Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  “I can assure you that I am far from dead, Maria!”

  “But you will be, if you persist in this!”

  “I will persist until my men are safely out of that gaol!”

  “And you are hanged in their place!”

  Aargh! He slammed his fist against the desk, uttered a string of curses, and once more began to pace. “Just what does it take, woman? Damn it, do ye think me a child who has to be minded? Do ye think I can’t take care of myself, my men, my ship? I’m sick and tired of your foolish, womanish worrying over me!”

  “I worry about you because I love you!”

  “If ye loved me as much as you claim to ye’d never have resorted to such cunning deceit as you did tonight. And if you loved me you wouldn’t sit there and lie through your pretty little teeth! Ye don’t love me, Maria! Ye love what ye want me to be, not what I actually am!”

  “I do love you!”

  “Then come over here and prove it, damn yer eyes!”

  She stared at him, her jaw falling open. Did he think he could command such a thing? He was a flame, burning too hot for her to approach. He was snow, with the coldness of an Eastham winter glinting in his eyes. And he was angry, downright furious.

  He was asking the impossible.

  “You can go to hell, Captain Bellamy.”

  “A fate long since decided, and not by you.”

  “I will not be commanded to pleasure you like some painted, purchased whore. When we come together, it will be for love. To do so now would be vile!”

  “To do so now would make me very happy, and I can assure you that you will find me even more vile if you do not!”

  A knock sounded on the door. “What the bloody hell is it now?” Sam roared.

  Stripes, who’d likely been eavesdropping outside, pulled it open just far enough to see inside. “Uh, young Johnnie’s up in the crosstrees. Says there’s some lights out t’ sta’b’d of us. Thought ye might like t’ know about ’em, sir.”

  Sam braced an arm against the bulwark and leaned his face into the crease of his elbow. “How far to starboard, Stripes?”

  “’Bout half a league, mebbe.”

  “Fine. Fire a pistol to signal the boat to return at once; we may have to make a run for it. The men can take a prize some other night.”

  “They ain’t gonna be too happy, sir.”

  “I will not be too happy if I’m forced to leave them here, and the company won’t be happy if we’re nailed by a navy hound or end up forfeiting a fine prize just so a few miserable bastards can practice a bit of piracy on a worthless fishing boat! Signal them, if you please. Now.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He turned to Maria. “Get your dunnage.”

  “But—”

  “I said, pack your things. You’ll find a ditty bag in my sea chest in which to put them.”

  “P-pack my things?”

  His was the resolute stride of a general going into what he knew to be his last battle. At the door, he turned. “Aye, your things. Remember? Ye wanted to leave. Take a good look around the ship, Maria, for ’twill be your last. We’ll make Provincetown by six bells of the morning watch.”

  “But Sam, I—”

  “You heard me.” And with that he slammed the door and was gone.

  Chapter 22

  And the lion there lay dying.

  —Tennyson

  Damned overeager brat,” Sam was muttering as he stalked back to his cabin. But no, he liked the boy. Too bad the whole damned crew wasn’t so bloody sharp-eyed. Lights out to starboard. Possibly a prize, possibly an enemy. Whatever it was could wait ’til morning.

  Morning.

  Dread struck him in the chest like a stallion’s kick. Once, in the heat of battle, a ball had snapped a line and the block had nearly taken his head off, but instead had caught him across the ribs, putting him out of action for the rest of the fight. That’s how he felt now—like he’d been kicked in the ribs, had them staved in by forces he couldn’t predict, couldn’t control. Morning. Several more hours and he’d have to put Maria ashore. Christ, he thought. Why the bloody hell did I say that? I don’t want her to go. But she despises me. I must do it. I can’t hold her here against her will, her principles, her beliefs.

  He was not surprised to find his cabin empty. He thought about searching every inch of the sloop until he found her, but what good would that do? She’d hate him no less. No, better to let her go, give her her freedom. Let her go back to Eastham and be a damned Puritan. Let her marry some farmer, some fisherman with a Bible in one hand and a prayer book in the other. He collapsed into a chair and leaned his brow into his hand. Let her live her life without him.

