Righteous Side of the Wicked: Pirates of Britannia

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Jonesy uttered a curse under his breath while turning on his heel. He plucked a cup off the shelf and tipped it over. Keys tumbled out into the palm of his hand. He found the one he needed and returned the cup to the shelf. Soon, Treva was free.

  She kneaded her wrist, working the feeling back, careful not to pull upon any flesh where the skin had chafed away. “Thank ye, Jonesy.”

  He offered his hand to help her from the bed to the chair. “Please hurry, Miss MacDougall.”

  “Treva. I’d appreciate it if ye called me by my given name.”

  Another blush stained his cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.” He sat across from her and reluctantly placed his pistol upon the table.

  She ravenously ate, especially delighting in the cheese, idly chatting with the quartermaster. It wasna too difficult to gather information from Jonesy. He was a pleasing conversationalist, attentive in answering her innocent queries. The Kelpie normally called the West Indies home but sailed to Scotland on a mission for the previous captain, a Captain Bane. They had been taking commissions until the cooler months when the warmer seas would be calm from hurricanes and they could sail home.

  Just before she finished her food, she had pried about the captain. Jonesy only gave up that Fletcher was Scotland-born but bad blood kept him away. He wasna happy about returning to the country. But he owed it to his best mate, Captain Bane. Bane had married a bonny lass, leaving Fletcher to be voted in as the new captain.

  Jonesy lauded Fletcher as a damn good captain and an even better pirate, handy with pistol and sword, with no fear of death, trusted no one and had no tolerance for defiance. These last two traits she had learned on her own.

  Jonesy glanced at the door. “Come, Miss Mac—, Miss Treva. I need to shackle ya again.”

  “Of course.” Treva took her place back on the captain’s bed and held out her red, scraped wrist.

  Jonesy frowned, guilt shone in his eyes.

  She winched as the metal came into contact with her skin. Aye, it hurt, but not so much to have her cringe and whimper.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “’Tis all right. Ye must do this. The captain canna know.”

  He locked the metal rings into place. Treva bit her bottom lip and whimpered again. “If only I had some salve to ease the pain.”

  Jonesy looked around the room. “No salve. We might be able to get some in Scarba. Maybe some of this butter for now? Make the metal not be so rough against your skin?”

  Treva smiled inwardly. “Aye, that might do. Just set it here and I’ll apply as necessary. Thank ye, my friend.” Poor blushing Jonesy. He played right into her hands. She would have been lying if she didna admit enjoying the thrill it gave her. Another advantage tucked away for when needed.

  As soon as Jonesy left, she got to work slathering the butter on her wrist. She had to verify her idea worked. She pulled on the cuff, gritting her teeth against the pain as the metal dug into the fleshy part of her thumb. And then the manacle popped off. A giggle escaped on a relieved breath. She’d now knew for sure she could escape at will should she need to.

  A commotion on deck drew her attention to the door. Shouts and running footfalls had her rushing to the window. There on the horizon was a ship. A British ship. The Union Jack rolled and smacked in the wind. Treva’s knees threatened to buckle. She braced herself against the window casing.

  Oh, God. What if they were looking for her? She couldn’t go back to that dark, dank prison. Couldn’t endure the smells of human excrement and decay, the rats biting at her toes, the mind-numbing sound of water dripping off slick walls in unseen corners, the beatings from the guards, and dying moans of the rotting corpses shackled to the walls nearby again. She’d rather die. And she might. The soldiers might execute her on sight. She feared for her life, but she also feared for her cousin and the rebels if she didna get to them in time. This was no good. No good.

  Her heart raced as fast as her mind. She had to do something. She could hide, but where?

  Treva grappled with her skirts, lifting them to reach the garter securing her sgian dubh. She gripped the dagger, held it out in front her as if it could ward off the threat quickly closing the distance. They’d find her, surely they would. She could not let that happen.

  Chapter Three

  “Stay your weapons, men. Keep them out of sight. We dinna want to engage unless we’ve no choice.”

