The Pirate Captain (38 page)

“And you prefer that?”

“I can live with it. I
have
lived with it,” he added with a note of victory.

“What if someone was to come along and tell you it could be another way?”

“What if someone came along and said you could have your life back?” he shot back with equal evenness.

Now Cate was the once to wince. “I’m not sure I’m that same person anymore,” Cate said, brushing at a non-existent spot on her skirt. There was no advantage in pondering such nonsense, for it was never to come to pass.

“No more than I,” he said complacently.

“Would it be so long of a jump to go back to what you were? I mean, pray don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with what you are—”

“A pirate?” Nathan asked, dryly.

“It’s not necessarily a bad word,” Cate was quick to add. “It’s more a matter of how you see yourself. Do you want to be something else?”

“Would I?” His legs kicked faster while he considered. “The question is more: could I?”

Alighting to the deck, he strolled to the weather main chains. Bracing his elbows on the rail, he lifted his face into the breeze. An updraft lifted the tails of his headscarf and strands of hair, and wafted them about his shoulders. Cate leaned against
Widower
beside him, the iron cool through her skirt. He stared sightlessly into the night, the wind pressing his shirt to his chest.

“I’ve been at sea a long time.” His graveled voice bore the agedness of Millbridge. “It’s a rough world out here; I’ve seen things and done more. It changes a man.”

Strolling aft, Hermione paused to eye Nathan, and then came to nudge his hand.

“See Mr. Hodder, you seed of Satan,” he said without rancor to the goat. “You’ll not have your tobacco or grog until the First Watch is rung, and you know it well.”

With what might be called a goat’s version of a dirty look, Hermione turned and left in eloquent disappointment.

“Always have a care with that ruddy beast,” Nathan said to the goat’s receding backside. “She takes advantage at every turn. Indulge her too soon, and then she dupes someone else into another. Before you know it, you’ve a drunken goat staggering about. Gives the men cause to think they can take the same advantages.”

“You’re ignoring my point,” Cate said evenly.

The corner of one eye twitched with discovery. Nathan twisted one ring, his brows knitting. “Some say every man is a barbarian, only civilization and the fear of God what keeps it caged. Others claim we’re all good in the beginning, evil being but the result of bad choices.”

He looked up, the dark eyes troubled. “But can one see that bad choice, and then go back?”

Nathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of cord. Cate inwardly groaned. It had become a custom—and a very annoying one, by her reckoning—for him at odd times to produce such a piece, announce “You need practice,” and drop it into her lap. He could be as tenacious as a terrier. To her relief, he began to work the piece himself. A good portion of it had already been worked into something like an intricate chain in a pattern very similar to the tattoo that collared his neck. His fingers moved with a sureness that rarely required him to look down, the show-off.

“Some claim atonement, an ‘I’m sorry’ in some form or fashion, is sufficient to return one’s purity,” Nathan said. “But does that erase the barbarian or just slap him in irons, until next he escapes? And what of the deeds he’s done: the lives taken, the wreck and ruin? Are those undone? Do the dead live? Does a hacked limb return?”

Nathan made a derisive noise. The bells in his hair rustled as he manipulated the cord faster, the swallows on his knuckles fluttering almost to the point of taking flight.

“One would have to be a rather calloused lout to think an ‘I’m sorry’ is going to set any of that aright. It strikes me ’tis a matter for the powers what be, or whose god you die under,” he said.

“You think there’s more than one?”

“I think everyone believes theirs is the only one. Beyond that, we don’t know and no one is sayin’. A well-kept secret, to be sure. I’ve seen more religions than there are lands to count. Hell, there’s probably a score represented right here on this deck. And they all have one thing in common: they think their god is the right and only one.”

Nathan fell broodingly quiet. A fiddle and hornpipe broke into a jig on the forecastle, while others clapped and whirled, their feet pounding the boards in great glee.

“A man draws his sword and sees the Devil within, and the horror what can be wrought by his own hand.” Intent on his hands, he didn’t look up. “The smell of the kill does things, hardens you, makes you unfit for the company of no one other than those who have smelt the same.”

