The Pirate Captain (39 page)

“You’ve a knife?” Nathan asked.

Cate nodded, touching the side of her skirt.

“Good. Go find your best,” he said to Pryce and Hodder. “Arm and post them. You’ll find me in me cabin.”

The tone of his voice suggested he wouldn’t be lounging about reading, nor playing draughts.

The three exchanged significant looks. None of this had come as unexpected. Pryce and Hodder sketched a salute and set off. Nathan guided her inside.

“Sleep well,” he said urging her around the curtain and to her bed. “’Tis naught to be worried about.”

It was worth noting his pistol was still in hand. Another, seized from its hiding place inside the urn at the door, was now stuffed in his belt.

Cate stood staring at the curtain, once again in stunned wonderment of Nathan’s ability to understate.

Sleep came…finally, in fitful bursts. Cate jerked awake at every creak of a block or plank, slap of a wave, or heavy tread. Daylight came at last by way of the port overhead distinguishing itself from the bulkhead. Its square of light on the floor progressed from a thin grey to lavender, to pink, to coral, and then finally the glow of full day.

Gray and grave, Pryce and Hodder gave their Captain their morning reports while she and Nathan were at the table. Nothing notable. Nothing remarkable. Nothing to portend. The round shot, however, had not set itself rolling.

The tension was palpable. The hands smiled, but not as readily, their laughter sounding forced. There were no robust hails from the tops or forecastle. Everyone suffered a tendency to jump at routine noises: a rigging knife or marlinspike dropped, a bucket kicked over, or the scuttlebutt dipper hitting the deck. As Nathan, Hodder, and Pryce went about their duties, their voices were louder and more imposing, Hodder’s reaching bone-rattling proportion. The trio moved in an ever-shifting triangulation. If one was aft, the other was forward, another amidship. It couldn’t be missed that this orchestration included one of them always within a few paces of wherever she happened to be.

Feigning interest in anything, Cate found herself examining each face from the corner of her eye, in search of clues as to who the conspirators might be. It was altogether disquieting to think the ones now smiling and knuckling their foreheads as they passed could have been the perpetrators. The ship suddenly became a very small space.

No accusations were made, but neither were there inquiries, for Nathan knew the effort would be wasted. Behind every carefully blank face could lie the truth, but only a lie would be his answer. Nathan was eloquently familiar with the watch lists and duty rosters. He knew who would have been on deck, who would have had the opportunity. She had the impression he strongly suspected who the conspirators were, but was disinclined to act…yet.

Cate watched Nathan go through his paces, the Master of Denial on stage once more. There was a secondary discomposure, however, another burden that Nathan carried. It was most evident when she was in close proximity, but it wasn’t until that night that she was to discover its nature.

###

Cate woke with a start.

After Bullock’s comments, she was prone toward waking at the least noise. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sleeping. It was late enough for the moon to have risen, its icy-blue shaft slicing the cavernous dark.

She heard again what had wakened her: footsteps and rustling in the salon. She rolled on her side to see a thin band of light squeezing underneath the curtain. The noise was perplexing; at that hour, Nathan was usually much more discreet. It could have been Pryce. The Captain’s cabin was public domain on a pirate ship, but it was rare for anyone to avail themselves of the privilege. A swish of bells, nearly obliterated by the commotion, announced it was Nathan, although the cadence of his step was unrecognizable. His boots scuffed to a stop. There was the soft
pop!
of a cork being dislodged from a bottle, followed by the slosh of liquid and an enthusiastic gulp. Whoever it was needed a drink badly.

The pacing resumed. Growing more animated, it spiraled until its orbit centered before the curtain. Cate wondered if the performance was meant to draw her out or if Nathan was too preoccupied to realize where he was. Finally, the boots stopped, the toes protruding under the velvet.

There was the canvas-like rip of a throat clearing, as if there was a chance she would have slept through the preceding performance.

“Madam, I desire an audience, if you please,” called Nathan in uncommon formality.

Her curiosity dampened by trepidation, Cate rose, shrugged the quilt over her shoulders, and went to meet her summons.

