He stepped to the rectangular table and leaned against it. Corded forearms crossed over a broad chest.
“No, it was Jacques,” he answered.
“Did Jacques know what he was about?”
“You’re alive, are you not?”
Aye, she was, though she had no way of knowing if it were through luck or skill. What she did know was she didn’t seem to be suffering from a fever. Surely it meant the man had known what he was doing. Still, she wouldn’t be able to rest until she spoke to this Jacques.
“May I speak with him?”
He regarded her silently, his cool, blue eyes giving away nothing of his thoughts. His black-as-night hair was pulled back into a tail. The length and thickness of his beard suggested he hadn’t shaved in years. His clothes weren’t the fancy trappings Roche had worn. He wore a simple red shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a black, unbuttoned vest, faded, black trousers trimmed with a sash around his waist. Despite his long hair and beard, his clothing appeared clean, and he hadn’t smelled vile when he’d loomed above her. He wore no weapons, but she saw two pistols within easy reach on the table behind him.
“I don’t make it a habit to shoot women.”
Neither his face nor his eyes gave away anything. The lack of emotion was unnerving. As was the fact he could guess her thoughts so accurately.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Grace.”
“You’re a long way from Ireland, Grace.”
Truer words had never been spoken and were a wound that refused to heal. She’d had months, however, on Roche’s ship where she’d learned to bury her emotions, where she’d learned to hold her tongue. It remained silent now.
“What of your family?”
Her parents were in Montserrat, though she had as little intention of telling him as she did of returning to them. Her da’s decision had led to the horrors she’d faced, first as an indentured servant then as Roche’s trollop. There was no going back and pretending all was forgiven, as she knew, until the day she died, she’d never forgive him.
“Me family is in Ireland.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve nobody closer?”
“No.”
Lips pursed, he contemplated her words for long moments then nodded, as though he’d come to a decision. “I’m heading to Santo Domingo. I’ll take you there, see to it you’ve a place to stay.”
“And how far would we be from Santo Domingo?”
“Five days’ sail.”
Five days? She had no intention of being on this ship for so long. He could inflict all kinds of shame on her in that amount of time, him and his crew.
“I thought we were near Cartegena. Surely ’tis closer to take me there.”
“It is, but we’ve already changed our heading.”
“Change it back!” she cried. When his gaze sharpened she hastened to add. “Please. You’d be rid of me faster.”
“Perhaps, but you need time to heal and I know of a safe place for you in Santo Domingo. I’m not leaving you alone and wounded.”
The only words she took as the truth were the ones that he didn’t intend on leaving her alone. Her hands curled into the blankets, pulled them closer. She hissed as the motion stretched her wound.
“Dammit, I gave you my word. I will personally see to it until we make port, no harm will come to you.”
“And how am I to know you are a man of your word?”
Unblinking, he stared at her. He didn’t move. The only sign he was alive was the rise and fall of his chest.
“You don’t,” he said, finally.
Then he lowered his arms and headed for the hatch.
*
The fog had finally lifted and it was clear sailing, a fact Steele was thankful for. It meant at least one day without delays in getting to Santo Domingo. In getting rid of the woman.
The torn sails had been taken down and were being mended while their replacements stretched in the wind. The bilge pumps were running and the patches, including the gaping hole on deck, had been made. Luckily, the damage sustained wasn’t critical.
A warm wind blew over his face and cotton-like clouds floated lazily in the sky. His crew was mostly quiet as they tended their duties, content in the knowledge the hold was full and, once ashore, they stood to increase their wealth substantially. It was a peaceful scene, watching his men work while his ship sliced through the sea, with no demands on him but to steer the ship. Moments like these were worth more to Steele than all the doubloons and pieces of eight in the Caribbean. And he savored them because he knew they wouldn’t last. They never did with Aidan about. The boy lived to ask questions.
