Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  Sam sighed in exasperation. “Stripes,” he said, “another time, if you will. There are some things that must be settled.”

  “Aye, sir! I was jus’ tellin’ ’em about that storm and how ye defied the gods above—”

  “I know. But there are Articles to be drawn up, officers to elect, courses to be plotted. You can regale them with all the stories you like—afterward.”

  “Did you really say that?” asked the boy, eyes huge in his pale young face.

  For answer, Sam merely shot an annoyed glance at Stripes, strode to one of the sloop’s gleaming four-pounders, and leaning against the gun’s iron barrel, contemplated his new crew with a mixture of apprehension, speculation, and amusement.

  They were a motley group. Stripes, thinner, leaner, but as loose-tongued as ever. The boy, Johnnie, staring at Sam with idol worship. Billy Flanagan, his tawny hair like a lion’s mane around his sunburned face, at the tiller with Silas West, who’d wrapped a crimson scarf around his prematurely balding and sun-blistered scalp. Sam scanned their young faces: seaman’s faces all, some already weathered by salt and sun, some showing scars of long-ago fights or drunken brawls, but all alight with excitement. Nathaniel Paige carried one of those scars just below one laughing hazel eye; he’d been among the first to rush below to bring up a hogshead of contraband rum, and because he’d also been the first to shove his mug beneath its spigot, boldly shoving aside others, Sam had no illusions as to how that scar had been obtained. And then there was Phil Stewart, who, with his dark skin, long mustache, and curling black hair, looked like a Spanish don. Phil had been quick to choose a pistol from the weapons chest. Now, with several more knotted in a sash around his neck and two daggers thrust into his belt, he reminded Sam of Ned Teach, his crewmate aboard Ben Hornigold’s sloop, who’d shown an appreciation not so much for the quality of his personal weaponry, but the quantity.

  And there, sitting just outside this unusual group, was the most unlikely crew member of all—Maria. Her eyes were accusing, wounded, betrayed. Bloody hell, Sam thought, already dreading the confrontation he knew awaited.

  But first things first. He turned to Silas West, suppressing a grin at the comical way in which the red bandanna blended with the man’s sunburned pate. “How much more rum is below, Mr. West?”

  “Barrels and barrels of it, sir.”

  “Good. Bring up another hogshead or two, if ye please. I fear this one won’t last the night.”

  “You mean we can drink freely of it? What about rations?” asked Phil Stewart, looking up from where he’d been polishing one of his pistols with a square of linen.

  “Rations? We’re pirates, lad, not navy men. Take as much of it as ye please.” And as several men exchanged brief smiles before rushing below to bring up more rum, Sam’s gaze sought out Maria once more. She had wandered to the rail and was gazing out over a sea that was dazzlingly bright with early morning sunlight, her slim figure and sweet curves causing his heart to catch in his chest. Feeling his gaze upon her she turned, but the look she gave him was enough to freeze the very fires of hell. Lifting her chin, she returned her gaze to the sea.

  “Damn,” Sam swore beneath his breath, unable to tear his eyes away from the golden hair that streamed in the fresh breeze. The wind molded her gown and petticoats against her body, and he didn’t need any imagination to envision the curves just beneath. God’s teeth. He hoped he could ease their differences soon. He wouldn’t be able to stand much of this sort of torment. His annoyance grew when he caught several of the men staring at her just as longingly.

  Stripes’s hushed gossip only added to Sam’s frustration. “Ain’t she a looker? Told young Johnnie ’er name’s Maria. She’s the one Black Sam lost the Whydah over. Mother o’ God, I can see now why ’e was so eager t’ get back to ’er!”

  Phil Stewart frowned. “He lost a ship over her?” He glanced uncertainly at the slim figure at the rail. “Maybe we all should’ve left with old Shilling. Everyone knows it’s bad luck to have a woman on board. No wonder it went down.”

  “Now wait a minute, Stu. Ye’ve got it all wrong.” Stripes caught Sam’s eye, realized his captain was about to strangle him, and hurried on before he could. “We lost the ship ’cause the lady was on shore. Ye see,” he said, dropping his voice to a loud whisper, “’tis rumored she’s a witch. A few o’ the Eastham folk told me so themselves, an’ they oughta know, bein’ ’er neighbors an’ all. Anyhow, aside from me and a couple o’ others, the Cap’n was the only one t’ survive the wreck. And d’ye know why ’e did?”

