Harlan clenched his teeth together. “This is unnatural. Perhaps it is a deadly omen.”
“Balderdash. It is an historic event.’ The doctor’s face radiated with the light of elation. “There is much about the natural world we do not understand.”
“The devil’s minions control this world and you have summoned them.”
Gilroy smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “This is science—not a battle between good and evil. Ach, my cap’n, you should settle down and discover the sweet joys of a simple life.”
“This ship is my home.”
Gilroy sighed. “‘Tis a vast land to the west. There are places you can go to start a new life.”
“I want what should have been mine.” Harlan growled.
“Bitterness eats you up inside.” Though he was slightly bent with age, steel gleamed in the old doctor’s eyes. “What’s done is done.”
“I will win it all back or I will die.”
“Well, Cap’n, you have yet to meet your match in a fight. But right now we must save this wee woman’s life.”
As Harlan followed the doctor’s urging, the rain suddenly eased and the wind blew away the fog. Hair prickled against Harlan’s neck as he considered whether this could be a way to get him off the ship so that someone else could take over. He considered whether Gilroy had mutiny as his goal.
He narrowed his eyes. Gilly’s fascination with questionable scientific methods did not make him a mutinous traitor. The old man remained unceasingly loyal, but there were those aboard who would merrily stab Harlan in the back and take everything he had. Harboring this woman on the Lyrical could give them the excuse they needed.
He clamped his teeth together. Let them try. He would not let them take his ship.
Chapter Two
A seagull’s cry disturbed Lesley’s vague, foggy dreams. She considered waking up but an insidious lassitude permeated every pore and she had not the strength to move a single muscle. Her parched tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. A soft buzzing in her head troubled her. A mellow light flickered over her eyelids. The metallic taste of blood seeped into her throat from her cracked lips.
In an instant, memory came rushing back. Her pulse raced and every one of her nerves tensed but she kept her eyes tightly shut, afraid to open them.
Was her body mangled? She wiggled her toes and fingers. She seemed to be intact, though she found a few achy spots. Her fingers touched the bedding beneath her, it had the rough texture of heavy canvas like the cushions on her patio furniture or the deck cushions on Jim’s wretched boat. She became aware of a persistent swaying motion as if she rocked with the tide.
Fresh panic chilled her. She tried to swallow but with her mouth so dry she gagged instead.
“Ach. Another dram of me potion, Cap’n.” A hoarse voice announced. “I’ll be asking you to lift up me patient again, so’s I can spoon it in.”
Powerful arms lifted her as if she weighed no more than a child’s doll. When she dared to open her eyes, it took her a moment to focus for the room appeared to be spinning. Then she locked her gaze on the man who had hoisted her up so easily. She sucked in her breath.
Was it Jim—in pirate garb? He had been haunting her peculiar dreams. Damn him.
Time stopped as she stared into the most faded blue eyes she had ever seen. Jim claimed he had blue eyes, but in fact his held the color of smoke.
This pirate had eyes of a softer hue, as pale as a hazy sky on a lazy summer day.
Could she be hallucinating?
The man had the same nose as Jim, but unlike her former fiancé, who slathered himself with sunscreen, this man had a deep tan. His long, wavy blond hair had been streaked by the sun. Tied into a ponytail, some strands escaped to partially conceal a livid scar. Jim had no such disfigurement and he kept his hair short. However, while this man’s jaw line matched Jim’s, a trim mustache and beard softened the angles.
“Your patient awakes.” His brusque tone belied the gentleness of his touch.
Would Jim go through all the trouble of wearing a wig when he hated hats? Would he glue on a fake beard and mustache?
No. This must be a dream.
“Aha! Then warm broth is in order. Won’t take me but a minute, Cap’n. Cook has it ready.”
The stare of the man who held her never wavered. His pupils were small pinpoints in a puddle of sky, but at their depth lay an electric power. The air surrounding him surged with a steady hum replacing the annoying buzz in her brain.
