In a Pirate's Arms

  In a Pirate’s Arms

  Mary Kingsley

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Mary Kruger

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Cover Art copyright 2011 Daniel Wieghmink

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas. May, 1811

  Out in the harbor the ship stood rigged and ready, awaiting only the morrow to sail. Rebecca Talbot took one last look at it, the ship that symbolized the end of her life as she knew it, and then turned away, hunching her shoulders. It was nearly teatime. Father would wonder why she wasn’t at the Donner townhouse, where she was staying with him and Amelia, her sister. Never would he understand that she had fled to escape discussion of the voyage she dreaded so; never would she understand why he so wanted to be rid of her, no matter her past sins. She knew only that if she didn’t return soon, there’d be the devil to pay.

  And so she turned her back on the turquoise harbor and its surrounding rings of green, green hills and islands, and began walking, away from the quay, past the warehouses with their narrow alleys, past the quaint pink fortress. In spite of herself, Rebecca’s spirits lifted at the chaos and babble of the market. She adored Charlotte Amalie’s main street, the Dronningens Gade, a curious mixture of Caribbean color and the old world stateliness of the Danish who had colonized the island. The people fascinated her: the tall, burly, blond-bearded Danes; short, swarthy sailors from all countries; even the occasional British soldier sweltering in his red wool uniform, for the British patrolled the waters of the Caribbean against the French. From shops in the ground floor of pastel-colored houses with second floor balconies of lacy wrought iron, dark-skinned natives selling fruit and vegetables called to her with a musical lilt as she walked by. Rebecca had to force herself not to answer in kind, not even to smile. Among all the color and noise, the bright cottons, the red-roofed buildings, she stood out, a proper, quiet woman in a walking gown of good gray twill and sturdy boots, with a bonnet of dull gray silk shading her face. Her walk, however, belied the image; her strides were much too long and free. Nor would a proper lady be without gloves. At the moment, Rebecca didn’t much care what was expected of her. Tomorrow her life would change, and she would never be free again.

  The street narrowed as she left the marketplace behind, and the slope sharpened. The Donner town house was built high on Government Hill, which meant she had a long, arduous climb before her. She’d arrive perspiring and out of breath, earning a scold from Father, and that thought was enough to make her quicken her steps on the steep, cobbled street. Besides, she didn’t like the looks of her surroundings. On either side pressed shabby buildings, likely containing taverns rather than more reputable shops. The colorful population of the marketplace had been replaced by disreputable-looking sailors. Even so, Rebecca wasn’t frightened; merely wary. Long ago she had learned to draw a cloak of respectability around herself, so that she was rarely accosted, even when alone. But then, few men would accost a woman such as she, too tall, too old, and, quite simply, far too plain.

  Only a few paces ahead, the door to a tavern opened outwards with a resounding bang, and two men flew out into the street. Rebecca stepped back just in time as the first of the men pounded past her, pressing herself against the wall of the tavern to avoid being trampled. She had a quick image of brawny shoulders in a snowy linen shirt, dark hair that curled past his collar, and, surprisingly, a smile flashed at her as the man ran by. Behind him his pursuer, yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs, held a wickedly-long knife high in his hand. His shirt was of coarse, dingy homespun, and his teeth, what there were of them, were bared in a grimace rather than a smile. Altogether a most fearsome sight, and the first man was unarmed. Before she could stop herself, Rebecca thrust out her foot as the man thundered past her. Howling with surprise and rage, he sprawled to the ground, his knife flying from his hand.

  Mercy! Rebecca stared blankly at the man lying supine at her feet. He had fallen so hard against her that she had nearly lost her own balance, and had saved herself only by clutching at the walls of the tavern. Why in the world had she done such a thing? She raised dazed eyes to see the first man facing them, his pursuer’s knife in his hand. In his other hand was another, equally lethal-looking knife, its mother-of-pearl handle and silver hilt accenting, rather than softening, its danger. He stood easily, feet planted apart, and he looked quite as dangerous a rogue as she had ever seen. The image she had of him, of lean, masculine strength matched with curly hair many a girl would envy, was confirmed. The only thing she hadn’t noticed during his headlong flight, and which she now viewed with astonishment, was his eyepatch.

