Captain's Bride (15 page)

Instantly on guard, the sailor stiffened, his warm
manner dissolving. “Cap’n Blackwell says nobody’s to leave the
ship.”

“I know, but you see he didn’t know about my special
circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Well, Rosabelle left her medicine for the . . . ah,
for her delicate condition, if you take my meaning . . . and she’s
going to need it. My servant and I will take it to her and come
right back. The captain won’t even know we’ve been gone.”

He looked skeptical. “That’d be breakin’ the cap’n’s
direct orders. No, ma’am. I don’t think I could do that.”

“Glory,” she said sweetly.

The sailor swallowed hard. “Glory,” he repeated. The
word came out on a breathless sigh.

“We’d be back in an hour. Two at most. Mr.
Pintassle’s asleep. No one would know except you and me”—she
touched his arm, her fingers cool against his flushed skin—
“Ripley,” she added softly.

“Can’t your man go alone?”

“I’m afraid he’s not very . . . I hate to put it
indelicately, but I don’t believe Nathan would be smart enough to
find her. Besides, there are certain . . .
female
problems
she and I will need to discuss.”

The young sailor actually blushed. Then he glanced
from bow to stem, noting the deck was quiet, the stars bright
above. Soft moonlight grazed the coral in Glory’s cheeks. “You’re
sure you’ll come right back?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“I know I shouldn’t do this.” Though he shook his
shaggy head in a negative gesture, Glory knew his answer was
yes.

“Thank you, Ripley,” she whispered softly.

Just then Nathan appeared on deck. Seeing the sailor,
he hesitated a moment, then came forward.

“We’d better get going,” Glory said. “Mr. Sterns has
been kind enough to let us go ashore.”

Nathan nodded dumbly, but Glory spotted his knowing
glance. He wasn’t a bit surprised she’d been able to talk the
sailor into letting them leave.

With some assistance from the sailor, and several
words of caution, Glory climbed over the side and began the descent
down the rope ladder. Nathan waited below in the tiny shore boat.
As Nathan shoved off, she waved back at the sailor and settled on
the seat, pulling her cloak around her, though the evening was warm
and humid.

Once they reached shore, Nathan beached the craft and
secured it to a nearby pine tree. Glory climbed out, barely wetting
her kidskin shoes.

“Hurry up, Nathan,” she whispered. “Rosabelle and
Madame LaFarge are supposed to be in the tavern.” She glanced at
the amber glow of lamplight coming from a nearby cluster of
windows.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to peek in the
window?”

“Maybe we should. That way we’ll be sure they’re
inside.” She wondered if Captain Blackwell would be there too—or
already wrapped in his lover’s arms.

Nicholas Blackwell flipped over his final card. Ace
of spades. This was turning out to be his lucky night—except that
Ginger, it seemed, had gone to the country to visit a sick patron.
Her girlfriend Nina had assured Nicholas that Ginger would be home
soon, adding she’d be happy to fill in for her friend if she didn’t
arrive on time. So far Nicholas had been content to play cards with
some of the crewmen from the
Fleet Lady
, a schooner bound
for Charleston laden with Havana cigars, rye whiskey, and buckshot,
among various and sundry items.

“Looks like I win again,” Nicholas said. Grumbling,
the four sailors at the table watched as he raked in his winnings.
The low-ceilinged tavern was noisy and crowded. Thick black smoke
hovered in patches over the small, dimly lit tables. Several rowdy
sailors sang sea chanties in one comer of the room while others
were content to pinch a barmaid’s bottom or steal the quick feel of
a soft breast.

“Ye can’t seem to lose, Cap’n,” Mac said, shaking his
sandy-haired head. “Think I picked the wrong night to play wi’
ye.”

Nicholas almost smiled. He liked winning. At just
about anything. As long as he was winning, he’d wait for Ginger.
Well, maybe not that long. He’d come ashore for female
companionship and the hour was already growing late. He glanced at
the pretty little redhead, Nina. She was looking prettier all the
time.

“Let’s go around back,” Glory suggested once they
reached the tavern. Along the way they’d passed only a couple of
drunken sailors who eyed her briefly, then staggered on down the
dirt lane.

“I don’t like this, Glory. I don’t know how I let you
talk me into this in the first place.”

“Probably because you thought it would do me good to
see how the rest of the world lives. You’re always telling me
life’s no fairy tale.”