Nathan fell back a step, apparently surprised that she had done as he bid. He ducked a rigid bow and beckoned her to the table to sit. With little reason to decline, she did. The fact that he was disturbed by something, and that something had to do with her was eloquently clear. If he had been a cat, his hair would have been standing on end. As it was, it roiled about his shoulders like a tangle of snakes.

He took another drink from the bottle clutched in his fist, then, as an afterthought, thrust it toward her. “Drink?”

She eyed the proffered bottle warily. “Am I going to need it?”

“Mebbe.” For as expressive as Nathan could be, he also could be maddeningly opaque.

Heeding the less than subtle warning, she took the bottle. Hesitating—God! She hated the stuff—she braced and took a sip. He took pleasure at her ensuing shudder. Jerking a terse nod, he set to pacing once again.

“Madam, there has been a calculated attack on me character, a scurrilous and grievous affront of which I cannot abide.”

Cate had seen magistrates conduct business with less officiousness. His formality was wholly uncharacteristic and not a little disquieting, but she kept her features carefully arranged as unobtrusive and attentive as possible.

“There have been a number of matters that have come to me attention which demand being addressed. Firstly, there was the unfortunate scene with me bunk.”

Now frowning slightly, Cate strained to follow his train of thought. It finally came to her: a few days after her arrival, Nathan had caught her dragging it outside. In her own defense, it had looked suspect and smelled worse; she had only wished to air it. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time, but in retrospect, she could see how he might have taken offense.

Her attempt at an apology was cut off.

“And then, there was the matter of the decks, in me
own
cabin, I might add.”

She harbored less guilt for washing the cabin floor. It had looked dirty, her intention to be useful.

“I’ll not have you slaving about like some scullery maid!” had been Nathan's comment at the time, and with only a small amount of discussion, she had agreed to resist such impulses in the future.

Nathan pivoted to jab an accusing finger so squarely at Cate's nose she ducked. She didn’t think he would deliberately hurt her, but given his mood, miscalculations came easily.

“And then there was the matter of the hammocks,” he said in a war-like declaration.

“They were stained and they smelled,” she shot back before she could stop herself.

“They are washed
every
Wednesday, each man being responsible for his own.”

In a rising heat, Cate wondered whether he was upset over the disruption of routine or that she had robbed the men of the opportunity to do it themselves.

“Am I being disciplined?” Cate said, ruffling. “If so, then put me off at the next port. I had no wish to be such a burden.”

“Hold your course and speed. You shan’t slip from under this so easily…and I’ve only begun!” Settling his shoulders, Nathan continued. “And now, out of the blue, without provocation or warning…”

His mouth moved wordlessly, unable to utter the words. Surrendering, he stood over her and glared down his nose. “I demand you explain yourself!”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you mean what you said?”

“I don’t know.” Baffled, Cate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t…I mean…What are…?”

“You called me a friend. A friend, mind. What the bloody hell did you mean by that?” Vibrating with acrimony, Nathan commenced pacing, the rum geysering from the bottle.

“That was yesterday,” she sputtered

“Ah-ha! Exactly! Thought you could drop that stinkpot and it would go unnoticed?”

Cate's first reaction was to laugh, but thought that unwise; Nathan didn’t seem of a mind to be dallied with. She wished she knew him better, that she might more accurately read his moods and swings.

“If you had called me an ass or a sottish bugger or a Dutch-faced princock, I would know how to respond to that. Or even if you’d slapped me face, at least I’d know what I’d done, but this…
this
!” Nathan cried as he stormed about, the scarf jouncing at his knees.

He stalked the room, spewing a black tirade in a rapid succession of languages. Cate's neck grew stiff with visually following his circuitous path. Married to a Scot and living in the Highlands had given her a thorough education in dealing with tempers. Unless bodily harm was imminent, riding them out as invisibly as possible was usually best. Eyes down, she folded her hands in her lap.

“A stab to the heart, that’s what it is, and goddamned uncivil to boot. Friend!
Tach
!”

Nathan took a drink, and then took an angry swipe at the air. His shoulders jerked, elbows working at his sides. “I’m not alone on this, be assured. I’ve conferred with Pryce and he concurs. Blessed unseemly! I’ll have you know, madam, I am a pirate and under no circumstances does that allow—nor come with the expectations—of my being a friend to
anyone
!”

