The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 16: Ghosts

Nathan and his feminine entourage were still a good distance from returning to shore when they were met by wafts of smoke and the smell of roasting meat.

He stopped to inhale in blissful anticipation. “Going to be fine eats tonight.”

They broke free of the trees to see the sun announce its impending departure, the sky slashed with streaks of violet, indigo, and orange in a grand farewell. The sugar-white sand, now lilac-tinged in the lengthening shadows, was dotted with the molten glow of bonfires, and the flicker of faggots and torches.

“Bacchanal” seemed a lofty description for a beach writhing with pirates, and yet it applied. Men who lived by the credo of “freedom” made gay in that same spirit, their rollicking jubilation fertilized by an unlimited flow of bumboo, a spiced mix of water, rum, and sugar, a great favorite, by all appearances. The scene came close to resembling what Cate had imagined pirates to be: carousing on a shore, wild with drink. There is a difference between revelry and drunken brawl, a fine line but a difference, nonetheless. At that point, it was still the former, but teetered precariously toward the latter.

Once supper was finished—a great boar roasted over an open pit—the pirates gathered about the fires in small intimate groups, former mates, nationality, home port, common language, or mere fate the determining factor as to where they settled. With fiddles, fifes, concertinas, and hornpipes, along with a great number of exotic and homemade instruments, resulted in a dissonant din. The Scots bodhrans meeting Hindi sitars and African pipes was backdrop to a Babel of tongues as the men sang.

Through that roistering din, Cate gravitated toward the fire from which drifted the growl and gruff of Scots, and the even more enticing refrains of Highland music. Bodhrans—a Highland version of a stretched-skin drum—and tin whistles played Gaelic tunes that stirred her memories and pulsed in her veins. She sat against forage bags stuffed with dried grasses, the hay-like smell harkening back to hayfields and barn lofts of another life. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be carried back. The palm trees, balmy air and rolling surf faded into the sharp resinous smell of pine trees, hunch-backed mountains, tumbling burns, and crisp air. A familiar face awaited, one that brought a smile and quickened her heart. He beckoned her to the shadows beyond the fires with an intent blue gaze and an outstretched hand.

Cate opened her eyes to find Nathan gazing down at her, seeming to know what she was thinking.

He smiled, although it seemed somewhat forced. “I wondered where you’d gotten off to.”

She flushed guiltily. She thought to explain when he folded down next to her, but decided it was better left unsaid. There was no shame in missing what she had lost, she thought defensively. But Nathan’s combination of resentment and suspicion indicated otherwise.

“Rumormongers would go rabid if someone was to be seen not drinking,” he said, handing her a tankard. A slight slur of speech suggested he had taken measures to avoid the same. “’Twould be outright seditious in many circles.”

He watched as she took a drink, nodding in affirmation when she discovered it was ale. He had to have gone to some lengths to find something other than rum for her to drink. It was appreciated, and she said as much. He demurred and waved her away, while at the same time puffing with pride.

Sitting companionably together, they watched the men dance, a scrap of cloth tied around the heads of those posing as women. In a swirl of bearded, sun-weathered faces, distorted by the rictus of wild-eyed gaiety and drink, they whirled like wraiths in and out of the fire’s shadows. Jets of sand spurted up from under their feet as they pounded the ground. Eyes feverishly bright with merriment, they pled for Cate to dance. Hesitant, she looked to Nathan, who shrugged abidingly. As she rose amid a chorus of cheers, she wondered if she would remember how, for it had been years since she had done so. As she was spun from one man to the next, exact steps proved to be of little consequence: so long as she didn’t think too much, her feet remained untangled.

The faces of her partners soon blurred, no man being allowed more than a few steps before she was whisked away by the next. Smalley, all arms and legs, resembled a child’s whirligig as he cavorted around the fire. Hughes, singing in Gaelic at the top of his lungs, fell into a jig that instantly took her back to the Highlands and Hogmanay celebrations. Towers’ diminutive height brought his face—much to his pleasure—in line with the edge of her bodice, earning him admonishing glares, and ultimately his skipper’s warning hand on his shoulder. MacQuarrie, normally as stoic as one of his guns, verged on giddiness. Millbridge was the surprise. He moved with surprising gentility and poise, a distant-eyed gaze indicating he saw a face other than hers.

In the midst of it all, a firmer arm took her by the waist, and she looked up into Nathan’s face. Coils of energy shot through her from where his hand rested at the small of her back, quickening her heart and tightening her belly. She made a conscious effort to breathe, for at some time or another, she had stopped. As he took her other hand, their wrists brushed against each other, and the throb of the music in her blood was replaced by the tempo felt there. His hip pressed against hers; realizing how closely he held her, he made a visible effort to step back. It was odd for him to have nothing to say. Instead, he winked and launched them around the fire.

Barefoot, stripped to his shirt and breeks, Nathan moved with the lithe elegance she had witnessed for weeks, now alive under her hand. With his a gypsy-charmer smile, his eyes held hers as they twirled. She couldn’t look away, had she wanted. The world outside his arms faded; she didn’t recall her feet touching the ground. She was vaguely aware of him being tapped on the shoulder again and again by her next hopeful partners, but to no avail. As long as she was indulging in dreams that night, she allowed herself another, wondering what lay behind the fire-touched eyes that held hers.

With a flourishing swirl, they stopped, leaving her to wonder if it was just them or if the music had ceased. Moisture gleaming on his cheekbones, Nathan bowed and pressed his lips to her fingers. He stepped back, and before the shock of his appearance had worn off, he was gone.

As Cate was swept away by her next partner, the spell was broken, the ghost of Nathan’s hand at her waist lingered, a reminder that it hadn’t been a dream. She shied when anyone made to touch her there, lest the feeling be erased. Through more jigs and reels, she felt Nathan’s gaze following her. Catching a glimpse of his fire-lit profile as she spun past, she thought she may have seen admiration in his expression.

A Griseller, a great bear of a man, facial features buried in a ferocious mat of black hair and beard, picked her up and let out a gleeful bellow. With a vise-like grip about her middle, he whirled and stomped around the fire, all the while howling in Gaelic. She was caught between laughing and gasping for air when he put her down, the next man snatching her up before he stumbled off. After one rollicking reel and jig after another, Cate was at last too breathless to go on, her lungs boring her ribs into her stays. The men begged for her to continue, but relented when Nathan—boots, baldric, and pistol in place, his hat square on his head—waved them off. They left in a chorus of jeers and cat-calls, for everyone knew what a man and woman did in the dark.

