Caution to the Wind (16 page)

It made his heart ache to think of Neil spending the remainder of the war locked in the hold of a prison ship or in one of New York’s vile sugar houses. In either case, he estimated the boy’s chances of surviving the war to be fifty-fifty at best. His incarceration would kill his sister.

Buck’s hazel gaze grazed Will’s facade, peeling away layer after layer of carefully crafted deception and reminding him why he always had his second in command interrogate the prisoners. He had a unique ability to convey none of his thoughts or all of them through expression alone. At the moment, the fine arch of his honey-blonde brows said he saw the turmoil within his friend’s heart.

“Pretty pathetic, aren’t I?” Will tossed his quill to the desk. “A privateer does what a privateer does, and taking a prize ship to court is part of the life. The best part, if you ask me.”

“Yes, but Neil is still very young.” Buck sat up straight, gripping the back of his chair in his fists. “You know, I’m not sure the boy is the fifteen he claims to be.”

“You don’t say,” said Will, with a small snort.

“Still thirteen, fourteen, or whatever, he’s almost a man. You’ve given him an opportunity to gain experience, the kind of experience that can turn a boy into a man.”

“So why am I feeling so damnably uncomfortable about this?” Will asked.

“Perhaps, it’s his brother who makes you uncomfortable?” Buck said, refolding his arms.

“Am—Adam? Perhaps,” Will admitted, grimacing at his near slip of the tongue.

“He seems to put you on edge when he’s around,” Buck prodded.

Will closed his logbook and set it aside. “I’ll admit he’s a pain in my backside at times, but he’s a good crewmember, in his own way.”

“I’ve heard good things about him.” Buck said. “In fact, I was playing cards with the doctor last night and he told me, and I quote, ‘Adam Blakely, has the bedside manner of a woman and the nerves of a man.’”

Will cringed at the compliment. “That’s just it. He’s just so, so, so…delicate,” Will said, recalling the word Martin had used to describe Amanda’s skills with a needle.

“And pretty,” added Buck.

“You’re not helping, my friend.
Pretty
—to use your words and not mine—he may be, but that is not what we need on a privateer.”

Especially when the pretty crewmember proved such an irresistible temptation to the captain.

How often had he berated himself for kissing her while an English vessel bore down on his ship. Had he not spared those few seconds, would they have been able to get the upper hand? Had some of his men died needlessly all because of his fascination with Amanda? In truth, he knew those few seconds hadn’t mattered, but if there were a next time, would he stay longer?

Will grimaced when he realized Buck was studying him with calculating eyes.

It would not happen again. He would get her off his ship, and the sooner the better. She would be safer, and his crew wouldn’t have an addled captain putting their lives in danger.

“Why don’t you send him with the prize crew next time?” Buck suggested. “That might make a man out of him.”

“No!” Will barked then closed his eyes while he regained his composure. “I mean he’s needed here.”

He had to fight to subdue the churning in his belly at the very idea. Knowing Amanda, she would jump at the chance to go, and she evidently had his crew master following her orders. After seeing her climb the rigging, he would have to make sure Bull understood she was by no means to leave with one of the prize crews, whether she suggested it or not.

“You mean you don’t want to lose his cooking skills.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Will said, grasping at Buck’s logic like a drowning man might grasp for a rope.

“I’m glad for that,” Buck said. “Adam’s tarts are the best I’ve ever tasted. And, his chicken pies, the savory filling, the flaky crust...” His voice trailed off, and he rolled his eyes and sighed as though even the memory of Amanda’s chicken pies left him in ecstasy.

“Yes, his cooking is good,” Will agreed flatly.

Instead of relieving some of the burden, this conversation with Buck had worsened his already dark mood.

Buck didn’t appear to notice. “Of course, there are always opportunities to make a man out of the boy right here on the
Amanda
. The English are in desperate need of supplies and that means more ships for us. Maybe next time we take a prize, you can let Adam lead the boarding party. Send him straight over,” Buck added with an exaggerated motion of his hand.

