He deflected her sword easily and punched Quinn right in the chest. Staggering back, she just managed to block an attack that hit her sword so hard, it knocked it out of her hand.
Instead of waiting for her to retrieve it, as were the ship’s practice rules, Innis raised his sword as if to strike the unarmed Quinn.
That bastard, she thought to herself as she scrambled madly for her sword. She’d never reach it in time.
Out of nowhere came a hand that nearly looked like that of an ape––hair all the way down to the last knuckle adorned the thick fingers that wrapped around Innis’s wrist and spun him around.
“Too eager ta finish off yer man is one surefire way a’ makin’ this yer last fight.”
When Innis was completely turned around, the large, hairy fist shot out and crushed his nose flat against his face. Blood went everywhere.
It was Fitz.
Innis’s men, seeing only that Fitz had broken Innis’s nose, dropped their weapons and rushed the Shanahans.
It was over before it started, as the Shanahans and the Callaghans, being far more comfortable with fist fights than with swords, wiped the deck with those left standing after the initial sword play.
“That will be enough!” Grace commanded when the last of Innis’s men landed on the deck. Striding over to the pile of men holding various parts of their faces, Grace turned to Quinn. “What did I tell ya about keepin’ control over yer men?”
Quinn wanted to say, “My men?” But she did not. That would have been a feminine reply. Instead, she looked at Fitz, specks of blood on his face, and said, “Ya told me I was ta keep a firm leash on them, sir, and keep them out of trouble.”
Grace cast a look of disgust at Innis. “And?”
Quinn looked around at twenty pairs of eyes staring at her. She suddenly realized she could not see out of her left eye. “And I suppose we should have defined trouble, sir. The way I see it, they protected me only when the fight became unfair. Is that not what ya’d have us do?”
No one moved.
Few breathed.
“So yer defendin’ the Shanahans?” Grace folded her arms across her chest.
Quinn looked from Grace to Fitz and back again. “No, Captain, I am defending my crew members who saw an unfair advantage and stepped in to level the ground.” Quinn threw her shoulders back, ready for her punishment. “I’ll not reward loyalty with cowardice, no matter what the punishment. They came ta aid me, as they should. Fer that, I am grateful.”
The deck was silent but for the ever-present creaking of wood.
“The only thing keepin’ ya out a’ trouble, Callaghan, is yer quick wit and yer wise words. Yer right. We do not reward loyalty with cowardice on this ship. Now, everraone fight a partner again. Not ya, Gimp. I don’t want ya gettin’ hurt.”
Gimp nodded and limped away to the sidelines.
Grace reached for Quinn’s wooden sword and handed it to her before turning to the waiting crewmembers. “Let that be the lesson a’ the day, lads. We’re family on this here ship. And family protects its kin. Do I hear a huzzah?”
The crew broke into a resounding “Huzzah!”
“Excellent! Now get back ta work.” Grace looked at Quinn’s busted eyebrow and said, “Murph, take Callaghan below and stitch him up.” Grace took two steps before turning back. “Yer fast on yer feet and even faster with yer mouth, Callaghan. I’ll give ya that much. I’m thinkin’ that’ll come in handy one day.”
In the galley kitchen, Murphy used a curved fishhook with fishing line to pull closed the chasm cutting her eyebrow in half. “Ya will have a mighty decent scar, but the good news is ya can make up any story about it ya wish.”
“Make up a story?” Quinn winced as the hook bit into her. “A story?”
“Aye. Yer sittin’ with a beautiful woman and she takes her little finger and runs it along yer brow and asks ya with that sweet little voice what happened. Ya certainly don’t tell her the truth. Ya tell a great tale. Ya weave a story. Yer a hero. She gets all cozy... ya know how the rest plays out.”
Quinn winced again as the fishing line pulled through her eyebrow. “Bloody hell, Murph.”
“Oh, pipe down, lad. It’ll be over in no time.”
Quinn gritted her teeth as the hook bit into her once more.
“Yer four troublemakers were a good find. That dark one, Fitz, moved like an angry snake the second yer face was hit.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, aye. He came through the crew like a shark cuts through water. It was a sight. There wasn’t a damn thing ennabody could’ve done ta stop him, either. Rolled over two men who got in his way.”