  Coire hadn’t needed to remind the crew. ’Twasn’t common practice to keep arms at the ready but hidden amid the miles of ropes, in secret crevices along the bulwarks. Weapons were usually stored in boxes under the careful watch of the quartermaster, only to be brought topside for battle. But since cruising up and down the European coastline infested with the Royal Navy, it had become necessary to be prepared for trouble.

  “Why canna the bastards just leave us alone?” Mr. Shaw’s whiskered jowls flapped as he groused.

  Redd handed Coire a spyglass. “Pompous asses think they own the sea.” He spat onto the deck.

  Here off the coast of England, they did. This would be the fourth time the Kelpie would be boarded by an Andrew in the last month.

  Coire sighted in on the vessel and immediately recognized the warship, silently reciting a variety of curses. “She’s the Invictus.”

  “Blazes.” If hypocrisy had a smell, by the way Mr. Shaw’s lip curled, he’d smelled it.

  The ship and her captain had become well known by runners and merchants alike, relentlessly harassing crews and commandeering whatever they saw fit. All in the name of the king. They were little better than uncivilized and undisciplined…pirates.

  “Capt’n,” Jonesy sidled up beside him. “The lady? What should we do about her?”

  Ah, yes. The tempting minx. His whole damn ship had been atwitter with her daring deeds and swaying hips. Hell, even without the chatter, Coire couldn’t get her off his mind. She was a puzzle that intrigued him with her resolve, quick tongue, and refusal to show fear. He’d made it a personal mission to frighten her last night. But he also nearly lost his own resolve when he moved close to her, touched her silky hair, caught a glimpse of the valley between her mounds straining for release from her bodice, heard the hitch in her breath as his fingers hovered near her chest. Shite, he’d had to force himself to remember he meant to scare her before his reaction to her in his trousers had become evident.

  When he had entered his cabin and saw her stretched out toeing his wash basin… What a sight. Caught, her mossy eyes were as wide as saucers. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from laughing.

  Never mind how she caught his fancy. Her stories didna add up and with each word she dug herself into a deeper hole. For that, he had no patience. Whatever had her on the run, whatever she had to hide, ’twas important to her. Nay, he couldna deny his respect for her risking life and limb for her cause. But he sure as hell didna have to trust her.

  “No harm will come to Miss MacDougall, Jonesy. We’ll see to it.”

  The quartermaster nodded but cast a glance toward the hatch all the same.

  She’d become such a potent distraction, Coire was unable to trust himself. He badly wanted to touch her, to taste those lips. It bothered him that she had the ability to cause him to act like a wet whelp. ’Twasn’t as if he needed to release himself with a willing partner. He’d been with a strumpet just days ago, empty and unsatisfying as it was. Nay, this woman stirred unidentifiable sensations within him. There was no room in his wretched life for frivolities brought on by a passing, lying, rebellious poppet. With that and his not wanting to test his self-control, he opted to send Jonesy to his quarters with her food.

  Coire had questioned that decision afterward. He was just about to go look for the man when Jonesy had returned with the tray to the galley where Coire was catching up on last night’s meal. He had not liked the moon-eyed expression on Jonesy’s mug. It took him dropping the bone he’d been gnawing meat off of onto the metal plate to garner the quartermaster’s attention. He inquired about the lady to
which Jonesy responded she was pleasing and in good spirits “despite being tied up like a mule”. That had prompted a stern warning—be careful questioning his captain’s actions. Coire had wanted to add never trust a woman, too, but muzzled his tongue.

  That he had issue with Jonesy getting on with the lass made him uncomfortable. More so after he’d made a mental note not to send Jonesy to her again. ’Twas absurb. He hardly knew the girl, would be rid of her soon enough, and yet he had this inexplicable desire to claim her. This annoyed him greatly.

  As did the boarding of his ship by the Royal scum.

  Each encounter with Invictus had become more tense than the last. Pullings was well aware of Coire and his men’s questionable pirate reputation. The captain had tried very hard to find fault with Kelpie to no avail, finding an empty cargo with each boarding. But this time, not only was their hold full, it was full of cargo they could ill afford to have taken. Worse, if they realize the whisky and spice barrels were just decoys for the real freight.

