“Until we reach a safe port, you can help the cook.”
“The cook!”
“Aye. He’s a menace. You’ll do well to keep your sharp tongue to yourself, or he’ll take a cleaver to your fingers. The last cook’s mate lost his thumb for his foolish gibe about the biscuits.”
Flynn tightened the buckle of his scabbard belt and pressed his captain’s hat onto his head. “You’ve not told me your name.”
She pouted. “I’m Esteban—”
“Don’t play your games with me. You real name.”
“Esmeralda Dido.”
“Dido? A fake name, also. But we’ll not argue for now. So, Esme, off you go below, and keep out of mischief until I summon you back in here. Call yourself Esteban and keep that squeak out of your voice. You’ll do what comes naturally for a woman—you’ll swab, stitch, and cook. Be off with you. I cannot wait here all day; I’ve a ship to navigate through the straits, and a crew to bark orders at. They do like to know who is in charge. I fancy a flogging might grab their attention, too.”
“You can’t mean me?” She looked afraid.
She needed that fear. She’d been too confident, and a ship load of men was not a suitable prison for a solitary female, even one called Esteban. At night, while he slept, he’d have to keep her locked in his cabin with the key around his neck.
For now, she needed to know he meant business. “I am the master, judge, and executor on this ship. There is nothing I cannot do. Do you wish the fools you tricked to suffer terribly under my command?” Flynn hadn’t flogged a man for insubordination in months, and then it had been for an act that endangered the life of one of the crew—foolish antics on the yardarms were not to be ignored. The last act of discipline he’d ordered was to have a young land-lover stand upon a barrel and sing. The poor lad was mortified. Holding back on the grog was often sufficient punishment, or reducing a share of the spoils. Everyone on board had a stake in the takings.
As he left the cabin, he heard the curses—a flavoursome stream of the worst kind a sailor might utter under his breath. Flynn grinned. She’d little idea what awaited her if she carried on with her disguise. Only men had the resourcefulness to fight and plunder without getting caught.
Esme feigned annoyance, spewing out the worse curses she’d ever heard in her life in her loudest and deepest voice. The truth was quite the opposite. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. It had taken several attempts at recruiting pirates before she’d landed herself on the right ship, the Flying Cutlass, and in the company of Captain Flynn Bartoc. To her delight, and through the fortuitous arrival of the frigate, she was stuck on board. What happened next, though, was not so pleasing—a cook’s assistant was the bottom of her wish list.
She huddled on a stool by the windows and waited for the needle and thread. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of a granite-faced man with a ragged scar on his cheekbone and bandana.
“I’m Darius.” He held out a box and a roll of bandage. “I alone knows you’re a girl.”
“A lady,” she thrust back.
He smirked. “Cap’n says you’re to be called Esteban. So ’ere’s the wrapping for your…” He waved his hand down his midriff. His ears turned as pink as his bottle nose. “And a needle ‘n’ thread in the box. When you’re done, find the galley. Cook’s making breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “Most kind of you. Do I get breakfast—”
The cabin door slammed shut behind him. “I guess not yet.”
First, she needed to hide her breasts. She removed the shirt, and fearful that Darius might return unexpectedly, she quickly used the bandages to bind her chest until it was as tight as she could bear.
The sun had risen and was peeping through the stern window. She blew out the candles, sat on the long bench at the back of the cabin, and used the sunshine as light. Sewing the buttons on took time. She was not a seamstress. Her mother had taught her many things, mostly waiting on tables and selling trinkets in the marketplaces of bustling cities and ports, but sewing was not on her lesson plan. Travelling from port to port, she’d lived her life by whatever means was advantageous. Since her mother was fluent in French, she’d learnt that language, but she’d also picked up Spanish and a smattering of Portuguese and Danish. On Jamaica, long ago it seemed now, she’d learnt the patois of the natives who worked on the plantations. The voyages had grown more infrequent after her mother had fallen ill, and eventually, Esme was orphaned at the tender age of sixteen. That was the first time she’d caught sight of him walking along the main street of Port au Prince, his hand resting on a sword handle, his heels kicking up the dirt. A gentleman on land but a rogue at sea. The perfect combination, and with it he was blessed with a handsome disposition. She followed him discreetly, found out his name, and the ship upon which he crossed the oceans. He was older than her, of course, and therefore unlikely to notice her.
