Pirates

by Linda Lael Miller

  Biting her lower lip, Phoebe picked up one of the guns and grasped it in both hands. It was cumbersome and unbelievably heavy, and just holding the thing made every inch of her skin tickle with sweat. Her wrists trembled, and her knees felt like jelly, and she had yet to face a single pirate.

  So much for courage.

  She put the pistol down with a shaking hand, dragged a chair into position facing the door, and reclaimed both weapons. Then she sat, waiting, her heart hammering at such a rate that it made her dizzy.

  Above decks, the fighting and shouting and shooting went on and on. There were lulls, but the din always started up again. She could not guess how much time passed, whether hours or only moments. Terror held her in a suspended state, a dimension of its own.

  Half-moons of perspiration formed under her arms, and she had to dry her palms on her skirts more than once. The cold terror in the pit of her stomach finally dissolved, and exhaustion nearly overwhelmed her. She felt as if she’d been drugged, and her eyelids seemed weighted. And so she kept her vigil, pistols lying dense in her lap, one damp palm resting lightly on each handle. When at last, in the midst of an oasis of quiet, someone tried the door, Phoebe started violently. One of the guns crashed to the floor, and she braced herself for an explosion, but there was none. Nor was there time to retrieve the lost pistol. She raised herself to her feet, the remaining one aimed and wavering in both hands, and held her breath.

  A stranger filled the chasm. “Put that thing down before you hurt yourself,” he said.

  A tiny muscle on the inside of Phoebe’s trigger finger twitched, sending a chill down her spine. “Where is my husband?” she demanded.

  “I presume that would be Duncan,” replied the man, stepping into the dust-flecked light streaming through a porthole high overhead. There was something familiar in his manner and his build, though Phoebe was certain she’d never seen him before. In his scuffed boots, dove gray breeches, linen shirt, and tailored waistcoat, he looked more like a gentleman farmer than a pirate, and nothing at all like a British sailor.

  Phoebe swallowed the hard lump that rose in her throat. “Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

  The intruder remained where he was, just over the threshold, but he was clearly not intimidated. No, he was attempting to mollify her, and Phoebe would have been furious if every organ in her body hadn’t already turned to water.

  He grinned, and another stab of familiarity shot through Phoebe, nearly painful in its intensity. She guessed his identity a fraction of a moment before he told her who he was.

  “Lucas Rourke,” he said, extending one gentlemanly hand. “Duncan’s elder brother.”

  Phoebe retreated a step, the weapon trained on Rourke’s midsection. “You’re a Tory,” she said.

  “I regard myself as a patriot,” he replied in a smooth, reasonable voice. He shrugged. “It’s a matter of definition.”

  “Where is Duncan? Did you kill him?”

  “Kill my own brother, misguided though I think he is?” Lucas Rourke rolled his eyes, which, unlike Duncan’s, were brown. Their shape and expression were remarkably similar all the same. “I admit I’ve been tempted on occasion, but I wouldn’t actually follow through. Our mother would be furious.”

  Phoebe glanced uncertainly over his shoulder, for the door still stood open behind him, hoping for some sign of her husband. All she saw were more strangers, broadshouldered men like Lucas.

  “Tell me where Duncan is, or I’ll shoot you,” she said. “I swear it.”

  Lucas smiled reassuringly. Like his brother, he had a set of dazzling teeth. “No need of that, Mistress Rourke,” he said. “Duncan is fine, except for a few bruises.” He looked back at the men crowding the narrow passageway outside. “Bring him in. Gently.”

  A small scuffle ensued, and then Duncan, speechless with rage, hands bound behind him, was shoved into the chamber.

  Lucas looked at him with a sort of disapproving affection and clucked his tongue. “Brave to a fault,” he muttered. “It would behoove you, Brother, to learn prudence. Even cowardice has its place.”

  Phoebe lowered the pistol, staring at Duncan, wanting to rush forward to set him free, knowing the effort would be useless and perhaps even fatal. “Shall I shoot him?” she asked her husband.

  Duncan shocked her with a low, hoarse burst of laughter. “God, what a wonder you are. No, love—you mustn’t deprive me of the aspirations that sustain me.”

