My Lady Pirate

by Danelle Harmon

  She must be on her toes. He was shrewd, this admiral.

  She must be more shrewd.

  “So really, Maeve, I beg of you, do not harbor such anger toward poor Nelson; he did all in his power to help you. He is a kind man, blameless, much loved by his sailors, his officers, the Fleet, and everyone who knows him.” Lowering himself to the sofa, he settled her across his lap, cradled her shoulders within the curve of his arm, drew the sheet up over her breasts, and smoothed the fringy end of her braid. His touch aroused a hot wash of desire in her blood and she bit her lip, hard, hoping the pain would distract her.

  “Furthermore,” he said, lifting a glass of lemonade to her lips and tilting her head forward so she wouldn’t choke, “he is very anxious about your health, and I’m really the only one to deserve the heat of your anger—”

  “Fine, dammit! I forgive him, all right? I FORGIVE HIM!”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, I should like to re-braid your hair and then strike a bargain with you,” he continued, not missing a beat. He turned her onto her side and she felt his fingers smoothing the hair back from her temples, sliding along the length of the thick plait. Mutinously, she stared at the windows directly across from her, then the grinning countenance of Henry Morgan. The admiral’s knee was hard beneath her cheek, but not uncomfortable; his hands were sliding through her hair now, gently loosing the tresses from their mussed-up braid. She shut her eyes. It felt good. If this was how he gained his victories, no wonder he was an admiral at such a young age.

  “You are enthralled by officers; I, by pirates,” he murmured, from above her head. “What

  say you and I share bedtime stories? You tell me a story about pirates, I’ll tell you one about my adventures as an officer. Do you wish to go first?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, then. Allow me . . .” And as she closed her eyes and allowed him to brush out her thick tresses, her anger faded to wariness, her wariness to acceptance, her acceptance to exhaustion. His voice faded in and out, and she knew only the feel of his hands, gently tugging and pulling on her hair, slowly plaiting it in a long, thick braid. He took his time about it, apparently enjoying the task as much as she did, telling her about the ships he’d captained, the places he’d gone, the thrill of having the King knight him for his bravery at the Battle of the Nile as one of Nelson’s “Band of Brothers.” He told her about his sisters—all six of them— and how much he loved them, he told her about his home in England, he told her about his Cornish ancestors—“pirates, Maeve! I had pirates in my background!”—and his own since-boyhood obsession with the buccaneers who’d carved a bloody, romantic path through the Spanish Main nearly two centuries ago . . .

  The braid was finished, and now there was just his fingers, gently stroking her cheek. “Am I boring you, love? Are you comfortable?”

  She lifted eyelids that felt like fishing weights. “Huh?”

  “I said, are you comfortable?”

  Comfortable . . . She was more than comfortable, though she’d never admit it. She felt . . .

  safe within the admiral’s protection. Cherished.

  Loved.

  It was frightening, letting go and allowing herself to feel such things normally reserved for weak and insipid people. She fought against them. Felt herself losing the battle.

  Allow it, Maeve.

  “Aye,” she murmured. “I’m . . . comfortable.”

  “Well then, I think that is all for tonight’s bedtime stories. You will sleep now.”

  “I don’t want to sleep.”

  “Oh, but you will, there was laudanum in that lemonade you’ve been drinking. But have no

  fear, sweeting, I shan’t leave you until it takes effect.”

  “You’re . . . despicable.” She dragged open her eyes, trying to be angry with him for this latest manipulation, but it was hard to summon fury when he was being so damnably nice, so damnably caring, so damnably gallant.

  He eased himself out from under her and with tender care, pulled the sheet up to her chin.

  His fingers brushed her shoulders as he tucked her in, his lips grazed her temple. Stay, she wanted to say. Don’t leave me. But her eyes slipped shut before her heart could betray her, and she lacked the strength to force them back open.

  Her lips moved against the pillow. “And where are you going, Admiral? . . . Don’t you ever sleep?”

