Quinn felt the sting of tears come to her eyes. “What I appear to be is someone whose dearest friend was taken by pirates, and the only way to get her back, to keep the promise I made her, is to become one of them. The rest is a moot point.”
“And what if you don’t find her? What then? How long will you continue this ruse?”
“I won’t ever stop looking, Ken. You know me. You know what a promise means to me. Shea would never stop if I were taken. Nor shall I.” Quinn started back for the barn. “I need my clothes. One male outfit and one of my dresses.”
Following behind her, Kennedy had to hike up her skirts to keep up. “Why on earth do you need those? One guise isn’t enough?”
Quinn stopped so suddenly that Kennedy ran into her. “Ken, I don’t expect you to understand any of this, but what I feel—for the first time in my life—is freedom. Freedom to be who I really am.”
“That’s just it! You are not being who you really are! You aren’t a man, Quinn Gallagher! You are being a... a... ”
“You can say it.”
“A bloody pirate! That’s not who you are.”
“Kennedy, right now, I am freer than I’ve ever been. That bodice you wear that chokes the life out of you? It might as well be chains that bind you. Heavy chains. I wear no such thing. I can be invisible or visible, as I wish. There is very little I cannot do dressed like this.” Quinn pointed to her leather jerkin and boots. “I do not know if I can ever go back to all... that,” she said, waving her hand in the air toward Kennedy and her layers of petticoats.
Kennedy looked down at her dress and then up at Quinn. “I have always loved you, Quinn, for the odd being that you are. And while I hope this madness brings you home, I cannot, for the life of me, see you chained in dresses you hate, speaking in a manner that has never suited you, or behaving in a way that is the antithesis of your character. That being said, just know my... issues... lie with not wishing to lose my friend in all this.” She mimicked the way Quinn’s hands had flown at her. “Do not lose my Quinn by becoming someone else’s Kieran.”
“Fair enough. I will remember the essence of who I am while slitting some other pirate’s throat.” Quinn took Kennedy’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Now, show me where those outfits are, and tell me everything that’s been happening in the village.”
“Everything?”
Quinn looped her arm through Kennedy’s as they had done thousands of times as little girls. “Everything.”
***
The whole ride back the next day, Kennedy’s words echoed in Quinn’s ears. She never expected Kennedy or anyone else to understand how she felt in men’s clothing. It was liberating, to say the least, and exhilarating most of the time, but there was something... something so very different about it.
Still, she understood Kennedy’s point. Kennedy didn’t wish to gain a pirate if it meant losing a dear friend. Not that she would ever lose Quinn. The two of them and Shea were bound for life––bound by the old clan ways. Nothing would change that––not time, not distance, and not Elizabeth, though not for lack of trying.
As Quinn rode and the fresh air streamed by her face, she smiled. Riding a horse was much like standing on the bow of their ship and feeling the salt air upon her face. It was as close to flying as a person could come. She loved that feeling––loved the freedom that came with it
So much of her journey had brought unanticipated joy. She discovered a perverse pleasure in the clashing of swords in a fight. The way the metal sang after being struck. She enjoyed the sense of belonging she’d never felt back home where she felt isolated and alone, with only Kennedy and Shea to keep her company. She had nothing but the fondest of memories of her times with her two best friends. They were wonderful women.
But they were not enough.
The life of a noblewoman wasn’t just boring. It was predictable and tedious. Who wanted to spend their days sewing and learning French? Who wanted to sit inside looking out at the sun instead of being out there in it, digging her hands in the dirt? It had been an easy life, yes, but Quinn had felt trapped. Bound in clothes that were too tight in a system that kept her tied to customs she didn’t wish to be in, Quinn had begun hating her life.
Not now. Not on this ship with these rabble-rousers.
On the ship, she was in the mix, working shoulder to shoulder, side by side with the rest of the crew. They, for the most part and with few exceptions, accepted her; they––
Before Quinn could think another thought, her horse slowed down. That’s when she saw them.
Highwaymen.
