by Tamara Gill
“I would think a pirate with your experience can manage to avoid both, though I’d caution you to avoid any Spaniard vessels. They’re much more deadly than the others.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes. “Indeed.” What was the man about? “I’d hate to learn you’ve gone back on our accord.” In his experience on both land and sea, the best advice was not to trust anyone. Too many people would betray him at the blink of an eye, for as little as reputation, gold, silver, rum or women, and in recent years, slavery. He preferred to be in command of every aspect of negotiations, and he vehemently refused to sully his hands in the trade of human cargo.
“The governor has vowed to give you a day’s pardon. Should you choose to linger in our waters, I cannot be held responsible for the deployment of a ship in your pursuit.” A smile curled Ortiz’s thin lips. “We do have a business to run as well, but you have my word the governor will not pursue before that time.”
The bastard has something up his sleeve; I’ll bet my life on it. “I’ll hold you to your word. If you betray it, on my next visit to St. Augustine, I would advise you to have a priest handy and your funeral arrangements secured.”
Oritz’s sneer lifted the ends of his pencil-thin mustache. “Do not threaten me, pirate. My connections are vast and ruthless.”
“Perhaps, but then I’ve been known to be ruthless as well.” He had the nightmares to back the talk. If Ortiz thought putting the French crew to death was a high price, he’d be shocked to know the number of lives Adrian’s crew had taken.
“Remember who you work for, Westerbrooke. Privateer or not, your line of work is nearly extinct. Be grateful for what you do have.” After another sweeping glance, the mayor departed.
Adrian turned to Elmwood. “I do believe our Spanish friend is correct.”
The quartermaster cocked an eyebrow. “About our livelihood dwindling?”
“No. I fully believe there will always be a market for what we do—at least for another several years, but there really is no difference between a privateer and a pirate—not from where I’m standing. An Act of Pardon is merely paperwork after all.” He grinned as Ortiz disappeared into one of the many businesses that lined the street. “And the French have offered me more coin to procure cargo from and destroy the Spanish vessel Inquisitor. Whatever shall I do? There seems to be a conflict of interest as both countries require my services.”
Elmwood laughed and ran a hand through his mop of sweaty red curls. “Offer both ships to a higher bidder?”
“Exactly. You’ve learned well during your time with me.” Just as Adrian had from his predecessor. He clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “The British Crown, though they claim to despise piracy, hate both France and Spain more. They’re greedy and want total control of the seas. I say we chase down both merchant ships, stow the cargo then see just how grateful king and country will be for a job well done.” If they would indeed honor the Pardon they’d given him.
This would be a big enough coup on the international stage to attract the attention of his family. Perhaps then they’d come to their senses and invite him home, offer apologies, so he could reclaim his original life.
Bah. Too much time had gone by. Either the hallowed halls of Westerbrooke had pronounced him dead long ago or they chose not to claim him now and the result was much the same. Piracy was his calling and his crew the only family he had.
There was a certain comfort in that.
“Regardless, if England doesn’t pay, there are more than enough places we can sell or trade the cargo. It is good, indeed, to be a privateer.” And he planned to be such until the rapidly-changing world made it impossible not to be. He strode toward the shoreline. “To the Lady Catherine, my good man. We have work to do.” The fact it would undoubtedly require murder, destruction of property, and general mischief made no difference and added to the anticipation.
Men didn’t choose piracy as a profession. It chose them, and it wasn’t a lenient taskmaster. Survival took precedence over politics and social niceties, often at the expense of a man’s soul. May God have mercy on the man—or woman—who doesn’t acclimate with alacrity.
*****
A few hours later, Adrian stood on the upper deck of the Lady Catherine with a boot on the rung of the railing. Christmas Day at sea. There was no better place to celebrate.
From his vantage point “behind the mast” he supervised the activity of part of his crew. Ropes were coiled, sails tended, decks cleaned and any other necessary chores vital to day-to-day life on a ship were performed. The midday sun beat upon his head and shoulders. Sweat trickled down his back, causing his shirt to stick to his skin. He should search out more comfortable clothing, yet enjoying the moment on his ship took precedence. As much as he wanted respectability in some aspects of his life, on the ship he’d found freedom and self-worth.
