She’d just been kissed by the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Her first kiss. Now she understood why the barmaid flirted and giggled with Rory. Why the girl’s gaze would linger on him. The attractive Frenchman filled her mind when she closed her eyes. Thick, black locks framed a strong, square jaw. Raven eyes, sun-bronzed skin, and a hard body with muscles that rippled beneath her touch. His black coat had stretched across his shoulders; the trousers hugged his thighs.
How could she have been so bold with a stranger? The memory of his mouth, his tongue… How could she have done otherwise? He was like a siren, irresistible and dangerous. Yet, he’d defended her, drawn his sword, and put himself between her and her assailant. Why? Katie bumped her head against the crates, once, twice, thrice.
Stick to the plan! Rory’s words came back to her. She pushed away and perused the anchored ships. Her brother—well, the closest she had to an actual family—had been hired as a sailor on a boat called The Escape. They both thought it had been a sign. Katie scoured the dock for the despicable MacDonald, then Rory. She straightened her spine and began to saunter toward the harbor as her brother had taught her.
No one will stop a boy. Keep your hair hidden, he’d instructed her. She gasped, her hand going to her head. Her cap was gone.
Strong fingers gripped her shoulders. Panic washed over her again, but the voice eased her fear and the tension in her gut. “Where the hell have ye been?” asked Rory. “Put my cap on before someone sees ye. We should have cut that mop shorter.”
With practiced speed, she twisted her curls and shoved them under the black tarpaulin hat. “MacDonald caught up with me before I could find the boat. I must have lost it when I dodged him.”
He cursed under his breath and handed her a pea jacket, the type she’d seen on many of the sailors that morning. “If he had any decency, we wouldn’t need to resort to this ridiculous scheme. And it’s a ship, not a boat.”
“Oh. I’m not a sailor, so how I would I know?” she asked, her courage dwindling.
“Seaman. Pay attention, or we’ll both be caught. Do ye have any idea what could happen if someone finds out I snuck a female on board?” He let out a loud breath. “I guess I’m a wee nervous too.”
“Your brogue is more noticeable when you’re upset. You sounded just like Ma.” Katie wanted to hug him, but men didn’t do that. The plan was to sneak her onto the ship and pretend they were brothers if she were caught. With their similar hair and eye color, it was plausible. “I’m glad you found me. It’s hard to decipher the names on these boa—ships.”
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize the ship’s moniker was in French. Now, follow my lead, and do as we practiced.” He handed her a half barrel with a strap to carry. “I found a good hiding place below deck. Once we’re out to sea, we’ll set you to a job that will help ye blend in and stay out of the way.”
Katie nodded, relieved she didn’t have to admit the exaggeration of her literacy skills. The last book she’d read had been at the age of eight. Her father had sold anything worth a farthing. MacDonald hadn’t been concerned about education for a mere servant, let alone a woman. While she remembered most letters of the alphabet, her actual recitation was quite rusty.
Craning her neck back to see the tall masts of The Escape, nervous excitement thrummed in her veins. She would be free. Free. A cluster of workers approached the gangway. Rory nodded, and they moved in behind them. He carried a barrel easily on his shoulder and handed her the half keg. The lanky thirteen-year-old she’d met as a child had grown into a strong, well-built man. Katie adjusted the strap of the ankler on her shoulder and lugged it up the plank. Once on deck, she followed Rory down a dim companionway. His broad shoulders filled the narrow hall as they passed the galley, then descended into the hold.
Moving between the cargo, Rory led her to a far corner. “Stay behind these kegs. They won’t be moved until we get close to London. Ye’ll be safe here until I figure out what to do next. It’s too risky for ye to sleep in steerage with the rest of the men.”
Katie grabbed his hand as he turned away and gave him a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I promised Ma when she took sick that I’d watch over you.”
“She would be proud of you.” Katie knew he’d have protected her without an oath. They were family, of a sort.
He grunted and shrugged his shoulders, leaving her alone in the dark hold. She curled up in a corner, her head resting against the steel band of a barrel, and willed herself not to cry.