Nathan chuckled. “Yeah, maybe this is a good idea at
that. But I still don’t—”

“Well, well, well. Lookee what we ’ave ’ere.” The
cockney accent was unmistakable as a short, pigeonshouldered man
sauntered around the comer of the tavern.

Glory took a step backward, drawing deeper into the
folds of her cloak. She took two more steps and bumped into the
thick chest of a second, bigger man who had moved behind her. With
a meaty hand, he pulled the hood from her head, exposing a mass of
shiny blond hair.

“Whooee!” his skinny companion sputtered in
surprise.

“You’re right there, Smitty,” the bigger man said
with a low-country drawl. “Looks like that trip to the necessary’s
gonna pay off.”

“I’ll say, mate,” the Englishman agreed. “Ain’t she
just about the pertiest piece o’ baggage ye’ve ever seen?”

Nathan tugged at her arm. “We best be goin’, Miz
Glory,” he said in his thick accent, and Glory couldn’t have agreed
more. She took a step toward Nathan, but the beefy sailor grabbed
her arm.

“She ain’t goin’ anywhere, boy,” the big sailor
warned. “She’s gonna conduct a little business. Me and Smitty got
three months’ wages in our pockets, and we mean to buy us the best
piece of fluff in Bull’s Head Bay. Near’s I kin tell, she’s
it.”

Nathan straightened, all pretense of the illiterate
slave gone. “Back away and leave us alone.” Again he pulled Glory
toward him, and again the beefy sailor held her arm, tugging her in
two directions at the same time.

“Well, now, ain’t that somethin’? A nigger who kin
talk like a white man.”

Nathan swung a solid punch that thudded against the
big sailor’s jaw, and Glory stifled a scream. Jerking free of the
sailor’s grip, she turned to run, but the second sailor caught her
around the waist and pulled her into his bony arms. Brandishing
pistols, two more men stepped from behind. They moved behind
Nathan, and before Glory could utter the words that would warn him,
one brought the barrel of his weapon down on Nathan’s skull with a
loud, resounding crack.

Nathan slumped into the dirt.

Glory screamed in earnest and tore free of the little
man who held her.

The big sailor caught her up and swung her clear off
the ground. “Don’t you fret, none, darlin’. Yer nigger boy’ll be
jus’ fine. He’ll be comin’ ’round ’bout the time we’re done with
you.” He chuckled heartily, and Glory felt suddenly sick. She tried
to scream again, but he clamped his large hand over her mouth. “You
keep that up and I’m gonna git mad.”

Glory forced herself to be calm.

The big sailor untied her cloak and tossed it away,
then marveled at the tempting sight she made. “Would ya look at
that, Smitty.” Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. “She’s got
legs all the way to hell and gone.”

The Englishman lifted her skirt and appraised the
turn of her calves outlined by Rosabelle’s black fishnet stockings.
“Guess we could take turns with her right ’ere, but I got me a
feather mattress in m’ room upstairs.”

“I ain’t taken a woman betwixt the sheets in a coon’s
age,” one of the other sailors, apparently a fellow crewman, put
in. “I say we have at her upstairs!”

A chorus of agreement followed, and Glory found
herself tossed over the man’s wide shoulder. He slapped her bottom
soundly to the accompaniment of raucous laughter, and then she was
jounced all the way up the street.

Kicking and pounding the man’s broad back did not an
ounce of good. Her only chance was to wait until they entered the
tavern, then scream for help and pray one of the men from the
Black Spider
would recognize her and come to her assistance.
Maybe Mac would be there. Or even—God forbid—Nicholas. She felt
sure she would prefer to defend her virtue on her own rather than
face Nicholas Blackwell under such humiliating circumstances.

After another bawdy slap and more laughter, she
decided it didn’t matter who her rescuer was.

As they moved down the dirt lane toward the tavern,
Glory made a try at persuasion. “Please, gentlemen,” she pleaded,
“I know you think I’m a lady of the evening, but I assure you I am
not. This is all a mistake. If you’ll put me down, I’ll see there
are no repercussions.”

“Reper . . . reper . . . what’d she say?”

“I don’t know,” the big sailor said, “but she’ll be
too busy to be talkin’ once she’s on her back!”

They all laughed uproariously, and Glory fumed.
Riding upside down, she felt all the blood rush to her head, and
she was beginning to feel dizzy. Maybe she should try screaming
again. She decided against it. Her best chance lay inside the
tavern. Rosabelle and Madame LaFarge were supposed to be there. She
prayed to God they were.