The feel of where his hand at her back was still there. She longed for him to touch there just once more, but the respectable distance was resumed as he steered her back to their fire. Ever-hovering, ever-protecting, but never venturing those final few inches which bridged between friends and…well, never mind.

Dabbing the sweat from her temples and lifting her hair from her damp neck, Cate realized she had forgotten about Prudence. They found the girl roughly where she had been left, a short distance from their fire. She had now been joined by a young seaman. Seated a discreet distance apart, they spoke between themselves, so enraptured the earth could have fallen in around them, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

“Money well-spent, don’t you think?” Nathan said as they drew up a short distance away.

Cate whirled on him, gaping. “Nathan, you didn’t!”

“Very well, I didn’t. What? ’Tis only for tonight. Better him, than her setting her sights on someone else,” he said, shuddering. “And it didn’t come as readily nor cheaply as you might be led to believe. I had to persuade one of Thomas’ lads. There wasn’t enough money in the Spanish Main to persuade any of our people. Ignorance can sometimes be bliss,” he ended in wonderment.

“But now she thinks—”

“That a lad wishes to spend an evening with her,” he said evenly.

“You sold her.” She could feel her color rising at the thought that Nathan had been so callous.

“No, I bought her a gentleman caller,” Nathan said with marked patience. “I’m letting nature take its course, with a little help. What’s the harm, eh? She doesn’t have to sit the night alone, and the lad earns the company of someone what doesn’t have hair growing out of every crevice. You’d think a soul might get a little thanks for his efforts.” He displayed a small pout.

Cate eyed Nathan, and then the lad. Too young to have lost his lankiness, he bore a strong jaw that promised of character to come. Non-descript in his sun-drabbed clothes, he was yet to have found his identity in the way of dress or accoutrement. On second observation, it did appear to be near to what Nathan represented. Prudence’s gentleman caller appeared innocent enough, indeed far too young to pose a threat. It was worth bearing in mind, however, that just as every other man on the shore, he was a pirate.

“I’ll thank you, when I’m surer of what just happened,” she said, and went to find a place to sit, well within sight of the young pair.



###



Nathan wove his way between the torches and fires, dodging the drunk-to-the-point-of-stupor men, looking for the two women who currently bracketed—and plagued—his life. One he hoped desperately to find, the other he crossed his fingers desperate not. One made his balls tighten, the other made them seize.

He’d been called off on some insignificant detail of business—a near brawl requiring careful negotiations lest there be dismemberment—and had returned to their fire to discover that not only had Creswicke’s noisome wench disappeared—Thank the gods! He’d paid good money for that small blessing—but Cate and Thomas as well. Snuck off together was his first suspicion, but a more tempered voice offered a host of explanations.

At his inquiry, Pryce mumbled something indiscernible, but had no specifics to offer. It would appear his First Mate had found the bottom of his omnipresent, supposed-to-be-secreted flask more than once that night.

Contrary to all hopes—and vehemently cursing the Fates for such foul and black luck—it was the Yellow Nemesis he encountered first, perched on a log. Following the direction of her intent gaze, he located what he truly sought. His first urge was to race forward, but stood off.

It was Cate, close enough to see, but too far to hear. She stood at the base of a tree, her slender form silhouetted against a fire’s glow. Face upturned, she was laughing with Thomas. The breeze brought the sound of it, a rippling, throaty sound suggesting roughened velvet. When echoing throughout his ship, it was a pleasing sound, but brought a sickened feeling when heard intertwined with Thomas’. Could the man never laugh, without sounding like a damned old lecher?

He felt a tightness that was not the fault of his breeches. “Easy lads. I know ’tis been a time, but there will be none of that, not now, at any rate,” he murmured.

He knew he was staring, but didn’t give a rat’s ass, if anyone saw. Lost in her beauty, he was. Too many times, she had caught him gaping like a sun-struck dullard. He wondered if that was normal for friends.

Damnation and seize my soul, I’m learning to hate that cursed word.

Cate moved and the light caught her eyes.

Emerald blue: is there such a color?

Well, there bloody well must be, because you’re looking at it, mate.

He learnt such a color meant she was at peace…happy.

About bloody time!

So rapt in watching, he stumbled into the log where the Demon Seed sat. He was obliged to catch himself by her shoulder to keep from toppling over the bloody thing. Chin propped in her hand, she barely acknowledged him. He lowered down next to her, both now engrossed in the same vignette.

Prudence dreamily sighed. “He is rather dashing, isn’t he?”

Nathan sat back, brought up short by the thought. “Really? You think as much? All things considered, I hadn’t really considered it.”

He cocked his head and squinted, trying to imagine what a woman might see.

Well, aye, tall and blonde…and big…blue eyes, and a nice laugh, and a big smile—not unlike meself—and charming, a man with his own ship…Oh, bloody hell!

He buried his face in his hands. Many a time he and Thomas had vied for the attentions of the same woman—actually came to blows, the once—but he had never actually saw Thomas for all his attributes.

“Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Prudence tore her eyes away long enough to look to seek affirmation. It was baffling why women were constantly doing that: asking questions with answers they already knew.

’Twas like a bloody test, all the time.

“Aye, I suppose,” he said, in strained off-handedness.

Cate laughed again. A purling, seductive sound on the evening air, it was. She moved into the firelight. Now he could see the angle of her body, those wide shoulders and delicious curve of collarbone. She bent toward Thomas to hear amid the surrounding merriment, and then put her mouth nearer to say something in his ear.

Suffering Jesus on the cross!

Friends, remember? A chill rippled between his shoulders, and he felt sick. So, that’s what it means.

“Aren’t they enchanting together?”

Prudence’s voice jerked him back to reality. “What?”

“It’s perfect.” Her eyes shone with romanticism. “The wild pirate comes and rescues her, then carries her away into the sunset on his ship, forever happy.”

Prudence heaved another sigh. “Just look at them together.”

“I’d rather not.”



