable silver. Now, the glass from which she drank was delicate stemmed crystal, etched with motifs of cherubs and vines. The silver was ornate and had been brought to a brilliance that was achieved only hours through of polishing with chalk. The plates were porcelain and, like the glass, gold-rimmed. All was formally arranged on a white damask cloth. The air was heavy, but not with the usual smell of tallow candles, nor oil or fat lamps. It was sweet with the scent of beeswax and bayberry, another gran1d extravagance.

“How did you come by all of this?” she asked, marveling not only at the miraculous transformation, but the finery itself.

“Pirate!” Thomas offered the word with the same insouciant air as Nathan.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, raising a suspicious brow.

The question was met with wide-eyed innocence over the rim of his glass.

Against the backdrop of rapping carpenter’s mallets, adzes, and chisels outside, the meal was served by a doe-eyed and solemn cabin boy named Maram, and Youssef. Each remove was brought with seamless grace befitting a formal dining room. The first course was a red fish fried to delicate crispness. The second was a dish consisting of chicken and lemons, pungent with spices. The first bottle of wine was soon gone, the level of the second severely diminished. Dessert was a compote of fruits, fresh and dried, steeped in brandy and fragrant with more spices.

“You don’t eat like this all the time, do you?” Cate leaned back from the table in glorious agony.

“No, this is just for special guests.” The candelabras framing the table mantled Thomas’ head and shoulders in a gloriole of molten gold. He sighed, resigned. “Tomorrow I’ll be back on rice, bread, and lentils.”

Thomas had the speech and air of being well bred. His casual ease at table etiquette was further proof of that. Cate clandestinely eyed him and wondered what privileged life he had lived before becoming a pirate.

He produced another port from the cabinet. Different from the night before, this one was more robust, with a smoky chocolate aftertaste.

“Oh!” he exclaimed and rose once more. “I have something.”

He rummaged briefly in a corner locker and returned with a small bundle of blue silk, the corners knotted at the center.

“Open it,” he said, eagerly placing it before her. Unable to contain his enthusiasm, he pushed her hands away to loosen the knot. “Go ahead—now,” he said, and slid it back.

The slippery silk almost undid itself. It fell away to reveal a pair of hair combs. These were particularly large, with teeth almost as long as her fingers, putting her to mind of the Spanish mantillas. Buffed to a low sheen, they were a swirl of translucent layers of every shade of brown, from sable, to cinnamon, to gold.

“Thomas, they’re beautiful,” she exclaimed, tracing the intricate curves and cutwork.

“One of the crew is fair handy with a carving knife and knows the way of working with shell. I had them made for my sister, but it could be years before I ever see her again. It’s a hornbill; they’re lousy eating, but the shells are worth it.” Leaning over her shoulder, he ran an admiring finger along one edge. “Nice, aren’t they?”

Nathan’s necklace and bracelet, and the sliver of soap were the only gifts she had received in a very, very long time. Such generosity, coupled with the evening, touched her to the point of speechlessness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them. They’re too lovely for me.” It was difficult to believe anything so beautiful could have come from something so innocuous an animal.

“Nonsense! I’ve watched you struggle with that hair. Nobody needs these more than you do.”

Cate raised a self-conscious hand, the room suddenly warm. The swim with Nathan had been glorious, the closest to washing her hair in months. The hot water had removed the grime and salt, and now it bloomed into a riotous bramble.

“Here, allow me,” Thomas said, too anxious to wait. He fanned his fingers like giant combs and swept them through the unruly tresses. The large, blunt-tipped fingers worked away the tangles and snarls with surprising adroitness. Her pulse quickened at the unexpected warmth of his fingers following the curve of her skull, brushing her neck and temple.

“You’ve done this before,” she teased. “Most men wouldn’t be caught dead attempting to arrange a woman’s hair.”

“As I said, I had four sisters; it was either do it or be thrashed.” There was a smile in his voice.

Once worked out to his satisfaction, Thomas gave the heavy locks a deft upward twist, and pressed a comb into place.

“Goes perfect with your color,” he declared, standing back to admire his work. “Hand me the other one and I’ll get this side.”

Thomas preceded in much the same manner, but stopped in mid-motion. Puzzled, Cate looked up to find his gaze fixed on the door behind her. Twisting around, she saw Nathan standing there. He stood uncommonly still, the walnut eyes gone to coal-colored pits.

“Nathan!” She tried to come full around, but was prevented by Thomas’ grip in her hair. “Why didn’t you say something? You could scare a soul lurking about like a bloody ghoul.”

“I didn’t desire to intrude. Unexpected company can be such a wretched inconvenience, don’t you think?” Nathan said coldly.

“Nonsense,” Thomas declared jovially. “Pray join us. We were just having supper. Hungry?”

