Pirate's Wraith, The

by Penelope Marzec

  “Dr. Gilroy believes the crew will not be aware of our ruse, but you must play your part. I cannot protect you otherwise.” He let her go and she drew her arms over her chest in a defensive measure.

  “We heave anchor before dawn,” he stated.

  “Where are you going?”

  “New Providence.”

  Again, panic threatened and she could barely breathe. She did not want to leave New Jersey, but if it was 1711, the New Jersey she knew did not exist.

  Could she return to the future? Would she be stuck here forever, on a frigate with a pirate and his bloodthirsty crew? Recalling what she knew of pirates in history, they had a tendency to rape, pillage, and give no quarter.

  Oh God.

  She did not have the energy to run. Her eyes grew heavy and she wanted nothing more than to close them as the rum worked its magic.

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  He pointed to a hammock. “There—for tonight.”

  “Am I in your bed?”

  “Yes.”

  They would be in the same small space with only a few feet separating them. Unwelcome fire blazed in her cheeks. Usually, she had nothing but scorn for conceited men, but this one had every right to strut like a rooster--every muscle, every sinew, every hair on his head boasted his superiority.

  Her gaze shifted to the bulge swelling beneath the flap of his buttoned breeches. She swallowed hard and glanced back up at his face. He lifted one dangerous brow and she saw the lust clearly evident in his features. Dampness grew between her legs.

  Damn.

  Chapter Three

  Harlan stood on the poop deck looking up at the heavens until long after midnight. The slight crescent of a moon did little to illuminate the marshland, but he had no fear of a surprise attack by his enemies. Until yesterday, he took daring risks—for he no longer had anything to lose. His decision not to attack the man-of-war had been an aberration. He blamed his drunken crew but even in their cups every one of his men fought fiercely--each of them equal to two of their opponents.

  He had sailed into enemy infested territory more times than he could count. He had fought in hand-to-hand combat against both skilled opponents and crazed warriors. Luck and strength had been on his side.

  Yesterday, he turned away from a fight for the first time. True, he and his men had managed to steal a great deal of rum first, but the man-of-war would have been a far greater reward.

  In the light from that dim sliver of moon, he admitted the sight of the cabin boy sinking into the waves unnerved him but now he had been dealt another disconcerting blow.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, wooden pony. He had carved it with his own hands. He had sanded the finish and painted it. He had glued in a tail of real horsehair—though only a bristly stub remained. He rubbed his thumb over the initials—JS. Josiah Sterford. His son. A boy with light, laughing eyes like his own and dark, raven hair like his mother.

  How did the toy come into Lesley’s possession?

  He returned the horse to his pocket. She must be a relative of Elsbeth, perhaps a cousin. That would explain her striking resemblance. Elsbeth could not return. To believe that was madness.

  Still, bringing a woman on board did not fall far from the worst of follies. Dressing her as a cabin boy and expecting the crew to accept her as such bore the mark of lunacy. Sharing his cabin with her could be his undoing. He had seen all of her—from the thick dark hair on her head to the soft black curls guarding her most private parts.

  His heart hammered in his chest. He had dressed her and had been tempted. The fires of hell had raged at his back but he had resisted adding more fuel to his already blackened soul. Still, his eyes had enjoyed the feast. He found himself obsessed with thoughts of her. Could she be one of the Devil’s minions? He shuddered.

  Nothing ordinary lay in finding a naked woman on the deck, it could be she climbed aboard at some point and hid herself until Gilroy caused the great flash of lightning to hit the ship.

  Someone may have cast her off. Had she been born weak headed? Had she run away from her family?

  No large quantity of liquor fowled her breath—no more than what Gilroy poured into the broth. She did not have any scars on her faultless body, which struck him as unusual. Who had not suffered through life without some injuries? He closed his eyes to summon the image of her perfect form in his mind. Had she never been beaten? Had she never suffered from the pox?