###



Thomas laughed softly and lifted his hat a fraction. “I beg your leave. My men await, but I shall return.” His features gilded by the fires, a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth.

Cate watched Thomas stroll away, coattails swinging with the roll of his step, so much like Nathan’s, a seaman’s gait. There was another ghost shadowing his movements, however, and the sight of it made her bite her lip. She heard a faint metallic tinkling, hesitant but near. She turned to find Nathan standing half-immersed in the night shadows. He shifted and the moonlight caught his shirt. It gave off an ethereal glow, harkening to the visages just seen in Thomas’ wake.

“Been there long?” she asked.

Nathan broke a crooked smile, the one that always came when he was uncertain. It disappeared quickly as he stepped forward. He cleared his throat, and then made a poor attempt at nonchalance.

“Thinking I might have overheard things perhaps not intended for me ears.”

Cate chuckled quietly. “Hardly. What could I possibly have to say to Thomas that you shouldn’t hear?”

His mouth took an odd twist. “One never knows, does one?”

Folding his hands behind his back, Nathan rocked on his feet, and cleared his throat again. A tentative smile played briefly, a nervous, failing flicker. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”

It was not so much the inanity of what he said, but the strain in his voice that caught her attention. “Yes, it is,” Cate said, curious as to where this charade would lead.

He jerked dramatically, as if just discovering a downed tree and made a wildly errant gesture toward it. “Would you care to sit?”

Cate allowed Nathan to see her seated. It was disquieting the way he hovered, as if she were an infirmed old aunt, sitting only as an afterthought. He leaned on his arms on his thighs. It might have been a casual pose, except for his heel tapping the ground, and his hands working against each other. Something was bothering him; experience had taught waiting was the best means to learn what.

A deep laugh—unmistakably Thomas’—drew their attention. Looking, she felt Nathan’s eyes darting between his friend and her.

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

The suddenness of Nathan's inquiry startled her, as did the solemnity with which it came. It was an unreasonable question, yet reasonable for him to ask. Looking down the beach, her gaze lingered on Thomas, now standing by a fire, chatting.

“What makes you ask a silly question like that?” Cate asked, painfully conscious of the miserable job she did of gleaning her defensiveness.

Nathan’s mustache took a wry twist. “I’m not daft, nor blind. I’ve seen you looking—that look.”

Cate groaned inwardly. So, he had noticed. It had been foolish to think he wouldn’t. In spite of his disarming and off-handed demeanor, he missed blessed little.

“You’re right, but it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s just so difficult.” She sighed, vigorously rubbing her forehead, as if it might erase the images. “He reminds me so much of Brian.”

Nathan swiveled to regard Thomas. “He was that tall?”

She closed her eyes to recall: Thomas’ chin met just between her brows. “Actually, Thomas is a bit shorter; my head used to fit just under Brian’s chin,” she said to her hands in her lap.

Irresistible forces compelled her to watch as Thomas crossed his arms and cocked one hip, intently listening.

“It’s not just the height. It’s his walk and his smile. There’s that little something at the corner of his mouth…” Her voice caught and the tears welled. Thomas’ image blurred, erasing the differences and rendering him even more like Brian. There was far more to it: the way he laughed and jested, swung his arms or crossed his ankles as he sat. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the differences, the likenesses always elbowed their way to the surface.

Nathan slumped and looked to the ground between his feet. “Oh.”

“My grandmother always said to marry a tall man. They were the most gentle, is what she used to say. She was right,” Cate said, with a faint smile.

The firelight flared on tendons of Nathan’s arms, now gone rigid “So, you do fancy him.”

His shoulders rose and fell, and then he looked up with the expression of a man commending himself to the gallows. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I could put a word in for you,” came in a tight rasp.

It was tempting, so very tempting.

For a moment, Cate allowed herself the luxury of that fantasy, but instantly saw it for what it was: a hopeless snatch at regaining a life long lost. And yet, she had not made mention of the resemblance to Thomas for that very reason. “You remind me of my dead husband,” was hardly the way to initiate anything. She hadn’t made mention to Nathan for the same reason: so that she could pretend. And pretend she did, to the point that it was both a startlement and irritation, when Thomas did something out of character. To use Thomas in such a way was reprehensible, and she despised herself for it. She only need think how she would feel if Nathan was to use her the same way: as a replacement for his precious Hattie.

Ah, but would it be so terrible if he was to have you for just a little bit?

She batted down the voice. To chase ghosts was to throw her heart away. She had surrendered one heart—one long gone—in exchange for another.

She looked at that very heart sitting next to her just then, dejected and miserable.

“No.” Regrettably, the word didn’t come out as definitively as intended. Cate cleared her throat and tried again. “No, it wouldn’t be fair.”

She stiffened as another thought occurred. “Are you hinting to be rid of me?”

“No!” Nathan burst out, eyes bugging with alarm. He checked himself and softened. “No, most definitely and adamantly, no.”

She dipped her head to intersect his gaze. “Then why even ask the question or even suggest it? Is this because of the other night?”

“No, upon me word! Just intuitive insertions, idle observations.” Nathan lifted a shoulder, as if to dismiss it, but it still pressed his mind. “I thought…perhaps—”

They were interrupted by Thomas’ hail as he strode toward them.

“There you are!” he boomed. “You children lurking about in the dark, I see. Shame, shame!” He waggled a warning finger at them. “People will talk.”

“Only about the overbearing pestilence what keeps storming up and down the beach like a pillaging Cossack,” Nathan grumbled.

“Then c’mon over to the fire and sit. One of my men finally brought a chessboard. Are you ready to get beat?”

“Certainly,” Nathan declared eagerly, handing Cate up. “Except, I do suffer a bit of remorse at the prospect of demeaning and humbling someone so grand as yourself…again.”

“Willing to put your money on that?”

Nathan swept a mocking bow that finished with an inviting arm toward their fire. “I’m your man.”

Nathan and Thomas settled into what some might call “a friendly game.” It was a far cry from any chess match Cate had ever witnessed. Customarily associated with long pensive silences, interspersed with quiet murmurings of appreciation of a move, Nathan and Thomas’ version lacked all manner of gentlemanly restraint, bearing more resemblance to a tavern brawl than a parlor game. A player’s selection of his next move was made under a barrage of taunts, bawdy jeers, and derisive challenges. The move was immediately followed by a tirade of swearing and name-calling—in several languages—heavily mixed with punches, slaps, and generalized fist-brandishing.

