The Pirate Captain (26 page)

“Then what—?”

“Nothing!” She slammed her hand on the table hard enough to cause the glass to jump. She drew in another deep breath and shakily blew it out. “It’s nothing; I’ll be fine. Just leave me be.”

She felt rather than saw Nathan stiffen. Falling back a step, he curtly nodded. “Very well, then, by your leave.”

Regret for being so short with him added the crush of guilt Cate already harbored. She rummaged through her mental morass to find the proper words, ones that didn’t sound hollow or trite, to make amends. She squirmed around in the chair to find that he hadn’t left, but only retreated to the cabin’s shadowy perimeter. Boots thudding hollowly on the planks, he muttered as he paced. On one pass, he darted near enough to snag the bottle from the table and drank through his agitated orbits.

Head braced in her hands, a part of her wished Nathan would leave her to her misery. And yet another—a very large part—was so very grateful that he was there. To have someone who cared, to catch her if she fell, meant so much, and yet she had no words to tell him.

Slowly, the rum did its part. The world coalesced further: her blood no longer hammered in her ears, her breath slowed to something less than near-hysterical gasps. She could hear the
Morganse
’s song of wind and canvas, and felt the ship’s motion with the swell. The sky was still blue, the sea was still as deep, and the world was still there, right where she had left it.

Nathan scuffed to a halt somewhere near. He made several false starts before settling on, “You’re rather good with a knife, for a woman, that is.”

“For a woman, I’ve had plenty of practice,” Cate retorted, bitterly.

“You failed to mention you’ve a skill at wrestling.”

She looked up, glaring. “For a woman?”

“For a woman.”

Nathan's tentative boyish smile touched a chord, and she reluctantly did so, as well.

Damn him for being able to make me smile on command!

“As I said, I had five brothers,” she said.

Sensing it safe, Nathan ventured nearer. Propping his hip against a chair, he loosely crossed his arms. “What you lack in strength, you gain in wile.”

Cate made an unladylike noise in the back of her throat. “I suppose that could be the story of my life.”

She emptied her glass.

“Aye, there’s a ring o’ truth in that,” Nathan said, refilling it.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back and sighed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t intend to…”

What? Make a complete spectacle of yourself?

Nathan rolled his eyes toward the slap of bare feet passing overhead. “Some of the hands think you devil-possessed. What with those eyes, and now this…Poor bastard, Pryce only figures you wish to cut his throat.”

“I suppose he would,” she said, grimly rubbing her face. “I’ll apologize.”

“Don’t be surprised if he runs at seeing you coming.”

“Is it that bad?” Cate peered up from under her hands.

Nathan contained a smile. “That bad.”

Groaning, she buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes!”

In a moment of bald honesty, this wasn’t the first time, nor second, nor even third. The spells came from nowhere, dissolving as quickly as they erupted. Perhaps Bedlam was where she belonged, somewhere that she could be prevented from hurting not only herself, but everyone around.

Nathan took another drink and pensively rolled the bottle between his palms. “Darling, we all have our dunnage to lug about. ’Tis not necessarily the weight of it, but where we choose to stow it.”

Cate looked up into a gaze that allowed her a glimpse at the burdens that dwelt behind his curtain, not to equivocate, but to assure that she wasn’t alone. The heavily-fringed lids lowered; the curtain closed once again.

“Thank you, Nathan, I’ll remember that. Sometimes, you are a very wise man.”

He broke a square-toothed, gold-laced flash. “Scary, isn’t it?”

Chuckling to himself, he swaggered toward the door. He paused at the table to pluck a mango from the plate of fruit, kept there by Mr. Kirkland, in hopes of tempting his captain into eating. He sniffed it, and with a curl of his lip, put it back. He gestured toward the skylight, and the quarterdeck overhead, as he ambled out.

“I’ll be just there, if you find you’ve need of me.”

Once alone, Cate buried her head in her hands and gasped, self-loathing only adding to the dejection and embarrassment. On the brink of a breakdown, she grabbed the glass and quaffed it down. Balling her fists, she closed her eyes once more, and inhaled deeply. When she opened them, the world was still there. The terrors were gone…like a dream.