Cate turned her head to cover a smile that couldn’t be suppressed. It was endearing—another term she was confident he wouldn’t appreciate—that he was so upset. She was beginning to regret what had only been best intentions, but those often went unrewarded.

Nathan's pace slowed to measured strides. Timed to punctuate each word, he ticked his points off on his fingers. “I’ve been nice. I’ve been cordial. I’ve made polite conversation. Hell, I even gave you me bunk. I haven’t shouted or called you names—”

“Well, there was that one time…”

Nathan's lip took an ugly curl. “You were cleaning, madam. Cleaning, mind you. You had to be stopped. This is a first you know,” he said, narrowing an accusing eye. “I have never had a woman call me anything so vile or the likes of this in me entire life!”

He stopped in mid-stride and rolled his eyes, striving to recall. “Nope. Never!” he said, with a definitive thump of his fist on the table that made her jump. “It defies all logic. Damn perplexing creatures, women. Incomprehensible!”

Nathan continued to storm the room. “If you’ve a complaint, woman, then out with it. We fancy ourselves as running a civil ship. We might be pirates, but we don’t go a-name calling just because it suits our fancy. We’ve a Ship’s Council; file your complaints as any worthy sea rover would.”

He threw himself into his chair and slouched, his outrage fading to resignation. “I’ve known a vast number of people in me life,” he said, as if that fact was of relevance.

Given his acrimony, it seemed unwise to now attempt to discuss the very thing that had set him off. Not everyone appreciated an examination of something so personal. And yet, he was so bereft Cate couldn’t sit in silence. Sensing it safe, she picked up the chance to possibly defend herself, or at least mollify a bit of his pique.

“How many were friends?” she asked carefully.

Nathan slid down further to prop his boots on the table. “What is this ‘friends,’ anyway?”

He posed the question as if it were a condition or disease, certainly not something to be sought.

Cate closed one eye in thought. Her first urge was to mock him: anyone knew what it meant. Considering his life, however, it was possible he had never enjoyed the opportunity. Pirates. Treachery. Bloodshed. Killing. Mutiny. Raid. Kill. Plunder. Hardly fertile ground.

“Umm…trust?” she said.

Nathan made a scorn-laden noise at the back of his throat and rolled his eyes. “Bloody little o’ that…and dwindling each day.” He slid a cutting look at her that quelled any doubts as to what he meant.

He fell quiet, the dry rasp of his thumb brushing back and forth across the brown glass the only sound.

“Two, mebbe three,” Nathan said at length. He seemed a bit surprised by the revelation, but it was unclear if it was because there were so few or that there were that many.

His boyish innocence was heartbreaking, for someone who had lived elbow to elbow virtually his entire life, and yet could count less than a handful as trustworthy.

It was possible that his standard for assigning such status was higher and was affronted by her having assigned it so cavalierly. Cate had assumed it would be taken in the same way as she had intended. She had been without connection for so long—no husband, no family, no home…no friends. She had found a raft in a sea of loneliness and she clung to it, joyous for that small bit of salvation.

“If you like, I’ll take it back,” she said.

“What will that accomplish?” he asked, sulking. “Can’t unring a bell.”

“
Dong!”
she said brightly in a pitiful mimic of a bell. “There, see: undone.”

The end of his mustache reluctantly lifted, the familiar humor returning to his eyes. “That easy, eh?”

The storm had passed. Like those of the Caribbean, his anger boiled in, raged and crashed, and then departed with nothing more than a faint rumble.

She rose and lightly laid a hand on his shoulder. “Rest assured, the word has been stricken from my vocabulary. You’ll never hear it again. Do we have an accord?”

Nathan smiled with considerable relief and lifted the bottle in salute. “Agreed.”

She bent nearer and said in a loud whisper, “Be assured, however, good Captain, this by no means implies that I shall be changing my opinion.”

Flourishing the quilt as if it were the royal robes, she strolled back to the sleeping quarters. From behind her came the sound of Nathan taking a drink and a rumbling groan.