by Merry Farmer
“What ho?” Dick called from where he stood against the railing on The Vixen’s quarterdeck. “We heard a shot and saw the captain fall. What seems to be the matter?”
“Just a bit of mischief on the part of the ladies,” Martin answered with feigned weakness.
Letty stood back from him, certain the heat that flooded her face would give away that the whole thing was an act. She was convinced that if Dick looked too closely at her, he would see her heart thumping in her chest.
“The ladies?” Dick asked, looking surprised.
“It was me,” Miss Porter said, stepping forward and looking genuinely contrite. “We were practicing with the pistols and I…I missed my target but hit the captain.” She lowered her head.
Letty gaped at the young woman, wondering if she truly believed it was her fault or if someone had whispered the plan to her.
She wasn’t the only one who gaped. As The Vixen came within boarding distance of The Growler, Dick gaped as well. More telling still, his gaze flickered to one side, landing squarely on one of the pirates aboard Martin’s ship before he could check himself. The pirate in question gave the tiniest shrug before stepping back and forcing his expression to go blank.
Sudden fury filled Letty’s heart. That must have been the man who actually fired the shot. She understood the sort of thirst for blood Malvis had shown earlier. She wanted to run the man through with one of the pirate cutlasses herself.
“Not to worry,” Martin went on with a weak smile, gesturing with his uninjured arm for his men to prepare to connect the ships. “The bullet only tore a chunk out of my ribs. It missed the most vital parts.” He sounded breathless, as though he were underestimating the wound he’d supposedly suffered. “The ladies have kindly offered to cook us a feast tonight to make amends.”
“We have?” one of the ladies murmured.
“A feast?” Dick called, climbing down from the quarterdeck on The Vixen and looking as though he would leap across the narrowing gap between the ships.
“You’re not invited,” Malvis said as the two ships bumped together with a nerve-rattling crunch.
Dick searched for a moment to see who had spoken, and when he spotted Malvis glaring at him, he glared right back. “Shouldn’t you be tied up in the hold somewhere?”
“That’s what I keep telling the captain,” Rayburn said with a frown for Malvis that seemed surprisingly real.
“They’re just women,” Martin said, wincing as he touched his pretend wound. “They’ve been a diversion, no harm at all.”
“I see,” Dick grumbled as he crossed a plank that had been hastily put into place between the two ships. “Didn’t one of them just shoot you?” he asked Martin. He strode to stand in front of Martin, standing with his back straight and his arms crossed, as though he were the captain and Martin was little more than a deck-swabber, or whatever the lowliest position on a ship was.
Letty held her breath, watching the confrontation unfold and wishing she had the pistol she’d loaded earlier. Martin was doing a little too good of a job of shrinking before Dick. “We’re barely more than a day out of St. John’s,” he said. “We’ve more food supplies on board than we need. It seems like a fitting way to end this journey and my tenure as captain by having a feast. We’ll even break open some of that wine The Vixen was carrying. There’s still plenty to sell.”
Dick’s eyes lit and he wiped a hand over his mouth in a way that made Letty wonder if the man had a weakness for drink. If he did, it made perfect sense for Martin to exploit that.
“Besides,” Martin went on, shrugging, then feigning a sharp wince of pain. “Rackstraw mentioned he wanted to play his fiddle for all of us while he was patching up my side. He joked that sewing all those stitches was warming up his fingers for fiddling.”
“And what with the ladies aboard,” Rayburn continued with the idea, “we could have a right nice dance.”
“I’m not dancing with that lot,” Malvis said with a huff, tilting up her nose the way she had at the house party earlier in the summer whenever someone she thought was below her attempted to ask her to dance.
“You’ll dance if I say you’ll dance,” Dick growled.
“Will I?” Malvis arched an eyebrow at him.
Letty’s gut was just beginning to churn with dread when she caught the flash of challenge in Malvis’s eyes. Was it possible that the daft woman was being difficult as a way to help Martin’s ruse along or to distract Dick?
