The Siren's Song (5 page)

Sweet Neptune! What a sight! The lass’s hair, blond maybe, wild, tangled and crimped, stuck out in every which direction. Her stained dress once had been a pale yellow and now hung limp to her form in tatters. Bruises marked her pale skin along her slender arms still clutching that damned bag. What a bloody mess, this one.

“Found her asleep on the floor, mate,” Valeryn said. He didn’t contain his broad smile as he backed out of the door to leave Drake alone with the woman.

On the floor? Curious. The poor girl must be near death with fatigue.

“Well now, chit,” he said, shaking off the shock of her appearance. “Why don’t we start with introductions, shall we?” He draped his wet shirt over his chair. “I’m Captain Thayer Drake, master of the fine ship
Rissa.
”

Silence stretched on to awkward. Mouth agape, she stared at him with tired pale eyes wilting with the dark bags below them.

“Lass?”

She tore her gaze from his bare chest. “Oh, um, yes?”

Blimey. Had the woman never seen a man without his shirt before? Perhaps he should put a tunic back on lest the woman lose her ability to speak. “Your name. What is your name?”

Her reply not forthcoming, Drake sighed and pulled back the heavy hempen drapes that concealed his sleeping quarter. Her stance became rigid, bunching fistfuls of her dress, at the sight of his bed. It wasn’t fear so much as it was suspicion. Drake didn’t need to see the tightening of her mouth to know she readied herself for a fight.

What a game it would be to toy with her. But he wouldn’t. He had questions for her and unless she wanted to show him some gratitude for saving her arse, and she wouldn’t, then he wanted to raise a bottle to another ship run aground—alone.

He retrieved a clean tunic from the locker at the foot of his bed and closed the curtain.

Her posture relaxed, and once Drake donned his shirt, she reclaimed her voice.

“Gilly. I answer to Gilly.”

“Gilly.” He liked the sound of her name. It reminded him of the whimsical carnival music he once loved. “That’s an unusual name.”

“It’s what the girls back in Charleston called me. My given name is Gillian McCoy.”

“So be it, Miss. Gilly McCoy. Sit.” He pointed to the chair recently occupied by Mott. She mildly surprised him by obeying. From her earlier display on deck, he expected more of her defiance.

He grabbed a clean cup from the shelf and poured her the small beer. He’d have offered her fresh water had he had some. But clean water was a fleeting luxury on board. The ale would satisfy her thirst. And she was thirsty. She guzzled her cup with greedy gulps.

“Do you have something stronger?”

He chuckled. With what the chit had been through, he supposed he could share a spot of his rum.

“All right, lass.” He grabbed another flagon, opened it and filled her cup. “But for my liberal generosity, you will be accommodating.”

“I’ll elect just how accommodating,” she said.

“Agreed, only by flesh. But not by tongue. You will tell me what I want to know.” He returned to his seat.

“Very well.” It seemed she gave nary a thought to his demand and she took a healthy drink. She suffered for her rashness, coughing fitfully on the rum.

“Careful, there. ’Tis potent.”

She wheezed. “That is…” Gilly struggled on her words, “…some strong spirit.”

“It’s a man’s drink, lass.”

“Duly noted.” She swiped at her tears.

Gilly took another, more careful sip, and then another. The chit must be determined to put herself as an equal. She would need more practice.

“Why did you sneak on that ship?”

“I had to. It was the only ship leaving port that night.”

“So you
are
running from someone.”

“Yes.”

She was matter-of-fact about it, but said no more.

Drake prodded her. “And?”

“And what?”

“Who are you running from?”

“Is that really important?”

“Aye. It is. I make it a rule to know if I am harboring a fugitive.”

“I’m not a fugitive. You really mustn’t make so many false accusations on my character.”

Gilly sorely tested his patience. She hoped to buy herself time and avoid the question with her quick answers. Did she not realize she was like a giant whale caught on a cane fishing rod? He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Then I’ll ask again.” He spoke through clenched teeth with controlled aggravation. “Who are you running from?”

“His name is irrelevant.” She pointed to the picture of a lounging nude woman on the wall behind his desk. “Beautiful painting. Wonderful colors and paint strokes. She looks so real.”

She tried unsuccessfully to change the subject. But before he could finish an infuriated growl she enlightened him a touch further. Smart move as he was beginning to consider throttling her.

“I’m running from an ill-conceived wedding.”