Familiar enough with the game of chess to understand, but not proficient enough to pose a challenge, Cate had been goaded into a game by Nathan now and again. She had learned at her father’s knee, with further tutelage from her brothers. Brian had spent innumerable winter evenings attempting to broaden her game, and ultimately she became accomplished enough to delay defeat for almost an hour. Her successes against Nathan had barely been better. Her matches with him had been nothing like this.

Cate sat on a cask between the two pirates and watched. There were no classical moves, no familiar gambits. This was based on nerve and cunning, bravado and bluff. Their familiarity with each other bred congenial contempt, but also an advantage, often seeming to know the other’s next move before it was made.

Alike in so many ways, the two men were diametric opposites in so many others. Sitting between them, Cate became aware of being bracketed by muscle and bone, the round of a shoulder against the linen of a shirt, the pull of thigh muscles under the taut fabric of breeches, each exuding his unique aura of maleness. More often, she was lost in watching their fingers—Nathan’s long and aristocratic, Thomas’s broad and blunt—hover over the board in thought, and then pluck the chosen ivory piece.

A few times she glanced up to find Nathan watching her watching Thomas, dropping his attention to the board when caught. In those brief moments, she caught a glimpse of something akin to jealousy…again. It had cropped up several times since Thomas’ arrival, and Harte, too, come to think on it. It was a puzzle. On the one hand, Nathan wanted no other man near her, and yet on the other, he held no interest. She was caught between saying, “Make up your mind” and “You’ve nothing to worry about; I’ve cast my lot.” Surely she was reading more into it than was meant. By his own admission, Nathan was new to this concept of friendship, especially where a woman was concerned. Finding the balance between friendship and possession clearly was a struggle. This was going to require patience on both parts.

Cate looked periodically to check on Prudence. A girl in a saffron dress wasn't difficult to find among a crowd of sun-drabbed, weatherworn sailors. She now sat atop a keg, a piece of canvas chivalrously draped over it. According to Thomas, the young lad Nathan had hired was named Biggins. He was the ship’s baby. Thomas represented he had only taken on the lad because he had cried so hard when he had been denied.

“Half-monkey in the tops, though,” said Thomas in wonderment as he waited for Nathan to make his move. “The boy’s fearless on that account. A week of bein’ cabin boy taught him nothing could be worse.”

To their chagrin, Prudence and Biggins had been joined by Grisellers and Morgansers, and no wonder. Young or old, fishwife or princess, women were a welcomed relief, and the pirates circled around for the sheer joy of a feminine face.

Crude laughter had drawn Cate’s attention a few times. She looked again to see Prudence, ashen-faced and scandalized, Biggins next to her, stiff with indignation. Cate chuckled silently. In the face of such propriety and innocence, the men couldn’t resist the temptation of being as raucous as possible. They had tried her on at the beginning, but life, a war, and five brothers had already seasoned her; few things shocked her now.

Cate straightened at seeing Prudence lurch to her feet and race away, and was instantly on her own feet to give chase. Nathan called out from behind her, and then darted to catch her up. Their paths down the shore in Prudence’s wake converged with Squidge, also in pursuit.

“What happened, man?” Nathan demanded.

Deep in his cups, the garland of dried ears swung at Squidge’s neck as he splayed his hands in innocence. “Honest, Cap’n, we was just tellin’ her of her intended. I guess it just went a bit too far.”

“A bit,” Cate shot back acidly.

Swearing, Cate took off in the direction in which she had last seen the saffron dress. She scanned the beach and nearby bushes as she jogged along, confident Prudence wouldn’t have gone far. The dark wilderness would be too scary. Once away from the fires, and her eyes had grown accustomed to the night, she saw the glimmer of yellow just ahead, only a few paces into the trees. As Nathan came up beside her, the sound of muffled crying could be heard over the rattle of palm fronds and rustle of the water lapping shore. Nathan stiffened and put out a protective hand. Cate silently bid him to wait, and went closer, making a good bit of noise, lest she startle the child and upset her further.

“Prudence? Are you all right?”

“Go away!”

“We just came to—”

“Go away, all of you!” she shrieked louder, her fists balled at her sides. “I hate all of you! Leave me!”

Cate hesitated then pressed closer. “I just wanted to—”

Cate inched close enough to touch Prudence on the arm. The girl whirled around, her face contorted with rage. “I hate you. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

Prudence flew at Cate like an enraged cat and pummeled her with her fists. Nathan lunged forward, but Cate waved him off, for it was more like being attacked by a kitten. Even in a fit of blind fury, Prudence’s blows were pitifully ineffective, although there was a good chance Cate would be bruised by morning. She took a fist to the ear, another grazing her cheek. Overall, it was far less abuse than what her brothers had inflicted in her youth.

Exhausted at last, Prudence fell away. Turning her back, her small shoulders heaved as she gasped for breath. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied,” Cate said evenly.

“Yes you did,” Prudence hissed over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered with teary hatred. “I asked inquired about Lord Creswicke and you lied. All of you lied.”

“I never said—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?”

“Because I…we hoped to spare you.” Efforts that now seemed woefully inept, Cate thought ruefully.

“They said he’s a horrid man, and he has done despicable, disgusting things.”

Cate stood mute. Too often, the truth was regrettable. Upon reflection, it might have been better advised to have eased the child into it, rather than leaving her to the shock of finding herself married to a monster, and monster he certainly was. Cate had heard thinly veiled allusions to Creswicke’s distasteful “tastes.” She didn’t care to contemplate to where those tastes might lead.

“Anything I did or didn’t say would not have made Lord Creswicke any better or worse of a person,” Cate said, a bit defensive.

Prudence drew several shuddering breaths in an effort to regain her composure. “They said he beat Nathan…Captain Blackthorne.”

Cate looked toward Nathan. He stood half-hidden by the fronds of a head-high fern. Scowling, the vertical lines between his brows deepened: a clear message that he preferred she desist.

“Yes, he did,” Cate said at length, with some reluctance.

