The Captain of All Pleasures (13 page)

The man was insane. Utterly insane.

Behind the official, Maria stood in the doorway and gave her a questioning look. Nicole could only shake her head. The man was now assuring her with his tubby chest puffed with pride that although he was an official of some standing, he would overlook Nicole's
basebornness
and marry her regardless.

She turned on him in a flash. “If you think I will marry you—”

The man interrupted her, “You have continued your games long enough.” He was becoming piqued, and his hands, before resting on his belly, gestured heatedly. “I wish to speak to your father about your dowry.”

“My father,” she bit out, “isn't receiving visitors.”

He demanded a meeting. At once. When she continued to deny him, he grew suspicious that Captain Lassiter hadn't appeared on deck at the high tide.

How could she explain why they sailed her father's ship without him—or any captain with papers? He could make trouble for them just out of spite.

“He can't see you because he's at Madam Delgado's,” she lied. Most in Recife knew of his close friendship with Maria, so it was believable. “He won't be back until the morning.”

As soon as Maria heard, she blew Nicole a kiss and then crept off the ship and back to her home to cover for her.

It seemed like hours in hell before she'd gotten rid of the man. She returned to her cabin, hating that she hadn't been able to say good-bye to Maria, hating that she hadn't learned the
one simple rule
. She sank down in her chair, weary and feeling grimy from her encounter with the troll. It was then that her eyes trailed to the message folded on her desk.

Eyebrows knitted, she picked it up and ripped it open. In harshly scratched ink, it read,
I think you two would suit
.

Sutherland, that bastard! He'd signed it in large letters, boldly, sure she could do nothing. He was laughing at her even now, she knew it.

His prank ended up costing them the better part of a day. Scared that the official was watching them, they waited for the sun to go down and then escaped in the dark. Embarking was a celebration in its own, and sneaking away was demoralizing.

He would pay for that.

She wouldn't have thought the ignominy of being towed by a guano freighter could be matched on this trip. But it had been, and all because Sutherland had a fiendish humor.

That night, as Nicole stood on deck impatient to get to open sea, she recalled she'd wanted to
apologize
to him. And the entire time, the black-hearted swine was siccing a lovesick port official on her.

All apologies were forgotten.

“Ye think we'll catch the rest of the ships?” Chancey asked from behind her, silencing her thoughts.

Her face grew hard. “We'll catch them.”
Especially Sutherland
.

Hours later, when the sun broke over the water, they spotted several masts just on the horizon. It had to be the first cluster of ships. As usually happened, several were matched in speed and crew, and none could break away. Even over a thirteen-thousand-mile voyage, many would stay within a few miles of each other.

At Chancey's command, the crew raised nearly all sail, and they began to gain.

Nicole bent over the rock-weighted map on the deck's chart table, pencil tucked behind her ear. “Head south-southwest,” she advised after rechecking.

“The ships are southwest.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he complied; their course was marked even farther south of the other ships.

Nicole felt the need to explain. “They'll cover all air. We'd have to follow them for miles before we could steal a chance to break through.”

Chancey thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Never bothered us before. Now ye've got us going extra distance.”

“It'll be faster—”

“And harder on the crew.”

She stayed silent and lifted her spyglass again, hoping to ignore him.

“This wouldn't have to do with Sutherland? Look at ye,” he said with a chuckle, “it's eatin' ye alive that he got the best o' us.”

She turned narrowed eyes on him. “That was a mean trick back there.”

Chancey grinned and said, “It were wily, if ye ask me. And it's not as if yer father wouldn't o' done the same.”

She opened her mouth to protest. But Chancey was probably right.

“And yerself. Did ye forget that ye stole his course?”

“I didn't steal it, I—”

“Put it to memory and copied it down when ye got home.”

She glared at him.

“All right, I'll follow yer course,” he said, relenting. “Just tell me where to go.”

And then it began. The ordered chaos of activity on deck, the sound of tamed wind sieving the sails, and the crew's cheers when they passed yet another ship—she loved it all. Loved the way they all worked as one, the way they could only just control the volatile vessel, making it lurch and rocket past competitor after competitor. She had little time to speak to Chancey, except to order course alterations or speed checks, the entire frenzied time they continued to gain on Tallywood.

During a lull in the wind, the watch called out “No sign o' Tallywood.” Trailing Tallywood was a slap in the face to her crew, who hated the man. Sensing the change in the men, she called out resolutely, “We can't worry about Tallywood yet. If he's anything like he was when I saw him last, he'll botch his lead somewhere on the way. We've got a closer rival to best.”

Then to herself she added, “Now we sprint for Sutherland.”

But Chancey heard her, and frowned. “Don't ye mean, ‘Now we sprint for the
Southern Cross'?”

A
s Nicole raised her spyglass to view the stern of the
Southern Cross,
she felt a welling of relief that they had finally caught him. She bit back a smile.

And now we'll overtake him
.

Though it didn't appear that Sutherland would cooperate. When they neared him enough to pass, he consistently stayed in front, preventing them from getting clean air.

