The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

by Louise Allen

  So, this was McTiernan’s secret hideaway and, thanks to Nathan showing him the shortcut through the sea passage, he was now even closer to Kingston harbour and had an ideal route to surprise the rich merchantmen leaving it.

  The jolly boat with the water casks came through the gap in the wake of the flotilla of rowing boats, and the screen of creepers was hauled back into place. It was perfect, Clemence realised, standing up on the casks to look around. There was even a beach at the far end big enough for some shacks. Used, no doubt, for storing plunder. The only thing it was lacking was a source of fresh water, hence the laborious business of filling the casks from the waterfall further along the beach.

  The anchor chain roared out through the hawsehole and Sea Scorpion came to rest, bobbing grotesquely in its idyllic setting like its namesake in the middle of an exquisite Meissen bowl.

  ‘There you are.’ It was Nathan, hands on hips, eyes screwed up against the sun dazzle.

  ‘How could you?’ she hissed.

  He leaned in close with a jerk of his head to bring her hunkering down so he could murmur in her ear. ‘Would you believe to try to delay us for the frigate to arrive?’ he enquired.

  ‘And risk capture yourself? How naïve do you think I am?’ Nathan opened his mouth to speak. ‘No, don’t answer that.’

  ‘Which?’ He raised one eyebrow, infuriating her further. ‘The answers are—possibly, but it might be a profitable risk to take for the reward and, no, not naïve, just somewhat sheltered from this sort of thing.’

  ‘What sort of thing? Double-dealing, back-stabbing, money-grubbing treachery? I thought you disapproved of betrayal and disloyalty.’

  ‘I do, when I’m dealing with human beings with some basic moral sense. This lot are fair game.’ There was the sound of footsteps on the boards. Nathan drew back and added, at a normal volume, ‘And next time, do what you’re told, when you’re told, or you’ll get more than a cuff in the mouth. Understand?’

  Over his shoulder Cutler loomed. ‘Yessir, Mr Stanier,’ Clemence said, nodding frantically and holding the kerchief to her mouth. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Let me know when you get tired of the brat, Stanier,’ Cutler said, his gaze sliding over Clemence. ‘I’m sure we’ll find a use for him.’

  ‘Not while I’ve a pile of washing needing doing,’ Nathan said easily. ‘Shift yourself, Clem, I want that cabin shipshape when I come down.’

  Escaping below decks was a relief, even with a pile of dirty clothes to wash in the hot seawater she dipped from the cook’s big cauldron. He made no fuss about her taking fresh for rinsing either, with the supply now easily replenished.

  Clemence scrubbed and wrung and dipped, regarding her wrinkled fingers with something like dismay. Her skin was becoming tanned, her fingernails chipped, the soft palms a thing of the past. How pampered she had been, she realised, pushing sweaty hair back from her forehead and attacking her stained trousers.

  She had supervised the household, studied her Spanish and French and her music, written to friends and relatives, shopped—and thought herself busy. The promised London Season would have been nothing but shopping and pleasure with only one task before her, the finding of a suitable husband.

  Well, she wasn’t going to find one now, even if she emerged alive and unscathed from this adventure. Clemence sat back on her heels, jolted by the thought. She had been so set on escaping from the Naismiths that the consequences had simply not occurred to her.

  She had never found a gentleman on Jamaica who stirred more than a flutter in her heart and she had cherished no particular daydream of the one she would find in London, but it was a shock to realise that no gentleman was going to want her now, virgin or not.

  And the fact that the only man who did stir her was Nathan Stanier was not much consolation, either. She had a lowering thought that the effect he had on her was purely physical, which probably showed she was wanton, and the notion that she was falling in love with him was simply the product of enforced intimacy, gratitude that he had saved her and the disturbing effect of whatever it was that seemed to spark between them.

  Just sex, Clemence thought gloomily, sucking the finger she had rubbed raw in an attempt to get the coffee stains out of her shirt. It certainly was for him. All she was to Nathan Stanier was an inconvenient stray who brought the added complication—to one who had at least been brought up as a gentleman—that if he made love to her he would probably feel guilty about it afterwards.