A sham wedding. Ah. He could appreciate that. He’d come close to making an honest woman out of an elite wealthy landowner’s daughter in Santo Domingo several years ago. Fortunately, one of the woman’s many other lovers wouldn’t stand for it and Drake was too drunk to fight for her. That was the last time Drake mixed bitter wine with Hangman’s Blood.

“Ill-conceived, eh? How so?”

“He is mistaken that I wish to marry him. Did you get the painting in a pirate raid?”

Drake redirected back to the discussion at hand. “The
Rowena
sailed from St. Augustine. You say you’re from Charleston. You fled Charleston and your bridegroom followed you to St. Augustine? Most men would be happy to be rid of a millstone. Unless the bride has something they want. And I’m not referring to love.”

“Perhaps it is as simple as pride.”

“Chasing a woman down for the sake of pride? Seems easier to cast ruination upon her with slanderous rumors. No. I think there is much more. Someone willing to track his woman along the Atlantic coast is someone willing to pay a reward for her safe return.”

She frowned. “I’m sure he has forgotten all about me by now.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“’Tis no significance.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “You don’t know his name.”

“I’m sure someone will come forth when we return to St. Augustine. I’ll just put out the word that by the grace of God, Gilly McCoy had narrowly escaped a horrible drowning.”

She choked on her drink. Her mangled, stiff hair flapped as she shook her head. “No! You can’t do that.”

“I can.” Should he sail to the Florida port. Which he had no intention of doing. Not with the salvage he was taking. “Never underestimate a man where there is a profit to be made.”

For the first time since he pulled her to safety, sheer alarm took flight across her dirty face.

“Please, Captain Drake. I can’t go back.”

Gilly plunged into her bag. Drake craned his neck to catch a glimpse of what she kept inside. “I haven’t got much.” She slammed a fisted handkerchief down on the table. “I gave most of it to Abel.”

Eight pence and a shilling lay in the cloth. She nearly drowned for that pittance? Nay. What else did she hide in that satchel?

“’Tis all I have,” she repeated, as if reading his thoughts.

“That’s hardly worth the consideration. What else have you got in that bag?”

“Nothing. Trinkets is all.”

“So you mean to bribe me with less than you gave that arse? You
are
quite entertaining.”

“Please, Captain Drake. I haven’t anything more than this bottle.”

“Have you?”

Drake stood and rounded the table. He leaned over, a breath away from her. He placed his palm on the coins and turned to look at her. Gray eyes. Amazing gray eyes rimmed in charcoal speckled with flecks of greens and blues. He could get lost wandering in them. Why hadn’t he noticed their beauty before? Her lids fluttered. Regretfully, he returned back from their brindled depths.

He closed his fingers around the money. “I’ll take you with me to Nassau.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Captain Drake.” She patted his forearm, smiling.

“Ah, ah, ah, Miss. McCoy. Passage on my ship is not free and these coins are not enough.” Just the same, he wadded up the cloth with the money and dropped it on his desk.

“What would you have me give?”

His gaze trailed down to her chest. What man wouldn’t when presented with such a question?

“Humph. I wouldn’t debase myself with Abel for passage.” She raised a delicate eyebrow. “Why would I with you?”

He chortled. “I’m a real man, love.”

Drake raised a hand before she could refute. “I haven’t decided on the method of payment. Yet.”

He’d be lying to himself if he hadn’t thought of her in his bed. A tar at sea for months desperately longs for the warmth of a woman’s bosom. Oft times, ’tis worth losing every pence earned for one fleeting night of debauchery. Aye. Having her would be a pleasure.

“I can sing.”

“What?”

“I can sing and dance for you. ’Twas what I did back in Charleston. I was a favorite at the
Peregrine Inn.
People traveled from miles around to watch me.”

A private show. He might enjoy that. Nay. He
would
enjoy that.

She relaxed, confident that a bargain had been struck. She couldn’t be more wrong. Drake preferred to allow fools to believe what they will. It wasn’t until it was time to pay up that they came to realize they shouldn’t make a deal with the devil.

“For now, Ms. McCoy, the only thing I require of you is to give yourself a turn with a sponge. That stench encircling you could wrap itself around a man’s throat and choke the life from him.”

A mortified expression stretched taut across her face.

