Once a Pirate (8 page)

“Before I go, I need to discuss something with you.”

“Proceed.”

“Mr. Willoughby and I have finished our party plans. With your permission, we’d like to hold a bigger celebration than usual.”

Andrew rolled up his drawings, one by one.

“We have some great ideas for a party. . . .”

He slipped the rolled parchment into a leather sheath.

“By the way, Captain, Mr. Gibbons mentioned that he’d like the first slow dance with you.”

His busy hands stopped.

“Oh, good,” she said. “You
are
listening.”

“Mr. Gibbons wishes to dance?”

She pursed her lips. “You’re a very predictable man, which makes it easier when I want your attention.”

“Does it, now?” he asked dryly.

“Yes. Do you want to hear about the party or not?”

“I suppose I have little choice in the matter. However, I must remind you that you are my cargo, not my social secretary.”

Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “May I assume then, dear Captain, that you’ve given
me,
a mere bit of cargo, permission to hold the event?”

“Why, of course,” he said crisply. “My men’s ability to fight depends on camaraderie as much as it does on discipline and trust. In this respect, music and dancing are as important as gunnery drills.”

She rolled her eyes and walked to her door. “I suppose that’s the closest I’ll get to hearing you say ‘fun is good.’”

“I take my amusements, milady, when the time is appropriate.”

“Do you? Good,” she said. “So do I.”

He shared her slow smile. “In that, little spitfire, I do not doubt your word.”

“No, I won’t watch.” Theo’s blush deepened until he was nearly purple. He rocked back on his heels and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his collar.

“For God’s sake, Theo, she’s made of wood. What difference does it make what she’s wearing?” How a teenage boy could get so worked up over a piece of underwear, Carly had no idea.

“’Tis because, well,
you
were wearin’ . . .” Unable to finish, Theo shrugged and shoved both hands in his pockets.

Groaning in mock exasperation, Carly wadded the apricot wisp of lace in her fist. She hopped over the railing behind the ship’s masthead and carefully shimmied up Savannah’s back. Without a trace of wind to mar its surface, the sea below displayed a reflection that was as crisp as a photograph.

Straddling Savannah’s hips, Carly positioned her bra over the carving’s two perfectly shaped polished breasts. “I’m jealous, Savannah. They must have cut down an entire tree for your chest alone.” Her attempt to make Theo laugh elicited little more than a muffled cough.

Fuzzy and faded from too much washing and more than a month of wear, the lace stretched and crackled as she tried to fasten the hook-and-eye closure in back. Gritting her teeth, she winced at the twang of bursting elastic. With one last hiss of rending fabric, the bra snapped into place, thanks to the statue’s totally unrealistic, male-fantasy, itty-bitty, twelve-inch waist. Naturally, the bra was ruined, but now that she’d sewn three camisoles and pairs of underpants with extra yardage from the dress, she’d planned to retire it, anyway. “You’ll look beautiful at the party, Savannah, girl.”

Carly slid down to the deck. “It’s over,” she said, flinging her arm over Theo’s shoulder. “Come on, kiddo, open your eyes.”

Warily, he asked, “What’s next?”

“More decorating, I’m afraid. Captain Spencer said we’ll cross the equator before dawn, which means we have a lot of fixin’ to do to this ol’ sloop before tomorrow. I say we start with the railing and the masts. What do you think?” Carly lifted her arm from Theo’s shoulder to ruffle his thick, sun-bleached red hair. His grin returned. Unlike the teenage boys she’d known—the sons of friends, mostly—Theo seemed to enjoy her public physical displays of affection. “Look, here comes Mr. Gibbons with the ribbons now.”

Gibbons strode toward her, a bulky basket in his arms. Squinting from the glare of the sun on his white
hair, she tugged her collar away from her neck. It was going to be another scorcher. The men had hung tarps to keep as much of the midday sun off the open deck as possible. Away from the protective shade, the hot, humid air was almost unbearable. “Are the ribbons dry yet, Mr. Gibbons?”

“Aye, dry and hot, like everything and everyone on this ship, milady.” Gibbons lowered the basket so she could peer inside.

She’d spent hours dying the strips of sailcloth. Sweating over a cauldron of boiling water and saffron, she’d made one batch after another until her stained hands were blistered, sore, and as orange as a pair of Halloween pumpkins. The color on her fingertips was only now beginning to fade.

Carly plucked out a length of yellow sailcloth and yanked it taut. It had dried stiff, but she could soften the material by rubbing it between her fingers.

“I trust the festoons meet your approval?”

She mimicked his imitation of an aristocrat’s pompous airs. “I daresay, Mr. Gibbons, we’ve done a fine job.” Lifting a finger imperiously toward the stern, she suggested, “Shall we start at the rear, gentlemen?”