Whatever her intention, it worked.
“Fine,” Dick said, stepping over to Malvis and standing toe to toe with her, glaring lasciviously at her. “We’ll stay. We’ll feast. We’ll dance. And then the fun will truly start.”
A blind child could have interpreted what kind of wickedness Dick meant by his comment. The ferocity in his eyes made Letty want to run and hide or clutch Martin for protection. But Malvis merely glared back at Dick as though telling him there was nothing the man could do to her that hadn’t already been done. It was as disconcerting for Letty to realize how impressed she was with Malvis as it was to have the truly bloodthirsty pirates flooding onto The Growler.
“Very well, then,” Martin said with a sigh, gesturing for his men to get back to work. “We’ll feast tonight, we’ll have music and dancing, and if the winds continue in our favor, we’ll reach Antigua sometime tomorrow.”
That statement seemed to please everyone. Even Dick left Malvis to return to his own men, murmuring quietly to them. Letty caught him sending a look to the man she was now convinced had shot Martin. She couldn’t do anything about it, though. Especially not when Martin shuffled his way over to her as though he were weak and in pain. He took her arm as if he needed her to escort him toward his cabin. As soon as Dick and his men had their backs turned, however, he straightened and appeared as strong as ever.
“This feast will work,” he whispered to her. “We’ll get them all so drunk that they pass out. And when they do, God help me, I’ll order the men to toss Dick and his conspirators overboard.”
Chapter 8
It wasn’t just Martin’s arm that hurt from where the traitor’s bullet had grazed him. His entire body ached from hunching over all day and pretending to be worse off than he was. He’d grimaced like an actor and made a show of pausing to catch his breath and lean against the railing of one deck or another all day as his crew went about their duties, as tense as cats before a storm. He’d felt like a fool. There was no way to tell if Dick believed his ruse or if he was plotting further action.
“How should we go about setting up for the feast and the entertainment?” Lettuce asked as the morning wore into afternoon. She had barely left his side for a moment since Dick and his men had boarded The Growler, and he didn’t think she was going to, in spite of how dangerous it was to be in proximity to him.
“They’ll stage the play from the quarterdeck while we all watch from the main deck,” he explained, hating how weak he had to make himself sound in front of her to keep the illusion going.
Not that he believed for a second Lettuce would shun him if he were weak. There was something about the beautiful noblewoman that transcended her class and situation. While a small handful of the female passengers they’d captured continued to shrink into corners and cling to each other out of fear, Lettuce had taken to the life he had to offer her like a fish to pirate waters. She seemed comfortable in the breeches and boots she wore and she’d scurried up the rigging with surprising agility. It was enough to make Martin think that if he did continue on as a pirate captain, she would find a way to fit into that life.
Although he still had every intention of handing over The Growler to someone else and making a life on land. Lettuce would be essential to that life, he could see it now.
“Are you certain you’re quite all right?” she asked, stepping closer to him and resting a hand on his injured arm.
Her movements made him realize he’d been standing there staring at her like a lovesick fool. In fact, he rather t
hought he was a lovesick fool.
“I’m quite well,” he said, smiling at her, then glancing around to make certain Dick wasn’t watching him. When he was certain he and Lettuce weren’t being observed by the wrong people, he squared his shoulders, stood a little taller, and let his smile widen. “As soon as we make it through this evening and then sail into port tomorrow, I can put all this behind me and begin the life I’ve truly wanted.”
When she smiled in answer to his sentimental speech, Martin leaned in to steal a kiss.
“Captain.” Their lovely moment was interrupted by Rayburn and Lady Malvis marching toward them.
Martin stepped away from Lettuce, resuming his weak and weary posture. “Yes?” he asked, trying to make himself sound breathless. “What is it?”
“The wine is ready,” Rayburn said in a low voice as the four of them huddled into a group. “Malvis here was right about the stash of opium Captain Moone kept aboard The Vixen.”