  She sensed him kneeling down beside her, felt his breath on her cheek as he lovingly

  absorbed every detail of her face and smoothed the wispy hair that had come loose from the braid. “Sleep? Not when my lovely Queen is under my protection. I am an officer, Majesty, and I have my sworn duty.”

  An officer. Guarding the lives of those he loved.

  “I love you, Maeve,” he said softly, and kissed her.

  She sank, down through warm, comforting darkness, his words following her, wrapping

  around her, infiltrating her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her.

  I love you.

  Chapter 20

  “You did what, sir?”

  “Now Hardy, don’t give me that look; I only did as I saw fit. Besides, I’ll answer to any ill consequences that come out of it.”

  “Does Sir Graham know you wrote this letter to her parents?”

  “Of course not, this is no one’s business but my own. And I don’t want his flag-captain to know of my meddling, either—the fellow is the girl’s cousin, you know, and of course she cannot know, because what if her parents really don’t show up? No, no, they shall come, I am sure of it, Hardy. No parents would abandon their daughter like that, and besides, didn’t Captain Lord himself say they think her dead?” Lord Nelson waved his hand, fussily dismissing the matter and snatching up a telescope from the rack. He strode to the side, climbed up onto a cannon, and pushed the long instrument through the shrouds to balance it. “Now I don’t wish to hear any more on the subject, Thomas! Just get me to Antigua, where I hope, no, pray! to receive word of my friend Veal-noove. Oh, the thought of returning to England empty-handed does not bear thinking about!”

  “The nation will still love you, sir.”

  “Will it, Hardy? Will it? Oh, if I fail to find the enemy—oh, Hardy, pray God we receive word at Antigua!”

  Raising the telescope to his good eye, the admiral trained it on the dark sea, as though he could summon his nemesis from the waves themselves.

  But it was empty, and even Lord Nelson could not know that the panicky Villeneuve had

  already received word of Nelson's pursuit and, against Napoleon Bonaparte’s orders, was fleeing the Caribbean as fast as the wind could take him.

  ###

  Miles away, Sir Graham Falconer’s fleet was also preparing to leave the Caribbean.

  The convoy that he was taking back to England with him was—as it had been for a week—

  waiting at Barbados when H.M.S. Triton had finally arrived and dropped anchor there several hours after sunset. Now, the following morning, 130 merchant ships of every size, shape, and degree of seaworthiness were hastily preparing to get under way. From the massive 1200-and 800-ton Indiamen and three-masted ships down to the brigantines, barkentines, schooners, and sloops, the convoy made an impressive sight beneath a pale morning sky smeared with haze.

  Three smart and dashing frigates from Sir Graham’s fleet of warships, commanded by equally smart and dashing young captains vying with each other to impress him with their prowess, cruised between the merchant ships like sheepdogs rounding up a flock, and towering protectively over the entire armada of fighting and merchant ships alike, her gunports open to catch every lazy bit of breeze, was the powerful flagship of Sir Graham himself, H.M.S Triton.

  For some—the young flag-captain Colin Lord, the homesick men of the fleet, and the

  admiral himself—the several-hour stop at Barbados to pick up the convoy was far too long. Most of them had not seen their beloved Britain for years, and were impatient to gaze upon those misty
shores once more.

  Their course was already plotted. They would use the westerlies, turning their prows

  northward, swinging in a long, gentle curve parallel to the North American coast, before crossing the Atlantic and going on to England. Sir Graham anticipated no trouble—though he, like most navy men, detested the laggardness of the merchant ships and the characteristic sloppiness and disregard for sailing efficiency for which their captains were noted.

  Now, with most of the convoy safely clear of Barbados and a lieutenant waiting to carry his dispatches off the ship, Gray was still below, finishing up official business. He hated writing, and his penmanship—a long, sloping scrawl that looked like waves parading before a storm— reflected it. Indeed, he was the only one who could read it, but then, there was a reason that admirals were afforded a secretary and several clerks—to do the pen-pushing for them.

