Page 18 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son (Brides of Chattan #3)

Chapter Seventeen

B ash left Maggie to keep an eye on the approaching vessel while he shimmied down the rigging to alert the other lookouts. Within minutes, the sails were turned into the wind, and oars were manned to speed up their escape.

The bells were not rung to change the watch, and no one came to relieve her, so she stared into the distance until her eyes burned, until she had to blink to keep from seeing double, as the naval ship slipped further and further behind them. When dawn came, she could see nothing at all in their wake.

Finally, Langley arrived for the forenoon watch a little after eight and greeted Maggie with a serious nod. “Nav says it were you spied the devil out there. Well done, Magnus. Go and have a rest.”

“What’ll happen if they catch us?” she asked, to which Langley gave a studied shrug and extended his spyglass. “I mean,” Maggie pressed, “will they fire on us? Or will they wish to take the ship in one piece?”

What she meant was, destroy us or take us alive, so they can execute us one by one ?

“Nav won’t let it happen, don’t you worry,” Langley assured her, but he refused to meet her gaze.

Maggie squeezed his shoulder and then clumsily descended the rigging and stumbled below deck. She wasn’t surprised to find Bash’s quarters empty but for Kes, who squawked a greeting. Maggie tossed the bird a bite of beef before collapsing into the hammock and falling instantly to sleep.

She awoke sometime later, disoriented and thirsty, so she crept to the galley where Roo was clearing up.

“Beans is all,” he said, and she nodded while he dished out a bit of what he’d just packed away. Then from a chest he took a small wheel of cheese. “Isn’t aged long enough, but as you saved Bashy, enjoy.”

“Cheese?” she asked excitedly, almost unable to believe her eyes.

“Cheese, pah!” Roo scoffed. “Not just cheese. Dutch gouda!”

“Thank you,” she said, her mouth practically watering.

Roo shrugged. “Makes the beans almost palatable,” he said, but she knew a gift when she saw one, and she took a tiny taste of her prize. It was a sweet, nutty heaven.

She carried her dinner and a tankard of ale back to the alcove, where Kes squawked even after Maggie fed her more beef. Clearly the bird wanted cheese too. “Sorry, beautiful. Birds can’t eat Dutch gouda,” she lied, keeping every morsel for herself, nibbling it like a mouse to make it last longer.

When she finished eating and Bash still hadn’t returned, she sought him out on deck, looking for a job she could do, but the consensus seemed to be that she’d earned her rest and wasn’t needed.

“Honest, Magnus, double watch calls for double rest. If anyone’s earned it, that’s you,” Langley said, shooing her back to her hammock, but the truth was, below deck she was about to start climbing the walls. Visions of the navy plagued her every thought, of the captain striding aboard, sword in hand, and hacking off Bash’s other ear. If the navy did indeed come aboard, there was probably not a single thing she could do to save him, but she wanted to be near enough to try.

Last night on the platform hidden away in the top of the rigging had been… transformative. Blanketed only by the magnificent starry sky, Bash had filled her so fully she would never be empty again, sealing cracks she’d long forgotten were there, healing wounds she had no longer believed could be made whole. She began to tingle just recalling it. His every touch was gentle and calculated for her pleasure, tinged with barely restrained passion and hunger and need.

She flushed and shivered all at the same time. Last night had been everything her younger self once imagined, and yet, like nothing she’d ever dared to dream.

It consumed her, even now, though their lives were, if not quite in mortal peril yet, then certainly peril adjacent.

If Jeremiah were watching up from his grave, he must surely feel vindicated for all the times he blamed her frigidness on whoring with other men, using up her lust to cuckold him, like lust was an expendable resource.

She knew better now.

Bash had unlocked something in her which had been hidden away, something Jeremiah had never reached. But Jeremiah was gone, and she wasn’t wicked. How could she be, when she loved Bash so very deeply?

If only she could think of some way to show him as much. If only she could be useful to him, now when he needed it most.

But that was ever the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t helpful to need to be told what to do. Ellen and Jory were so very good precisely because they didn’t need to be told. They put themselves to work, carving out spaces, forging paths all on their own. Bash didn’t have time to educate a silly stowaway on what needed doing. He needed her to help intuitively or stay out of his way .

It had been high on the list of Jeremiah’s many complaints, too.

Maggie’s nature was to daydream. She could lose herself for hours, not even noticing her own hunger or a chill from the fire burning itself out.

In Jeremiah’s mind, her failure to anticipate and wash his shirts before he noticed he’d run out was purely spite on Maggie’s part, to punish him for some perceived slight. If he had to remind her, it was somehow as bad as having to do the chore himself. He’d rather rail at her and wear a dirty sark than tell her he’d donned the last clean one.

Never mind she didn’t particularly love him, and he knew it. If she was distant, he would accuse her of being cold and heartless, deserting her wifely duties. If she tried to summon the energy to shower him with affection, he would push her away, annoyed by her clinging suffocation.

Maggie had always found it better to be perceived as apathetic than to suffer the shame of rejection for being needy. Even now, that fear kept her below deck where she couldn’t make a nuisance of herself. Because she was needy.

