Caught up in her thoughts, she jumped when the captain slammed his fist on the desk.
“Did the Devil take my child, too? Answer me!” His wretchedness betrayed itself in the lines etched into his features.
“You had a child?”
“My son died of a fever shortly before my wife. Did she take him to hell with her?”
Astonished, she let out a soft gasp. What a terrible tragedy. A child and a wife—both gone. Maybe that’s what turned him into a pirate. “I am not an authority on matters of divine justice. I really cannot answer your question with any certainty, though I was always told God loves us—and he especially loves children. They are innocent, after all.”
She wished she knew how old his son had been but the liquor streamed into her blood and a soft, hazy numbness deadened her nerves. Every tense muscle unraveled.
“Change into your clean clothing,” he ordered.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To bury the dead.”
“It’s raining.”
“It will lend a somber mood.”
“I don’t think you have to rely on the weather for the proper ambiance since you lost half your crew.” The scene below decks returned to haunt her and she shivered. Even after a bad day at work, she could go home, sit on her couch, eat popcorn, have a beer and numb her mind with a DVD of the first and second seasons of Baywatch. Here there was no escape, save for the temporary effect of whiskey or rum. No wonder the pirates drank like frat boys.
Why couldn’t she have traveled to the future? Why did she have to go backwards?
She pulled out the spare clothing assigned to her. Apparently, dampness lingered on everything in the ship. The moist, threadbare fabric beneath her fingertips had been patched innumerable times. Had it ripped or had it been sliced with a knife? Did the holes come from wear or from musket balls?
Despair wrapped itself around her. She hated the thought of the needless waste of lives that would continue for centuries to come as men killed each other in innumerable wars.
“I am going to become a flaming liberal,” she vowed. “Me—the most conservative woman in the entire graduating class. Me, with my IRA, 401K, and my solid equity condo. I am going to start marching in peace rallies. I’m going to Occupy Wall Street!”
Again that electric touch came upon her shoulder, though this time it lingered. The heat of him singed her right through her sodden clothing.
“There will be an extra portion of rum in the water tonight for every member of the crew.”
“Like that’s going to fix everything.” She plunged on in a careless rush. “Guess I should teach everyone how to play beer pong.” Her chest hurt from trying to keep the wretchedness inside it.
He cleared his throat in a pronounced manner. “I will turn my back while you disrobe.”
Warning signals flashed in her mind, despite the alcohol she had already imbibed.
Could she trust him? A pirate captain with an infamous first mate. Did she have a choice? “Are you going to change, too?”
“Yes.” He took away his hand, but she caught a hint of something disturbing in his look before he turned away.
Her misgivings soared as he presented his back to her. The clang of metal sounded loud in the small cabin as he fumbled with the belt buckle that held his sword and guns.
She turned and set to her task. Hurriedly, she dropped her bloodstained pants and kicked them into the corner. Tossing off the jacket and loose shirt, she made a pile of the toxic clothing. It should be thrown away or burned. She could never get them clean without her favorite stain remover or her high-powered laundry detergent.
Had scrub boards been invented yet, or did she have to use rocks?
“How do you wash clothes in 1711?” she asked.
“Washing is done on deck.” His voice sounded close—too close. His breath stirred her hair and sent Goosebumps rising on her skin.
Dammit. She knew she couldn’t trust him. She swung around, intending to scald him with her ire, but her heart lurched at the sight of him. His bare chest, shoulders, and arms allowed a marvelous view of a rippling topography of sinews. His breeches clung to him like a second skin. The tight fabric left nothing to the imagination.
“Y-you w-were not supposed to look,” she stuttered, conscious of his unabashed scrutiny. He stood so close his musky essence sent a quiver surging along her limbs until her knees trembled.
“You asked a question.” He made no pretense of his bold assessment and wherever his gaze traveled on her body, fire flamed inside her.
“Y...you did not have to turn around to answer it.” There did not seem to be enough air in the cabin for her to breathe. Testosterone drowned her.
“It is rude not to look at someone who is speaking to you.” His gaze appeared to be firmly fixed at a much lower part of her anatomy than her lips.
“T-that is one h-hell of an excuse,” she stammered. The pull of his magnetic virility drugged her until she could barely think much less communicate.
He reached out to touch her breast. The contact threatened to melt her into a pool of want. His rough calluses skimmed along the outer edge of her firmness, but when he cupped one soft sphere and circled the areola with his thumb, the tenderness of his movements sent pure pleasure rippling straight to her inner core.
No doubt, the alcohol had loosened her inhibitions for it took only a minute for her to decide it didn’t really matter whether she was living a nightmare, dreaming about the past, or suffering in hell. She reached out to the bulge in his breeches.
He sucked in his breath at her touch as though it pained him, but she knew the remedy. She quickly unbuttoned the flap to release his magnificent cannon, the most beautiful weapon she had ever seen.
Chapter Five
Harlan’s veins filled with a blistering liquid far more potent than whiskey and his desire ignited like a torch. He would have ignored a pistol held to his head for he could not withstand the driving power of his need. He pulled Lesley up against his chest and inhaled sharply as her heated skin melded with his. What magic she possessed he dared not ask. No woman had ever kindled such a measure of lust in him. No, not even Elsbeth.
