The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 14: Beloved Betrothed

Tucking the hem of her skirt into her waistband, Cate struggled up the Morganse’s side. The black hull absorbed any ambient light, making it insufferably difficult to see. She groped overhead in the dark for the next step—no more than a ledge only half-large enough for a foot—while striving to not slip from the dew-slickened step upon which she stood. Two strong arms eventually came over the gunwale to seize her by her arms and lift her up. As she alighted on deck—right foot always touching first—she was met by the sound of female crying, and a beleaguered look on every man.

“How is it, man?” Nathan asked, after scampering up the side by the manrope like a squirrel up a tree, showoff!

“Not stopped since ye left, sir,” Pryce replied, with a grim roll of his eyes.

Cate whirled around on Nathan. “What did you do to her?” she shouted over the din.

Eyes rounding, Nathan sputtered indignantly. “Ravaged her! Six, no, seven times myself, plus every man having a turn! What the bloody hell else do you think we’d have time…?”

Nathan's protests faded as Cate ran into the cabin. The lamps were lit, but the sleeping area, from whence the shrieking came, was unlit.

“You left her in the dark!” Cate shouted.

Nathan and Pryce skidded to a halt behind her.

“We thought to put a light, but not a man would pass. Besides,” Nathan pleaded, wincing at the sound of demolition emanating from behind the curtain, “we feared for the welfare of herself and the ship were we to leave her alone with a flame.”

“We intended as to stow ’er below, but she sheared off in there, ’n stuck tighter than a barnacle on an oyster,” put in Pryce, retreating a step at Cate’s glare.

Cate pushed the curtain aside and held it. A band of light fell into the room, but not enough to see.

“Nooo! Please don’t kill me,” came a cry out of the darkness.

The crying increased to a siren-like pitch. The curtain falling closed behind her, Cate groped her way forward, using the shrieks as a beacon. Her eyes became accustomed to the dim enough to make out a figure cowering in the floor. Arms over her head, her shoes skidded on the planks as she tried to scrabble deeper into the corner.

“No! Please! I beg…! No!”

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” Cate said as she inched forward.

The woman thrashed and kicked, and caught Cate in the legs, hard enough to take her to the floor. She landed heavily on top of the woman. A struggle ensued: the woman fighting as if being attacked. Cate was dimly aware of a growing light and approaching footsteps as she grappled to extricate herself. Finally she managed to seize the woman by the arms and gave her a hard shake.

“You’re all right! I won’t hurt you!”

Cate’s pleas seemed at first to have fallen on deaf ears, but then resistance eased. In quavering moans, the woman slumped, perhaps more from exhaustion than terror. As steps came up behind her—Nathan’s, Cate now knew—and a growing light, Cate struggled to pry the soul free of the corner, a task akin to moving a dead sheep. Once able to grasp her chin, Cate brought the woman’s face around into the light and brushed the sweat-dampened hair from her face.

“You’re just a child!” She whirled around on Nathan. “She’s just a child.”

Enormous blue eyes focused on Cate, and then settled on Nathan. “Pirates! No!”

Cate’s opposition was smaller, but fought with the fury of the frenzied. Cate took the brunt as the woman scratched, kicked and clawed. After a shot square to the chin and an elbow to the stomach, Cate’s well-meaning intentions grew more determined. Still, it was no worse than wrestling with her younger brother…until she was bitten. She screeched and struck out, sending the girl tumbling back into the corner. Cate felt herself then being lifted from the floor. She somehow wound up at the door, Nathan between she and the cowering heap on the floor.

“Belay that caterwauling, you shrieking strumpet!”

“Nathan…?”

“Out!” he barked, whirling around on Cate.

“But…?”

“Out!” Nathan shouted, with a swipe. He spun back around toward the woman. “Stay on the floor or stay on the bunk, but stay you shall! C’mon!”

Nathan seized Cate by the arm and propelled her into the salon, not stopping until she was seated at the table.

“Blood box, Mr. Millbridge,” he called as he pulled up a chair at her knee.

Nathan took the arm that until then Cate hadn’t realized she had been cradling. She made to look at it, but he determinedly brushed her aside. Crescent-shaped and bright red, blood welling from a few places, the bite was on the inside of her forearm, just above her wrist. It stung horribly, throbbing in unison with her heart, still racing from the struggle. It had been a long time since she had been bitten: a foul-tempered Highland pony. This one was no worse, but Nathan was taking the offense as serious, muttering dark comments under his breath as he inspected. He looked up apologetically when Cate winced. As his long, tar-grimed fingers probed, an identical mark could be seen on his wrist.

“You, too, hmm?” she said under the sobbing coming from behind the curtain.

A corner of Nathan’s mouth twitched. “Not the first and most probably not the last. I’m obliged to admit, however, it has been a time. Tea, Mr. Millbridge, if you please” he said without looking up as the blood box was delivered.

Dabbing the sweat from her temples, Cate was about to insist she wasn’t of a mood for tea. Hospitality, however, was the last thing on Nathan’s mind. Fetching the brandy bottle, he poured a bit into pot when it came. He dipped in a bit of cloth and proceeded to clean the wound.

Biting her lip against the sting, Cate stared at her blood box and mentally sorted through its inventory. Chamomile? Valerian? Lavender? She was reasonably prepared for ship-related emergencies, but woefully lacking in preparations for hysterical women.

“We can’t just leave her in there,” she said to the top of Nathan’s head.

He shot her a look from under his brows. “Why not? I’m not compelled to be nice. Pirate.” The last word was offered up as a multi-faceted explanation.

“She’s your responsibility.”

“No,” Nathan said with slow emphasis. “She’s a hostage.”

“Little difference. Ouch!”

“Sorry. Here, hold this.” Nathan directed her hand to the compress. He rose and began rummaging through her box. “You’ll not be going back in there with yon she-devil,” he warned darkly, pausing to glare over the lid.

He grunted in satisfaction at finding the jar of salve. “It cures everything else, let’s hope it works against rabid animals.”

Cate sucked in at the sting of the salve, and again when the bandage was tied off with a little more force than might have been intended. The incessant crying was beginning to make her head pound. She prided herself on having faced many an emergency—dare she say, disaster?—with strength and grace. Fire, war, destruction, disease, horror: she had endured them all. Hysterics was quite another thing. Knowing how disturbed most men were in the face of a crying woman, her sympathy for the Morgansers deepened. It was harrowing, and they had endured it most of the day.