Chapter Three
A Captain, A Cat, and a Castaway
Day 1 at sea
Alexandre surveyed the main deck. The wind picked up, and he smiled with satisfaction. “Call the men,” he ordered his quartermaster.
“Aaaalll haaands!” cried Seamus MacLeod.
“Aaaalll haaands!” echoed the men up and down the deck, setting forth a flurry of activity.
“Up anchor and a-hoy!”
Grunts echoed from the stern, where the capstan began its slow grind, turning the vessel toward the open sea. More groans, then a crack and rumble as the sails were hoisted and water was thrown from the bows. Leaning away from the breeze, the ship rolled with the heavy ground-swell.
The square-rigged L’Évasion sliced through the moderate waves; the giant four-point sail on the mainmast billowed from the stiff breeze. It towered over the smaller fore-and-aft sails. They were under way. The snapping of the flaxen cloth eased the tension in his chest, along with the ten guns, and one twelve-pound long gun on a pivot mount, ready for use. Yet, his instinct told him something was amiss.
“Seamus, did you personally check the cargo?”
“The kegs, Captain?” his quartermaster asked. “Aye, sir. The first load.”
“Not the second?” Maybe he’d go down and look for himself. Relieve the niggling at the back of his mind.
Seamus shook his head. “I didn’t think it was necessary. Do ye want me to go below?”
“No, I’ll go. You have enough to do.”
The men had been childhood friends attending the same public school. A young MacLeod had lured Alexandre into his fascination with the sea amid swashbuckling tales of infamous buccaneers. The Scot had confided his family came from a long line of adventurers. His ancestor, the mighty pirate Thor, had commanded a faction of brigands known as The Devils of the Deep. It was rumored there was still treasure to be found on Scarba Island, their stronghold.
The boys had fought each other with imaginary swords, taking turns to win the booty or receive the fatal blow. There was no one he trusted more than the barrel-chested Scot. They had saved each other’s necks more times than he could count.
“What’s bothering ye, Zander?” his friend asked, lowering his voice to use the nickname reserved for family and close friends.
“I just have this feeling…” He shrugged. “I’ll walk the ship and put my mind at ease.” Alexandre left the quarterdeck and took the companionway below, passing his cabin and stopping in the galley to greet some of the crew. There was a new face, a young broad-shouldered man whose hair matched the red of his checked shirt.
“Who is that?” he asked Patch, the cook. The wizened old man had lost an eye during a battle in ’98. He had a Greek name that was difficult to pronounce, so the men had given him an appropriate nickname. He wore a scarf over his scarred, bald head.
“Just hired on. Seamus found him when we lost a few at port. Green, but hungry to learn. Follows orders and keeps his mouth shut.” He paused in his kneading of dough. “Rorick Craigg, come and meet Captain Lacroix.”
The young man strode across the galley and held out his hand. He had a strong grip and an honest smile. Seamus had a knack for hiring good shipmates. “Have you sailed before?”
“Not since I was thirteen and came over from England.”
“Were you sick then?”
“Not that I remember, Captain.”
“You’d remember. How old are you now?”
“Twenty, sir.”
Alexandre appreciated the fact he answered the question and didn’t ramble. He also noted the slight Scots accent.
“Welcome to The Escape.”
Making his way to the hold, he thought about the contraband he was transporting. He had come full circle. At fourteen, he had left home and found work on a privateer bound for Jamaica. He’d been enchanted by the sea. The salty spray, the wind in his face, nothing but water on the horizon—these were his domestic surroundings. This was where he felt at home. And where his ambitions grew. By twenty, he had worked up to gunner’s mate, to gunner, to boatswain. The whistle he’d received for the latter still lay in his chest with various keepsakes from his travels.
He had his own ship by twenty-two and, at twenty-four, had received a letter of marque from the British Parliament. The English, embattled on two continents by Napolean and the Americans, had need of resources. Privateers provided a low-risk return by granting permission to seize French and American ships with the promise to sharing the spoils. Thanks to Seamus MacLeod, the English had decided to trust the “Frenchman in need of a country” as the Scot had presented him.
