The Pirate Captain (87 page)

“I can’t imagine whatever you mean,” she said meekly.

Nathan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not try me on, Missy. I’ll see you rot, mark me words,” he said in a low rumble.

Prudence dodged around Nathan with surprising nimbleness and flung her arms around Cate. “He hates me. He only cares for the money.”

“That’s not true, and you know it well.” Cate said, over the top of Nathan’s sputtered objections. “He’s provided for you far better than elsewhere.

“He’s kept you a hostage. He’s kept you from the man you love.” Prudence implored, her grip tightening on Cate’s shoulders.

Cate held her back at arm’s length. “What? Who?”

“Thomas, of course. Don’t be afraid to admit it’s so.”

It was Cate who sputtered now. “He’s done no such thing.”

Prudence cringed. Cate realized that her fingers were digging Prudence’s arms and she let go, wresting herself from the girl’s clutches.

“I am
exactly
where I want to be.” Cate’s voice quavered with both frustration and rage. “A lady does not meddle in other people’s lives.”

“I’m sorry.” Prudence’s high-pitched squeak carried only a hint of remorse. “I didn’t think—”

“And that’s the point, Prudence. You weren’t thinking. You’re due to be married, and it’s high time you become the lady your mother raised you to be.”

“But, Lord Creswicke—”

“Will only be the smallest of your problems if you continue to meddle in other people’s lives.”

Old habits were well entrenched, Prudence snatched at her next ploy: grabbing Cate’s arm, beseeching. “He still doesn’t like me,” she whined, with an accusing look over her shoulder toward Nathan

“Aye! Flog her,” Nathan shouted.

“See,” shrieked Prudence, and clutched Cate, wailing anew.

“Hell’s fury, you bloody-damned right! But by your own hand, you envenomed sprat!” Nathan shouted over the sobs. “Always blathering and snotting about. ’Tis enough to drive the saints daft.”

“Nathan, how could you?” said Cate.

“How could I not?” he huffed. “Surely, you don’t desire me to lie? Goes completely contradictory to me entire moral fiber. No, can’t abide a liar, particularly distasteful. Flog her, I say! Hodder can lock her in the brig for the night and rig the grate for morning. Twelve lashes! Always starts out the day with the proper attitude for the crew.”

Prudence’s shrieks reached siren-like proportion.

“Nathan, when was the last time you flogged anyone?”

For a fleeting moment, Cate had thought she was seeing the renowned pirate. Then the corner of his eye twitched and the hook of his mustache lifted the corner of his mouth. It was Captain Nathanael Blackthorne, at his best.

“To the
Griselle
then
,
” he cried, brightly, with a piratical gleam. “We’ll bid Thomas to do it. I’ve seen him flay down to the bone in four strokes.”

Prudence’s wails built to a terrorized crescendo, Cate began to think Nathan might be overplaying just a bit.

She brought Prudence’s snot-laden face up to hers and said, “Perhaps you should go back to the fire, while I speak with the Captain.”

“Aye, aweigh and quick sharp about it,” Nathan said, with a bit more additional growl.

Prudence hesitated. Nathan drew his sword and charged. “Scat!”

Arms over her head, Prudence let out a startled squeak and ran. Nathan lunged to slap her soundly across her bottom with the flat of his blade, slitting the silk and the first layer of petticoats.

Nathan smiled crookedly as he watched the yellow dress fade into the dark, back toward the bonfires’ friendly light. “How many more days is it until we are rid of her?”

“It’s positively wondrous how you turn that off and on so readily,” Cate said in awe.

Nathan smiled and gave a self-deprecating shrug.

In the wake of Prudence’s wailing, the space fell eerily quiet, neither of them knowing quite what to say. Nathan looked to his feet, while Cate stared off. Eventually, the dry rattle of the palm fronds and chorus of night creatures filtered in. The trill of tree frogs came from very near. Laughter from the fires rode the shifting land breeze, along with the smell of wood and tobacco smoke. Cate felt tired and defeated. From the first, her only thought had been to help the girl; she had been inexplicably driven to do so.

“You didn’t believe her, did you?” Cate said.

A part of her hoped for a convincing lie that could give her ease. It was worrisome to think Nathan would have believed anything so outrageous. Judging from his reaction, however, this wasn’t the first time Prudence had uttered such foolishness. She had been so wrapped up in Thomas’ resemblances she hadn’t considered what Nathan had seen: her mooning over his best friend.

