Chapter Four
Gilly followed the toddling lump of a man along the dark companionway. Down into the narrow hall with the walls closing in, even as they rocked, the gale outside didn’t seem so fierce. But the stench, well, that was another matter. It took only a moment before she realized the odor clogging her nose, oil and saltwater, emanated from her. The drier she became, the more she spoiled. What she wouldn’t do for a good scrubbing.
“Keep up, lassie.”
Henri favored one leg and how he managed to stay upright in the swaying ship with such a prominent limp was beyond her. She had to rely on her hands bracing the wall on either side to keep from falling. It must be Henri’s stubby equilibrium closer to the ground that kept him from toppling over. Bless him, but the crown of Henri’s sparse head came to just under her chin.
Staying erect and smelling like a greased clam were the least of her problems.
“Are you pirates?”
Her question tumbled out before her good sense stopped her. Hyde had warned Gilly of the lawless villains who roamed the coasts. They pillaged and plundered all that they could, leaving bodies and destruction in their wake. She had always thought Hyde exaggerated the pirate tales a bit, just as he did with stories of highwaymen and Indians. Maybe to scare her enough so she would depend on him to keep her safe when they traveled. He needn’t have gone to the trouble. She would have followed him to the far reaches of the world.
She never imagined she should have feared him instead.
Henri spun around to face her. His lantern cast shadowy hollows under his eyes and along his bumpy, wide nose. The phantom dancing along the walls in the lamplight behind him appeared to come from a giant, not the elfin before her.
Gooseflesh prickled her skin with her growing unease. “Please take no offense to my asking. ’Tis just that the other seamen, they seemed, well, frightened.”
“Some might be sayin’ the Rissa crew be scavengers o’ the sea.” He raised the lantern to reveal his jagged grin.
A nervous laugh rattled from Gilly and she took a quick step back. Not because of his toothless smile. Nor for his vague answer. No, she shrunk from the lantern. Too close and she might just light up like a human flambeau.
“What’s it to ya, lassie?”
“I’ve not heard of pirates saving people. And, honestly, you don’t look so fierce with those red little girl ribbons in your beard.”
“They’re not little girl ribbons.” His mouth twisted into a snarl and he unconsciously petted his beard. “As for savin’ ye, lass, don’t take too lightly the fondness we tars be havin’ for a dainty bit such as the likes of ye.”
A woman among pirates, she should be terrified. She didn’t feel it. Most certainly worry nibbled upon her mind. But terrified? Not yet. ’Twas better than her fate back in Florida. Wasn’t it?
“I’m not sure, Henri. Was that a warning?”
“Wha—?”
She raised her eyebrows and pointed to his bows.
Henri shook his head. “Aw. Never ya mind.” He turned to the door beside him, unlocking it. “No light until the storm passes.”
Gilly followed him inside. His lantern chased away the darkness to the recesses of the tiny room. Smooth textures gleamed in the flickering glow. Pillows and silks in layering shades of blue blanketed the bed. Delicate bluebirds and flowering vines painted by gifted hands adorned the exotic black wood of the small dresser and writing table secured to the floor. Bounties from other worlds fit for a pirate princess.
Gilly closed her gaping mouth. This room outshined her quaint bedchamber at Miss Brooks’ and was considerably nicer than the room, strewn with costumes, Hyde had set her up in at the tavern. An exotic fragrance, rich and woody, wafted by and disappeared like a memory, crowded out by her own stink.
Gentle tinkling caught her attention and she searched for its source. On a peg near the door hung several thick glass balls rolling into each other with the toss of the ship. Strange foreign black symbols decorated the blue-colored globes.
Henri set the lantern on a hook above the desk, picked up the overturned chair and crossed the room to the bed. “Jap’nese wind bells.” He spoke without looking at her. “Capt’n has a fancy for ’em.”
Their chime dulled with her touch and she marveled at the blue hues trembling on the smooth glass in the dim light. “They’re beautiful.”
Henri grunted.