###

Dark was soon to fall. A thunderstorm had rumbled through earlier in the day. It had been Cate’s excuse for her self-imposed seclusion in the cabin. Too embarrassed to be seen after her breakdown, she had spent the remainder of the day there. Frustration had come in many forms during that time. She tried to read, but the words wouldn’t stay in focus. She tried to embroider, but couldn’t concentrate.

She had gleaned what embroidery supplies she could from the Littletons’ belongings and made up a small piece to work on. Needlework had been a lifelong love. It had also been her salvation over the last several years. Many a night had been spent hunched next to a sewing lamp, in order to meet a customer’s last minute demands. Now she had the joy of doing it at her leisure, the pleasure dampened only by the desperate limit of thread, only a precise amount being allowed each day.

The storm still hung in distant flat-bottomed billows. The rays of the surrendering day streaked from behind it in plumes of orange and lilac. The bell ending the second Dog Watch was just rung, one of the abbreviated two-hour periods allowing for the evening meal. It meant most of the hands would be on the forecastle, including the afterguard. There was a good chance she would catch Pryce on the afterdeck. It was rare to find Pryce alone; perpetual motion, he was, but he often lingered there.

It was dark enough for her to use the shadowy margins of the deck without notice, hence avoiding having to face the men or feel their stares. She hung about feigning interest in water and sky. Cocking her head, she didn’t hear Pryce’s voice among those forward, and so looked aft.

Her intent to apologize was bracketed with trepidation. She was of two minds regarding Pryce. His bearing and ability to verbally pin anyone who provoked his wrath to the bulwarks still scared her. And yet, he could laugh as readily as shake the hands’ bones. Once past the ferocity, he was a kindly sort: pleasant, responsive, and courteous. An endless font of tales and superstitions, he was ever-willing to share his repertoire. His authority unquestioned, and would suffer no laggardliness or shirking, but he was meticulously fair.

It was that fairness upon which she relied now.

In the dusk, she could see his shape on the afterdeck with someone else. The last ray of daylight flashed on ivory rings: Hodder. Facing the water, she waited for Hodder and his telltale clatter to pass, and then mounted the curved steps. She regretted having to virtually stalk Pryce, but things needed saying. She sincerely regretted her actions; the man didn’t deserve having to spend the night wondering.

“A peace offering?” She held up the mug of grog, procured from Kirkland.

At the sight of her, Pryce had ducked around the wheel. He was making for the steps when she displayed the drink. He stopped, his head coming up like a hound on a scent. Seeing his reluctance to reach for it, she set it on the binnacle between them and slid it across. Beatrice, blithely preening there, was obliged to pull her tail feathers out of the way and made a rude comment. Pryce waited until Cate had retracted her hand fully before seizing upon the mug. He took a long, badly needed draught, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Mr. Pryce,” Cate began. He twitched at the sound of her voice, his fists tightened around the leather mug. “Please, I beg, Pryce, I desire to make amends.”

His scarred jaw set, determined to see this through credibly. “I’m sorry, sir, if I—I never intended to make ye think I wuz tryin’ any kind of foolishness.”

“I know that.” She bit back her vehemence. Collecting herself, she tried again, calmer. “I know that very well.”

Pryce shot her a stony look, the grizzled brows meeting. “’Tis not the impression ’twas given.”

“I know that as well,” she said more evenly.

Her apology was an honest one. Honesty, however, was at its purest at its birth. Any attempts to expand or enhance only weakened it. Cate stood mutely patient as he regarded her with suspicion, waiting for the look capable of cutting her in half or turn her to stone, at his pleasure. This was her atonement and she bore it as unflinching as could be managed.

At the same time, Beatrice cocked her head to regard Cate, too, and her resolve wavered. Being judged by a bird was more disconcerting than she cared to admit. At length, Pryce saw what he needed. A quirk of the mouth and a raise of the mug marked the matter settled. He then drank to it.

Voices in song drifted aft from the forecastle. She heard Nathan, too, and followed the path of his voice the foretop crosstrees. Feet swinging over the edge, he was a dark blot against a dimming sky.

“You don’t like me, do you, Pryce?” Cate heard herself say. It wasn’t an accusation, just observation.

Pryce shied, wearing the look of a child caught with his hand in the honey jar. “You’ll give me leave to say you’re uncommon forward.”

