Pirate's Wraith, The (3 page)

Why was there nothing surreal about her situation? Everything appeared solid. She smelled rancid oil burning in the lamp along with the damp tang of brine in the atmosphere. The rough, calloused hands of the pirate had scratched her skin. The coarse fabric of
the lumpy mattress beneath her itched. The heavy wool blanket tickled her nose with a musty odor. She could reach out and pull on the crude curtain that surrounded the bunk if she wanted to avail herself of a small measure of privacy.

The groan of wooden timbers creaked. Footsteps pattered above her. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard the melody of an old drinking song being sung by a chorus of drunkards.

She peered at the cramped quarters. Why did it look so familiar? Had she traveled through it in her many nightmares? She recognized the table, the desk with its inkwell, the few chairs, a large trunk, and the weapons—menacing swords, metal tipped poles with sharp knives at the ends, axes, and guns—the kind she had viewed in museums.

All of it appeared vivid—not hazy or indistinct. She did not drift in and out of scenes. She did not shift from one obscure, nonsensical vision to another. She lay in a bunk on a boat—frigate—with a pirate who resembled Jim for company. Vertigo washed over her. She took in several deep breaths and tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.

She remembered her car spinning while a terrible high-pitched whine pierced through her. What happened to her cell phone? Her handbag? Her suitcase? She glanced at her clothing. What happened to her black sweats? 

“Where are my clothes?” she demanded with as much force as she could muster.

“You had none.”

“That’s impossible
. Who dressed me in this horrible, filthy outfit?”

“I did.”

Panic gripped her, but she struggled against a rising tide of hysteria. “Where’s my car?”

“Car?” He turned to face her once more with a deep scowl furrowing his brow.

“I drove it onto bridge. Is it in the water? Or on the marsh?”

“You had no carriage—nor horse to pull it. There are no bridges here.” His cold, impassive gaze traveled the length of her.
“This is a remote area, excellent for concealment.”2013

The breath hitched up ever higher in her throat.
“Why are you hiding?”

“
The dreary weather detains us.”

An eerie chill gripped her. This faux Jim could rape her, stab her through the heart, and toss her overboard. No one would ever know. 

She refused to show fear though she thought her nerves would shatter. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him but she grew dizzy staring into his eyes. They drew her as if nothing else existed but those two aquatic pools and she found herself longing to plumb the depths of them.

“Cap’n?” A wizened old man stepped into the cabin. His dark garments hung loose on his thin frame.

“I have heard some strange talk from your patient,” the pirate stated.

“That’s to be expected I dare say, but Cook’s hot broth will warm the insides so’s any blathering nonsense will vanish.”

The pirate stepped away and her energy drained as if the link between them had snapped. He went to the desk, sat down, and put a quill into the inkwell.

“I am Dr. Peter Gilroy, the ship’s physician.” The old man held a wooden bowl out to her. “There’s a bit of barley in there and some fish broth. Take it, child, and finish as much as your belly will hold.”

She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the unappetizing gray liquid, but her stomach growled with impatience. She took the bowl in her hands and sipped from the edge. The gruel was hot and salty, but she spilled some of it on the blanket. “Would you please hand me a spoon?”

“Um ... a spoon, Cap’
n? Might you have hidden one in this cabin? Perhaps, a special one ....” The wizened old man asked with a hesitant note in his voice.

The captain scratched with the quill upon the paper. “There is, as you know, doctor, a sudden difficulty with spoons on the
Lyrical.
At any rate, there will be no mollycoddling on this ship.”

“How about a seashell then? I’ll make do.” She made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in her voice.

The captain ignored her. He dipped the quill into the inkwell again and wrote in a book. He did not look up from his task.

“Do not worry over a lost drop.” The doctor patted her shoulder. “It is of no consequence. It is unfortunate about the loss of the spoons, but I am sure we will be able to acquire more along the way—and after all the spoons brought you to us.”

“Spoons?” Maybe the old guy had some bats in the belfry because he did not make much sense.

“Borrowed in the advance of science, but ... sometimes ... the natural world ... it is a mystery ... and—”

The pirate captain interrupted. “What’s your name?”

“Lesley.”

“Do you come from Wales?”

“No.”

“Lesley is a common name there.” The pirate commented. “And your given name?

“That is my given name.”

“Odd.”

“Lesley will do, Cap’n.” The doctor sighed.

“Indeed, the crew will undoubtedly add a nickname.” The pirate kept scratching across the paper with the quill. “Where is your home?”

“I live in Atlantic Highlands, but I grew up in Belford.”

“In England?” The pirate turned to look at her. Despite the dim light, his blue eyes locked with hers like a tractor beam. The sensation unnerved her.

“Do I sound English?”

“Your accent is strange,” he commented. His gaze returned to his task at the desk, but her pulse continued to race.

“Don’t be asking so many questions, Cap’n. Lesley needs to drink more broth and barley. Our new cabin boy needs to build up some strength.”

She nearly choked. “Cabin boy?”

The captain
’s pen stopped scratching across the paper. Doctor Gilroy stared at the floor. Neither of them said anything.

“What is going on?” she demanded.

“The cap’n’s last cabin boy drowned when he fell overboard,” the old man explained. “You are to be his replacement.”

“I’m sure the captain noticed I was a woman when he dressed me.” Anger ignited inside her. She pressed her lips together.

“Me and the cap’n would be subject to harsh punishment if anyone discovered we brought a woman aboard,” the old man explained.

“Then drop me off.”

The old doctor’s face turned ashen. “But something went wrong with my experiment ....”