  A scream startled him. High and piercing, like the cry that had come from the cabin boy’s throat as he had fallen from the top gallant mast to the water below.

  Harlan opened his eyes and froze for a moment. Had the cabin boy’s soul returned to haunt the ship?

  But the sound came again from the direction of his cabin just below.

  Hell. Harlan clamped his jaw together and hurried to his cabin. Lesley could wake the dead—or even his somnolent drunken crew—with her yowling.

  Opening the door to his cabin, he saw her crouched on the table holding a cutlass still sheathed in its scabbard.

  “A rat! A horrible, dirty, disease-infested rat.”

  He followed her gaze. The large creature sat beneath the desk gnawing at the remains of a biscuit. “The men are negligent in their duties.” Since they relished being dead drunk, their lack of ambition did not surprise him.

  “Don’t you know that rats carry all kinds of nasty germs—like Bubonic Plague? This ship needs to be exterminated. That rat ran right across my foot. I need anti-bacterial soap.”

  The bibble-babble she spouted led him to assume her delirium had grown worse.

  “Hand me the cutlass.”

  “Um. Do you mean this sword?”

  He nodded and removed it from her grasp. Sliding the blade from the scabbard, he promptly dispatched the rat by cutting it in two.

  “Yuck! I can’t believe you did that!” She wrapped her arms about her small frame.

  He scanned her critically while he busied himself wiping off the cutlass, placing it back in the scabbard, and hanging it on the proper peg.

  “At least the thing is dead.” Her fragile voice shook. “I could not spend another minute here if I had to share this cabin with that monster. This place needs to be scrubbed from top to bottom.”

  Due to her rapid speech, hard dialect, and considerable use of nonsensical words he failed to understand most of her blather, though somehow he seemed to be able to gather the substance of it.

  “You will clean it up on the morrow.”

  “I’m not going to touch that thing. It’s the most obvious bio-hazard I ever saw.”

  “You will obey my commands.” He could not make a man out of a woman. However, her life—and his--depended on her diligence in this attempt. “The work is appropriate for a cabin boy and will keep you away from the crew.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Are they that bad? Real scumbags?”

  He spoke French, some Spanish and a smattering of Italian—but most of what she uttered was unintelligible. Yet, he could easily gauge the alarm in her features.

  “Though the men may be fooled by your garments, they may choose to play pranks on you and their mischief can be treacherous.” Surveying her delicate form, he experienced an unusual surge of affection. That rattled him, for he needed to maintain a stern countenance in this dangerous game.

  “Don’t you have rules against pranks?” She twisted her hands together as she sat upon his dining table looking unaccountably dainty and prim in unshapely duck trousers and shirt.

  “The men are a difficult lot to control, though the first mate ensures they will be busy. The ropes are regularly tarred and the decks are white with holystoning.” He would not tell her of one caper that had left a sailor crippled. The quartermaster had metered out the harshest discipline to the man who caused the injury but that had done nothing to curb the frivolities some of the sailors found amusing.

  “I took a course in self-defense for women once. I’ll just kick them in
the balls if they so much as look at me cross-eyed.” Her head lowered, casting her features into complete darkness. “I should have done that to Jim. He deserved it, but I never fought back. I was such a coward. Of course, it doesn’t matter now, I guess.”

  Again, many of her words sounded as nothing more than gibberish to him, yet the inflections in her tone guided him in gleaning the significance. This wistful and sad reply troubled him.

  Nevertheless, peril lurked in the terrible game he--and Gilroy--had chosen. He had to keep in mind that everything about her remained a mystery. If she had some connection to Elsbeth—and he did not doubt that she did—he intended to discover it.

  “I’ve learned my lesson though. I’ll never be someone else’s punching bag again. I’ll hit them where it hurts.” Her hands made a chopping motion.

  He shook his head. She had much to learn. In a swift movement, he lifted her up and returned her to the bunk. “You weigh less than a few belaying pins. Anyone in the crew could have his way with you.”

