The Pirate Captain (69 page)

Nathan reached for the bottle, and his eye caught hers. Uncertainty hung for a moment, and then a corner of his mouth twitched. He winked and turned his attention to Thomas.

Settling deeper in her nest, Cate slept with Nathan’s laughter soft in her ears.

###

From the corner of his eye, Thomas observed his friend, idly poking a stick at the fire that didn’t need tending.

His conversation with Cate had opened Pandora’s box. Now, it weighed heavily. It was a matter he kept well-stowed, tucked behind a lifetime of badness. Hell, a full list it was: brutality, violence, shame, regrets, horror, much of which was too vile to revisit. By his years, any man had his share, but living at sea—as a pirate—provided a soul an inordinate supply.

If he had known then what he knew now, he would have physically carried Nathan out of Creswicke’s office years ago, kicking and screaming, to be sure. Instead, he had carried Nathan from a stinking pen, naked, beaten, flogged, and branded, to a stolen skiff—his first act of piracy—and spirited him away.

He doubted Cate would have believed him, if he had told her a mysterious current had swept the skiff across the waters to an island where none had existed before, and to a strange hovel, with an even stranger woman inside.

At least, he thought it was a woman.

Even now, he shuddered, chilled in spite of the fire. Bordered on evil she did. But she did right by Nathan, hovering over him like a hen over a chick, murmuring all manner of chants and incantations, rattling her cup of bones and bits, anointing him with unspeakable potions. He’d seen many a sorceress in his day, but this one…

He shuddered again. In spite of the woman’s spells, Nathan screamed like a tortured man losing his soul, in an agony rooted far deeper than torn flesh. By his judgment, if it hadn’t been for the ogress, they would have buried Nathan there.

She sent them away. Several fortnights later, Nathan showed up, big as you please—never did figure how he knew where they were—with a ship and nearly a full complement of crew. He had only asked once in how it came to pass, and knew Nathan well enough to know the outlandish tale was the only answer he was going to get.

The first months after, those had been the most difficult for all of them. Nathan was burdened the most, knowing it was his hand that had delivered them to that fate. Garrick had been their savior, showing them the pirate’s world. Nathan rose like the proverbial phoenix, and typical Nathan, had thrown himself at the bad situation, determined to make it the best. Each day, however, with each piratical deed, Nathan had withered, withdrawing behind beard and hair.

Thomas squinted to the night sky as he tried to recall the last time he had seen Nathan: 10 years, at least. He hadn’t been prepared for what he saw. He had heard the fantastic tales, believed less than half, but now, was obliged to reconsider. The pirate had devoured him, eaten away the real man, leaving only a façade.

He stared across the fire, in search of the man he remembered. There were glimpses: a look, a turn of phrase, a gesture. But so much was different. The eyes were more haunted. After what Creswicke had done, it didn’t seem possible there could be worse, but apparently the Fates had chosen something more for Nathan. Injury, torture, mutiny, and death: how much of the tales was one to believe? Miracles of navigation and survival; battle and luck; where did one draw the line?

And now, he was seeing something else, something not seen in decades, but there it was, before his very eyes: Nathan Blackthorne pining over a woman.

Who’d have thought? No one, if they knew only the pirate. Anyone, if they knew the man.

Lounging against a puncheon, Thomas took a swig from the bottle. He looked through the flames to the tousled mahogany head peeking from under the quilt.

“What’s in your mind to do with her, Nathan?”

Nathan jerked from his reverie. He followed Thomas’ line of sight toward the sleeping form, and then cut him a cold look. “Sniffing around, is it?”

Thomas winced. It came as no surprise they would eventually circle around to contentious partings of many years ago.

“That wasn’t my idea,” Thomas said levelly. “’Twas Camilla’s choice.”

Nathan snorted. “Tell that to the parrot. Not much I can do,” he sighed. “She’s married.”

Thomas frowned. “That was all by the board before.”

Nathan’s mouth took a grim twist. “Isn’t now.”

Fingers drumming his bent leg, he studied Nathan. Over the years, he had seen Nathan in any number of moods, to all the extremes life could bestow. Broody was a rare trait, defeated unfathomable.

This was strange, very strange.

