The Pirate Bride (13 page)

And her men would come for her. She had to believe it, she thought as she started walking again.

She
would
believe it.

She stopped.

Her heart was beating too hard. She was trembling. She had to pray that they came soon…very soon.

T
HE SECOND BODY
washed up on the shore while Red was still at the spring.

Grimly, Logan pulled the corpse ashore and dragged him to the place where they had begun their graveyard. He didn’t know how Red was going to react to a second dead man.

Well, he thought grimly, she wanted to be such a tough pirate. She must have dealt with dead men before. Yesterday’s reaction had been due to her fear that the ship that had broken up was her own and that the dead man was her cousin.

Still…

There was a vulnerable core beneath her facade, one he might never have discovered had they not landed upon this isle.

He walked down the beach, hoping to find something better to dig with than yesterday’s soup tureen. As he walked, he discovered a broken timber that had been painted with the ship’s name. D-E-S-T-I was what he read. Destiny? Probably. An ironic—indeed, sad—name, given its end. She must have been a merchantman, and she seemed to have been carrying personal belongings as well as cargo. Perhaps she had been bringing a bride to meet her groom in the colonies. Or perhaps the owner had been taking his wife on an extended stay to visit relatives in the new country. Or the old country, he thought. There was…no way to know in which direction the ship had been traveling. The man they had buried yesterday had appeared to be a gentleman, in any case.

Destiny.

It found them all.

A long box, partially battered in, offered him what he was looking for.

A shovel.

A most useful tool, since he was very afraid the day would bring more inhabitants for the graveyard.

He was on his way back to the cemetery when he saw Red walking toward him and stopped. She was dressed simply in men’s breeches and a shirt again. He had wondered if she might choose something from the costly feminine apparel they had found, but apparently she felt the facade must be maintained even here, in isolation.

Whatever helps her survive, he decided. But he wondered if she knew that, minus the coat and other accessories, the clothing she had chosen hugged her tightly and only enhanced the curves of her form rather than hiding them.

Not that it really mattered, given that he could picture her as she had been in the pool, minus any clothes whatsoever.

He gave himself a mental shake; they had a dead man to deal with, and then there was going to be the business of finding more food.

“My dear Laird Prisoner Haggerty,” she greeted him, her tone light, as if they had never met at the spring that morning. “I had thought breakfast would be prepared by now.”

He held still, wishing he could speak lightly in return, that he could challenge her to be the one to create their breakfast.

She saw his face and paused, concern rather than a frown coming to her features.

“Has…it’s not…?”

“I’m afraid another poor fellow has arrived, but
not
a man from your ship, Captain,” he reassured her quickly.

Still, she paled. “My God,” she murmured. “I wonder how many were lost.”

Not at all a real pirate, he thought. The salvage would have been uppermost in a real pirate’s mind.

“The sea can be a cruel mistress to any who risk her waves,” he replied. “Why don’t you look and see if we’ve anything other than biscuit? I shall tend to the man.”

She straightened her shoulders, stiffened her spine. “No,” she said softly.

He gazed at her quizzically.

“Someone must mourn the dead,” she said.

“As you wish,” he told her. “But I found only one shovel.”

She swallowed. “One is enough.”

He dug, and when she offered to take over, he shook his head and told her he could manage, so she stood by his side and watched.

She didn’t look at the dead man’s face, for which Logan was glad. This fellow was in even worse shape from the fish and the bloating than the first man had been.

Logan dug deep, then piled the soil high.

Once again, Red fashioned a cross, and they said the same prayers as they had before.

Logan realized he was drenched and winded, and his arms ached from digging through the hard-packed sandy soil. He leaned on the shovel, looking down.

When he looked up again, she had moved down the beach.

He put his shovel in the shelter, safe from the rain that was sure to come, and thought about building some shelves, and raising their beds above the ground, away from whatever rodents and crabs might wander in.