Cate frowned, straining to think of what might help. “She might need…”

“To be left lying as any vicious beast should.”

“We can’t just leave her. We have to do…something.”

With a glare daring her to object, Nathan grabbed the bottle and poured an additional dollop into the pot. “Serve the wench, if you must,” he said and shoved the pot across the table toward her.

“Shh! She’ll hear you.”

“Much more the better. Then she’ll know if she doesn’t drink this, it will be bilge water and sea biscuit for the next fortnight! And if she does you harm again, I’ll slap her in irons until we’re rid of her cursed carcass!” He raised his voice incrementally until he was shouting at the end, and all aimed at the curtain.

Balancing pot, cup, and light, Cate went back around the curtain to find the hostage had indeed overheard. She sat chastely on the bunk, her large blue eyes meeting Cate as she set everything on the bedstand.

“Who are you?” she asked querulously in a voice torn by tears and screaming.

“I’m Cate. Who are you?”

“Prudence.” She sniffed hugely. “Prudence Collingwood.” Sniffing again, her fingers flexed at the folds of her skirt in suggestion of a curtsey. Glancing toward the curtain, she leaned to whisper, “Are you a prisoner, too?”

“Umm, not really.” Cate said, posing an encouraging smile.

“Were you stolen? Did he take you from a ship? Are you a prisoner? Are you his slave?”

“Slave?” Cate’s smile wavered. The child certainly had a vivid imagination. “I think not.”

“They’re pirates!” Prudence wailed into her hands. “They’re going to kill me!”

Melting into a new crescendo of crying, Prudence launched at Cate and threw her arms around her neck. The force drove them both to the mattress. Grappling to escape the death grip, Cate managed to sit up and gather the girl in her arms. Rocking and murmuring little nothings, Cate strove to console the child. It was difficult to admonish the girl too stridently. Her fears were real, as evidenced by the trembling body. Cate recalled suffering many of those same terrors, although she preferred to think she had faced them with a little more alacrity.

Prudence’s sobbing eventually subsided, leaving her sniffling and hiccupping.

Hot water! The idea came to Cate as a desperate inspiration. Any woman feels better after washing.

Freeing herself from Prudence’s clutches, Cate poked her head out around the curtain. Nathan and Pryce milled about the salon, Kirkland and Millbridge lurking in the margins, all looking thoroughly anxious.

“Hot water?” she asked.

In less time than she thought it possible to reach the galley and return, an arm came around the curtain—no mistaking Nathan’s—to hand off a ewer of steaming water. Murmuring vague nothings to Prudence, Cate sponged the tear-reddened face, while praying for the water’s palliative effects. Seen more clearly, Prudence proved to be a lovely girl. Glossy, dark brown curls surrounded an oval face with piercingly clear blue eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, and…

“How old are you?”

Prudence looked to her lap and toyed with the silk of her skirt. “Sixteen.”

“And you’re to marry Lord Creswicke?”

The level of disbelief in Cate’s outburst jolted the poor girl. Tears welled and her chin began to wobble dangerously. Prudence’s “Yes,” came out in a wheezing squeak.

She possessed rounded, doll-like features that rendered her much younger than her years. Still, sixteen was excessively young, by Cate’s standards. True enough, she had witnessed marriages at far younger ages while growing up, and in the Highlands. She had disapproved of those, too. In the face of another hysterical onslaught, Cate swabbed the wetness from Prudence’s face and helped her blow her nose on the towel.

“How about some tea?” Cate asked brightly.

Tea certainly had its curative qualities, but Cate was putting her money—and her sanity—on the brandy.

Seeing Prudence propped up, tea was served. The small, bow-shaped mouth drew up in disappointment at the cup. “I usually take mine with lemon and milk.”

Once assured there was neither, she balked when met by the brandy. The loud, admonishing sound of a male throat clearing came from behind the curtain spurred her to drink. Within moments, her stomach gurgled, and she blushed. Lest she cause further embarrassment, Cate went about straightening the room for a bit longer, before inquiring when Prudence had last eaten.

“Not since breakfast. I was too scared, what with the pirates chasing us,” she said, shooting an accusing look toward the curtain.

Cate was sympathetic, but there was a glaring flaw: it would have been late afternoon before the Capricorn would have sighted the Griselle. Youth and terror, however, had a way of clouding one’s perceptions.

“Aye, food is always the best means to tame the savage beast,” came a disembodied, graveled voice.

At length, a tray was brought. Millbridge—judging by the footsteps—stopped short of the curtain, and refused to approach further. Finally, it was slid under the curtain. The ever-reliable Kirkland had produced toast, a couple of boiled eggs, and slices of cold meat, which Prudence ate with the enthusiasm of the young. A full stomach, combined with tea, kidnapping, crying, and brandy took its toll, and she soon drooped. Chanting assurances of her safety, Cate tucked her up. She promptly fell to sleep, curled up like the little girl she was.

Somewhat haggard and tear-sodden, Cate tiptoed out. Nathan sat quill in hand at the table, Pryce standing across. They looked up with anxious trepidation, Nathan arching a brow.

“She’s sleeping,” Cate whispered.

“Praise God!” Pryce sighed in a hush. He slumped in relief. “A true worker of miracles, ye are, sir. The woman is relentless. Never knowed a soul what could caterwaul like that.”

“She’s no woman,” Cate hissed and leaned closer to whisper lower yet, “Did you see her? She’s a child. She’s only sixteen years old.”

One was compelled to wonder how the men hadn’t taken notice.

Nathan sat back and scowled. “I knew our Lord Creswicke had appetites, but I had no idea he had that one.”

“He must be almost twice her age,” Cate said.

Nathan snorted. “And near half again.”

“What kind of a man would marry a girl…?”

“A man looking for connections and money,” Nathan finished, coldly. “And our dear Lord Creswicke seeks both.”

“My God, doesn’t the man have enough already?”

Nathan snorted again, more derisively. “The word ‘enough’ doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.”

“Aye, pirate he is!” Pryce put in, with his own level of disdain. “No matter how much there be in the hold, yer still mauradin’ for more.”