“Odd.”
“Odd as hell that he’d take on Innis. Innis is a great swordsman. Yer man should’ve hesitated even a bit, but he did not.”
“And yer telling me this because... ”
“Because loyalty isna somethin’ that can be bullied, bought, or borrowed. I know the four are a pain in yer arse, but give the lads a wee bit of a break.” Murphy tied off the end of the fishing line and then cut off the rest. “They might just be what ya need the next time someone bigger and stronger than ya bears down. Keep that in mind.”
“Thank ya, Murph.”
Murphy stood back and studied her, tilting his head from side to side.
“What?”
“Not many men know those two words.”
“Yeah, well, men can be jackasses. I am not one of those. It can’t be easy cooking fer two hundred ugly men.”
Murphy laughed a lion’s roar. “It’s much easier than ya think, lad. Ya will eat just about ennathin’ I throw in front a’ ya. Feedin’ dogs is harder than feedin’ this crew.”
Quinn rose. Her eyebrow throbbed. “I do not doubt that. I hope my four are a bonus.”
“Captain O’Malley believes the English will be floodin’ onto our lands more and more. The plantation scheme a’ King Henry is still bein’ carried out. His bastard daughter is still transplantin’ her people over here, and we canna seem ta stop it. That’s bad business fer us. That’s why them four’s a good choice. We’re gonna need fightin’ men.”
Quinn adjusted her belt and ran her fingers gingerly over her throbbing eyebrow. “It’s nothing short of a peaceful invasion, Murph.”
“Aye. Captain’s gonna need a translator ta deal with the English and the plantation folk and I suggested ya oughta be the one.”
“Me? Why on earth would ya suggest me?”
“I’ve a keen ear, lad, and somethin’ tells me ya understand that horrible language they speak... among others. I heard yer French the other day, and it was passable. I’m guessin’ ya know yer English as well.”
“I can understand a little.” Which was not altogether untrue. Quinn was fluent in French, English, and Latin, as were most of the noble ladies.
“Good. A little is all she needs.”
Quinn nodded, somewhat surprised by how aware Murphy seemed about the state of affairs. “The fate of our language and our way of livin’ is being cut down by the ever-growing power of the English state here in Ireland,” Quinn acknowledged. “This is what the captain fears most. Elizabethan officials fancy the use of Irish Gaelic unfavorably, as if it were a threat ta all things English in Ireland. It’s a bad omen.”
“Aye. When the day comes and she needs an interpreter, be that man fer her, Callaghan. Don’t let her be outwitted because she doesna know the language.”
Quinn nodded. “I’ll be that man, then.”
Murphy smiled. “Aye. Be that man.”
***
Quinn scanned the seats of rowers and found Fitz pulling and pushing his oar with a brute strength few of the crew possessed.
“Fitz?”
Fitz glanced over at her. “Aye?”
Quinn knelt down to talk to him. “Ya were a good man today. I just wanted ya ta know I appreciate what ya did.”
Fitz fiddled with his oar. “Innis needed ta bleed a little bit. He needed ta know what happens when an all
y a’ the Shanahan clan is attacked fer no good reason. I don't know about yer people, Callaghan, but we take care a’ ours. We appreciate what ya done fer us bringin’ us on and all. Our loyalty is ta ya first, the crew second.”
Quinn grinned. “I like that. I like that verra much.”
As Quinn started to return to her hammock, Captain O’Malley motioned to her. “Inside.”
Quinn hesitated. She had never been called into the captain’s quarters before and assumed she was probably in some sort of trouble over the fight with Innis.
Hustling over, Quinn entered Grace O’Malley’s quarters for the first time.
Closing the door behind her, Grace motioned for Quinn to take a seat at a small wooden table that had seen better days. The room, while not feminine in the least, still seemed cozy somehow with a bed, the table, and a rack of weapons fit for a pirate. Candles adorned the walls in sconces that gave the captain’s quarters the feel of home.
Grace strode across the tiny room in three steps, remaining standing with her hands locked behind her. “Ya fought well against Innis. He fancies himself the best swordsman on the water.”
“He is quite good.”
