Lacy felt the canvas move behind her back. A small lump about the size of a cat’s head butted her elbow. “I haven’t seen any rat. When it gets light, I’ll look around.”
“Hmmph.” Ben shook his head. “Certain I seed one. Big devil, he was, too.” Ben held his hands apart to show the size of the rat.
“You’re jumpy, Ben,” Lacy chided. “Remember the time you saw the mermaid off Dead Man’s Point? The one that turned out to be a seal?”
“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t.” Ben blew out the light. “Things can change to look like seals. Certain things.”
James’s voice barely concealed his amusement as he changed the subject. “How long will it take us to get off the river and into the North Sea?”
“No longer than it takes,” Ben replied. “Twelve hour, fourteen maybe. We should be shut of ’er by noon tomorry, iffen we don’t run into trouble.”
“Noon,” James mused.
“Aye, like as not.” Ben turned and started up the ladder.
“The sooner the better,” James said. “I’ve a powerful urge to get this collar off my neck.”
“No more than me.” She settled back down in the darkness, hoping that Harry would stay below and not take any more strolls on the deck.
James returned to his spot, managing to jerk her neck twice before he found a comfortable position. “Good night, puss,” he said.
“Good night,” she answered. She closed her eyes and immediately forgot him as the memory of her vision came rushing back.
Gold, she thought. I saw gold at the bottom of the sea, but God alone knows where that wreck is. The image of the tattooed man rose behind her eyelids. He called me daughter, she remembered. And the strangest thing was that he hadn’t seemed strange at all ... He’d seemed like someone she’d known all her life.
“Be ye a pirate, why was ye to hang at Tyburn?” Ben demanded suddenly of James as the little vessel skimmed along an open stretch of water. It was mid-morning the day after the escape, and the Silkie was nearing the mouth of the Thames. The tide had turned, but the wind was with them and the boat was still making fair time. Since there were no other ships nearby, Lacy and James had come on deck.
“Aye.” Alfred scowled. “Pirates be all hung to Execution Dock.”
“At Wapping,” Ben agreed. “’Tis custom.”
“Hold still,” Lacy ordered James. He’d straightened a fish hook for her, and she’s spent the last hour trying to pick the lock on his collar with the barb. “Pirate he be, right enough,” she assured her brothers. “I heard the warder read his name off the list.” She was fully dressed for the first time since she’d been bound to James, and she felt more at ease, even though putting her clothes on had been an ordeal because of the shackles and his close proximity. “I think ... I think I’ve—”
“Execution Dock at Wapping,” Ben repeated. “I seen pirates hang there wi’ these two eyes.” He brushed a lock of carrot-red hair out of his eyes.
“I’m not sure why they took me to Tyburn,” James answered mildly. “My shipmates went to Execution Dock months ago. It could be something to do with the judge who sentenced me.”
Ben leaned forward, hands on his hips, one bushy eyebrow raised, waiting for further explanation.
James shrugged. “He insulted my mother.”
“And?” Ben leaned closer.
“I leaped out of the box and broke his jaw.”
Alfred pursed his lips. “That might do it,” he said. “A capital crime to assault an officer of the court.”
Lacy caught her breath. “Stop wiggling, I say. I’ve almost got the damned thing.”
“You’ve been saying that for an hour,” James reminded her.
She frowned. “Do ye think ye can do better?”
“A blacksmith could have that off in the time it takes to down a pint,” Ben said. “We remembered the clothes ye asked fer, sister, but we didn’t have room for no smithy.” Ben grinned at his own joke. “Right size too, ain’t they?”
“Close,” Lacy replied. The laced bodice was so tight that she showed more bosom than she cared to, but the gown was of good blue kersey, hardly worn at all, and the linen petticoat was clean. She glanced down at the matching blue stockings that showed between the hem of the gown and her shoes. The former owner of the clothing had been shorter than she was, but that was to be expected. She was half a head taller than most women. “I’m not complaining. And ye did bring my own shoes from home.”
“Aye, ’twas Alfred thought of that,” Ben said. “I got the gown and such off a fence behind a bake shop. Wasn’t none of them saddle things what wenches wear around their hips.”