With an effort, she tore her gaze away from his to stare instead at his rough, beige shirt with its dark stains. Bulging muscles on his forearm rippled in the flickering lamplight. She did not doubt that beneath the shirt he had the kind of brawny physique that most women only saw on a calendar page or the cover of a romance novel.
Jim’s flesh had the consistency of a micro bead squish pillow.
Her words came out a bare whisper. “Where am I?”
“You are aboard the Lyrical.” The vibrations from his deep voice rumbled through her. Jim’s voice did not have that sort of resonance. Added to that, this pirate’s thick accent confused her. It took a few moments for her to interpret what he said.
“Damn. A boat. Just my luck.” She rubbed her forehead in the hope of clearing away her confusion.
“This is a twenty-four gun frigate.” A note of annoyance darkened his tone.
“Pardon my ignorance.” What a crazy imagination she had. She must be in a hospital somewhere, high on morphine, fabricating this whole scenario.
Naturally, she would never invent an ordinary boat in her mind. From her vantage point, this boat appeared to be a very detailed replica reminiscent of the Constellation, which she had visited in Baltimore with Jim.
She closed her eyes as the hateful words of her last argument with Jim came back to her. Yes, breaking off the wedding had been the right thing to do, but sorrow weighed on her soul. She should have called the police. She should have taken appropriate measures months ago.
“Stay awake.” His command came with a gentle shake. Obediently, she opened her eyes. However, instead of latching onto his hypnotic gaze she glanced at his shiny belt buckle—and realized he had two rather antique weapons on each side of his waist.
Though weak, she struggled to inch away from him. He dropped his hands as she backed up to the wall.
“You’re a re-enactor. That’s where this fanciful idea in her mind started. She had gone to a few Renaissance fairs with Jim. “You’re playing out the part of a naval captain in the Revolutionary War. John Paul Jones? Right?”
“I am Captain Harlan Sterford.” He did not announce it in a boastful manner, and she detected a note of gravity in his tone. Again, not like Jim who had a glaring sense of pride that annoyed everyone. “We are in the midst of Queen Anne’s War. France and Spain are our enemies.”
The boat—frigate—rocked harder. She clung to the edge of the bunk fearing she might be tossed to the floor as the waves slapped against the wooden side of the vessel.
He turned away. When he put his hands on his hips, she got a great view of his backside encased in tight britches. Why had men ever stopped wearing britches? Baggy pants hid the best parts on a man. His taut muscles rippled beneath the fabric. Heat curled up inside her and warmth returned to her cheeks.
Why was there nothing surreal about her situation? Everything appeared solid. She smelled rancid oil burning in the lamp along with the damp tang of brine in the atmosphere. The rough, calloused hands of the pirate had scratched her skin. The coarse fabric of the lumpy mattress beneath her itched. The heavy wool blanket tickled her nose with a musty odor. She could reach out and pull on the crude curtain that surrounded the bunk if she wanted to avail herself of a small measure of privacy.
The groan of wooden timbers creaked. Footsteps pattered above her. Somewhere in the distance she thought she heard the melody of an old drinking song being sung by a chorus of drunkards.
She peered at the cramped q
uarters. Why did it look so familiar? Had she traveled through it in her many nightmares? She recognized the table, the desk with its inkwell, the few chairs, a large trunk, and the weapons—menacing swords, metal tipped poles with sharp knives at the ends, axes, and guns—the kind she had viewed in museums.
All of it appeared vivid—not hazy or indistinct. She did not drift in and out of scenes. She did not shift from one obscure, nonsensical vision to another. She lay in a bunk on a boat—frigate—with a pirate who resembled Jim for company. Vertigo washed over her. She took in several deep breaths and tried to calm her erratic heartbeat.
She remembered her car spinning while a terrible high-pitched whine pierced through her. What happened to her cell phone? Her handbag? Her suitcase? She glanced at her clothing. What happened to her black sweats?
“Where are my clothes?” she demanded with as much force as she could muster.