  Coire gripped the railing tighter as the naval captain, dressed in his best uniform, ordered grapples. The hooks flew through the air, catching Kelpie’s bulwarks, and the soldiers pulled to bring the ships side by side.

  The boots of the unwelcome visitors thudded upon the deck like the whumping of incoming arrows. Coire strode mid-ship to meet the naval captain.

  “Captain Pullings. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Pullings greeted him in the usual manner—with a rod up his arse and staring down his nose. The intimidation may work on others, but Coire, having met the infamous pirate Charles Vane and nearly shite his trousers, was unaffected. Vane, the protégé of Blackbeard, was ruthless, cunning, and fearsome even among his own men. But he was also well-respected by many, including Coire.

  “Captain Fletcher.” His name was as close to a respectful address as he’d get. “A convict has escaped Peel prison on the Isle of Man. I have orders to search every ship in the Irish Sea until she is found.”

  She? What were the odds? Good to undoubtable, he’d wager.

  “What has this woman done that makes her so important the Royal Navy is wasting resources?”

  Pullings scanned Coire’s men, not bothering to look at him as he answered. “She’s a traitorous spy.”

  A spy? For whom? Being traitorous implied she could work for either side of the border. Or any country, for that matter. He’d inquire more, but that would cast suspicion.

  “We’ll be searching your vessel.” Pullings flicked his wrist to give the order for his men to spread out. Coire growled. ’Twas a violation to have those overdressed, lily-hearted pigeons combing over his ship.

  “Of course.” Coire couldn’t keep the acid from his tone even if he tried. So, he didna.

  A soldier jostled past Jonesy who had inched closer to the hatch. The hard crease in his brow was mirrored by many of his men. None would give the mahogany-haired beauty up unless Coire gave the order.

  He wouldna. He understood just what she risked to escape. The intrepid dinna accept such condemning fates. They fought for survival, never gave up. To the very end. A man was nothing without his freedom. He commended the lass for her perseverance. Unfortunately, they’d find her in his cabin momentarily and arrest her. He’d lie about her, of course. Make up something plausible to try to save her as if she were one of his own crewmen. Just not at the expense of his men and ship.

  He was in a precarious situation. Pullings may decide to look into his cargo or fire upon his ship after disembarking. With all the gunpowder they carried, ’twould be a spectacular, explosive massacre. One he’d rather avoid.

  “Your ship is sailing low, Captain Fletcher. You have a full hold this time. What is your cargo and your destination?”

  “Rum, bound for Greenock.”

  “Hm.” Pullings showed only mild interest. Finding this lass must have career enhancing possibilities. Nature of beasts, the more souls delivered into the hands of God, the higher the rank. Coire didna care for titles. If he sent a man to his death, he had a damn good reason—him before me.

  A soldier stuck his head out the hatch. “Captain! You might want to see this.”

  Bloody hell. He didna want them to drag the lass kicking and screaming from his ship. He had to remind himself they weren’t in the Caribbean where they were kings of the sea. They were well-paid pawns entangled in a prelude to a war they weren’t going to fight. But their commission was one of great importance and worth more than a poor criminal’s life. Under different circumstances, Coire would fight for the beauty—for his honor and hers.

  Coire ground his teeth and tailed after the naval captain as they made their way to his cabin. Jonesy started to follow but Coire ordered him to stay topside. The second-in-command needed to be able to react appropriately should something go awry below deck. Jonesy’s nostrils flared but he nodded in compliance.

  “What is it, Lansing?” Pullings pushed through the cabin door and stopped short.

  The soldier Lansing stepped aside as Coire entered.

  He fully expected to see the lass coiled up in the corner of his bed like a venomous snake ready to strike. Nay, ’twasn’t what he saw at all. It took considerable will to keep his jaw from popping open as she slowly rose to her feet.

  Pullings frowned. “What’s this?”

  Coire would like to know as well. What in the hell happened to the lass’s gorgeous hair? ’Twas gone, cut short, hacked, really, flipping in all directions just above her shoulders. Where was her dress? Were those his trousers, his tunic, his waistcoat? Despite being oversized and the trousers held in place by pieces of rope, the clothing hid her curves. An odd sense of pride surged through him that she was in his garments. Her green eyes held the appropriate amount of fear, but ’twas all an act. Coire could see the fire beneath. She was…strangely beautiful.