  She glanced uncertainly at Lucas, who stood with his arms folded, unruffled and unperturbed. He surely hadn’t taken part in the messy conquest of the Francesca— no doubt he was strictly management. “But …?”

  “My brother will do you no harm, Phoebe,” Duncan said gently. “For all that he’s a bungler and an idiot, with a head like the top of a newel post and all the political sophistication of the scarecrow in our mother’s garden, I’ve never known him to rob, rape, or pillage.”

  Lucas crossed the small cabin and took the pistol from Phoebe’s hands. She was lightheaded with confusion and fear.

  “Sit down,” Lucas said, taking her arm and squiring her to the bed. When she was settled nervously on its edge, his gaze skirting his furious brother, he spoke to his henchmen. “Leave us.”

  One lingered. “Shall we set a course for Charles Town, sir?”

  “You know the plan,” Lucas replied wearily, with a small sigh.

  Phoebe’s heart had risen to her throat, where it thrummed softly, like a moth imprisoned in a walnut shell. Duncan faced his brother, his stance every bit as arrogant as if he were still free and in control.

  “What happened?” Phoebe asked, when neither man spoke. Her eyes were on Lucas. “Was it your ship that overtook us?”

  “Not exactly,” Lucas answered, with a certain reluctance. He had closed and latched the cabin door, and now he leaned against it. Duncan was glaring at him, and he met his brother’s gaze squarely, solemnly, while he made his reply. “We came upon the battle—which you were losing, may I say—and interceded. The offenders were routed.”

  A muscle leaped in Duncan’s jawline, and he strained at his bonds. He must have known it was hopeless—even Phoebe could see that—but he couldn’t help the attempt, being who he was. “All right,” he said, in a tone wicked for its chamois softness. “You saved me, Lucas. You saved us all. Now if you will be so kind as to untie my hands, get back on your own ship, and leave me to my business …”

  “Sorry,” Lucas said with a note of what sounded like genuine regret. “I have orders from our esteemed father to bring you to Charles Town, forthwith.”

  “We were on our way there anyway,” Phoebe pointed out, brightening.

  The look Duncan hurled in her direction caused her to slump slightly.

  “Is that true, Duncan?” Lucas asked, moving to stand close to his brother. Closer, in fact, than Phoebe would have done, considering Duncan’s current state of mind. “Were you going home?”

  Duncan stared at him in stubborn silence for a long time, but finally, in low, grating words that Phoebe had to strain to hear, he replied. “Not in the way you mean. Phillippa wrote that Father had been unwell. I meant to look in on him, like a dutiful son, and leave again.”

  Phoebe thought she saw Lucas’s broad shoulders sag slightly, but she couldn’t read him because his face was turned from view. “I dare say he’ll be glad to see you,” he said. “It would have been better, of course, if you’d come of your own accord.”

  “I tried,” Duncan growled. A vein in his forehead was pulsing, an indication that the new stillness in his manner was not to be trusted. “How is Father?”

  “He’s old,” Lucas said forthrightly. “And he’s fragile. The war is hard on him, and having you turn traitor is worse still.”

  “Beware of words such as ‘traitor,’” Duncan warned softly. “They’re as deadly as an overheated cannon.”

  Lucas sighed and turned away from Duncan to plunder a cabinet. He found liquor and a glass and poured a drink, whi
ch he offered to Phoebe.

  She could certainly have used it, but she shook her head, mindful of the baby. Her brother-in-law favored her with a cordial nod and a slight bow and turned again toward Duncan, raising the whiskey to his lips as he regarded his brother.

  “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to let you go,” he said, as though it were the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He uttered yet another lengthy sigh. “Great Apollo, it will be like letting a copperhead out of a tobacco pouch.”

  “True,” Duncan said. His whisper had a bite to it, like the sound of a whip drawn back swiftly.

  Phoebe, somewhat recovered by then, rose to her feet in the interest of peace and went to stand between the two men.

  “The solution is simple,” she said. “Lucas, you will take your crew and leave the Francesca, immediately. Once you’ve gone, I’ll set Duncan free. That way, no one will get hurt.”