“I’ll have Henri bring you a few buckets of water.” He opened a pane from the window, fanning it to help remove her ripe odor. Air heavy with the passing rain rushed in. “The previous captain of the
Rissa
was somewhat of a libertine. He fancied entertaining his many doxies in your cabin. There are scented soaps in the top dresser drawer. I suggest you use it. You’ll find dresses in the trunk. Pick out a pretty one for yourself.

“As my indebted guest, you will dress to please me. You will speak to please me. You will bring me my cups to please me. Everything you do, you will do to please me. If you disappoint, know that I will see you in the hands of your jilted groom.”

Chapter Five

Gilly twirled her fork on the empty metal plate. The morning meal of salted pork and fresh eggs was the most food she’d eaten in a week. ’Twas surprisingly tasty, too, for shipboard fare. But that had been hours ago and now her hunger grew tenfold. When did these sailors take their supper? Didn’t they ever eat?

She sighed. What an odd happenstance, finding herself a passenger of a pirate ship. She felt safer there, though not necessarily any more welcome, than on the
Rowena.
Her cabin was well-appointed and her stomach mostly satisfied. And, oh dear, was she thankful for last night’s bath. Even without a tub to submerge in, the sponging left her refreshed. Her clean skin smelled of lavender and, running her hand through her tresses, her hair felt light, tangle-free. No more wild, matted strands frayed out like an unraveled hemp rope. She had discovered a silver brush in a dresser drawer and had brushed until her hair returned to its shiny luster. After her wash, exhaustion had finally won the battle. Still unclothed, she had crawled under the glossy satin bedding. The blue sheets had felt amazing against her naked body and within moments she had fallen asleep.

Gilly supposed she should have been less foolish than to sleep in the nude. After all, there had been a shift in the chest of drawers. But the silkiness of the bed was one she had never experienced before. Clothing would only deny her the pleasure. Upon awakening, not knowing when or even if she would be allowed out of the cabin, she had donned a rose-colored striped gown from the trunk. The simple sack back gown was more beautiful than anything she had ever worn.

Henri had traded the breakfast plate for her crusty clothing, but Gilly refused to hand over her bag. He shrugged and, holding the fetid dress out at stubby arms’ length, he had left. She trusted no one with her bag. No one. Scrubbing the oily stench from the purple bag using her bath water had been a task. She had to be especially careful not to damage the four large rosettes woven into the patchwork. The pouch, now smelling slightly better of lavender with only a hint of fish, hung from a hook to dry.

Her gaze slid to the dresser. Hidden in the back of the bottom drawer behind the trousers and wool stockings were the items she couldn’t bear to part with. A broken pocket watch and two large bottles, the last of her supply of laudanum, sat tucked away safely until her purse dried. The watch belonged to her father and had broken when his spooked horse had thrown him. A simple farmer and preacher to their small Carolina town, he cherished his watch. He used to say the only thing he valued more than his watch was his beloved canary, Gillian. He died from his injuries from the fall. ’Twas a long time ago. Time blunted her sorrow, but did a daughter ever stop grieving her beloved father? Tears pricked at her eyes.

Perhaps she should take another dose of the laudanum. No. Not yet. She must limit herself. Be strong. To run out before they reached port was unthinkable—she refused to imagine it. Yet, the blissful intoxication lured her. Only the familiar tingle coursing through her veins, spreading into her limbs, exciting her fingertips, deadening her constraints, and leaving her at once both heavy and spry could bring her ease.
Just one sip. No. Must be strong.

The fork slipped from her hand and clattered against the plate. She blew out a frustrated breath and leaned back. Voyaging by sea was terribly wearisome. There was not a thing to do but sit on her arse and wait. And wait. And wait. She sighed again and scanned the cabin. Surely if she looked hard enough she would find the skeletons of the poor souls who languished to death in excruciating doldrums.

“Oh, come now, Gilly.” She spoke aloud. “You’re alive and surrounded by luxury. Be grateful.”

The wind bells on the nearby hook agreed with gentle tinkling.

Did all passengers aboard a rogue ship get treated with such sumptuousness? She thought not. In truth, she doubted the
Rissa
carried many passengers at all. It seemed more likely a passenger would be a prisoner of pirate plunder than a traveling guest.

And they probably didn’t have an opportunity to strike a deal with the captain, either. Singing and dancing for passage. A very fine deal.

Wouldn’t Hyde have been proud of the way she handled Captain Drake. Nay. He wouldn’t. If he were alive, he’d be furious. To what end, she would never know.