  His secretary, Shoesmith, looked up, his eyes pedantic behind his tiny spectacles. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “No, one more memorandum, Shoesmith.” Sir Graham had been walking back and forth,

  thinking on his feet, dictating his wishes aloud for the past two hours. Since arriving in Barbados the night before, he’d dictated a letter of farewell to the governor of Barbados, settled a dispute between two of his captains, answered a request from a commander on Antigua for additional marine support, dispatched two frigates to investigate reports of French harassment of fisherman off one of the Leewards, declined an invitation to dine with the premier planter on Barbados, declined another to attend a ball given by a Lady Sarah Wanderley, responded to another flag officer’s request for supporting warships, made a report to the Admiralty in London, ordered some flowering plants and a dozen roses to be brought aboard his flagship, and sent a polite note to Lady Catherine terminating their brief but passionate affair.

  An average day in his life as an admiral. Thank God he was going home for a while after

  two years of continuous Caribbean service.

  He dictated one last memorandum giving final instructions to the senior captain he’d be

  leaving behind and dismissed the loyal Shoesmith. After seeing his dispatches delivered to the waiting lieutenant, he donned his coat and hat and, nursing a headache brought on by the series of mundane matters in which he'd spent his morning, went topside.

  A blazing sun beat down on the deck. The convoy was still filing out of the harbor to the tune of foc’s’le chanteys and fiddles, the shouted commands of captains and lieutenants alike; capstans heaved and groaned, men sweated, anchors were catted, and boatloads of fruit merchants and prostitutes, lavishly dressed ladies and dapper gentlemen went to and fro and lined the shore.

  Someone coughed, and the officers on the quarterdeck snapped to rigid attention at Gray’s appearance.

  “Sir!”

  He found Colin near the helm, anxiously watching each ship make her laborious way out of

  the anchorage and into open sea. The flag-captain looked up and touched his hat. “Any change in formation, sir?”

  “No, Captain Lord,” Gray responded, formally. “If we can keep this miserable lot in

  something of a rectangle, with our three frigates ahead, astern, and on the wings of it, I shall be most happy. A devilishly impossible wish, of course, but see what you can do.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Signal the frigates Harleigh and Cricket that I'll want them ahead and to windward of the weathermost column of the convoy, so they can quickly run down to wherever they may be

  needed. Damn this sun, it’s hot.”

  “And the little Kestrel, sir?”

  “Eh?”

  “The Pirate Queen’s schooner . . . I’m sorry. You wouldn’t know. She sent one of the Irish girls to me an hour ago and volunteered the ship for our use. Kestrel is to accompany us back to England. I—uh, already gave them a copy of the signal book.”

  “Surely, you’re not serious.”

  Colin shrugged and looked at him patiently.

  “Very well then. If they want to play navy, signal them to run up British colors. Whose idea was this, anyhow? I cannot, for the life of me, imagine Maeve allowing the crew of that little toy to assist me in any way.”

  “With all due respect, sir, then perhaps you should ask her. She and the two Irish girls are on the poop deck, er, watching you.”

  “Is that so, now?” Sir Graham grinned and drew himself up like a rooster thrown amidst a

  flock of hens. “And who’s commanding the schooner?”

  “Her lieutenant, sir. I tried to explain to my cousin that this is not how the navy operates, but

  . . . ”

  The admiral shook his head. Now that the paperwork was out of the way, his headache

  fading, and most of the convoy clear of the harbor, he could afford to feel obliging and tolerant.

  “No, it’s not, but I will make an exception in the interest of . . . amusing her. Especially since she’s a convalescent and quite unhappy about it. Advise that she-viper she left in command of the schooner to station herself just to windward of Captain Warner’s Harleigh, where she might find a use for herself in acting as lookout. That ought to keep her out of trouble, harm’s way, and my hair.”

  Colin nodded formally and kept his eye on Sir Graham, looking resplendent, capable, and

  yes, annoyed, as he watched a brigantine struggling to set her mainsail.