It was a bit of an empty offer, as Nathan probably saw. The cloth had long been pulled. It was unthinkable that friend or guest would go wanting, if Nathan was so inclined, which by all appearances, he was not.

At last Nathan moved. With a cat-like smoothness, not a bell disturbed, he strolled around the table, each dip of his hip a stabbing accusation. “Nay, I seem to have left me appetite somewhere.”

With dramatic precision, he inspected the wine bottles, tipping up each to exhibit their emptiness. He reached across Cate to pluck up her glass with two fingers. Sniffing, he arched a brow.

“Very nice,” Nathan murmured, coldly. “How much of this have you had?”

“What do you care?” She bit her lip, instantly aware of how defensive it sounded.

Nathan threw back his head and drained it in a single gulp, then set back with the same two-fingered care. She had seen him in many moods, but this was different, as dark and dangerous as his precious sea. “Nathan can have a black temper,” Thomas had said. An eruption seemed imminent.

Thomas’ hand was now a searing weight on her neck, his thumb repeatedly tracing the curve of her ear. The gesture might have gone unnoticed, but Nathan was in a keen-eyed mood and fixed on it like Artemis on a rat.

“Thomas has just given me these combs—” Cate began.

“A little present,” Thomas put in.

“…and he was putting them in for me.”

“I dare say.” Nathan tipped his head and narrowed one eye to a cutting slit. “Both arms broken, so he had to do it, eh?”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She shifted uneasily nonetheless. “You should know better than anybody how wild this hair can be.”

“Sure,” Thomas said lightly. “You’ll recall those sisters of mine.”

Thomas resumed his task, pointedly ignoring Nathan, who stood with his hands propped on his hips. It was noticeable that, amid all the tension, Thomas was the most placid. If anything, he exuded contentment.

Cate could think of nothing to say that didn’t sound defensive. The lavish lighting, elegant table, drinks and gifts: if seen from Nathan’s viewpoint, it was an intimate scene.

This is ridiculous. It’s like something out of a farce!

“How did everything go with Creswicke’s fiancée?” Cate asked finally.

Nathan broke his glare at Thomas to direct a tight-lipped smile at her. “Hmm? Oh, fine. Predictably inevitable, as always, fine.”

“Everything went according to plan?” Thomas said, concentrating on a deeply entrenched snarl.

“Aye, perfect,” Nathan said distractedly. Folding his hands behind his back, he rocked on his feet, and then cleared his throat loudly. “Well, it would seem I’ve arrived at an inopportune moment, so…”

The thought hung incomplete as he strode toward the door.

“Nathan? Nathan!” she called, but futilely. With a disgusted growl, she sprang up and rounded on Thomas. “You planned this.”

Cate was met with wide grin. “Aye, I did. And it worked. You’ve got his attention, now,” he called as she scurried around the table and out the door.

Nathan was nearly to the capstan, by the time Cate caught him up. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to a stop. “Will you wait a minute?”

He whirled and ducked a mocking bow. “A thousand pardons, Madam. Forgive me for disturbing—”

“You didn’t disturb anything, and you damned well know it!”

“My mistake.” Baring his teeth in something between a smile and a sneer, he turned and marched away.

“Nathan, damn it, come back here!”

He spun back in a clatter of bells. Nathan reared back his head to glare at her down the long line of his nose. “Yes?”

Cate rocked back on her heels. “Yes, what?”

“I had the distinct impression you had something in the way of an obligatory explanation. Well, get on with it,” Nathan said, crossing his arms. “Enlighten me.”

“There’s nothing to explain.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“You think this was my doing?”

“I didn’t hear any objections.” He spread his arms and craned his head, as if such things might be found lying about.

“He had his hand over my mouth.”

“And where else?”

“You bastard—!”

His face dissolved. Cate made a fist and swung. Nathan easily fielded her punch in mid-air.

“Take better aim before you fire, darling,” Nathan growled. His fingers dug her flesh as he twisted her arm aside.

Cate jerked to free and rubbed her wrist, trying to erase the burn of his grip. “Do you think that little of me?”

“No! I think far more of you. However, I think far less of him,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward the cabin. “You never struck me as the game-playing sort.”

“This wasn’t my doing.”

“Yes, I can see the signs of struggle everywhere.” Nathan spun on his heel and stalked toward the accommodation ladder.

“You don’t own me,” she seethed in his wake. “You can’t keep me locked up like some feeble aunt to be let out at your pleasure. I can do as I want.”

Nathan pivoted back so suddenly, Cate almost collided with him.

“By all evidence, I’d wager that’s exactly what you were doing. By the way, the combs suit you,” he said as a begrudging afterthought.

