Once a Pirate (12 page)

“My mother may not have had the best judgment,” Andrew said tightly. “But she was fiercely loyal. She would have fought to the death to protect her own.”

Which was precisely what she did, Spencer,
he said to himself.

Amanda covered his hands with hers and squeezed. “Now I know where you get it from.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re the same way. You’ll fight to the death to protect what’s yours, won’t you?”

He inhaled the scent of her hair. “Aye,” he whispered, tucking the locks spilling over her shoulder behind her ear. He kissed her there, eliciting a shiver. In a surge of affection, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her flush against him. “I never could understand why someone so beautiful appeared so melancholy,” he said.

“Your mother.”

“Aye. I don’t know precisely how it came to me, but I knew Westridge was to blame. From the time I was six or seven, I hated him.”

“Which is why you’ve sworn revenge on his nephew.”

Among other reasons.
He gave a curt nod. If not for the vengeance he so desperately sought, he would have no reason for living at all.

The moon rose higher. Reflected in shimmering bands of light on the water, its timeless tranquility cooled Andrew’s anger. He hugged Amanda close, breathed in her scent. She was all that was sweet, all that was good.

The very opposite of him.

Slowly, he rocked her back and forth, holding her until he’d lulled her to sleep. Then he held her for hours afterward, until the stars in the eastern sky began to fade.

At dawn, he reluctantly carried her to his bedchamber. After tucking a light blanket over her legs, he brushed his finger over her soft cheek. “What am I to do about you? You will marry another, Amanda. Losing you will torture me all the days of my life.”

“H. M. S.
Longreach,”
Andrew read aloud.

Cuddy took the telescope. “Never heard of her.”

“Nor I.” Thoughtful, Andrew stroked his chin. “I can only assume she’s recently commissioned.”

Carly stood quietly as the men discussed the warship. A light breeze had come up during the night, bringing the vessel close enough to see in detail. If the wind continued, the ships could engage each other within hours.

Her stomach clenched. She wished she had something constructive to do to calm her nerves. She walked to the bow, where Jonesy and Theo were wrapping Savannah with ropes and hammocks.

“It looks like a cocoon,” Carly remarked.

“If you’d been the least bit willing,” Jonesy said, “Cap’n would have the same done to you.”

They exchanged knowing grins. So much for her participating in the battle, Carly thought.

“She’s overseen every battle, with nary a scratch,” Jonesy explained, finishing the job with several strong knots. “Patience, sweet Savannah. We’ll be unwrap-pin’ you before you know it.”

Carly continued her inspection of the ship, sensing the tense anticipation of the men as they readied the guns. The cannons weighed thousands of pounds each, and it took several men to operate them. It was sweaty, strenuous, exhausting work. The great guns had to be pulled backward, loaded with a ball and gunpowder, pushed forward, aimed, and fired, before starting all over again. There was no room for error. If the fire wasn’t out before fresh gunpowder was added, the mistake could trigger an explosion. With only fifty sailors aboard, the
Phoenix
could fire no more than half her guns at any particular time. This further added to her vulnerability.

A distant sound—like the backfire of a truck—erupted from the direction of the warship. Carly’s heart echoed with her own thunder. “Are they firing already?”

She hadn’t realized she’d actually voiced the question until a sailor nearby answered, “She’s wantin’ to test our mettle.”

Carly hastened back to Andrew and Cuddy. “Explain ‘test our mettle.’”

“She’s firing her long nines,” Andrew replied. “Testing her range, and hoping we’ll fire an answering volley.” He exhaled. “They’ll not risk your life, though. I suspect the captain will try to ascertain whether you are aboard before he commences firing in earnest.”

Her throat went dry. “How’s he going to do that?”

“Dispatch a party, a longboat or two.”

She started at another sharp bang, and forced her mind away from Andrew’s grim reply. “The ‘long nines’ are the smaller guns, aren’t they?”

“Aye.”

“They sure don’t sound small.” She ought to be used to the noise of cannon fire—she’d been through dozens of gunnery drills since coming aboard. But when the cannonballs were aimed their way, it was a different sound entirely.

Again the crack of distant guns echoed.

“Milady, ’tis time.”

She glanced up at Andrew’s words. “The cabin already? I’d rather stay and fight.”

Andrew wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. He swallowed, then exhaled slowly. “Mr. Egan, I need a moment with the lady, if you don’t mind.”

“Understand, sir.” Cuddy tucked the telescope under his arm and left them.

Andrew lifted one arm as though to touch her. Catching himself he clenched his hand into a fist and let it fall to his side. Like her, he tried not to display their growing closeness in front of the crew. “We have been over this time and again. There will be no more discussion on the matter. You have disobeyed me in the past. Do not do so today.” Though the words were harsh, his tone was gentle, almost pleading. “I do not want to see you killed.”