“He’s not ready,” Will said, feeling the blood draining from his face.

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s for the best. With his complexion, the English might mistake him for a Frenchman anyway.” Buck laughed at his own joke. “Add a little powder, pinch his cheeks a bit, and he’d be right at home in the French Court.”

Will shuddered and Buck took note. “Calm yourself, Will. I am joking. No one’s going to mistake the lad for a Frenchman. A girl maybe, but a Frenchman?”

Chapter Twelve

“Argh!” Amanda took out her frustration with the captain and her worry over her brother’s absence on the cast iron skillet in the washbasin, scouring it with a dishcloth before slamming it into a twin basin filled with rinse water heated to scalding. Using a clean spatula, she fished the handle out of the water just enough to grasp it.

“Ouch!” she said, burning her hand before dropping the pan into the drying rack. She sucked at the tips of her throbbing fingers. At least they were clean from washing the dishes, even if they did taste like soap.

How could she focus on her duties when her brother was God knew where—perhaps even in the hands of the British? She picked up the empty coffeepot and plunged it into the soapy water again and again as though trying to drown it.

Would they torture him? She didn’t think the English could be that cruel, but capture might mean slow death in one of the floating prisons the captain had told her about. Neil would be left to rot in the sunless hold with nothing but moldy bread to eat. How could Captain Stoakes be so unconcerned with Neil’s life at stake? Infernal man! She slammed the pot down again.

Tossing the pot into the rinse water, she reached for the captain’s plate and was about to give it the same treatment when she decided the delicate china might not tolerate such abuse. Instead, she swiped it with the dishrag then set it in the scalding rinse water next to the coffeepot.

She almost needn’t have bothered. The man might have no regard for her personally, but he enjoyed her cooking. By the time he finished a meal, nothing remained on his plate to scrub. A mental image of the man they called the Sea Wolf licking his plate clean made her smile, despite her irritation.

“Something amusing?” Bull asked from the door.

“No… Well, yes, but just personal thoughts. Ones I should probably keep to myself.”

“You seem to do more thinking than most men I know,” Bull said.

Amanda’s hands stilled. What had he meant? She studied his weathered face, but he looked as he always did, old and cantankerous. She wondered if anyone else knew about the heart of gold that beat beneath his tough exterior.

“Oh, I wanted to thank you for the book,” Amanda said. “How on earth did you come by that on a ship?”

It had been a volume of Voltaire in its original French. Proficient in French, it had nevertheless been a long time since she had practiced. She found her progress slow but enjoyable. The book itself looked quite expensive, with a gilded leather binding and crisp pages. Certainly, one would not expect to find such a fine piece in the library of an ordinary man.

“From the prize we took,” Bull replied, looking down at his feet. “Neil told me you can read and write French so I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Hmmm,” Amanda murmured, fishing the still hot plate from the water with the tips of her fingers. What kind of English merchant kept a copy of Voltaire in French?

“You know, we, meaning me and the rest of the crew…” Bull shuffled his feet, “we wanted to thank you.”

Amanda dried the plate with a towel, then turned to Bull. “For what?”

For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine what he should be thanking her for. Although she and Bull had started out on rough terms, and she had surely vexed him with her lack of seamanship, he had shown her nothing but encouragement since the day they set sail. She pursed her lips. Far more encouragement than a certain captain had.

Bull’s encouragement had developed into kindness. He, Buck and the Doctor supplied her with a constant stream of books and pamphlets. They kept her busy and her mind off the captain—mostly. Why should he be thanking her when she owed him so much?

“Captain Stoakes has become a different man since you started feeding him,” Bull said.

“Really?” She lowered her chin at Bull. Even before he knew her true identity, she seemed to be always at odds with the captain. Lately, the tension had increased to almost palpable levels. She had never considered herself disagreeable, so the fault must lie with him. “You mean he used to be worse?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Bull laughed. “Hunger doesn’t sit well with the captain. Since you’ve been feeding him, all our lives have become easier.”