Esme sighed with a longing—if only Rob Sanders had noticed her back then, her dreams might be already realised. The last button stayed in place, and she bit through the thread. Re-dressing herself, she tidied her hair into a tail.
The captain’s cabin opened straight out onto the main desk. Above and behind her was the quarterdeck, and at the bow, the fo’c’sle. She’d been on plenty of sea voyages to know her way around most ships, even if for those journeys she’d been a passenger and not a hand. The galley was at the bottom, squished between the magazine and the cargo hold. It would be dark, smoky, and stink to high heaven. She wrinkled her nose in anticipation.
She ignored the flurry of activity on the main deck. Most of the sails were unfurled and flapping in the wind. The blazing sunshine danced around the masts and reflected off the sails; by midday it would scorching hot. The ship was listed slightly, the rudder sending them East, away from the larger island of the archipelagos to the Little Sisters islands.
Finding the nearest stairwell, she hurried down the narrow steps, using her nose to guide her to the galley.
The cook was feeding the stove wood. Bent over, his apron creased about his waist, he failed to see Esme arrive until she was right next to him.
“Boy!” he yelled, clutching his flabby stomach. “I nearly cooked myself on the fire.”
“I am not a boy,” Esme replied indignantly.
Sweat dripped off the end of his nose. He was so red in the face, she thought he might explode into fire himself. The heat was unbearable. She peeled off her coat.
“Who cares, boy or man, you’ll not survive if you leap out on me again,” he said, wiping his face with the edge of his filthy apron. “I’m Ned, and nobody does anything in ’ere without my say so.” He pointed at a pail of potatoes. “Peel ’em.”
There were dozens of potatoes, many sprouting and showing signs of rotting. “All of them?”
He handed her short knife. “Get scraping.”
A large pot stood on a stand, and it contained some kind of broth. It smelt good, which she put down to her rumbling stomach. She licked her lips. “Is that breakfast?”
“That’s brine. It’s soaking pork and a few hens. They stopped laying the cackle fruit.”
No eggs either. “Oh.”
“Breakfast is a biscuit and salted fish. Over there. There’s beer in the keg.” He picked up a cleaver and disappeared into the stores.
Esme sat on a low stool and started peeling. An hour later, when a bell rang out somewhere on the ship, she was still peeling.
Ned reappeared. “What you doing? Is that all you can do with ’em weedy little fingers of yours?”
“I’m going as quickly as I can,” she said. Her palms were raw from holding the knife handle, and she’d nicked her thumb a few times. Thankfully, the blade was so blunt, she’d not drawn blood.
The ship lurched from side to side. Even with her experience of seafaring, the rolling made her nauseous. The biscuit had stuck to her throat on the way down her gullet, and the beer was as flavoursome as ditch water. She might as well vomit and rid
herself of the aftertaste.
“I need fresh air,” she said, wiping her brow. “I feel sick.”
He rolled his eyelids to the rafters. “Get out of ’ere. Come back when you can be of some use to me. You’re no good ’til ye can stand the listing.”
Up on deck, there was a commotion. Three men were on the knees, swabbing the deck with wire brushes. She recognised the trio from the men she’d brought with her. She edged around them, but her path was blocked by another group jostling and goading the newcomers.
“Landlubbers, these three. No sea legs. Puking their miserable guts up. Keep scrubbing, you useless lubbers.” The man speaking held a knotted rope and swung it from side to side, as if ready to strike.
One of the three men glanced up and caught her eye. He had droopy eyelids, as if drunk. Too late, he recognised her.
“You,” he snarled. “You brought us to this ship and scarpered when the fighting broke out.”
“I’m also held captive,” she retorted.