“You had none.”
“That’s impossible. Who dressed me in this horrible, filthy outfit?”
“I did.”
Panic gripped her, but she struggled against a rising tide of hysteria. “Where’s my car?”
“Car?” He turned to face her once more with a deep scowl furrowing his brow.
“I drove it onto bridge. Is it in the water? Or on the marsh?”
“You had no carriage—nor horse to pull it. There are no bridges here.” His cold, impassive gaze traveled the length of her. “This is a remote area, excellent for concealment.”2013
The breath hitched up ever higher in her throat. “Why are you hiding?”
“The dreary weather detains us.”
An eerie chill gripped her. This faux Jim could rape her, stab her through the heart, and toss her overboard. No one would ever know.
She refused to show fear though she thought her nerves would shatter. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him but she grew dizzy staring into his eyes. They drew her as if nothing else existed but those two aquatic pools and she found herself longing to plumb the depths of them.
“Cap’n?” A wizened old man stepped into the cabin. His dark garments hung loose on his thin frame.
“I have heard some strange talk from your patient,” the pirate stated.
“That’s to be expected I dare say, but Cook’s hot broth will warm the insides so’s any blathering nonsense will vanish.”
The pirate stepped away and her energy drained as if the link between them had snapped. He went to the desk, sat down, and put a quill into the inkwell.
“I am Dr. Peter Gilroy, the ship’s physician.” The old man held a wooden bowl out to her. “There’s a bit of barley in there and some fish broth. Take it, child, and finish as much as your belly will hold.”
She wrinkled her nose as she looked at the unappetizing gray liquid, but her stomach growled with impatience. She took the bowl in her hands and sipped from the edge. The gruel was hot and salty, but she spilled some of it on the blanket. “Would you please hand me a spoon?”
“Um ... a spoon, Cap’n? Might you have hidden one in this cabin? Perhaps, a special one ....” The wizened old man asked with a hesitant note in his voice.
The captain scratched with the quill upon the paper. “There is, as you know, doctor, a sudden difficulty with spoons on the Lyrical. At any rate, there will be no mollycoddling on this ship.”
“How about a seashell then? I’ll make do.” She made no attempt to disguise the sarcasm in her voice.
The captain ignored her. He dipped the quill into the inkwell again and wrote in a book. He did not look up from his task.
“Do not worry over a lost drop.” The doctor patted her shoulder. “It is of no consequence. It is unfortunate about the loss of the spoons, but I am sure we will be able to acquire more along the way—and after all the spoons brought you to us.”
“Spoons?” Maybe the old guy had some bats in the belfry because he did not make much sense.
“Borrowed in the advance of science, but ... sometimes ... the natural world ... it is a mystery ... and—”
The pirate captain interrupted. “What’s your name?”
“Lesley.”
“Do you come from Wales?”
“No.”
“Lesley is a common name there.” The pirate commented. “And your given name?
“That is my given name.”
“Odd.”
“Lesley will do, Cap’n.” The doctor sighed.
“Indeed, the crew will undoubtedly add a nickname.” The pirate kept scratching across the paper with the quill. “Where is your home?”
“I live in Atlantic Highlands, but I grew up in Belford.”
“In England?” The pirate turned to look at her. Despite the dim light, his blue eyes locked with hers like a tractor beam. The sensation unnerved her.
“Do I sound English?”
“Your accent is strange,” he commented. His gaze returned to his task at the desk, but her pulse continued to race.
“Don’t be asking so many questions, Cap’n. Lesley needs to drink more broth and barley. Our new cabin boy needs to build up some strength.”
She nearly choked. “Cabin boy?”
The captain’s pen stopped scratching across the paper. Doctor Gilroy stared at the floor. Neither of them said anything.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
“The cap’n’s last cabin boy drowned when he fell overboard,” the old man explained. “You are to be his replacement.”
“I’m sure the captain noticed I was a woman when he dressed me.” Anger ignited inside her. She pressed her lips together.
