“Is that so? Well, regardless of whether or not your captain condoned the earring, if it weren’t for him Johnnie wouldn’t be wearing it, nor serving upon a pirate vessel! And furthermore, ’tis beyond me why he’s upset about a mere piece of jewelry yet doesn’t think a thing about teaching that same child how to fire a cannon!”
“A gun, Maria. ’Tis called a gun—”
She rolled her eyes and tried to rein in her patience.
“Besides,” Stripes continued, vaulting atop a barrel and swinging his tar-blackened feet back and forth, “the Cap’n jus’ wanted t’ let the boy ’ave some fun, that’s all. Black Sam’s got a heart o’ gold, try as ’e might t’ hide it. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with what ’e did, no more than a mama lettin’ ’er little girl play at servin’ tea to ’er friends. Makes the boy feel grown-up an’ important-like.” His eyes were serious for once. “Besides, if we was ever t’ go into battle the Cap’n wouldn’t let him near the guns. I’d bet me last cob on that. Oh! Speakin’ o’ guns, what d’ye think o’ the Cap’n’s latest scheme? Pretty clever, ain’t ’e?”
Maria frowned. “What scheme?”
“Oh, ye mean ’e didn’t tell ye ’bout the quakers?”
“What, may I ask”—she gave him a level look—“is a quaker?”
Stripes pointed to the heap of logs that lay amidships. “See that timber over there? Those’re guns.”
“Guns, huh? You and your captain have both been drinking too much if you can’t make a distinction between firewood and a cannon.”
“But those who see the logs from the decks of another ship will not make that distinction,” came a deep, clipped voice from behind her.
Whirling, Maria met Sam’s amused gaze. “And just how long have you been listening?” she snapped. “You’re as bad as Stripes! And if you honestly expect me to believe you’re going to pass off a bunch of logs as cannons—”
“Guns,” Sam corrected her.
“Told ye he was pretty clever, didn’t I?” Stripes commented.
Maria clenched her fists. “Clever? A person would have to be blind as well as stupid to make the mistake of believing such a ruse.”
“Ah, but ’twill be an easy mistake to make, princess. Those logs yonder will look very much like cannon after we’ve put the adze to them, blackened them with tar, and run them out of the new gun ports. From a distance, they’ll be quite intimidating. And intimidation, my dear”—again, that infuriating, lazy smile—“is the name of the game.”
“You already have enough guns,” she spat, thinking that even one cannon—gun—when used for such wicked purposes, was too many.
“Enough?” The creases cornering Sam’s eyes deepened and his teeth flashed against the swarthiness of his skin, his beard, his hair. “Pirates never have enough guns, do they, Stripes?” She stiffened as he wrapped his arm around her waist. “If our decks are bristling with weaponry and armed men, don’t ye think a prize will be more likely to strike her colors without resistance at such a show of force? Of course it will,” he said, answering his question when she would not. “But if the pirate ship appears to be an equal if not lesser match, the prize might be inclined to fight. And while I am no coward, neither am I a fool. Fighting may bring death and destruction to his decks, but it will also bring them to mine, and I have every intention of keeping my men—and my woman—all in one piece.”
“I am not your woman,” she bit out, trying to jerk free, but the forearm he’d clamped beneath her ribs prevented it. Her irritation with him—and herself, for the feel of that arm just beneath her breasts was doing strange things to her pulse—increased. “You put an end to that when you took this ship. And your arrogance amazes me. Do you actually think that by playing the bully no one’ll stand up to you?”
“That’s exactly what I think.” He released her, hooked a hand through the shrouds, and studied the waves that danced and frolicked around them for as far as the eye could see. “Right now we have a most pitiful armament, certainly not formidable enough to strike fear into anyone. But, I intend to change all that. Ye see, I don’t like resistance.” He turned to her and smiled. “Not from any prize.”
“Perhaps some prizes are better left to sail their own courses.”
“Ah, but then the best ones would get away. And we can’t have that, now, can we?” He sidled closer, curved his arm behind her back, and drew her away from Stripes, whose eyes had gone brighter than Sirius on a winter’s night.