  His loud whisper had reached Maria at the rail. She froze and then turned, her face draining of color. They were all staring at her, every last one of them—the boy, the balding man with the bright scarf, even the Spanish-looking one with the curly mane of tangled hair.

  And Sam.

  He shot her a penetrating look, then returned his attention to Stripes. Oh dear Lord, she hadn’t wanted him to find out this way! Fear, not unlike that she’d experienced that awful day when the villagers had driven her out of Eastham, gripped her heart but this time there was no place to flee.

  “I’ll tell ye why the Cap’n didn’t die, and ’twas a miracle ’e didn’t, I tell ye! ’Twas because she didn’t want ’im to. She brought that ship onto a lee shore all right, she caused the storm—but only t’ bring the Cap’n back to ’er. She never ’ad any intention of lettin’ ’im die.”

  “How dare you!” Maria cried, spinning about to face the loose-tongued sailor. They were all staring at her just as the villagers had, their eyes reflecting wariness, distrust, fear. And Sam? Thunderclouds were gathering on his brow and his eyes had gone black.

  “No need fer you all t’ look like a goose just shit on yer graves. There ain’t nothin’ t’ fear now, I tell ye. With her aboard, nothin’ can ’appen to us. Bad luck? My arse! She ’ad the powers t’ raise the seas and cast the Whydah up at ’er very doorstep, all ’cause she wanted the Cap’n. Now she’s got ’im, she’ll keep ’im safe. She’ll keep all of us safe, long’s we stay with ’im. An’ if she can raise a hurricane, jus’ think how far she’ll go t’ protect us from the king’s ships!”

  Sam was no longer relaxing against the cannon. “What the devil are you blabbering about, lad? Witchcraft?”

  “Aye! Heard about it in one o’ the taverns back in Eastham. Everyone’s scared t’ death of ’er, they are!”

  Sam turned on Maria. “Is this true?”

  “I can’t believe you’d think I’m a witch!”

  “Damn it, woman, I don’t believe you’re a witch, I want to know if you were accused as one!”

  “Yes! Yes, I was! And if you weren’t so caught up in your own troubles you might’ve realized that things weren’t the way they should’ve been back in Eastham! But nay! Instead, all you thought about was piracy! Plotting and scheming the whole time, weren’t you? Oh, how I misjudged you! I told you I wanted no part of this, told you how I felt about piracy, but still you dragged me onto this—this tub! You lied to me, Sam Bellamy, and I rue the day I set eyes on you!” And then, defying them all with a last angry glance, she turned, stormed to the hatch, and went below.

  “Uh-oh. She’s angry now,” Stripes said brightly.

  “Cease your prattle!” Sam snarled. “I’ve had it up to here with you and your bloody tongue!” His cold glare raked the others, who cowered beneath it. “A fatter parcel of rubbish I’ve yet to hear! Witch? Utter nonsense, all of it!” Yet the pieces of the puzzle were coming together—the stark little hut on the sand cliffs, the absence of visitors, the pain he’d seen in her eyes when she’d thought he wasn’t looking. Sam itched to follow her and wrench the details out of her even if it killed him. But to go chasing after her skirts would be viewed as a weakness, and weakness had no place in a pirate captain.

  They were all staring at him. Nobody dared to speak.

  “The lady,” he said coldly, “goes where I go and that’s all there is to it. And if ye don’t like it, put it to a
vote and the both of us’ll take our leave of the damned lot of ye right now.”

  Young Johnnie stood up. “Is she really a witch?”

  An arm yanked the boy back before Sam’s temper could burst its fragile seams. He took a deep, steadying breath and crossed his arms, affecting a deliberate cheerfulness that fooled no one. “And now that you’ve enlightened our new crew, Stripes, why don’t ye call for a show of hands to see who still wants to sail with us, eh?”

  “I tell ye, as long as she’s aboard, yer safe,” Stripes said importantly. “And a better cap’n than Black Sam ye won’t be findin’. But if ye put ’er off this ship, then I can’t promise she won’t do somethin’ t’ bring the cap’n back to ’er—”

  “Enough of this bloody nonsense!” Sam thundered, slamming his fist to the deckhouse. “Now who’s staying, damn it?”