“And he branded him.”

Nathan’s expression darkened further, willing her to leave the subject lie.

“Yes, that as well,” she said, looking back to Prudence.

Prudence turned, the petite features twisted with anguish. “Will he brand me?”

The question caught Cate so unprepared, she almost laughed. At the same time, she felt a pang of sympathy. As irrational as it might seem to everyone else, the possibility was very real to Prudence.

Cate’s mouth wobbled with the urge to smile. “I doubt it.”

Sniffing, Prudence twisted at the fabric of her skirt. “You should have told me. I thought you were my friend.”

Cate inched close enough to lay a tentative hand on the girl’s shoulder. Tremors coursed through the small body. “And sometimes friends have to do difficult things.”

“You all hate me.”

“That’s silly, of course we don’t—”

“Yes you do! I’ve seen the way you all look at me. You all treat me like I’m a child…and you hate me!” Prudence’s voice took a new pitch as her anger resurged.

Cate bit back a remark to the effect that one is treated as one acts. “Prudence, you know better than that. We’ve all—”

“I hate you!” Prudence spun and leapt at Cate again.

The child came at her with the frenzied misdirection of having attacked, but with no real idea as to how to go about it. As they grappled, Cate absorbed the slaps and fended off several more. She ducked from the curled fingers aimed at her face. Prudence made a fortuitous snatch at the hair at Cate’s temple, and she yelped. Over Prudence’s shrieks, she heard a growl and saw an arm snake out. Beringed fingers dug deep into the black curls and Prudence was jerked away.

“Stand off, you shrieking strumpet.” Nathan’s graveled voice ripped the night air as he swung the girl by the hair in an arc. The patent leather shoes skipped over the ground, Prudence squealed like a shoat, in startlement more than pain.

“Nathan, put her down!” cried Cate.

He gave Prudence a quelling shake, and then released her. The small space was filled with the sound of ragged breathing. Rubbing her head, Prudence gave them a wounded look, and then broke into a new wave of plaintive crying.

Blood pulsing still from being attacked, Cate rounded on Nathan. “You don’t need to be so—”

“Belay!” Considerably calmer, he said, “I mean, quiet, luv.”

Nathan stalked toward Prudence with a vehemence that caused her to fall back several steps, half-stumbling on the low plants behind her. “Stay your claws, you cross-grained bit o’ culckoldry. You will never, never raise a hand to that woman ever again!”

“Nathan, I—” A desisting hand and a glare from Nathan cut Cate short.

Nathan rounded on Prudence with a rigid finger in her face.

“You will treat her as if she were the Queen Mum, not your goddamned chambermaid.” He dipped his head lower, denying Prudence’s attempts to look away. “You touch her, or speak to her with any—I repeat, any—disrespect, and sink and burn me, I will bare that ass before every tar on that beach and strap it as your cursed father apparently never did.”

“Nathan, you don’t need to—” Cate began.

“Aye, but I do. This has been coming and little Miss Bird o’ Price knows exactly of which I speak, does she not?” He fixed a gimlet eye on Prudence.

Sniffling, Prudence risked a glance toward Cate then back to the ground, pointedly avoiding Nathan.

He cleared his throat, a sound similar to ripping canvas. “Prudence?”

Prudence sniffed loudly—dramatically so, by Cate’s judgment—and cringed. Twisting her hands in her dress, she batted her eyes at him, the effect greatly diminished by the tear-reddened rims.

“I can’t imagine whatever you mean,” she said meekly.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not try me on, Missy. I’ll see you rot, mark me words,” he said in a low rumble.

Prudence dodged around Nathan with surprising nimbleness and flung her arms around Cate. “He hates me. He only cares for the money.”

“That’s not true, and you know it well.” Cate said, over the top of Nathan’s sputtered objections. “He’s provided for you far better than elsewhere.

“He’s kept you a hostage. He’s kept you from the man you love.” Prudence implored, her grip tightening on Cate’s shoulders.

Cate held her back at arm’s length. “What? Who?”

“Thomas, of course. Don’t be afraid to admit it’s so.”

It was Cate who sputtered now. “He’s done no such thing.”

Prudence cringed. Cate realized that her fingers were digging Prudence’s arms and she let go, wresting herself from the girl’s clutches.

“I am exactly where I want to be.” Cate’s voice quavered with both frustration and rage. “A lady does not meddle in other people’s lives.”

“I’m sorry.” Prudence’s high-pitched squeak carried only a hint of remorse. “I didn’t think—”

“And that’s the point, Prudence. You weren’t thinking. You’re due to be married, and it’s high time you become the lady your mother raised you to be.”

“But, Lord Creswicke—”

“Will only be the smallest of your problems if you continue to meddle in other people’s lives.”

Old habits were well entrenched, Prudence snatched at her next ploy: grabbing Cate’s arm, beseeching. “He still doesn’t like me,” she whined, with an accusing look over her shoulder toward Nathan

“Aye! Flog her,” Nathan shouted.

“See,” shrieked Prudence, and clutched Cate, wailing anew.

“Hell’s fury, you bloody-damned right! But by your own hand, you envenomed sprat!” Nathan shouted over the sobs. “Always blathering and snotting about. ’Tis enough to drive the saints daft.”

“Nathan, how could you?” said Cate.

“How could I not?” he huffed. “Surely, you don’t desire me to lie? Goes completely contradictory to me entire moral fiber. No, can’t abide a liar, particularly distasteful. Flog her, I say! Hodder can lock her in the brig for the night and rig the grate for morning. Twelve lashes! Always starts out the day with the proper attitude for the crew.”

Prudence’s shrieks reached siren-like proportion.

“Nathan, when was the last time you flogged anyone?”

For a fleeting moment, Cate had thought she was seeing the renowned pirate. Then the corner of his eye twitched and the hook of his mustache lifted the corner of his mouth. It was Captain Nathanael Blackthorne, at his best.

“To the Griselle then,” he cried, brightly, with a piratical gleam. “We’ll bid Thomas to do it. I’ve seen him flay down to the bone in four strokes.”

Prudence’s wails built to a terrorized crescendo, Cate began to think Nathan might be overplaying just a bit.

She brought Prudence’s snot-laden face up to hers and said, “Perhaps you should go back to the fire, while I speak with the Captain.”