Such soul-searching rarely came easy for anyone. Brian battled much the same. Like Nathan, intelligent and educated, he had been compelled by circumstances to commit violence and mayhem. For Brian, it had been clan wars and French kings, but the effect had been the same: a blooded sword and haunted by the eyes of the dead staring back.

Cate recalled well Nathan’s rant in St. Agua, flaring at her for suggesting he might violate the virginal daughter of the town’s mayor. She understood now that his anger at St. Agua had not been aimed at her, as she had thought, but at himself.

“So, you don’t think you can put the genie back in the bottle?” she asked.

Nathan's head came up at that. The gold of his smile glinted in the lamplight. “Oh, so you’ve heard those tales as well.”

“A few, when I was a child,” she said, determined not to be diverted. “There is more
civilized
in you than you think.”

Nathan brought his face to the wind. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. “I’ve killed men, many men; more than I care to list. I’ve hacked and bludgeoned, and shot and beaten...”

He bit his lip, shying from completing the thought.

“There is a hell, you know,” he said conversationally. He glanced from the corner of his eye. “Have you ever thought about what it is?”

The question was posed as one not intended to be answered. He tapped his chest over his heart. “It’s right here. It’s a hell of one’s own making and there is no hell like the one you can provide for yourself. Dante’s
Inferno
held nothing compared to the tortures a man’s own soul can provide. There were no flames, unless of course, burning is what you fear most.”

“You don’t think of Heaven?”

Nathan smiled grimly. “I’ve seen nothing to prove it to be no more than a pipe dream. Pirate, darling,” he said gesturing toward their general surroundings. “St. Peter has no place for the likes of us. One such as yourself need not worry about Hell, for such a place would never befall one as pure as you.”

“I’m hardly pure,” Cate scoffed under the singing on the foredeck. “I’ve slashed, killed, shot—”

“Aye, and all for the purest of reasons.”

He gazed at her with startling gentleness. “There is no horror in you, darling. You’re not capable. One is not a monster if driven by monstrous deeds. That’s survival and ’tis what we are put on this ol’ Earth for.”

“And you?”

“I’ve a list of wickedness a dozen times over and all for the worst of reasons: I exist because I must. A better man would have found another way.”

“And die in the process?” She pointedly looked toward his hand and the “S” branded there. “You had few choices.”

“Aye, but choices nonetheless.” Nathan looked dispassionately down at his hand. “I could have cut the thing away and be done with it.”

“But you said that would have been a victory for the man who put it there. That kind of resentment and hatred turned inward can be an ugly thing. I’ve seen it,” she added to his skeptical look. “As you said, all that doesn’t make you a beast; it makes you a survivor. How much of that was done because if you didn’t, they were going to do it to you?” she pressed in the face of him attempting to wave her off.

The corner of his mouth tucked up grimly. “Most of it.”

“And how much of it did you do because you enjoyed it?”

He snorted, looking away. “None of it.”

Cate moved closer, ducking her head to catch Nathan's eye. “The savage can’t recall a single face of his victims; the decent is haunted by them all. The truly wicked man wouldn’t give any act a second thought. That you worry is proof you’re not.”

He was a man who could hide every thought, and yet a series of thoughts could be seen crossing his features. There was the flicker of discomfort at having a well-kept secret discovered, and then the wonderment of how she could have known. Next came awe of her insight. And finally acceptance, with a bit of redemption, in knowing he wasn’t alone.

“Pipe down!”

She jumped at Hodder’s bellow, calling the men to their hammocks. There was no pipe
per se
, but the effect was the same. Those on the forecastle gathered their instruments and filed past. The men on watch were about, but occupied elsewhere. The two of them were alone as could be on a ship of over a hundred.

Nathan stirred from the thoughts into which he had retreated. “Are you saying I should go back…to the
real world
?” he asked, with a mocking roll of his eyes toward the distant civilized world.

“No,” she said evenly. “In many ways, it’s more treacherous there than here. I’ve seen lying, cheating, betrayal, blackmail, rape, stealing, and treason, and all by
civilized
people
, often with titles. Pirates are more civilized than many back there in their salons and parlors. All I am saying is: if you’re unhappy, there are choices.”