  “Well, boyo,” he said, his voice soft and with a lilt far different from the Indies, “and do ye plan on gettin’ up? No, don’t be thinkin’ of going after the lady.” This as the second man stirred, casting Rebecca such a murderous glance that she pressed harder against the wall. “Next time watch where you’re going, boyo. Not polite to knock down ladies.” He inclined his head towards Rebecca, and in that moment she knew why she had done what she did. It was because of his smile. “Now, Simms. Will ye be gettin’ up, or do I have to make ye?”

  Simms looked up again, and his eyes widened with fear at the sight of the knives the other man held so casually. “Cap’n, I didn’t mean,” he began, scrambling to his feet.

  “Oh, didn’t ye, boyo?” the man called the captain said, and threw Simms’s knife.

  It flew towards Simms, now the hunted, who pressed back against the tavern a few scant feet from Rebecca, hands splayed against the wall. It started its downward flight, just grazing Simms on the stomach, to land in the dirt between his feet, the point embedded deep, the hilt quivering. “Christ, Cap’n!”

  “The next one goes higher, boyo,” the captain said, his voice still soft, still deadly. “Unless you take back what you said.”

  “You ain’t no liar, Cap’n,” Simms babbled. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his eyes remained fixed on the captain’s remaining knife. “No, you ain’t no liar.”

  The captain stalked closer. “And ye’ll never try to cheat me at cards again, will you, boyo?”

  “No, Cap’n. I swear.” Simms’s face paled even more as, with swift grace the captain bent and scooped the knife up from the ground. Slowly he brought it up, the blade making a soft, snicking sound as it brushed against the buttons of Simms’s waistcoat, the tip moving higher, caressing his chest, his chin, his nose. There it paused. Simms arched his head back, away from the deadly threat, his eyes crossed in a desperate attempt to see the knife. “Cap’n, I swear!”

  “Do ye, boyo? Good.” The captain flicked his wrist, and the knife flew up into the air. It twirled several times before it started down again, landing hilt-down in his hand. With a click, the blade recessed into the handle. “A fine blade. Mind ye use it for other purposes. Here.” The captain tossed the knife up again, and this time it landed in the dust of the street. “You’ll need it aboard ship.”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Simms scrabbled in the dirt, shoving the knife into his breeches pocket. “Thankee, Cap’n, and I’m sorry. I’ll jist go now.”

  “Do that,” the captain said affably, and stood there, legs braced, arms akimbo, and a broad smile on his face. For a man who just a moment ago had been in danger of
being killed, he looked remarkably composed. And he had let his assailant go!

  “I shall never understand men,” Rebecca said, her voice clear in the hush of the street.

  The captain started, and turned to her. Still he smiled, but something in the nature of his smile changed. “Ah, leannan, I forgot about ye. Forgive me. You’re not hurt?”

  “No, no thanks to you.” Rebecca stepped away from the wall, straightening her bonnet. “You did nearly knock me down.”

  “Ah, well, when you deal with ruffians like that—”

  “Deal with! You were running for your life.”

  “Not at all. I was looking for a good place to fight. The lane’s too narrow.” His smile softened. “Still, leannan, I do thank ye. ‘Twas a brave thing you did.”

  “Brave, or foolish.” She brushed at her skirt in a vain attempt to remove the dust. “I don’t know why I did it.”

  “Don’t you?” He tilted his head to the side, his smile displaying even white teeth in a sun-darkened face. He was, she realized again, very handsome, the eyepatch only adding to his rakish appeal. He was also quite aware of it.

  “I suppose I don’t like seeing someone helpless being chased.”

  He clamped his hand to his heart. “Now you wound me, leannan, you really do. Do I look helpless?”

  Anything but. Not with those shoulders, or his arms, which even through his shirt stood out lean and corded with muscle. “He had a knife.”