“Didn’t I make it clear that I’d prefer you to keep your hands to yourself?” She tore herself from his grip.
“Ye made it perfectly clear, lass.” Leaning close, his eyes mere inches from hers, he hefted her braid, deliberately letting his knuckles brush against her nape, her shoulders, her back, until she shivered uncontrollably. “’Tis just that I’m choosing to ignore your wishes.”
“As you’ve done from the start.”
“Aye, and ’twas a good thing, too. One of us has to take the initiative.”
He was now at work at the end of her braid, deftly loosening it until the ends hung in S-shaped fringes. His hands were gentle, but she knew he wasn’t about to release her. Not wanting to have her hair pulled out, Maria stood and suffered his touch. And the worst part of it was, she wasn’t suffering; the gentle tug of her hair against her scalp was pleasant, the feel of his fingers loosening the plait, sensual….
Nay! She would not let him defuse her anger. “I told you to get your hands off”—she reached up and tore what was left of the braid from his fingers—“my hair!”
“But I like your hair,” he returned, “especially when it’s free of that damnable braid and hanging loose and full down your back. Why don’t you wear it like that more often, princess? Just for me?”
“Because I don’t want to! Why don’t you get rid of that hideous beard? ‘Just for me?’”
“Does it bother you?” he asked, grinning.
“Everything about you bothers me. I wish I’d never met you.”
“A feeling that others will soon be echoing, I should hope.”
She twisted around to face him. “And what sort of schemes are you cooking up now?”
He regarded her with the mischievous innocence of a child, one brow raised, his smile deceivingly guileless. “Schemes, princess? By the gods, for one who makes it plain she’d rather be anywhere but here you’re terribly interested in my plans, aren’t ye?”
“As I am to be an unwilling part of them, I have a right to know my fate.”
“Your fate?” He stood back to admire her hair, now whipping in the wind and framing the exquisite loveliness of her face. “Why, didn’t I make myself clear, Maria? You’re going to be my wife. I thought we settled that.”
“You settled that, not we. I’ve never had anything to say about it. And what kind of marriage would it be, anyhow? Surely, not one based on trust. Already you keep secrets from me.”
“What secrets, lass?” The deck rolled steeply atop a large comber, and Sam reached out to steady her, his touch searing her skin even through her sleeve. “My plans are no secret. First, we’ll find a deserted cove and turn this pretty little songbird into a warhawk. We’ll chop away her deckhouses and railing, cut more gun ports and mount the quakers.” His eyes grew thoughtful, and she could see the visions in his mind’s eye as if they were her own. “And then we’ll go hunting. The seas are rich with prizes, Maria. Hate me for it if ye will, but I intend to take those prizes, recruit new men, and build up a fleet so damned powerful ’twill make the one I lost at Eastham seem like a covey of pleasure yachts. Only this time, my flagship won’t be a big square-rigger, but a nimble, swift little sloop.” Leaning both elbows on the rail, he presented his profile to her as he stared out over the sea, dreams in his eye, a wistful, determined smile curving his mouth. “We’ll meet up with Paul Williams, and maybe even my old consort Louis Lebous. With any luck we’ll even find Ned Teach. I hear he has his own ship now. With such worthies at my side nothing can stop me. An
d when I have such a formidable squadron, what do ye think I’ll do, Maria?”
She looked down at her hands. “Attack Boston and free your men from the gaol,” she said bleakly.
“Aye. And when I’ve accomplished that, then what d’ye think I shall do?”
“Hang,” she said, even more bleakly.
But at that he simply laughed, for hanging was definitely not part of his plans. “Nay, lass. After my men are free to sail the seas again, I’ll turn over command of Nefarious to my quartermaster. No more pirating, I promise. Just this one duty, this one vow I’ve made to myself, and then it’ll be over. By the gods, lass, I swear it on my mother’s grave—”
“Sam, don’t make promises you’ve no intention of keeping.”
