Once a Pirate

by Susan Grant

  Chapter Three

  Delight curled Andrew’s expressive mouth. “Adonis. I rather like the sound of it. Shall I call you Aphrodite, then?” His gaze drifted over her body. “The goddess of love and beauty?”

  To her dismay, her cheeks warmed. “Go to hell.”

  “Already been there.” He swaggered toward her.

  She scooted backward off the bed. A mistake, for now her back was to the wall. “I’m not Lady Amanda.”

  He simply sighed.

  “I overheard you say she was dark-haired. See this?” She lifted her waist-length braid. “Exhibit A. And listen to my accent. Do I sound British?”

  “I fear not, milady.” The corners of his mouth twitched as he walked to where she stood. “You were raised in America. Virginia, I believe.”

  “But you said my family was British. They would have spoken the Queen’s English, right?”

  “The King’s English, I trust you mean.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Perhaps the lack of nourishment has aggravated your head wound.” He took another step forward. She took another step back. “I pray your abilities will return as you heal. Else it will be a long voyage for all of us, Lady Amanda.”

  “My name is Carly. Lieutenant Carly Callahan.”

  “A man’s name.”

  “No,” she shot back. “It’s Irish.”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “Ah, a new story. I thought you considered yourself a Jonathan.”

  “A what?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  “A Jonathan. An American.”

  “I am American.”

  “Colonist upstarts, the lot of them.”

  Carly refused to retreat anymore from the cool, patrician way he observed her. She’d seen that holier-than-thou look before. Well, this time she wasn’t going to take it. This time she was going to fight back, the way she should have all those months ago when Rick betrayed her. “This is your idea of a game, isn’t it? A rich boy playing on some one else’s ship. Why? Wouldn’t your daddy buy you your own boat?”

  Eyes igniting with fury, Andrew slammed his powerful hands onto the wall to either side of her head. Terror raced along her spine and plunged into her belly. She fought the urge to bolt past him and out the open door. “I’m a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy. If you want to keep me against all rules in the civilized world, fine. But at least give me one radio call.”

  Raw emotion thrummed between them, profound and painful.

  Bewildered, she paused to gather her wits before continuing. “How about it?” she coaxed as politely as she could stomach. “Just one radio call.”

  “You think I should take you to Ray Dio?”

  “I do.”

  Andrew felt his first twitch of doubt when Amanda raised her brows in a silent plea. Had he made an error? Could he have taken the wrong woman?

  No, he had simply put the characteristics of one sister on the other. Instead of the dark-haired, clearheaded younger one, Richard was to marry the older, fairer sister. The one with porridge for brains.

  A perfect match.

  The light from the window illuminated Amanda’s pale skin, causing the shadow of her lashes to flicker over her unblinking brown eyes. Those infernal eyes! Andrew narrowed his own in defense and leaned closer until her rapid breaths stroked his chin. Fear sparked in her gaze, but to his amazement, the little waif straightened her shoulders and set her jaw. It was time to teach her a lesson.

  “Because I am a reasonable man,” he explained, expelling the words through gritted teeth, “I will help you find Ray Dio.” Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her away from the wall, dragging her through both cabins and out onto the deck.

  Pausing outside the door to his quarters, he bellowed, “Ray Dio! Where are you, lad?” He peered up and down the deck. “Front and center! I wish to have a word with you. The lady does as well.”

  Carly’s hopes fizzled. He couldn’t be serious.

  After another moment of theatrical searching, Andrew assured her, “If he’s onboard, we’ll find him.” Clamping his hand around her wrist, he jerked her forward.

  Carly tripped over a coil of rope and bounced along the deck planks like an uncooperative two-year-old.

  He halted, helping her to her feet with unexpected gentleness. “Now, shall we resume our stroll?”

  She answered him with a scowl.

  “Ah, very good.”

  He led her forward at a slower pace. All the sails were being used to harness the afternoon breeze. A British flag fluttered high above, contrasting with the sun-bleached white canvas.

  They crossed a small bridge leading to another, wider deck and the tallest mast. Carly remembered enough from her military history classes at Annapolis to recognize this as a nineteenth-century warship, a ship armed to the gills and ready to do battle. Like sentries spaced along the length of the deck, massive cannons faced the sea. A man sat astride one, scrubbing it with a brush.

