by Lisa Olech
Still, Samantha flitted into his thoughts with surprising regularity. Her kiss had jolted him in more ways than one. He could still taste the sweet fullness of her lips. Remember the narrow span of her waist between his hands and the smell of magnolia in her hair. There was something unique about her that was difficult to name. She was an amazing contrast in contradictions. A gentle Northern English woman with a headstrong American independence. She hid a sharp, delightful wit behind those soft doe-brown eyes, and a decided vulnerability beneath a tempting bit of bravado. An honest truth under the disguise of an unskilled lie. He’d never met anyone like her before.
“Hello, James? Did you hear what I said, or are you dreaming of the fair Lillian and your own imminent death march down the aisle?”
James glared at Ducky. He couldn’t help the twinge of guilt at hearing Lillian’s name. Shouldn’t it be her kisses filling his mind? “I was thinking about the night of the ball.”
“Exactly. I asked about the girl you were dancing with. The one in the hideous mud-plum gown. Dark hair. Slight build. Lovely mouth.”
Were his thoughts that transparent? Ducky had an infuriating knack for reading his mind. “Mistress Christian.” James fingered the sealed document containing his list of conquests. He should forget her and get back to what was important. Ducky’s conversations never strayed too far from some mention of women, however.
“Was that her name?” Ducky cocked an eyebrow. “Caused quite a stir, you dancing with her.” He tsked. “Whatever would Lillian have said?”
“She would have said we have more urgent matters to discuss than balls.” James scowled at Ducky’s adolescent snicker before breaking the seal on the new orders.
Beyond the high windows, the day darkened behind a cloud. James raised the wick of the lamp to read the list before him. The roll of names filled the page, but one stood out, blurred the rest, and caused his stomach to lurch. He lifted the sheet closer to the light and pressed his fingers to ease the crease in the parchment. Perhaps he had read it wrong.
He hadn’t. “Bloody hell.”
Ducky rose and came behind the desk to help himself to more brandy. “What is it?” He peered over James’s shoulder.
“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”
“Doubt it. The British Navy is not known for its humor. What are you finding so funny?”
James handed him the list and poured himself a finger of brandy. “Third line.”
“Bloody hell…” Ducky repeated. His eyebrows reached for his hairline. “Isn’t that…?”
James nodded as the liquor seared a path into his belly. “It is. Father’s old ship. We’ve been ordered to capture the damned Scarlet Night.”
“You know, I heard she’s captained by a woman. This gives the name T. Quinn.” Ducky handed James back the missive. “What does the ‘T’ stand for, I wonder?”
James scowled at the page. “I don’t know. Father passed command of the ship on to a Captain Gavin Quinn decades ago, but I understood he was lost in the earthquake of ninety-two, which brought down Port Royal.”
“So this would be his kin? Sister, daughter, wife?”
“Wife, I imagine. Jamaican, or African. Quinn had strong ties to the African coast. He was a fierce objector to the slave trade. The report says they still frequent the gold coast.”
“Must be a hardened ox of a woman to take command of a ship of thieves.”
“She’d have to be tough, but wives taking their husband’s place are not unheard of. It’s up to the crew to decide if the woman is worthy.”
“The Scarlet has a vicious reputation along the southern routes. T. Quinn’s made quite a success at it. What more do we know of her?”
“Nothing short of her cunning. Over the last few years, she’s been caught dead to rights on numerous occasions, only to slip away at the last moment. The ship is a sloop. Small, but lightning fast. Flaunts red sails and smoke. Crew can’t number more than sixty, but the reports tell of a fierce loyalty. Once they set upon a prey, they’re relentless. I’ve not seen any accounts of outright barbarian behavior unless forced. But once provoked, they give no quarter.”
“Well, she’s never faced down the Lion. I’m almost anxious to see her—the captain and the ship. Isn’t the Scarlet Night where your parents became your parents? Ah, if only those deck boards could talk.” Ducky settled back into his chair.