  In the dim light from the lamp her fine skin blanched.

  “Okay. I get it. They are scumbags and strong ones at that. What should I expect from a bunch of pirates?” Her ragged sigh twisted something inside him. “What kind of freaking crazy time warp put me here? I’m stuck aren’t I? And there’s no sexual harassment protection policy in 1711 is there?”

  He heard the catch in her voice and his soul stirred with pity for her. Damn Gilroy! There must be a way to get her safely back to wherever she belongs.

  She sniffed. “I need to use the head. That’s what I was looking for when the rat ran over my foot. You have a head in this ship. Don’t you?”

  He pointed to the small door.

  She hopped out of the bunk. “Is it dark in there?”

  “It is well past midnight.”

  “Damn.”

  Startled by her use of strong language, he found her a paradox—an odd mixture of fragility and boldness, nothing at all like Elsbeth.

  He would wait, discover her purpose, and defeat her as he would any other enemy.

  “I will leave the cabin. With the small door open, some illumination from the lamp will reach into the head.”

  “Thanks. I guess even a pirate can be a gentleman.”

  He made a slight bow.

  “Do not fail to call me Captain Sterford at all times. You will do all I tell you without complaint. Do it with a will—cheerily.” He thought of the songs the men sang as they hove up the anchor.

  “Aye, aye, captain,” she waved her hand as she crouched down to move into the head.

  He experienced an unusual tumbling in his chest and for a moment, he wondered what could be the cause of it, but he had other matters to concern him. Pressing his hand over the spot, he turned and walked out of the cabin. He would win back his wealth. If he did not succeed then he would die.

  He had no other choice.

  * * * *

  Lesley dreamed of a foot long hotdog with sauerkraut nestled in a thick French roll. She held it in her hands, ready to devour it in a few quick bites when the dream and the hotdog dissolved as someone shook her from sleep.

  “Dawn breaks.” Captain Sterford’s voice, which had sounded so deeply masculine last night, now had a gravely quality to it.

  She opened one eye and peered at the captain. His amazingly light eyes looked a bit bloodshot. “Still looks plenty dark to me and you sure could use a few extra winks. Go for it.”

  “The sun breaks on the horizon.”

  “Let me know when it’s nine o’clock.” She had forgotten to put mustard on that hotdog.

  The captain lifted her out of the bunk and stood her on her feet. She swayed but he held her upright with one arm and plopped a cap on her head.

  “Tie your hair back. Don that jacket and the boots.” He pointed to the jacket on the table and the boots by the chair as he released her from his hold.

  “I need caffeine.” She moaned as she leaned back against the bunk. “A latte—please--and make it sweet.”

  “We will breakfast once we are under sail.” He stood with his arms crossed and glared at her.

  “This is like being in camp. I hated going to camp. It was torture.” She grabbed a rough cord and tied her hair into a ponytail. After pulling on the jacket, she sat on a chair to stuff her feet into the boots. “A vacation should not include a time schedule.”

  For a moment, her lip quivered. This is no vacation. This is hell.

  She fought against the despair that threatened to undo her. Trapped in the dark ages of 1711, she would find no modern conveniences. No microwaves. No lattes.

  Had they invented soap yet?

  She dared to glance under the desk. The rat had been removed and though the bloodstain remained, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for getting rid of the rat.”

  She looked up to notice he had turned his back to her. Unfortunately, this morning his long jacket covered his delightful tush.

  “You are to scrub the floor and polish everything in this cabin today.”

  She groaned. “Okay, I realize lattes haven’t been invented yet so I’ll even take the coffee or tea black—straight up. No sugar. Please.”

  “The crew is given tea with molasses.”

  “Great.” She could almost taste a sausage, egg, and biscuit sandwich.

  “We breakfast at mid-morning.”

  “But I’m starving right now. The protein in that gruel last night would not satisfy a gnat.”

  “We will set sail first.”

  “Where’s the kitchen? I make a mean omelet. I’ll cook for the crew. That ought to help.”