Considering, over the four years they’d sailed together, Steele had never taken a captive—even one he didn’t plan on keeping—he’d known it was only a matter of time until Aidan came sniffing for the reason.
Steele’s men knew little of his past. Before he’d taken over the Revenge and with it Steele’s identity, the ship had been commanded by Nate Carter and his first mate, Vincent. Vincent, the lovable dwarf. Vincent, who only ever wanted to be treated like an equal, especially by his big brother, a man who’d been ashamed to have a dwarf for a sibling. A man who hadn’t realized the kind of person Vincent was until it was too late. A big, stupid brother named Cale.
Steele scrubbed his hands over his face and down his thick beard. That was in the past. The past, damn it. And why the hell did all his bloody ghosts have to surface in the span of a few bloody hours?
He slammed the mental door on his memories just as Aidan sauntered to the helm. Worse, he brought the wretched parrot with him.
“Everything is secured in the hold, Captain.”
Squawk. “All secure. All secure.”
Steele sliced his usual glare the bird’s way. He’d never wanted the fool thing on his ship, but when Aidan had come aboard, he’d not only brought it along, but had insisted it get fresh air daily. Since the quarterdeck saw the least activity and wouldn’t be in the way of the men, the bird was kept there. It had a nasty habit of repeating those around it, but since Steele mostly kept to himself, the only time the parrot squawked was when Aidan was nearby.
While he’d been sorely tempted many times to open the cage and let the blasted thing loose, he’d never acted on the temptation. The bird—Carracks, of all the foolish names—had been given to Aidan as a reminder of home, and of those who loved him. Aidan had been raised as a slave on a plantation until the day Samantha Bradley, the original captain Sam Steele, had rescued him and given him a home. Given him a family.
Steele lifted a hand and laid it over the pendant he wore beneath his shirt. If the parrot gave Aidan comfort, made him feel connected to his family, who was Steele to take it from him?
“Jacques tells me she’ll live,” Aidan said as he hung the cage from the hook he’d fastened for it years ago. He’d removed his bandana—he only ever wore it when they were in battle—and the wind once again tossed his blonde hair.
Squawk. “She’ll live. She’ll live.”
“What do you plan on doing with her?” Aidan asked.
“She needs to heal and we’re heading to Santo Domingo. I told her we would take her that far.”
“Does she have family there?” Luckily, Aidan handed the bird a few seeds to keep its beak busy.
“No,” Steele answered.
“With no family, what will she do?”
“Do I look like her mother?”
Aidan grinned, but was smart enough to know his captain didn’t tolerate sass. “I’m sure Claire will take her in,” he said instead.
Claire Carter had known Vincent. She and her husband, Nate, had sailed and found a treasure with him. The treasure. She’d cared enough about Vincent to name the orphanages she ran on various islands, Vincent’s House. There were three now altogether and while Claire ran the orphanage on Santo Domingo, she also oversaw the one on San Salvador and a newer one in Port Royal. Steele had little doubt Claire would take
Grace in. It was a fact Vincent’s House turned no one away.
Because of that, currency was always needed to keep the orphanages open. It was why he was heading there now. Steele’s share of what filled the hold would be handed over to Claire, just as he’d done since taking over the role four years ago. Would this be the time, he wondered, when handing over his spoils would finally heal his soul? Or would he once again walk away as empty inside as he always did?
“I’m certain she will,” Steele said, referring to Claire’s acceptance of Grace.
“And you’re not afraid?” Laughter danced in Aidan’s brown eyes.
Steele was almost afraid to ask. “Afraid of what?”
“That you’ll end up like every other Sam Steele before you, in love by the time you make port.”
Squawk. “In Love. In Love.”
“Shut it,” Steele grumbled, speaking to both bird and man.
Aidan held up his hands in innocence. “I’m simply reminding you Samantha took on Luke for help, now they’re married and building ships. Alicia stowed away on Blake’s ship and they’ve got five children.”
