making the attempt!”
Moments later, the lad was on his way back to the deck, where he was met by a triumphant
circle of grinning peers who clapped him on the back, punched him in the shoulder, and
huzzahed him to the sky . . .
The memory faded, the years folded beneath themselves, and other remembrances drifted
into the admiral’s dreaming mind . . . Gray, no longer a tall and gawky midshipman, but a lean young man, glowing with triumph after passing his lieutenant’s exam . . . Gray, now in the bright new uniform of a post-captain, bursting with ambition and pride as he escorted Captain Nelson on a tour of his own first command . . . Gray, in trouble over a scandal with an admiral’s wife and fighting a duel not with pistols but with cutlasses— cutlasses !—but sir, they're what pirates would’ve used! . . . Gray, wounded at St. Vincent . . . Gray, now one of Nelson’s famous Band of Brothers, snugging his two-decker alongside a Frenchman and pounding the stuffing out of her as the sun set on the glorious Battle of the Nile. . .
Memories.
Nelson saw a commodore’s flag grace his protege’s mast now, saw him knighted for his
bravery at the Nile, saw him transferred to the West Indies Station . . . and hadn’t seen him since.
What would he see when the Pirate Queen brought that same man to him?
Horatio Nelson sighed softly in his sleep, his never-resting mind moving as swiftly in his dreams as it did when he was awake . . . to annihilating Napoleon’s fleet . . . to retirement at Merton, his home . . . to Emma, dear, beloved Emma! . . . to Horatia, his sweet little daughter . . .
Emma . . .
A hand touched his shoulder and he jerked awake. He looked up and saw the Pirate Queen.
“Good evening, milord.”
“By God, how did you get in here?!” he cried, bolting up in the cot and shielding himself with the blanket.
“Not by invitation, I can assure you.” She moved away, allowing him time to recover, and
stood quietly in the shadows, her back toward him. She was dressed pirate-style, in a purple gown clewed up at the hips to permit free movement, and a choker of sharks’ teeth ringing her lovely throat. She held a cutlass, and he wondered at the strength this lean woman must possess to wield such a weighty weapon with apparent ease. ‘Take your time, milord,” she said, her voice oddly devoid of spirit. “I will await you in your day cabin.” She sauntered off, quietly, leaving him to stare after her in shock and puzzlement.
“Madam, this is most unseemly!” Thank God he was in his nightshirt. “I do not allow
women aboard this vessel; I made a solemn vow to my dear Lady Hamilton that I would not—”
“Milord.” She turned then, a stray beam of moonlight from the distant windows slanting
across her face. In the dusky gloom he saw that her eyes were haunted with pain, her mouth tight and unsmiling. “I did not come here to try to steal you away from your precious Emma. So
please, do not distress yourself. I only bring you your traitor, as promised.”
“My traitor? What traitor? . . . Oh, yes, my traitor, that traitor!” Fumbling in the gloom, he fastened his breeches, the act taking twice as long as it might have had he two hands instead of one.“ And here I thought you had news of Veal-noove, you don’t, do you? Oh, please, tell me you do, I was a fool, a fool for disregarding your word before; oh, never mind, I will catch up with him and when I do I will thrash him soundly!” Nelson hurried out into the huge and shadowy dining cabin. “Where is my traitor, madam? I don’t see him!”
“Still on my schooner. My second-in-command is having an argument with your officer of
the watch about bringing him aboard. Pardon my unseemly intrusion, milord, but I thought I would personally prevail upon you to set the matter straight.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course!” Nelson cried, in high excitement and agitation. He threw himself into a chair and tugged his shoes on over his feet, but when he went to don his frock coat, emblazoned with ribbons, orders, and stars, he gave a helpless exclamation of dismay and, peevishly, flung it over the sofa.
Maeve looked at the coat, and with a rather distant look in her eye, murmured, “Surely, a traitor is not deserving of such respectful dress, milord.”