Lacy laughed. “Why, Ben, I’m surprised ye’d lay hands on a woman’s petticoat, an old bachelor like you. There!” James’s iron collar parted, and he yanked it off and dropped it to the deck. The rusted iron left a ring of raw flesh around his neck. “There, that’s the first one,” she declared. “Getting my own unlocked will be harder, since I can’t see what I’m doing.”
Ben ignored her. “If pirate ye be,” he persisted, glaring at James, “ye should be a rich man. Them Spaniards is said to carry a king’s ransom in gold. Heathen treasure.”
James rubbed his neck and winced. “There was treasure enough in Panama City.”
“Ah, ye followed Henry Morgan, then,” Alfred said.
“May he rot in hell,” James muttered.
“Not him.” Ben laughed. “A hero is Cap’n Morgan. ’Tis said he’ll make a royal governor afore he’s done.”
James stood up and stretched. He glanced toward the riverbank, which was no more than ten yards off the starboard side of the Silkie. “Can ye swim, Ben?” he asked.
“Like a fish. Me and Alfred can outswim—” As Lacy watched, mouth open in astonishment, the pirate seized her brother Ben by the midsection and heaved him over the side of the Silkie into the river. It happened so fast, she didn’t even have time to scream.
Ben hit the water with a splash, went under, and bobbed up, cursing for all he was worth. Lacy came upright, fury rising in her breast. “Son of a bitch!” She swung the end of the chain at James, but he was already lunging at Alfred. “Watch out!” she yelled. Ben headed toward the boat with powerful overhand strokes, but the wind was carrying the boat downstream faster than he could swim.
Alfred grabbed a spike from the deck and swung it at the pirate’s head. James ducked and caught the collar at the end of Lacy’s chain. He gave it a sharp jerk and tossed the neck iron overboard, and the force threw Lacy to her knees. Alfred jabbed at James with the spike, but James sidestepped and drove a meaty fist into Alfred’s jaw. Twisting the spike out of Alfred’s hands, the pirate jammed his shoulder into Alfred’s chest and knocked him off balance. Lacy screamed her brother’s name as Alfred went backward off the stern into the Thames.
Still on her knees, Lacy pulled the end of the chain back into the boat. James whirled on her and their eyes met. “You rotten son of a bitch,” she whispered. “I save your swivin’ neck and this is what ye do to us.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. Alfred was shaking a fist and shouting something incomprehensible. “Ben told the truth,” James said. “He can swim well enough.” The pirate wrapped a rope around the tiller to hold it in place, then turned on her. “And you, m’lady, can you swim?”
Lacy was trembling from head to toe, not in fear but in anger. She wanted to throw herself at this bastard’s throat and choke the life out of him, but harsh reality made her cautious. In hand-to-hand combat, she’d have no chance against him. If she didn’t think of something fast, she’d join Ben and Alfred in the river, and this thieving dogsface would be away with the Silkie and her cargo.
“Well?” James advanced on her, his hands open and ready to grab her. The expression on his bearded face was almost amused, as if he were laughing at her.
“No . . . no,” she stammered. “I ... I can’t swim.” Her insides twisted as she mouthed the lie. Damn if begging him wasn’t wor
se than trying to swim with twenty-five pounds of iron tied to her neck. Her mouth tasted of bad shellfish, but she forced herself to speak with a quaver. “Please, don’t throw me over. I’ll ... I’ll drown for certain.”
His dark eyes narrowed and a muscle throbbed along one massive forearm. He looked back again at her brothers. They’d given up the chase and had turned toward the muddy riverbank.
“Ye can let me off on a mudflat,” she said, “or in the shallows ahead a piece. This chain will take me straight to the bottom.”
He grinned. “You should have learned to swim, puss. It’s a valuable skill.”
“Damn you to a burning hell,” she managed between clenched teeth. “Have ye no honor at all? I saved you from the noose.”
“Because you had to, Mistress Bennett. Not from any goodness of your heart.”