“Blake was never Steele. He was a privateer.” And couldn’t Steele just nail his own lips shut because all he’d done was further encourage the boy.
“Yes, but he took Alicia to find Samantha, who was Sam Steele, so in a roundabout way, it’s all connected. And then there’s Nate. He was forced to take Claire on as she had half the treasure map. And now look at them, married with three little Nates running about.”
Steele cut him a glare. “Your time would be better spent seeing the sails are being repaired to my standards.”
“Aye,” Aidan replied, his grin not quite masked as he turned to heed his captain’s orders.
Steele’s fingers once again found their way to the pendant. In love, he scoffed.
No. Not ever again.
Chapter Three
While Aidan’s words of love were easily dismissed, something else began to nag Steele other than his first mate’s nattering. The woman had wanted to speak to Jacques. Why? Did she not believe she was safe or was there something she was afraid Jacques had discovered when he’d tended to her?
The worst possible scenario plunged into his mind and his blood ran cold at the thought of it. If she had an illness and didn’t see fit to tell him… A disease or sickness on any ship could see the lot of them dead before they made it to Santo Domingo.
“Aidan!” he called when his first mate stepped through the hatch.
Squawk. “Aidan is right. Aidan is right.”
“Blasted, infernal bird,” Steele muttered.
Squawk. “Blasted bird. Blasted bird.”
Steele cursed, reconsidered opening the cage. Aidan scurried up the steps to the quarterdeck.
“Take the wheel.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Jacques could often be found in the galley, when Paddy wasn’t preparing meals, making his own remedies and adding to his supplies. As a rule, when there was an injury, Jacques always had something on hand. It saved time and lives. The man was wiping his hands on a rag when Steele walked in. Six glass jars formed a straight line on the table, filled to the top with something that looked as though it could have been scraped off the streets of Tortuga. A foul smell lingered in the air. A good thing dinner wouldn’t be served anytime soon. He’d just lost his appetite.
“Do I want to know?” Steele asked.
“It’s salve to treat burns. Smells nasty, so I wouldn’t recommend opening those jars.”
“No risk of that happening. Besides, I didn’t come to examine your work. I wanted to talk to you about the woman.”
Jacques finished cleaning his hands then tossed the rag over his shoulder. “Is she in pain? She seemed fine when I saw her.”
“Which is why I’m here. Why did she want to see you?”
“She had questions about her wound. I told her she was lucky to get by with a handful of sutures. Had the blade gone any deeper it would have been dire indeed, most certain she would have died from such a wound.”
No doubt. It was a similar wound which had taken his brother’s life.
“Seems your attack saved her life.”
Steele’s back stiffened. “How so?”
“Apparently Roche lunged to stab her at the same moment our shots tossed his ship. The man lost his balance, fell back and away from her. It’s what kept the knife from piercing too deeply, I figure.”
Had she tipped toward the blade… Steele shook off the vision and the uncomfortable feeling he’d inadvertently saved her. He hadn’t. How could he save a stranger when he hadn’t been able to protect his own family?
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to your work.”
Jacques words stopped him mid-stride. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”
The hair on the back of Steele’s neck rose. “Tell me what?”
Jacques carefully opened a cupboard set aside for his medicines and added the jars. Securing them, he closed the door, faced his captain. “She’s with child.”
*
Grace gently circled her hand over her flat belly. Jacques had confirmed the wound wasn’t deep enough to affect the babe. In fact, despite the pain, the blade hadn’t gone deep at all. Thank heavens. When Roche had come at her with the knife…
She shuddered, remembering how terrified she’d been. Her unborn child could have died. When she’d missed her monthly flow for the second time, she’d known what it meant and she’d also known that the only future either she or her babe had was to escape Roche. It wouldn’t be easy, but then, when had her life ever been easy?