  She ought to feel guilty just thinking about sex, she knew that. Well-bred young women had to pretend they knew nothing about it and did not want to know either. The first was nonsense, of course. You couldn’t live on a tropical island, surrounded by burgeoning fertility, hot nights and the amazingly lax morals of a good part of the European population without grasping rather more than the essentials.

  As for the second unspoken rule, well, she had never wanted a man before, so the subject had been of academic interest up to now. There had been Mr Benson, of course, whose classically handsome profile had troubled her dreams a little for a week or two, and the oddly flustered feeling that the attempts at flirtation of some of the bolder naval officers provoked, but that was all.

  So this almost constant awareness of her own body, the slightly breathless feeling of anticipation the entire time, the embarrassingly persistent pulse that made her want to squeeze her legs together in a vain attempt to calm it, those were all Nathan Stanier’s doing. Those two kisses, one so gentle, one so angry, had completely undone her, plunged her into a state where all she wanted was to have him make love to her. Completely. After all, if she survived this she was going to be ruined. She might as well get some benefit out of it…

  ‘Penny for them?’

  The bar of soap shot out of her clutching fingers and skidded across the cabin. Clemence twisted round with a muffled shriek, lost her balance and sat down in a puddle. Nathan, just inside the door, regarded her with that infuriating eyebrow raised and an expression on his face that convinced her that she must look a complete idiot. A completely undesirable idiot.

  Her face, of course, would be scarlet, what with lust and embarrassment and the heat and the steam from the hot water. Her hair, she could feel, was hanging in lank rats’ tails, she had washerwoman’s fingers—and it was all his fault.

  Clemence counted to ten, in Spanish, backwards, thought, Imagine you’re at dinner at the King’s House with the Governor, and managed not to shriek at him. ‘I am hot, I am tired, I am upset and I have about a hundredweight of wet washing to wring out,’ she articulated with dangerous calm and produced a small tight smile that had the desired effect of lowering that eyebrow.

  ‘Right.’ He came fully into the cabin, shut the door and retrieved the soap from under her bunk. ‘Let’s tackle the easy things first. I’ll wring. Do you know where you can hang these out?’

  ‘Mr Street showed me, between decks, forr’ ard of the sail-maker’s station.’ This was the man she was having utterly improper fantasies about and here they were, discussing the laundry. Something of the trouble in her thoughts must have been reflected on her face because, as Nathan heaved the tub of wet clothes on to the table, he regarded her quizzically.

  ‘I was thinking about what is going to happen to me if I ever manage to get out of this,’ she admitted.

  ‘We’ll think of something.’ He began to twist the sopping garments, the tendons on his wrists standing out sharply. Clemence watched the play of muscles under the thin linen sleeves. Those were the hands that had pinned her to the bulkhead a short while ago, had made her feel helpless and powerful, both at the same time. She wanted to feel them on her again, wanted to try his strength, stroke his naked skin, lick the paler skin just below the lobe of his ear…

  ‘Put them in here.’ She snatched up the empty water pail and put it on the table, almost hopping from foot to foot in her anxiety to be out of the cabin. It was suddenly too small. Or perhaps he was too big.

  Nathan was still t
here when she returned, only now he was stuffing things into the big leather satchel. ‘Where are you going?’ He wasn’t leaving, surely?

  ‘I told McTiernan I want to go along to the headland, get height and take bearings. I thought we could deal with some of your other woes while we were at it.’ He was going to make love to her? There was silence while she stared at him, feeling the blood ebb and flow under her skin. ‘Clem? You don’t mind a walk, do you? You said you were feeling hot and tired—the exercise will do you good.’

  ‘Right, yes, exercise, of course,’ she gabbled. He wasn’t a mind reader, the words Take Me were not emblazoned on her forehead, he was talking about her complaints, not her fantasies. Clemence struggled for some poise. ‘Can I help with anything?’

  ‘Go to the galley, get something to take with us to eat.’ He tossed her another satchel. ‘I’ll see you on deck in a minute.’