It was true. His parents told the tale of their meeting and hasty marriage often. As a young lad, it had embarrassed him to no end to hear the story, but now on the threshold of his own marriage, he envied them their romance. He and Lillian’s courtship had been rather cool by comparison, with proper introductions and protocol. His parent’s story was more something of an epic tale, with stowaways, heated passion, evil villains, and heroic ends. Evidently, had it not been for brave “Aunt” Alice, none of them would be alive today.
James proceeded to tell Ducky the tale of Alice Tupper and her brave rescue of his parents one fateful day in a cave along the north shore of Jamaica.
“Growing up, my sister Alicia would beg to hear the story of her namesake.” Alice was a treasured friend from his parent’s tumultuous past. James was convinced, however, the details of her heroism were largely exaggerated for their childish amusement as all fairytales were embellished. Never once could he remember meeting the mythical Alice. He was told she’d sailed off to the colonies when he was still in nappies. To what end, none could say. Aunt Alice had never been heard from again.
Looking at the name, the Scarlet Night, brought back all the stories. Whatever would his parents say when they learned about this? He could almost hear his father’s heated objections.
“Imagine your father’s reaction when you tell him.” Ducky read his mind once more.
“What he has to say is irrelevant. I am an officer. An order is an order. He, more than anyone, drilled a sense of responsibility into me. It is not in my power to do anything less. Nor would I. It is my duty.”
“Brings an interesting question to mind. If your father’s name was on your list…” Ducky pointed with his brandy glass.
James set aside the dictate and gathered the ship’s log to make his daily entry. “Why must you always play devil’s advocate?”
“Because I know you so well. A man more black and white, I have yet to meet.” Ducky returned to his chair. “Perhaps I’m hoping one day you’ll surprise me.”
“Then you know my answer.” James dipped his quill. “No one is more grateful my father is away from that life.”
“You’d arrest him?”
James lifted his gaze. “I’m honor-bound to do my duty.” He swept a hand in Ducky’s direction. “Dammit, I’d arrest you given the order.”
“Bloody hell.” Ducky jerked as if slapped. “Would you be standing there watching when the noose was fitted over my head?”
“I couldn’t go against a command, so yes, I would arrest you.” James held up his hand to stop Ducky from leaping to his feet. “But once done, I would move heaven and earth to earn your release. I’d defend you with my last breath. Cite your loyalty and upstanding character.”
Ducky bit out a sharp laugh. “And you believe that would save my neck?”
“Wouldn’t it?” James went back to his writing.
“What if it didn’t? What then?”
James set aside his quill and rubbed his forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“You’re sending me to the gallows. Answer the damn question.”
“Fine. I would throw myself upon the mercy of the court, and if that failed, I would stand beside you and we could swing together.” Ducky didn’t respond. James held his gaze. “It’s my turn to play the devil and spin the table. Would you arrest me given a direct order to do so?”
Ducky snorted. “No. Of course not.”
“You bloody liar. You’re telling me you would defy the king simply because I’m your friend?”
Duck
y scowled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t need to defy orders. Sainted James Samuel Herbert Steele would never do anything to earn an arrest decree from the king, so the question is moot.”
James grimaced at Ducky’s memory. He regretted telling him his full name all those years ago. Ducky threw it at him often, like a mother scolding an errant child. “This entire conversation is moot.”
“Nay, I find it rather enlightening.” Ducky leaned back and continued to sip at his brandy. “You remain true to character. There is no gray with you, James. Something is either right or it is wrong. Your military career is your highest priority, and you have worked hard to make yourself one of the finest captains in the fleet.” He lifted his glass in salute. “I have much less drive and ambition. However, I respect you highly for your level of commitment, even if it may get me strung up like a butcher’s ham.”
“You make me sound like some coldhearted tin soldier who would hang his own mother.”