Aside from the money she earned, Hyde hated for her to perform. When Hyde wasn’t consumed by cards at the gaming tables, he’d watch her act. Choosing a stool farthest away from the stage, he would sidle up to the bar and wait for her. Each time she began a show, he would smirk and raise a silent toast to her. Each time, she fell a little more in love with him. But by the end of her performance, he’d be seething from the attention she drew. More than once a poor sap kissed the floor for whistling rude invitations. She didn’t dare stop him. Why would she?

Her heart ached for him.

He had told her to stop, stop dancing like a teasing harlot. Told her he tired of protecting her from unruly cocks. He said it often enough.

She would have stopped if only he told her how he felt about her. Stubborn bastard.

Oh, Hyde. What did you do? What did you do to us?

’Twas no matter now. The deal with Captain Drake was struck.

She must admit, when Captain Drake demanded that she please him like a trained monkey on a string, she was apprehensive. Nothing good could come from bargaining with a pirate, surely. He threatened to take her back to St. Augustine and that truly scared her. Given the choice, and surprisingly she did have a choice, she’d take her chances with the pirate. Putting on as a serving wench holding his cups and seeing to his entertainment couldn’t be that difficult. But would he demand more from her? Would he raise a mean hand if she refused? She couldn’t be sure. A baleful miasma exuded from the man just as the smell of liquor had when he leaned in close to her hours ago.

Gilly closed her eyes, trying to usher back that exquisite image of Captain Drake without his tunic. She had never seen such a finely sculpted man. By the devil’s teeth, with the fluid roll of each muscle, he had stolen her wits and made her a fool. His golden skin pulled tight across the expanse of his back had left her mouth dry. When he turned, his chest was just as impressive. As were the scars. Five, maybe six, small thick scars littered across his torso. Another scar, not as broad, made a long, slender line reaching from below his heart down to his side. She shuddered at the thought that it had once been an open wound, weeping and painful. How ghastly it must have been for him. How had he come by so many horrible injuries? She had wanted to touch them. She had wanted to touch
him.
Then he put that damned shirt on. The tunic hardly eased her desire to touch him. How would he feel? Strong and warm like Hyde? How would the scars feel under her fingertips? Raised but smooth? She longed to find out. She had nearly lost all decency when he reached for her coins. As he had turned to stare at her, his dark tousled hair slipped from his shoulder like a theater’s fringe curtain. For a moment, she thought she had swallowed her tongue for a lump wedged in her throat.

Then the illusion broke. She had been terribly affronted, first by Captain Drake’s boorish comments about her aroma, then by his opening the window. Had her embarrassment not burned so hot in her cheeks, she might have found it comical how he attempted miserably to hold his breath while escorting her back to her cabin.

She must have smelled awfully bad. She swore Henri’s beard bows drooped when he delivered the buckets of water and he gagged as he came too near. To have an odor causing a crusty old pirate to turn cross-eyed was enough to make Gilly want to hide in a clam shell. But she had been plenty tired of cramped spaces.

Gilly stretched out her legs and reached for the ceiling to loosen the ache in her limbs. Yes. Plenty tired.

Oh, she hoped Captain Drake would call for her soon. If only to shine his boots or hold his hat.

The bolt on her door slid back and Henri pushed it open.

“Capt’n be lettin’ ya come topside now.”

“Oh thank goodness.” Within a blink of an eye, she stood before him. “I’m about to go mad in here.” She peered over his head down the companionway. “Is it still daylight? I love the warmth of the sun. It’s been days,
days
since I’ve seen the sun. Do you think I’ll be able to see the sun set? I’ll chance it is beautiful over the sea. I’ve not seen the sun set from a boat before. To see the sun set on the water, won’t that be divine?”

Henri bristled like an agitated wharf rat. “Now don’t be gettin’ no ideas, girlie. I’m ta accompany ya to Capt’n and I’ve no mind ta usher ya ’round while ya make merry.”

Perhaps she was a wee too eager. “My apologies, Henri. You must think of me as an excitable hen.”

“Well.” Henri paused, curled up his lip, grunted and turned to leave. “At least ya ain’t smellin’ up the place.”

Hearing that from an ill-tempered scraggly pirate was a compliment. She gladly fell in behind him, and they almost made it to the hatch door.

“Henri!”

A young man, dirty from soot and sweat, appeared at the other end of the companionway.