For a brief moment, they stared at each other as though nothing existed but the two of them. His gaze was unguarded, exquisitely tender, revealing the depth of his feelings for her.

Her chest squeezed tight. What if this was the last
time they saw each other? A wave of light-headedness hit her as she tried to catch her breath. She wanted to throw her arms around him, beg him to be careful, tell him she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. There were no antibiotics; he could catch a fever and die from a cut or a broken bone.

“Go on,” he coaxed.” ’Twill be over soon.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll hold you to your word, Captain.”

Andrew’s eyes glinted strangely. Turning away, he called to a group of men nearby. “Booth!”

She stiffened, heat flooding her face.

“Escort the lady to my quarters. Ensure that she bolts the door.”

Black Beard looked as though he’d just won the lottery.

“No!” Carly blurted, drawing Andrew’s astonished stare. “That’s not necessary. I’m sure Mr. Booth is quite busy with his other duties.”

“Yer a more important duty,” Booth drawled, offering her his arm. She drilled him with a touch-me-mister-and-you’re-history stare.

His eyes turned dead cold.

Apparently, none of it was lost on Andrew. “On second thought, return to your duties, Booth,” he said, eyeing Carly curiously.

Booth hesitated. “Cap’n?”

“Go. I want you manning your gun.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

“Before you do . . . I have a bit of strategy to discuss.”

Booth trailed Andrew just out of earshot. Uneasy, Carly watched the two men converse. Booth’s face turned crimson. But Andrew appeared calm. The only
words loud enough for her to hear were: “—not a request, Booth. An order.”

Glowering, Booth returned to his cannon.

Carly wondered what had transpired between them, and immediately thought of Theo’s safety. Maybe it was time to tell Andrew what had happened between her and Booth. For Theo’s sake, anyway. But now was clearly not the moment.

Andrew cupped his hands around his mouth and called for Cuddy to take her to the cabin. She and the first mate walked side by side in silence. Before stepping inside, she looked over her shoulder for Andrew. Immersed in his own thoughts, his hands clasped behind his back, he faced the sea. She said a silent prayer for him and the others, then squeezed Cuddy’s arm. “Good luck.”

“Superior skill and preparation, not luck,” Cuddy reminded her with a grin.

“I’ll pray for all three, then.”

Cuddy walked away only after she’d slid the bolt in place. Sighing, she leaned tiredly against the door and faced the empty cabin, which no longer resembled a cabin. To her right, where there used to be a wall, was the shadowy interior of the ship. Before today, she’d never known that the wall was hinged, allowing it to be raised and hooked to the ceiling in times of battle. To further reduce the chance of injury, the furniture and the glass panes from the windows were stowed in compartments below the waterline. Unlike the missiles she had fired from her jet, cannonballs did not cause fire when they hit. They plowed through wood and masts and fragile sails like wrecking balls. She’d learned from Andrew that most injuries and deaths in a
sea battle weren’t from the rounds themselves, but from splinters hurled like spears.

A hammock and mattress-padded corner had been prepared for her protection.

Just like Savannah.

Sitting cross-legged in her odd nest, Carly removed the handgun she’d hidden in the thigh pocket of her flight suit. She ran her thumb over the cold steel. Sleek, almost futuristic in appearance after so many months, the gun was out of place in this world. She turned it over and over in her hand until she’d reacquainted herself with its weight and feel.

Six shots.

If she was to fire, she’d need to choose her targets wisely. And quickly. She leaned back against the padded wall and took deep breaths.

By the time evening fell, she was stiff, and her legs were cramped from heat and dehydration. The darkness was almost suffocating without candles or lamps to illuminate the now cavernous room. Sea battles, she’d been told, were fought in daylight, and, clinging to that thought, she allowed herself to relax somewhat.

Around midnight, she guessed, Gibbons brought her dried beef and a flask of beer before leaving to rejoin the men. With the food and beer filling her stomach, she could no longer fight her drowsiness, and she surrendered to exhaustion soon after.

She slept poorly. Twisted visions and bits of restless dreams mingled, whipped together, and spun around like dead leaves on an autumn wind. Fitful and perspiring, she hovered between wakefulness and sleep.

She thought she was still dreaming when the first war cries tore through the predawn silence.

She bolted to her knees. There were more shouts, followed by the popping of pistols and the firecracker smell of black powder.
This is no dream.

Ignoring Andrew’s earlier warnings, she crept to the side window. Two unfamiliar longboats were docked alongside the
Phoenix,
and one more was coasting up.
Crap.

They were under attack.

Apprehension uncoiled inside her as dozens of soldiers clambered aboard; it was a raid to weaken the
Phoenix
and her crew before the sun rose and a full-fledged battle began.