  The premonition of catastrophe that had been seeping into her consciousness flooded her now. She took another look at the pungent-smelling crew, three-fourths of whom were dressed like Halloween pirates, and the others—including the captain—who were attired like characters from a Jane Austen novel. There were no T-shirts in sight, no logos, Coke cans, or even something as simple as a wristwatch.

  She was scared out of her wits.

  Oblivious, Andrew towed her along. The men stared. Others roared encouragement and offered vulgar suggestions. A group of sailors that included Black Beard held their ground as Andrew forced her past. She crossed her free arm over her chest, a paltry barrier against their brawny frames.

  Black Beard cupped his hand over her buttocks. “Yer keepin’ the cargo in fine shape, Cap’n.”

  “Hands off!” Carly cried out, whirling around.

  Andrew slammed Black Beard against the side of the ship, practically lifting the heavier man off his feet. “Mr. Booth, if you so much as touch her again, I shall hang you from the yardarm. Is that clear?”

  “Aye,” Black Beard grumbled.

  Andrew tugged her away from the silent, now respectful crowd. Speechless, she gave her unexpected protector’s hand a grateful squeeze. No one had ever come to her rescue like that. She was used to fending for herself, and had considered herself stronger for it. She’d never wanted to rely on someone else. Now she wasn’t so sure. Hell, she wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  At the bow, Andrew released her and strolled to the mast head. On her belly, back arched, her arms lifted to either side, the lifesize carving of a nude woman soared over the waves as spray dribbled from her cold, unyielding breasts.

  “Ah, Savannah, you are exquisite,” he murmured, stroking a possessive, knowing hand over her wooden calf, his thumb moving in slow, lazy circles above her ankle before easing higher.

  Higher . . .

  Carly saw that strong, long-fingered hand gliding over her own bare flesh, caressing her with the same tender and confident erotic skill. Bewildered, she shuddered and buried her fists in her pockets, struggling to stem a rush of heated, physical yearning that was both inappropriate and inexplicable.

  Andrew tilted his head toward the carving as though sharing secrets with a lover. “If there were a Ray Dio onboard, you would know, wouldn’t you, dear Savannah?” After a pause, he returned his haughty gaze to Carly. “Alas, there is no Ray Dio on the Phoenix.”

  Rubbing her wrist, Carly refused to look at him. She hated that he’d made a fool of her, hated her attraction to him even more.

  The ensuing silence was as dense as morning fog.

  “Milady?”

  Their gazes met, held.

  “Have I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

  The remorse melting his glacial blue eyes puzzled her. Don’t fall for it, Carly. He’s no different than the rest.

  “You haven’t hurt me,” she stated. “And you’ve made your point.”

  “We will reach Emerald Isle in six weeks, where you will be returned to Westridge. Until the
n, you have my permission to be on the deck. However, do not bother myself or my crew with Ray Dio again.” He watched her carefully. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Captain. When I escape, it’ll be without your help.”

  His remorse chilled into indifference. Once more, his eyes bore the weight of the world. “You know where the galley is now. Find Mr. Willoughby and have him prepare you something to eat.” Without waiting for a response, he strode back to the main deck, leaving Carly alone at the bow.

  The wind whipped sheets of foam across the swells and filled the amber-hued sails, pushing the Phoenix inexorably southward. Farther away from whatever it was that had brought her here.

  Wobbly from hunger and exhaustion, she slumped next to the masthead. “Woman to woman, Savannah, how about a little advice. I’m a soldier and a pilot, not Lady Amanda. I’m about as far from an heiress as you can get. I’ve fought for everything that’s come my way.” Carly swallowed hard, then whispered, “But how the hell do I fight this?”

  Facing the horizon, Andrew raised his telescope to one eye and scrutinized the shimmering swells. It was the sunniest, warmest weather in the week since he’d taken Lady Amanda aboard. By the end of February, they’d be nearing the equator and far hotter days. The thought pleased him. He missed sleeping under the stars and longed to abandon the cramped hammock he’d hung in his study.