“Henri! The pot exploded!”

Gilly nearly tripped over Henri as he stopped short. “What say ya, lad?”

“The pot, with the potatoes, it exploded.”

That explained the frightful white mess splattering his face and clothes.

“My potatoes? How’d ya let that—? Bloody Christ, Hotchkins. I told ya not to let the fire get hot.”

Henri groused obscenities unfamiliar to Gilly. He turned and gave her a stern order.

“Go on back to your cabin, lass. I’ll fetch ya once I save the supper.”

He shook his fist at Hotchkins and tottered after the lad as fast as his squatty legs would carry him. “You gonna scrub my galley clean, ya understand, boy? Then ya gonna spit shine the pots until I can see my ugly mug in ’em. Ya hear?”

The men rounded the corner leaving Gilly alone.

Sunlight filtered through the hatch left cracked ajar. It beckoned her, promised to melt away the gloom of indoors. Should she or shouldn’t she? She put her hand on the door, worn smooth from years of use. The smell of crisp ocean slipped through the opening on a warm breeze. Footsteps echoed and a shadow momentarily shuttered the light.

Gilly hesitated.

Honestly. What was the worst that could happen? Be locked away in her cabin until port? Doubtful. The devilish glint in Captain Drake’s eyes when she proposed she dance for him suggested otherwise.

The door was heavier than she imagined, yet it opened easily enough. She stepped over the threshold into the glow of late afternoon. The sun’s rays had weakened, waning from the full day traipsing across the Atlantic sky. But its heat still lingered in the air and diffused from the wooden planks.

The ship was a scene of busy work and noise. Men carried and stacked crates pulled from the water. Others took inventory of the boxes’ contents. The deck creaked under the activity. Squawking seagulls circling overhead added to the racket.

The
Rowena
sat just yards away. How had Captain Drake maneuvered his ship close enough to unload the
Rowena
’s cargo?

“Heave!”

The man Gilly recognized from the night before as the helmsman hollered out a repetitive command to those working pulleys.

“Heave!”

Grunts from the men and the rasps of strained ropes complemented him in a strange tuneful ensemble.

“Heave!”

A large crate came up into view. More men swarmed in, grabbing and pulling the box on board. Water streamed off the box creating growing puddles on the deck.

Gilly stepped to the edge and peered down. How amazing to see through the crystal-clear water to the white bottom of the seabed. Dark spots spoiled the pristine floor and quite abruptly rose into an ebony wall, the reef upon which the
Rowena
rested.

A black man bobbed in the water. He was the same large man who rowed the longboat which brought her to safety. He clung to a piece of floating rubble. And suddenly, he went under. She stiffened, worried for him. She glanced around, but no one seemed to be concerned that the man was in danger.
My God, won’t anyone save him from drowning?

Frantic, she blocked a pair of passing crewmen.

“There’s a man in the water.”

The men hardly looked surprised. They glanced at one another, peered over the side and looked back at her as if she’d sprouted another nose. They parted and hurriedly stepped around her.

Gilly searched the water. No sign of him.

Someone had to help.

There. Captain Drake. On the other side of the pulleys. He would do something. She hurried along the railing with an eye on the water, only leaving it to move around the men unhooking the ropes from the crate.

“Captain Drake!” she called. “Captain Drake!”

Gilly lost her footing on the wet floorboards, caught the hem of her gown on her toe and careened into the captain. Much shorter than he, she landed square into his rigid stomach.

“Umpf.”

She grabbed for his belt. With her cheek smashed against the hard planes of his abdomen, she tried to keep herself from slipping farther down. Good Lord, how compromising!

Captain Drake caught her by the wrists. “Well, now, good afternoon to you, too, Miss McCoy.”

For a moment, his dark eyes held her as he stared down. Her chest tightened when he did not immediately let her go. Trapped. Against his groin. Under a spell. She simply could not move. A smile crept up one corner of his mouth. He squeezed his grip before helping her regain her balance.

She straightened up and ran her hands down the rumples of her dress, hoping for the heat in her face to be wiped away along with the creases. “Good afternoon.”

“Do you always throw yourself at strange men? Perhaps that is how you familiarize yourself with them?”

She huffed. “Do you lack so much decency that you take to insulting a woman, not once, not twice, but several times?”

“I find it easier to keep the lasses at bay this way. Besides, it is you who are short on decency, burying your face in my—”