  For a moment, there was silence. Someone chuckled, then someone else, and soon the whole group was laughing. Nat Paige raised his tankard high, heedless of the rum that sloshed down onto Silas’s bandanna. “I don’t care if she’s a witch or not. I’ll drink to any wench as pretty as that one is!”

  “Hell, after that dreg you had in Boston, I can see why,” added Phil, looking up from examining his pistol.

  “What are ye talking about? Don’t ye think the cap’n’s lady is the most exquisite creature ye’ve ever laid eyes on?”

  “Aye, I do. But she’s not for you.”

  “She’s not for any of you,” Sam growled, and there was a hardness in his eyes and a set to his jaw that instantly quelled the wagging tongues. He let his gaze rake them all in turn, holding it until each and every one of them looked away. “And if I catch any of ye treating her with anything less than respect, ye’ll wish ye’d never met me. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sheepish nods. A few exchanged glances.

  Sam strode to the rum barrel and refilled his tankard. “Now that such codswollop is behind us, let’s get down to business. The first order of the day is, of course, to elect officers. On a pirate ship, this and all major decisions are made by popular vote. The only exception to this rule is in battle, where the captain’s word is law.” Affable once more, he drank long and deeply of his rum. “Now, let us choose our officers, lads.”

  And so they did, taking up an afternoon to do so. There was no question over who would be captain, and the titles of quartermaster, sailing master, boatswain, and master gunner went to Silas West, Nat Paige, a young Irishman named Jake Gillespie, and Phil Stewart, respectively. At last only the position of surgeon remained unfilled.

  As they sat pondering their dilemma, Stripes’s voice broke the silence. “I say, what about Maria? I’ll bet none of ye knew she was a healer back on Cape Cod. Cured people with weeds an’ stuff, or so they told me. In fact—”

  “Stripes! That will be enough!” Sam roared.

  “Heck, I’d wish to fall in battle just t’ have her nurse me back t’ health,” Stripes added.

  Sam just shot him a quelling glare. The idea had merit, but he knew it would be a cold day in hell before Maria would agree to such a thing.

  And so they left the position vacant, drew up Articles, and swore on Shilling’s moldy old Bible to be true to the company. And it was only after the stars began to twinkle high overhead that Sam, leaving Stripes on watch and the ship in Nat’s capable hands, made his way below.

  And as he descended the hatch the smile faded from his face, his eyes grew hard, and his hand closed around the tiny scraps of fabric that still lay in his pocket.

  Scraps that he’d found in her sea chest.

  It was time that he and Maria had their talk.

  Chapter 17

  She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer,

  Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won!

  —Meredith

  The smell of tar, pitch, and damp wood. Deck supports and timbers, walling her in. A checkerboard of light from the hatch above, now fading with the day. For the hundredth time Maria, huddled miserably in the darkened hold between hogsheads of foodstuffs, water, and rum, cursed Captain Samuel Bellamy for the wicked monster he was.

  I despise you, Sam Bellamy!

  The sounds of revelry drifted down from above; they were muffled, but she had no trouble hearing them. Someone was belting out a rollicking tune in a voice thick with drink, only to be joined by a chorus of others. She heard good-natured oaths that made her cheeks burn, the tinkle of breaking glass, and following it, bursts of drunken, raucous laughter.

  And what was he doing? Leaning against the rail with the sea at his back, watching them all with the kind of amusement a proud parent might show a mischievous child? Congratulating himself on his good fortune and his ability to single-handedly steal a ship? Or drinking with the rest of them, enjoying himself, while behind those keen, impassive eyes his clever mind plotted some new and lawless scheme?

  One thing was certain. He wasn’t thinking about her.

  She’d served her purpose in rescuing him and nursing him back to health. He had no further need of her.

  None.

  She drew her legs up to her chest and leaned her forehead on her knees, trying to suppress her thoughts, her headache, and the stench of sour brine coming from a nearby pile of coiled hemp. Beneath her the deck lurched, and her out-flung arm was all that saved her from toppling onto her side. The deck pitched again, and this time her elbow cracked against a barrel. Pain shot up her arm. And as she looked up, fighting tears, she saw that the last of the light from the grating had faded and she was now in total darkness.

