The Pirate Captain (59 page)

He inhaled, as one did in preparation of a sudden move, and his hand flexed, either to make a fist or draw a weapon she couldn’t tell. Either way, he thought the better and exhaled through his nose, long and slow, as a parent does with an unruly child. His hand settled on the ivory pistol butt at his waist, instead, the middle finger tapping its
lento
rhythm once more.

Harte forced a smile, which through tense lips, was more the baring of teeth. “Clearly, you’re distraught,” he said coldly. “You’re hysterical. You require rest. I’ll pass the word for your maid to see you back to your room.”

Harte pivoted on his slippered heel and stalked away. Furious, she picked up a stone and hurled it after him. Missing by a ridiculous margin, she snatched up several more, firing them off, squealing at each toss. Whirling around, she looked for something to break, something that would shatter into thousands of satisfying little pieces. Finding nothing, she crumpled next to a bench and wept.

Cate cried the tears expected with frustration and anger. Along with those came the unexpected ones of anguish, rejection, hopelessness, and isolation, all brought on by the pain of being forced to admit to a roomful of despicable people that Captain Nathanael Blackthorne, pirate and rogue, ravager of women extraordinaire, wouldn’t have her.

In long, wracking sobs, she cried until it hurt too much to do so anymore. Hitching and snuffling, she blew her nose without heed on the hem of her skirt, knowing Sally would have it clean by the morrow. Cradling her head in her arms, she pressed her cheek against the stone of the bench and cooled her heated face.

She traced a finger along her arm, and thought how long it had been since she had been held. She missed being loved: the sense of belonging, having a reason to wake or draw breath. For the most part, her most treasured memories of Brian were of in bed: long, swirling nights of limbs entwined, or lying quietly together reviewing the minutiae of the day. It led her to wonder if it was Brian or the lovemaking that she missed most, holding and being held, looking forward to nights, anxiously awaiting for that heart-stalling moment when he blew out the candle and rolled to her. Who would have thought that the corporeal joys of marriage could lead to such despair? The higher the mountain, the deeper the valley, and she had toured them all. It had been said memories kept one warm; she could attest with all certainty that was a categorical fallacy.

It was appalling to think she had degenerated into one of those pitiful widows desperate for a man’s body and shelter. Over the years, she had taught herself to ignore the yearning, desire’s rush that tightened her belly, leaving her full and moist. That was the past. She longed for the warmth of a body next to her when she woke in the desolate void of darkness.

But Nathan didn’t want her; she reminded him of someone else. That was wrenchingly evident every time he walked past, every time he turned away when she spoke, every time he scurried from the cabin when she entered. She had seen the don’t-make-me-do-this expression, averting his eyes far too many times.

You remind him of her.

No more chilling or damning words had ever been spoken.

So why does he keep you aboard? Why doesn’t he set you ashore and be rid of you?

It was a bafflement, which endless hours of pondering in the dark couldn’t solve.

Nathan’s precious Hattie was like living with a ghost, haunting from the ship’s every nook, often driving her from the bed, obliging her to walk the decks, until weariness cloaked her mind. In those playground-of-loneliness hours of the night, her imagination ran rampant. She couldn’t look at the bunk without seeing two writhing bodies, one with snaking black hair. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever kissed her there, in front of the gallery, or over there, pressing her back against the gun, urgent and needing. Did he ever hold her in his arms here, or in his lap in that chair over there? Did they ever gaze at the stars from the forecastle, or lay together watching the moon through the porthole?

Her mind knew he didn’t want her, but her body paid no heed and prepared for him anyway, waking breathless and pulsing. Living unwanted and alone for years had been easy. Unwanted before someone who made her heart race: that was indescribable misery. What shreds of pride she still possessed prevented her from throwing herself at him. Be damned if she was going to become some pitiful wretch groveling for whatever scraps of affection he might fling her way.

But it was no matter: Nathan was gone. Of that she had no doubt. Between his injury and suspicion, her failure to attain any significant information, and the proximity of a Commodore and the Royal Navy, he would be far away by then.

Pirate, as he had often reminded her.