She watched in incomprehension as he outsailed their faster, more agile ship. She whirled toward Chancey, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

“To answer yer question,” he began with a chuckle, “Sutherland can do this because he's good and he's cold. Straight, methodical sailin'.”

“You sound like you admire him,” she said in disbelief.

“Don't have to like him to admire his sailin'.”

She couldn't take it anymore. “Chancey, head north-northwest,” she directed between clenched teeth.

He scowled at her. “Oh, no. Ye'll not increase our distance just to get in front o' him,” he said in a low voice so the crew near them couldn't hear. “We've got thousands o' miles—ye've got to be patient.”

“But I know he's got that gloating smirk on his face right now. And I know just how to wipe it off,” she said in a nasty voice.

Chancey looked around him at the waves and then the sky. “The winds'll change soon; then we can cover him.”

She yanked down her cap and said nothing. Chancey was right, of course. If the winds changed, the
Bella Nicola
would be between them and the
Southern Cross
. Sutherland wouldn't be able to get the full benefits. But she couldn't help thinking that her father would've done just as she'd suggested.

Half an hour later, the winds did in fact change to their customary eastward sweep, and they found themselves with the advantage.

“If we're swift, we can pass him before the straits,” Nicole said. They were approaching the notorious rocky outcroppings that greeted ships following the great circle route just as they turned east away from South America. She'd always imagined that they acted as a gate that separated the lucky and the knowledgeable from the new dross at the bottom of their cold sea.

Chancey shook his head. “We'll never make that. We'll be right up beside him and have to draw back.” He caught her gaze. “Sutherland isn't a man to share his sea room, Nicole.”

“If we could get past, it would be us catching Tallywood instead of being jammed up behind Sutherland.” She slapped the back of her hand against her opposite palm to make her point. “Calculated risks, Chancey. That's what racing is! The crew will love it. You know it'd be talked about for years if we could slingshot past him.”

“There's a storm comin' soon,” he grumbled. “This move might put us right in the straits with the gale on top o' us.”

Nicole smiled, knowing it looked ruthless. “Then we'd better hurry.”

He glowered at her. But after a muttered curse, he bellowed, “All right, men, nor'-nor'west, every stitch o' canvas set!”

 

“Cap'n, ship ahoy!” Derek's watch sang out.

“Where away?” he called in answer.

“Astern—I just caught sight of a ship due south of us at full sail! Looking at her flags, I'd say it's that Yankee clipper.”

Derek pulled out his own spyglass to confirm that it was Lassiter's ship. His eyes narrowed at the familiar sails and pennants of the
Bella Nicola,
and he snapped the spyglass closed.

He wasn't surprised they'd caught up with him. No ship was faster than theirs in fair weather and light gales. But they had a lot of nerve to follow so closely. Nicole had most likely stolen his navigation plans even before she'd nearly unmanned him in a Brazilian brothel, and yet they sailed as though they intended to run him down. He'd never wanted a voyage to end as much as he did this one….

Derek's head whipped up, his thoughts quelled, when a distant boom of thunder resounded. The storm he'd seen brewing to the south was gaining strength. Disquieting in itself. And then occasionally he could see the waves break over a previously hidden fracture of rock.

“I'm never easy in the Forties,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Jebediah approaching the rail.

“Nor am I,” Derek admitted as they both looked out over the sea. He wondered if Jeb was there to assure himself that his captain was sober, and said reassuringly, “We'll get more sea room before the storm hits.”

“Just don't want to join the litter of poor wrecks beneath us even now,” Jeb said as he cracked his gnarled knuckles.

“What? You doubt my experience?”

“Not likely. But then, you know experience isn't a guarantee down 'ere. 'Ell, you probably like it down 'ere in the Forties since you love storms,” the old man added before he shuffled off toward the galley.

What Derek considered secret was known to this man. He did love storms. Probably because they were the only things that made him feel alive. But here in the Forties, even he was anxious.

He thought of how the
Bella Nicola
would fare in this storm. The Irisher sailing her had probably handled a thousand gales. He'd be aware of the dicey channels that ran through these underwater ridges, as well as the power of the storms in this latitude.

Derek had also heard in Brazil that he was proving to be a very conscientious captain, not an unpredictable sail jockey like Lassiter. Even so, Derek thought of the jagged shoals they were even now skimming, coupled with the coming storm, and became distinctly uneasy about Nicole.

Damn it, he didn't care what happened to that ship or anything on board it, including her. She'd spied on him, lied to him, had Chancey try to brain him, not to mention her latest assault on his…person.

And then there were the agonizing dreams she was responsible for.

I'm only worried because I haven't had her yet,
Derek coldly assured himself.

His regular musings on just what that would be like were interrupted when Bigsby, the ship's surgeon, called up from the stairs.

“Captain, a word with you, please.” An anxious look pinched the man's chapped face.

Derek, seeing the doctor's worry, thought of the peculiar fever affecting some of his crew. Surely Bigsby had made certain none of the sick had worsened. Derek put his spyglass back in his coat pocket; at his nod, the first mate took over the bridge.