Bad enough that before last night, their interactions had all been one-sided. He’d given so much, and like a glutton Maggie had allowed herself to take and take and take, indulging in her own pleasure and never providing his in return.

Was that simply who she was—who she’d always been? Yet another character flaw she was only now seeing clearly?

It put her in mind of Ellen and all her sister had done for her growing up, all that Maggie had allowed her to do. Suddenly homesick and guilt-stricken, she busied herself writing a letter to slip inside a bottle in case the navy caught them and they should all be drowned. Or hanged. Or worse.

Addressing it to Lady Len MacKenzie of Castle Leod, Ross, she apologized for every cruel poke she’d ever inflicted as a child, and thanked Ellen for being the very best of sisters. She explained why she’d run from Orkney, her regret for any worry she’d caused. She described the wonders she’d seen, the thrill of climbing the tops and trying to count the endless stars. And then she wrote of Kes and Custard, of Langley who’d become like a little brother, of Roo’s cheese, and of saving Bash’s ear.

And Bash.

She confessed to her big sister that she’d fallen in love.

And then she sealed it up like a secret in an empty bottle from the galley, tight so the tide wouldn’t seep in, and she crept back onto the deck and cast it out into the sea.

Throughout the day and into the night, the crew of Auldfarrand’s Revenge worked tirelessly to put a great deal of distance between themselves and the naval ship. Though he didn’t allow her close enough to know for certain, Bash believed her to be the Pursuit . She flew a red duster, unmistakable as the standard of the British Caribbean fleet, and that was enough to convince him.

The christening of HMS Pursuit might’ve been irony, unless the ship was actually named for them as they liked to joke it was. Sometimes Bash wondered if they’d rechristen her the Victory once Auldfarrand’s pirates were all finally dead.

Their course would have taken them between Saint-Domingue and Santiago de Cuba, but in trying to outrun fate, Bash had tacked north. Now he intended to shoot around Nassau and skirt the Spanish coast of Florida . From there, it would be easy to hide out and bide their time in the Dry Tortugas. At least they could dine on turtle. Most importantly, the Pursuit should not expect such a move.

The only drawback to this plan was the added delay in sending Maggie straight back across the ocean. Every moment they tarried brought her one step closer to the danger Bash and his companions flirted with daily. But he could only manage one crisis at a time.

If they were finally unlucky enough to be caught, Bash would claim he had kidnapped her and kept her as his concubine. But he would do everything in his power not to come to last resorts. It was like a hand of Ruff and a sailor’s jig, this game he played with the navy man. He had to wager everything on the Tortugas keeping them safe until they could dance their way back to Kingsport.

Dance a waltz, then dance again…

Beyond exhausted, he was hearing his mother’s favorite song on the wind, almost like a message.

Dancing was exactly what Maggie should be doing—waltzing alongside hordes of polite admirers. She should be in ballrooms filled with naval officers in pursuit of courtship, not here with the likes of him, who could offer her nothing but heartache, an empty belly, and an ocean of naval ships in pursuit of their destruction.

Too tired to risk falling asleep standing-up or climbing the taller mast which would forever remind him of his and Maggie’s lovemaking, he tethered himself to the foremast, so he might continue his vigil for the return of Constantin’s ship.

Bash couldn’t be near her right now. To go near Maggie was to want her, and wanting her was a distraction he couldn’t possibly afford. He needed to save her, not maul her. Like his mother, she deserved so much more than a grizzled pirate lover full of sweet words and empty pockets.

Hear the bells but not the sea…

That was another line of his mother’s song. It came rushing back to him as the bells were rung for shift change, but Bash had nowhere else to go, so he sent Samson away when the young man tried to relieve him. Besides—he needed to be right here in case the ship turned up again, as it had briefly done in the noon hour. They had doubled the men at the oars after that. Everyone was all used up.

The scratching sound of ropes on wood alerted him to someone’s approach, and soon Dutch heaved himself onto the platform and stared down at Bash, hands on his hips.

“You’re no good to anyone dead, son.”

“As you can see, I’m not dead.”

Dutch sighed and squatted down beside him, noting the rope he’d secured himself with. “Really?” Dutch asked. “How many fingers?”

Bash blinked, counting six swimming before his eyes.

“How many shifts have you been up here?”

“Just one, I’m sure.”

“Four.”

Bash refused to look at his friend. “If I go to sleep and the Pursuit returns?—”

“She’ll return whether you’re asleep or awake, and when she does, you’d best be in top form. You think Mad’s going to figure a way out of this on his own?”

Bash laughed. They were out of food. Hadn’t slept in days. Even their top form would be no match for the Royal Navy.

How many times had he played out this exact scenario as a lad? He’d line up his laundry peg sailors and let them blow the corsairs to smithereens, taking no prisoners. The navy of his youth were the good guys, and the bad guys didn’t deserve to win. It was only adulthood putting him on the wrong side of things.

“What’s on your mind?” Dutch asked.

Bash swallowed. “I fear for the crew.”

“All the crew? Or one in particular?”