Nathan eyed the fingernail gouge on Cate’s arm with disapproval. The blood welled in a long thin stream, nearly black in the moonlight.

“Not exactly…for the most part. Had me doubts…somewhat.” His attempt at nonchalance allayed none of her concerns.

Nathan looked away and shifted uneasily, his hands working at his sides. Eventually he came around to her with an expression akin to one facing a firing squad.

“Am…I…?” he asked, in an inordinately small voice. “Am I…keeping you…?”

He fixed Cate with an intent gaze, as if willing her to say something, but what she couldn’t tell.

“Nathan, I told you I—”

“And with a marked lack of conviction, I might observe,” he said, barely tolerant. “The measure of a man’s regard is in the price he’s willing to pay, and Thomas is willing to pay quite handsomely, a king’s ransom.”

He sobered, his resolve solidifying. “I said before and I’ll say again: what you want, I want. No more, no less. And if yon gargantuan is what holds your dreams, then…” He gulped. “Then say as much, and…let the negotiations begin.”

Cate gaped. Panic, rage, dismay, and fear all jammed to the surface, like apples in a barrel. Hurt found a different path, rising up under her ribs in a searing ember. A moment ago, Nathan had been vehemently defending her, a bit before that, had offered to put in a word with Thomas on her behalf. A few hours ago, he had pledged her the moon. And barely a week hence, he had stood on the
Morganse
’s forecastle and begged her to stay.

God, what I wouldn’t give for a moment’s honesty.

Cate rubbed her temple, where a headache began to throb. She was weary of the games. Through all Nathan’s evasiveness, she had the strong sense that the honesty that she longed for was just beneath the surface, dangling like a bone before a dog, waiting to be revealed, but not to her. It would take a very special woman to gain his confidence.

Like his precious Hattie?

If Nathan’s purpose was to befuddle to the point that she finally threw up her hands and walked away, she could compliment him on his success. And yet, in her heart, she knew it was folly to think she could leave him. She would be with him to the end, whenever
he
desired it to be, for it would be his decision.

“Is that all I am: a matter of price?” she sighed. The night suddenly weighed like a cloak of lead.

Nathan grimaced, and then flashed a constrained smile. “A price which I’ve been paying since the day I saw you puking on me deck.”

While Cate strained to comprehend his meaning, Nathan hooked his thumbs in his belts and chuckled with smug glee.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I’m thinking how much that double-dealing git and Creswicke deserve each other. She will torture the hell out of him.”

Still fizzing with mirth, he made to leave.

“What are you going to do with me?” she blurted.

Nathan stopped in mid-stride, but didn’t turn. Staring into the night, it was several moments before he sighed, suddenly sounding tired. “’Twill require a Solomon for that.”

When they returned to the fire, Thomas sat exactly as when they had left: chin propped in his hand, resting on his knee, studying the chessboard. Only his eyes moved at their approach, shifting in exaggerated question from Nathan to Cate, and back. The sandy brows arched high in mute inquiry. Cate shrugged noncommittally.

“How many of my pieces did you move while I was gone?” Nathan asked as he sat, making a great show of surveying the board.

Thomas lifted on shoulder and dropped it. “Only three; you were losing anyway.”

Nathan’s eyes widened in skepticism. “Really? Perhaps we should just play this out and see who the true prevaricator is, eh?”

Cate settled back in her place between them to watch as a new game developed: the My-Turn-to-Move-Three-of-Your-Pieces version. It included the If-You-Can-Move-Mine-I-Can-Move-Yours rule, which led to the Punch-You-So-I-Can-Move-Your-Man-While-You-Recover method. Oddly, that particular game ended in an impasse. Swearing heartily, the board was wiped clear and they began anew.

As the hour grew late, the game settled into something more familiar, with long, pensive stretches between moves, murmurs of admiration and soft rumble of male laughter. A bottle of brandy appeared and they shared, regularly toasting each other for a number of reasons.

A moving shadow and stirring of air marked Artemis’ passing. Swooping low, she roosted in a nearby tree to blandly observe humanity. Altogether uninteresting by owl standards, she swooped off into the island’s interior. Later she returned, dipping low over the fires to show off the fruits of her labors: a large rodent dangling from her claws.