“I never said you would hang your mother. God forbid, not her. I’ve carried impure thoughts about that beautiful woman since the day I met her. Hang your father and me perhaps, but, please, never such a stunning creature.” He swirled the brandy in his glass and held it up to the light. “I can’t drink brandy without thinking of her golden eyes.” Ducky took another long, savoring sip. “Now that I think on it, go ahead and hang your father, but pray, spare me. Then I could live out my fantasy and have her all to myself.”
James shook his head. “She’d rather you hanged.”
Chapter 4
The creak and sway of the bed cut through the fog of Samantha’s mind. As she opened her eyes, pain shot through her skull. She slammed them shut, groaning. Had Wessler beaten her again? No, she ran a cooling hand over her aching forehead. This was a different kind of pain.
Another sway of the bed had Samantha’s memory flooding back. She was aboard the Scarlet Night. Cautiously cranking open one eye confirmed she was still in the captain’s cabin. The slight roll of the ship echoed in her belly, and her head cursed at her, but still a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she shielded her eyes against the morning’s bright assault.
She was away from the devil named Damian Wessler and his feral spawn.
Samantha wasn’t ignorant to the fact that she was far from safe aboard this ship, but having escaped the hell she’d been in, made everything else pale in comparison.
Rolling to one side, she noticed things in the light of the new day, which she had missed last night.
A bank of diamond-paned windows across the back wall of the cabin sparkled in the sunlight and flooded the well-appointed room with a morning filled with blue skies and calm seas. Beyond, a wide frothy wake spread behind the ship like a fine lady’s train.
Tupper was still asleep in her chair behind the beautifully carved oak desk. Her hair unbound, its silvered streak fell in a shimmering wave from root to tip. Her bare feet poked out from beneath the rough wool blanket wrapped around her. She snored. Her ancient crow was awake, however, and pecked at the stale bread on her plate, glaring at Samantha with one glassy eye.
Empty bottles rolled against one another following the sway of the ship. How much had they drunk last night? With a slight groan, Samantha ran a hand over her face once more and pushed her fingers into her shockingly cropped hair. A quick frown creased her brow. The shortness of her hair was a ragged reminder of her current predicament.
Samantha recalled the sight of her dark tresses fluttering to the floor as Tupper cut them away. Spotting a looking glass secured to one wall, she rose. The image staring back made her gasp. Uneven dark hanks stuck out at odd angles. Their ends had started to curl in the humid sea air. She plucked at them in dismay.
Samantha ran her fingertips over her cheek and down her neck. How thin she appeared without her hair. Shadows stood out beneath her eyes and made her look haunted, drawn, beaten. Dark purple bruises along her jaw and cheek had begun to fade yellow at the edges. Her own family would not have recognized her. She couldn’t have looked further from the girl that left them a short time ago with high hopes and fanciful dreams. She’d been a fool to believe Wessler’s blatant lies and nearly paid for it with her life.
Perhaps she had. After all, Samantha Christian was no more. Her name…correction…his name was now Sam. Not waiting until morning, Sam Christian signed his name to the Ship’s Articles last night. Looking back in the mirror, it struck her again. Samantha was indeed gone.
Had it truly only been a few days since she’d spun in the arms of the handsome Captain Steele, her hair piled high upon her head? She looked down at her new breeches. Perhaps a puce gown had not been so ugly after all. Stop. Now was not the time for regrets or reconsiderations. What was done was done, and regardless of what was to come, it was better than dying by Wessler’s hand.
The pinch of tears behind her eyes threatened to undo her, but there was no place for tears now. Weeping was what weak women did. Men did not cry, and she was a man now…or at least a boy.
“Ye look like shite.” Tupper’s graveled voice sounded almost pleased. It startled Sam and made the crow fluster away from its stolen breakfast. Tupper coughed.“Ye need a bit of lamp black to dirty ye up a bit. Hide who ye be.” She scrubbed at her face before giving Sam another look and jerking a chin in her direction. “Make sure you keep those bindings on your chest good and snug.” Tupper began tipping empty bottles, one by one, to drip into her glass before tossing them aside. “We may just get away with this.”
“And if we don’t?”
