Captured

by Beverly Jenkins

  Offering a hasty nod, the young purser exited.

  Violet studied Clare for a silent beat longer before turning her attention to the captain. “Thank you for your excellent company, Captain Davies. The fresh air was bracing.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Sullivan. I’ll see you and Mr. Sullivan at supper.”

  He bowed solicitously and was gone.

  In the silence that followed, Violet undid the strings of her green satin bonnet and set it on a chair. “I believe that young Purcell is interested in you, dear Clare. Surely he knows that’s impossible.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  Violet’s smile was smug. “All of that walking above decks has exhausted me. Fetch that folio of Mr. Shakespeare’s from the trunk and read me a bit of Romeo and Juliet until I fall asleep.”

  Someone else might have pointed out to Violet that she had risen less than three hours earlier, and that one of those hours had been spent getting her properly dressed and applying her face paint, but Clare remained silent and retrieved the volume as instructed.

  “I’ll rise in time for supper of course,” Violet said. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint the captain. Have you seen my brother of late?”

  “No.”

  “Probably holed up below gambling with the sailors.”

  Clare didn’t respond.

  “Come, help me out of this gown. I’m sure he’ll find us in time for the meal.”

  Dressed in a beautiful, navy blue gown, Clare sat at the table and ate silently while Violet and her twin brother, Victor, made polite conversation with Captain Davies. In spite of her presence, Clare knew Violet would not tolerate her adding to the conversation, so she concentrated on her meal. The food was bland and boiled, making her long for home and the well-seasoned fare prepared by the Sullivans’ indentured cook, Birgit.

  “So, Clare,” Victor asked, “what’s your opinion on the rebels?”

  She glanced up. Victor was a doctor by trade and a decent enough person, when he wasn’t gambling. “I have no opinion, sir.”

  “Oh come now. I’m sure you’ve shared conversations with that seditious aunt of mine.”

  The seditious aunt in question was his aunt Theodora Sullivan, commonly known as Teddy. Teddy was a walking scandal, from her penchant for men’s clothing and tobacco-filled pipes, to her unabashed support of General Washington and the rebel army. Violet dearly wanted to have Teddy exiled to a place where no one knew the Sullivan name; an asylum for the insane perhaps, but over the years Teddy had proven to be more than a match for her niece in both smarts and spirit.

  But before Clare could respond, Purcell burst into the cabin. “A schooner, Captain! Closing fast.”

  “Their flag?”

  “French.”

  Davies tossed down his napkin and rose to his feet. “If you all would excuse me. You might want to return to your cabins until we learn whether they are friend or foe.”

  Violet’s eyes widened. “Foe? Are we in danger?”

  “The French are allied with the rebels now and have issued many letters of marque,” Davies explained.

  “So the schooner could be manned by pirates?” Victor asked, sounding alarmed.

  “We’ll see. Please, go to your cabins. I’ll send down word as soon as I’m able.”

  On the deck of the Marie, Dominic LeVeq eyed the frigate through his spyglass. “She’s a good size, Gaspar.”

  Gaspar, the Marie’s quartermaster and Dominic’s best friend, nodded. “Aye, and filled with gold if the rumors are true.”

  Dominic was dressed in a red jacket he’d taken off a British general. “I count at least sixty guns. Makes our thirty seem paltry at best.”

  “But we’re faster.”

  “And far more handsome.”

  Gaspar laughed. “That we are.”

  “Shall we pay her court?”

  “Aye.”

  Dominic shouted to his eighty-man crew, “Raise the flag! Let’s show them who we really are!”

  The men cheered as one. The French flag was hauled down, and the black standard with its pitchfork flanked by two sets of devil horns was run up in its stead.

  Below decks on the frigate, as the sounds of the cannons boomed again and again, Clare prayed to all the gods and Ancestors she could remember for deliverance.

  “I can’t stand this!” Violet cried, hands over her ears.