“It should knock those bastards right out,” Lady Malvis continued with surprising venom. “And then we can give them all what they deserve.”
Uneasiness rippled down Martin’s back. He’d been having doubts about murdering men who had willingly joined his crew in cold blood, even if they were traitors bent on murder. “Once they’re out, we’ll put them in the hold.”
“But, Captain—” Lady Malvis protested.
“Even pirates have a sense of justice, Lady Malvis,” he said. “We’ll deal with them fairly and punish them accordingly for their crimes.”
Lady Malvis looked ready to mutiny, but Rayburn put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Lady Malvis’s fury subsided a bit. It softened even more when Lord Ainsley skipped across the deck toward them, back to wearing a dress.
“My love, are you ready for rehearsal?” the buffoon asked, eyes bright, as though the man were still having the time of his life.
Lady Malvis let out a sigh and turned to Ainsley with the sort of smile one would give a favorite child. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m ready.”
The two of them walked off toward the quarterdeck together. Martin sent a questioning look to Rayburn, who merely shrugged and followed the odd pair.
“I don’t believe I will ever truly understand people,” Lettuce said with a sigh. “But at least they seem happy.”
Martin hummed in reluctant agreement. He, too, would be happy, if only they could carry off their plot that evening.
It was torture to wait for the sun to make its way toward the horizon while pretending to be an invalid in serious danger of dropping dead at any time. The torture was made worse by watching his crew bustling with activity, setting up tables and benches on the main deck. Delicious scents wafted up from the galley below, and even the timid ladies helped set the tables for the feast.
By the time the ladies started bringing trays laden with stew and bread, roasted meat and the few, paltry vegetables they had left, moods were beginning to improve.
“We should do this more often, Captain,” Dick said with a leering smile, taking a seat at the same table as Martin and Lettuce.
“We should,” Martin agreed with a sneer that was supposed to be a smile. “Or rather, you can host whatever shipboard events you’d like once you’re captain.”
“And I shall, I shall,” Dick answered. He grabbed the cup that one of the ladies had just filled with wine and saluted Martin before taking a drink.
Lettuce audibly sucked in a breath as she watched him. Martin placed his hand over hers, and when she glanced his way, he shook his head slightly. The last thing they needed was to have their trick revealed too early. Lettuce nodded, bit her lip, and focused on the bowl of stew that had just been set in front of her.
“This is delicious,” Rayburn spoke from Martin’s other side as he dug into his stew. “Those ladies have a thing or two to show old Cookie.”
“We have a thing or two to show all of you,” Lady Malvis answered him, raising her spoon as though she were dining at court instead of a pirate ship.
Rayburn was seated between him and Lady Malvis, but Martin noticed a dull glint of metal at her side. When he looked closer, he realized the fine society lady was wearing a pistol in her belt and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a dagger rested across her lap.
In fact, the more he looked around, the more weapons he spotted. Most were well-concealed, but the butt of a pistol poked out from one of his crewmen’s shirts here and the top of a dagger peeked above one of Dick’s men’s boots there.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled, subtly testing his arm to make sure he would be able to use it as soon as he needed to.
“Is there a problem?” Lettuce whispered, leaning closer to him.
“Only the full-scale battle that’s about to break out at any moment,” he muttered back to her.
He glanced as covertly as he could to Dick, relieved to find the man and his fellows drinking heartily. The more they drank, the faster the wine and opium would do its work, and the sooner they could get the whole mess out of the way.
The meal was nearing its end when Ainsley and a few of Martin’s men rose from their seats and proceeded to the quarterdeck.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ainsley announced in a surprisingly loud voice, as if he had experience on the stage already. “We would now like to present you with a jolly pantomime set to music.” The crewmen who had taken up the fiddle and flute and a drum played a quick flourish. Ainsley turned to tell them, “That’s very good,” then faced his audience once more. “We present you with our interpretation of The Rape of the Sabine Women.”