Nathan grew contemplatively distant. He jerked and shook himself. “Other than the watch, the men have gone ashore. Do you wish to remain or go?”

The thought of an evening ashore was appealing. On an inexplicable surge of motherly instincts, Cate declined with great regret. “I think it best to stay aboard, tonight.”

Nathan nodded, surprisingly without comment. “Very well, I’ll remain. Mr. Pryce, you’re to go ashore and tend the men.”

Nodding a brief salute, Pryce left.

Nathan looked up from under his brow, one lifted wryly. “Slave?”

“No secrets on a ship, hmm? Your reputation precedes you.”

His mouth curled in distaste as he glanced toward the curtain. “Most decidedly and certainly not with mere children.”

Cate sank into a chair. Until she sat, she hadn’t realized the ache in her back. Standing on deck waiting, and the argument with Nathan had taken its toll. The bite on her arm throbbed, and her head pounded, as if she had been the one crying. The quietude of Thomas’ candlelight supper seemed a lifetime ago.

Resting her head on the back, Cate watched Nathan. He took great pride in his charts, each one a piece of artwork in and of itself. She had spent many an hour watching him pore over them, assessing positions or plotting a new course. But they were currently at anchor.

“What are you doing?” she asked at length.

“Adding a reef; hadn’t spotted it, until today.” Nathan frowned in concentration, an ink-blotched finger tracing the outlines on the parchment. “This island here is actually two. There’s a small pass here. A storm could have taken it out recently, but it’s there, nonetheless.”

“What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her temples while he sketched.

“Middle watch was just rung. ’Tis midnight,” Nathan added, knowing Cate's inability to follow ship’s time. He paused to look up, the candlelight catching the cinnamon in his eyes. “You’ve had a full night.”

“It would appear I’ve next to find a place to sleep,” she said, fatigue dragging her voice.

“I’ll pass the word to ready one of the cabins below,” he said, standing.

A rapid sequence of images flashed through Cate's head: dark, dank holds, snoring men swinging elbow to elbow in hammocks, the smell of pitch and gunpowder.

She halted him with a raised hand, still rubbing her temple with the other. “Don’t bother. I don’t think I could sleep down there.”

“Why not? We’ll make sure it’s nice and clean.” Tease touched the graveled voice.

“No windows, no air, no thank you.”

“Then how about the deck? Weather glass says fair and the sky agrees.”

Too tired to resist, she allowed Nathan to guide her outside, her arm in one hand and the bottle in the other. Two of the anchor watch stood on the forecastle, so they sat, side by side, with the foremast to their back.

The moon was a bare sliver hanging just above the island’s crown. Its thin light allowed the stars to shine like fairy dust, their tiny rays colliding. As he and Cate shared the bottle, Nathan pointed out the constellations and told Greek fables, Nathan Blackthorne-style, in his gravel-gruff voice, and with his own quirky mix of Roman, Greek, pagan, Norse, Hindu, and the mythologies of a world travelled, all heavily dosed with love and lust. She had never realized stars could be so bawdy. They sat shoulders touching. His voice vibrated through her, the soft rumble of his laugh echoing in her bones. The lamps gilding his profile, hands illustrating and punctuating every tale, there was an elegance about him. If she closed her eyes—no challenge there, for she could barely keep them open—she tried to imagine him not as a pirate, but before life had taken its toll.

At some point, the fables faded, and they talked of everything and nothing, dreams and hopes, regrets, fears, ambitions, and grand plans, Nathan painting verbal pictures of things real and things imagined, things he had seen and things no one would ever see. Chilled by the night air, Cate snuggled closer, a head suddenly too heavy coming to rest on his shoulder. Drowsy, she was vaguely aware of his arm slipping around her shoulders and her head brought down to pillow on his chest.

“Welcome back.”

Shrouded in the gauzy margins of sleep, it was murmured so faintly, she wasn’t entirely sure if she had heard it or dreamt it. And yet, the stirring of her hair and the rumble of his voice under her ear seemed proof it had been real.

Together, they slept.



###



Cate woke curled on the deck with Nathan’s sash folded for a pillow and his faded burgundy coat her blanket. A bit muzzy-headed, it took her a few moments to recollect how she had come to be there. She sat up to an uncommonly empty deck, a mere handful of mariners milling about. Then she remembered that most of the hands had gone ashore, only the anchor watch remained. Stiff and rubbing feeling into one shoulder, she made her way to the cabin.

The salon was empty. Not what one would call a messy person, Nathan still had a way of leaving a trail of evidence everywhere he went. It was a surprise to find no sign of him having been there: no half-drank cup, no crumbs, no fruit peels, navigational tools. nor charts.

More striking, there was no sign of Prudence, either.

Cate cautiously poked her head around the curtain and found Prudence lying on her back staring at the ceiling.

“I give you joy of the morning. I hope I find you well?” Cate asked.

“Very well…I suppose.”

Judging by the stiffness with which the child laid, Cate suspected quite to the contrary. “Is there something the matter?”

Prudence looked from the ceiling to Cate and back, worry etched on every rounded feature. “I was unsure if I should rise.”

Biting her lip, Cate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “And why shouldn’t you?”

“Because…because…I was afraid…and I…”

An annoying inner voice suggested the possibility the child had taken Nathan’s directives the night before a little too seriously. She then considered how to go about explaining most of his threats came with little bite and, for all his gruffness, there was a gentleness underneath. On the other hand, such insights might be best left unspoken.

“I heard talk on the Capricorn,” Prudence whispered urgently. “I heard stories…at night…about the Ciara Morganse. They eat their victims and drink their blood. They kill their mothers for the gold in their teeth. The ship is made of caskets…and it’s cursed!”

Cate turned her head to hide a smile. She had heard many of those same tales on the Constancy. They had been very convincing.

“Those were but sea tales.” She patted the girl’s arm encouragingly. “It’s all well. You’ll not be harmed.”

“He’s a pirate,” she moaned, burying her face in her hands.

“Yes, he is,” Cate said, pulling Prudence’s hands down. “That’s Captain Blackthorne.”

“He’s so scary! He looks mean.”

“Well, he’s neither scary nor mean.” The chance of said Captain being just the other side of the curtain, hence hearing every word, curtailed any further remarks. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold.