“Some people appreciate me for it,” she said in a flush of defensiveness. Well, maybe only one: her husband. It would be a lie to say that she had never been told that before. “I can’t help it. I was raised far from the niceties of civility and with five brothers. If I didn’t speak up, I was forgotten. Don’t change the subject, Pryce. You don’t like me.”

“Not sayin’ as ’tis disagreeable. It’s just…well…There be eyes that color on a statue in Vera Cruz.”

Cate turned her head to hide a smile. “Yes, I believe Nathan—the Captain that is, mentioned as much.” Indeed, Nathan had, her first day aboard, vowing she meant to curse him.

“I don’t mean to reproach you, but why?” she went on. “Did I say or do to put you off? And the Captain, for that matter. Sometimes he stares at me like I’m a two-headed kitten.”

Pryce waffled, making up his mind, changing it, again and again. Cate was on the verge of letting him off the hook upon which he squirmed, when he finally burst out: “With all due respect, sir, to tell ye plain: you look like her.”

“Her?” she echoed dumbly.

“And in more ways than one might bear, in a manner o’ speakin,’” he said in his West Country rumble.

Cate felt a cold, sinking sensation that she didn’t care to put a name to. She braced against the weight of impending doom. Several bricks were about to fall into place in her construction of Nathanael Blackthorne: he was either married or had an eternal love somewhere.

“So, who is…
her
?” she asked in grave dread.

Wife? Sweetheart? Which would be worse?

“He hasn’t told you? Nay, I s’pose not. He’s disinclined toward the tellin,’” Pryce said, staring down into his drink. The grey eyes swiveled up at her and sharpened. “Ye’ve seen the Cap’n with his shirt off?”

It was posed more assumption than question.

“Umm…nooo…no, I haven’t.”

Cate’s cheeks flamed. Having to admit Nathan hadn’t found her attractive enough didn’t come easily. As the days had turned to weeks, she had flirted with thoughts of something blooming between her and Nathan. The charming smile, flashing eyes, and engaging ways were not wasted. At times, he didn’t seem to realize their effect. But then at times, it was clear he knew exactly, and applied them with purpose.

In many circles, Nathan would have been considered the consummate gentleman. He never bowed, rose from a chair, nor tipped his hat. He discreetly excused himself, or conveniently avoided the cabin altogether, when he thought it necessary. That didn’t rule out the ribald remarks and colorful turn of phrase, but that was just Nathan being Nathan. Slowly, however, the cold realization had settled in: he wasn’t interested in her. There were no overtures, not even the slightest insinuation or the most fleeting of dalliances. Nothing.

Cate felt like a stone among the diamonds. So many women had gone before—his conquests were legend—but why not her? She had longed to ask why, but in the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make? If it was because her voice was too deep, her eyes too green, if she was too tall, her bottom too round or not round enough, or if she was too dull-witted? Which would she rather hear? Which one would ease her best through the nights of lying in that same bunk, staring and wondering?

“Aye, well…” Pryce’s destroyed mouth compressed in disapproval, clearly thinking her to be either lying or had deemed his captain unsuitable. Either was an affront to his sense of honor.

“All rotated around a woman. What else?” What little light was left caught the spark in his eye of a storyteller settling in. “Cap’n met up with one. A beauty, she were, in her own way,” he was quick to qualify.

Pryce regarded her more narrowly. “As I represented, ye put me in mind o’ her…tall, well, mebbe not quite so much,” he said with a second look. “She had a go-to-hell way o’ lookin’ at ye—square in the eye, she did—and not a by-yer-leave in ’er. She was a pirate at heart; took to it like a fish t’ water. Get her blood riled and she could be ruthless as any man, moreso. Could pass fer one too, given a big hat, that is. Not as strong as a man and that vexed her considerable. Got herself into trouble on that score more than the once.”

A faint smile came some an unspoken thought. He shook it away before going on.

“As it chances, Hattie had ’er own ship. At first, she and the Cap’n sailed in consort, scourge of the Caribbean. Hell, the whole world was at their disposal,” he said with an enthusiastic swipe of his hand. “Then her ship took a ball to the magazine. Blew ’er to smitherines, but Hattie lived to tell of it. By that time, she and the Cap’n were, well, let’s just say no woman can resist his charms and she had her own charmin’ ways. So, bein’ the good-hearted soul that he is, he took ’er in, she ’n’ what was left o’ her crew, havin’ in his mind the next prize would be hers.”