The ship was a scene of busy work and noise. Men carried and stacked crates pulled from the water. Others took inventory of the boxes’ contents. The deck creaked under the activity. Squawking seagulls circling overhead added to the racket.
The Rowena sat just yards away. How had Captain Drake maneuvered his ship close enough to unload the Rowena’s cargo?
“Heave!”
The man Gilly recognized from the night before as the helmsman hollered out a repetitive command to those working pulleys.
“Heave!”
Grunts from the men and the rasps of strained ropes complemented him in a strange tuneful ensemble.
“Heave!”
A large crate came up into view. More men swarmed in, grabbing and pulling the box on board. Water streamed off the box creating growing puddles on the deck.
Gilly stepped to the edge and peered down. How amazing to see through the crystal-clear water to the white bottom of the seabed. Dark spots spoiled the pristine floor and quite abruptly rose into an ebony wall, the reef upon which the Rowena rested.
A black man bobbed in the water. He was the same large man who rowed the longboat which brought her to safety. He clung to a piece of floating rubble. And suddenly, he went under. She stiffened, worried for him. She glanced around, but no one seemed to be concerned that the man was in danger. My God, won’t anyone save him from drowning?
Frantic, she blocked a pair of passing crewmen.
“There’s a man in the water.”
The men hardly looked surprised. They glanced at one another, peered over the side and looked back at her as if she’d sprouted another nose. They parted and hurriedly stepped around her.
Gilly searched the water. No sign of him.
Someone had to help.
There. Captain Drake. On the other side of the pulleys. He would do something. She hurried along the railing with an eye on the water, only leaving it to move around the men unhooking the ropes from the crate.
“Captain Drake!” she called. “Captain Drake!”
Gilly lost her footing on the wet floorboards, caught the hem of her gown on her toe and careened into the captain. Much shorter than he, she landed square into his rigid stomach.
“Umpf.”
She grabbed for his belt. With her cheek smashed against the hard planes of his abdomen, she tried to keep herself from slipping farther down. Good Lord, how compromising!
Captain Drake caught her by the wrists. “Well, now, good afternoon to you, too, Miss McCoy.”
For a moment, his dark eyes held her as he stared down. Her chest tightened when he did not immediately let her go. Trapped. Against his groin. Under a spell. She simply could not move. A smile crept up one corner of his mouth. He squeezed his grip before helping her regain her balance.
She straightened up and ran her hands down the rumples of her dress, hoping for the heat in her face to be wiped away along with the creases. “Good afternoon.”
“Do you always throw yourself at strange men? Perhaps that is how you familiarize yourself with them?”
She huffed. “Do you lack so much decency that you take to insulting a woman, not once, not twice, but several times?”
“I find it easier to keep the lasses at bay this way. Besides, it is you who are short on decency, burying your face in my—”
“You’re a man full of arrogance.”
Drake adjusted his trousers. Couldn’t the captain stop smiling like that?
“My charm is working, then.”
No, she couldn’t say she disagreed. Strangely, she found him even more appealing.
The man in the water! Criminy! How could she let the captain distract her so?
“Oh!” She leaned over the rail, searching for him. “There’s a man drowning! Oh, Lord, where is he?”
“Drowning. You don’t say,” the captain replied.
Astonished by his sarcasm, she looked back. “Yes. I saw him. The gigantic man.”
“You mean that gigantic man there?” He pointed to where the drowning man popped up from the water.
He wasn’t flailing or gasping for air as Gilly expected. Rather, he was remarkably in good health, as if he belonged in the water.
Captain Drake called to him. “What say you, Sam?”
“She’s lodged tight, Capt’n. Caved in on her larboard. No way ta get t’e rest of t’e cargo out.”
Drake nodded. “Out of the water, Sam.”
Sam swam to the rope ladder on the side of the ship just out of Gilly’s view.
“Sam is the best diver this side of Barbados,” Drake explained. “The goliath couldn’t drown if he tried.”
“Amazing,” Gilly said. “His size alone should have him sinking like a boulder.” She leaned over the rail to watch Sam reach the ladder. Anything to avoid meeting the eyes of Drake. She was well aware he still smiled at her with that vainglorious grin. “How do you suppose he learned to swim so well? So he dives down under the ship? I imagine that takes a long time. With his size he must have plenty of breath to hold.”
Sam climbed on board. He stood very still watching Gilly. Not a muscle moved, not a blink. Just the water dripping, nay, fleeing from his dark skin. She squirmed under his emotionless scrutiny. Without a word, he walked away. The whole took only a matter of moments, yet to her it felt like half an hour. Her edginess faded as Sam gained distance.
“Is that how you managed to get these crates on board?” she said. “The divers, I mean? They go down and bring them up through holes? How could they see? Wouldn’t it be too dark down there? Do they feel their way around?”
Drake chuckled. She was annoyed by it, to be sure, but more relieved that he, too, had stopped staring at her.
He leaned against the railing on his elbow and watched the crew attending duties. “Now, Miss McCoy. Just how did you slip away from Henri?”
“I didn’t slip away from him. He became preoccupied.”
“Not much will keep Henri from a direct order, lass. Where is he?”