Quinn pulled back on the reins and slid off, both swords drawn before her feet hit the ground. Fighting, it seemed, came as naturally to her now as breathing. “Ya don’t want ta do this, fellas,” she said as the four men tried to surround her. “Unless ya want ta make widows of yer wives.”
“We just want yer purse, fella. Hand it over and nobody has ta get hurt.”
“Oh, somebody is going ta get hurt, all right.” Quinn took up her fighting stance, both swords at the ready. “Far better men have tasted my blade, lads, so I’ll give ya one chance ta step away ta live fer tomorrow, or ya will all die at the hands of one of Captain O’Malley’s finest today.”
All four men stopped moving.
“Did ya say yer on the crew a’ the Malendroke?”
Quinn nodded. “That I am.”
They looked at each other.
“Well, go on,” a short, stocky man said, sheathing his short sword. “That’d be better than a few silver pieces.”
A thick, dwarfish-looking man with a full black beard and huge head of hair cleared his throat. The man had practically no neck, no waist, and what looked like short tree trunks for legs.
“We’d be inclined ta let ya live if ya could get us an invitation ta join yer crew.”
Quinn lowered her blades slightly. “Wait. Now ya want a job? I’d rather ya try and take my purse.”
The stump of a man looked to his friends and shrugged. “If he’s from the Mal, chances are he’s a good fighter, and he don’t seem ta be unwillin’ ta face the four a’ us.”
“We’re good workers and loyal men,” one of them said, returning his sword to his belt. “We can fight, and we can work hard.”
Quinn stared at them.
Another thing that took some getting used to was how two men could punch the shite out of each other and then go have an ale like nothing happened. Men, like elephants, had very short memories.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Quinn replied. “The four of ya need a leader. And a bath. I shall talk ta my captain tomorrow. Be at the dock at dawn and wait. Do not be drunk.”
All four nodded.
“Ya got a name?” Quinn asked the dwarfish-looking one.
“Me name is Fitz. That’s Simon, Tevin, and Ewan.”
“Well, Fitz, it looks like we are all going ta live ta see the sunrise.” Quinn slowly returned her swords to their sheaths. “At dawn, then. Don’t be late. The captain is a stickler about time.”
Mounting the mare, Quinn rode the rest of the way while thinking about the crew.
Everyone needed a place to belong. It was the reasons for clans and tribes. She had found a home in the unlikeliest of places, and now she’d opened the door to that home to four hooligans.
She could only hope Grace O’Malley would approve.
***
The next morning at dawn, Quinn made her way to the dock and was surprised to see all four highwaymen waiting for her. They appeared sober and ready for work and had even cleaned up a bit.
“Right on time.”
Fitz nodded deferentially. “Yessir. The Shanahans understand the importance a’ sunup.”
Quinn tilted her head at him. “All four of ya are brothers?”
“Brothers? Hell, no. Cousins.”
“Well then, I’ll speak with the captain and see what she says. Ya ever served under a woman?”
“No sir. We heard Captain O’Malley is hard
but fair.”
“That she is. Ya wait here. If she wishes ta interview ya, I’ll return. Until then––”
Suddenly, all four men turned from her. When Quinn followed their gaze, she realized it was to stare after a beautiful woman walking toward them with a basket of fruit.
“What are ya doing down here so early in the morning?” Quinn asked as Moire handed her the basket.
“Word has it ya have quite a taste fer oranges. I wanted ta make sure ya had some fer yer next voyage.”
Quinn turned to the four men. “Stop yer gawking before I pull yer eyes out.”
The four men looked away.
“Ya did not have ta come all the way down here.”
“I know. I wanted ta.” Moire picked up an orange and smelled it. “Think a’ me when yer eatin’ ’em.”
The four men chuckled.
Quinn ignored them. “I will definitely do that, sweet thing. I appreciate it.”
“Any idea when ya will be back?”
“None. Captain O’Malley is quite busy keeping the English at bay, and I have my own business ta tend ta, so I cannot be certain.”