  “Aye. And I’ve a better one. Never mind, leannan. ‘Twas brave, ye were. We’ll leave it at that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What?”

  “What you called me. Leannan.”

  “‘Tis the Gaelic.” He smiled down at her. “Ye’ve a look of the old sod to ye, yourself. Red hair and green eyes.”

  “Brown and hazel,” she said, repressively. “And I freckle.” Now why had she said that?

  “Aye, like an Irish lass. Yet you’re American, leannan?”

  “Yes, from Georgetown, near to Washington City.” And that was entirely enough information to give him. She must remember who she was, where she was. “I must go, sir. If you will let me pass?”

  He stepped back, crooking his arm. “Allow me to see you home, leannan.”

  “Mercy, no!” She eyed him with undisguised alarm. If Father saw her with this man, any man, there’d be the devil to pay. “Thank you, but no.”

  “As you wish.” He frowned a bit, perhaps at the vehemence of her protest. “But I’ll suggest, leannan, that if ye choose to walk out tomorrow ye pick a safer place.”

  “I won’t be here tomorrow,” she blurted out. “I sail for England in the morning.”

  “England.” He was very still, his face expressionless. “Ah. And you came here to take ship, because your country forbids trade with England. But why is a good American lass like yourself going there?”

  “Family business. I really must go now. Good day, sir.”

  He eyed her for a moment and then stepped back. “Good day, leannan.” Before she could react, he caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. His hand was large, square, calloused, dwarfing hers in a grip too strong to break. “You don’t wear gloves.”

  “No, I detest them—no, don’t!” she protested, but too late. His head was bent, his lips just brushing the back of her hand, scalding hot. “Oh, please.”

  “Ah, leannan. Such pretty hands.” With surprising gentleness he turned her hand over and dropped another kiss in the palm, a longer, firmer kiss. His breath tickled at her wrist, and gooseflesh broke out at the back of her neck, making her shiver.

  “Please,” she said again, faintly this time, and he lifted his head. His one good eye met hers, and for a moment their gazes held, with no barriers between them. In that moment she felt she knew him, as she had never known anyone before. It was so frightening a thought that she took an involuntary step back.

  Instantly he released her. She stepped back again, cradling the hand he had kissed in the crook of her arm, as if it were injured. It wasn’t pain she felt, however. “So be it, leannan. Have a safe journey. And,” his eye twinkled suddenly, “watch out for pirates.”

  “What!” she exclaimed, but he was gone, striding away with a loose-limbed, lean-hipped grace that was both arrogant and supremely male. He reminded her of a tiger on the prowl. Quite likely he was just as dangerous, too, she reminded herself tartly. Certainly he wasn’t for someone like her, who preferred the safety and familiarity of her home. Though sometimes, just sometimes, she wished—well, never mind that. Wishing had caused her trouble more than once. High time she went on her way. She had her own life, and today’s incident had no part in it.

  Still cradling her hand in her arm, she turned and trudged away. It had been an astonishing incident, but it was over. It was quite foolish for her to dwell on it, or to remember the startling moment when she had gone against all her upbringing to help a handsome stranger. Even more dangerous to think of the astonishing feeling of his lips on her hand. Such was not for her. Rebecca was resigned to the truth. She would never see him again.

  Brendan Fitzpatrick strode along the Dronnigens Gade towards the quay, looking neither to right nor to left, the black cloak he affected even under the warm Caribbean sun swaying from side to side. There was nothing overtly threatening about him; no weapons were in evidence and his face wore a pleasant, if watchful, expression. Yet even the stoutest men fell back at his approach, while respectful greetings followed in his wake. The women weren’t quite so intimidated; they smiled and called out greetings, for Brendan was, in spite of his eyepatch, a fine-looking man. He was also said to be uncommonly generous to any woman he took to his bed, and not just with money. Brendan returned the greetings with a smile, the more ribald comments with sallies that set them all to laughing. Not once did he stop, however. He had a purpose this fine May morning, and he would not be dissuaded from it.