A slight frown flickered over Grace’s face; then, as quickly as it came, it went. “I can’t put me finger on it, Callaghan, but yer not like the other men on this ship.”
Quinn’s chest tightened. “Is it that obvious?”
Grace tossed her head back and laughed her infectious laugh. “Ennaone who stops ta listen ta ya long enough can see that ya are not born a’ the lowlands.” Grace pulled the chair out, turned it around, and straddled it. “But I am not so much interested in where ya’ve come from, Callaghan, as I am where yer headed. Why are ya livin’ on a pirate ship? Who are ya runnin’ from, and are they gonna be a problem fer me down the line?”
“From? No one, sir. In fact, I am running ta someone.”
“Ah. A’ course. A woman. The men tell me yer quite the ladies’ man.”
Quinn shrugged. “Not just enna woman, Captain. The woman closest ta my heart.”
“Why dontcha humor old Grace and fill me in on what I’m missin’.”
Inhaling deeply, Quinn told her tale. “My friend’s name is Shea O’Brian. She is my oldest and dearest friend. We were in our village early one morning ta get the best bread. A gang of hoodlums snatched her up, took her ta their ship, and cast off before ennaone could stop them.”
“Yer best friend? Are ya in love with the woman?”
Quinn shook her head. “In love with her? No. She’s my best mate. We made a pact when we were children one day when we witnessed some privateers rousting some of the darker villagers. Shea is darker in skin color, and she became verra afraid. So we made a pact. If ennaone ever stole one of us from Ireland, the other two would go after her. I am making good on my promise.”
Grace cocked her head. “Ya continue ta amaze me, Callaghan. Yer on my ship because a’ some childhood pact?”
Quinn looked away. “She’d do as much fer me. If ya don’t––”
Grace raised her hand. “What kind a’ ship?”
Quinn paused. “Sir?”
“What. Kind. Of. Ship?”
“I don’t know. All I can remember, all I could see at the time, was this figurehead.” Quinn pulled out one of her Medusa drawings she kept inside her jerkin.
Grace turned the paper toward her and studied the drawing. “Medusa? Now that is an odd figurehead. I have not seen this before. Are ya certain that was it?”
“Aye. I tried ta get a boat ta take me out ta her, but no one would go. Everraone was afraid.”
“Can’t blame ’em. That figurehead is indeed strange. So ya saw it yerself.”
“Aye. I waited fer the next ship ta dock––”
“And it was mine.”
Quinn nodded. “I made friends with Connor that first night at the tavern. Kept him drinking freely––”
“Because ya have plenty a’ coin. Ya always seem ta have plenty a’ coin.”
Quinn looked into Grace’s eyes and nodded. “How did––”
“Callaghan, I make it my business ta know everra man on my ship. Ya have had a much freer hand with the coin than ennaone else a’ the crew. Verra generous. So, I watched ya and Patrick. At first, I wondered if the brother piece was true, but ya both hold yer swords the same way, yer the same height, it is so clear ya both were trained by the same person, and ya are nearly identical. Then I saw how, even in combat, he has one eye on ya and one on the fight at hand––a verra dangerous position ta be in. Ya oughta tell him that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, my ship came along, Connor spoke fer ya, and here ya are, basically usin’ my ship ta get ya where ya want ta go.”
Quinn lowered her head. Her journey would end at the next port. “Aye.”
“In order ta keep a promise ya made ta a lass ya grew up with.”
“Aye.”
Grace rose quickly. “I should put ya out at the next port, but as long as ya continue ta pull yer weight and fight fer the men aboard my ship, yer welcome ta stay. But ya put yer friend’s safety before my men, and I’ll run ya through before tossin’ ya overboard.”
Quinn’s head shot up. “Thank ya, s––”
“Understand, if ya are a man who doesna need our booty, ya best not let the others know.
Quinn rose. “I won’t.”
“Yer a good fighter, Callaghan. I imagine in that heart a’ yers is a good man as well. I shall keep my eyes and ears open fer signs a’ Medusa.” Grace opened the door. “I’ll keep this conversation between the two a’ us. No one else need know ya are a man a’ means.”
“Thank ya, Captain. I appreciate it.”