Moire stood on tiptoe to kiss Quinn’s cheek. “Soft as a baby’s bum,” she whispered wonderingly. “Stay safe.”
When Moire was gone, Quinn turned her attention back to the Shanahans. “Speak one word and I’ll kill ya all where ya stand.”
The four men bowed their heads slightly, but she could still hear them chuckling under their breath.
When the Malendroke anchored in the bay, Quinn realized Grace was being more cautious than usual and had stationed guards at the bottom of the ramp as well as at the top. After the O’Donnells had tried boarding, it was safe to say the wise captain was taking no chances until things calmed down a bit.
Quinn watched with not a little admiration as Grace handed a shilling each to the little children that hung around, which they eagerly took before scurrying away. The woman was well loved, and acts of kindness like that were one reason why. Grace O’Malley loved her people, and in return they not only loved her back, they adored her and protected her.
As she strode down the dock, head high, shoulders back, Grace’s keen eyes scanned the morning crowd for any sign of hostile potentials. She was always on alert.
Quinn knew it was force of habit. Had there been any rapscallions on the dock who looked suspicious, the people would have torn them to shreds. The only reason the O’Donnells had gotten through was that they came in numbers and in a manner most threatening.
“Callaghan!” Grace said jubilantly, her face lighting up. “Was that a woman smoochin’ on yer face? Ya been busy catterwallin’ ’round, I see! Good fer ya.” Grace suddenly whirled around at Fitz. “And what have we here? A litter a’ pups?”
“These men wish ta join up with us.”
Grace pulled a face. “And why would I let them do that?” Her head swiveled back to Quinn. “We are not a charity wagon, Callaghan.”
“They’re highwaymen.”
Grace’s face softened with something akin to delight. “Are they now?”
Fitz nodded. He was nearly two hands shorter than she and twice as wide. “Aye, Captain. We are good fighters, we work hard, and––”
“Shanahans, aye?”
Fitz blinked.
Grace grinned. “What? Ya think I only know what happens on the sea? I know everrathin’ that goes on in this county. Now... which a’ ya are Shamus’s kin?”
Fitz raised his hand slowly.
Grace studied him a moment, her presence growing larger with every passing second. “I hope yer a better card player than yer da.” She turned now to Quinn. “Ya vouch fer these men?”
“Hell no. I figured putting them ta work was preferable ta killing them.”
One of the men snorted.
Grace pushed her face into his. “Perhaps ya are not aware a’ how lucky ya are ta still be alive. I fight next ta Callaghan, and I can say with one hundred percent assurance that he would have killed two a’ ya, maimed the third, and wounded the final one as ya were runnin’ away like a little girl. So, the next time any one a’ ya snorts, chuckles, or blows wind in Callaghan’s direction, he has my orders ta run ya through. Understood?”
Four heads bobbed up and down vigorously.
“Good. Callaghan, these men will be under yer supervision.”
“My––”
Grace held her hand up. “Ya brought ’em ta me, ya are responsible fer ’em. They can start off in the galley. Except this one,” she said, motioning to Simon, who had snorted the loudest. “He can start by swabbin’ the deck.”
Quinn pushed Fitz toward the small boat. “Wait on the dock.”
Grace smiled as they hustled by her. “Highwaymen, Callaghan? Whatever were ya doin’ on the highway?”
“I have friends in the country,” Quinn said.
Grace tossed her head back and laughed loudly. “Another woman, I daresay.” Then she took a closer look at the basket. “Ah yes, young Callaghan, it was definitely a woman.”
***
The Queen of England, Elizabeth the bastard child, will not recognize Grace O’Malley as the queen of Umaill, even though there have been kings of Umaill since the eighth century. Ever since Henry VIII claimed himself as King of Ireland, we’ve known the dangers of the Tudors. Elizabeth is a threat to Ireland and Scotland. She is like a greedy child who, having something in both hands, still wants to reach for the candy on the ground.
And her reach is long.
Already, she has sent governors and ambassadors here to keep a watchful eye on us. Those men she sends have caused us nothing but trouble.