“Put her down, bucko,” a soft voice warned. Glory
raised her head to see Jago Dodd standing just outside the tavern
door.

“Thank, God,” Glory whispered. “Gentlemen, please,
Mr. Dodd will explain everything.”

“Can’t you keep that chit quiet?” one of the sailors
demanded.

“Stay outta this, mate,” the Englishman warned Jago.
“Ye kin have her when we git through.”

“I said put the lady down.”

“Lady? Now, there’s a laugh.” As the big sailor
strode toward the tavern, Glory spotted the gleam of metal in the
Englishman’s hand.

“Jago, watch out!” she warned, kicking her long legs
in another attempt to free herself. “He’s got a knife!”

“Shut up!” the man warned with a harder whack, and
Glory braced herself against his shoulders to see. The three other
men circled Jago, each brandishing a knife. Jago held a long
gleaming blade of his own. Oh, God, she thought, this is all my
fault. If something happens to Jago, I’ll never forgive myself.

Nicholas slipped an arm around Nina’s slender waist.
“Let’s go. I’ve waited long enough.”

She smiled seductively up at him, green eyes bright
with anticipation. “Ginger’s told me all about you. I can’t say I’m
sorry she’s busy tonight.”

Nicholas smiled coldly. “You just make sure
I’m
not sorry.” Guiding her along, he headed toward the
staircase leading to her room at the top of the landing, but before
he got halfway there, a commotion behind him drew his attention.
Several men rushed past them toward the door.

Nicholas grabbed the arm of a one-eyed sailor who was
hurrying behind the others. “What’s going on out there?”

“Jago Dodd’s takin’ on four men from the
Fleet
Lady
in a knife fight over some new whore.”

Nicholas stiffened. He had hired the barrel-chested
sailor in Barbados. Dodd had a terrible reputation for fighting,
but a shortage of crewmen made hiring the man a necessity. So far
he’d caused little trouble, but Nicholas didn’t know him well
enough to trust him. He didn’t want to see one of his men killed in
an unfair fight, either.

“Wait here,” he told Nina. “I’ll be right back.”
Nicholas strode to the door, uncertain of what to expect. Outside,
Jago Dodd stood surrounded by cheering men while he held three
other knife-wielding sailors at bay. He was slashed in several
places; red streaks stained his clothing, but he seemed to be
holding his own.

Nicholas didn’t like the odds. He took two long
strides forward before the sight of a ruffled fanny and a pair of
long, shapely black-stockinged legs stopped him cold. When the
beefy sailor who held the girl turned sideways, Nicholas caught his
breath. Silvery tendrils of pale blond hair hung almost to the
ground. Her milk-white bosom bulged from the top of her skimpy
orange satin gown.

“Nicholas!” she cried, propping herself up to see.
“Thank God you’re here! You’ve got to help Mr. Dodd!” If Nicholas
hadn’t been so stunned—and so furious—he might have laughed. A
crowd of drunken sailors were fighting to see which would bed her
first, while spoiled and pampered Gloria Summerfield, dressed like
a whore, worried about the safety of the toughest man of the
lot.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Nicholas raised a booted
foot and slammed it against the wrist of the first sailor he could
reach, sending the man’s knife flying. He punched a second and
noticed Jago had sheathed his knife and kicked a third, joining him
in the donnybrook.

With the odds more evenly matched against his
friends, the beefy sailor set Glory on her feet and joined in,
landing a smashing blow to Nicholas’s stomach that doubled him
over. Then a blow to his jaw sent him sprawling. Jago Dodd punched
the sailor so hard he buckled to his knees. Nicholas grinned at
Jago and regained his feet, beginning to enjoy the fray.

After landing a solid left-right combination that
sent a short, skinny sailor careening against a tree, Nicholas
turned and punched another in the nose. The man’s blood sprayed the
front of Nicholas’s white linen shirt. Glory wrung her hands, her
blue eyes bright with uncertainty, and Nicholas vowed she should
damned well be afraid— of him, instead of the men who were brawling
over her!

A few more blows and the battle was over. All four
crewmen from the
Fleet Lady
lay prostrate in the dirt.
Nicholas and Jago Dodd stood above them, feet apart, fists clenched
against any newcomers. None came.