  He searched for a bottle, found some wine. It slid down his throat. Too bad it couldn’t drive the pain from his heart, dull the knife edge of his anguish. He lifted the bottle again and again, dragged his log book toward him through the clutter, uncapped his ink, found a pen, and began to write. “Wind out of the west.” Two more hours. “Seas easy, high clouds to the north.” Two more hours and she’ll be gone. “Ship sighted half-league to windward. Decision about it in the morning.” God’s teeth, can I do it? Can I really let her go?

  He must have fallen asleep. Time must have passed. He never saw the widening bar of light that appeared between door and bulkhead. Never heard the scratching of a paw, the snuffling of a wet nose, and never saw the dog, stalking across the cabin toward him with deadly, menacing intent.

  Snarling, Gunner was upon him.

  Damnation! Seventy pounds of solid muscle caught him in the chest, knocking him out of the chair and slamming him to the deck flooring so hard that his jaws smashed together and bloodied his tongue. The bottle he’d set down went flying, shattered, and spewed its contents everywhere. Sam knew nothing but snapping teeth and hot breath.

  “Damned whelp, so help me God, ’tis the last time ye’ll ever catch me by surprise again!”

  For Sam Bellamy had been born a fighter, had lived a fighter, and if he was going to succumb to the jaws of this canine shark, then he’d damn well die a fighter, too. Bellowing, he threw the dog off, lunged to his feet and went after him. Gunner’s eyes registered astonishment, confusion, and fear in the single moment it took Sam to wrestle him to the floor and lock a brawny arm around his neck.

  “Not so high and mighty now, are ye?” Gunner began to struggle, his eyes now ringed in white circles of terror. Sam tightened his grip around the dog’s neck, his hand closing around the velvety flews that draped that unfriendly muzzle. “Damned, sniveling whelp. I ought to carve out your liver and feed it to the sharks. I ought to string ye up by the collar and let ye swing from the yardarm. I ought”—he tightened his throat-hold as the dog began to struggle once more, wildly this time, wriggling backward until the base of his tail edged up against the bulkhead and stopped his retreat—“to hack every one of those teeth from your blasted head and make a goddamned necklace out of them!”

  And then Sam felt a tremor, then another, until the whole inside of his inner arm seemed to vibrate with a will of its own. He looked down, and if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, felt it against his own skin, he’d never have believed it. By the gods, the beast was trembling.

  And as Sam cautiously released him, Gunner got up, slunk across the room, and flattened himself against the door, looking back at Sam with wounded eyes.

  With a triumphant guffaw, Sam got to his feet, brushing bits of glass from his shirt. “Not so damned impudent now, are ye? Damned sniveling coward. Knew all along ye were made of nothing but milk and water.”

  As though understanding the words, Gunner sank down and looked up at him in proper humiliation.

  “Aye, go ahead, grovel. I know your ilk.”

  Gunner tucked his tail, slowly rolled over, and presented his soft underbelly and wiggling paws in a classic gesture of canine submission. For a moment, Sam could only stare at this creature that had nearly managed to kill him when the Royal Navy, the wrath of a murderous northeast
er, and the crazy cure-alls of a purported witch had not. And then, shaking his head, he turned away, for groveling, no matter if it came from man or beast, was something he didn’t care to see.

  He went to his desk and plunked himself down atop its surface, cluttered with navigational instruments, ammunition, scattered papers, and bottles in various stages of emptiness. Something pushed against his thigh. Looking down, he saw that it was his pistol. With careless indifference, he shoved it away across the tangle of paperwork and as he did so he caught sight of an unfamiliar slip of paper, generously covered with the delicate script of a woman’s hand. Maria. Frowning, he groped blindly behind him for a forgotten bottle of wine, and raising it to his lips, unfolded the parchment and began to read.

  For the love of God. He folded the note and put it aside. What was this balderdash about his life being in danger if she stayed on the ship? And why did she think he’d never give up piracy? Hadn’t he made a promise to her that he would? Did he have to sign it in blood for her to believe him?