A moment of fear halted his ardor. What if Lesley were Elsbeth come back from the dead? Or a relative of Elsbeth eager for revenge? She might even be the Devil in disguise, sporting with him before sending him to eternal damnation.
When she twined her hands around his neck and stood on her toes to reach his mouth, his brief spate of caution fled. Their lips met and the taste of pleasure crowded out all other thoughts. She opened to him and he found the warm darkness of deep velvet within her mouth. The blaze within him exploded and filled him with recklessness. His hands slid over the silk of her soft buttocks as he pressed her against his hardened member. His breathing became ragged as her slick, pearly flesh fueled his flames.
Her cool hands touched his face to glide like whispers of down to his shoulders. She pushed lightly and he followed her silent command. Leaving her sweet damp mouth, he moved his lips along her neck, feeling her shiver with anticipation as he made his way to her peaked nipple. There, as if he were a babe, he lavished his attention until her moan checked him.
He came up for air and saw her eyes had closed and a gentle smile of bliss rested on her lips. He intended to plunge inside her and be rid of his burning hunger.
The sound of a scream from the deck brought him to his senses. A second cry for help set him in motion.
“This is madness.” He stated as he pulled away. “You are one of his minions.”
She opened her eyes in stunned surprise. “Hey. You started it. But no hard feelings--let’s finish.” She knelt down. “I can be very obliging.” Her small tongue licked along the side of his manhood and he nearly burst.
“Sorceress.” He growled, half in fear and half in an agony.
She stopped and he caught the spark of anger in her eyes. “This is sex. There
’s nothing magical about it. It’s hormones. Get over the devil demon witch stuff.”
A third scream shook Harlan from the grip of the spell. He swore as he threw on his shirt. He held his jacket in a strategic position before he left the cabin.
On deck a small group stood staring upward. Harlan followed their gazes and saw one of the crew suspended by his ankle, caught in a tangled ratline damaged by the battle. The unfortunate man hung upside down at the end of the mizzen topgallant.
“Grab hold, you blasted cully!” Mr. Hooper shouted. When the man made no response, Hooper let go a long list of crude invectives but the victim did not respond.
From the corner of his eye, Harlan noticed Lesley slide silently out onto the deck. Though she had donned her fresh clothing, heat sizzled along his skin. However, he struggled to ignore the sensation and focused instead on the man’s body swinging awkwardly back and forth with the movement of the ship.
“Quit wasting your breath, Mr. Hooper. He has blacked out.” Harlan stated the obvious.
“Damnable worthless son of a—”
Harlan cut off the quartermaster’s profanity. “Send up another man to bring him down.”
“I’ll not be losing two men, Captain.” Defiance lay in the hard line of the quartermaster’s mouth.
“If he remains there, buzzards will be picking his bones apart when we come into port, Mr. Hooper.”
With visible anger, barely restrained, the quartermaster turned and pointed to one of the spectators. “Cut him down.”
The man paled but obeyed the order and scrambled up the rigging.
Harlan closed his eyes for a moment. When the rope was sliced, the victim would either fall to the deck or into the ocean, depending on the angle of the ship. In any event, the loss of another man would be the result. He hoped there were men in New Providence waiting for a berth.
Opening his eyes, he turned to go back to his cabin. Lesley clutched at his sleeve and he thought he would burn to ashes right there on the deck.
“Shouldn’t two men be sent to rescue him? I don’t see how one can do the job.”
“He is already senseless.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “So what does that mean? He won’t feel a thing? That’s savage.”
He brushed her hand away. He must get away from her. He must break the spell. “Go below and help Gilroy.”
Her eyes pleaded for a moment longer before she obeyed. “Aye, captain.”
He watched her go. A short time later, the victim fell into the sea. Harlan went back to his cabin.
* * * *
Lesley sat with her knees up against her chest on a crate in a corner of orlop deck and stared at the blood-stained floor. She nearly gave herself to the captain with no protection. No condom, no form of birth control. Worse, her hormones had gotten all fired up over a cruel, unfeeling pirate. He had sent a man to his death without blinking an eye.
Had she lost her mind?
What if she became pregnant? How many women survived childbirth in this god-forsaken era? Half? Less than half? The captain had lost a wife and child already.
Lesley had longed for a baby, but to give birth without a hospital, without sterile conditions, without knowledgeable doctors and nurses bordered on madness.
Obviously, people did it anyhow. Having sex or getting drunk must be the most notable momentary pleasures in the dismal 1700s. She hid her flaming face in her arms.
“Ach. I’ll be needing some help with this potion.” The doctor called to her.
The fetid odors of the dying filled her nostrils. She tried not to gag as she made her way across a deck littered with the unfortunate men who had been wounded in the battle. Most slept, some were delirious, some had already passed away.
The doctor dropped a handful of pungent herbs and pieces of bark into a boiling pot of water. “As we’ve a lack of spoons, you’ll be stirring it with me knife.”
“Is that the one you used for the amputations?” She covered her mouth as her stomach clenched.