“What in God’s name have you done to my fine vessel?”

On her knees, yards of sailcloth ribbons draped across her shoulders, Carly shaded her eyes from the brutal midday sun.” ‘Done’?”

“Aye.” Wet from a swim, Andrew stood above her, his arms folded over his chest. His damp hair curled around his shirt collar, and he’d rolled up his sleeves. The sodden material of his white linen shirt was almost transparent in several places, revealing a
shadow of dark hair across his broad chest. The darkness descended in a narrow line that dipped tantalizingly into the waistband of his pants.

“Captain,” she said as she stood. “The rest of the crew thinks it looks pretty nice.” She propped her hands on her hips. “I get the impression you don’t.”

He resumed his slow and deliberate study of his festively outfitted ship. “My
Phoenix
looks like a warrior dressed in petticoats.”

Gibbons and Theo let out delighted laughs.

Carly pursed her lips to hide her smile. “Thanks a lot.”

“My pleasure,” Andrew said, his eyes glinting.

He was flirting with her, she realized with a jolt. Every nerve ending in her body tingled, making her feel suddenly and vividly alive. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and said, “Those who haven’t helped don’t get to criticize.”

“I see.” Holding her gaze, he slid a strip of cloth from her shoulders. “I shall begin where you left off.” Crouching, he secured the ribbon around the base of the railing with a perfect square knot. Pausing every few seconds to inspect his work, he wound the strip of cloth around the railing in that peculiar, extremely cautious way she’d seen men use when performing a task they considered “women’s work.”

Carly felt a rush of tenderness toward the battle-hardened warrior on his knees, several yards of bright yellow ribbon in his hands.

“Oh, Lord have mercy,” Gibbons wheezed at the sight of his captain decorating the wooden post, while Theo rolled along the railing, hiccuping and holding his sides.

Carly pressed one finger to her lips. “Hush.”

Gibbons waved feebly and coughed, and Theo tried to muffle his hiccups with both hands.

Andrew stood, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. Those adorable dimples of his never failed to send her resistance into a nosedive. “Finished, I believe. Do you agree, milady?”

“I honestly do. It looks great.”

He inclined his head slightly, cleared his throat, and drew himself up to his full height, something several inches over six feet. “My ship will be the laughingstock of the seven seas.”

“Laughingstock!” Carly aimed a playful punch at his stomach.

He caught her fist easily. With his other hand, he curled one finger under her chin. “I earned that remark, milady. ‘Those who help get to criticize.’ As I recall, those were your words, more or less.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before walking off, whistling one of the more popular chanties.

She touched the place where his warm finger had rested under her chin. “Something will have to be done about him,” she murmured.

“Milady, you’ve done a great deal of good already,” Gibbons said. “He may not know it yet, but his men do.”

“He says a king’s ransom couldn’t make up for the trouble I’ve caused him.” She shrugged. “The sourpuss does laugh more, though.”

“Aye, he does at that.” Gibbons flashed her a broad, white-toothed grin.

Carly settled to her knees. As she slid a length of ribbon from her shoulders, she hummed the tune Andrew had begun, some ditty about a wayward mermaid. Theo and Gibbons joined her. Within minutes, they were singing the bawdy song aloud.

The
Phoenix
spun in languid circles atop a glassy sea. Ribbons dangled from the railings and rigging, and near the bow, the men had strung lanterns.

Glad to leave the stifling cabin, Carly strolled outside toward the bow of the ship. The party was well underway. She leaned over the railing, propped her chin on her hands, and paused to absorb the tranquil peace of a tropical evening. The air was thick, primeval. Here, atop the earth’s equator, far from any rocky shore, the ship was nothing more than a speck on a vast sea. Gooseflesh raised on her arms. She savored the beauty of the ocean a while longer before leaving the stern.

Her skirt fluttered over her bare legs, brushing her ankles as she walked. She’d dried her hair in braids, creating a myriad of waves that hung to her waist. When she reached up to fluff her hair, one of her cap sleeves slipped down her shoulder. She tugged the sleeve higher, cursing the fact that no one had thought to invent elastic yet. What made it such a difficult concept? Her other sleeve sagged. She gave up, letting it fall. There wasn’t much to reveal anyway. She’d spent her teenage years wishing for cleavage, or at least enough on top to hold up a dress. Nevertheless, her body matured late. Not until her twenties had she developed a more womanly figure. Too bad her hips had outpaced her chest!