He followed the brisk surgeon into the chart room, waiting impatiently as Bigsby closed the door behind him. “Captain, I don't want to cause a panic among the men,” he said, visibly fighting for a neutral expression, “but…two more galley hands and the cabin boy have come down with the sickness.”

An invisible foe continued to harm his men. One Derek couldn't defend them against. “That makes eleven total.” Derek scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I hired you because you're the best. So why the bloody hell haven't you been able to figure out what they've come down with?”

Bigsby, his face flushing a mottled red in his nervousness, muttered uncomfortably, “I believe I have.” He paused before he looked up, face somber, as though delivering a death sentence.

“The water on this ship has been…poisoned.”

 

Derek couldn't believe it—but, God help them all, it made sense. He thought of the men lying in the 'tween decks, violently ill, biting back their moans of pain. He'd written it off as merely a shipboard fever, hardly uncommon as it passed among crews. But he'd never witnessed this level of gut-wrenching pain accompanying such a fever. His instincts warned him that the doctor was dead-on in his assessment.

Poison
. His mind couldn't seem to get past his disbelief, but acting immediately was essential. “Are all the remaining barrels contaminated?” he asked, already knowing from the doctor's face the answer to his question.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. I opened them myself and fed a bit of water to a couple of the chickens.” Bigsby frowned and looked down at the hat he'd been unconsciously mangling in his hands. “From what happened to the animals, I'm positive it is the water, and that all the water is affected.”

No water? It would take them at least a week to reach the Cape of Good Hope—if his men were all able. He had a hard time making and shortening sail now, much less battling through the Forties to get to the Cape, with only a handful of sailors. And if any more of his crew got sick?

A sailor's cry broke in on his thoughts. “Look, that little ship's making full sail and closing in fast.” So the
Bella Nicola
was close. He had little hope of aid from them.

“Captain, this is fortunate,” the doctor exclaimed, his face opening into a relieved smile. “We can signal for help. Surely they have water to spare, and maybe a deckhand or two….”

The water! Nicole in the storage room…
Blood pumped to his head, making it pound as he sorted through the roiling thoughts flooding his mind. He hammered his hand on the table, and the physician yelped. “Get the crew on deck,” Derek barked.
“Now.”

Minutes later, what was left of his able crew had been gathered. He looked at his exhausted men and another wave of rage washed over him. He forced himself to speak evenly.

“We have concluded that there is no fever on this ship.” Seeing the hopeful look on some of the men's faces, he raised a hand. “I'm afraid what I have to tell you will be equally alarming. This sickness stems from our water supply.”

He looked each man in the eye, never wavering. “We don't have any uncontaminated water left on board.”

Agony distorted their faces.

“Our immediate need for water will, I hope, be met by the upcoming storm. But to depend on rain for such a long journey is risky.” Derek wanted to run a hand over his face, but stopped himself and instead stood up straighter.

“What I am most concerned about is our lack of able hands in these waters. If none of the men on this deck fall ill, we should be able to make it.”

“Cap'n, I gotta tell you,” a midshipman said in a faltering voice. “I'm already feeling it—I'm afraid I'll not be able to cover my duties for much longer,” he finished weakly with a look of shame.

He'd only just spoken when another man, and then another, voiced their fears about the early symptoms that already plagued them.

“Cap'n, what about the li'l clipper astern of us?” his lookout asked. “Even if it's Lassiter, surely he'll help us if we send up a signal.”

Derek cut off all the excited exclamations. “We cannot count on them to voluntarily give us aid.” He couldn't even begin to predict what they would do.

He surveyed his crew's bewildered looks and listened to them hope against hope that Lassiter's ship would come to their aid. He attempted to forestall that line of thinking; yet they were convinced from experience that sailors helped their own, competitors or not. Derek hadn't planned to air his suspicions, but he wanted them to suffer no illusions. He also had to prepare them for the unorthodox commands he'd be giving them shortly.

“I have every reason to believe that the person who poisoned our water is aboard the
Bella Nicola.”

 

Nicole closed her spyglass against her thigh and began her usual impatient pacing across the deck. It would be close, to beat him to the straits. Truthfully, one of the reasons she'd pushed to catch Sutherland was that she hadn't expected him to stick with this course. He'd charted it, but she'd thought he would back out. He took an insane risk, steering a ship of the
Southern Cross
's size so close to these ridges with their gripping, snatching currents. Her brows drew together.
He's either very determined or crazed
. She settled on the latter.

Pulling a strand of hair from her eyes and tucking it up into her ever-present cap, she turned to look at the towering clouds of a looming storm. It would be sheer folly for him to be in these straits when the storm moved in.

But he had a good quarter mile on her. From where she stood, it looked as though he might be able to squeeze past the last of the straits before the storm broke.
Unlike me,
she thought as she surveyed the purplish clouds building.

But she felt confident in her crew and, truth be told, in herself. She'd sailed these waters countless times with her father. And their ship was built to thrive in storms, agile even under pressure and milking every last knot from the buffeting winds. Her fondest memories were of squalls when she and her father had sailed together. They'd set all their canvas out, slicing at full speed past bulkier ships whose cowardly furled sails looked to her like tails tucked between their legs.