Sometime later, footsteps approached with a speed and suddenness that launched Nathan to his feet. His sword drawn and Cate shoved behind him, before he realized it was only Prudence’s lad, Biggins.

He drew up before Nathan, fists curled at his sides. “I challenge you…sir!”

Sword forgotten in his hand, Nathan gaped. “Me?! What the bloody hell? Did you put him up to this?” he cried, whirling around on Thomas.

“No.” Chin still propped in his hand, Thomas looked on benignly. On closer inspection, he was visibly struggling to keep a straight face. “I wish I had, but…”

The lad swayed slightly. His eyes focused on Nathan with considerable effort. “I challenge you, sir,” he cried in a quavering voice. It was unclear if it the thin voice was the product of fear, drink, or youth.

Cate had learned much in the way of the pirate way of life, but on the matter of dueling she was woefully uninformed. The first question that came to mind was “Were there were any rules at all?” Was there such a thing among a lot who fancied themselves beyond rules? It stretched credulity to image two pirates squaring off at 20 paces and firing. One just outright killing the other in a brawl seemed more likely. “To the death” echoed in her mind, but in what context was lost. Observing the puzzled reaction of the gathering onlookers, it appeared that either rules did exist and Biggins had failed to adhere to them, or he was trying to instill rules which didn’t exist.

Among the “civilized,” a glove would have been dropped or a calling card delivered by a second. Something was dropped at Nathan’s feet just then. Possibly intended to be a glove, the thing bore more resemblance to a sock, and a sad representation it was: a non-color brownish grey in the firelight, tattered and multi-holed.

Nathan slipped his sword back into its scabbard with a deft flourish that indicated he had no intention of drawing it again. He prodded the challenge token with the toe of his boot.

“What is this?” Nathan bent to pick up the thing and shoved it back. “Here, take this and cut along, lad, before—”

Biggins jerked it away, only to throw it again, with even more conviction. “I challenge you, sir! I’m calling you out.”

“Me? Out? The poor boy’s drunk,” Nathan said to the increasing crowd of curious rogues.

“I’m no boy,” Biggins huffed, his thin chest heaving with conviction. “I’m calling you out in defense of the honor of Miss Prudence Collingwood.”

“Thomas,” Nathan roared, turning. “What nursery did you pluck this one out of?”

“You defiled her, sir,” Biggins cried.

“I never laid a hand on her,” Nathan sputtered whirling back around. “Aye, I grabbed her by the damned hair, swung her about a bit and smacked her bum, but I never touched her.”

“Then you defamed—”

“Make up your mind, lad.”

“Goddamn you, sir!”

“You’re a bit late on that one, mate. ’Twas achieved long ago,” Nathan grumbled back. A small chuckle came from those around.

“Pistols or swords?”

“Go back to your mates, lad. You’re skirt-sick.” By this point, Nathan was sounding quite strained.

“Pistols or swords!” Biggins insisted louder.

“Pick that bloody thing up, and be done with this. Where is that insufferable wench? We’ll stint this foolery…”

Said insufferable wench was, at the moment, either through luck or plan, not to be seen. Cate entertained the same need to speak with her; this smelled of her in more ways than one.

A small crowd was gathering. They were of little guidance as to what to expect next, their faces carefully impassive lest they show a favorite, until after the terms were settled. Those who knew Nathan saw a storm gathering, and had begun to inch back, taking those who knew no better with them.

“Pistols or swords?” Biggins’ chin jutted in belligerence.

“Neither,” shot back Nathan. At the same time, he maneuvered sideways, allowing more space between Biggins and himself. It was could have been an effort to defuse the situation, but at the same time, he was distancing himself from Cate.

Biggins pressed closer. Planting his feet squarely before Nathan, he announced, “I’ll have my satisfaction, sir!’

Thomas’ blue eyes shifted from one to the other. In the flickering shadows, Cate thought she saw the corners of his mouth quivering, whether to keep from smiling or saying something the only question.

“Pistols or swords?” Biggins demanded, refusing to be ignored.

Nathan briefly regarded the lad. “Swords.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas rose to stand next to Nathan. He bent as if only for Nathan’s benefit, but spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “After that last time…?”

A suggestive lilt in Thomas’ query caused a corner of Nathan’s mouth to lift slightly.