All of their lives, but not hers. Hers had become a daily battle between the unsettling emotions the captain aroused in her—anger at the high-handed and medieval views he held toward her sex, fear that she would be sent away from everything she loved, and most of all, a burning need to be near him that grew each time she saw him regardless of how hard she tried to deny it.

Nighttime was the worst. Dreams of the captain tortured her sleep. They were like something from a long forgotten fairy tale with her locked away in a tower. As with many fairytales, this one included a handsome prince and a wolf with pitch-black fur forever trying to devour her. In her version of the fairytale, the captain played the part of both prince and wolf. She never failed to awake in a cold sweat, hot desire coursing through her even while fear chilled her to the bone. Her dreams, try though she might to remember them, faded easily until only her tormented emotions remained.

Perhaps some dreams were best forgotten. Now that he had made his regard for her, or lack thereof, clear, she would bury any hope she might have had.

“Well, let’s just say I did it for the crew and for Voltaire.” Amanda gave Bull a sympathetic smile that said she understood what a wolf the captain could be.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Bull reached inside his shirt and pulled out a thin pamphlet with brown crumpled pages and no outer binding. “Here’s another one I picked up last time we was ashore. It looks pretty beat up, but lots of folks are talking about it.”

Amanda dried her hands on the apron around her waist. She reached for the pile of rumpled brown pages Bull held out, eager for something new to take her mind off her troubles.

She read the title at the top of the first page.
Common Sense
. She liked it already.

“I read it too,” Bull said, sounding a little sheepish.

“Really?” Amanda looked up at him. By no means an ignorant man, neither could Bull be deemed an intellectual. Few former whalers were, she supposed.

“Yup, and either I’m getting smarter or that fella’s a hell of a writer. I understood ’most every word of it.”

“Thank you, Bull.” She laid a light touch on his shoulder then turned to the worn pages.

Scrawled beneath the title were the words,
Written by an Englishman
. She scanned the cover searching for a date—1776. A month had not been listed, but scanning the contents, she surmised the essay had been penned when the Colonies were still debating independence. More surprisingly, given the nationality of the author, he supported the cause.

Her compatriots had declared independence and now fought to retain it. She understood the depth of their passions. Her parents and even her grandparents had been born in the colonies. While England was her mother country, she had never set foot on English soil, never laid eyes on the King, never given a moment’s thought to what her life would have been like had she been born in England. She was English without really being English.

Moreover, her colony, Maryland, had always filled her with pride. Her fellow colonists were hard working, pious and kind. To her, breaking away from a country that treated its subjects as inferior to those residing in England seemed a natural course of action.

This author still considered himself English, yet made the same arguments. She flipped through the crinkled, well-thumbed little book, noting the passages that caught her attention were invariably on the most worn and tattered pages. This Englishman’s ideas had fascinated many a reader prior to Bull.

She must find a quite place to read. An intriguing sentence caught her eye, and she groped her way out of the galley.

“You’re welcome, my dear,” Bull said, his soft words blending into the words on the page.

A few steps away from the galley, darkness enveloped her. The narrow shafts of light from the deck above were not enough to illuminate the pages. She clutched the pamphlet beneath folded arms and considered where she might hide herself away for a few quiet minutes of uninterrupted reading.

After spending so much time below deck, cooking for the captain or assisting the doctor, Amanda missed the warm early-summer sun and longed to spend time where the ocean breezes could caress her face and ruffle her curls.

On the other hand, she wanted to be alone with her new acquisition. Some of the sailors could read, but even they rarely took time for more than a letter from a wife or sweetheart or the Bible. She would be an unusual sight, sitting on a tarpaulin or coil of rope, her back against the bulwark, a book in hand.

She would have no peace. Over the weeks, she had been amazed at how friendly the men had become with her. She supposed it helped that she sewed up their wounds, made them a little chicken soup when they were feeling ill, or even treated them to a piece of the lemon cake she often made for the captain when she heard they had done something especially worthy of reward.