“Aye, aweigh and quick sharp about it,” Nathan said, with a bit more additional growl.

Prudence hesitated. Nathan drew his sword and charged. “Scat!”

Arms over her head, Prudence let out a startled squeak and ran. Nathan lunged to slap her soundly across her bottom with the flat of his blade, slitting the silk and the first layer of petticoats.

Nathan smiled crookedly as he watched the yellow dress fade into the dark, back toward the bonfires’ friendly light. “How many more days is it until we are rid of her?”

“It’s positively wondrous how you turn that off and on so readily,” Cate said in awe.

Nathan smiled and gave a self-deprecating shrug.

In the wake of Prudence’s wailing, the space fell eerily quiet, neither of them knowing quite what to say. Nathan looked to his feet, while Cate stared off. Eventually, the dry rattle of the palm fronds and chorus of night creatures filtered in. The trill of tree frogs came from very near. Laughter from the fires rode the shifting land breeze, along with the smell of wood and tobacco smoke. Cate felt tired and defeated. From the first, her only thought had been to help the girl; she had been inexplicably driven to do so.

“You didn’t believe her, did you?” Cate said.

A part of her hoped for a convincing lie that could give her ease. It was worrisome to think Nathan would have believed anything so outrageous. Judging from his reaction, however, this wasn’t the first time Prudence had uttered such foolishness. She had been so wrapped up in Thomas’ resemblances she hadn’t considered what Nathan had seen: her mooning over his best friend.

Nathan eyed the fingernail gouge on Cate’s arm with disapproval. The blood welled in a long thin stream, nearly black in the moonlight.

“Not exactly…for the most part. Had me doubts…somewhat.” His attempt at nonchalance allayed none of her concerns.

Nathan looked away and shifted uneasily, his hands working at his sides. Eventually he came around to her with an expression akin to one facing a firing squad.

“Am…I…?” he asked, in an inordinately small voice. “Am I…keeping you…?”

He fixed Cate with an intent gaze, as if willing her to say something, but what she couldn’t tell.

“Nathan, I told you I—”

“And with a marked lack of conviction, I might observe,” he said, barely tolerant. “The measure of a man’s regard is in the price he’s willing to pay, and Thomas is willing to pay quite handsomely, a king’s ransom.”

He sobered, his resolve solidifying. “I said before and I’ll say again: what you want, I want. No more, no less. And if yon gargantuan is what holds your dreams, then…” He gulped. “Then say as much, and…let the negotiations begin.”

Cate gaped. Panic, rage, dismay, and fear all jammed to the surface, like apples in a barrel. Hurt found a different path, rising up under her ribs in a searing ember. A moment ago, Nathan had been vehemently defending her, a bit before that, had offered to put in a word with Thomas on her behalf. A few hours ago, he had pledged her the moon. And barely a week hence, he had stood on the Morganse’s forecastle and begged her to stay.

God, what I wouldn’t give for a moment’s honesty.

Cate rubbed her temple, where a headache began to throb. She was weary of the games. Through all Nathan’s evasiveness, she had the strong sense that the honesty that she longed for was just beneath the surface, dangling like a bone before a dog, waiting to be revealed, but not to her. It would take a very special woman to gain his confidence.

Like his precious Hattie?

If Nathan’s purpose was to befuddle to the point that she finally threw up her hands and walked away, she could compliment him on his success. And yet, in her heart, she knew it was folly to think she could leave him. She would be with him to the end, whenever he desired it to be, for it would be his decision.

“Is that all I am: a matter of price?” she sighed. The night suddenly weighed like a cloak of lead.

Nathan grimaced, and then flashed a constrained smile. “A price which I’ve been paying since the day I saw you puking on me deck.”

While Cate strained to comprehend his meaning, Nathan hooked his thumbs in his belts and chuckled with smug glee.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I’m thinking how much that double-dealing git and Creswicke deserve each other. She will torture the hell out of him.”

Still fizzing with mirth, he made to leave.

“What are you going to do with me?” she blurted.

Nathan stopped in mid-stride, but didn’t turn. Staring into the night, it was several moments before he sighed, suddenly sounding tired. “’Twill require a Solomon for that.”

When they returned to the fire, Thomas sat exactly as when they had left: chin propped in his hand, resting on his knee, studying the chessboard. Only his eyes moved at their approach, shifting in exaggerated question from Nathan to Cate, and back. The sandy brows arched high in mute inquiry. Cate shrugged noncommittally.

“How many of my pieces did you move while I was gone?” Nathan asked as he sat, making a great show of surveying the board.

Thomas lifted on shoulder and dropped it. “Only three; you were losing anyway.”

Nathan’s eyes widened in skepticism. “Really? Perhaps we should just play this out and see who the true prevaricator is, eh?”

Cate settled back in her place between them to watch as a new game developed: the My-Turn-to-Move-Three-of-Your-Pieces version. It included the If-You-Can-Move-Mine-I-Can-Move-Yours rule, which led to the Punch-You-So-I-Can-Move-Your-Man-While-You-Recover method. Oddly, that particular game ended in an impasse. Swearing heartily, the board was wiped clear and they began anew.

As the hour grew late, the game settled into something more familiar, with long, pensive stretches between moves, murmurs of admiration and soft rumble of male laughter. A bottle of brandy appeared and they shared, regularly toasting each other for a number of reasons.

A moving shadow and stirring of air marked Artemis’ passing. Swooping low, she roosted in a nearby tree to blandly observe humanity. Altogether uninteresting by owl standards, she swooped off into the island’s interior. Later she returned, dipping low over the fires to show off the fruits of her labors: a large rodent dangling from her claws.

Sometime later, footsteps approached with a speed and suddenness that launched Nathan to his feet. His sword drawn and Cate shoved behind him, before he realized it was only Prudence’s lad, Biggins.

He drew up before Nathan, fists curled at his sides. “I challenge you…sir!”

Sword forgotten in his hand, Nathan gaped. “Me?! What the bloody hell? Did you put him up to this?” he cried, whirling around on Thomas.