Nathan's countenance softened, and he sighed. “True enough. As you have so eloquently and succinctly pointed out, I have no claim on you a-tall. I only came to take you away from this rabble, because I thought the Morganse was where you wanted to be. My mistake.” His cutting edge returned. He ducked another mocking bow. “I bid you good e’en.”

Cate followed him, hoping that he would stop again, her fears reaching panic proportions when he didn’t.

“Nathan!”

He whirled with an unexpected quickness that made her flinch. He recoiled, thinking Cate was going to take another swing. She held up her hands as a peace offering, but they still stood a distance apart.

“So…are you saying you don’t want me back?” she finally asked.

With a long-suffering air, Nathan crossed his arms. His boot tapped a rapid tattoo on the planks. “Do you want to go back?”

Cate could see Thomas over Nathan’s shoulder. Leaned against the cabin door’s frame, arms crossed, one foot cocked over the other, he was a dark blot against the blaze of candles behind him. The white of his smug smile, however, gleamed. She searched Nathan’s face for any sign of the familiar warmth or humor, but his features were either lost to the shadows, or obscured by a several day scruff of beard. He was as near a stranger then as he had been their first meeting.

“Can I go back?” she asked.

“Do you want to go back?”

God, I wish he would stop answering each question with another question.

Biting her lip, she looked to her feet, and braced for the possibility of rejection.

What do I do then?

So seized by dread, Cate could barely squeeze out, “If I can.”

Nathan leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “You can do whatever you want to do, luv.”

Bare inches away, his eyes held hers, and then wavered, uncertainty tugging their corners. The inked pools held the same fear then, as the night of Jensen’s death, when she had asked to leave. He had, in essence, pled for her to stay. Betrayal was there now, whether by her or Thomas, she couldn’t tell. There was something else, a subterranean rumbling of something, so deep and restrained it couldn’t be named.

Cate wished she had a deeper understanding of what it was between these two men. It might have shown a light on what transgressions she may have unwittingly committed, what breach of faith may have violated. She needed a Ship’s Articles, or something in writing that clearly described her confines. The strain of tiptoeing around, lest she inadvertently trample another of Nathan’s secret boundaries, of the come-hither only to be pushed away, was becoming wearisome.

And yet, the thought of not being with him was even worse.

“Yes.” She meant to sound confident, but her voice quaked.

“You’re sure?” Nathan threw a hard look over his shoulder at Thomas, and then tilted his head at her. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” She gulped, and ventured to ask, “Are you sure?”

He broke into a dazzling smile. “Darling, I’ve been sure since the day you were dropped on me deck. C’mon.”

“A minute, please. I’ll be right back.” Cate ran back to Thomas, in spite of Nathan’s scowl.

“Didn’t I say he’d be coming?” Thomas said, his grin broadening.

“You love it when you’re right, don’t you?”

Thomas laughed, loud and hearty. “There’s no denying it does allow the day to go better.”

Cate rose on her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, I think.”

“Don’t thank me yet!” Thomas called after her, as she scurried back to Nathan. “You’ve got him hooked, but you still have to reel him in!”

“I’m not looking to catch anything,” Cate called back.

“God help you both!” he shouted and disappeared inside.

Nathan cast a suspicious look over his shoulder as he handed Cate down the side. “What did he mean by that?”

“Nothing,” she sighed, hitching her skirts. “Can we just go?”

She half-expected Nathan to sit next to her on the thwart. Instead, he sat facing her as they pushed off the Griselle.

“Stretch out and row dry,” Nathan demanded of the oarsman.

Their knees touched and he drew back. The small gesture speared any hopes that had dared to soar, of things between them being different. Thinking perhaps he was still annoyed, she thought to say something, but silence seemed the better option. Perhaps enough had been said already.

The peacefulness of the bay was broken only the low grunts of the oarsmen and the rustle of the water at each dip of the oar. The light of the bow lantern sparked like fireflies on the ripples. She took the opportunity to assimilate what had just happened. Just as Thomas had predicted, Nathan had come for her. It had been a surprising show, but of what? Jealousy? Protection? Male territoriality? Or, had it been another case of Nathan not wanting her, and yet not wanting anyone else—at least, not Thomas—to have her?

Pawn or prize? Would she ever know which one she was?

As they neared the Morganse, singing could be heard, inordinately loud for the hour. It was also markedly lacking in merriment, sounding more akin to the heavy-labor chants reserved for manning the capstan or hauling sheets.

“What are they singing about?” Cate asked.

“’Tis no celebration,” said Nathan glumly, and threw a dark look over his shoulder. “I suppose fair warning is in order.”

She stiffened. “About what?”

“Our guest—our dear Lord Creswicke’s intended betrothed.”

“What’s wrong? Nathan, what did you do to her?”

He stiffened with indignation. “Nothing! Wretchedly insulting you think I would. It’s just…well, it’s just…”