The smallest of the three, still too young to shave his whiskers, started to sob. “Me hands are bleedin’”
“There’ll be bleedin’ backs if you don’t stop your bawling,” the man with the rope said. “The cap’n doesn’t take to weaklings. They go overboard.”
The lad scrubbed harder, mixing his tears into the soap suds.
Esme fell sorry for the youth. She’d plucked him off the street corner where he’d been huddling holding out a tin cup, begging for food. Now, he’d be fed, but he’d have to work hard to earn it. The lazy-eyed man who’d recognised her leapt to his feet and charged towards her.
“You scumbag liar,” he sneered. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done to us.”
She spun around and marched up to him. “I’ve given you new opportunities. You walked out of gaol with nothing but your clothes. Look what you’ve got now—a fine new jacket.” She pointed at the blue coat with its brass buttons and a belt.
“This,” he sneered, plucking at his sleeve, “was somebody else’s. Where do you think that poor sod is now?”
Darius barged through the rowdy onlookers. “What the hell is going on ’ere, Barnaby?” he addressed the man with the rope.
“These lazy louts couldn’t hang their heads over the sides, and now look at me clean deck—it reeks.”
Esme nearly smiled. For pirates, they were terribly proud of their ship. She wondered how many had started their sailor’s life in the British Navy and ended up on the wrong side of the law, believing it would be easier.
The man wearing a dead man’s jacket raised his fist. “He’s the cause of all this. I’d not be ’ere if he’d not stood and fought.”
Esme, although much smaller, was sprightly. She danced on her toes and shoved the man hard in the chest. He slipped on the soapy planks and tumbled backwards. The crowd jeered, and the excitement buoyed her confidence. She jumped on top of the man, straddled his waist, and pummelled his chest with her fists.
“You’re a lazy no-good. A thief.” Her voice rose to a higher pitch.
Barnaby tried to catch her flailing hands and failed. “What’s that, pipsqueak? You’re just a lad ye’self. All gob and no—”
Somebody grabbed her from behind. She was lifted high and tossed to one side as if she weighed naught. She scrambled to her feet and came face to face with Captain Flynn Bartoc.
She closed her mouth and lowered her fists.
“What’s the meaning of this, Darius?” Flynn asked.
“He,” Darius said with great emphasis, “is making mischief with the new men.”
“I was not.” She pointed at the ring of men. “They saw him come at me.”
Another joined in. “Aye, he did, Cap’n. But the lad is trouble.”
“That’s enough,” Flynn yelled. “Darius, get these men below and locked up. They can learn to empty their stomachs into a bucket down there. The rest of ye lazy hands can get back up the ratlines and sort out ’em top sails.” He turned to Esme and hooked his hand under her arm.
He marched along the deck towards his cabin. “We’ve unfinished matters to attend to, Darius. See that Esteban and I are undisturbed.”
Esme stumbled through the door into the cabin. Behind her, the key rattled in the lock.
“Now, Esme, since you’re intent on making trouble with my new hands, you’ll have to pay the penalty.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“You have not kept yourself silent on deck.” He towered a whole head above her.
She pouted. “Meaning?”
“Screeching, for one thing. Like a parrot.”
“I do not.” She stomped her foot. “I’m just as capable as any other pirate. I led those dozen men here to you, did I not? They followed me because they thought I was a robber and were happy to carry out my orders to board the ship. What makes you think I can’t command your hands if needed?”
Creases of laughter formed around his eyes. All she wanted to do was join his crew, and he belittled her. Before she could stop herself, she pooled a mouthful of spittle onto her tongue. Her feeble attempt at spitting failed dismally. It dribbled onto the floor between them. Flynn’s grinning face transformed into a frown of disgust.
“Do you remember what I said about punishing you?” he said quietly.
She lowered her arms to her sides. Her knees nearly gave out. “Not a flogging, please, sir…” Tears pricked her eyes. Perhaps in her eagerness to be one of the hands, she’d gone too far with her jockeying.