Aside from the bruises of a recent beating, the fire shadows sharpened Nathan’s features, hollowing his eyes and cheeks. No one ever really knew what was going on in that mind, not anymore. There had been a time, but…

“This one’s bad, eh?” he asked.

Nathan nodded, pointedly avoiding Thomas as he took a long pull from the bottle.

“Is this Rebecca bad or Olivia bad?” Thomas pressed further.

Nathan swished the mouthful from side to side, swallowed and croaked, “Worse.”

Thomas closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. “Damn, Nathan, I’m sorry. Have you told her? I mean, have you said…anything?”

“Aye,” Nathan said, contemplatively tracing patterns in the sand. “Several times.”

“And?”

Nathan made a frustrated sound and batted at the sand. “And, she says she wants to be
friends
.”

“Ouch! Jesus, Nathan, I’m sorry.”

Nathan acknowledged the empathy with a half-lift of one shoulder and a vague nod.

“Is that how you would have it?”

“Hardly me choice,” Nathan said sullenly.

Unable to sit still, Nathan rose to fetch several pieces of wood to stoke the fire. He dropped back down on the sand, a shower of sparks spiraling skyward.

He felt Thomas’ stare and spread his arms. “What?”

Cate stirred at the sharp sound. Grimacing, Nathan waited. “What would you have me do?” he whispered hoarsely once she had quieted.

“Force the issue.”

He shot Thomas a skeptical glare over the flames. “And what if I scare her off? What if she hauls her wind and leaves?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Aye, but she would,” Nathan said evenly, his shoulders jerking. “Bloody damn near did and but a day since. Damn near jumped ship, too.”

“Stop her.” He saw the folly in that as soon as he uttered it. With eyes that saw right through a man, Cate didn’t strike him as a woman who was readily cowed. Bodily harm would ensue for anyone foolish enough to try to bend her to his will.

Nathan made a disgusted noise and waved the suggestion away. He took a drink, and then hunched forward to prop his chin on his knees.

“She still loves him; not much to do about that,” Nathan said, staring owlishly into the fire.

“Him?”

“Her husband.”

“Oh.” Thomas took a drink and wiped his mouth of the back of his hand.

“I swear, if I ever find the bastard, and I will,” Nathan emphasized with a stab of his finger, “I’ll kill ’im straight away.”

Knowing Nathan’s bent, it was a credible threat. Conviction or provocation could precipitate such an act, more so of recent, if there was any grain of truth to the stories he’d heard.

Nathan pitched several bits of shell into the fire as his agitation grew. “Any man what takes a woman through war—nigh on to a goddamned hero, as I hear it—and then leaves her to suffer God knows what alone, deserves a blade to the gut. God protect us from noble men,” he intoned to the sky.

Thomas frowned but nodded interestedly. It explained a good deal of the woman’s hardness—not in the way of coldness, for any man could see an internal fire of spirit and flesh—and wisdom. The woman was a mystery and a wonder.

“And you would never do that—leave her, that is?” Thomas mused.

Nathan twitched. They both knew he had left a good number of women in his wake and not always with a proper taking of his leave.

Nathan swiped away the thought. “That was different different…’cuz she’s…she’s different.

“Charm her.”

Nathan rolled a dubious look from the corner of his eye. “Charm her, how?”

“I don’t know, like you always do. Hell, Nathan, I’ve seen you charm the scales off a fish. Flash her that smile of yours and she’ll be clay in your hand.”

Nathan’s bells—God knew where the hell those things came from!—tinkled when he shook his head in disbelief at Thomas’s failure to comprehend the delicacies of the situation. “She’s different.”

“C’mon, Nathan, if you can’t be honest with her or me, at least be honest with yourself for once.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know.”

“Goddamned taskmaster, aren’t you?”

Sputtering like a reprimanded schoolboy, Nathan pointedly fixed his gaze on the fire. Within seconds, his eyes crept back to find Thomas still staring. “You know, you remind me of me dear old, aged aunt. You’d best hope your face doesn’t freeze like that. Fancy yourself me keeper, eh?”

“Someone needs to; you do a damn poor business of it yourself.”

“I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

“Aye and how much further had you been else?”

Nathan held his ire for a moment, and then slumped. “Aye, true enough.”