The crew met the onslaught with chilling howls. Carly steeled herself. Her years of training for war came back with startling clarity. She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. Then she closed her hand around the gun.

More men scrambled over the side of the ship. Some were cut down instantly by cutlasses, axes, and clubs. Pistol-fire flickered like an army of flash cameras at the scene of a horrific accident.

The screams of the wounded were the hardest to take. Her prayers flowed faster than her lips could form them.

Haze and smoke drifted across the deck where pistols exploded and blades glinted. She saw Theo run past, wild-eyed with fear and excitement, his red hair poking up in all directions. “Oh, God,” she said softly, and bit the inside of her lower lip.

Amid the confusion, Andrew’s purposeful stride caught her eye. He’d shoved his pistol into his belt, and now gripped his cutlass with his right hand. His hoarse voice rang with authority and purpose as he
pointed feverishly in one direction, then the other, shouting orders to his men.

Carly’s heart sank. There was blood smeared across his forehead, and more trickled from his matted hair.

Something, or someone, slammed into the cabin door behind her. She whirled to face the sound, aiming her gun as she did. Her heart pounded frantically.

She waited for what seemed like an eternity.

The door handle turned.

Another thud . . .

The bolt held firm. She heard a curse and whoever it was moved away.

The sound of feet running drew her attention outside, just as sunlight burst over the horizon and fanned out over the calm sea. Two of the enemy longboats were on their way back to the man-of-war, no doubt to deliver the news that she wasn’t aboard. The few soldiers left onboard the
Phoenix
were desperate, slicing and shooting their way to the one remaining longboat. Now that it was full daylight, and Amanda hadn’t been found, the real sea battle would begin. Knowing that their presence would hardly keep the larger craft from firing as soon as it got into range, the trapped soldiers fought viciously to escape.

Andrew jogged past the window. Carly ducked. He didn’t see her. Gulping smoky air, she peered over the window ledge once again.

Andrew had run to a man writhing in agony. Cutlass in hand, shoulders heaving, he hunkered down next to him. Jonesy! The helmsman’s shirt was soaked with bright red blood. Andrew was talking to him, patting him on the cheek to keep him conscious.

Yellow-gray smoke floated at knee level across the
deck, imparting to the scene an eerie, nightmarish quality. Something caught her gaze: a movement, to the left.

A shadowy, pistol-toting figure slowly closed in on the pair.

Horrified, she swerved her attention to the men. Didn’t anyone see him? Jonesy’s head had sagged to one side, and Andrew was so immersed in loosening the man’s collar that he did not notice the would-be assassin.

She raised her handgun. “Andrew, turn around,” she urged under her breath, but he he simply stood and wiped sweat and blood from his eyes with the back of his hand.

The soldier’s hand raised, but Carly fired first.

Blood sprayed from the soldier’s head. Andrew wheeled around, yanking his pistol from his belt. The mortally wounded man advanced still, but with a strange, wobbly-legged gait. Before Andrew had time to shoot at the odd sight before him, Carly fired a second shot, hitting the soldier in the neck. His pistol discharged harmlessly in the air as he fell face-first with a dull thud.

Andrew gaped at the fallen man, then looked incredulously across the deck to where she stood at the window.

Overcome by the enormity of what she’d done, Carly staggered backward. The gunshots and her heartbeat rang in her ears. Strange emotions swirled through her. She had killed a man—and saved Andrew’s life. She didn’t know whether she wanted to cheer, cry, or be sick.

“Amanda!” Andrew pounded on the door like a madman. “God’s teeth, woman. Open the bloody door!”

Her hands shook as she released the bolt. He
crashed inside, almost knocking her down. His breath hissed in and out as he bolted it closed.

“Andrew. You’re hurt.” She reached up to push his bloody hair off his forehead.

He reared back.” ’Tis a scratch.” He was taut, gruff, and had the wild eyes of a warrior in battle. “Where is the weapon?”

“Jonesy. Is he dead?”

“No, he is not! The pistol. Hand it to me.”

She placed the still warm gun in his palm. He gingerly turned the weapon over, looked inside the barrel, sniffed at it. “I have never seen workmanship such as this. Who built this? Where did you purchase it?”

She answered the easiest question first. “It’s a Glock 26 handgun.”

His head jerked up. “I have never heard of ‘Glock.’ ’Tis not at all a conventional pistol.”

“It sure as hell was conventional in my time.”

He lowered the gun. “Your time . . .”

“Yes. Almost two hundred years from now.”

His inner struggle was evident in his distracted gaze. He paced several steps and stopped. Exhaling a rough breath, he turned to face her. “You are not Lady Amanda.”