Once a Pirate (3 page)

“Get back to work, the lot of you!” Andrew shouted from where he stood, evidently not noticing that she was the focus of their attention. In quite a different tone, he addressed the silver-haired man standing next to him. “Let us get underway again, if you please, Mr. Egan.”

The older man cupped his hands around his mouth and called out a series of rapid-fire instructions.

The ragtag group sprang into action. Men scurried up and down the swaying masts, yelling incomprehensible orders one after the other as they loosened the main sails. Like enormous sheets hung out to dry, the sails thundered in the wind, then billowed and stretched taut. Ropes uncoiled. More sails unfurled. The ship tilted to one side and the wind caught and lifted her like a graceful bird.

Awed, Carly grabbed the polished wooden railing with both hands. A sailor, no more than a boy, clambered
up the tallest mast. He tore down a tattered English flag and fastened another in its place. Unfurled, the black canvas snapped in the wind, a grinning white skull above two swords.

A pirate’s flag.

A shiver of fear and dread raced along her spine. “God help me,” she whispered, and made the sign of the cross.

“Sail ho!” cried a sailor from a lookout high up the mast. He held an antiquated telescope to one eye. Another man in the rigging echoed his call.

Hope surged through Carly. A ship had been sighted—search and rescue, surely. But where?

“Beat to quarters!” shouted the man named Egan.

The Jolly Roger came down, but no flag went up in its place. The sailors rushed off in all directions. If their anxious expressions were any indication, whatever was approaching frightened them.

Pinpricks of frozen mist scoured her cheeks, hampering her ability to scan the horizon.

Her heart lurched. A majestic, old-fashioned wooden vessel glided past. Its sails were plumped with wind, and it flew an unfamiliar flag. The moisture in her eyes blurred the ship into a mystical, ethereal
beauty. She blinked, and its sails were back, as clear and real as everything else around her. Raw fear punched her in the belly.

“She’s run up her colors,” someone shouted.

“Aye. And she’s got no reason to lie.”

Evidently, that dissolved the tension, and the sailors drifted away from their battle stations.

Hands trembling, Carly backed away from the railing, her thoughts a whirlpool of denial, disbelief, fear. One antique vessel was explainable; another was unthinkable.

She must have been hurt in the ejection, knocked senseless. She was in a coma and this was her sick nightmare. Perfectly understandable. There’d been so much stress lately. Any second she’d wake up in the hospital, her body bristling with IV tubes. She gave a quick little laugh.

“Damnation! What is she doing out here?” Bare-chested, his coat swirling, damp hair whipping around his face and neck, Andrew strode toward her.

Gritting her chattering teeth, Carly forced herself to keep eye contact with him as she’d done once with a stray dog she’d feared would turn vicious. Wrapped inside her F-18, she was equal to any male foe. Here, she was nothing but a small woman armed with her wits . . . and the Glock 26 handgun hidden in her thigh pocket.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, or who you think I am,” she said with a bravado that was slipping fast, “but you can’t hold me prisoner.”

“I cannot?” He fastened the buttons on his coat one by one. “Mr. Gibbons, return her to my quarters. And bolt the door.”

The white-haired man grabbed her wrist.

Carly tried to yank her arm free. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I use your radio.”

“Take her,” Andrew said in a dismissive tone as he walked away, “before I weary of her game and toss her overboard.”

“That’s against the Geneva Convention! Don’t forget, I’m a naval aviator.” Addressing Gibbons, she demanded, “That ship that just sailed by—whose was it?”

“’Twas but a Dutch merchant.” Gibbons gave her wrist a gentle tug. “Come now. You need to change into dry clothing or you’ll catch your death.”

She followed, mute and outwardly compliant, while her thoughts raced ahead at Mach three.

A bearded man sporting a glittering gold tooth hopped down from the rigging, blocking their path. “Where ya keepin’ our precious cargo?”

“Cap’n’s quarters.” Gibbons added pointedly, “Cap’n’s orders.”

The man with the black beard licked his lips, eyeing her hungrily. “Wants her close by, does he? How close? She’ll be worth nothin’ to us unless he keeps her in original condition.”

Carly recoiled. The man resembled a child’s make-believe pirate, from the sword dangling at his hip to the red bandanna on his head. But instinct warned her that he was no storybook character; he radiated as much malice as he did the odor of cheap booze.

Gibbons shoved past, and she was more than happy to follow him into the quarters she’d just fled.

He pointed to a shirt, pants, and shoes on the bedside table. “The trunks with your gowns went down with the ship. Young Theo lent you these.”