Food was a sore subject with Andrew these days. They’d gone past the six weeks he’d originally calculated it would take to reach the island. The winds had eluded them, he’d said, making the crossing unusually slow. It might take as long as another month to drift south to the trades. If supplies ran low, they’d be
forced to sail to a port on the African mainland to buy more beer, flour, and beef—further delaying their arrival home. Still, it gave her more time to figure out her options before she was forced to leave the
Phoenix
and the only people she knew in this century. Once the duke saw she was little more than a pauper, she figured he’d let her go. Yet, being flat broke in a strange century presented a problem all its own. Short of urging someone to invent an airplane she could fly, she’d be forced to earn her living from the most basic of skills—reading, writing, and sewing.

This evening, though, she promised herself she’d keep those worries shelved. It was time to taste the freedom she’d long denied herself. Tonight was more than a party. It was her personal celebration of life.

A gibbous moon rose opposite the setting sun, casting an otherworldly glow over the festive ship. With the bobbing lanterns and stars above adding their sparkle, it had the makings of a magical night. Her step quickened as she headed toward the sounds of laughter and music, and the smell of sweating bodies, tobacco, and grog.

The men clapped and cheered at her arrival. Only Black Beard and his cronies glowered at her.

She ignored them.

Since Booth had assaulted her, she had carefully avoided being alone on a deserted deck. She dodged him during the day, as well, to keep the extent of their mutual animosity from Andrew’s keen eyes.

“My queen,” Gibbons said. Dressed as Neptune for the night, he offered her his arm. Size alone was enough to make him appear regal, but with his cape of painted sailcloth, a cowhide belt with a buckle shaped like a sun, and the dented tin crown that sat atop his cottony hair, he looked like the genuine article.

“I do believe I am in the presence of King Neptune himself,” she said.

He eyed her in open appreciation. “You’re a sight for these old man’s eyes, if I may say so.”

Her cheeks warmed with his compliment. She searched the crowd for Andrew, half hoping that he’d look at her the way Gibbons had. Disappointment flickered when she saw he wasn’t there.

“After you, my queen.” Gibbons waved his hand above one of two roughly hewn thrones. “Let the celebration begin!” he bellowed when she sat.

Jonesy was playing the fiddle, singing as his friend blew into a short wooden tube that resembled a flute.

Carly tapped her foot to the jaunty tune. She was dying to dance with Andrew. Where was the man hiding?

“Sire, I should like the pleasure of a dance with your queen,” Cuddy asked Gibbons, dipping in a courtly bow.

“Aye. Permission granted.”

Cuddy offered her his arm. He wore a cropped royal blue jacket over a white shirt, spiced up by a jaunty crimson scarf tied around his neck. He led her to the center of a crowd of sailors, all of whom were drinking from tin cups filled with grog.

As Cuddy whirled her around in moves reminiscent of square dancing, Carly had little difficulty learning
the steps. “Have you seen the captain tonight?” she asked.

“Aye, on his way to his quarters to fetch a brandy. He doesn’t care much for grog.” Cuddy must have detected her disappointment, for he assured her, “He’ll be back.”

“Think he’ll mind if I ask him to dance?”

Cuddy laughed and spun her out to arms’ length before reeling her close. “I’d give a month’s wages to see you two dance. I told him so myself.”

“Way to go, Cuddy. Now I’ll have to drag him out here.”

“And I’ll give my next month’s wages to see ya do that.”

The song ended, and he returned her to the throne. Breathless, she accepted a goblet of diluted grog from Gibbons. She managed one swallow before Jonesy, the helmsman, approached her.

“May I have this dance?” the grizzled sailor asked.

“Why, certainly.” She hooked her arm under his. She was ready for some fun.

Freshly shaven, Andrew settled himself against a coil of rope, his bottle of brandy within easy reach. He had a clear view of the dance area but would not be easily seen from it.

Amanda had returned to dance with his helmsman. The dress she had donned completely altered her appearance, changing her from pretty sprite to alluring woman. He did not know which Amanda he preferred, and decided he liked them both. In his days as a young naval officer, and during that one season in London, he’d bedded his share of women—aristocrats, courtesans,
exotic foreign beauties. But none had so captivated him as this little spitfire.

Absently, he stroked the cool glass of the liquor bottle, watching Amanda as she laughed and danced with complete abandon. He felt a flash of envy. Her past was as unblemished as the future of comfort and riches that awaited her in England. True, she had not all her wits about her, but in a way, that protected her, making life nothing more than a game.

He pondered how his own life might have been different had he gone mad from grief rather than bearing its crushing weight after Richard had destroyed his family. Perhaps madness would have blunted the knifelike guilt that pierced Andrew still.

Suddenly cold, despite the tropical heat, he shuddered. No, madness would have done little. His mother and Jeremy were gone, innocents caught in a maelstrom of revenge. ’Twas a fact he would never be able to change. Only avenge.