Pirating came naturally to both and had made them wealthy men. With his friend at his side, they had captured or sank more than two dozen enemy ships. A smile curled his lips at the memory of the past five years. He looked back on those turbulent times with both pride and regret. He had enjoyed the study and employment of military tactics, the chaos of combat, the exhilaration of victory. But the faces of dead men sometimes plagued his sleep, waking him in the middle of the night with a cold sweat running down his back. Yet, it was part of battle. Part of life, for most.
Waterloo and the Treaty of Ghent had ended not only the war but his protection at sea. He was again a common smuggler, and felt as if he’d been set adrift. After years of legitimacy, Alexandre wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He no longer needed the money, and the danger didn’t provide the rush of excitement through him as it once had. Was he getting old or just wiser? He grunted to himself. Self-introspection certainly wasn’t for the young and daring.
Taking a lantern from the wall, he descended into the hold. Crates and barrels filled the dark area. Moving between several rows of cargo, he stopped at a section of newly made casks, set down the lantern, and pulled a knife from his pocket. He pried off the end of one and reached inside the hidden compartment. There were several soft leather bags containing ivory. Thirty barrels with tax-free ivory concealed in the ends of the kegs, while brandy or wine filled the center.
Scrtchhh!
Alexandre froze, his hand just inside the cask, replacing the contraband. Silence. Carefully replacing the lid, he drew his pistol and retrieved his lantern. “It would be better for you to come out now. If I find you first, it will not end well.” Silence.
With the light above his head, he searched the room, only to find a scrawny gray cat sharpening his claws on the staves of a barrel. He chuckled at his own trepidation and headed to his cabin.
Katie curled into the smallest ball possible. The canvas spread over the barrels covered most of her body, but didn’t quite touch the floor. Tugging on it had drawn his attention and now she held her breath, her muscles bunched and tight. If he shined the light between the last row, she’d be caught.
The cat saved her after it dragged its claws on a keg. When the room went dark again, and the footsteps faded, she let out a breath. Her heart pounded in her ears, loud as the ocean barraging the side of the boat. Ship. Drat! Well, she didn’t plan on conversation with any of the crew, so who cared? Sailor, seaman, boat, ship.
Stowaway, ha! Castaway seemed a better word for her situation. Torn from her home, exiled in a strange country, and now trapped in this hold. If she’d been shipwrecked, there wouldn’t have been anyone to hide from. Katie felt like a criminal, huddled in this dank, foul-smelling corner. You’re a survivor, Ma’s words came back to her in the silence.
Her stomach growled. Thank Hades that hadn’t happened while the man was poking around the cargo. If he’d known she had seen the sham kegs, he’d probably have slit her throat. Isn’t that what smugglers did? Murder and mayhem? She wondered if her brother knew what kind of captain he was working for. With a sigh, she tossed off the odorous canvas and stretched her legs. The cat rubbed against her calf, and she held out her hand. In the light, she’d glimpsed its fluffy gray tail trailing around a crate.
“Stormy,” she said, deciding on a name. “Kitty, kitty.”
It arched against her thigh as she stroked its skinny back. How long before Rory came? As if in answer to a prayer, the hatch lifted again and a shadowy light cast over the room. “Katie?” came a loud whisper.
“No, James Madison.” She silently grinned at comparing herself to the American president.
“Ha, ha!” Rory handed down the light and dropped into the hold, bypassing the ladder and sending the cat into the shadows. “I’ve brought you some food.”
“I have to relieve myself. Bad.”
A mumbled curse.
“I’m sorry. I’m human.” Why did her voice sound so pathetic?
“It would be better for ye to stay here until tomorrow. I’ve only been on The Escape two days, three counting today. I’ve figured out what to do with ye during the day, but I’m still not sure where to put ye at night. It’s the first evening with the full crew on board, so I’ll know by tomorrow morning.” He peered down at her, the sudden bright light making her squint. “Can ye go in a corner?”