  “Carly! How are you?” cried Theo from nearby.

  “Good God,” Andrew muttered. His musings had summoned the nightmare herself. With a spring in her step, she was clearly searching for someone. He prayed she didn’t head in his direction.

  She responded to Theo’s greeting by curling her fingers against her palm and thrusting her thumb into the air. The boy returned it in kind. Andrew’s heart sank. He was afraid of this. In the short time she’d been aboard, she’d managed to worm her way into even the hardest hearts of his crew. It was inevitable, he supposed. The freckles on her little nose and her pitiful, eccentric ravings were quite endearing. Thankfully, his men were profiteers at heart. Their ultimate interest would be in the profit that would come from handing her over to the duke, not in gaining the lady’s favor.

  “Good day, miss,” Cuddy called out. “Fine weather, ain’t it?”

  Exasperated, Andrew drummed his fingers on the railing. At least he’d never have to worry about falling prey to her charms. She stubbornly refused to change out of her ridiculous attire, and the one-piece, body-hugging thing left little to the imagination. She was slender and small-breasted, with a nice round rump, not at all like the lush women he favored. Still, she was indeed a better sight than Cuddy or Gibbons.

  “Captain Spencer?”

  Blast. She was on her way over to him. He hardened his countenance into a scowl. “What is it?”

  “I have a request,” she said.

  “Allow me to guess. Another search for, ah, Ray Dio?”

  Despite his disdainful tone, Carly sensed Andrew’s discomfort. If nothing else, the man had a conscience, and he didn’t appear to savor the memory of her unhappiness through that ordeal any more than she did. “I’d like to take a bath.”

  “And you’re asking for my assistance? I see. I suppose I can accommodate you.” His eyes glittered wickedly. “Shall I scrub your back first, or perhaps somewhere a little harder to reach?”

  She blinked away the sexy image his suggestion conjured. It was bad enough that after a lifetime of independence she had to rely on this man—a wealthy man, no less—for every basic need. Having to fight her attraction to him made the situation downright unpalatable. “I’m filthy. I want to wash my hair. I want to wash my clothes.” She’d been wearing the same underwear for a week, and although she used a washbasin morning and night to clean her hands and face, her hair was matted and barely recognizable. “By the way, I found a flea on me. I think it came from your bed.”

  “I do not have vermin in my bed!”

  Several nearby sailors glanced Andrew’s way, amused.

  “The sheets were changed at the beginning of the voyage,” he said in a whispered growl.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  She plunked her hands on her hips. He stared at her. She glared back. Why was it so difficult to have a conversation with this man? His riveting blue eyes were too damned distracting—that was part of the problem. And those dimples in his cheeks sure didn’t help.

  “I need a tub, hot water—” She counted briskly on her fingers as she spoke. “A bar of soap and a towel. Otherwise I’ll grow so ripe, you won’t want to live next door anymore.”

  “Ah, that is a concern,” he said tiredly. “Get what you need in the galley—and in the future, don’t burden me with the petty details of your toilette.” He went back to playing with his antique telescope.

  Carly tossed her braid over her shoulder and walked off. Theo trotted up beside her. “I’m going to the galley for hot water,” she said. “Want to come along?”

  “Aye.” Grinning, Theo shoved a striped stocking cap back on his head, allowing his reddish-blond hair to spill forward. The weather-beaten bandanna knotted just above his collar was as grubby as the rest of him.

  She patted the F-18 patch on her shoulder. “Later we’ll find a comfortable spot and talk jets some more.”

  His blue eyes flashed with anticipation. “Aye, the flying machines!”

  Theo was like every other thirteen-year-old boy she’d ever met: He loved hearing about fighter jets. Yet, unlike those teenagers, he showed no grasp of twenty-first-century culture or technology. She might as well add his all-encompassing ignorance to the list she was mentally compiling. Already, there were the dates in Andrew’s log; the ancient London Times clippings that appeared new; the crew’s assertions that it was 1821. Not to mention the utter absence of modern items on the Phoenix.

  She shuddered—perhaps from her mounting fear, perhaps from a week’s worth of restless nights.