  Clare did not fault Violet’s reaction. The battle had been raging for over an hour. Not knowing how the fight fared only added to their fears. A short while ago, at the request of the captain, Victor had hurriedly left them to lend what help he could to the injured. Davies had stationed an armed guard outside their cabin’s door for protection, but Clare hoped the situation would not come to that.

  The cannons were firing nonstop now, and Violet wailed over the thundering din, “Surely a pirate vessel is no match for a ship of this size!”

  “If that is what it is!” They had no verification that the attackers were pirates, or how large the opposing attacking ship might be, but if the length of the battle was any indication, the frigate was engaged in a formidable fight.

  Suddenly three deafening concussions rocked the ship so forcefully both women were thrown to the floor. As they struggled to right themselves, they could hear above them the raised voices of shouting men meld with the thunder of running feet. Muskets were being fired. Captain Davies could be heard roaring orders as a cacophony of competing noises filled the air.

  Clare didn’t need to be up on the deck to know what the sounds meant. She said ominously, “We’ve been boarded.”

  “My god! No!”

  Although terrified by the ramifications, Clare vowed to keep her wits about her.

  “I have to hide my jewels!”

  Clare looked around for a suitable place when suddenly the noise ceased. A silence as eerie as the grave raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  A pounding on the door caused the women to jump fearfully.

  Violet snapped at Clare, “I expect you to protect me with your life, you hear!”

  Clare nodded curtly.

  “Miss Sullivan! It’s Mr. Purcell. The captain requests your presence.”

  Clare hurried over and threw off the bolt. Opening the door, she froze with alarm at the sight of the blood and gunpowder staining Purcell’s weary face and uniform.

  “You ladies have to come with me.”

  Clare glanced over at Violet, who asked in a shaky voice, “Where?”

  “Please ma’am, no questions. Just come.”

  Neither woman wanted to leave the safety of the cabin, but apparently they had no choice.

  Above decks they were assaulted by the smells of men, battle, and death. The way was littered with splintered masts, downed rigging, and injured men being tended to by the ship’s doctor and a grim-faced Victor Sullivan. At the sight of his sister and Clare he stopped his ministrations, silently acknowledged their passing with a tight-lipped nod, and returned to his patient. Only then did Clare see the shabbily dressed armed man standing guard over him.

  Purcell led them up another deck, bringing into view the attacking schooner bobbing next to the frigate. Grappling hooks stretched from its decks to the frigate’s rails, as did wide planks of wood she assumed had been employed in the boarding. The sight of the schooner and the scores of dirty-faced men looking on was frightening enough, but the black flag flapping malevolently in the breeze, verifying that the men were indeed pirates, almost made her knees buckle. Swallowing her fear, she stiffened her spine and focused her attention back on deck, where a dozen or so ragtag pirates held muskets, swords, and knives on the defeated-looking British seamen.

  Clare could see the fury on the face of Captain Davies. He was being questioned by a tall man wearing the red coat of the British Army. The garment was worn and grimy, but the face of its owner as he turned to view their approach was so darkly handsome and arresting it looked to have been sculpted by a god’s own hand. His chin was covered by
a beard that appeared weeks old and his eyes were black as night. Those same eyes brushed hers and widened with surprise. She watched him look her slowly up and down. Holding on to the edges of her cloak, she willed herself to remain still. It was her hope that if she did not call attention to herself, the ink black eyes would settle elsewhere, but it was not to be.

  “Your name, mademoiselle?” he asked in French-inflected English. Around his neck he wore a length of black lace. Tied to each end was an ornate black pistol. The hue of his face showed him to be a son of Mother Africa, but the hair pulled back into a queue belonged to a mulatto.

  Violet answered coldly, “That’s none of your concern.”

  Eyes still on Clare, he asked, “Are you a slave?”

  “I told you—”

  The angry look he shot Violet silenced her instantly. Ignoring her now, he said to Davies, “If the mademoiselle has trunks, send someone to fetch them.”

  Clare felt sick.

  “Now, look here,” Davies countered. “This young woman is under my protection.”