She nodded and followed him away from the kegs. He waited, left the lantern, and walked a few steps away to give her some privacy. She hurried with her business, wishing again she were a boy, and tiptoed over the puddle. “I’m finished. Thank you.”
“Good girl. Here’s a biscuit and some cheese. Sorry there’s no water, but the barrel smelled like rotten eggs.” He handed her the sparse meal wrapped in cloth. “I wish I could do more for ye, but…”
Katie stood and grabbed the edge of a cask to keep her balance. The floor swayed back and forth in a gentle roll. “You’re a hero, and the best brother anyone has ever had. I would still be bound to MacDonald if you hadn’t come up with this idea.” She gave him a fierce hug. “I’ll do whatever you say, without any questions.”
He snorted. “Don’t make promises ye can’t keep, my sweet sister.” He tugged on her hair. “I’ll be back tonight as soon as I’ve finished my duties.”
But Rory didn’t make it back until dawn. Full of apologies, he adjusted her cap, then led her by the hand toward the open hatch. “I have the least seniority, so I’m not only the ship’s boy, but I have a shift on the night watch. We have a plan, though.”
A plan was always good. Rory’s methodical mind could plot and account for almost any misadventure. He’d procured her a set of “slops” so she would fit in with the crew and promised a second set within the week. The unrestrictive clothes hid her figure if she kept her shoulders hunched.
Rory laid out his scheme. “I’ll tell the cook ye’re the cabin boy. Ye’ll help me scrub and sand the decks, oil sails, serve food, whatever he asks of ye. Remember to use the hoarse voice we practiced, keep yer eyes down, and don’t create any scenes.”
If Katie was found out, he stressed not to mention their relationship. If anyone knew they were together, both would be in dire straits, and he would have no opportunity to help her. Katie wasn’t sure how they would find her grandfather once they made London. The only clue she had was that he dealt in spirits. Of the drinking kind. Without knowing her mother’s maiden name, she would need help to locate her family. Her mother had only referred to her parents as Papa, Mama, your grandfather, or grandmother. But Rory would find a way, so keeping him safe was as vital as her own freedom.
“At night, ye’ll come back here to sleep. I don’t want ye too close to the men when we can help it.”
She snapped back to attention and thought of the trick casks she’d witnessed. “This seems like a ter
ribly small hold to carry all the supplies needed for a month.”
“These goods have been separated from the ship’s supplies. They’re valuable and kept away from the main storage. The men know better than to dawdle near that hold, or they could lose their share of the profits if anything came up missing. That’s why I chose this spot. There’s constant traffic in the larger hold.” He moved toward the hatch but added over his shoulder, “Mind yer own business, and we’ll get through this. Don’t let yer natural curiosity get us in trouble.”
She nodded and mumbled a promise to his back as she followed him up a ladder. The cat meowed a protest behind her. “I’ll be back,” she told Stormy.
They passed through the galley, and Rory introduced her to Patch. The old cook’s wrinkled face extended to his bald pate. When he grinned, he revealed a gap in his smile. Observing the missing tooth and the silk over his eye, Katie’s eyes darted to his limbs. No wooden leg or hook for a hand.
“I hoped MacLeod would replace the last one. Too much work for an old man.”
Rory snorted. “Old? I heard ye wield a sword better than a carving knife.”
“Depends on what I’m carving, ye know?” His one eye studied her.
She couldn’t place his accent, but he must come from a faraway land. Keep your eyes down, she reminded herself.
“And your name, boy?”
“K.T.,” she answered as rehearsed.
“What’s it stand for?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Another orphan?” Patch asked Rory. “The quartermaster has a soft spot for ’em.”
“I’ll be on my way. My next shift is in three hours.” Rory yawned.
“Take K.T. up top and show him around. Then send him back down with a mop and a bucket. The galley needs swabbing before the next meal.”
“Aye, sir,” Rory winked at her as they left. “Now if anyone sees ye working with Patch, he’ll be the one explaining who ye are. I doubt anyone will question him. He’s been here as long as the captain and the quartermaster. Came with the ship, some say.”
The Count’s Castaway Page 3