Quinn was nearly out the door when Grace said, “One last thing. Is yer friend Shea O’Brian what the English like ta call “Black Irish?’”
Quinn’s mouth opened and hung still for a moment. “Yes, she is. And I cannot abide by that term, Captain. She is an Irish woman. Period.”
Grace nodded. “Good ta know. It will be a few weeks before we head east, but I’m guessin’ they have somethin’ ta do with takin’ yer friend.”
“They, sir?”
“Aye. The corsairs. Some a’ the biggest slavers on the water.”
“Slavers,” Quinn said, realizing for the first time how out of touch the wealthy were. It had never dawned on her that Shea might have been taken as a slave. Suddenly, she felt very afraid for her dear friend.
“Aye, lad. Slavers. And if they have yer friend, ya will most certainly have ta draw blood ta get her back.”
“Blood.”
“And lots a’ it.”
***
Grace stood firm at the bow of the ship even as the Malendroke dipped and rose in its dance with the fickle and tempestuous seas. Lesser men would have lost the contents of their stomachs as the sea rose, rolled, and closed up once again, but not Grace. She loved the ride, loved to be on deck when the seas were churning. Captain O’Malley could shout orders with a voice as booming and loud as the sound of the crashing waves.
She was gaining on them.
“Pull!” she yelled to the men straining at the oars. She would accept nothing less than their best as she pursued her quarry. “Put yer ever-lovin’ backs into it!”
Quinn had never seen her lose when the wind was to their backs.
This particular English ship had wandered too close to Irish shores, so Grace gave chase into the Celtic Sea. As they neared the ship, Quinn realized how low it sat in the water, meaning it had either recently plundered or was carrying goods Grace might want for her own.
There were two possible outcomes: Had it just sacked an Irish village, ship, or other entity, Grace would kill all on board, take the goods, and sink the ship. If it carried English goods, she would either take it or tax it. That was Grace’s way. Take it or tax it—but no one sailed Clew Bay for free unless it was an Irish ship.
Standing on deck and watching as the ship’s bow rose and
fell, rose and fell, Quinn remembered the very first time she’d experienced such movement. Her stomach had leapt into her throat, and she’d spent two days heaving over the side of the ship. It had been a horrific forty-eight hours, and Quinn shuddered at the memory of her sore and empty stomach. Patrick hadn’t fared much better.
“Harder!” Grace commanded.
Water hit the sides as the ship dove deeply into a well before topping over the crest. The sea could, many a time, feel alive and seldom at peace with itself.
Wiping salt water from her eyes, Quinn waited with dozens of other men to see what Grace O’Malley had up her sleeve.
They pressed on for another two hours like this, inching ever closer to a vessel flying the English flag.
When at last the seas began to calm down, Grace strode back and forth across the deck, barking orders and commands to get her closer to the other ship. Her red hair had come out of its tie and whipped around her head like snakes on Medusa.
The resemblance was uncanny and somewhat frightening.
As they neared, the English ship veered to its left. Quinn had learned there was only one reason why a ship would make such a hard turn; they intended on using their cannons.
“Port! Hard port!” Grace cried, sending everyone scuttling around the deck to loosen ropes, tighten sails, swing the jib, and prepare to return fire. But Grace proved to be far more prepared than she seemed. Quinn knew that down below, manning the armory, Mr. Grady, their bad-natured but adept cannoneer, was ordering the first of ten cannons to be fired. When he did, the sound was deafening; the wood of the deck actually shuddered as the cannons recoiled.
Seven of the ten hit their mark.
“Hard port! Hard! Hard! Hard!” Grace yelled.
Quinn smiled at Grace’s maneuver. She hit the English ship and then tried to make the Malendroke perpendicular to it so that they’d be much harder to hit. She had to trust that the men could make it happen... and trust that they understood the consequences of failing to do so.
Grace was successful.
Only two of the English cannons hit their ship, and of the two, the first was a glancing blow.
“Hard port! Harder!”
Pulling hard to the left, the Malendroke sailed once again parallel to the other ship, the cannons of the port side sending the heavy balls into the burning and ruined side of the English vessel, which realized too late that Grace had already beaten them.
The Pirate's Booty (The Plundered Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