Tupper gave her a bleary look. “You don’t want to know.” From a cupboard behind the desk, she retrieved another bottle. The cork squeaked on its way out of the bottle’s neck. Tupper splashed a measure into her glass. She held the bottle out to Sam. “A bit more shine on the ole’ cannon ball?”
“No.” Sam grimaced as her stomach rolled at the thought. “Thank you. And you’re mistaken. I do want to know.”
Tupper stowed the bottle. “They’d kill us both. And not quick, mind ya.”
“But you’re their captain. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Not here.” Tupper began plaiting her hair. The gold ring on her right hand caught the light with each turn of her wrist. “Things don’t work like that aboard a pirate ship. Every member of this crew has a say and a vote. We’ve a crew of fifty-five at present. They may look motley, but you would be wise not to underestimate them. They are the most feared crew on the Atlantic and get paid highly for their skills. Happy when their pockets are full and the rum ain’t watered.” She lifted her glass and drained it in one swallow.
“They adhere to strict rules, and if broken, they see ye pay the consequence. It’s as simple as that. I’ve lied to my crew by bringing you aboard. It’s not something I’ve dared do before now. They don’t take kindly to deceit. A broken trust is never forgiven. I doubt their loyalty to me would prevent them from issuing swift justice. ‘Course, they could be in a good mood and only maroon me on some Godforsaken island with no water and a loaded pistol.”
Tupper shrugged. “More likely they’d hang my head from the bowsprit and toss the rest over the rail to feed the sharks.”
She fit a wide belt about her waist. “And you…. Well, I’m afraid there are many unpleasant ways to kill a man…or a woman. The woman parts of ye may humor them for a bit, but its fair te say we’d both be begging to die at the end.”
Samantha’s head went light as all the blood seemed to leave her brain. She dropped to the side of the bed. “Didn’t think it possible, but you’ve made me rather miss Damian Wessler.”
“Too late to be missing the bastard now. There ain’t no turning back from here. That’s why ye’re to do as I say. Keep yer head down and yer mouth shut.” Tupper slipped her feet into tall boots before pointing a finger at her. “Folks see what they expect te see. Play yer part well, and we’ll both live to tell the tale.”
Sam let out a great breath. “I
’ll try.”
“Ye better do more than try,” Tupper warned. “Keep to yerself. Work on becoming invisible. I’ve still got to figure where you should quarter. Can’t be putting you in with the men. There’s a sliver of space in one of the holds, but if I put you in there it would arouse suspicion. For now we’ll just ride the tide. Hell, they could figure you from the start and we won’t live long enough to worry about where ye’ll be sleeping tonight.”
A knock sounded at the door. The crow gave a halfhearted sweep to his perch. In the light of day he looked more moth-eaten than he had last night. How old was he? Tupper adjusted her baldric. “Come.”
Sam crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her gaze on the wide floorboards. When no one entered, she shot a nervous glance toward Tupper.
“It be Bump.” She stomped on the floor sharply with her heel. “He’s deaf.”
Sam hid her surprise as a tall, bronze-skinned man entered the quarters with a trencher of bread and cheese, and what she suspected was a pitcher of ale. His hair was fashioned in thick dark twists that hung oddly past his broad shoulders. It reminded Sam of long wool roving. When he turned intense pale eyes in her direction, she ducked her chin. He faced Tupper and jerked his head back toward her.
“New boy. Sam.” As Tupper spoke, she made several odd gestures with her hands.
Sam held her breath and prayed to be inconspicuous. Everything seemed impossible all of a sudden. They’d never get away with fooling the crew into believing she was a cabin boy. Bet the sharks have already begun circling the ship.
To her staggering relief, the man called Bump simply nodded, before gathering a few discarded things from Tupper’s desk and leaving.
“I’ll never survive.” The words left her in a rush. “We’ll never get away with this.”
“You did fine.” Tupper tore the end off the loaf of bread and tossed it to Leviticus, who nearly fell from his perch to catch it midair in his wide black beak.