  The harbor was filled with crafts of all description, from the very smallest dory to the largest, lumbering ship of the line. In these days of constant war St. Thomas was unique, a port that had managed to stay neutral and thus welcomed ships of every flag. Briefly his eyes touched on a ship anchored further out, a sleek, black-painted brigantine, and his face softened. Aye, but he wasn’t there to admire his own vessel. There were more vital matters on his mind. Much of what he planned depended on what he would observe today.

  Closer in was another ship, a trader, square-rigged and broad-beamed. The Curlew. She rode low in the water, as if heavy laden, the Union Jack floating from her stern. Even from here Brendan could see the activity on her deck, as the crew made ready to hoist anchor. Aye, she’d be sailing soon. He stood very still, studying the ship as another man might study a woman he desired, noting details of rigging and hull and armament. Six guns, maybe, and she wouldn’t be fast, not with those bluff bows and heavy bulwarks. Easy pickings. Still, Captain Smithers, her master, was a good seaman. Brendan would do well not to underestimate him.

  A small group of people stood on the quay, three men and two women, awaiting the captain’s gig to bring them to the Curlew. Aye, there was Smithers, grizzled and portly. His passengers must be important, to merit his personal escort. The man standing with him was tall and cadaverous, dressed in rusty black. Brendan had never seen him before, yet he recognized him from the description he had been given. So his information had been good. Neville would indeed be aboard the Curlew. The hunt was on. Brendan smiled grimly. He was rather looking forward to action.

  As for the other passengers. Brendan’s gaze flicked over them assessingly. A middle-aged man, a young woman, whose blond curls peeked out from under her high-crowned, stylish bonnet, and—the devil take it! Brendan drew back a pace. She was there, the woman from yesterday who had been quite convinced she’d rescued him, the woman with eyes so deep and so clear they’d haunted his sleep, yet which nevertheless held secrets. Devil take it, she was going to be aboard the Curlew. It was almost enough to make him give up
his mission.

  He had seen all he had come to see, all he needed. He turned, the cloak swirling about him, and at that moment the woman looked up, her gaze locking with his, making him stop dead in his tracks. No, he hadn’t imagined those eyes, eyes that seemed to see straight into him. Without conscious volition he stepped onto the quay. You’re pressing your luck, boyo, he told himself, but still he walked, drawn by a force he didn’t understand. For the life of him, he couldn’t stop.

  Rebecca went very still, watching as the man with the eyepatch walked towards her, his gait rolling and easy. Something sparked to life within her, a curious flicker of excitement deep in the pit of her stomach, and her breathing became shallow. He was all she was aware of, all she could see, and the joy of seeing him again, when she had never though she would, sparkled through her.

  Beside her Mr. Neville, who had been talking, broke off in mid-sentence, though she didn’t notice. Following her gaze, he, too watched the man approach, his eyebrows raised. “Who is that fellow?” he said, and both Captain Smithers and Ezra Talbot, Rebecca’s father, turned.

  Smithers turned pale under his tan. “Good God,” he muttered, and stepped away from the passengers, intercepting Brendan before he could come closer. “Captain Fitzpatrick,” he called in his booming quarterdeck voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Mornin’, Smithers.” Brendan exchanged bows with Smithers, a lazy smile on his face. “Fine day to weigh anchor, it is.”

  “So it is, so it is. Let us pray the weather is with us across the Atlantic.”

  “You’re for England, then?”

  “Aye.” To Rebecca, Smithers seemed to hesitate. “And you?”

  “Where the wind takes me.” Brendan’s smile didn’t quite reach his eye. “What is your cargo?”

  Smithers turned even paler. “Nothing unusual. Tobacco, sugar, some cotton. Mixed goods.”

  “Sounds an excellent prize.” Brendan’s teeth flashed in a smile. “Oh, don’t worry, boyo.” He clapped the other man on the back. “It’s bigger fish I’m after.”