For the moment, it was enough.
A lad of about ten or eleven-years-old scampered along the decking, his arms laden with folded linens. “You there, Tommy. Come here.”
“Aye, sir.” His bare feet slapping on the planks still damp from a recent cleaning, he scrambled over to Adrian. “Ready to serve, sir.” A sunburn kissed the lad’s round cheeks and a touch of the same stained the tips of his ears and neck.
Adrian bit back a grin. One of three cabin boys currently “serving” on the ship, this one was the youngest of the lot and the most eager. The other two, twelve and fourteen respectively, occupied various degrees of surliness and bids for independence. All would eventually be broken in; it was the fate of every living thing onboard. “How goes it, lad?”
“Very well, sir.” His dark eyes sparkled. “It’s a good day for sailing, sir.” His wide grin revealed uneven, juvenile teeth. He’d yet to learn to fear the captain.
“Aye, it is,” Adrian agreed. “We have a guest aboard. I’d like you to ready the cabin next to mine.”
The boy saluted while juggling the linens. “A lady guest? Is she that bird in the hold?”
“Indeed.”
“I saw her. She’s spittin’ mad. Says she’ll kill you.” The boy smirked as if he doubted either it could be done or that she might succeed.
“Aye. Not many folks are happy to find themselves pressed into service for a privateer.” Adrian scratched his fingers through the few days’ worth of stubble on his jaw. His stint in the prison had done nothing for hygiene. He’d be surprised if he didn’t have lice. “However, I’ve been the captain for seven years. I’m confident one woman won’t succeed where many men have tried before.”
As if that satisfied the boy, he nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes. “No tricks now, Tommy. If you prove yourself worthy, I might retain you for Miss Covington’s security and care. It’ll be a very prestigious position for you. Have the cabin readied in two hours.” The boy nodded again. “And locate my hat. I seem to have misplaced it during that last skirmish when the Spanish bastards yanked me from the ship.”
“You always lose your hat, sir.” A hint of joshing admonition clung to the reply. Only a child could make such a trivial thing sound like a crime.
“Indeed I do. Off you go.” As Tommy scampered away, he took a deep breath, reveling in the salty tang of the sea air. Damn, I’ve missed life on the sea, missed interacting with my crew. Leaning over the railing, he called for the quartermaster, “Elmwood?”
“Sir?” The man appeared at the base of the stairs that led to the upper deck.
“I’m going below to advise Miss Covington of the rules. I trust you’ll keep us on course?” He didn’t need to ask. Each and every member of his crew followed his orders down to the last letter and slightest inflection of his voice. He didn’t tolerate anything less.
Everyone knew their place and had a job to do, just as he would explain to Miss Covington her role.
“Aye, sir. We’re bound for Bermuda, and with favorable wind, we’ll reach her within a few days.”
“Excellent.”
> “Good luck with the hellcat. She doesn’t appear to be fond of us or our ship.”
“She’ll have to learn to love us.”
“Aye, sir.” Elmwood saluted then returned to his position at steering.
Adrian walked with purpose along the upper deck, nodding at passing crew members. He took the stairs and in due course gained the “waist” of the ship. In theory, he could give Sarah one of the cabins on this deck, but he wanted her close—not because he cared about her. He didn’t. Over the years he’d found human life was expendable and genuine trust from another transient. Everyone had an angle, and authentic emotion was jaded.
He wanted her close for her protection, nothing more. Though the crew had recently completed a week of leave, sea life made men lonely for the softer comforts only a woman could satisfy. Not to mention, as captain, his rank afforded him right to first refusal of any female brought aboard.
If nothing else, he’d preserve her dignity from the crew as long as he could. It all depended on how cooperative she’d be—or his good humor.