I worry more English ships will be sent from Elizabeth in an attempt to subdue us. Grace has remarked on more than one occasion that she wants a free Ireland for her sons and isn’t afraid of fighting Elizabeth’s men to keep that freedom.
I fear for Grace and the rest of us if we go up against the Virgin Queen. She has spies everywhere and would not hesitate to come after us. She fears the Catholics more than anyone else, and with Spain and Scotland on our side, I believe she fears us as well.
Speaking of fear, my heart goes out to Patrick––he who is far more genteel than I ever could be. He swabs the deck like he is cleaning horse stalls. He is lazy when we spar, and he is subdued when we are at play. The sea threatens to chew him up or swallow him whole––either way, he is, quite frankly, a fish out of water. He’s never had the stomach for cruelty of any kind, and yet here we are in the cruelest profession of them all.
I need to find a way to cut him loose so he may return home to the safety and comfort of country living where he belongs.
I seek no such solace. I have chosen adventure over boredom, excitement over the mundane. Even if I can never show my true gender, it will be worth it––the life I have lived this last month is already worth it.
Is it frightening?
Yes. Exhilaratingly so.
And yet I would not trade it for all the gowns in Galway. Today, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
***
The Malendroke had been patrolling the eastern coast of Ireland, the coast the English ships liked to frequent, in order to come upon information Grace was in search of. For three days, it had just been them and the sea, which was slapping hard at the sides of the ship and acting up like a petulant child. The sea was like that, Quinn had discovered. It had emotions you could read as easily as those on the face of a woman. It could be at peace, angry, even melancholy. Learning how to read the next emotion was what made Grace such a good captain.
On the fourth day, Grace commanded her men to grab a wooden sword and commence to practicing.
Innis tossed one to Quinn. “What say ya, Callaghan? Want a chance ta best yer better?”
Quinn snatched the sword from the air and glanced around. “But of course, as soon as he arrives.” Quinn had always gotten the distinct impression that Innis despised her—though she couldn’t imagine why. She didn’t be
lieve him choosing her as a sparring partner was coincidence for even a moment.
The group of thirty men roared at the dismissal.
Innis’s face reddened. “We shall see who’s laughin’ when we finish.”
Patrick picked up a sword. “Leave him be, Innis. Take me on instead.”
“Ya can’t keep protectin’ yer little brother, Patrick. It’s high time he learned the peckin’ order around here.”
So that was it. He was sore that Quinn, and not he, was put in charge of the four highwaymen.
Quinn stepped up. “And who better ta teach me than a pecker like ya?”
The men roared once more as Innis’s face turn deep red.
Grace held her hands up. “Enough. I want all a’ ya on deck with a sword. Fight compact. Fight thinkin’ yer brother is right behind ya or on the side a’ ya. I’ll have no blood drawn on our men by my own crew. I will not abide such sloppiness.”
Grace waited for every man to hold up a wooden sword, and then she held her arm in the air. “Compact. Quick. Move on. The dead drop where ya might. No one ever fights on a clean deck.” Dropping her arm, she signaled for the fight to begin.
Quinn barely managed to get her sword up to meet Innis’s, which crashed down on hers with more force than was necessary.
“Jesus, Innis,” Quinn grumbled, sidestepping his next attack.
“He can’t help ya this time, Callaghan.”
Quinn parried, then followed up with a forearm to his throat to get him off her.
“Yer lucky I only fight with one sword today, Innis, or instead of a forearm, it would have been my second blade at yer throat.”
Innis’s face got redder, and he flung himself at Quinn with all his fury.
Quinn parried, parried, parried, and then caught his sword just as it was coming toward her face. The two wooden swords shook as each tried to press for advantage.
Quite suddenly, someone backed into Quinn, causing her to lose balance. Innis’s wooden sword pushed past hers, striking her on the forehead and cutting open her left eyebrow.
Quinn recovered before Innis could land a second blow. She lunged at him.
The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1) Page 5