  The admiral thinned his lips and turned away from the sight. “I would like to see topsails up shortly, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir.” Colin turned and stiffly barked out the order. “Topmen aloft!”

  “Topmen aloft!” the first lieutenant repeated through his speaking trumpet, and moments

  later, a swarm of men were leaping up the shrouds and streaming out along the yards. Gray, his hands behind his back, nodded in quiet approval as bright curves of sail came spilling down, arcing to the wind and thundering with power and anticipation.

  Forward, the anchor cable was vertical and taut, the lieutenant there turning to signal to Captain Lord that the mighty ship was ready to show her heels to Barbados.

  “They’re watching you, sir.”

  “Really, now?” His face instantly brightening, the admiral turned aft to face the poop deck, swept off his fancy gold-laced hat, and saluted the Pirate Queen.

  Beneath the awning, Her Majesty—wearing the admiral’s long nightshirt and wrapped in a

  light blanket— sat in a chair flanked by two of her ladies-in-waiting, Aisling and Sorcha.

  “The admiral just saluted you, Majesty.”

  “The admiral can go to hell.”

  “He’s very nice, Majesty. Do you know what he did?”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  “You should care, Majesty, after all, he did send that note over to Kestrel inviting us aboard to keep you company.”

  “How magnanimous of him.”

  “Do you want to know what else he did?”

  Maeve yanked her straw hat down so she could gaze at Sir Graham without him taking note

  of her perusal. But he had caught her stare, and even from this distance she could see his smile, the devilish glint in his eye. “No. And I don’t want to know.”

  Obviously, Aisling was determined that she would know, whether she wanted to or not. “He sent over a shipment of pistols and gunpowder to Enolia and Orla. And he gave me this—” She angled her head to the side and showed her very annoyed captain the mermaid charm that rested on a rope of serpentine gold around her neck. “Isn’t it pretty? He gave Sorcha one too. Show the captain yours, Sorcha.”

  “Mine’s a seahorse.”

  “Lovely,” Maeve said, acidly.

  “And he was worried about how few people we have to crew Kestrel, so he had his captain send over some seamen under the command of a lieutenant with a front tooth missing. Is Captain Lord really your cousin, Majesty? He’s so handsome!”

  “Sorcha’s in love with Captain Lord! I saw t
he looks she was giving him!”

  “And you’re sweet on that toothless lieutenant, Aisling.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  Sir Graham was grinning, looking her way.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Maeve said, irritably.

  “I think you should be nicer to Sir Graham, Majesty,” Aisling declared, and sat down on the deck beside Maeve’s chair. “After all, he did give you these roses.”

  “And that pretty dress.”

  “And that poem on your breakfast tray.”

  “I think he wrote it himself. He did, didn’t he, Ash?”

  “Oh, he must have. We should ask the flag-captain. You should ask the flag-captain, Sorcha, since you’re so in love with him.”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  Maeve was getting a headache. “Leave Captain Lord alone; he’s busy getting his ship under way.”

  “Sir Graham says we’re going to England. El Perro Negro’s going to go on trial there, but I’ll bet Sir Graham hangs him all the same. At least I hope he does!”

  Maeve said nothing, for she had plans of attending to the Spaniard’s disposal herself.

  ‘I’ve never been to England, have you, Majesty?”

  “No. And I have no desire to go to England. If Sir Graham, damn his arrogant eyes, wasn’t forcing me to stay on this ship, I wouldn’t have had to volunteer Kestrel’s service just to keep her with us. I’ll be damned if I go anywhere without her or my crew.”

  Above, wind thundered in sails that waited impatiently to be sheeted home. Instinctively, Maeve glanced up at the mizzenmast, where a white flag emblazoned with a red cross streamed proudly in the wind.

  Aisling followed her gaze. “I’ve never seen so many flags in my life. What does that one

  mean, Majesty?”

  “That an admiral is aboard this ship.”

  “Why’s it white?”

  “Because Sir Graham is an Admiral of the White.”