Another set of wooden stairs brought him to the orlop deck, where the guns were housed and most of the crew was quartered. The surgeon, sick bay, carpenter and steward as well as their assistants also occupied this deck. Slats of daylight dappled the decking. Ventilation remained adequate here, not like on the lower deck, where it would be dark and dismal day in and day out.
Access to the hold meant using a ladder, which he scaled down in seconds. He moved along the left-hand passage. Between the powder and bread rooms, a smaller holding cell rested. They’d converted it into an iron-barred containment unit some years back. After a few larger battles with merchant ships, other compartments had been converted as well. The Lady Catherine could house ten prisoners. Only the best and most promising became captives. The rest were pressed into service or put into the sea… or killed outright.
This was the way of things.
He frowned while he peered into the cell in question. Sarah knelt in a corner, her folded hands resting on the one wooden chair. A black cloak trailed off her shoulders. Both gave her the appearance of a nun in supplication. Did she feel terror from being on the ship or in the brig? Did she pray for salvation or rescue from him? Or did she harbor a speck of excitement for the new adventure awaiting her?
The smell of mildew tickled his nose. The brighter notes of straw provided small relief, as did the fainter scents of gunpowder and spices residing in nearby compartments. Adrian cleared his throat. “Settling in, Miss Covington, or hoping for death? Perhaps you are saying a Christmas prayer?”
“Go to hell.”
“Manners, Miss Covington.”
“Go to hell, please.”
He refused to give her the satisfaction of a grin. “Believe me, I’m already there. My profession brings me closer to the devil with each passing day.” He stepped to the bars and wrapped his hands around two of them. Oxidizing iron superseded the other odors. “Proper introductions were forfeit at our last meeting.”
“Your name is John Westerbrooke. Beyond that, I care nothing about you.” Sullen. Terse. Defiant. Proud.
“John is merely a professional moniker, a designation bestowed on the most common of men. My given name is Adrian Jonathan Charles Westerbrooke.” Bile rose in his throat as he uttered the surname. “I originally hail from Surrey, England.”
“Again, I care not.” She hadn’t moved from her position on the floor.
“I can well see that.” He stared at her. She said nothing. Time to begin induction into his crew. “You may continue to spend your time on my ship here, without a proper bed or access to fresh water and utensils with which to eat your food, or you can acquiesce to the fact you are my prisoner. In that case, I will grant you your own cabin and a bit of privacy. It is your choice.”
“What will happen to me if I chose to stay here?” She scrambled to her feet, bits of straw and dust clinging to her skirts. Her hair hung in tangled ribbons over her shoulders. “How long do you plan to keep me a prisoner?”
Adrian shrugged and clasped his hands behind his back. “Typically, we hold captives until we make port again. At that time, we either press them into service on the ship, set them free if there’s enough cause or coin exchanged, or in the case of females, we sell them. There’s always a market for women, and with your pale skin, I’m sure you’d fetch me a handsome sum. Rarely have I found a woman with enough gumption to settle into life aboard ship.” He tsked. “Too bad there is no one to obtain ransom for you though.”
The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. He remembered their sweet taste. Need sliced through his gut.
“And if I have the gumption? What does life onboard mean for me?” The tendons in her neck moved with a hard swallow.
“Hmm, a conundrum, and one I’m surprised you’ve puzzled out.” He flicked his gaze down her body, lingering at the swell of the bosom clearly defined by the lightweight fabric of her dress and then the curve of her hips. His cock hardened. After all, it had been some months since he’d last indulged in a woman’s honeyed heat. His crew may have caroused to excess with the female population on their last leave, but he had not. It hadn’t appealed to him as other pressing business affairs had taken precedence, and then, of course, he’d been thrown in prison. “However, there are a few options. You may assume the role of my mistress, whore yourself out to the crew, or I can assign you to assist either the surgeon, one of my lesser officers or the steward. I doubt you’d survive a day doing typical tasks on a ship.”
Truth be known, no matter that he’d hinted she’d be free to choose what her life aboard the ship could be, ultimately she would warm his bed, her days on the Lady Catherine consigned to service him. There really was no need for a woman onboard otherwise.