  “What’s your name, lad?”

  Lad? To him, she looked like a pixie. And I’m was pixie-led. Sonofabitch. Where had that come from?

  “Charlie, sir.” Her voice was low, rough, not forced. By the devil’s toes, she sounded like a young boy. A young British boy.

  Pullings swiveled his gaze to Coire. “Why is this boy shackled in your cabin, Captain Fletcher?”

  “He’s a—”

  “A slave, sir.”

  “An insolent one at that to talk out of turn,” growled Coire.

  Her challenging gaze slid to him. “Bought to pleasure t’e captain.”

  Coire sputtered. Pullings’s lips retracted in disgust. Lansing coughed uneasily.

  Heat burned Coire’s ears. Whether from embarrassment or anger for the allegation, he wasna sure.

  Pullings’s judgmental gaze cast condemnation from head to boot. “Wretched man.”

  “’E’s better t’en me last keeper, sir. Feeds me, ’e does. ’Adn’t ’urt me.”

  Blazes! The lass pushed constantly against the grain.

  “Not until I cut yer tongue out,” he hissed.

  “Yes, well, whatever degradation you dally in, Captain Fletcher, is none of my concern.”

  “Captain, sir.” Another soldier stepped in the room and saluted. “No sign of the fugitive, sir. The ship carries spices in her hold.”

  “Thank you, Barton. Order the men back to Invictus.”

  Pullings marched from the room, Lansing on his heels like a pup afraid of getting his tail nipped off.

  With a well-earned, relieved grin, the lass sunk to the thin mattress. She’d saved herself, and, by extension, saved him, the crew, and their cargo. He admired her for her artistry, her ability to think on her feet, impersonating another. In retrospect, it was the perfect cover to make an uptight arsehole disgusted enough to want to leave.

  By damn, his admiration for the lass grew by the moment. In some way, Coire was ashamed he was willing to turn her over to defend himself and their commission. Yet, he had no way of knowing who she really was, what she’d done to bring her to this point. With her skills, he wouldna make the mist
ake of underestimating her again. She was, after all, a felon.

  “Ye have a lot of explaining to do.”

  She held is gaze. “I suppose I do.”

  “I’ll expect answers.”

  “I suppose ye will.”

  Coire stopped at the threshold before trailing after Pullings. Addressing the insinuation he had a fondness for boys, he said, “Ye’ll pay for that.”

  She presented him with a sweet smile and shrug of one shoulder. “I count on it.”

  Flummoxed, and not liking it one bit, he stalked topside. He didna have the time to figure her out. He needed to make sure the naval bastard got off his ship.

  As he stepped outside, he immediately noticed the stares, some repulsed, some confused. How quickly a rumor spread.

  Pullings crossed ships. “Should you come across the fugitive,” he said as the grappling hooks were pried out of Kelpie’s bulwarks, “I highly suggest you turn her over. Otherwise, you will be accused of abetting and be arrested.”

  He had been accused of much, much worse. Rightly so. Coire tipped his hat. “Always a pleasure, Captain Pullings. Until we meet again, which will be far too soon.”

  Pullings derisively snorted and the Invictus pulled away.

  “Heave to, mates,” Coire called from the helm. “Back to work! I want to be drinking whiskey in a Scarba rat hole in two hours.”

  Good wind filled the unfurling sails and whipped across his face. Kelpie lurched forward, her timber and sheets creaked in rejoice. Dropping anchor and unloading his burden couldn’t come fast enough. While the pay lined his pockets, he’d grown weary of the clammy chill of Great Britain. He longed to return to tropical climes and less clothing. With thoughts of burdens and less clothing, a trouble-making pixie came to mind. Kelpie’s course was set. Invictus was disappearing on the horizon in the opposite direction. Time to get answers.

  Coire turned on his heel and bumped into Jonesy. Mr. Shaw flanked the quartermaster.

  “What happened?” Jonesy said.