“Did he? I mean, has he…? Have they done terrible things to you?” Eyes rolling with terror, Prudence left little doubt as to her meaning.

Cate smiled semi-sympathetically at recalling her first night aboard the Morganse, waking in the same bunk, suffering the visions of the same horrors. She couldn’t help but wonder how much easier things would have gone, if there had been a friendly face for her.

At least Prudence has the benefit of her own clothing, she thought ruefully. “No, they haven’t done anything, and nor will—”

“Are you a pirate’s woman?”

The absurdity caught Cate unawares. Her cheeks inexplicably heated. “Prudence, you must be famished.”

The girl predictably brightened. “Yes, I am…a bit,” she said eagerly. Then her knuckles whitened on the blanket. “Oh, but, he’s out there. I know he is!”

“Prudence, pray listen. There is no reason for you to fear N…Captain Blackthorne. I know he’s a bit…bizarre, but upon my word, you are in no danger.”

“I simply can’t.” Prudence plucked disdainfully at her sleep-wadded clothing. “I’m too mussed.”

“Mussed?” It took Cate a moment to process the concept. “It’s a pirate ship!”

The outburst and blunt reminder was regrettable. Tears welled instantly. Concessions would need to be made soon or a replay of the scene from the night before was imminent, and it would be on Cate’s head. Several suggestions were made, but Prudence was intransigent as the aforementioned barnacle. Progress was finally achieved at the suggestion that Prudence undress, wash, and then redress.

“The ewer’s there,” Cate said, turning to leave, the prospect of coffee weighing heavily on her mind.

“The water’s cold.”

The tone of voice struck several chords, none of which were kindly. The urge to once more remind Prudence that it was a pirate ship bubbled to Cate’s lips.

“Very well,” Cate said through clenched teeth and snatched up the pitcher. “I’ll return directly.”

Cate returned to find Prudence standing exactly as she had been left.

“I was waiting for help,” was the girl’s excuse.

Cate propped her hands on her hips. “It’s undressing. How difficult can it be?”

“Nanna always helped,” Prudence moaned, flapping her arms.

“Nanna?” Cate echoed dully. “Dare I inquire?”

“She’s my nanny. The pirates left her behind. We cried and begged, but they refused to bring her. So, I’m all alone.” Eyes brimming, Prudence gave a great display of a lower lip.

“Well, not quite,” Cate murmured under her breath, and then said louder, “Turn ’round.”

Hooks, buttons, ties and laces, shifts, petticoats, stays, stockings, bodices, and kertches: as Cate excavated through the layers, she had forgotten how much work “properly dressed” was, Prudence, being of no more help than a common dressmaker’s manikin.

“You’ll have to make do with the ewer and basin,” Cate said, once Prudence was down to her shift. “You’ll find a towel next to it.”

“What about soap?” Prudence asked eyeing the stand.

Inwardly groaning, Cate pulled out her little bar of French-milled soap Nathan had brought her. Besides her sewing kit and hairbrush, it was her most precious possession. She set it lovingly next to the basin, her nails digging into her palms as she stalked to the curtain.

“There now, satisfied? Wash. I’ll return straight away,” Cate said.

Squeaking with alarm, Prudence clutched her arm. “You said you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“I said, I wouldn’t leave you alone with Na…the Captain,” Cate countered testily. She pulled free and steered Prudence to the washstand. “I’m only going to pass the word for breakfast. I’ll return directly.”

Cate barged out to the salon, gasping with relief to see that Mr. Kirkland had not failed her: coffee awaited. She grasped the cup with tremulous hands; closing her eyes in blessed relief with the first drink.

Nathan came in. He drew to a halt at the sight of her, his customary morning high-spirits fading. “You look bloody awful.”

“Always pleased to meet an admirer,” she said edgily, hovering over the cup.

Maintaining a careful margin, he reached behind her chair for his own cup, eyeing her critically over the rim as he drank. “Not the best of mornings, eh?”

“It started well enough,” she sighed, then lowered her voice. “A fall from the tops’l yard would have been shorter.”

“Not good?” he whispered.

“Not remotely.”

A blood-curdling shriek came from behind the curtain. Cate sprung up, but was urged back down by Nathan.

“Sounds like our guest has just met His Lordship.” A muscle ticked at the corner of his mouth, a smile denied.

“I should go—” she began.

“Best not. I’m thinking these are introductions best made on their own.”

There was a spark of mischievous glee in his eye. His pleasure at Prudence’s distress wasn’t flattering, but if Cate was completely honest, she found pleasure, too.

Nathan regarded her further and retreated a step. “Perhaps I should take my leave.”

“Perhaps you should, but don’t be surprised if you return to find a body,” she said moodily.

Executing a bow, he circled around her chair, and then tiptoed out of the room. His exaggerated steps and arcing arms caused him to resemble a sword-bearing stork. Closing her eyes, she shook away the vision. She drained her cup, took a deep breath and returned to the battle at hand.



###



Sometime later, the women emerged, Cate somewhat worn, but victorious. Gently, but not nearly as might have been an hour earlier, Cate prodded Prudence around the curtain and into the salon. Once again, she gave thanks for Mr. Kirkland and his intuitions, the smell of hot chocolate drawing Prudence to the table far more readily than threats could have achieved.

Prudence sat with the grace of a lady, but frowned unbecomingly at the cup before her. “I take mine with whipped cream.”

“The galley is fresh out just now,” Cate said, and dove with desperation into her second cup of coffee.

Following a brief display of lower lip, Prudence sipped primly.

A plate of still-steaming scones sat on the table. Honey, butter, and wedges of mango completed the presentation. The less-chipped, more presentable china was in service, the silverware given an extra buff. It would seem the presence of a lady, even one so young, had an effect on everyone.

No one would ever mistake you for a lady, Cate thought ruefully.

Prudence sniffed delicately at a scone, split it open, and then, with the glee of youth, spread honey until it drooled. Nibbling an edge, she poked at the mango with her fork, making a poor task of concealing her disappointment.

Cate heard familiar steps; Nathan’s arrival was eminent. She eyed Prudence, judging whether to give warning or just throw caution to the wind. In spite of Cate’s annoyance, the child stirred her maternal instincts: the driving desire to protect and aid.