The pirates burst into a raucous roar of approval, accompanied by banging on the table. Martin was much more inclined to bury his face his hands and groan over what was sure to be ribald entertainment, especially since “the Sabine women” appeared to be Ainsley himself. The fool started off on an overly dramatic speech about how sweet and innocent he was and how cruel and lusty the Romans that were on their way to claim him were.
And yet, as embarrassing as Ainsley’s antics were and as ominous as it looked when Bernard, one of his men, started loosening his belt, Dick and his conspirators seemed riveted by the whole thing. Their laughter was freer than usual, and they, above all the others, were pounding on the table and demanding to see a right good buggering more than Martin’s own men.
“It’s working,” Martin whispered to Lettuce, although he was loud enough for Rayburn and Lady Malvis to hear and to take a look as well.
“Looks like my blessed fool of a husband is worth his weight in gold after all,” Lady Malvis said with a surprisingly pleased smile.
Martin was ready to doubt her statement when Dick looked their way. His laughter stopped and he narrowed his eyes in suspicion for a moment. But with one sharp, comically feminine cry from Ainsley—who was miming rejection of Bernard’s advances—Dick’s attention was back on the quarterdeck stage. And when Ainsley flipped up the back of his ridiculous skirt to reveal he was wearing nothing at all underneath, Dick burst into laughter once more.
“I’ll be damned,” Martin muttered as Ainsley began to dash about the stage, his lily-white buttocks on display for all to see.
“Catch him,” Dick shouted, laughing drunkenly and gulping down more wine. “Give him a right good buggering.”
Martin exchanged a look with Lettuce, who stared back, wide-eyed. They peeked at Dick and his men, who seemed to have lost all inhibition as they watched Ainsley skittering about the quarterdeck, begging for mercy in falsetto tones.
When, at last, Bernard caught up with Ainsley and bent him over the railing, Dick and his men went wild. Martin’s face heated with embarrassment, particularly as it suddenly became difficult to tell whether Ainsley and Bernard were acting or whether they were actually engaging in a lewd act in front of all of them.
Lady Malvis cleared her throat, her face beet red, all traces of humor gone from her expression.
“I’m so sorry you have to witness this, my lady,” Martin sa
id to her in sympathy.
But Lady Malvis shook her head and nodded to the other end of the table. Martin turned to look. While Dick and one or two of his men continued to laugh and clap and drink, the rest of the traitors had slumped in their chairs and sagged against each other. One of them had even fallen to the floor.
Dick and the others weren’t far behind. As Ainsley continued to make downright ungodly sounds on the quarterdeck rail, Dick’s shoulders began to droop and his eyelids grew heavy. Martin gestured to his men to keep up the ribald cries and table-pounding so as not to raise suspicion, but before long it became clear that even Ainsley was watching Dick with a sharp eye. The moment Dick dropped his mug and fell off his bench, Ainsley ended his pantomime buggering with a cry of victory instead of an acted orgasm and stood straight. Martin was relieved when Bernard straightened as well, revealing he hadn’t even unbuttoned his trousers, though they did bear a distinct bulge. Both men had acted their part better than any West End performer.
“Quickly.” Martin stood, pushing back his bench and gesturing for his men to close in on the traitors. “Get them down in the hold as fast as possible. Lock it up tight.”
“We should slit their throats now,” Lady Malvis said, standing and wielding her dagger.
“I don’t want more blood on my hands,” Martin said honestly.
“It’s not wise,” Lady Malvis insisted.
“I think it’s perfect and merciful,” Lettuce argued, taking Martin’s hands. She glanced up at him with pure admiration, making Martin feel like the hero he never was. “Well done.”
There was something else in her eyes, something that made him want to rush the whole process of locking up the conspirators so that they could retire to his cabin. He ordered his men to take the prisoners below with more command than he had felt in ages. Once Dick and all of his men—which included the man whom Martin suspected of firing the shot that wounded him—were taken below deck and the rest of the crew set about cleaning up the deck, Martin grabbed Lettuce’s hand and led her through the hive of activity to his cabin.