  Lucas chuckled, though he was looking at Duncan and not her. “That’s a fine idea,” he said. “Would that I could trust my brother to proceed to Charles Town as planned, but I can’t. Therefore—”

  “But we are going there,” Phoebe said quickly. She turned, gazing up into Duncan’s eyes. “We are, aren’t we?”

  “Of course,” Duncan drawled, returning his brother’s stare. “How else will I have my revenge?”

  Now it was Phoebe who sighed. “Can’t we forget that? Your father has been sick, Duncan. Lucas was only trying to make sure you visited him. And as for you, Lucas Rourke—your methods of persuasion leave something to be desired.”

  “I am properly chagrined,” Lucas said, the splayed fingers of one well-shaped but calloused hand spread fanlike over his heart. “I’m sure you will concede, however, that something more than common persuasion is required when dealing with the likes of my brother.”

  Phoebe put her hands on her hips and assessed Duncan ruefully. “There’s no possible way I can deny that,” she admitted.

  “Stand back,” Lucas told her in a cordial tone, taking a small knife with a jet handle from a sheath inside his coat. “I’m about to open the tobacco sack.”

  Duncan stood ominously still while his brother severed the rawhide ties that bound his wrists together. Phoebe watched with wide eyes, her breath stopping up her lungs, as an almost imperceptible ripple moved through Duncan’s powerful frame, reminding her of a panther stretching outside the door of its cage.

  He rubbed one wrist and then the other, but the cabin fairly vibrated with the undercurrent of his anger.

  “Get off my ship,” he told his brother, just when Phoebe could bear the suspense no longer. “I will come to Charles Town in my own good time, and not as your prisoner.”

  Lucas narrowed his eyes and rubbed his square chin with one hand. “Try to see this from my point of view,” he said. “And Father’s. If we detain you in our custody until after the rebellion has been put down, you won’t be shot during one of your infernal raids or hanged by the King’s men. Our aim, quite simply, is to save your life.”

  Duncan ran a forearm across his mouth. “Yes. I would live to a great age, no doubt, hating the pair of you with every breath I drew.”

  Phoebe saw the logic behind Lucas’s and their father’s plan, even though she knew it would never work. Cautiously, she laid a hand on Duncan’s arm. “You’re both wrong,” she said quietly, turning her gaze to Lucas’s face. “The one thing Duncan treasures most is his freedom. You might just as well cut his throat, right here and now, as lock him up somewhere.”

  Lucas’s nod was so slight as to be almost imperceptible. “Yes,” he said gruffly, “I suppose that’s true.” He looked into Duncan’s blue eyes, which were still blazing with suppressed outrage. “Do I have your word that you’ll come home and speak to Father straightaway?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said evenly. “My wife will be my bond.”

  Phoebe frowned. “What?”

  Duncan took her elbow and gave her a subtle push toward his brother. “I needn’t tell you how many perils lie between here and the Carolina coast,” he told Lucas. “Phoebe will be safer with you.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, only to have Duncan press an index finger against her lips.

  “No arguments,” he said. “Please.”

  Phoebe muttered a swearword. She wanted to stay with Duncan, wanted that more than anything, but she knew he was right. Lucas’s ship was obviously well armed, and that alone would deter most pirates. The British navy wouldn’t bother him because he was known for his loyalty to the Crown.

  “What about you?”

  Duncan smiled, smoothing her hair with a light gesture of one hand. “I’ll be along, Phoebe,” he promised. “Just as soon as I’ve recovered my dignity.”

  Tears burned behind Phoebe’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. The awareness that she might never see Duncan again was bitterly poignant; she felt it in every tuck and corner of her heart. She laid one hand on his chest. “I love you,” she whispered.

  He bent his head, touched her mouth with his. Then, straightening again, he gave her a long, searching look. “Be careful,” he said. With that, he was gone, and the separation, for Phoebe, was a wrenching one.

  She left Duncan’s ship for Lucas’s a few minutes later, with her trunkful of secondhand belongings, and stood at the rail, staring back at the Francesca, trying her best to be brave, as the Charles Town Princess sailed on a tide crimson with sunset. The Francesca followed them slowly out of the cove.