Pillows rasped softly. Gilly turned to Henri digging into their layers. She peeked over, curious to what he searched for. With cushions up to his chin, he pulled out a badly tarnished flask deep from within. Lifting it to his ear, he gave it a jiggle. A smile spread across his whiskered face as he worked to untwist the cap. One quick gulp later, he closed it back up and stuffed it into his jacket.
He muttered to himself. Something about finding a new hiding place. And never in all his ben and bold life believing Drake would have a need for the room.
Drake? Was he the captain?
Henri shuffled to the writing table and reached for the underside, removing yet another flask. He then turned to the dresser. Folded clothing was pushed aside as he rummaged through the drawer for a third flask. His knees crunched when he kneeled to the floor before the bed. And with his bum poking upward, he nearly disappeared beneath it. This time he retrieved a small keg.
He scrambled to his feet and Gilly suppressed the urge to giggle as he hugged the keg under his arm. Henri glared at her, his message clear. Gilly had no intention of standing in the way of the little man.
“What’s in there?” Gilly pointed to a door behind the dresser.
“That be the capt’n’s quarters. Ain’t no worry. It be sealed shut. He can’t get to ya. Not that way.”
Was she supposed to be relieved? She didn’t know.
“How long will I have to stay here? When will he send for me?”
Henri picked up the lantern without responding. The light angled out of the room with the shutting of the door. Complete darkness engulfed her. Anxiety tightened in her chest with the turn of the lock.
Sealed away in the belly of a ship. Please don’t let this one sink.
Would Drake save her again?
Captain Drake. He’d insulted her, suggesting she was no better than a strumpet. That she would allow Abel to touch her, to allow him to…
Gilly shuddered. She had wanted to slap the captain, too, for making the crude comment. His complete control of the chaos surrounding them subdued her from making an obvious mistake. Those eyes, the way he looked at her, they held so much power. Challenging him would be foolish indeed.
Foolhardiness had been her constant companion as of late. She should have never trusted Abel. But what choice had she? None. Not while she had to escape St. Augustine so quickly. Having purchased no ticket, nor having her name appear on a muster, would make it impossible for anyone to follow her. And Abel had been easy to bribe.
Exhaustion won out, but she feared sullying the fine bedding. Gilly sank to the floor and curled up. Sleep tugged upon her lids the moment her cheek touched the cool wood.
She really must stop putting her trust in strangers.
Blast, she nearly lost her life not once, but twice. Retrieving her bag—what had she been thinking? If not for Captain Drake, she would be tossing around in the sea with the shards of the Rowena.
If not for Captain Drake, with his rough handling and his hard body keeping her afloat, she’d be long dead.
If not for Captain Drake, with his audacity and his dominance…
If not for Captain Drake…
* * *
Drake led Captain Mott, followed by Valeryn, to his quarters. The storm as he predicted had passed quickly. Though the sea had lessened her fits, she remained agitated, tossing her waves with the remnants of a tantrum.
T
he heavy door creaked opened and Drake stepped inside the darkness. More times than not, he wouldn’t bother with bringing his cabin to life with light. He’d prefer to brood in the dark and stare out the bank of windows next to his bed, getting lost in the swirling wake left by his ship in the black water below him.
But sulking was for when he was alone.
Drake lit a lantern and turned up the flame. Valeryn did the same to two other lanterns hanging from the ceiling beam. Drake’s solitude disappeared in the brightness.
He retrieved a flagon and three cups from a secured spot on a shelf.
“Captain Mott.” He addressed the captain as he poured ale into the cups.
Small beer. He hadn’t the mind to share his good drink. ’Twasn’t because he didn’t care for the man, though he didn’t. ’Twas more to do with his own bitter greedy demon. The ale he offered to guests was very good. Very good, but weak. That was why sea dogs referred to it as small beer. Much could be soaked in and a man would still keep his wits, the likes of which held no appeal for Drake.
He handed a cup to Mott. “What is in your hold?”