He heard her cry out with a note of triumph in her voice just as his stomach rumbled, and he hoped she had found food.

Leaving the shelter, he ran down the beach toward her. “What?”

“Fishing poles,” she said.

He stared at her.

“Fishing poles. We can catch fresh fish,” she told him.

“I see.”

She smiled slowly. “You’ve never fished?”

“Of course I’ve fished,” he assured her. Then he blushed and admitted, “Um, no, not really.”

“Never?”

“I was the captain of my ship,” he told her.

“And I was the captain of mine,” she reminded him, then gazed at him curiously. “What of your life…off the sea,
Laird
Haggerty?”

“Let us just say that fishing was not among my duties. However, I do believe I shall figure out the basics.”

She was still smiling. He let out a groan of aggravation and stepped forward to take a fishing pole. It seemed a simple enough device.

He took the pole from her and started toward the beach. Behind him, she cleared her throat.

“What?” he returned, more sharply than he had intended.

It only increased her smile. Perhaps he should be glad he could afford her such amusement.

“We should find some mangroves…that way. The fish will be there. And…a dead crab will make good bait. Or a live crab, if we can catch one.”

They walked on together, and he saw a crab shell on the beach, but on examination, the body within had long ago been nibbled away to nothing by other creatures.

“We could eat these guys, but they’re not the tastiest. If we can catch a red snapper in the mangroves…that will be very good.”

Logan managed to snare a live crab quickly, when it scurried up onto one of the trunks. He managed to keep away from the snapping claws, and then, irritated that she found his lack of expertise so amusing, he made quick work of sectioning the crab. If crabs suffered, that one did not do so for long.

She kept walking, then turned inland, where the ocean washed between the trees.

The area was sheltered and cool, and he could see that she had chosen well; the fish were actually visible in the shallows. Perhaps because he was once again determined to prove himself, he snared the first fish. And it was a snapper. A big one.

She watched him silently as he brought it in.

“Well?”

“Good prisoner,” she commended.

He swore and, turning with his catch, headed back for the shelter.

She followed, but paused on the way by their cache of treasures, searching until she found something that gave her pleasure. He tried not to watch as he started building a fire, but when she returned, she seemed so pleased that he had to ask, “Well? What did you find?”

“Tea. And that’s a lovely fire,” she said.

They set about their tasks; he prepared the fish, while she brewed the tea.

It was almost domestic.

The fresh fish was delicious, and the hot tea, mixed with sugar, made the perfect complement. They both relished their food in silence, but as he savored his last bite, he realized she was looking at him.

“Have I failed you in some way, Captain?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Just how and where did you grow up?” she asked him.

“I think your past is the greater mystery.”

“Not a mystery. Just drudgery. But you…?”

“Your drudgery being a mystery, it seems my story should be the same.”

She shook her head, watching him still. “But it isn’t the same. I mean, it’s evident that you are loved and highly esteemed by many.”

“As are you.”

She waved a hand in the air. “I know of no one willing to pay a fortune on my behalf.”

“No?” he inquired curtly. “There are more than a dozen men willing to give their lives for you. I would consider that everything.”

She lowered her head. He had touched a nerve.

“We weren’t talking about me.”

“I was.”

“Well, we’re not going to talk about me,” she said, looking up. “Your life is the far sweeter story, a way to pass the time until my men find us and you are given your freedom.”

“I already have my freedom.” he said, and when she didn’t object, he went on.

“It is possible,” he suggested, “that another ship will come upon us. Possibly a
legitimate
ship. In which case, I, of course, will do the right thing and introduce you as a poor maiden, lost in the storm. I’ll not mention that you’re Red Robert, since I would prefer not to see you charged with piracy and hanged until dead.”

“You’re too kind,” she said dryly. “So what would happen to me, pray tell?”

“Well, then the legend of Red Robert would end in mystery, and you could begin to live a proper life.”

“A proper life,” she repeated.