  Phoebe remained where she was until darkness fell. They were on the open sea by that time, and Lucas pried her gently from her post and squired her into a brightly lit dining room. Luscious smells made the air savory, and Phoebe’s stomach rumbled.

  Servants bustled about as Lucas seated his sister-in-law at the largest table and then took the chair across from hers.

  “I won’t pretend I approve of how you’ve handled things up to now,” Phoebe said straight out.

  Lucas smiled, shook out a linen napkin, and spread it in his lap. “If you’re referring to Duncan’s wounded pride, I would advise you not to fret. My brother is the most resilient man I have ever known and is at this moment, I assure, laying plans to repay me for my transgression.”

  A black man in pristine white clothes brought a platter of roasted meat to the table, followed by a bowl of mashed potatoes, green beans boiled with bacon and onion, and a carafe of wine.

  Phoebe was glad her principles did not require her to forego the meal; the events of the afternoon and evening had taken a toll on her system, and she was starving. She helped herself to vegetables, a heap of potatoes, and a thin slice of meat. She was well aware, all along, that she should have waited for her “host” to serve her. Etiquette, the eighteenth-century variety or otherwise, was beyond her.

  “This had better not be a trick,” she warned, after swallowing a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  Apparently reflecting on her remark, Lucas filled his wineglass and signaled the waiter, who hovered a few yards away. Only moments passed before the steward appeared with water for Phoebe.

  “Thank you,” she said, and the man inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before walking away. When he was gone, she leaned forward and spoke in a lowered voice. “Is that poor man a slave?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucas replied. “He came with the vessel.”

  “This isn’t your ship?”

  “Of course not.” He began cutting a slice of roasted meat into small, precise pieces. “I’m a planter. Duncan is the only seagoing man in our family. And the Rourkes do not keep slaves.”

  “How did you know where to find him? Duncan, I mean?”

  “I didn’t,” Lucas answered in his own good time. He was obviously one of those people who like to have everything on their plate arranged just so before they start eating. Phoebe was already half finished and thinking about seconds. “It was a happy accident—for all of us, as it happens—although I knew, of course, that Duncan frequents this part of the
Caribbean Sea.”

  Phoebe laid down her fork, her appetite forgotten. “Someone told you.”

  Lucas gave her a rueful look. “No one needed to do that,” he said. “My brother is the object of a dozen warrants. The British want to hang him.”

  The reminder made Phoebe’s stomach churn. “How can you possibly take their side against Duncan,” she asked, “when you know what the English did to him before?”

  He pushed his plate away. “He told you about that, did he?”

  Phoebe nodded.

  “It’s true that Sheffield’s actions were unconscionable,” Lucas admitted, and the pallor beneath his tan told Phoebe he was remembering the day Duncan had been whipped in vivid, bloody detail. “On the other hand, Duncan knew better, even at fifteen, than to”—he paused to clear his throat, and a faint blush pulsed on his cheekbones—“than to be—er—intimate with another man’s wife. Few things wound more deeply than that.”

  “He was fifteen years old,” Phoebe insisted. “He might have been grounded, or sent to bed without his supper. But whipped? An animal shouldn’t be treated that way, let alone a human being!”

  Lucas had gotten snagged further back. “ ’Grounded’? What the deuce does that mean? It sounds absolutely brutal.”

  Phoebe had almost forgotten, by that point, that she was a time traveler, and had lived a very different life in another world. “Never mind,” she said.

  “No, please—I’m curious. Tell me.”

  She bit her lower lip. A thorough explanation would involve things she didn’t really want to go into—she’d have to tell him about airplanes, and how the term “grounded” meant they couldn’t fly, for one reason or another. Even if she managed to steer Lucas past the concept of flying machines, he still might not see the correlation between keeping planes on the ground and making a kid stay home as punishment.

  “It’s a colloquialism,” she said lamely, because she knew Lucas would insist on some definition. “Meaning Duncan couldn’t go out for a few weeks or so.”

  Lucas frowned. “That would hardly have served as chastisement,” he replied. “He’d have slept and read, indulged his penchant for music, and bedeviled the servants the whole while.”