“He is not just a—oh, can I tell you? Can I? No, never mind, now is not the time and if he wanted you to know, he would have told you, such is not my business and I will not interfere, but oh, my heart, my head, what this does to me! I am in a fever, a turmoil—by God, where is my servant? Damnation, there are some things a one-armed man simply cannot do—”
“Milord?”
He came up short in the middle of his tirade and glared at her. She thought of how he’d been just minutes ago, asleep in his cot, legs drawn up to his chest and his one hand curled around the miniature of Emma Hamilton like a child with a favorite toy. How oddly vulnerable he had looked.
And how sad it was that he, the one man, the only man, who’d been able to stop the dreaded Napoleon Bonaparte, couldn’t even put on his own coat.
She put out a hand, deliberately touching his severed stump through the empty shirtsleeve.
Bleak eyes turned to her, brimming with pride, defiance, anger, and humiliation.
She smiled, for the first time. “I’d be honored, sir, if you would let me assist you.”
“I cannot, my dear Lady Hamilton—”
“—would probably be grateful for this small favor to you . . . and England.”
He stared at her, fighting an inner battle of conscience and need. Finally, his spine went stiff and wordlessly, he thrust the coat into her hands.
The minute her fingers touched it, Maeve was jolted by an awful, sweeping premonition of
violent death. She gasped and dropped the coat as if it had burned her, then, red-faced under the admiral’s piercing, eagle-eyed stare, picked it up off the deck. She was shaking. It was only a coat, a blue coat with white lining and gold lace and decorations of valor. God, it was the orders, the stars! that the sniper would see to target the admiral for death. It was all she could do not to heave the coat out Victory's stem windows and into the sea. Her hands trembling, she held it out while Nelson turned his back to her and slipped his arm into the sleeve, then tossed his proud shoulders to settle the coat snugly in place. Murmuring an embarrassed thank-you under his breath, he stole a guilty glance toward the pastel portrait of Emma Hamilton that hung on the bulkhead.
“My being here,” Maeve said, ignoring his long-suffering look as she straightened the
tasseled epaulets atop his stiff, erect shoulders, “is merely to return the traitor to you. Surely, your Emma will forgive you my assistance in such a noble matter.”
Nelson stared at her, amazed that she had read his mind, astounded at the education and
upbringing reflected in her speech. But no. Captain Colin Lord—her cousin, by God—had told him all about her, this proud daughter of a New England hero. She was no mere pirate, but a misguided young girl who had run away from home and had likely learned some very harsh lessons in her life.
“I know what you’re thinking, milord,” she said quietly, “but no, I cannot read minds, only predict the future with occasional frequency.”
She smiled then, a sad, lonely smile that was instantly quelled by a tightening of her lips and a quick blinking of her eyes. If her demeanor wasn’t so fierce, he would’ve sworn she was, or had been, crying. He frowned, his brows lowering, as he considered that Gray might be the source of those tears. “Come, milord,” she said, tugging at his empty sleeve. “Let’s get this unpleasant matter over with. The sooner this bast—I beg your pardon, the sooner this traitor— is out of my sight and delivered into your justice, the happier I’ll be.”
She strode toward the door, her spine stiff with pride, her hair tumbling down her back in tangled glory.
“Wait. “
She paused, and he saw her pass a knuckle under one eye, then the other, hastily, in the hope he wouldn�
��t notice. His suspicions burned like acid in his breast and he fixed her with his most penetrating glare. “Has this traitor hurt you, madam?”
Her chin jerked up and she gave a defiant, unconvincing hoot of laughter. “Hurt me? No one can hurt me, milord, I passed beyond that realm of feeling long ago. Now do you want him or not?”
He guessed that Gray had indeed done something to hurt her, and Nelson, who was well
aware of that rogue’s philandering ways, had a damned good inkling of just what it had been. His jaw went tight and fuming, he turned, fumbling in his desk. “Payment,” he snapped, unable to keep his anger with his former midshipman from his voice, “you must have payment for rendering this service to my country—”
“Keep your money, Admiral. I do not want it.”
“No, no, I must insist—”
“Please.” She held up her hand. “The only payment I expect is for you to take him off my
hands. I hope to God I never set eyes on him again.”