Without waiting for the captain’s answer, he plopped down into a chair, swung a boot onto the table and motioned for Mott to sit. “And don’t amuse yourself by telling me stories of spice and grain.”
Recovering and selling foodstuffs hardly excited Drake. He found long ago risking his life and the lives of his men was more rewarding when the salvage didn’t involve something that decayed. Unless the prize was to be drank.
Mott eased into his seat. He cast an eye over his shoulder to where Valeryn leaned against the closed door. “I’ve but one recourse in giving over all I know. You’ve made that clear, lest my crew and I become unfortunate casualties in the Rissa’s pursuit.”
Drake chuckled. His ship’s reputation preceded herself, making his job, whatever his ambition may be at the time, much simpler. “What have you to fear from my humbled crew?”
“You’ve waylaid me in my need for aid. That is a form of piracy, is it not?”
“You offend me, Mott. And here in my own cabin.” On the contrary. The man hardly raised a hair on Drake’s neck. Besides, he spoke the truth. Couldn’t blame him for that.
“I will not apologize for disagreeing with your salvaging philosophy,” Mott said.
Drake shrugged. “’Tis what I expect.”
Drake drank from his cup. The beer washed down his throat with almost no flavor. Nothing to burn in his gullet. It irritated him. He swiped at his mouth with his shirt sleeve and continued. “Look at it this way, skipper. Pirates take what they desire, be it farthing or life, no? I always take what I want. At the risk of me turning bloodthirsty you will tell me exactly what’s on your ship. Should you cooperate, no harm will come to you.”
“And my crew?”
“That depends on them.”
Mott shifted in his seat. “Furnishings. French furnishings. Armoire, armchairs, gilded mirrors.”
“I saw crystals.”
“Crystals? Ah, yes, the chandelier.”
“A chandelier, you say.” Drake’s coffer just increased substantially. An ormolu chandelier with grand golden arms would bring him a profit. A chandelier with drops of crystals, as novel as one was, would fetch a mighty sum. He could almost feel the coins weighing down his pockets.
“You were headed for Havana. Who were these furnishings intended for?”
Mott again glanced back at Valeryn, who had taken to cleaning his fingernails with his gully knife. Valeryn encouraged Mott to respond by the nod of his head. Mott rested his hand at the base of his cup, hesitating before he answered. “A man by the name Diaz.”
“Mancho Diaz?” Drake’s boot hit the floor with a thud and he leaned forward.
Valeryn pushed off the door and came around the table to stand beside Drake.
“Aye.” Mott finally took a drink from his cup.
Drake locked eyes with Valeryn.
“Machete,” Valeryn said.
Hatred for the man Havana locals called Machete roiled in Drake’s gut. He was the cruel and mercenary jackal of the tyrant governor Don Francisco de Barca, may his soul burn in hell. He was also the man Drake would one day kill.
“You know this man?” Mott asked.
“I suggest you send word to Diaz of his ill-fortune in your stead. He is not a forgiving sort.” He tipped his cup toward the captain. “And he will want someone’s head for losing his valuables.”
“Perhaps that Abel fellow.” Valeryn sheathed his knife.
Mott’s gaze darted from Valeryn back to Drake. “I would be inclined to tell him of you.”
“Please do,” Drake said. “I welcome any minion he sends my way. Keeps me in practice.”
He smiled, satisfied. Taking Machete’s expensive furnishings would be a pleasure. “Come morning, we will begin with the salvage.”
Mott stared down into his cup before speaking. “For fair treatment and our lives, you will have our cooperation.” He then finished off his beer in one quick gulp.
“Let us see how hard your men work,” Drake said.
He pushed off the table and stood. “You will excuse me. I have an unfinished interrogation to complete.” One he looked forward to. More than he should.
“V, Captain Mott can join his men in the hold now. On your way out, see the fugitive next door in.” He looked forward to hearing the lass’s story. She must be in some big trouble to bargain her life on sea, alone.