“No.” Chin still propped in his hand, Thomas looked on benignly. On closer inspection, he was visibly struggling to keep a straight face. “I wish I had, but…”

The lad swayed slightly. His eyes focused on Nathan with considerable effort. “I challenge you, sir,” he cried in a quavering voice. It was unclear if it the thin voice was the product of fear, drink, or youth.

Cate had learned much in the way of the pirate way of life, but on the matter of dueling she was woefully uninformed. The first question that came to mind was “Were there were any rules at all?” Was there such a thing among a lot who fancied themselves beyond rules? It stretched credulity to image two pirates squaring off at 20 paces and firing. One just outright killing the other in a brawl seemed more likely. “To the death” echoed in her mind, but in what context was lost. Observing the puzzled reaction of the gathering onlookers, it appeared that either rules did exist and Biggins had failed to adhere to them, or he was trying to instill rules which didn’t exist.

Among the “civilized,” a glove would have been dropped or a calling card delivered by a second. Something was dropped at Nathan’s feet just then. Possibly intended to be a glove, the thing bore more resemblance to a sock, and a sad representation it was: a non-color brownish grey in the firelight, tattered and multi-holed.

Nathan slipped his sword back into its scabbard with a deft flourish that indicated he had no intention of drawing it again. He prodded the challenge token with the toe of his boot.

“What is this?” Nathan bent to pick up the thing and shoved it back. “Here, take this and cut along, lad, before—”

Biggins jerked it away, only to throw it again, with even more conviction. “I challenge you, sir! I’m calling you out.”

“Me? Out? The poor boy’s drunk,” Nathan said to the increasing crowd of curious rogues.

“I’m no boy,” Biggins huffed, his thin chest heaving with conviction. “I’m calling you out in defense of the honor of Miss Prudence Collingwood.”

“Thomas,” Nathan roared, turning. “What nursery did you pluck this one out of?”

“You defiled her, sir,” Biggins cried.

“I never laid a hand on her,” Nathan sputtered whirling back around. “Aye, I grabbed her by the damned hair, swung her about a bit and smacked her bum, but I never touched her.”

“Then you defamed—”

“Make up your mind, lad.”

“Goddamn you, sir!”

“You’re a bit late on that one, mate. ’Twas achieved long ago,” Nathan grumbled back. A small chuckle came from those around.

“Pistols or swords?”

“Go back to your mates, lad. You’re skirt-sick.” By this point, Nathan was sounding quite strained.

“Pistols or swords!” Biggins insisted louder.

“Pick that bloody thing up, and be done with this. Where is that insufferable wench? We’ll stint this foolery…”

Said insufferable wench was, at the moment, either through luck or plan, not to be seen. Cate entertained the same need to speak with her; this smelled of her in more ways than one.

A small crowd was gathering. They were of little guidance as to what to expect next, their faces carefully impassive lest they show a favorite, until after the terms were settled. Those who knew Nathan saw a storm gathering, and had begun to inch back, taking those who knew no better with them.

“Pistols or swords?” Biggins’ chin jutted in belligerence.

“Neither,” shot back Nathan. At the same time, he maneuvered sideways, allowing more space between Biggins and himself. It was could have been an effort to defuse the situation, but at the same time, he was distancing himself from Cate.

Biggins pressed closer. Planting his feet squarely before Nathan, he announced, “I’ll have my satisfaction, sir!’

Thomas’ blue eyes shifted from one to the other. In the flickering shadows, Cate thought she saw the corners of his mouth quivering, whether to keep from smiling or saying something the only question.

“Pistols or swords?” Biggins demanded, refusing to be ignored.

Nathan briefly regarded the lad. “Swords.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas rose to stand next to Nathan. He bent as if only for Nathan’s benefit, but spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “After that last time…?”

A suggestive lilt in Thomas’ query caused a corner of Nathan’s mouth to lift slightly.

“And that would be—?” Nathan said.

“Damnedest thing I ever seen,” Thomas said more loudly to the crowd. “The last one…well, two, come to think on it, but the last one most particular,” he added aiming a meaningful look toward Nathan. “One flick of the blade, the poor sod’s cock was cut off, clean as you please. Well, except the blood.” He frowned. “Bled like a stuck pig, he did. I saw him a year or so back. He carries it around in a jar o’ gin around his neck. His mates call him Pickle-cock.”

That brought a fair amount of laughter. The young challenger paled, and then went an interesting shade of green visible even in the moonlight. Cate found herself wondering what on earth the boy could have seen in Prudence—and so quickly—which could have driven him to this. Or was the lad just a natural raving romantic?

Young love.

“Then pistols,” Nathan cried.

Thomas’ countenance clouded. “Don’t you remember the last time—?”

“Lucky shot ’twas all,” Nathan said with a flip of the hand.

“Providence,” Thomas said significantly. He turned to the crowd. “One shot, square in the eye. Dropped like a stone. Least he never knew what hit ’im,” he finished with a brief display of compassion.

“Aye, regrettable, that,” Nathan said abstractedly. Then he brightened. “We could have a go at knives.”

“Noo…Remember Mahon? Oh, and then, there was Porto Praya. Slow deaths are ugly deaths,” Thomas said under his breath, though still heard by all.

Both gave a dramatic shudder.

“Then cudgels,” Nathan offered.

Thomas squinted a thoughtful eye. “You know, I saw that last one you fought in Maritan. Hit him square upside the head,” he said for the benefit of all, tapping a finger to his temple. “All he does is drool and cackle like a chicken.”

Cate averted her face to hide a smile.

Thomas crossed his arms and pensively propped his chin in one hand. “There’s gotta be something.”

“I know, I know,” Nathan grumbled. “Ease off and stand by. Blunderbuss? No, not that. Nasty mess, that was.”

Still deep in thought, Thomas nodded distractedly. “Difficult to look a man in the eye with only half a face.”

“Fisticuffs?”

Thomas chuckled. “Made such a mess o’ that one. He’s obliged to pay the blind whores extra just to have him.”

Biggins followed the conversation intently. Bold at first, his conviction faded with each description.

Chin, Mute Maori, and several of the larger Morgansers pressed to the front of observers, which had now formed into a loose ring. Weapons in clear evidence, they stood arms crossed, shoulder to shoulder, imposing with their presence. Biggins noticed and sagged.