“Prudence,” she began lightly. “Would you desire to meet Captain Blackthorne? After all, he is your host and does deserve a show of gratitude.” The last was uttered with the weighted tone a mother—or nanny—might employ.

Prudence jerked, her knife clattering to her plate. Puffing in panic, she looked wildly around, as if expecting Nathan to materialize from the bulkheads.

“You’ll be fine,” Cate said, soothing. “You’re safe—”

“Safe from what?”

Prudence lurched back in her chair at the sound of Nathan’s voice, Cate’s hand on her shoulder the only thing preventing her from taking flight.

“Safe from what?” Nathan said from the doorway, frowning.

“Umm, you,” Cate said.

“Me? What did I do?”

“Nothing…yet” Cate added under her breath.

Nathan stopped several paces from the table and stiffened with wariness. “What?”

Clearing her throat, Cate rose. “Captain Blackthorne, allow me to name Miss Prudence Collingwood, of Boston, I believe.”

Nathan gave Cate a severe look, his brows high in question. She inclined her head toward the cringing girl, and gave her brows a prompting jerk. With the trepidation of one approaching a coiled snake, Nathan inched closer.

“Your servant, Miss.” Striking a gracious pose, he swept off his battered leather tricorn and bowed with amazing graciousness. “It is both a pleasure and an honor to have someone so refined and lovely grace this humble ship.”

Straightening, Nathan gave Cate an ‘Are you satisfied?’ look as he strolled the long way around to his chair. He poured a coffee and sat alert over it.

A strained silence befell the tableau. Nathan sat twitching at Prudence’s every intake of breath, fearing an outbreak of tears. Prudence was rigid, scared to the point of speechlessness—not necessarily an objectionable condition. Cate quaffed her second cup and watched Nathan, wondering what he would do next.

“Soo…” Cate burst out just as Nathan prepared to speak. “How long do you plan for us to linger?” She finished with a significant look for Nathan’s benefit.

“The terms were two days,” he said slowly, staring back in confusion. “But we’ll linger here, until ’tis time for their arrival.”

“Arrival of whom?”

Their heads turned together, surprised by the sound of Prudence’s voice.

“Arrival of the people who are going to pay good money for your return, darling,” he said in a measured tempo.

Prudence brightened and openly smiled. “Then, I’m not a prisoner?”

“You’re not a prisoner, technically,” said Nathan. “Perhaps we shall go ashore today,” he declared, looking to Cate for approval.

“Perhaps not,” Cate countered with a significant lilt.

Straining to decipher the silent message, Nathan scowled and said slowly, “I thought it would be nice to—”

“No, I think not,” Cate said even slower.

“Pray, might you excuse us?” Launching to his feet, Nathan bobbed Prudence a bow, seized Cate’s arm and propelled her outside.

“What the bloody hell was all that about?” he cried whirling around on her.

“I don’t think taking her ashore is wise.”

He cocked one hip, crossed his arms, and patted one foot expectantly. Cate echoed the pose.

“Do you really think we should take a sixteen-year-old girl ashore with over three hundred men?” she asked at last.

“Three hundred?”

“The Griselle has gone ashore, too, have they not?”

His mouth rounded in a comprehending but silent “O” as Cate went on. “She’s barely gotten used to you—”

“Me! What’s wrong with me?”

“For a sixteen-year-old girl, away from home for the first time, everything. Now, imagine her ashore with three hundred more.”

Cate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. It was a strain to recall ever being as indulged at Prudence’s age, or any age, for that matter; stunningly helpless, at even the most basic levels.

“I can’t believe anyone would expect a girl like her to marry—” she found herself saying.

“A bastard,” Nathan finished. “’Tis what he is.”

“Yes, I get that impression,” she said, resigned.

“What’s on your mind to pass the day? This island has glorious falls; I had it planned,” he said.

Cate heaved a long sigh. It was difficult to ignore the hopeful lilt in Nathan’s voice. The allure of cool breezes and shadowed pools made it that much more difficult to decline.

“I’m thinking she and I will do what young ladies do. Oh, don’t look so blank,” she said testily. “You brush each other’s hair and talk about young men.”

At least, that was what she recalled. It had been a very, very long time for such things on her part. On a more recent level, it was how Brian’s nieces preferred to idle away the time.

He made a face. “Sounds wholly unappealing. Surely, you aren’t expecting me to…?”

“Not in life! Perhaps later we might go,” she added, in hopes of allaying his disappointment. “But in the meantime, could you please remember, she’s only sixteen.”

He hunched his shoulders and grumbled, “Aye, I’m not decrepit.”

“Well, then could you please just be…more…careful,” Cate said in a strained whisper.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” he cried. “You think I’m some bloody, cock-headed dolt what doesn’t know his ass from—”

“Shh!”

“Shh, yourself! I don’t give a tinker’s damn—” Nathan sputtered to an end, made several false starts, and then started anew. “At that age, I already made able-bodied seaman, crossed four seas, the equator double that, and rounded both horns.”

“And I was living halfway across a continent and hadn’t seen my family in years. She, however, has seen the inside of her parents’ home and a few blocks of Boston.”

Nathan drew a surrendering hand down his face. “Very well. Pray, I beg you enlighten me with your wishes.”

“Be nice.”

“Goddammit, I’ve been nice. See!” He bared his teeth in something that started out a smile, but quickly grew more befitting of a rabid dog. “I’m a pirate!”

“A little louder and she’ll be crying again, and it will be your fault.”

“And also, it would seem, an embarrassment,” he said, crestfallen.

“That’s not what I meant either,” Cate said, painfully aware of how hollow that sounded. “It’s just—”

“Aye, fair enough.” Nathan waved a hand, cutting her off. “Pious and prim as the damnable Mother Superior I’ll be. But she can bet her laces I’ll have her thrown in irons if she…” he shouted toward the door.

“Shh! She doesn’t know you’re jesting.”

“Much more better, because I’m not!” Stiffening, Nathan smartly clicked his heels together and struck a sharp but mocking salute. “Permission to breathe, sir?”

Cate heard the bark, but saw the mirth and bit back a smile. “Only once per glass and with prior approval.”