  “So was the crown’s gold,” the pirate offered, “but you couldn’t protect that, either.”

  Clare had no idea that the frigate was carrying gold but she watched as wooden strongboxes outfitted on poles were being transported by members of the pirate’s crew over to the moored, three-masted schooner.

  “Is that the lot of them?” the pirate captain called out to his men.

  One crewman, a tall, shirtless man with a face the color of obsidian and the form of a Titan, replied, “Of the gold, aye. We’ll start on the grain and guns momentarily.”

  His captain nodded approvingly, then turned back to Davies. “Please relay our thanks to the crown for the gold, and the rebels thank you for the guns.”

  “I’ll see you hanged for this.”

  “I’m sure you think you might.”

  Clare hoped she’d been forgotten in the bantering, but her bad fortune held.

  The pirate bowed. “After you, mademoiselle.”

  Fearful, she took a step back.

  “Non?” he asked softly.

  Terror took her voice. She could only nod.

  “Either come or I will sink this ship. I don’t allow slavers in my waters.”

  The quiet intensity resonating from his eyes and in his voice frightened her even more. She saw the Sullivans and the frigate’s defeated seamen looking on with alarm.

  “Please don’t take me,” she whispered desperately. “Please.”

  He appeared unmoved by her plea. “Decide.”

  Violet called angrily, “Go on, Clare. Think of the rest of us.”

  As always, Violet’s only concern was Violet. Clare glanced Captain Davies’s way, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t meet her eyes. She searched the faces of his men, praying someone would come to her aid. No one moved.

  Victor spoke up quietly, “Clare, we’re sorry, but we have no choice. The captain and I will alert the authorities. I promise.”

  The pirate waited.

  “No!” and she hiked up her skirts to bolt, but before she could take a full step, an iron arm clamped onto her waist and she was swung back into the pirate captain’s iron chest. As she looked up at him, time seemed to cease. She could feel every inch of herself flush against every hard inch of him. A strange unfamiliar heat coursed through her, mingling with her fear. He offered a soft smile and then abruptly tossed her over his broad, red-coated shoulder. Her kicking and screaming and twisting attempts to free herself were for naught. With an arm bolted against the back of her knees, he stepped up onto one of the wooden planks. Employing strides both confident and sure, he traversed the short distance between the vessels. Raging and fighting for what she assumed would be her very life, Clare was taken aboard.

  As soon as he put her on her feet, she did her best to sock him. He grinned, grabbed her wrist, and forced her to walk.

  “Get your hands off of me, you cretin!” Her outraged anger was poor defense against his powerful grip, but she was not surrendering meekly. “Release me!”

  Paying her no mind and ignoring the wide eyes of his crew, he forced her to follow him down a short flight of stairs and into the shadow-filled area below decks towards a large wooden door.

  “No!” she screamed, and attempted to set her feet to keep from rendezvousing with whatever fate lay on the other side.

  Gaspar, walking behind them, asked, “Are you sure you want to do this, Dominic? She’s a feisty little cat.”

  Walking beside Gaspar was the blond-haired Scotsman James Early, who replied over her thunderous protests, “Might be more trouble than she’s gonna be worth, Captain.”

  “Let me go!” Clare screamed, and began cursing them in all the languages that she knew.

  At the sound of that, Dominic stopped and stared into her face with amazement. He looked to Gaspar. “She’s cursing me in French!”

  Gaspar’s laugh filled the shadows. “That she is.”

  “Cerdos! Release me!”

  “She just called us pigs, in Spanish,” Early pointed out, staring as if she’d just transformed herself into King George.

  The mesmerized Dominic laughed. “I think I’m in love.” He assessed her from the short-cut hair framing the angry brown face to the heavy wool cape covering the costly blue gown, to the small heeled slippers of the same shade. The string of pearls accenting her throat appeared to be of great value as well.

  Clare snarled, “I demand you restore me to the frigate, immediately!”