“I will keep it. My word is gold. And I will be the kind of husband ye’ve always wanted. We can be happy together.” He took her face between his roughened palms, smoothed the hair back from her cheeks, and searched the depths of her eyes. “Can’t we?”
She looked up at him, his hair free of its queue now and blowing in thick, handsome waves around his face. His eyes held the promise he had just made her, but she knew in her heart that he could never keep it.
She reached up and gently removed his hands, holding them for a long moment before pushing them away. “Yes, Sam,” she said hollowly. “We can. But only if you give up piracy. It’s just that somehow, I don’t think you ever will.”
She turned to leave.
His words halted her. “What d’ ye mean? Didn’t I just finish promising that I would? For God’s sake, lass, don’t my words mean anything to ye?”
“They mean everything, Sam. And I believe you fully intend to give it up.” Her chin came up, and his image blurred behind a sheen of tears. “It’s just that I don’t think you’ll live long enough to keep that promise.”
With that she turned, swallowed the lump in her throat, and left him standing by the rail.
Chapter 20
The sweets of love are mixed with tears.
—Herrick
“That one duty” he’d sworn to undertake drove Sam with a relentless obsession. The false guns weren’t the only measures he took to turn Nefarious into the pirate ship he wanted her to be. He taught the crew how to make stinkpots—nauseating bombs of saltpeter, limestone, rotten fish, and resin packed into empty wine bottles that, when set afire and hurled onto an enemy’s deck, would quell even the most stubborn resistance. He had them making shot—grape, chain, and bar—until even young Johnnie grew weary of hauling it below. He held contests between the gun crews to sharpen their speed and accuracy, promised Moses’ Law to anyone who didn’t keep his gun loaded and ready to fire at all times, and conducted unannounced, random inspections of those sturdy black monsters while the sweat ran from every man’s pores, for no one wanted to be the one to displease him. But in general he was happy with their performance, and if he drove them hard, it was only because such skills might someday save their lives.
As pirates, they were their own little world, with every man equal to his peers. As pirates, they were their own masters, free to do as they wished and no longer having to bow to the whims of those who happened—by birth, wealth, or circumstance—to be on a higher rung of society’s ladder. As pirates, they enjoyed the self-respect and dignity that had been denied them in the “civilized” but unfair world of class and order. Personal freedom was what it all boiled down to, Sam told them. And as the days passed, Maria began to understand why his men called him “the free prince of the seas.”
Sometimes, his views almost made sense to her.
Almost. But not quite.
And it was the almost that frightened her, and made her realize she was in very real danger of losing her own moral compass. Of descending into sin right along with him.
They had barely spoken since she had left him standing at the rail, and in the days that had passed since, he had thrown himself into his work with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism. He did not know that she quietly watched him, yearned for him to change course, ached for him to tell her he was sorry and walk away from piracy forever. But such wishes on her part did not materialize, and Maria was left feeling more and more abandoned.
More and more alone.
On a quiet evening while the crew was at supper topside, she stood in the cabin that Sam had yet to spend a night in. Beyond the stern windows the sunset turned the sea the color of blood, threw checkers of light across the deck planking, and shone upon the brass dividers on Sam’s desk. And as it sank into the ocean, a last searching ray crept higher and higher until it finally found the cutlass that hung on the bulkhead. The sight of it tugged at Maria’s heart and she looked away, growing more melancholy by the minute.
An agent of death, that cutlass. Just like the gun, resting quietly in its carriage and tied to the bulkhead like a fearsome beast, but all too eager to bite if provoked. And there, a flintlock on the desk, a length of silk wound around its grip, the grotesque face on its butt-cap laughing at her, mocking her. All of them, thirsty for blood. Innocent blood.
Gunner joined her, nuzzling her hand and licking her fingers until she absently reached down to rub his head. She thought of what she’d overheard this afternoon as she’d passed beneath a deck grating where Stripes, just above, had been sitting in idle conversation with Nat Paige.
“Did ye hear the latest?”
She’d paused, listening.
“What latest?” Nat had asked, echoing her thoughts.