“Pray, don’t mind them,” Nathan said, seeing the lad weaken. “They took some blood oath ages ago, pledging avenge the death of their captain, or some such nonsense. No basis to it a-tall.”

“Still there was…” Thomas warned.

“I still say ’twas a shark what got him,” Nathan shot back.

“Bloody difficult to tell with what little was left,” Thomas said with a dramatic roll of the eyes.

“Arm wrestle?” Nathan said, after a prolonged silent debate.

“I’m surprised you’d suggest that after Calcut. You swore never again, after his arm came off in your hand.”

They shuddered together.

“Boarding axe?” asked Nathan.

“Nay! Remember Ol’ Crossjack Johnson? One swipe and guts are spilling all on the beach, baking in the sun. Too quick; no justice,” Thomas concluded with a dismissive swipe.

Biggins’ dulled senses finally pricked, and he realized that the two captains were having a go with him. Many of the onlookers had long seen as much and were having a good laugh at his expense. The remainder stared at Nathan and Thomas in slack-jawed wonderment.

“Very well,” Nathan conceded. He sighed. “This is a bother. There has to be a way. The lad deserves his justice, field of honor and all that.”

“True, true.” Thomas nodded pensively. He hooked a fatherly arm around Biggins’ shoulders. “Come to the fire, son, and we’ll drink on it, whilst we ponder. ’Tis ill-advised, it is, to go off killing, before your mates have been allowed to properly toast your success.”

With a smooth bit of manipulation, Thomas handed Biggins off to several Grisellers, who shepherded him away amid a barrage of hails and hearty backslapping.

Thomas watched to assure the lad was well away, before asking the remaining crowd, “Any of you drunk or stupid enough to have declared yourself his second?”

Quiet murmurings and shaking heads was his answer.

“Then there’s nay harm, unless you desire your justice now,” Thomas said turning to Nathan.

“Jesus and Mary, no. Was he drunk?” Nathan asked looking in the unfortunate Biggins’ path.

“Not yet and not enough,” Thomas said, with a half-smile. “Pitiful wretch can’t hold it, either. In an hour, he’ll be face down, and by dawn he won’t remember a thing.”

With nothing of any further interest pending, the small crowd dispersed and returned to their revelry. Thomas excused himself with a “Don’t you dare touch that board,” to Nathan.

When they were finally alone, Cate came up beside Nathan. “How many duels have you been in?” she asked in a low voice.

One side of Nathan's mustache lifted in an odd quirk. “Not. A. One.”

His attention shifted to Biggins’ direction. “Barely has hair on his balls. Tonight, I let him live, so he can curse me for it when he’s old and decrepit.”

“Hell’s fury. A fine kettle o’ fish,” Nathan steamed at length. “These upstarts nowadays can’t be trusted. No upbringing. I blame Thomas for this. He’s had the lad under his wing for a time. Certainly long enough to have taught him a man’s responsibilities.”

With a sweep of his hand, the matter was dismissed. Nathan returned to the chess game. Studying the board with renewed interest, he glanced to see where Thomas might be, and then hunched with intensity.

“Let me see…this knight would be ever so much more advantageous over here…” he said under his breath, reaching delicately for the game piece.

Several unkind thoughts surged to the surface at the sight of Prudence some time later standing at the edge of the light, drooping with weariness, first and foremost being Nathan’s suggestion to turn her skirts and spank her as her parents apparently never did. In her less generous moments, Cate considered that the manipulative little busy-body and Creswicke deserved each other.

Cate felt Nathan stiffen beside her. Seeing the muscles in his jaws go white, visible even in the dim light, brought her to think perhaps it would be best to allow cooler heads to prevail. Berating Prudence would only serve to stir a pot that had barely ceased to boil. There had been enough excitement on for one night.

A more generous side prevailing, Cate rose; a desisting hand to Nathan bid him to stay. Under his glower from where he sat, and a series of incensed huffs and sputtering, Cate retrieved Prudence, scooped out a spot in the sand, spread the quilt and guided her to bed. The child was asleep, before Cate rose to her feet.

Cate almost collided with Nathan when she turned around.

“Where the hell are you to sleep now? Couldn’t the little—?”

“Shh.” Cate pressed her fingers to her lips and pushed him several steps away. “Just allow her to sleep. I’ll manage.”

“That’s the trouble.” Nathan's shoulders jerked under his shirt. “You’re always the one to manage.”

Muttering, he disappeared into the darkness. He returned shortly, a piece of canvas in tow. Moving nearer to where he and Thomas sat, he scooped a depression in the sand, and then spread the canvas over it. Straightening, he swept an inviting hand. Too tired to object, she did as she was bid.

“Sleep well, luv,” Nathan murmured as he knelt and spread his coat over Cate. His eyes gone to near black in the fire’s shadows, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering on her neck. “You’re safe tonight.”

Lying only a few feet away, Cate could see Nathan and Thomas, knee to knee, hunched over the game board. The flames gilded them in gold and flickered on their profiles as they sat dark head against light. If she was to look through one eye, with pistol and cutlass at their sides, they were like two Teutonic war gods. Looking at them through the other, they could have easily been sitting in a library before the hearth.

She closed both eyes and listened, not necessarily to the words, but their voices. Thomas’ was a deep rumble, so very familiar, but Nathan’s provided more warmth and comfort than his coat over her shoulders. At one point, Nathan launched into a lengthy dialogue. She drifted to sleep to his throaty gravel detailing the pros and cons of the Lucen position versus the Greco counter gambit.

Sometime in the night, Cate woke. She wriggled to get more comfortable. Sand could be insufferably hard. The fire had burned down, the embers a red-orange glow under their cape of white ash. Hushed voices and muffled laughter drifted from down the beach, Artemis’ plaintive whistle coming from nearby. Cate raised her head enough to could see where Prudence slept some distance behind her, the moonlight outlining her shapeless hump.

A shape in the opposite direction caught her eye. It was Nathan, barely an arm’s length away. He lay on his back, sprawled like a broken rag doll, on arm flung toward her. His braids fanned in black fingers on the sand about his head and shoulders. She listened carefully. Through the distant sounds of surf and merriment came the throaty rhythmic rasp of his breathing.

She snuggled deeper under the coat that was redolent of him, and went to sleep.