With grave misgivings, Cate watched Nathan go astern. He had agreed and done it with a smile, more or less. But there had been an unfamiliar edge in his voice, and something even more worrisome in his eyes: she had hurt his feelings. She thought to go after him, but Prudence was waiting. She paused to watch the cargo nets being lowered into the hatches, envying the men sweating it out in the hold. As she stepped over the coaming into the cabin, she considered the possibility Nathan was having his revenge after all.

She stopped dead next to the mizzenmast at seeing Prudence at the gallery sill. Cate’s sewing box opened before her, she held a piece of embroidery, the piece Cate had been working on, the one to which increments of precious time were allotted each day. Resentment surged. Never, either on the Constancy or the Morganse, had she felt so invaded. Biting back several unkind remarks, her first urge was to snatch it away.

“This is beautiful!” breathed Prudence. “Is this yours?”

“Why, yes, it is.” On a wry note, on a ship full of men, who else’s it could have been? “I only work in little bits.”

“It’s…it’s…I’ve never seen anything like it.” Prudence’s finger traced the entwined lines of stitching. “These roses are exquisite! You should have these on your bodice and around the neck of your shift and…”

She surveyed Cate with a sidelong, askance look. “Your clothes are so plain. And your skin is so…” She bit back further comment, good breeding prevailing.

“I well might have done all that, except the thread can’t be spared,” Cate said, busy with arranging the box’s ivory bobbins.

Prudence’s smooth brow furrowed. “Why don’t you have any thread?”

“I need to make it last. Most of it—the greens and browns, at least—I put in my physick box, for the men.”

“Why would men need thread?”

The girl’s complete lack of comprehension of the world she presently stood in left Cate momentarily speechless.

“Because when they are injured, they often need to be sewn,” Cate said levelly. There was no sorrow in seeing the girl go ill-looking. She assumed Prudence’s disinclination to suffer descriptions of saber slashes, splinters, or damages wrought by a gaffing hook. Taking advantage of the suddenly still hand, she plucked the stitching away and reverently put it back, a satisfactory click of the latch marking it safe away.

“Shall we finish breakfast?” Cate said lightly.



###



Prudence was visibly more relaxed in Nathan’s absence: she finished one scone, and then a second, along with two more hot chocolates.

“I suppose I should mind about my figure,” Prudence said as she drained the porcelain cup. Blushing came readily for her china-doll complexion, and she did so then.

“I shouldn’t be too worried,” Cate said.

Cate smiled at the vagaries of youth while buttering a scone. She had been spared such concerns. Brian had admired her curves of bust, and most particularly, hips. After years of near starvation, she weighed nearly a stone less than when in her prime, but was gaining weight at last. She touched her waist and wondered on Nathan’s opinion. She preferred not to be thought of as “a fat widow,” to which many a man aspired to in their old age. On the other hand, her first day aboard Nathan had called her “scrawny.” She had never heard him express any preferences one way or the other, until his wistful reference to Creswicke’s sister as “a plump little thing.”

“There are plenty of young lads who will be looking at far more than your figure,” Cate said, regarding the scone she held with a new eye.

“Do you think so?” The girl’s large cornflower-blue eyes—so blue they tended to look artificial—gave her a perpetually surprised or startled expression, as they did then.

“Of course. You are aware that you’re a very lovely girl,” Cate said in all earnestness.

Prudence possessed all the aspects of “perfection”—oval face, rounded nose, sloping shoulders, the plumpness of privilege, and modest demeanor—all the things Cate never possessed, as her mother had bemoaned with painful regularity.

Prudence cast her eyes downward. “Not really. Nanna always said as much, but she’s paid for such things. Mama said so, but she’s…well, she’s Mama. And Papa never said anything, except worry on what he was to do with me.”

Cate was struck with a wave of sympathy as the words of another disapproving father echoed in her mind: incapable of being pleased or satisfied, inflicting a constant pain of rejection and criticism. It was one more connection she felt with the girl.

“You’ve never had any beaus?” asked Cate. It boggled the mind to think there hadn’t been dozens of young men calling.

Prudence smiled dreamily, the blue eyes softening. “There was one. We meet in secret in the neighbor’s garden. Papa said I had to be pure, in order to gain a proper marriage.”

Mouthing a silent oath regarding ignorant, selfish men—most particularly Father Collingwood—Cate slid her chair closer and took Prudence’s hand.

“You’re a very pretty young lady,” Cate said in all sincerity. “A young man’s attentiveness is no crime. Any man concerned on account of another suitor isn’t worth having.”

Prudence beamed under the praise, but soon wilted. “You speak as if I have a choice. I’ve been betrothed to Lord Creswicke. What if he refuses me?”

He won’t; there’s too much money at stake, Cate thought bitterly. Creswicke’s rebuff could be the hand of Providence. Patting the soft hand, she instead said diplomatically, “If I was you, I shan’t be concerned on that point.”

Prudence accepted the opinion without comment. Appetite suddenly gone—no thanks to Creswicke—Cate broke bits from her scone and nibbled.

“Why didn’t your mother or father accompany you?” asked Cate. It was curious why such shielding parents weren’t more invested in personally seeing their daughter off to her new future.

Cate suffered greatly from the worry that, as Nathan had implied, Harte had intentionally misinformed her. To do so would have required an intricate conspiracy involving not only the Commodore, but Lady Bart and all her guests. Outlandish and improbable, the suggestion still found fertile ground. Parents showing up unexpectedly could complicate Nathan’s plans

“No, Papa said I needed to learn to be independent. It’s my first time away from Boston…ever. Do you think you might show me those roses of yours?” Prudence asked.

“By all means.” Cate inwardly groaned at the prospect of using up more precious thread. But, there seemed little choice.



###



“Be patient,” Cate instructed Prudence sometime later. “It’s all in the tension. Let go, and you’ll be required to start anew.”

They sat heads bent close together as Prudence practiced the new stitch on the hem of her shift. It was a joy to have someone with whom to share, the chance to discuss color and line of design, different applications of stitches, the advantages of wool to silk, or goldwork as opposed to tambour. They swapped pointers and showed off what they knew. Cate was struck by the delight of having a woman—albeit young—with whom to chat and even giggle. It put her in mind of her school days, so very long ago.

During a lull while Prudence worked, Cate fetched her brush. Seated on the gallery sill, she pulled the combs free and shook out her hair. Prudence put down her work to pick up one.

“These are lovely.” Prudence turned it in her hands, running her fingers over the intricate carving. “Wherever did you come by them?”