  Women. He leaned his brow into his palm and wearily kneaded his eyes, his temples. The wine bottle hung forgotten from his hand, and it was only when he felt a persistent but gentle nudge against his knuckles that he was shaken from his reverie. He looked down. Gunner was there, nose wet against the inside of his wrist, eyes hopeful if not pleading, white fur and whiskered muzzle soft against his hand.

  “What the devil do you want?”

  Again, the dog nuzzled him, harder this time.

  “Go on, leave me be.”

  And this time Gunner made a carefully timed flip of his muzzle that jostled Sam’s hand hard enough to send wine sloshing from the bottle and all over the front of his shirt.

  “God’s teeth, now look what ye’ve done! Go on, get the hell out of here, ye cursed whelp. The last thing I need is someone else trying to look after me.”

  The dog remained where he was, staring into Sam’s eyes and whining softly, then looking at the bottle. Frowning, Sam put the vessel down, and only then did the dog sigh and lower himself to the deck flooring, tentatively laying his jaw on Sam’s toe. The pirate captain grinned, the dog closed his eyes, and in that moment their friendship was sealed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Someone knocked on the door, and it opened to admit Stripes.

  “Good mornin’ Cap’n.”

  His head jerked up. “Morning?”

  Sure enough, the stern windows showed faint light beginning to spread over the sea, and Sam’s heart fell.

  Stripes rubbed at his eyes. “Thought ye’d want t’ know that sail we sighted last night is hull up off to the southeast. A brig she is, and bearin’ away from us. Prob’ly reco’nizes us fer pirates.”

  “Thank you, Stripes, I’ll be up shortly.”

  Stripes cocked his head, looking at Gunner. “I thought you an’ that dog hated each other—”

  “We’ve settled our differences.” Sam reached down to scratch behind Gunner’s ear. “Get the ship prepared for battle. When we get within range we’ll hail that brig and hope she gives us an easy time of it.”

  “Aye. But ye oughta see the boy, Cap’n! All excited ’e is, seein’s how ’e’ll get first pick o’ the booty. Says ’e wants a cutlass just like yers, with emeralds all decoratin’ the hilt, but how ’e intends t’ lift the damned thing I’ll never know. Kid’s as scrawny as a splinter, ’e is.” He spotted the wine stains on Sam’s shirt, the haggardness in his face. His narrowed. “Say, ye sure ye’re all right, Cap’n? Ye don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine. And where the hell is my pistol? ’Twas just here a minute ago.” He pawed through the clutter on the desk, found it, and knotted it into a length of crimson silk with businesslike efficiency.

  Stripes eyed him as if he’d lost his senses. “Are ye goin’ up on deck lookin’ like that, Cap’n?”

  “Why not? Am I a pirate or some bloody aristocrat? Now come on, let’s go. I’ve wasted enough time dithering in this damned cabin.”

  “But Cap’n—”

  “Are ye coming or not?”

  Sam stalked out of the cabin, the dog at his heels. A prize. ’Twas just what he needed to get his mind off Maria and back on business. Dawn was gilding the horizon now, but he would not think about what it meant, what this day would bring. Snatching up his boarding axe and a dagger as long as his forearm, he headed topside.

  * * *

  Maria had spent a sleepless night staring off across the darkened sea. But loneliness can be the devil’s advocate, and introspection its handmaiden. And in the long hours since her escape attempt, she’d had more than enough time to think about what she’d done, first with a feeling of justified, haughty righteousness, then with a nagging uncertainty, and now, with nothing short of heartfelt regret.

  The crew was preparing the ship for battle, and the tension was not unlike the charged air heralding a thunderstorm. Johnnie hurried past, lugging buckets of sloshing water. Seamen called to each other, wheels rumbled across the deck as the guns were run out, and above it all came Sam’s voice, orchestrating it all. He did not deign to acknowledge her. She wondered if he’d put their heated exchange behind him or if he was suffering as acutely as she was, herself.

  If he was, he sure wasn’t showing it.