Flynn tipped up face with the end of his finger. “I might have said rapscallion. But I certainly didn’t imply that you should be one in my cabin, especially as I intend to let you sleep here for your own safety. Perhaps I should tie you to the mast and let the hands decide how to punish you?”
“No, please, I will behave. I’ll not say a word out there. I’ll peel potatoes and stir pots. Just don’t throw me overboard—”
He laughed. “Overboard? Lass, many believe we pirates are the worst scum to take to the seas, but throwing pretty things overboard would be a tragedy. However, teaching you a valuable lesson is not. We’ll resume where we left off, shall we?”
“Left off?”
“You spat at me, and I believe that deserves a spanking.”
Before another word escaped her lips, he dragged her over to the chair by the table—its legs were bolted to the planking—and he folded her over it as easily as a piece of cloth. Her bottom ended up in the air and her hair dangling onto the seat. He trapped her there with a firm hand on the base of her spine.
The speed of his actions stunned her, inflicting a strange sense of both paralysis and acceptance.
“This, Esmeralda, is how I’ll deal with a wicked lass from now on. I’ll have no qualms about whipping your arse with a belt if necessary.” He brought his hand into contact with her bottom: a firm wallop.
The smack knocked the air out of her lungs. She kicked her feet back.
“You…you…” What could she say?
“What brings you here, eh? A strumpet or lady, which are you to be? I’ll not wager you’ll last long if you don’t curb that tongue of yours.”
The shadow of his arm fell across the floor before her, and she braced herself for the impact. The fulsome use of the flat of his hand ricocheted back to her ears before the fiery sting. As the pain arrived, she could only gasp and squeeze her eyes shut.
“I’m neither, that you can plainly tell, you curd.”
He chuckled and paddled her right where her bottom and thighs met. “I might not take you for a lady with that foul mouth of yours, but to think that you might sell yourself would…be…a…pity.” He staggered the smacks between his pointedly delivered words.
“I’ve never sold myself, soul or body, to you or any devil.” She drummed her hands on the wooden seat. She had no intention of ruining her dreams, her elusive goal, by revealing her feelings for Rob Sanders. She had to build a relationship, a level of trust,
before springing the truth upon the captain of the Flying Cutlass. She had so many secrets that she’d didn’t know where to begin to explain herself.
He continued undeterred by her curses and kicks. From one flank to another, he unleashed a broadside of spanks. She tried to reach behind to protect herself. Even with her breeches on, the cracks of his steely palm on her bottom were painful. He knocked her hands aside, and when that failed to discourage her, he pinned one arm behind her back, and she was forced to balance herself with the other on the seat.
“Oh, ow,” she hollered, meeting each delivery with an aghast exclamation. “I hate you.” Perhaps not as much as she should, but at that precise moment in her life, she was not happy with the captain.
“There are plenty that do. I’m perhaps the most hated man on the high seas of the Caribbean.” He spoke with pride.
Her breeches were on fire. If she was alone, she’d pull them down in the hope of cooling the heat.
“I don’t care. I should have taken those poor souls somewhere else. You’re a—” The curse was the worst she’d ever concocted. There was a pause, and a grunt from Flynn followed by a frightful sting on her backside that caught her by surprise. Had he used his belt? She tried to turn to see, but Flynn pushed her down.
The whoosh through the air was confirmation. The belt swiped both cheeks and brought her protestations to an abrupt halt. She’d no words in her mind that could counter the strike of the belt. Even with the cloth of the breeches protecting her, the thick leather would leave welts on her skin.
“I am not the scourge of the Seven Seas, my dear. I mean to keep you safe, but my, my, you do put up a fight that is worthy of any scallywag on my ship.” He slid his hand along her spine, ruffling the shirt up to her shoulders and exposing the bindings of the makeshift bodice. There he paused, as if to contemplate what to do next.
Esme sniffed. The weight of his hand lifted, and for a moment, she wondered if he planned to continue. The tension was palpable. She could tolerate no more lashes of his belt. She only wished for him to comfort her or hold her in some way that meant he cared. When had any man truly cared for her? She turned her head and looked over her shoulder.
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 95