  “Merci, mes amies,” he said to his men. “I’ll handle it from here.” He dismissed them with a nod of his handsome head, never taking his eyes off the blue-gowned prize. Bowing to the hellcat with a courtly grace, he gestured to the door. “If you will step inside, mademoiselle.”

  “Did you not hear me?” she stormed.

  He straightened.

  Gaspar, who’d hung around to see how this might play out, folded his arms over his massive chest and looked on in amusement.

  “Take me back!”

  The grin that spread across Dominic’s legendary handsome face had warmed the hearts of females from Cuba to Spain, and the arms that scooped her up and tossed her back over his shoulder again, like a silken sack of meal, were strong.

  “Put me down!” She pounded his back with her fists.

  He slapped her across her blue-gowned behind. That drew more outraged curses, this time in Italian, but he ignored them and swung around to face his quartermaster. “Gaspar, see to it that the lady and I are not disturbed.”

  “Aye, sir. Good luck.”

  “LeVeqs don’t need luck.” He carried the furious captive into his quarters and shut out the world with a kick of his booted foot.

  “Put me down!”

  He complied, and she bounced on something soft and came to rest. Realizing it was a large bed, she scrambled off as if it were a lake of lava and angrily adjusted the petticoats on display beneath the open halves of her gown, then snatched her cloak closed. Thrusting out her chin, she declared, “If you’re planning to debauch me, do it quickly so that I might return to the frigate.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to debauch you?” Intrigued by the novelty of her, his eyes roamed over her again. She was a beauty; a short angry one, but a beauty all the same.

  “Isn’t that what you pirates are known for?”

  “We prefer the term privateer.”

  “As opposed to thieves and murderers?”

  “I’d take offense if I didn’t find you so fascinating. Your name, mademoiselle?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Strangely enough it does, but never mind, I remember. They called you Clare. You are a slave?”

  “I am.”

  “Well kept.”

  “Violet views me as a pet of sorts.”

  His brow raised. “A pet?”

  “Yes. She dresses me up in the latest fashions and parades me around as if I were an exotic parrot that has been taught to read and mimi
c its betters. I play the harpsichord, speak four languages, know the latest dances and how to use my cutlery properly. She also thinks that when we travel to Europe, dressing me this way will make people believe I’m not a slave and thus prevent them from rescuing me and offering me freedom.”

  Dominic heard the icy bitterness in her tone, and that intrigued him as well. “Not a content slave.”

  “Name one who is, sir.”

  “Yet you wish to return to your mistress.”

  “Rather the devil I know than one I do not.”

  He responded with a short nod of understanding. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “I’ve certainly never met anyone like you, so let me return to my mistress.”

  “I think not.”

  “And your reasoning?”

  “You are far too—alluring, enchanting, intriguing. Pick one.”

  “I’m sure the women of your realm take that as a compliment, but I am less swayed.”

  “You’re too beautiful to be a slave.”

  “And of no mind to be your doxy.”

  He smiled. “You’re quick.”

  “I had excellent tutors.”

  He left her standing there for a moment while he went to the door and called for Gaspar, who soon appeared. “Her trunks?”

  “Up on deck. There’s just the one.”

  “Bring it if you would.”

  Fear grabbed her again. Did he plan for her to share his quarters? This was truly a nightmare. She prayed she’d wake up.

  Gaspar returned a few moments later and placed the battered leather trunk holding her belongings on the carpet-covered floor. With a nod to his captain he departed.

  “While you are on board you shall be my guest.”

  She looked around. The space was far more lavish and well kept than she might have assumed the quarters of a pirate captain would be. Velvet draperies the color of indigo covered the portholes and matched the coverings on the large four-poster bed. Beside the bed stood a small wardrobe with a mirror on top, and next to it a beautiful silk screen, embroidered with golden dragons and birds that appeared as if it might have come from Cathay. She assumed it concealed the chamber pot. Across the room was a well-polished mahogany table flanked by two beautifully carved chairs, and an old weathered desk, complete with neatly stacked charts, a receptacle for pens and inks, and an aged bronze sextant. “Are your guests allowed to come and go at their leisure?”