  One of the hands rowed them across to the huts on the beach and pointed out the path through the trees that led to the stream. ‘Looks as though it will be a gentle slope until then,’ Nathan said, swinging the bulky satchel over his shoulder. ‘Then it will be a stiffer climb to the headland. Can you manage?’

  Clemence nodded, following at his heels. Already, just being clear of the ship, she was feeling better. She looked back, catching a glimpse of it through the trees as it rode at anchor: black, waiting, sinister. Down in the deepest, darkest part men were huddled in abject misery, dying perhaps. She felt so helpless.

  ‘Forget the ship for a while.’ Nathan was looking back over his shoulder.

  Clemence nodded and ran to catch up; until she could think of something positive to do, it was futile to keep worrying at the problem. They walked in single file, silent, for perhaps half an hour until the sound of falling water drew them to the stream. It fell over a waterfall into a deep pool that, in turn, drained through the trees, over the cliff and into the pool they had seen on the beach.

  It was a magic place, sunlight filtering through the leaves, the cool water cupped in a ring of rocks, the foaming lace of the waterfall. They stood looking at it, side by side, then Nathan said, ‘You could swim when we come back down. It is safe up here, not like the beach pool.’

  It made Clemence feel better just thinking about it. ‘I could?’

  ‘I’d stand guard.’ Nathan turned away and began to strike off up a steeper path.

  Goodness, he’s fit, Clemence thought, aware that she was puffing as she climbed in the wake of his long stride. Weeks of enforced inaction inside, hardly any food, the immobility of grief, had taken their toll on someone used to walking and riding every day.

  Nathan stopped and waited for her as the forest gave way to the bare slopes above. ‘Here.’ He held out his hand and Clemence put hers into it. ‘I used to be able to walk for miles,’ she lamented, allowing herself to be towed up a steep bit. ‘And I rode every day. And only a few years ago I was climbing trees and playing in the cane fields and now I’m panting over one little hill.’

  ‘Not so little. Look.’ Nathan released her hand as he gestured and she realised they had climbed to the top of Lizard Island. The sea spread out in front of them, islets dotted like spilled beads on crushed blue velvet. The frigate had come up with the damaged merchantman and even without the telescope Clemence could see the activity as sailors from the warship helped the crew with the rigging.

  ‘They’ll be safely on their way soon,’ she commented, pointing. ‘And they’ll tell the frigate which way we went as well.’

  ‘They won’t find us, not unless we signal,’ Nathan broke off, looking thoughtful. ‘Fire would do it, but there’s no point up here, that wouldn’t pinpoint anything and I presume you’d have a fixed objection to setting the Sea Scorpion on fire.’

  ‘With the holds full of trapped men? Yes, I would!’ She sat down on a smooth boulder and regarded him. ‘Would you really betray McTiernan and the crew?’

  ‘For the bounty on their heads? Yes. I could do with the money.’ Nathan had the glass to his eye, scanning not just the sea, but sweeping round to the larger island behind them and the wooded slopes falling away from their viewpoint.

  ‘That seems…’

  ‘Risky?’ He lowered the glass and studied her face. Clemence knew she was frowning.

  ‘Well, yes, that of course, McTiernan would have your liver. But you signed up with them.’

  ‘Honour amongst thieves? You think I should be loyal to that crew of murderous vagabonds?’

  ‘I know it sounds wrong.’ She struggled with it some more. ‘It is just that two wrongs don’t make a right.’

  ‘So loyalty is an absolute virtue and, having joined the pirates, I must remain one? My shipmates, right or wrong?’ Nathan rested one hip on a rock in front of her. ‘You are a severe moralist, Clem.’

  ‘Oh, no, never that!’ Clemence protested. ‘I don’t want to judge.’

  ‘But you are judging me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she conceded miserably confused. ‘I know I am.’ She hated the moral ambiguity, his moral ambiguity. Why couldn’t he be a hero, purer than pure? How could she be trembling on the brink of falling in love with a man like him?

  Chapter Eight

  ‘So, you can’t trust a pirate turncoat?’ Nathan enquired.

  ‘I shouldn’t. But I do about some things.’ She scuffed the gritty soil under her toe. ‘I trust you not to betray me, even when I do foolish things.’