  “I must speak to the men this morning before they climb into the rigging.”

  “Fine. You talk, I’ll cook. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “You will stand beside me on the quarterdeck.”

  “Is that necessary?” She never had trouble meeting new clients but greeting a boatload of bloodthirsty pirates intimidated her. “Don’t they all have hangovers from their drunken binge last night?”

  A knock sounded on the door and she jumped.

  “Enter,” the captain called.

  The door creaked open and wizened, old Dr. Gilroy announced. “The men are ready, sir.”

  The captain moved toward the door and held it wide. “Come.”

  She had no choice but to follow. Dawn might be breaking somewhere in the east, but it certainly had not arrived overhead. Worse, the creepy sensation that she had seen this all before had her wishing she had stayed hidden under that damp, moth-eaten wool blanket.

  Once, Jim had made a model of some famous ship. He had drilled her to repeat back to him the various parts of the ship. Back then, she had believed if she could share his interest in all things nautical their relationship would go smoothly.

  She had been so naïve.

  Her stomach rumbled. Dammit. Naturally, in going over the parts of the ship, Jim had never mentioned the location of the kitchen. Then she remembered the kitchen was called a galley. She decided to go find it.

  Gilroy stayed her progress with his hand. “Wait until the cap’n finishes speaking.”

  “Where’s the galley?” she asked.

  Gilroy handed her a hard, dry, stale and dirty-looking thing. “Hard tack.”

  It looked as appetizing as a rock, but she gnawed on it anyway praying that her expensive dental bridgework would survive the unyielding biscuit.

  Captain Sterford stepped to the railing and spoke to the men assembled below in the waist. “Yesterday, you men rejoiced with twenty kegs of run. Where are those kegs today? One night of a drunken haze and your prize is gone. We must find a bigger prize than rum, men. We need gold! Let us search the seas for the enemy and make our fortune.”

  A cheer went up. Gilroy gave her a slight push toward the captain.

  “Go on. Take a look at your crewmates.” He waved her forward.

  Her heart raced. If the pirates made her walk the plank now while th
ey were still in the river she could swim to shore. That was altogether preferable to falling into the very deep and very wide ocean.

  She eased closer to the captain’s side and glanced over the railing at the crew. She had expected to see men wearing black eye patches, holding machetes in the air, and screaming, “Avast, ye mateys.” However, the assembly below did not look much like pirates. They had the sad aspect of poor beggars. Their plain trousers, caps, and short jackets were much like the clothes she had been given—though in truth, no two matched. Abundant patches of different textures and colors had been tacked onto the original fabric.

  Whispers swarmed from the gathered assembly in the damp morning air, but no one seemed unduly disturbed by her appearance.

  The captain gave her no more than a glance, but the power in his light blue eyes hit her like a laser. Energy tingled along her nerve endings and she clung to the railing to keep her balance. In that moment she realized her debilitating migraine had vanished though she had taken none of her medication. Plagued for six months by the excruciating pain, she had required powerful drugs to keep functioning.

  This morning, without drugs, not a single spasm troubled her. It could have been a glorious new dawn, save for her being a prisoner or a slave and facing a bunch of pirates in the beginning of the very backward eighteenth century,

  She shivered as the chill of autumn bit through her short jacket. The wind picked up and the tangy brine of the ocean blew into the river, permeating the atmosphere. With everything about her so solid and real, the idea of her experience being a hallucination faded. By some monstrous twist of fate, she had been transported backward through time. Her basic knowledge of the laws of physics could not explain it but apparently the electrical storm or the spinning car—or both—had sent her through the time barrier.

  How could she survive in this dark age of no electricity, no cell phones, no microwave ovens, and no lattes? The life expectancy in the 1700s averaged around thirty-five. Her life could be almost over.

  She drummed her fingers on the railing. To live in a world without indoor plumbing and refrigeration amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. She could not discount the possibility that her soul was suffering in hell.