“The galley.”
Drake frowned.
“He didn’t violate an order. There was an emergency. I was to go back to my cabin. I hardly see the use in that. We were about to go on deck. I wanted to come outside. What is the reason to have him fetch me again when I can see my way myself. The sun is just so warm. Please don’t be angry with him. ’Twas my fault.”
He returned to watching the men. “Oh, you don’t need to fret about me. It’ll be Henri you’ll need to worry about. He’ll not be pleased with you, lass. He’ll be downright belligerent.”
“But why? I came to you straightaway.”
“You still disobeyed him. Mmm.” Drake shook his head. “He’s a mean, crusty little man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he tampers with your food. Give you something to keep you on the head.”
Was he joking? She couldn’t tell as he continued to scan his ship. New angst unfolded and she inwardly groaned at the thought of sitting on the cathead with of a bout of diarrhea for all the crew to see.
“Come,” he said. “Let us see how my first mate is doing.”
Valeryn sat on a box scribbling in a tablet he had propped upon his knee. He spoke to a lad assisting him and looked up as Drake and Gilly approached.
Valeryn stood and bowed to Gilly. “Good evening, Miss McCoy.”
His sincere greeting caused her to slip into ease. He had a genuine kindness to his smile, which reminded her of the folks back home. Before she moved to the city looking for work. His pleasing good looks, sandy brown hair and tawny-colored eyes rivaled those of his captain. He offered her his seat on the crate. Amongst the ragtag and bobtail working this ship, she relaxed in the benevolence of Valeryn’s manners.
“Thank you, Valeryn.”
Drake glared at Valery
n and planted his foot on the box next to her. She almost missed Valeryn’s near imperceptible nod.
“How goes the inventory?” Drake asked.
“Twenty-six barrels of indigo. Thirty-nine barrels of rice,” Valeryn said.
“That’s not much.”
“Aye. Less than impressive, I’d say.”
“Certainly not worth sailing for,” Drake added.
Valeryn referred back to his tablet. “I also logged two gilded mirrors, a writing desk, eight chairs and a wardrobe, badly damaged. If Mott is straight, there should be a chest containing a goodly amount of silverware and porcelain serving pieces. Another chest with a golden candelabra, mantel clock and, most remarkable, a golden, gem-encrusted weighing scale.”
“How appropriate. Machete measuring out his levies on a scale likely worth more than the land he collects on.”
Valeryn spat to the floorboards. “To the devil with the bastard.”
“What of the chandelier?” Drake asked.
“In your cabin. Sam found the crate on the seabed. The chandelier looks to be in perfect condition.”
“Excellent.” Drake laughed. “Just think what that will fetch us.”
“Fat, drunk and well spent.” Apologetically, Valeryn put his hand to his chest. “My pardon, miss.”
Gilly nodded, though she had heard far worse at the Peregrine. Besides, his vulgarity concerned her less than the fact the men planned to filch the Rowena’s cargo. She didn’t know who this Machete was but she could guess he was deadly to cross, which was exactly what Captain Drake intended to do. ’Twas never good to rob from someone dangerous. That she knew. She suffered for Hyde’s mistake.
* * *
“Remind me to raise my cup to gluttony tonight,” Drake said.
“No need, Thayer. ’Tis what we toast to every night.”
Drake shared a hearty laugh with Valeryn. Poor lass. She looked flummoxed. Too much bustling over the salvage for the simple girl to understand. Perhaps if she knew the irony of the situation, the pure quirk of fate with the pestilent Machete, she’d find the humor, too.
“With a name like Machete,” she said, “do you suppose it would be wise to steal from him?”
Both men stopped laughing. Drake removed his boot from the crate, straightening to full height.
“Steal from him? Steal from him! ’Tis the least I can do.”
Drake’s sudden clip of ire must have reflected in his countenance. The meek mouse glanced downward. Wise. Angering him was not an avenue the chit wished to travel.
He peeled his glare from her. “I’d say the chest that will pad our strongbox is still in that ship.”
Valeryn agreed.
“We’ve a new plan.” Drake looked out to the ill-fated Rowena. His decision made.
“You intend to set fire to her?”
“Aye. ’Tis too dangerous for the divers. And I want those two chests. We burn her to the waterline.”
“Lighting her up will surely attract attention. Wreckers will see smoke and with nightfall the fire will lead them to us.”
“The rigging and sails have already been removed. Less to burn. If we set her ablaze before dusk, the smoke will fade into the darkness and there’s a chance the fire will be too small to see on the horizon. With any luck, the conches will have a hard time finding us.”
“Solid thinking, Thayer.”
“Go get Mott. Let him know the future of his Rowena.”
“My pleasure.” Valeryn nodded to Gilly before taking his leave.
The tar had a spring in his step. Valeryn was going to enjoy burning the ship and taking her riches as much as Drake. Jolly good times, he and V have had, Drake mused. Plundering, rumming, wenches. No remorse. Valeryn was easy to understand. He simply would not be satisfied with the doldrums of life, always trawling for the next challenge. And Valeryn understood him, accepted him for what he was, and thankfully left him to his demons. Yes, he was Drake’s best mate.