“They were a gift from the Captain on the other ship. He’s a particular friend to Captain Blackthorne,” Cate said, working the brush through her hair. She smiled, recalling Thomas’ boyish enthusiasm. “Thomas is very dear.”

Prudence looked up with a conspiratorial smile. “Do you fancy him?”

Annoyance spurred Cate to brush harder. “Why would you say that?”

Prudence sighed with exaggerated innocence. “Oh, just something in your voice, I suppose. Captain Blackthorne is so…scary! Those eyes, and that hair! He’s—” She shuddered dramatically.

Shoving the last comb in place, Cate rose abruptly. “Let’s have a hand at those roses.”

The stitch in question was one Cate had initially learned in France, she and Brian being there on business, on behalf of his uncles. She had since adapted the stitch by adding several flourishes, the result being both unique and impressive.

At one point, Cate reached to correct a mistake Prudence had made. Prudence seized it and gasped, her eyes rounded in shock. “You’re married!”

“I was.” Cate tried unsuccessfully to retrieve her hand.

Prudence bounced with the excitement. “Does he know where you are? Is he coming to find you? Is he going to rescue you? Is he going to fight the pirates for you? Is he going to kill Captain Blackthorne?”

Caught up in a romantic furor, Prudence fired questions so quickly, Cate couldn’t have answered them even if she was inclined, which she was not. The girl had been reading far too many novellas.

“No,” was Cate’s all-encompassing answer, when Prudence paused to draw a breath. Freeing her hand at last, Cate protectively covered it with the other. “He’s gone.”

“Gone? You mean he deserted you?”

“No, gone, as in he’s dead,” Cate replied flatly. A sudden tightness seized her chest.

The plump mouth rounded in a sympathetic “O.” “I’m sorry. My intention wasn’t to pry…”

“No, it’s quite well.” The forced smile Cate had worn all morning returned. “He’s been gone for…for some time now.”

They bent their heads once more, the conversation limited to only an occasional word regarding the embroidery. Prudence, however, became increasingly distracted and clumsy. Cate waited in wary caution. Something was on the child’s mind and there was every reason to believe whatever it was would come soon enough.

“If you’ve been married…” Prudence began in measured deliberation. The fair complexion flashed brilliant. “You would know what…what it is…to be with…with a man?” Her wide-eyed, china-doll gaze added to her innocence.

Cate stiffened, but kept her expression carefully arranged. The bedding was the first thing that came to mind, especially for the young and lustful, but there was ever so much more to marriage. And yes, at Prudence’s age, if anyone had tried to tell her the same, she would have laughed. Admittedly, a few pointers on she and Brian’s wedding night might have been advantageous, but then, the exploration and discovery had been so very rewarding. They had been virgins, but by no means virginal.

“A bit, yes,” Cate said guardedly.

Prudence’s smooth brow furrowed. “Mama wouldn’t tell me anything except you must lay back, close your eyes, and it would be over soon enough.”

Cate smiled ducked her head. To smile in the face of that stilted analysis could be quite hurtful.

Prudence pressed on. “Molly, the chambermaid, was the only other one who would tell me anything. I don’t believe she’s actually been with a man, but she posed as if she knew everything. She said me you must…” She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands working in the fabric she held. “She said you must spread your legs and let the man put his…thing in, until he…I don’t know, does something!”

“It hurts, that’s what Molly said,” Prudence was quick to add, her hands clenched in her lap. She looked up, beseeching. “Must it be just…that…quick and…scary?”

Cate suddenly felt old, like some ancient soothsayer giving wizened advice to the lovelorn. It couldn’t be said that Mother Collingwood’s succinct summation was erroneous, but there was so very much more to it.

“For some, perhaps…maybe. After all, how should I know?” Cate said, growing a bit testy.

Being married did not make her an expert. Other than witnessing first hand, no one knew exactly what went on in a marriage bed. She was reasonably sure hers had been the exception and not the rule, that conclusion being based on other wives’ conversation. Their suffering air, rolled eyes, bemoaning “one’s wifely duty,” and relief when the husband found another “outlet” were all indicators that they did not meet nights with the same relish as she.

“No, not always, if the man is gentle and attentive,” Cate said carefully.

Prudence’s lower lip protruded, as if she meant to argue. Regrettably, if pressed, Cate would be obliged to admit that no matter how well-meaning the man might be, the first time was always—had been—painful.

What was it like to be in bed with a man?

Running a hand along her arm, Cate recalled in vivid detail what couldn’t be shared with a young girl who, in all probability, had never been kissed: snowy, Highland winter nights under quilts, with a man who wanted nothing more than to bed his wife. How could she describe the long arms and warm hands which held and caressed, the murmurings and exploring, lying languid and flushed, pleasures and pleasing—

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

Cate jerked at the sound of Prudence’s voice.

“My husband? Of course,” Cate said unsteadily. She dashed the wetness from her cheek with a trembling hand. “When you’re with the man you love, you’ll look forward to doing those things.”

Cate couldn’t help but smile at that. Ah, yes! All of them, again…and again…and…

Prudence’s expression hardened into that of one accustomed to being told anything but the truth. “And if you don’t—love him, that is?”

Given what Cate knew of Creswicke, she felt as if she was tossing a lamb to the lion. Rubbing at a sudden pang in her temple, she tried desperately to think of a way to not dash the girl’s hopes, while not building unrealistic expectations.

Damn you, Father Collingwood, wherever you are!

“Well, sometimes love takes its time,” said Cate, lamely.

God, as if the child had any.

Whether satisfied, disappointed, confused, or embarrassed, Prudence allowed the subject to perish. She bent over her stitching with renewed purpose. Cate sat on the sill, ostensibly supervising. She stared at her hand clenched in her lap, her ring gleaming dully, and battled the memories now unleashed. She had learned long ago that once the floodgates were opened, blessed little would stop them. Thomas’ resemblance had brought Brian so very near.

Brian’s face rose up, his lake-blue eyes glowing with need. She looked up to see him leaned against the firemantel, the flames gilding hip and thigh, shining like a copper helmet on his hair. She blinked and he was in bed, head pillowed on his arm watching her undress. He lifted the blanket, inviting her in. She closed her eyes and they were under the stars, making love their last night together, his mouth and hands memorizing her every surface and curve.