  She went below and came up short as she entered his cabin. It looked like someone had fought a war here. A puddle of wine on the deck flooring, broken glass, signs of a struggle. Gunner had been trailing in his wake when he’d come topside to take command; that he and Sam had finally had it out was apparent, but just who the winner was she had yet to find out. Trying not to think about it, she stepped over shards of glass and made her way to the desk. And there, lying upon its cluttered surface, was her note.

  She picked it up. That Sam had read it, she had no doubt. The parchment, stained by a fingerprint of wine, had been carefully folded and placed against his inkwell amidst the clutter, as though it was the only thing on his cluttered desk worth caring about. Guilt assailed her. What had he thought as he’d read her words? Were the various bottles strewn about the cabin proof that her betrayal had affected him such that he’d sought oblivion in drink?

  Maria sank into a chair and stared miserably at the bulkhead. In a short time she would be gone, and would never again see this man who drove her mad with passion, crazy with his determination. She dug her knuckles into her eyes, overcome by the sheer frustration and futility of her situation. And now, she heard that same man’s voice drifting down from above to torment her with its belovedness. Not only did it make her heart pound a little faster just to hear it; the ship, faithful lady that she was, also thrilled to it and came to life at its command, the decks tilting sharply as she heeled over on the opposite tack.

  Yes, the ship leaped to obey him, little Johnnie worshipped the ground he walked on, and even this ragged band of sea dogs had nothing but respect and admiration for him. And now, Gunner. What, then, was wrong with her?

  Everything.

  She was a fool. A damned fool.

  He had taken her innocence, fathered her child, washed up nearly dead on her very doorstep and stolen her heart. It didn’t matter what he was or what he did. It didn’t matter what he was planning or how he would bring those plans to fruition. And there it was, the knowledge emblazoned on her heart, no longer able to be denied.

  I love him.

  I love him more than anyone or anything on this earth.

  She took a deep and trembling breath.

  So what if he is a pirate.

  There. That was it, then.

  Her every waking moment since she’d first met him beneath an Eastham apple tree had been spent thinking of him and naught but him. Her every dream, her every longing, centered around him. He could be the worst criminal on earth and still she would love him—it was as simple a truth as that.

  A resounding rumble filled the cabin as a gun was dragged into position on the deck above, but Maria paid it no heed. She felt like a spectator l
ooking into herself, saw herself as others must see her. A spoiled brat, yes. A witch, a hypocrite, a self-righteous, distempered little shrew who’d behaved like a child.

  And still, Sam loved her.

  And how had she repaid that love? With judgment, angry words and ultimately, betrayal. With attempts to force him to be something he was not. Shame filled her. He wasn’t going back on the account for the sheer pleasure of robbing. He was doing it with a single, noble purpose in mind—to rescue the men toward whom he felt such an obligation—not to alienate, anger, or hurt her. She bit her lip and stared miserably at the note she had left him. Maybe she could stand to learn something about values, about human dignity, from him, someone who was, ironically, a pirate.

  Her chin came up and in the morning light, her eyes shone with determination. A pirate he was, and a pirate he might always be. She thought of Tim’s long-ago words, and those of Justice Doane: He’s a wild one, that Sam Bellamy. Well, perhaps her Sam was a wild one. But he could also be kind, taking the time to teach a young orphaned boy how to fire a gun, or holding her in his arms while she’d sobbed out her agony over the loss of her baby. He was patient and understanding. He was strong, and he was brave. And he did not deserve her contempt.

  She stood up. Nefarious was preparing for battle, and her captain should look the part. Stained and ragged shirt? Nay! Shoeless feet? Never! He was the free prince of the seas—let the whole world know it!

  Determined now, Maria went to the same sea chest containing the ditty bag he’d ordered her to pack. She tossed back the lid, rummaging about until she found what she was looking for. There, the coat of broadcloth she’d made for him, lavishly embroidered with gold thread and fit attire for an aristocrat, a nobleman, yes, even a haughty pirate captain! From its peg in the bulkhead she took down his gold-braided hat, quickly turning up the brim and securing its three sides with silver pins. She found his boots, took his cutlass down from the bulkhead. And thus armed, she made her way topside with head high.