“Why, Black Sam’s thinkin’ o’ startin’ a pirate kingdom up in the Maine wilderness. Kinda like our own New Providence.”
“A pirate kingdom?”
“Aye!” And then, “I’m tellin’ ye, if ye think the young lady is riled now, wait ’til she hears o’ this.”
Riled? Downright furious was more like it.
And then her fury had burnt out, leaving only despair in its place.
Hopelessness.
The sad and bitter realization that Sam Bellamy was not going to change. Not for her, not for himself, and not for anyone. He was a pirate through and through, a man who had sworn to fight against authority, a man who took what he wanted, when he wanted it, and who had become obsessed with aspirations of power, wealth, and now, empire.
A pirate kingdom.
It was this final indignation that made her realize she had to leave him. If she stayed, foolishly clinging to hopes of a promise he would never keep, he would drag her down with him into the sin that yawned before the rest of his life…or what remained of it, for Maria knew in her bones that it was only a matter of time before he was caught and put to death by the same authorities he despised. She could not stay with him and be a party to his wickedness. She could not descend into sin right along with him.
I have to leave him.
Even now her flesh ached for the feel of his strong arms and craved the memory of his hard male body. He was the Forbidden Fruit. No, he was the Serpent—deadly, sinister, irresistible—and Maria was torn between yielding to him and clinging to her own deep-rooted values. The worst of it was, there could be no winner.
The sun was gone now, leaving the cabin a colorless gray. Soon it would be dark and she’d have to light a lantern. Beyond the windows, the lights of a coastal settlement winked on the horizon. Stripes had casually mentioned that some of the more restless men were planning to take the boat after the watch ended and go see what trouble they could stir up there. Maybe she could sneak off with them. And not come back.
Leave him…tonight, while you have the chance. Before you think too much about it, because things are not going to get any better.
A pirate kingdom.
They were only getting worse.
She listened to the water gurgling around the rudder, the wash of the sea as it pressed against the hull not several feet from where she sat. The ship was settling down for the night, and with it came raucous laughter from above, the sound of breaking glass as some tar tossed his wine bottle against a
gun. Ribald curses, a random pistol shot, more laughter. They had become familiar sounds, and Maria accepted that they were as much a part of the ship as the sails, the rigging, the deck planking beneath her feet.
What she hadn’t been able to accept had been the ragged cheers, the huzzahs, and the thunderous salute of Nefarious’s guns that had accompanied the first hoisting of the Jolly Roger.
Leave him….
She crossed the room to Sam’s desk, where the only neatness to be found was in his bold handwriting, sprawled across the vellum of the open log. A quill pen and inkwell sat nearby, and several pieces of bar shot at its corners prevented an open chart from curling back into a scroll shape. She wondered where this pirate kingdom would be founded. Sadly, her finger traced the ragged New England coastline with her fingertip. Pemaquid. Portsmouth. Newbury. Boston. Plymouth…. Cape Cod.
Cape Cod. The salt spray rose would now be blooming on the moors. Bearberry flowers would be softening the severe face of the dunes. Aunt Helen would be on her hands and knees in the vegetable garden and beyond her weathered house, beyond the green lawn where that same robin was probably tugging at one last worm before retiring for the night, and beneath the apple tree at the edge of the pastures, there would be a tiny headstone marking a grave….
A single tear trickled from Maria’s eye, followed the curve of her cheek, and dropped silently upon her breast. Childhood memories, Aunt Helen, little Charles—they were all there in Eastham, but she could never go back, nor would she, without Sam. Those cliffs she used to walk in the hopes of sighting his returning ship? Never again. The days she used to count until he returned for her? They were gone forever.
She knelt down, bending her head and using Gunner’s soft ears to blot her tears. She’d miss her dog, but at least he’d be loved and well cared for under Johnnie’s watchful eye. But Sam? Who would care for him? Would the resulting loneliness be any worse than the bitter ache that filled her heart now, the utter sense of loss over what Sam Bellamy had become, the empty bed she faced every night while he slept topside with his crew?
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