“Aye,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “It would be kind enough for you to help me to arrive at some congenial port. But I am not seeking a proper life. You are Laird Haggerty. You have Cassandra, your land, your title.”

“So. Poor little Red. She has nothing, so she must remain a pirate.”

She stared at him fiercely. “I have something to live for. It is just not to be found in Savannah or Williamsburg or elsewhere in ‘society.’”

“Aye, you’re living for vengeance. Against Blair Colm.”

She shrugged and rose. “I’m weary of conversation,” she told him.

“There is more to life than death.”

“Not always,” she assured him. And then she turned and headed back down the beach.

T
HERE WERE BOOKS
.

Books!

There were so many containers still to be opened, but when Red came upon the books, she was simply delighted. They were beautiful, leather-bound, the pages gilded. But it wasn’t the craftsmanship that so thrilled her, it was the fact that now she would be able to read. There were books on astrology and astronomy, sailing, ships, the exploration of the Caribbean, flora and fauna, and there were fictional works, as well. Chaucer and Shakespeare, and even a translation of Cervantes. She was on her knees in the sand, hugging one to her chest, when Logan made an appearance at her side.

“So, you do have love in your soul,” he said lightly.

She flushed. “Look! Books!”

“So you read.”

“Of course I read.”

He hunkered down beside her, a small smile playing at his lips. “Many a pirate captain does not,” he reminded her.

She waved a hand in the air. “Teach reads. Many of the brotherhood do.”

True enough. While the majority of seamen did not read, those pirates who had chosen the life after making a living at privateering were educated in some fashion and could read well enough.

But he’d never seen a pirate look so rapturous at the mere sight of a book, no matter how beautifully bound.

“Cervantes. In English,” he noted, smiling.

“You’ve read it?” she asked him.

“Indeed,” he assured her gravely. “The travails of Don Quixote de la Mancha. The story of a man whose fancy touched the lives of those around him.”

“I know.”

She stood abruptly. “Cervantes was captured by Barbary pirates.”

Logan’s smile deepened. “His dreams and idealism kept him alive, perhaps.”

S
HE HELD THE BOOK
to her chest and walked away, heading toward their shelter. She looked back once, quickly, and saw that he was following her. But he was hauling the broken trunk of books.

She sat in the shade of a palm and started to read, then realized unhappily that she was more aware of his movements, as he worked with hammer, nails and timber, constructing low bases for their beds, than she was of the words on the page. Only when the hammering stopped and he walked away was she able to become engrossed in her book.

A little while later she realized that he was back, had been back for a while, because there was a delightful scent coming from the pan he had set on the fire. She put the book down and went to stand by him.

He had just finished preparing their plates. Wedges of lime sat next to the biscuit, which had sliced mango atop it. Steaming snapper steaks continued to tantalize her nose. He added the last wedge of lime to a plate, then rose to hand it to her.

“Captain,” he said politely.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Grog seemed fitting for the evening libation,” he said, handing her a cup.

“Again, thank you.”

She sat, taking a place in front of the fire.

“Are you enjoying your book?” he inquired.

She lowered her head, not at all certain whether to laugh or cry. They might have been a married couple sitting down to dinner, she the cherished and coddled wife, he the husband who worked as a man of business and looked forward to some educated conversation at the end of the day.

“I’m enjoying my book, yes, thank you. And you? What have you been doing?”

She was surprised when he hesitated before saying, “I found a cave near the spring. I spent some time exploring it and camouflaging it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“If and when a ship comes…well, we’ll need to see the flag to decide if we wish to be found or not.”

She shook her head. “But…if we are discovered by pirates, the worst they will do is rob the island of the salvage and leave us marooned. Most likely, though, they would take us aboard, perhaps even return us to New Providence.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“But—”

“Red, many men think a woman upon a pirate ship is bad luck. And many pirates may live by a code, but there are those who would rather just kill us and be done with any argument over salvage. And…”