The knotting paused as Nathan leaned an arm on the rail and gazed at the night. At one point, he glanced toward his hand, where the brand laid unseen. His gaze shifted to fingers curved around the knotwork and the images of the swallows across his knuckles, all the while glancing from time to time at her from the corner of his eye. The corner of his mouth tucked wryly and he straightened, decision made.

“If I have to face Hell itself and twice a day to have what I have now,” he said, his gaze intent on her face, “then I’ll keep it the way it is and say ‘Thank you, very much.’”

Nathan held up the cord between his hands, the lantern light bright on his smile. “There.”

The cord had been converted into a delicate necklace. A pendant-like knot anchored the center, the looping sides almost lacy. An identical, but smaller knot made the closure.

“It’s exquisite. Where did you ever learn to do that?” Cate cried.

“Years on a ship, luv, several of which were spent on the spice routes. Here, turn ’round.”

“It’s for me?” Flattered and baffled to near speechlessness, she did so, lifting her hair out of the way.

Passing it around her neck, Nathan worked with the closure for some moments. Finished, his hand lingered at the curve of her neck.

“Let’s see how it answers.” Nathan turned her back to face him and re-arranged the center decoration. “It looks fine. This is a Chinese knot for good luck.

“I notice you’re not wearing one.”

“No need.” He gave his head a quick shake to jangle his bells, and then touched the tattoo at his neck. “I’ve plenty of me own charms.”

“I love it.” Cate anxiously felt for the pendant. It hung just below the notch of her collarbone.

“Wet it a few times to tighten the knot and it will never come off—unless you desire it, of course,” he quickly added.

“Never!” It was her first gift in years.

Cate kissed Nathan on the cheek, the impulsiveness embarrassing them both.

“Thank you, Nathan. You’re a true friend,” she said, her cheeks heating.

Nathan's smile faltered, and then faded. His reply went forgotten as he stiffened. His head came up like a hound on a scent. His hand went to his sword as he stepped before her, pushing her back against the bulwark. The space between the gun carriages was now a small fortress, Nathan poised at its entry.

Cate strained to listen, trying to fathom what it was he had heard. Nothing. Wind, water, block and canvas: only the
Morganse
spoke. Her humanity, however, had fallen uncommonly mum.

Pryce loomed out of the darkness. “D’ye hear it?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Nathan nodded, his head still canted. He waved Pryce aft with his sword, a mouthful spoken in a single gesture. Pryce nodded gravely and faded away. Nathan turned for the bow, but stopped, of two minds whether to leave her there or take her with him. Decision made, he took her by the arm, a twitch of his mustache bidding her quiet.

Up to the forecastle and down, then working his way aft, Nathan cruised the deck without so much as a footfall or bell tinkle. Cate pressed her skirt against her legs, the mere rustle of the fabric seeming to shatter the stillness. The people they passed hooded their eyes, fixing their attention on whatever they were doing. They had heard it too—whatever had been—and made every effort to appear otherwise.

Aft of the capstan, they met up with Pryce. Hodder was now with him, a bludgeon in his fist, his multitude of rings as silent as Nathan’s bells. Nathan angled his head ever so slightly in question, the pair’s almost imperceptible shake of the head his answer.

Nothing.

Cate ventured to whisper to Nathan, “What was it?”

The corner of his eye drew down at her ignorance.

“Round shot.” Spoken so lowly, it was more a matter of reading his lips than hearing.

She did recall hearing the hollow rumble of a cannonball rolling.

“’Tis the message of conspiracy,” Nathan added.

“The goddamned, yellow, lurking, lump o’ roguery. A scug of a beast o’ the two-legged, back-biting kind what doesn’t have the balls to show his face.” The starlight caught the hatred that glittered in Pryce’s eyes.

“’Tis meant either as warning or announcement that something’s afoot,” Nathan said with considerable more reserve.

“Something?”

Her puzzlement brought a sharp look from the corner of his eye. Of course, how could she be so dense?

Mutiny.

The shot garlands lining the bulwark between the guns were always full, ready to hand for battle, but also for someone who, under the cover of darkness, wished to set one on its way. The air on her arms raised and her neck prickled. The so very familiar deck suddenly became a forbidding jungle. Shadows she could have earlier named were now possible lairs for predators, every creak impending assault.