  ‘Yes, you can rely on me for that. But you couldn’t trust me not to kiss you,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I wanted you to,’ she said baldly, still staring at her toes. ‘Both times. And you stopped at a kiss. Thank goodness,’ she added hastily.

  ‘You are a virgin, Clemence,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘I am—I was—a gentleman. I told you, I do not seduce virgins.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ When she dared to look up again, Nathan was on his feet, using the rock as a rest while he made notes. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said absently, squinting at the horizon and then looking back at his notes. ‘Why not lay out the food and we’ll eat? Have a look over there—’ He waved towards an outcrop of tumbled rocks. ‘There might be a good view on the other side of those. I’ll be along in a minute.’

  Clemence gathered up her satchel and made for the rocks. She had been wondering how to discreetly slip away and find a rock to shelter behind to make herself comfortable; Nathan was being very tactful.

  As Clemence disappeared around the heap of rocks Nathan pulled a mirror, the size of his palm, from his pocket and angled it to the sun, moving it in a jerky rhythm. ‘LLook this way, damn you,’ he muttered. The frigate still rode beside the merchantman, its flag hoists inactive. Somewhere out on that blue expanse was the fishing boat that had been dogging their steps and had signalled ahead when they entered the channel last night. It was gratifying that they had second-guessed McTiernan’s movements, set the first decoy up at the right place.

  Appear to leave, stay close, use second decoy, he signalled, over and over. Finally a dark dot appeared against the white canvas, struggling up towards the to’ gallants. He put the mirror back in his pocket and raised the telescope.

  Acknowledged. Stand by. Two days. Two more days eyeball to eyeball with McTiernan and Cutler. This had better be worth it, although just at the moment he was coming to the conclusion that simply getting out with a whole skin was the most he could hope for. A whole skin and Clemence.

  Nathan scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was bad enough having those clear eyes judging him for being a pirate, let alone a turncoat pirate. The temptation to justify himself to her was strong, but if she knew the truth it would only put her in more danger than she was already. He would just have to add her disapproval to the other burdens of the situation.

  With the telescope tucked under his arm, Nathan went to see what she had managed to find for their picnic. ‘A whole chicken? How in Hades did you manage that?’ It was small and scrawny, but even so, a chicke
n was a chicken.

  ‘I snivelled a bit. Said you’d hit me and I wanted something to put you in a good mood,’ she confessed with a grin. ‘Mr Street had just fished three birds out of the pot. He said I had probably deserved a good thrashing because all boys were the spawn of the devil, but he was smiling, so I grabbed a chicken and a loaf and some of the butter and things.’ She gestured at the spread.

  ‘You’d make a very promising conman, young Clem.’ Nathan hunkered down and began to tear the fowl apart. ‘What would Miss Clemence be doing now, assuming your uncle hadn’t turned out to be such a villain?’

  ‘Oh, managing the household, sewing, meeting friends. I’ve got a nice garden.’ Something about the way she was so focused on the food and so off-hand with her brief description made him suspicious.

  ‘Courting a handsome local lad?’

  ‘No!’ That was very vehement. ‘I know them all too well—it would be like courting my own brother.’

  ‘Dashing naval officers, then?’ Nathan settled down, propped himself on one elbow, and began to gnaw at a chicken leg. ‘I hear the uniform attracts the ladies.’ I know damn well it does—that and a fat purse of prize money.

  ‘Don’t you know from your own experience?’ she asked, looking up, her eyes very green in the sunlight. The scruffy urchin had vanished and in his place was a young lady regarding him from beneath haughtily lifted eyebrows.

  ‘I was at sea a lot of the time,’ he said, treading cautiously, unsure whether she was testing his story or simply showing feminine curiosity about the women in his life.

  ‘Oh, yes, I recall you telling me about your career. You obviously had far more exciting things to be doing than courting gentlewomen.’ Clemence lobbed a chicken bone over one shoulder into the undergrowth, the young lady vanishing again. ‘No, I never found the naval officers very tempting, either. They were so determined to see how far their flirtations would get them before they could escape again to their ships, leaving a trail of broken hearts in their wake.’