Thomas’ attention drifted back to Cate’s sleeping form once more. The fire sparked gold and orange in the tumble of copper hair. “She's too beautiful to be kept in limbo waiting for no one. If you’ve designs, fair enough. But if not, you’d oblige me to say as much and step aside.”

Jaw working, Nathan’s gaze settled on her and lingered with a sudden tenderness. “Sad thing is she hasn’t the slightest idea the effect she has on men. All she need do is look at you with those cursed eyes and…”

“And what?”

“And, nothing.” Nathan picked up a bit of driftwood and hurled it into the fire. “That’s what happens: nothing.”

Nathan turned into himself, mired deep in his own murk. Silence fell; the fire’s hiss the only sound between them.

“So, I’ve wore ’round to my original question,” Thomas said at length. “Put a name on what you’re at with her?”

Snatching up the bottle from at his feet, Nathan meditatively rolled it between his hands. At length, he took a drink then blew a tired exhale. “Only one thing I can do: keep her safe, until I can find her husband.”

Now there was a novelty: finding a husband?

Thomas’ mouth sagged.“Safe, as on the
Morganse
safe? You think it's safe out here?”

“Well, it's safer than anywhere else. Well, it is,” he bristled at Thomas’ dubious guffaw.

Thomas burst out a laugh, only to clap a hand over his mouth when Cate stirred.

“Sure, Nathan,” he whispered, still fizzing with mirth. “You just keep believing that. What makes you so sure she wants to find her husband?”

Nathan gave him a level look from under his brows. “She. Still. Loves. Him.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I could have sworn I saw something different, but you’d know better than I. You’d best be careful with her, Nathan. That woman could wipe the decks with your carcass.”

Nathan snorted. “As well I know!”

###

Cate woke again much later. The moon had set. The air had the feel of being nearer to day than night. The fire was down to mere coals, glimmering red hot under their blanket of ash. Aside from the rattle of palm fronds, the rush of surf on the reef, and the snoring of over 300 celebration-worn men, the beach was still.

Twisting her head around, she was startled to find a dark form laying barely an arm’s length away. Peering closer, she saw it was Nathan. Sprawled on his stomach, braids snarled about his shoulders, an arm pillowed his head. Hearing the throaty rasp of his breathing, she resisted the urge to touch him. Instead, she enjoyed the connection that came with seeing him sleep. Like the coals, her anger had burned out. She sought to rekindle it, but found she couldn’t. Irritated and annoyed, yes, but angry at him, no. It had been Nathan being Nathan. How could she expect anything more?

As she turned, something caught her eye. Next to her head, her shoes sat neatly arranged. She looked back, half-expecting to see Nathan watching, but he remained asleep. And so, she settled back into her quilt-lined nest and did the same.

###

The next time Cate woke was not so delicate. She was jerked into the new day by a blaze of sunlight in her eyes, and Mr. Hodder’s expostulations—which would cause many a woman to blush—in her ears. At first thinking she was still aboard, she burrowed deeper under the blanket. At last able to assimilate her whereabouts, she peeked like a turtle from its shell. It was no surprise to find Nathan already gone, a faint depression in the sand his only trace.

The beach was alive with activity. Absent were many of the usual sounds of morning—the grind of holystones, pounding of feet to breakfast, or the hails from the tops as the day sails were bent or reefs shaken out—but enough was present to lend a air of normalcy. Pryce could be heard in full vent, prodding some poor unfortunate deemed too laggardly. A baleful complaint came from Hermione. Beatrice was having a bit of her morning parroty say, her vulgarities blending seamlessly with those from the humans. It led one to wonder what a contended parrot sounded like, or if finding her a companion might sweeten her disposition. In that there was, of course, the risk of two irascible birds.

Cate pushed up and knocked the hair from her face in time to see Nathan striding toward her. Sash jouncing at his knees, his attention was fixed on the steaming mug he bore.

“I give you joy o’ the morning, luv,” Nathan declared brightly as he folded down to the sand next to her. “I assured Mr. Kirkland I would see you got this the instant you showed a leg. Upon me word, the man takes your thirsts as a personal challenge. He represents to have put cinnamon in it. Have a care. It’s hot.”

He held out the mug for her to inhale the aromatic brew, and then carefully sip. His warning was needless. Kirkland’s pride in the temperature of anything produced in his galley was well-known, his coffee ready to blister the first unsuspecting soul.