She opened the door. A marine stood outside, and he gaped at the sight of her, made as if to grab her arm, and shrank back at the blistering look she gave him. Head high, the Pirate Queen strode past him and out of the cabin, leaving Nelson staring after her with no small degree of dismay and concern.
Damn you, Gray!
Snatching up his hat, the furious little admiral strode swiftly from the cabin.
Chapter 13
Gray stood on the broad quarterdeck of H.M.S. Victory, bound at the wrists and watching the schooner melt off into the night with a wistful, calculating look in his dark eye.
He was going to catch hell for this one, that was for damned sure. He was wearing snug
black breeches. His hair was wind-tousled and far too long, trailing partway down his back. His feet were bare, his shirt smeared with blood, his jaw cloaked with a rough mat of black stubble, and his ear pierced by a very piratical- looking hoop of gold.
It was no way to appear before an admiral, and he instantly set about deflecting the
impending attack. Tearing his gaze from the sea, aglitter with waves caught in the glow from Victory's stem lanterns high above, he turned, met Nelson’s furious gaze—and grinned.
“So, sir. Are you going to hang me now?”
Nelson’s lips thinned out, his eyes flashed, but the quick movement of his throat betrayed his emotion. “You ought to be damned ashamed of yourself!”
“I know.”
“You, a King’s officer and Knight of the Bath, going about dressed as a goddamned pirate!
By God, now I know why you so desperately wanted the West Indies command, so you could play out your fantasies and pretend you’re the scourge of the Spanish Main, am I right?”
“But sir”—Gray’s dark face split in an innocent grin and he held his wrists out so that a midshipman, at Nelson’s impatient beckoning, could cut him loose—”I am the scourge of the Spanish Main. Ask any lady in the Indies and she will tell you so.”
Their eyes met. Nelson swallowed, hard. Gray’s grin faded. The years fell away, and they
were again as they had once been, as they had always been. Gray saw the emotion in Nelson’s eyes, emotion he had never been able nor willing to hide, emotion that even here, on the decks of the mighty Victory in full view of Hardy, his lieutenants, and several hundred watching men, he was not ashamed to show. His throat worked, and, as though not trusting himself to speak, he reached up, put his hand on Gray’s shoulder—and embraced him.
Then he drew back and, turning smartly, beckoned Gray to follow.
The crew watched them go, their famous admiral and the dark pirate, both radiating the
power of command but so drastically different from each other in appearance and manner as to make the crew exchange excited whispers, comments, and speculations. Who was this
mysterious stranger brought to them by a comely pirate wench? Who was he that he could
address their beloved admiral as though the two stood on common ground? Who was he that
their poor Nelson had nearly wept upon embracing him?
Hundreds of eyes flashed to Captain Hardy, whose face was shadowed from the glow of the
deck lanterns by the brim of his hat. Hardy knew. They could tell just by the way he suddenly looked down and scuffed his toe against Victory's deck planking. Then he glanced up and, frowning, barked out an order to trim the main course.
###
Gray, walking with the easy grace of a man long accustomed to the sea, followed the stiff-backed admiral down the hatch and to his cabin. He was no stranger to ships-of-the-line, and his eyes glowed as he admired Victory's gleaming paintwork, her neat rows of guns, the detail and workmanship that had gone into every beam, every carving, every turn of wood that made her the formidable machine of war that she was. Magnificently beautiful, the proud first rate was the best the Royal Navy had to offer its most famous admiral, and Gray felt a warm glow of approval on behalf of his friend and mentor.
“Victory,” Gray said softly, running his fingers over a paneled bulkhead. “It’s about time she wore your flag.”
Nelson paused outside his cabin. “Yes, and she will be the one to carry me to triumph and immortality.” He impaled Gray with a penetrating stare that was zealous, determined, and
defiant. “Mark me on that.”
Gray smiled sadly. “Let us hope, sir, for your sake and our country’s that such a fate does not come about too soon.”
Nelson shrugged. “I am in debt. My body is a shattered and pitiful carcass. I am racked by guilt, grief, persistent spasms in my chest, and God knows what else. Far better to be done in by a Frenchman’s guns than my own poor health. After you, Gray.”