Cate’s breath caught in a half-choked sob. Tears welling, she lurched to her feet, stammered a vague excuse and ran from the cabin. Solitude was what she sought, but it was a ship; there was no privacy. She ran to the forecastle and pressed her forehead hard against the rail, in hopes the pain might erase the anguish. The swirling visions only came faster, crushing and devastating, threatening to drive her to knees.

“Are you well, luv?”

Cate whirled around at being touched. Too shaken to speak, she stared at Nathan through a shimmering blur of tears.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, softly. The vertical lines of his face deepened with concern.

Nathan shook her gently by the shoulders and called her. She dimly thought how rarely he used her formal name. The fact he did so now showed the level of his alarm.

Her mouth moved, but no words came. She began to quake. Emanating from deep within, the tremors jolted through her, until her bones seemed to rattle against each other. She swayed then crumpled against Nathan and sobbed. She clung to him, fearful of the great pit that yawed at her feet, where demons named Isolation, Heartbreak, Loss, and Hopelessness waited. She cried for things she hadn’t cried for in years, things thought forgotten, and then from the pain of having done so. There were the things she had, and those that she never would. She pounded at his chest at the unfairness of it all.

Time was lost; Cate had no idea of how long Nathan held her. Slowly she quieted, the floodgates closed, and the ghosts retreated. Still, she clung to him. His shoulder under her cheek, so solid and warm, he promised the safety and protection she hadn’t known for so very long. Defender? Provider? Confident? He was so many things, and yet no knight in shining armor.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “It’s not…”

“Hist, now” he murmured against her cheek. “’Tis all well. Ol’ Nathan is here. You’re safe.”

Cate sank against him, molding her to his body as he swayed with her. Gradually the tension drained, her muscles twitching and jerking as they released. Her face hot and swollen, eyes throbbing knots, she sniffed again. He offered his sleeve, encouraging her to blow. Embarrassed, and with little choice, she did. Murmuring nothings, he dried her face with his other sleeve, then brushed away the strands of her hair stuck in the tear tracks.

“God! I’m a mess!” she choked, dashing at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make such a fool out of myself. I just…all of a sudden…I…”

“No worries, darling. You were crying for him.” Nathan thumbed away a few straggling tears. The corner of his mustache lifted in a smile that failed.

“How did you know?”

Nathan gave a tight-lipped smile, the corners of his eyes pinched with resignation. “The only time you cry thus is for him. You love him; ’tis no crime that you grieve for him.”

“But you shouldn’t have to put up with a sniveling woman,” Cate said, toying with a braid at his shoulder. “It’s not fair.”

He flipped a hand, making a poor attempt at levity. “Ah, trifles, mere trifles. If I minded, I wouldn’t be here, eh?”

Putting a finger under her chin, Nathan brought her face up to meet his. “I promise, I’ll find him. If he is anywhere on this earth, I will find him.”

“He’s dead, Nathan.” Cate's voice quavered, threatening to break again.

“So you keep saying,” he said tolerantly, and drew her close once more.

It felt so good to be held; it had been years. Until then, she hadn’t realized how desperate in need she was for the touch of another human. Other than being snatched, grabbed, or accosted, in had been years since she had been held by a man for the mere sake of it. His shoulder solid beneath her head, she could smell the tear-dampened linen of his shirt.

Nathan stiffened and he pushed her back to hold her at arms’ length.

“You need off this ship, and I shan’t take no for an answer, nor do I want to hear or care about Princess What’s-Her-Name.”

Cate’s hopes soared at the prospect. Leaving the ship could mean escaping behind the ghosts currently haunting.

“It sounds wonderful! I’ll go tell Prudence.”

Nathan made a guttural sound of disgust. “Do we have to take the Princess of Darkness? I know! We’ll lock her up!” he declared, with an inspired finger to the air. “We’ll put her in the hold; the bilge rats deserve her. No, that won’t do. Hermione doesn’t deserve that. We shan’t have milk for a week. Why can’t we just leave her to annoy the anchor watch for the day?”

“We can’t just leave her.”

“Why not? Why does she have to follow us like some wharf cur?”

“Because you brought that wharf cur aboard, and now it’s…she’s your responsibility. You made an agreement: Creswicke gives you the money and you give her back safe. How is it to look if you arrive with an injured or damaged hostage?”

The dark slash of brows shot up to the edge of his headscarf. “Damaged? First of all,” he began, ticking his points off on his fingers. “Damaged is exactly what they are expecting. She’s on a pirate ship, ergo she’s assumed damaged. Secondly, I don’t give a buggering damn what they think, as long as they pay. And thirdly, how did I wind up arguing when all I wanted was to do something nice. How the bloody hell did that happen!”

“You keep saying you want me to relax, but how can I, if I’m worried about her?”

Agitation growing, he began to pace, hands spiraling skyward. “Hell and death, there’s no telling what the little petticoat might do next. She’s constantly ordering you about like you’re her damned chambermaid. In less than a day, she’s taken over me cabin, has you sleeping on the deck—in an utterly reproachful mood, I might add. You’re crying, and you’ve begun talking to yourself.”

“I do not.”

“Aye, but you do.”

She bit her lip. He wasn’t entirely incorrect. “Perhaps to her I am the chambermaid. Do you remember an older woman with her?”

“Aye,” he said after a pause to recall. “Caterwauled enough to raise the dead, she did. We were in no need of a grannie.”

“Well, in retrospect, bringing the grannie would have made things ever so much easier. That was her nanny.”

“I’ll remember that the next time I kidnap a sixteen-year-old, if I ever grow that desperate again!” he said, with a suffering roll of his eyes. “You should be subservient to no one. If I hear her bark one more order—”

“She doesn’t bark—”

“If I hear her bark one more order at you,” he repeated evenly, narrowing a malevolent eye, “I’ll…well, I’ll…I’ll do something, and it shan’t be pleasant.”

Muttering several unrepeatable oaths, Nathan surrendered by throwing his hands in the air. “Fair enough! Anchor watch didn’t do anything to deserve her anyway. To leave her, I’d be losing men overboard hither and yon, like rats off a fire ship. Probably have to shanghai me next crew, since no one what knows a bowline from a ratline would board this ship else.”