Sarah remained silent for long moments while she stared at the toes of her soiled slippers. A deep sigh echoed in the air, and then she lifted her eyes to his.
Too dark to ascertain the emotions in their depths, Adrian waited for her response. “What will it be, Miss Covington? How will you shape your destiny?”
“I would like you to release me. This in no way means that I agree with being your prisoner, but I cannot negotiate my rights while stuck in this stinking cell.”
A tiny grin curled Adrian’s lips. The woman was intelligent and stubborn to a fault. Undoubtedly she’d bring hours of enjoyment during the voyage. “True. However, while at sea on my ship, there are no negotiations. My word, my will, is law.” He’d had no choice in becoming a pirate. As a result, he didn’t afford many a battery of choices either.
Life was harsh. It was better to accept that fact and move forward than struggle against it.
“That remains debatable.” Her hands fisted. Dislike and anger rolled off her in waves.
Why did she harbor such ill-will? It had to go deeper than hating pirates. Despite himself, he wanted to ferret out her story. “You are more than welcome to try and convince me otherwise. In the meantime, allow me to introduce you to the ship.” He lifted a ring of keys from a peg in the wall between the compartments. After fitting one of the iron keys into the lock, he twisted until the metal clicked. He returned the keys to the peg then swung the door open. “Shall we begin the tour?”
“I would prefer to rest. Are there quarters set aside for guests?”
He snickered. Such a crafty female. “I am sure you would. However, I am the captain and you are my guest. I prefer to show my guest around.”
“Ah, so I’ve been upgraded from prisoner then?”
Despite his determination to outline the pecking order, Adrian chuckled. “Do you really believe there’s much difference?” When she didn’t answer, he grinned. “Regardless, you can take this opportunity to ingrain the rules into your mind.”
“Pig.” She glared as she stepped out of the cell and brushed against him.
“I have been called worse.” He grasped her upper arm and propelled her down the narrow hall to the ladder. “Ladies first, bu
t I must advise you, there is nowhere to run.” And I do enjoy a chase.
She muttered something under her breath he couldn’t quite catch then mounted the first rung.
As she climbed, Adrian took full advantage and peered up her skirts, only seeing bits of tempting leg and ankle. No matter. He had all the time in the world. In good humor, he climbed after her.
“The Lady Catherine is a modified East Indiaman. Though the ship is one of the smallest made, it’s larger than a brigantine vessel and can hold between 150 and 200 men, plus thirty-five cannons.” He couldn’t help the pride that filled his voice. He’d worked damn hard to obtain this level of success. “At current, I employ 155 men plus three cabin boys. We command twenty-nine cannons.”
“Since I have nothing to compare these statistics to, I have no idea if that size or armament is impressive.”
“If you’re interested, I’d be pleased to teach you. Or, if you’d rather not trust me, Brax conducts an engrossing, hour-long assembly in the training and preparation of cannons.”
“Of course I don’t trust you. We are not friends. I doubt we will ever be such.”
Perhaps not friends, but definitely lovers. Ah, how he’d enjoying taming her spirit. He continued the tour.
When they gained the gun deck, he took possession of her arm once more, pointing out various cannons, the rooms where the steward and constable worked, the galley and the sick bay.
Sarah took it all in with wide eyes. “Does the constable hold all manner of weapons?”
“Yes, except the ship’s cannons.”
“Excellent. I hope to pay him a visit soon.” She nodded and lapsed into silence.
Crafty woman. He could almost see her brain at work. Adrian lifted an eyebrow while making a mental note to have a crewman guard the cabin. She’d been entirely too interested in the information.
On the upper deck, she grew animated, watching the activity with curiosity and wide eyes. When various crewmembers glanced at her, she paid them no attention, only stared straight ahead with a slightly elevated chin. Once, she stumbled and he adjusted his stride to accommodate her limp, a handicap he hadn’t noticed until she’d walked beside him.