Leave him to his precious Hattie
, she thought moodily.

Angrily batting away tears, stubbornness surged. This was the West Indies, the New World, which meant a new life.

Cate had a feeling Harte was not done with her; he had something more in mind. She needed to distance herself from him and the authorities, and soon. It was a pity, for Hopetown was sizable enough; she might make a living as a seamstress, as she had done before. The best hope was someplace that was not under King Georgie’s rule. In Europe, moving from under one flag to the next meant long, arduous journeys. Here in the West Indies, it was a simple matter of from one island to the next, a new flag overhead and a new life.

A Spanish possession was most promising. She spoke the language, and was familiar with the way of life. Nathan had unwittingly become a benefactor in her new life, his coins in her pocket her means. Those would have to be saved for passage, however. Food and shelter would have to be found other ways. She had done it for years in the squalid streets of London, she could do it again.

In a convoluted way, Cate felt she had a plan—in desperate need of further development granted, but a plan, nonetheless. The first step was to get away from Harte.

Flashes of red wool were visible through the greenery and on the paths in every direction.

…extra guards have been posted…

Yes, Harte had been quite thorough. There would be no going anywhere today.

Sally stood waiting a discreet distance away. Cate rose and allowed herself to be taken inside and back to her room.

###

Feeling quite drained, Cate sat in a chair, staring out the balcony doors. The sun arched its path. The porcelain clock chimed the hours. The hall bell rang: time for everyone to shift their clothes for supper. Almost physically ill at the thought of facing anyone, Cate sent Sally to deliver her compliments and regrets, pleading a headache. The little chambermaid brought a tray. It was untouched when she returned to retrieve it and light the sconces.

The hour grew late, the house quiet. Cate remained at the window. The eerie, mournful call of a screech owl recalled Artemis’ hunched shape in the topgallant yards.

At last, she was alone. Peace.

Voices at the door stirred Cate from her torpor. She groaned aloud.

“…her some dinner. The poor child didn’t eat, so I’ve brought a tray,” came Sally’s voice. “Pray pull the door? Just so. Thank you,” she called over shoulder to the guards.

Still seated, Cate tracked Sally’s path through the room by the clatter of china and silver on the tray.

“I appreciate the thought, but you didn’t…” Cate rose stiffly and stopped as Sally set the tray down and press a finger to her lips.

“‘Twas but a ruse,” Sally hissed, creeping closer. “I’ve come with word: he’s waiting for you.”

“Who’s what?” Cate flared, thinking it was Harte.

“Your pirate, he’s outside.”

Cate watched dumbfounded as the bed’s coverlet was thrown back and, in a few economic jerks, the sheets pulled free.

“I told him you would come directly.” The maid dragged sheets toward the window and set to knotting the ends.

“What are you about?”

“Shh!” Sally flinched at her own volume then gave Cate a meaningful glare to remind her—as if she could ever forget—of the guards outside the door. “He desired you to meet him at the same place. Does that answer?”

Cate nodded, though thoroughly confused. This had to be a dream. If this was a jest, it was entirely too cruel.

“I understand now what you see in him. He certainly knows how to please a woman,” Sally said, with a dreamy roll of the eyes.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Peering into the darkness to check the garden, Sally went out onto the balcony and knelt to secure the sheet to a spindle. “After you said you loved him, and then when he—well anyway, I couldn’t help myself.”

She stood, flushed with excitement. “So, on your way!”

Cate gawked from Sally to the garden and back. This had to be Harte’s doing, or nothing but a rude jest. In spite of that, the lure of Nathan waiting was too strong.

Sally seized her by the arm and prodded her toward the rail. “Go!”

Heart racing, Cate swung a leg over, pausing to say, “Thank you.” It seemed grossly inadequate, but so very necessary to say.

“Have a care!” Sally’s eyes rounded with import. “The guard should be busy for a bit longer, but several more are roaming. Now be away, and take care of that man.”