“I use the curved blade for amputations. It would be most awkward for stirring.”
Feeling slightly relieved, she took the knife and plunged it into the water. “What happened to all the spoons?”
“’Twas my hope to capture the essence of lightning. I borrowed spoons from all who would loan them to me and then I strung them along twine from one cathead to the other. I added another long piece of twine with spoons from the foremast to the bowsprint. I believed I could attract the lightning in that way.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get fried.”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Electrocuted. Burned. Lightning kills people,” she explained.
“Yes, I am aware there is danger, but I thought I could capture the power. Where the two pieces of twine met, I attached a large eyehook, the end of which I centered in a big glass jug.”
“Lightning can’t be bottled.”
The doctor centered a large bowl on his operating table and spread a layer of cloth inside it. “At any rate, when the lightning hit the ship, you appeared on the deck. Why were you not burned?”
“I guess I got lucky. What happened to my cotton sweats?”
“Sweats?”
“My exercise outfit. My black pants and shirt. What did you do with them?”
“You were ...” The doctor coughed and then whispered. “...naked, but unhurt. It is incomprehensible—unless ... the clothing protected you but was burned away.”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Who saw me naked?”
“Only the captain and I.” The doctor stilled her hand. “I will take that now.” He lifted the pot and poured the contents into the cloth-lined bowl. “As soon as this cools, you squeeze out all the liquid. Make sure to get out every last drop.”
Lesley figured it would be best to keep her mouth shut about her origin. Otherwise, he would accuse her of being a witch just like the captain. Still, the lightning business intrigued her. After all, lightning hit her car as it spun—in 2011. The doctor deliberately attracted lightning in 1711—same calendar day, same place, same hour of the day as near as she could guess. Was it a coincidence? Did a logical explanation exist?
Could she duplicate the circumstances and return home? She shivered. More than likely, if she tried to return she would kill herself in the attempt. Her lower lip trembled as she thought of all she had left back in 2011. If only she could send her sister one last text message.
I <3 u. Kiss the kidlets 4 me. Send them 2 Harvard w/my blessings. Miss u 4 ever.
Her throat ached as tears threatened and she struggled to hold them back.
She thought about her missing sweats. They were manufactured in a way not invented yet in 1711. Maybe that’s why they vanished.
Maybe.
But the captain had seen her without a stitch and evidently enjoyed the view. A lot.
But why was she here? Why wasn’t she killed in her journey through time?
The doctor knelt at the side of a sailor who looked about seventeen, if that. The kid should be graduating from high school. Instead, he lay dying in this horrid ship from a gruesome wound. What would his poor mother do when she found out?
“Ach, I hate to see these young fellows suffer,” the doctor sighed. “I had hoped the lightning held a healing power capable of curing their wounds.”
She ground her teeth together. “What’s with all this fighting business? Why can’t it stop?” She briefly considered the fact that it might be better to die quickly in 1711 rather than to suffer through a life of terrible hardship.
Dr. Gilroy placed two coins on each of the young sailor’s eyes. “The forces of darkness and the forces of light have been battling since the beginning of time.”
Lesley fought the inclination to weep. She reminded herself that she had to play the part of a cabin boy—and boys did not cry.
“Is this heaven or hell?” Her words came out tight and high.
“Many have wondered, but it matters littl
e. We must live out our destiny.” He sounded like a New Age spiritualist. If he lived in 2011, he could write a bestselling book and appear on talk shows.
He boiled herbs and bark. Why hadn’t he been strung up for being a witch? Or were only women considered witches in this chauvinistic society?
The doctor went from patient to patient, tending each of them in some rudimentary way. Some other crewmembers came to remove the dead.
The liquid in the bowl cooled and Lesley lifted the cloth edges to twist the herbs into a tight knot. The brew looked like muddy tea as she squeezed out the juices, but it had a pleasant aroma. As she finished, the doctor came back. He added a splash of rum to the mixture along with a dollop of molasses. Then he dipped mugs into the decoction.
“Help the men drink from the cup—those that are able. This will bring down the fever.”
She nodded her understanding and proceeded to dole out the medicinal cocktail as the doctor did the same.
“Did you know you remind the cap’n of someone?” he asked as they made their way along the rows of wounded men.
“No.” The captain reminded her of someone, but she would not reveal that to the doctor.
“It is someone who caused him much pain.”
Terrific. Obviously, she reminded the captain of a witch. Just her luck.
If she was a witch, she would be sitting on the couch back home with a huge slice of pizza and a cold beer. Her pizza would be covered with pepperoni, meatballs, crumbled sausages, and roasted red peppers. It would be coated with a generous helping of Parmesan cheese—so liberally applied it would resemble snow.
Dammit. She would never taste pizza again. How could she survive in 1711?
Then she remembered the funerals. She stood.
“The captain expected me to show up for the burials on deck.”
Dr. Gilroy frowned at her. “Did you not hear the boson’s whistle?”
She shook her head.
“No matter. The cap’n knows I need assistance with the wounded and you seem to have a gift for healing.”
“I wanted to become a doctor.”
“But ... that would be impossible.” He chuckled.
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 6