Silent, Carly shoved her hands into her pockets and
flexed her tingling fingers. She would not change out of her flight suit. She was a captured pilot. She’d stay dressed as she was, the way she was taught in prisoner-of-war training.

Mistaking her reluctance for repugnance, Gibbons apologized.” ’Tis the best we can do, milady. We’re not accustomed to having ladies aboard the
Phoenix.”
The creases around his startling green eyes deepened. “No
proper
ladies, that is.”

Gibbons struck her as fatherly and friendly. Maybe he’d help her—if she played things right. “The captain and I have had a small misunderstanding,” she said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I used your radio. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Have you a fever? Aye, but I knew you’d sicken, dressed the way you are.” He covered her forehead with his huge cool, dry palm.

She jerked away. “Where’s your phone?”

His expression of concern dissolved into pity. “Once we’re underway, the cap’n will answer your questions. Sir Andrew’s a clever one, all right.”

His use of her captor’s title pricked her hatred of the wealthy and their vanity. “Ah, yes. Mr. Aristocrat.”

“Aye, he’s a duke’s son, all right. But the title he gained from the war, not blood.”

She perked up. Any information might help the navy with Andrew’s prosecution. “The Gulf War?”

Gibbons shook his head. “Not against your Jackson in the Gulf. Cap’n fought in the Atlantic, and not a battle lost. Get your rest now, milady. Good night.”

Gibbons slid the bolt into place.

So much for answers that made sense.

Shaky from exhaustion, Carly yanked off her combat boots and sodden wool socks, placing them in front
of the brazier to dry. Two feet away from the stove the heat dwindled into biting dampness, cold enough to see her breath as she paced barefoot over the planked floor.

She’d bailed out of a jet two hundred miles off the coast of Spain, only to be rescued by a mob of seafaring Hell’s Angels. The bizarre interrogation by their eccentric, unpredictable, and incredibly good-looking captain was simply the icing on the cake. “This would be hilarious if it wasn’t so pitiful,” she muttered, pushing aside the curtains to peer outside. Distant lightning pulsed on the horizon, ribbons of blue sky twisting through the clouds. The weather was clearing, which meant she was running out of time.

Nobody could survive for long in these frigid waters. If search-and-rescue didn’t find her soon, they’d figure she had drowned and would call off the search. She’d become another statistic, her entire life reduced to a measly paragraph in the newspapers:
Female aviator crashes in storm. Squadronmates mourn at memorial service. No surviving family. . . .

The door in the adjacent room banged open. Frosty air swept into the cabin along with the sound of stomping booted feet. Her heart thudded anew. The last thing she wanted was another round of questions with Mr. Egomaniac.

Carly hunkered down by her bolted door, peeking through the space between the door and the frame. The sour odor of perspiration and dirty, wet wool seeped through the narrow opening. Soundlessly, she unsnapped her thigh pocket, opened the waterproof pouch, and touched her fingertips to the handgun.

“We lost plenty in the storm, Cap’n. But we hauled most of her dowry aboard.”

Black Beard!
It was the man from above who had asked where they were keeping her.

“Go on, Booth,” Andrew prompted.

“We’re rich men . . . for awhile,” the pirate boasted. “Gold coins, jewels—thar’s a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg. We tossed the china into the sea but kept the silver.”

“Continue.”

“Thar’s medicine, three crates of oranges—”

“How are our men, Mr. Egan?” Andrew interrupted.

The silver-haired man she guessed was the second-in-command spoke up. “A broken bone or two, bruises. As for the
Merryweather,
it was a small crew, under a dozen. All perished. If Lady Amanda hadn’t fallen overboard, we’d have lost her, too.”

Andrew’s mouth thinned. “Not how I prefer to do business, Cuddy.”

“Aye, I know.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Did you see what they had her wearin’?” another man asked, cleverly redirecting his captain’s wrath.

The men howled their laughter.

Carly’s cheeks grew hot.

“Why, ’tis the latest thing in Delhi,” the man added.

The pirates laughed harder.

“She was raised there, wasn’t she?”

“Nay,” Cuddy said. “She was born in London, raised in the colonies. America. She accompanied her father and sister to India seven years ago.”

Great. The others believed she was Lady Amanda, too.

“What I find perplexing is that I was told she was still a girl,” Andrew stated, thoughtful. “The chit is easily twenty.”

“A change of pace for the duke, I’d say.”

All but Andrew laughed at Cuddy’s remark. He rolled the handle of his dagger between his palms. “Keep an eye on her. She’s incapable of obeying orders.”

“I’ll watch her,” Cuddy offered. “She’s a pretty thing.”