Barely more than three years after her birth her da had been part of the failed rebellion to seize Dublin in order to negotiate the return of their lands from a position of strength. From then on, they’d lived in hiding. She’d grown seeing the worry in her parent’s eyes, especially after her brother Colin left to join the fight against Cromwell. She’d been raised hearing the horrors of Oliver Cromwell’s reign against the Catholics—the murders, the forcible eviction of farmers like her da whose crops had been burned and whose livestock had been butchered. Everything they’d owned and worked for had been ripped from their hard-working hands. She’d always been determined to join the fight against Cromwell, to fight for what belonged to them as soon as she was old enough.
Unfortunately, Colin’s death in the Siege of Drogheda, when she was eleven, changed everything.
Afraid things would be worse for them if they were ever discovered, rather than if they gave themselves up, Grace’s da had surrendered them and whatever small freedoms they’d had had been lost. Life in Ireland hadn’t been easy, to be sure, but the only happy memories she could claim were all associated to the land she’d been born to.
When Roche had come at her with the knife she’d feared not only for her life and that of her child, but also that she’d never have the chance to get back to Ireland.
Thanks to Steele having killed Roche, it was once again a possibility. After a dozen years as an indentured servant and another five months as Roche’s prisoner, she finally had a chance to be master of her own fate. Neither she nor her child would be anyone’s slave ever again. She was Grace Mary Sullivan from Ireland and as soon as she earned passage she’d find her way home. Then, finally, she’d feel whole again.
Just then the hatch to the cabin banged opened and a man came rushing down the ladder. All thoughts of Ireland scattered. With every beating and degrading touch Roche had inflicted upon her racing through her mind, Grace shot her hand under her pillow. She grabbed the dagger she’d found in the captain’s trunk the moment Jacques had left her, kicked the covers free, and leapt from the bed.
Sharp claws of pain speared her side as she lurched for the table.
“Damnation, woman!” He cursed.
The fury behind Steele’s voice did little to alleviate Grace’s fear. Only once the table was solidly between them did she look at him.
Where earlier his face had been unreadable, it was now glaringly obvious just what he was feeling. Anger. Shock. Disbelief. And then it hit her. Jacques. She’d asked for the doctor; Steele must have asked the man why she’d wanted him. Sweet Mary, what would he do now?
Her knife wouldn’t hold against his pistol. More, she only had to look at the breadth of his shoulders to know, even unarmed, he could best her. It didn’t mean, however, she was going to make it easy for him.
Though he remained near the ladder and hadn’t given chase, Grace nonetheless warned him to stay back. Then, to show she was willing to go down fighting, she pointed the blade at him. Her sutures stretched with the movement and she winced.
“Dammit, you’re going to hurt yourself further.”
“Stay where you are!” She barked when he took a step.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled, though his tone implied he was capable of it. “As it happens, you’re likely doing a fine job of it all on your own. I only want you to get back in bed.”
“Oh, aye, I’m sure you do.” Grace shrieked as he charged toward her and, before she could jab at him, he clasped her wrist within his large hand.
“Drop it.”
Overpowered or not, she wouldn’t yield. “No.”
“Oh, for the—” He dug his fingers into her flesh until she yelped and dropped the weapon. It clattered to the table.
Then, in a move that was surprisingly gentle, he took her arm and guided her around the table. The minute she was laying on the berth he ordered, “You try something like that again and I’ll shackle you to the bed.”
He wouldn’t be the first. She couldn’t keep the bitter thought at bay.
He eased the blanket over her, ensuring it covered her modestly. His piercing gaze clutched hers. “How many times do I have to tell you I won’t hurt you?”
“You’re a pirate, are you not? Pirates don’t care for anyone except themselves.”
Shadows of pain clouded his eyes. She didn’t believe for a moment she’d actually hurt his feelings, but he had saved her life and he hadn’t beaten her for having a knife. His first concern had truly seemed to be for her health. Had it been Roche…
Her Pirate to Love: A Sam Steele Romance Page 3
