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

Chapter Two

B oats and Maggie had never really been a good match. Two days after her wedding, she and Jeremiah had set sail from Inverness in a tiny boat, making their way up through the North Sea to the Orkney Islands. They were tossed about on choppy waves until Maggie was sick all over herself and vowed never to set foot on another such vessel for the rest of her natural life.

Over the course of two years and everything that followed, she had conveniently forgotten the horrors of boating in her hasty decision to stow away. She forgot right up until her next great adventure hauled anchor and sailed out into the rough open sea. Taking deep, soothing breaths as Jory had once taught her elder sister to do, memories of the Orkney crossing came flooding back, but Maggie consoled herself that the brigantine was much larger than the tiny fishing vessel which had carried her as a newlywed, and as soon as it broke free from the coastal tides, everything would settle down.

She could not have been more wrong.

The first day of sailing felt as turbulent as any she might have imagined, and soon they were beset by storms that made the ship creak and moan as though it were a man being pulled apart on a rack. Even deep within the dark heart of the ship, the cacophonous thunder seemed to echo all around her. She could feel it in her bones as though it vibrated the very ocean floor. Only the lightning was missing, for, hidden as she was, not a flicker could reach her. The disorienting lack of warning somehow made the thunder all the more terrifying.

Maggie heaved constantly into the straw she’d taken as a bed, though her stomach was long-past empty. Retching and snuffling, it was a wonder she’d not been discovered straight away, but the sailors were likely busy doing whatever sailors did in a storm to make sure the brigantine stayed afloat. At least she hoped that was what they were doing, as she relieved herself in a nearby corner, little better than an animal. She had certainly not thought this plan through any better than an animal, and perhaps worse, considering squirrels buried nuts and built nests.

Had she not been so weak and miserable, Maggie might have crawled out of her hiding place to gasp fresh, cool air and announce herself to her new traveling companions, but as it was, she couldn’t manage much more than dozing in a puddle of filth and misery.

She had no idea how long it lasted. Days? Weeks? Long enough that she was surprised when she realized the storm was finally over, and after noting her relief, she promptly fell back into a fitful sleep, battered by dreams of another storm and Jeremiah climbing up onto the leaking thatch roof.

Sometime later, she was awakened by a rough stroking of her hand. She blinked in the darkness, jerking her arm away when she realized the wet smacking sound meant some creature was licking her. She shuddered. What sort of diseases could a person contract from being licked by a rodent? Had Jory ever mentioned such a thing? And was it licking her in preparation for biting?

Two golden eyes turned to look at her as though insulted by the question, and she skittered deeper into her corner, cracking her head against timber before she realized it was only the same cat who had led her to this hiding place.

“Custard,” she croaked, reaching out to pet it, her throat as dry as sand.

The cat rubbed its whiskers against her hand, licking her thumb once more for good measure.

“How’s your adventure going?” Maggie asked, scratching under Custard’s chin.

In response, its golden eyes turned away, and in the darkness, she could just make out its shadowy form disappearing.

Were they far enough from Scotland that the captain wouldn’t turn around and drop her on the nearest Hebridean beach? She drew her earasaid closer around her arms. How long until they reached someplace warm?

Her stomach growled plaintively and she sucked on a dried strawberry, but it didn’t make her mouth water as it should. It was all she could do to chew it up and choke it down. Soon her meager provisions would run out and she’d be forced to show herself. Would these merchant marines begrudge sharing their portions with her? Would they accept what little money she’d brought as compensation?

She refused to give in and call the anxiety which gripped her throat and hammered her chest regret . She was having an adventure, and she was going to enjoy it, damn it. Perhaps she should remain hiding—slip out to find something edible and potable in the dead of night, though how she’d know if it was day or night in this cave of perpetual shadow, she was uncertain.

That was a problem for later. At the moment, she felt far too weak to stand, let alone scavenge, and was more inclined to go back to sleep. Then she heard footsteps shuffling towards her, and she froze, not yet ready to be discovered.

When Custard reappeared, popping out from behind a stack of crates with a “Mrow?” Maggie released her breath, perplexed by how one small cat could make so much noise .

A larger figured stepped out to join the cat.