Andrew frowned as he cleaned his fingernails with the knife. “I expected her to be dark-haired. She’s fair.”

There was a muffled remark and the men laughed.

“She’s warmin’ your sheets, sir?”
Booth again.
“Plannin’ on havin’ her, then? To see if the duke’s gettin’ his money’s worth?”

“Bed the wench?” Andrew roared with laughter. Wiping his eyes, he said huskily, “Good God. She resembles a drowned cat. Perhaps she’ll improve once dry.”

Carly let out a positively feline hiss, but none of them seemed to have heard. The men rose, said their good nights. Then the door slammed and all was quiet. Andrew exhaled noisily, combed his fingers through his wavy brown hair, and unbuttoned his pants. She caught a glimpse of a lean, muscled torso before averting her eyes.

When she peeked through the crack again, Andrew was dressed in the blue robe. As though he hadn’t a care in the world, he poured a drink from a crystal decanter and sat at his desk to read a book.

The gale continued to howl as the sea thundered against the sides of the ship. Daylight trickled through the curtains and a small dirty window opposite the bed.

Weak from fatigue, Carly crept back to the brazier, her arms heavy, her eyes throbbing. Gingerly, she
unzipped her jacket and flight suit, peeling off the protective rubber suit she wore underneath. She had no choice. If she didn’t strip to her underwear, the seawater would rub her skin, giving her sores.

She dragged the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her, scooting close to the dying coals in the brazier.

A clock ticked softly, steadily.

A heartbeat.

Her throat tightened. The sorrow always caught up to her when she was tired, and today was no exception. Tenderly, she smoothed one palm over her stomach as she curled onto her side, knees drawn to her chin. Oddly, she no longer felt frightened, only alone, very much alone.

“All hands ahoy!”

Shouts and bells woke her. Her eyes flew open. For a moment, her cheek pressed to the cold wood floor, she had no idea where she was. She stood too quickly. Her vision narrowed, and she nearly passed out. “Oh,” she moaned. Her throat was raw, her jaw and neck bruised from the ejection.

More shouts coaxed her to the cloudy, salt-crusted window. The sun was directly overhead. She must have slept for hours.

She spied Andrew, and her pulse quickened. Broad shoulders squared, back straight, he had the air of someone comfortable with command. The crew snapped to his every order as though they wanted to please him. A natural leader. She’d been around long enough to know that men like him were rare. For that, she grudgingly respected him.

A chill draft washed over her bare skin, dousing her
with reality: She was dressed in lace underwear on an antique sailboat crewed by biker guys somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Oh, shoot.” Hastily, she donned her flight suit, still damp and caked with salt. Her boots were worse. Cold and wet, the leather abraded her blistered toes. She tried the door. Locked.

She perched on the edge of the bed until Gibbons lumbered in a short while later. One green eye was clouded over. Cataracts? The other twinkled with good humor. “Good day, Lady Amanda,” he cheerfully sang out. “Would you be hungry?”

Her stomach growled at the very suggestion. “Yes, I am. I’d like something to eat.”

“I haven’t decided whether I shall feed you or not.”

She jerked her attention to the doorway. Andrew’s imposing frame loomed there, blocking the outside light. Dressed in a blue cutaway coat worn over a vest and shirt with a stand-up collar, he was the image of a regal nineteenth-century sea captain. Though his face was impassive, his eyes glittered like blue ice.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he stepped into the cabin. “Do not feed her, Mr. Gibbons,” Andrew said quietly. “I want her to learn what hunger feels like.”

Incredulous, Carly glanced at Gibbons, desperate to gain some insight into this latest game. The man’s attention was riveted on his captain, something akin to fatherly disappointment on his face.

Andrew circled her in a silent, unnerving inspection, his powerful thigh muscles flexing beneath pants tucked into knee-high boots. The leather creaked with each step he took. “You haven’t known a day of
hunger in your short, privileged life. And never will, I fear. Thus, I have taken it upon myself to treat you to the experience.”

The old resentment roared to the surface. The last thing she needed were hunger lessons. Andrew, on the other hand, could use a few. She’d bet he’d never worried whether his school lunch would be his one meal of the day, a meal donated by his classmates’ parents, choked down to the tune of their taunting chants.

She sucked in a steadying breath. “The international laws governing prisoners of war dictate that you supply me with food and water.”

“Prisoner of war? Is that what you think you are?”

Squaring her shoulders, she nodded curtly.

Andrew drew back in surprise. He’d expected tears but had seen none, only a fleeting, haunted vulnerability, now gone. In its place was the unflinching resolve of a fighter facing impossible odds. A position he knew all too well.