“Me and the cap’n would be subject to harsh punishment if anyone discovered we brought a woman aboard,” the old man explained.
“Then drop me off.”
The old doctor’s face turned ashen. “But something went wrong with my experiment ....”
Experiment. Yes, the scenario took a sudden detour into far more incomprehensible territory—like most dreams. It made no sense at all. Excellent! None of this could be real. She relaxed a little and sipped more broth.
“You will play the part of a cabin boy, and you will do it well.” The touch of menace in the pirate’s tone chilled her.
“The crew will never suspect you are not what you seem.” The doctor’s weak smile allowed her a view of empty spaces along his gums. Several of his teeth were missing.
“They are drunk in the main,” the captain grumbled.
While none of this could be real, in the distance she heard haunting music played on a tin whistle. She did not recognize the melody, but the plaintive notes in a minor key struck a sad chord in her heart and troubled her.
She had been in a horrific crash. She could be dead. Her soul might well be disconnected from her body. The impression of activity about her could be happening on some other plane.
Did the dead go to heaven or hell? A terrible chill wound around her heart. Could this be hell? But her body felt heavy and real. Dead people neither ate nor drank, but maybe they went through the motions. Maybe the bowl held virtual broth. She sipped more of it. It warmed her right to her toes as it went down. She peered at the broth with suspicion.
“Is there alcohol in here?”
“A wee bit of rum so’s you’ll sweat, but not enough to make you addle pated,” the doctor replied.
“Well, hell. Now would be as good a time as any to get drunk. Add some more of that rum!” She guzzled more of the broth. “How about serving up a pina colada? I sure could go for one of those at this point.”
“Ah. You are doing well now.” The doctor smiled. “I can get back to my other patients.” He left the cabin.
Lesley pressed her lips together. She wanted to call out and beg him to stay. Being alone in the small cabin with only the pirate captain for company alarmed her. The room’s warlike ambiance had dread pressing upon her. Sharp and deadly-looking weapons sprouted from every corner. She finished off the broth and hoped the effects of the rum would kick in soon.
/> One question had nagged at her since she awoke to find herself in this odd situation and she decided to ask it now, before the alcohol hit her. “What day is it?”
The captain turned back one page in his book and answered with a degree of gravity, “October the eighth, in the year one thousand seven hundred and eleven.”
1711! Damn. Panic welled in her throat.
“Did a bad storm strike this area in the morning?”
“Yes.”
Had she fallen into some sort of time warp when her car spun? What if that wasn’t lightning that hit her car but some sort of electrical black hole? Could her car have become a time machine and thrown her back to 1711?
Three hundred years backward? Stunned, she wrapped her trembling arms about her.
The pirate stood, finished with his task. The room did not look big enough for him and yet his powerful body maneuvered gracefully through the small area. He went to a drawer, bent, and pulled out a stack of folded linens.
She touched the side of her face where Jim had slapped her, but it no longer felt bruised. With a sickening realization, she knew this man could squash her like a bug.
“These will be yours.” He lay the folded clothing on the blanket as he spoke with a solemn air of authority. “You will remember to address me as Captain Sterford at all times. Your duties will consist of delivering messages from me to the other officers. You will bring my meals to me, attend to my clothing, and—”
“Wait a minute,” she interjected recklessly. “I am a pharmaceutical rep not a laundress. I was supposed to give a talk at the conference...”
For a moment, her throat closed up. Yes, she planned to give a talk with all her Power Point slides but she didn’t make it to Virginia Beach. Her car flew off the bridge and landed her in 1711—or hell.
She fought against her despair and swallowed past the lump in her throat. What did it matter if he hit her? “I hired a maid to clean my condo. I don’t do menial labor,” she dared.
She flinched when his massive hand slid beneath her chin to lift it, forcing her to look up at his arresting countenance. Locked into his gaze, a coil of heat swirled deep inside her—a startling and strange reaction. She never responded so powerfully to any man.
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 2