Bash turned away, his breath speeding up as he scanned the ocean.

“We’ve been in tough spots before, had to outsmart and outrun the Pursuit more than once. You’ve always kept a cool head and trusted us to wake you if the situation changed.”

Blast the man for being right.

“You cannot protect anyone if you’re not rested.”

He couldn’t go to her, either, for his own sake as much as hers. He’d already broken his promise to back off and not take things further, scaled that fortress as easily as the rigging. Normally the most disciplined of men, around her he lost his self-control. He lost all sense of self entirely and became nothing but consciousness entangled in her scent.

He couldn’t trust himself to be alone with her, but especially not now, when danger was courting their every move. If the Pursuit snuck up on them because he was below deck drowning in the swirls and eddies of her eyes, he could never forgive himself—though it likely wouldn’t be a long period of loathing before he was dancing on the coals of hell.

But what would become of her? Mad would never let the ship be taken. He’d sooner send Auldfarrand’s Revenge to the bottom of the ocean along with every soul aboard. His only chance to save Maggie was to outrun the navy long enough to see her safely ashore.

Except this time, he couldn’t seem to shake Constantin.

The hunter was too wily, as though all the times they’d outwitted him before hadn’t been skill or luck, but a trick to build false confidence, as though they’d only escaped because the Pursuit had allowed them to. He was beginning to sound like Mad. Was the chase all in Bash’s own head this time? Had love turned him paranoid and delusional?

Love . Christ. How had that happened? And yet what else would you call it when another living being consumed your every thought and hope and desire? After all, the navy didn’t have him worried for his own sake, but for Maggie’s.

“The Pursuit ,” he said finally, looking Dutch dead in the eye. “ Others have seen it too, have they not?” The unasked question lay between them. I’m not being driven mad by this like my sire?

Dutch nodded slowly. “I was too hard on you before… about… Magnus.”

Bash shook his head. “You were absolutely right.”

He could feel Dutch’s brown eyes watching him, burrowing under his skin to the very marrow of his soul.

“When you were injured… well, it’s not one-sided. You know this?”

Bash tried to shrug off the implication. “Loyalty. Nothing more.” It was entirely one-sided, this pull he felt towards Maggie. It had to be, else how could he possibly let her go?

“No,” Dutch argued. “Not nothing. My concern was honest, but I can admit I was wrong to cast stones.”

“Doesn’t matter. This is no kind of life.”

“Then choose another, son,” Dutch said with an earnest sort of desperation Bash had never heard from him before.

Bash turned what must be a pathetic look on his friend, but something on the horizon caught his attention. “Damn.”

“My wisdom has that effect on occasion,” Dutch teased.

“He’s caught up to us again. Constantin is determined to have the Revenge for dinner. How can he match our speed?”

“Perhaps God is on his side.”

“If we can just make it to the islands, we’ll stand a chance.” Bash jumped up to shimmy down the rigging, but his tether yanked him back, cracking his tailbone against the platform.

Dutch gave him a look.

“I was testing it,” he lied.

“You are testing me. If you will not sleep in your own berth, then you’ll sleep in mine. Give your orders for the new course and then put yourself to bed, or I will put you there. If you continue to bury yourself in work, son, then you’ll bury us all.”

Bury not my body there, in earth too rich and scented air .

He blinked at Dutch, and then climbed down to relay his orders.

Instead of cutting between Nassau and Freeport, they would head north around Freeport. Then they could follow the Florida coast and turn sharply south, weaving amongst the low islands and reefs on their way to the Dry Tortugas. A shiver of dread reminded Bash that de Leon had named those islands Los Martires, The Martyrs, for a reason.

“Row through the night,” he told the men. “And into the morning. Thirty minutes on, one hour off.” None dared to risk his neck in protest.

Bash slept but little in Dutch’s hammock, and when Langley came to wake him, it was because they’d still not managed to shake the Pursuit .

So he took the helm alongside the captain, and as they’d done many a time, they darted around the inlets and islands scattered along the New World coastline until at last there was no sign of their pursuer.

Mad’s usual smirk was long gone as he simmered with rage at the naval captain who dared give such chase, yelling at every man who entered his sightline, ready to tear Bash limb from limb. And when at last they sailed around a reef into the protective archipelago, only to find the Pursuit there waiting for them, he howled, “It can only be Constantin! Now what, boy?” he demanded between clenched teeth, shoving Bash back against the mast, though Bash was his equal in height now he was grown.

There was a time, even into adulthood, when Bash would’ve shrunk from the captain’s rage to placate him, but somewhere over the last few months he’d decided to stand his ground.

“Galleon Harbor,” he said. “With any luck, they’ll think we’ve made for Port Royal. It will buy us some time at least.”

And at this point, time was all he could hope for, just enough time to smuggle Maggie off one ship and onto another.

Mad nodded curtly and stormed off the bridge, cuffing Duffy on the side of the head when the lad got in his way and shoving Roo into the Butcher when the cook tried to offer him an ale.

“Get us out of here, boy,” he roared down the deck. “Give those bastards the slip once and for all before I throw you overboard and find someone who can.”