“It matters not,” she argued. “I did save you, and ye owe me. ’Twould be a great injustice to drown me out of hand.” He was still undecided. She could read it in his eyes. “I can help ye with the Silkie until ye get where ye’re going. One can sail her alone, but she handles better with two.”
“So you can sail? A lass who cannot swim?”
“My father was strict. He didn’t think a woman needed to indulge in such sport. But I know a halyard from a tiller, and I can get ye across the channel to France. Come fog or rough weather, you’ll never manage alone.”
“Who said I wanted to go to France?”
“Where else would ye go? Put in between here and Plymouth and you’ll not last a day. They’ll put a reward on your head.” She was still shaking, and she hoped he’d believe it was out of fear and not anger. She wanted to kill him with her bare hands.
“And yours too, I suppose,” he answered. “Though you’ve not told me your crime, Lacy Bennett. What was it? What does that mark on your forehead stand for?”
“I’ll tell ye if ye promise not to drown me,” she dared reply. Saucily, she flashed him a smile.
He laughed. “No, not today I won’t.” He came close and brushed aside the fringe of bright au-bum hair that hung over her forehead. “Just how dangerous are you, chit?”
She took a breath and stared wide-eyed into his face. “Why, sir,” she declared with a grin, “I thought ye’d guess. ’Tis a W. W for whore.”
Chapter 4
Lacy heard the dull click as the lock opened and her collar fell away. A moment later, with a sigh of relief, she dropped the rusty chain and both collars into the sea and watched them sink out of sight. “Good riddance,” she muttered. She’d take no chances that the pirate would shackle her again.
James had been at the tiller for the past two hours, seemingly ignoring her, although she knew better. He’d said not a dozen words to her since she’d told him the lie about being a whore. “They don’t hang bawds,” he’d replied tersely, “or England would be short of ladies.”
She’d answered him with another bald-faced yarn. “A gentleman was displeased wi’ my services,” she’d told him. “He accused me of stealing two gold sovereigns.” She’d flashed James a coy look. “I’m innocent, of course. All I did was take what was coming to me.”
He hadn’t replied to that, and she wasn’t certain if he’d believed her or not. And the long minutes of silence had become hours.
She sighed again, loudly, and rolled her head from side to side, grateful to be free of the cruel iron collar. She threw James a pointed look. Let him try to dump her overboard now! She’d give him more than he bargained for.
When he still didn’t respond, she hid her animosity and forced herself to smile at him. After all, she reasoned, the best way to overpower him and win the Silkie back would be to first get him to trust her.
“Are ye hungry?” she asked him. “There’s provisions below.”
“Stay where I can see you.”
One of his eyes was still swollen from the beating the jailers had given him, and the cut above his eyebrow was raised and angry, but he still managed to look hale and hearty. He had a new bruise on his lip. That one he’d gotten in the tussle with Ben. James must be as tough as iron, she thought, despite his fancy ways. She was certain some of his ribs had been broken when they’d brought him out of the prison.
“I’m hungry, I can tell ye,” she complained. “And I’m thirsty.” It was true enough. They’d had nothing but a shared bottle of cider and some cheese and biscuit before they’d come topside that morning. There were supplies aplenty in the cuddy, but most importantly, there was the knife, and unless Alfred had gotten careless, he’d have a pistol hidden somewhere below.
The Silkie was a two-masted boat, thirty-four feet from her high pinked stern to her sharp-pointed bowsprit. Her beam was nine and a half feet, and her hull was full-bodied, bluff forward with a sweet, clean run aft so that she cut through the water like a fish. A pink by definition, the Silkie was a stout, simple craft built to take rough weather. She could ride heavy seas and slip into hidden coves as well as any small boat built by a master ship builder, and she was fitted out for smuggling runs that might take three days or three months.
The boat was only two years old. Lacy’s father had spent three years’ profit to have the Silkie custom built, and he’d not take lightly to having it lost to a scruffy-arsed pirate. She shivered. God in heaven! Red Tom would have the hide off Ben and Alfred’s backs if they went home without the pink—not to mention the cargo. French brandy, she knew of. Doubtless there were other kegs in the forward hold, sealed tight with pitch against the sea water and containing anything from China tea to ivory and bolts of precious silk.