“What is a conch?”
The sea breeze rustled in her skirts as Gilly rose to stand beside him.
“Bahamian salvage wreckers,” he said. “They’re a hungry lot of bastards looking to profit from the misfortunes of others.”
“Not unlike you.”
She spoke as if it were a mere observation. He had an observation of his own.
This day had been tedious. Many puncheons of rice and indigo had been destroyed or lost to the storm. Much of the furnishings would be damaged by the seawater, including the crate holding bolts of fine fabric. With a disappointing salvage, Drake thought the whole venture had been a bloody waste of time. Harmony between his crew and that of Mott’s men had been too much to ask. They all worked hard on recovering the Rowena’s goods, but a few disgruntled fellows couldn’t hold their clack, resulting in Drake breaking up more than one fight. His good spirits had been faltering.
But then this beauty all but knocked him off his feet—literally. He had scarcely recognized her.
Aye. He took great care in his observation of her now.
The bath did her wonders. Hair once wild and stiff like Sargassum seaweed now glimmered in soft blond tresses tied back with a pink ribbon. Her clean face, clean skin promised the smooth feel of alabaster. Freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and reached out to her cheeks. They complemented those magnificent hazel eyes, adding to them a sweet innocence. More freckles graced her ample bosom. Damn, if God hadn’t blessed her with the perfect-sized breasts. Perfect for filling the cup of his hands.
He found himself glad he didn’t get rid of all the fashionable women’s clothing and necessities left behind by the libidinous Captain Tyburn. Most notably the scented soap.
She was a different woman, more desirable than he cared to admit. And best of all, she smelled of lavender and cream. It wasn’t enough to drink in her fragrance. His mouth watered to taste her.
“You are right, Miss McCoy. I am a hungry bastard.”
“I didn’t imply you were a bastard.” She made quick to correct him.
“Ah, but I am. One who lives to try my fortune.”
“Seems to me to be quite hazardous,” she said. “Sailing, alone, is dangerous. But putting yourself at risk to save people, cargo and ships during a storm is mad. Even now salvaging these crates, well, someone could get hurt. Never mind the cramped conditions.”
What an adventurous pursuit the lass would be. If only she’d stop talking.
“…and getting jostled to the point of seasickness. Rather swiftly, I might add. I won’t begin to tell you…”
He hadn’t given the chit much thought throughout the day. Only that he looked forward to a spot of entertainment before he retreated to his solitude and hogshead of rum. But now… Another lavender-scented breeze tickled his nose.
“Tonight you earn your passage.”
She didn’t respond. Had that shut her up? Was she thinking of reneging on their deal? Nay. He wouldn’t allow it. She would keep her end of the bargain. He’d see to it.
He realized she no longer looked at him, but past him. Slowly, he twisted around.
Several crewmen stacked coils of rope near the bow, the coward Abel among them. His gaze locked upon the lass in a murderous glare. Drake tilted his head, catching the tern’s notice. Abel ducked back into his work.
Drake would need to keep a closer eye on that one.
“I oughta skin yer hide, girlie.” Henri shambled over wagging a paring knife.
She took a step behind Drake, shielding herself from the angry manikin. Amusing little tart sure knew how to bring about a stir.
“Put the knife away, Henri.”
“Perish and plague, Capt’n. We can’t be havin’ a woman runnin’ around the Rissa. She’ll fetch us up bad luck.”
“So you int
end to gut her?”
He was keenly aware of her hands pressed into his back. Their heat spread through him much like the need to protect her. Though not from Henri. He’d seen a softer side of the gibbet-like mack once not too long ago. The old soul would never carry out a threat on the fairer kind.
That didn’t mean she had to know it.
“You don’t want to swab up a sticky mess, do ya, mate?”
Henri groused, lowering his knife.
“Now I’m not suggesting you poison her food.” Drake couldn’t resist having a little fun with the lass. Particularly if it meant she push closer to him. All he needed to do was spin around and her breasts would be pressed to his chest.
Henri considered the idea for a moment and then shook his head. “Wouldn’t be right, ruinin’ the supper like that.”
He forced down a laugh at her sigh of relief.
“All right, Henri. I’ll make sure the chit is returned to her cabin. Without leaving a trail of curses, of course. Go see to the supper.”
“Aye, Capt’n.” Henri peered around Drake to Gilly. “You’ll trifle not with me again, will ya, lass?”
“No, sir.”
She let her hands fall away and instantly Drake missed their warmth.
What the devil was wrong with him? The Rissa had been in port not a fortnight ago. He couldn’t be craving a woman’s touch this bad so soon. Not just any woman, either. This woman. ’Twas not like him to want any particular pullet. What made her different?
Those coy eyes looking at him expectantly offered a fleeting answer.
He should see her to her cabin.
Ah, but she agreed to please him as he saw fit. At the moment, it pleased him to keep her close. His reason was an obvious pretense. ’Twas better to protect her from conniving wretches such as the likes of Abel. Later, he expected to be fully satisfied by her. Just how might be a strain on his already threadbare moral fiber.
“Fetch ahead, Miss McCoy. ’Tis time to start a fire.”
The Siren's Song Page 6