The room empty, Drake traded his cup for a bottle of rum. He yanked out the plug with his teeth, spit it to the floor and brought the bottle to his nose. Sharp liquor drew up into his nostrils and flooded his mind. Putting the bottle to his lips and tilting it back, he let the rum burn down his throat. So good, so satisfying. The warmth, he drank it, hardly swallowing at all until he drained the bottle. Another dead man. Distorted refractions of light on the glass played tricks on Drake’s mind, revealing the face of an old enemy…Machete. He tossed the flagon into a near-full box and it clanked against the other empty bottles.
One wasn’t enough. It never was, not when the gory blisters of a man’s past refused to heal.
Wet clothes chafed against his damp skin. He shed his jacket; the weight lifted from his body lessened the cumbersome hold around his shoulders. He peeled out of his tunic and the warm air cooled against his sticky torso.
He grinned upon a stifled gasp. So the lass was modest. Stowing his smile he turned to greet his newest guest.
Sweet Neptune! What a sight! The lass’s hair, blond maybe, wild, tangled and crimped, stuck out in every which direction. Her stained dress once had been a pale yellow and now hung limp to her form in tatters. Bruises marked her pale skin along her slender arms still clutching that damned bag. What a bloody mess, this one.
“Found her asleep on the floor, mate,” Valeryn said. He didn’t contain his broad smile as he backed out of the door to leave Drake alone with the woman.
On the floor? Curious. The poor girl must be near death with fatigue.
“Well now, chit,” he said, shaking off the shock of her appearance. “Why don’t we start with introductions, shall we?” He draped his wet shirt over his chair. “I’m Captain Thayer Drake, master of the fine ship Rissa.”
Silence stretched on to awkward. Mouth agape, she stared at him with tired pale eyes wilting with the dark bags below them.
“Lass?”
She tore her gaze from his bare chest. “Oh, um, yes?”
Blimey. Had the woman never seen a man without his shirt before? Perhaps he should put a tunic back on lest the woman lose her ability to speak. “Your name. What is your name?”
Her reply not forthcoming, Drake sighed and pulled back the heavy hempen drapes that concealed his sleeping quarter. Her stance became rigid, bunching fist
fuls of her dress, at the sight of his bed. It wasn’t fear so much as it was suspicion. Drake didn’t need to see the tightening of her mouth to know she readied herself for a fight.
What a game it would be to toy with her. But he wouldn’t. He had questions for her and unless she wanted to show him some gratitude for saving her arse, and she wouldn’t, then he wanted to raise a bottle to another ship run aground—alone.
He retrieved a clean tunic from the locker at the foot of his bed and closed the curtain.
Her posture relaxed, and once Drake donned his shirt, she reclaimed her voice.
“Gilly. I answer to Gilly.”
“Gilly.” He liked the sound of her name. It reminded him of the whimsical carnival music he once loved. “That’s an unusual name.”
“It’s what the girls back in Charleston called me. My given name is Gillian McCoy.”
“So be it, Miss. Gilly McCoy. Sit.” He pointed to the chair recently occupied by Mott. She mildly surprised him by obeying. From her earlier display on deck, he expected more of her defiance.
He grabbed a clean cup from the shelf and poured her the small beer. He’d have offered her fresh water had he had some. But clean water was a fleeting luxury on board. The ale would satisfy her thirst. And she was thirsty. She guzzled her cup with greedy gulps.
“Do you have something stronger?”
He chuckled. With what the chit had been through, he supposed he could share a spot of his rum.
“All right, lass.” He grabbed another flagon, opened it and filled her cup. “But for my liberal generosity, you will be accommodating.”
“I’ll elect just how accommodating,” she said.
“Agreed, only by flesh. But not by tongue. You will tell me what I want to know.” He returned to his seat.
“Very well.” It seemed she gave nary a thought to his demand and she took a healthy drink. She suffered for her rashness, coughing fitfully on the rum.
“Careful, there. ’Tis potent.”
The Siren's Song Page 4