Lacy owed it to her family to settle the score with James Black. And if she got a chance to dump him over the side, she’d do it in the blink of an eye. A pox on his arrogant manner. She’d see how well he could swim, now that England was a thin line of trees off the starboard side.
She sighed and looked up at the fleecy white clouds overhead. The sun was bright, and a merry breeze filled the sails. Curse this pirate for ruining what would have been a perfect day. Tyburn and the threat of hanging were behind her. She wanted to laugh and shout. She wanted to dive overboard and let the clean ocean water wash away the stench of prison.
But she’d told him she couldn’t swim. That had been the first lie. Second, she’d said the brand on her face stood for whore. Living with the reputation of not being able to swim a stroke would be easier than keeping him off her now that she’d declared herself a trug-moldie.
She suppressed a shiver. Better whore than witch. What man would fear a doxy? If he knew the truth, he’d toss her over the side in less time than it took to say “God’s wounds.” But now that she’d named herself whore, she’d have to watch lest he try to sample the wares.
“If you’ve a mind to have meat, there’s charcoal below, and a tray of sand to build a fire on. Alfred carries a full larder; he likes his dinner, does brother Alfred.”
James raised his eyes to meet hers. “There’s food and water aboard, then?”
“Aye, always. At least there should be. I didn’t come to London wi’ Ben and Alfred, as ye noticed. But Alfred is a cautious man. He’s been known to wait two weeks in some deserted cove until he thinks the coast is clear before making a run for home.”
“I could eat, although a man almost gets out of practice in Newgate. Barring this morning, ’tis been a long time since I’ve had a meal that didn’t wiggle.” He tied the tiller in place with a length of rope. “I’ll go below with you, though, in case there’s any more of these.” He lifted the hem of his shirt to show the knife tucked into his waist. “We’d not want any accidents aboard, would we?” He grinned boyishly.
Lacy swore under her breath. How had he taken the knife in the cuddy without her seeing him? He was a tricky bastard, he was. James Black would take some watching!
“On second thought, I’ll go below and you can take the helm,” he said, undoing the rope and taking it with him. “We’ll see if you are as knowledgeable about sailing as you profess, my fine
ladybird.” Frowning, she took hold of the tiller. “Keep her on course. I’ll know it if you try anything,” he warned. As an afterthought, he added, “I don’t suppose there’s a mirror below, is there?”
“Nay,” she snapped, “nor any milk cow either.”
“Too bad. I’ve a fancy for a mug of fresh milk.”
Seething, she held the course while James rattled around in the cuddy. When he came back, he tossed her another chunk of cheese and the remainder of a bottle of wine. He’d stripped to breeches and bare feet, and she could see terrible black and purple bruises on his chest and ribs. He turned around and she stared aghast; his back was a web of old crisscrossed scars. “A reminder of Newgate, lest I forget,” he said, when he saw her reaction. “It’s healed though. That was months ago.”
“Ye need a bath,” she answered.
“My feelings exactly.” He’d brought a wooden bucket on deck. He tied the tiller rope to the handle and proceeded to haul up bucket after bucket of seawater and dump it over his head. Using his shirt for a cloth, he scrubbed every inch of exposed skin, washing away layers of dirt and sweat. He rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth with a peeled green willow twig he took from a pouch in his breeches. Undoing his hair, he ran his fingers through it to take out the worst of the snarls, then rinsed with another bucket of salt water.
“If ye mean to strip completely, give me warning,” Lacy said, “so that I can look away.”
“How refreshing. A lady of your occupation who is modest. Who would have thought it?”
Remembering that she was supposed to win his trust, she suppressed the sailor’s oath that came to mind and answered as mildly as she could manage. “Because I’m a whore doesn’t mean I’m without morals.”
“Then, by all means, shut your eyes. For I intend to get as much Newgate off me as possible.” He reached for the ties at the back of his breeches, and Lacy whirled away and stared out at the whitecaps.
In a few minutes, he came to stand inches in front of her. “What is it now?” she demanded.
Fortune Trilogy 1 - Fortune's Mistress Page 5