  “Maria?”

  She flattened herself against a barrel.

  “Maria, lass? Where are ye?”

  A traitorous flutter of her heart, a thrill that tingled up her spine; she swallowed hard, longing to throw herself into the arms of the owner of that deep, resonant voice. But no. She had her pride. She would not let him see her tears, her pain. Let him look for her elsewhere. Let him waste his precious time searching the whole stinking ship for her.

  “Maria, lass? I know ye’re down here somewhere. Please come out. I wish to talk to ye.”

  He was close; too close. Maria bit her lip and buried her face against her arm. In the heavy silence, even the whisper of her breath against her skin sounded like the howl of a gale. Go away! her mind screamed in silent agony. 1 despise you!

  One hesitant football in the darkness, another; and then a thud, a crash, and sounds of something rolling across the deck. “God’s bloody teeth! What kind of idiot puts a cursed barrel in the middle of the goddamned—Maria?”

  Served him right for not bringing a lantern! She held her breath, counting the frantic thud of her heartbeats. She was beginning to feel incredibly foolish, but pride won out and she didn’t move. The moments dragged on until at last he muttered something she didn’t catch and moved away, his footsteps receding into the darkness. Slowly, her breath came out in a sigh of relief, and an absurd despair that he hadn’t found her.

  But sooner rather than later he would, and when he did he was going to be downright furious. And suddenly Maria realized that the knife edge of her hatred had gone dull, for it was hard to despise someone who’d just robbed you of one of the reasons for doing so in the first place. Just as she’d been feeling sorry for herself that he hadn’t come looking for her, he had. Oh…damn him! Why couldn’t he have just left her alone with her anger? It was the only weapon she had against him, and if she wanted to protect herself from further pain, she needed all the defenses she could muster.

  But no. She still had plenty of things to despise him for. He’d made her an unwilling partner in his plans. He’d lied to her. He’d just stolen a ship, for heaven’s sake.

  No, better to keep on despising him.

  Her heart was safer that way.

  * * *

  “You summoned me, sir?”

  Young Johnnie Taylor stared up in awe at the tall, formidable man who stood in the aft cabin with a tankard in one hand and a bottle of
Shilling’s prized Madeira in the other.

  Sam turned. He was tired, he was annoyed, and as usual where Maria was concerned, he was nearing the end of his limited patience. He pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning back against the fine leather. “Aye, I summoned you,” he said, setting both tankard and wine upon the table. “Take a seat if ye will.”

  The boy did so, staring with wide eyes as he pushed aside the clutter of brass dividers, charts, quadrant, and telescope to make a place for his booted feet. These he propped on the tabletop, three inches away from an untouched bowl of lobscouse and a plate of biscuit and cheese. Too tired for pleasantries, Sam got right to the point. “I have a task for you, one that shouldn’t prove too difficult.” He carved a wedge of cheese, leaned back in his chair once more, and sat chewing it, watching Johnnie with narrowed eyes. “How long have ye been at sea, lad?”

  “Three years, sir.”

  “Hmm.” He gestured with his chin toward the block of cheese, watching as the boy early cut himself a piece. “You’re rather young, aren’t ye?”

  “I’m ten, sir. Not all that young.” Not quite as clandestinely as the pirate was assessing him, Johnnie studied his new captain with reverent eyes. Pirate or not, Bellamy hadn’t lost his temper nor raised his hand to him as Shilling had been wont to do. Johnnie’s bright gaze lingered on the hoop of gold in the captain’s ear and the glossy black waves of his hair, neatly queued at his nape with a strip of leather. A few locks had come loose to fall over his forehead and curl around his temples, giving him a slightly unscrupulous look that, coupled with his beard, made him appear devilish, almost sinister. But then, Johnnie thought, Black Sam was a pirate captain—he was supposed to look that way.

  Johnnie raised his chin. “Besides, I can set a sail and Stripes is going to show me how to fire a cannon. He said that you—”

  “Never mind what Stripes told you. He’s full of tales, and ye’d be wise not to believe half the things he says.”