Casting an uncertain eye toward the ground below, Cate worked around until she could grasp the sheet. The last time she had done anything similar, she had been 10 years old, sneaking out of her brother’s room. She fell and broke her arm, as she recalled. Working her hands until she felt confident, she started down. Her grip wasn’t strong enough, and she plummeted down, the knot affixing the sheets the only thing stopping her. Past that, she plunged to the fabric’s end—a good distance above the ground—and landed in an unglamorous heap in the bushes.

Biting back a pained oath, she took quick inventory of her limbs. Finding everything intact, she crouched under the shrubbery. Through the next row of hedge, she caught a flash of red of a Marine’s coat, deep in an embrace. Sally had said the guard would be busy. She made a hunched sprint across the path and into the bushes.

The moonlight banded the garden in thin shafts. Engulfed in bushes and darkness, she lost her bearings straight away. She tripped on invisible hazards, and stepped needlessly high over non-existent ones. Every rustle of shrubbery or gasp she feared was a broad announcement of her whereabouts.

“Hoy! Who goes there?”

The shouts from behind were cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps running toward her. Cate dodged at a right angle, meaning to dive under the shrubs. The moonlight flared on a red sleeve as it shot out and caught her by the waist.

“Got ’em!” her captor called out.

“Where?”

“Over ’ere!” called several voices together.

Half-carried, half-dragged away, Cate struggled, scratching where eyes might be. She kicked at his knees, but her shoes skidded harmlessly off his leggings. He chuckled at her futile attempts, infuriating her all the more.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he said. A hand clamped on her breast and squeezed, eliciting a protesting yelp from her. “Oh-ho, and a soft one, too. Got a ripe peach here, gents!”

Against every instinct, she forced herself to fall limp over his arm. As hoped, the grip at her waist loosened, thinking she had fainted. Sagging further, she waited for when her feet touched the ground and his head came directly behind hers. The moment came: she whipped her head back, the sound of smashing nose and teeth indicating she had found her mark.

Bellowing in agony, he clutched his face, blood spurting between his fingers. Now free, Cate scrambled for cover. More guards converged, with a great deal of swearing and shouting, snapping of branches and trampling boots. A burst of flame stabbed the dark, a musket fired. Under that protective chaos, she slithered away.

The grounds were now on full alert, with voices and running coming from all directions. Now horribly disoriented, wisdom advised she should stop to regain her bearings, but exertion and fear pulsed too high. Cate inched back, feeling with her foot. It bumped into something: another foot. A hand swept from behind to clamp over her mouth and pulled her away.

“Hist. Quiet, luv.”

Hushed and abbreviated as it was, she knew the graveled voice instantly.

Nathan’s hand remained, until Cate nodded in recognition. Arm still at her waist, his chin was at her shoulder as he listened. The shifting eyes slid her way, the corners crinkling with a reassuring smile. Heart racing, she managed only a wobbling one. With a faint nod, he withdrew, taking her with him. His hands, solid on her hips, steered as they ran in a half-stoop through the trees and undergrowth. The commotion was soon left behind. They were left with nothing but the pad of their feet in the soft earth, and the reassuring creak of Nathan’s leather and swish of bells.

Hopetown lay directly on their path. Nathan took her darting through its streets and alleys with startling familiarity. The town slept, but its nightwatch was astir. They ducked for cover while two gangs of night charlies raced past in the general direction of Lady Bart’s estate. Halfway down another street, heavy footfalls and clatter of musketry of a larger contingent of men came toward them. Nathan dove into the shadowy protection of a doorway, yanking her with him as a cluster of Marines jogged past. Two more gangs passed shortly behind.

Nathan's arm flexed at Cate's middle and his mouth came close to her ear. “We’ll hold a bit.”

A dog barked from somewhere near and a male voice bellowed it quiet. Her heart raced with more than running. Nathan had come for her! He hadn’t left with his men. He hadn’t thrown his hands up in disgust and left her to Harte. He had come for her! The whys and hows didn’t matter just then. He had come back!

His body, heated by exertion, and the thump of his heart against her back were proof it was no dream. She leaned into his taut strength, pressing her head against his shoulder, his breath stirring her hair. It was the longest she had ever been alone with him. His arm flexed at her waist and his cheek pressed to the side of her head.