Nelson. Ever the fatalist, ever the romantic, still expecting to die in every battle and live forever as the immortal savior of his beloved country. Gray wondered if he still kept his coffin—
carved from the mainmast of the French flagship he’d defeated at the Nile—in his cabin. Even now he could remember the morbid delight Nelson had taken in showing off the grim
masterpiece to anyone who cared to see it . . .
But no, as they passed through the palatial dining cabin with its long, mahogany table
gleaming beneath the swinging lanterns, its chairs lined neatly around it, Gray didn’t see the coffin—though Emma, of course, was in her usual place on the bulkhead. He saw Nelson’s eyes flash to the portrait and was happy to know the fire still burned between them.
Gray thought of his last glimpse of Kestrel, melting into the darkness, and felt pain washing over his heart.
Nelson waved him toward a chair. “Some champagne perhaps, after your little excursion?”
“Rum, sir, if you have it.”
“Of course. How could I have forgotten? Blackbeard’s favorite drink.”
Gray smirked, dropped into a chair just beneath the black, mirrored row of Victory’s stern windows, and leaned his head back against the soft padding. Aah, it felt good just to sit. With assessing eyes, he watched his friend pour the drinks, and frowned with concern. Nelson’s hand was shaking and he did not look well. The admiral was pale and wan, his cheeks sunken with stress and his respiration marked by a persistent, deep-rooted cough. But there was nothing amiss with his stare, and it was this penetrating eye that he turned on Gray as he handed him his glass and toasted Emma, King, and Country.
Emma, King, and Country. Nelson’s three reasons for life, service, going into battle, and, no doubt, for death. No, his friend had not changed at all. A little older, a lot wearier, perhaps a bit calmer, but the same obsessions still drove him. Gray lifted the glass to his lips, let the sweet-harsh liquid burn its way down his throat, and, with an effusive aaah! to signify his approval, balanced the glass on his drawn-up knee.
Nelson was staring at him, his eye shrewd, penetrating, questioning, appraising. Gray’s
answering gaze was casual, patient, relaxed—humorous.
Nelson slammed his glass down atop th
e table. “Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“By God, Gray, just what do you have to say for yourself?”
So much for pleasantries and fond reunions, Gray thought, wryly. He draped an arm over the back of the chair. “Say for myself? Well, to start with—damn, it’s good to see you again after all these years, sir. You really should come visit more often.”
“Hang it, Gray, you know very well what I meant! Here’s Bonaparte poised to attack
England, Veal-noove and the combined fleet romping through the West Indies, and you’re off carousing with Maeve, the Pirate Queen! You know, you put me in the most distressing position of having to play along with your little game! Do you thing that makes me feel good in here?”
He pounded his fist to his chest. “Do you think I enjoy having to lie for you? This had better be a damned good story, Gray!”
Gray smiled, looked heavenward, and, spreading a hand over his chest, gave a theatrical
sigh. “And here, sir, I thought you’d applaud my cleverness, my shrewdness . . .”
“I will choose whether or not to applaud it after you explain what you’re doing dressed as a pirate—”
“Making a raid upon a Barbados beauty,” Gray countered, smoothly.
—”flying a damned Jolly Roger from a King’s ship—”
“A pirate-aspirant must display a suitable flag.”
—”and concocting this ridiculous story about being a traitor, just to fool Captain Lord’s poor cousin!”
Gray sat straight up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Maeve Merrick, Pirate Queen of the Caribbean. Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you?
Your own flag-captain didn’t know and he’s been in these waters as long as you’ve been! Don’t look so damned shocked. She and Captain Lord are cousins.”
Nelson tightened his mouth, obviously enjoying the fact he had, as usual, the element of
surprise.
“Well . . .” Gray raked a hand through the damp, glossy waves of his hair, his thoughts
awhirl. Maeve was Colin’s cousin? “That is indeed a shock! How did you, sir, of all people, learn of such a thing?”
My Lady Pirate Page 13