Experiment.
Yes, the scenario took a sudden detour into far more incomprehensible territory—like most dreams. It made no sense at all. Excellent! None of this could be real. She relaxed a little and sipped more broth.

“You will play the part of a cabin boy, and you will do it well.” The touch of menace in the pirate’s tone chilled her.

“The crew will never suspect you are not what you seem.” The doctor’s weak smile allowed her a view of empty spaces along his gums. Several of his teeth were missing.

“They are drunk in the main,” the captain grumbled.

While none of this could be real, in the distance she heard haunting music played on a tin whistle. She did not recognize the melody, but the plaintive notes in a minor key struck a sad chord in her heart and troubled her.

She had been in a horrific crash. She could be dead. Her soul might well be disconnected from her body. The impression of activity about her could be happening on some other plane.

Did the dead go to heaven or hell? A terrible chill wound around her heart. Could this be hell? But her body felt heavy and real. Dead people neither ate nor drank, but maybe they went through the motions. Maybe the bowl held virtual broth. She sipped more of it. It warmed her right to her toes as it went down. She peered at the broth with suspicion.

“Is there alcohol in here?”

“A wee bit of rum so’s you’ll sweat, but not enough to make you addle pated,” the doctor replied.

“Well, hell. Now would be as good a time as any to get drunk. Add some more of that rum
!” She guzzled more of the broth. “How about serving up a pina colada? I sure could go for one of those at this point.”

“Ah. You are doing well now.” The doctor smiled. “I can get back to my other patients.” He left the cabin.

Lesley pressed her lips together. She wanted to call out and beg him to stay. Being alone in the small cabin with only the pirate captain for company alarmed her. The room’s warlike ambiance had dread pressing upon her. Sharp and deadly-looking weapons sprouted from every corner. She finished off the broth and hoped the effects of the rum would kick in soon.

One question had nagged at her since she awoke to find herself in this odd situation and she decided to ask it now, before the alcohol hit her. “What day is it?”

The captain turned back one page in his book and answered with a degree of gravity, “October the eighth, in the year one thousand seven hundred and eleven.”

1711
! Damn.
Panic welled in her throat.

“Did a bad storm strike this area in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Had she fallen into some sort of time warp when her car spun? What if that wasn’t lightning that hit her car but some sort of electrical black hole? Could her car have become a time machine and thrown her back to 1711?

Three hundred years backward?
Stunned, she wrapped her trembling arms  about her.

The pirate stood, finished with his task. The room did not look big enough for him and yet his powerful body maneuvered gracefully through the small area. He went to a drawer, bent, and pulled out a stack of folded linens.

She touched the side of her face where Jim had slapped her, but it no longer felt bruised. With a sickening realization, she knew this man could squash her like a bug.

“These will be yours.” He lay the folded clothing on the blanket as he spoke with a  solemn air of authority. “You will remember to address me as Captain Sterford at all times. Your duties will consist of delivering messages from me to the other officers. You will bring my meals to me, attend to my clothing, and—” 

“Wait a minute,” she interjected recklessly. “I am a pharmaceutical rep not a laundress. I was supposed to give a talk at the conference...”

For a moment, her throat closed up. Yes, she planned to give a talk with all her Power Point slides but she didn’t make it to Virginia Beach. Her car flew off the bridge
and landed her in 1711—or hell. 

She fought against her despair and swallowed past the lump in her throat. What did it matter if he hit her? “I hired a maid to clean my condo. I don’t do menial labor,” she dared.

She flinched when his massive hand slid beneath her chin to lift it, forcing her to look up at his arresting countenance. Locked into his gaze, a coil of heat swirled deep inside her—a startling and strange reaction. She never responded so powerfully to any man.

“Dr. Gilroy believes the crew will not be aware of our ruse, but you must play your part. I cannot protect you otherwise.” He let her go and she drew her arms over her chest in a defensive measure.

“We heave anchor before dawn,” he stated.

“Where are you going?”

“New Providence.”

Again, panic threatened and she could barely breathe. She did not want to leave New Jersey, but if it was 1711, the New Jersey she knew did not exist.

Could she return to the future? Would she be stuck here forever, on a frigate with a pirate and his bloodthirsty crew? Recalling what she knew of pirates in history, they had a tendency to rape, pillage, and give no quarter.

Oh God.

She did not have the energy to run. Her eyes grew heavy and she wanted nothing more than to close them as the rum worked its magic.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

He pointed to a hammock. “There—for tonight.”

“Am I in your bed?”

“Yes.”

They would be in the same small space with on
ly a few feet separating them. Unwelcome fire blazed in her cheeks. Usually, she had nothing but scorn for conceited men, but this one had every right to strut like a rooster--every muscle, every sinew, every hair on his head boasted his superiority.

Her gaze shifted to the bulge swelling beneath the flap of his buttoned breeches. She swallowed hard and glanced back up at his face. He lifted one dangerous brow and she saw the lust clearly evident in his features. Dampness grew between her legs.

Damn.

Chapter
Three

Harlan stood on the poop deck looking up at the heavens until long after midnight. The slight crescent of a moon did little to illuminate the marshland, but he had no fear of a surprise attack by his enemies. Until yesterday, he took daring risks—for he no longer had anything to lose. His decision not to attack the man-of-war had been an aberration. He blamed his drunken crew but even in their cups every one of his men fought fiercely--each of them equal to two of their opponents.

He had sailed into enemy infested territory more times than he could count. He had fought in hand-to-hand combat against both skilled opponents and crazed warriors. Luck and strength had been on his side.