  Or perhaps from the noxious odors oozing under the galley door.

  Inhaling one last breath of fresh sea air, she followed Theo into the cramped galley. Vials, tins, and jars were wedged onto crooked shelves, and a pile of bloody chicken feathers was stuck to the table underneath. A pot rattled atop a scarred, rusty stove, its contents overflowing in sizzling bursts. The boiling chicken—or what she assumed was a chicken—did little to mask the smell in the room, reminiscent of the odor of a backed-up garbage disposal.

  The tall, gangly cook sat on a stool. It no longer surprised her to see him using a quill pen to scratch wavering trails of indecipherable numbers on the pages of his ledger. She’d come in several times since her capture, and the man was always working.

  “Hello, Mr. Willoughby,” Carly said.

  His wizened features softened. “Lady Amanda.”

  “Miss Carly,” Theo corrected.

  “Ah, yes. Miss Carly.” Willoughby rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. Then he selected several cylindrical tins from a wooden box. Reading the labels, he logged more figures into his book.

  “Would you mind heating some water for my bath? Mr. Gibbons said he’d carry the buckets to my quarters.”

  Willoughby set a kettle of water on the flames. He gestured to his stool.” ’Twill be a while yet. Have a seat.”

  Carly watched him stir the contents of a huge copper pot. The hunk of dried, salted beef had been towed overboard in a net to wash out much of the salt. Then Willoughby had boiled it all afternoon. Now he reached into the water with a ladle and scooped up a glob of the lumpy yellowish fat floating on the surface. “Fresh skimmings, milady. Fetch yourself a biscuit.”

  Carly’s stomach roiled. “You’re kind, really, but no thanks.”

  “I won’t hear of it, milady. Eat your fill while there’s the chance.” He slathered a thick layer of glistening fat atop a biscuit. “I’ll be selling the lot by noon tomorrow.”

  “You go right ahead and serve yourself, Mr. Willoughby. Don’t worry a
bout me.”

  He made a tsking sound and ladled the remainder of the fat into a crock to cool and congeal.

  The ever-hungry Theo plucked two biscuits out of a basket, handing one to Carly as Willoughby served them soup.

  “If you won’t take your skimmings,” the cook said, “I want you to eat this. You’re too thin.”

  “I don’t know about that. I could live for a month off my thighs alone.” Carly tapped her biscuit on the sideboard to dislodge any weevils. Hunger had almost deadened her aversion to the creatures that inhabited the bread onboard the ship, but smearing unadulterated, artery-clogging fat on her biscuit was a line she would not cross. The men, though, were more than happy to buy the coveted lumps of lard. Willoughby made a handsome profit selling it.

  The curry-scented broth should have been tempting, but she didn’t feel like eating. She propped her chin on her hand and pushed her spoon through the maze of turnips and bits of chicken.

  Willoughby resumed his inventory of the tins. He lifted a lid and inhaled. “Ah, nutmeg. The booty from your ship is a cook’s dream.” He thrust the tin at her. “Smell.”

  She sniffed gingerly, then read the invoice attached TO THE BOX. BRITISH EAST INDIA COMPANY. SHIPPED AUGUST 1820.

  Shaken, she dropped her spoon. It splashed into the pewter bowl. Vaguely disoriented, she let her eyes drift closed. The invoice was another brick in an insurmountable wall of evidence. Maybe the last brick.

  In warfare as well as life, those who failed to adapt perished. If she wanted to survive this and return home, she had to accept the extraordinary possibility that she’d moved through time. There was the Bermuda Triangle, after all, and the Druids with their circles of stones. Plenty of people had mysteriously disappeared over the centuries. What if she had, too?

  But what if this is some kind of purgatory, the place you go if you aren’t quite good enough to go to Heaven?

  With that, all the dirty laundry of her sad little past flitted before her eyes. There were the wild Friday nights at the officers’ club. No doubt those had gotten her here. So did picking wimpy strawberries from the green plastic baskets at the supermarket and replacing them with the ripest, monster-sized berries. And she drove fifty-five in the thirty-five mile-per-hour zone each morning on the way to the base because she knew the cops never patrolled that street before six.