Maggie gasped and shrank back into the hull, knocking her head hard enough to see flashes like a meadow filled with fireflies.

The newcomer wore a loose white shirt with a darker colored waistcoat. He stood a good few inches taller than Maggie, with a thick, muscular neck and arms, and a patch flipped up above his left eye.

“What in God’s name have you done?” he whispered, as though she were guilty of more than poor judgment and profuse vomiting, which couldn’t possibly account for the full range of stench pervading the cargo hold. There was something distinctly bovine about the smell, and no matter how filthy, Maggie hoped she wasn’t capable of smelling like a stable.

“Nothing,” she rasped back, her hackles rising.

Not enjoying the way he towered over her, Maggie pushed herself up the wall to standing, though her legs felt weak and wobbly, and her head began to swim.

He glared at her even harder, now she was close to his eye level, and she scowled right back at him because squinting made her feel less like collapsing.

Then a flickering light appeared behind the man, and her eyes watered from the sudden brightness, while the man’s face turned absolutely thunderous.

“Well, well, well,” a weaselly voice sang, as an equally weaselly little sailor with white skin and wispy white hair limped out from behind another crate holding a candle lantern. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” he clucked his tongue. “What do we have here?” he asked in a gleeful tone that made the hairs on Maggie’s arm stand.

The first man turned his head only slightly towards the second and sounded almost sad as he answered, “Stowaway.”

The older man took out a long pipe and tucked it between his teeth unlit, looking slyly at his younger companion. “Just found her down here, did you, Bashy?” he asked, his words tinged with an accent Maggie didn’t recognize .

“Aye, just now, same as you,” the young man rumbled. “?’Twas Mouser found her first.”

“Sure and you didn’t help her aboard?”

“Of course not, Rooijakkers.”

The second man spoke around his pipe once more. “Well, come on, then. Best take her up top. Mad’ll be none too pleased.”

“Aye.”

Even as a little child, few things aggravated Maggie more than being spoken about like she wasn’t standing right there, and she would have told off both men properly, if she weren’t half so fatigued. And perhaps a touch nervous. She hadn’t expected her hosts to be overjoyed by her presence, but the way the young man kept glancing between her and his companion, along with the fact she was being taken to someone called Mad, made her insides as much like jelly as her knees.

“You coming, or shall I carry you?” the older man asked her, leering over his shoulder, but the first held out an arm to usher her forward almost like a gentleman—albeit a sullen one. When she brushed past him, he stiffened as though she were covered in nettles, but he followed close behind, scandalously close, as they ascended the ladder. And a good thing, too, for she hadn’t found her sea legs yet and she took several missteps, grateful to have his solid form behind her to break a fall. He kept his hands at her hips to steady her, all propriety left behind on the Orkney shore. There was no room for propriety on an adventure, she reminded herself.

Once on deck, she shut her eyes tight against the blinding sunlight and gasped in great lungfuls of the crisp, ocean air, tangy with brine, as she reached for the nearest solid object she could lean against, a mast pole. His left eye now covered by the leather patch, the young man guided her with a firm grip on her upper arm to the far railing where she could lean casually, or vomit over the side, should such a need arise.

The sailor who had climbed up ahead of Maggie roused the other men, directing their attention towards her until she had quite a crowd gawking. Turning away from the hungry, leering faces, she blinked in awe at the square sails hanging limp and torn after the storm.

“What’s all this?” The deep, bassy murmur came from a tall, black man. He stepped close to her, but her young captor just shook his head once and peered sternly down at Maggie.

“Nav?” another sailor asked, coming out of the crowd to scan Maggie with warm, curious eyes. This one was as white and fair as Maggie’s sister Ellen, or would have been if he wasn’t burned to a crispy, painful-looking red. No wonder their mother always fussed about bonnets.

She’d never seen so many varied faces or heard so many differently accented words in her life. As the men drew closer, she suddenly realized quite how foolishly precarious her situation was, and this time she felt only gratitude when the young man who had discovered her moved between her and the rest of the men.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered for her ears only.

The crowd parted as a tall gentleman who could only be the captain strode forward. He wore an impressive tricorne hat of brown leather, a gold earring, and a long, black coat with a row of brass buttons. His mouth curved ever so slightly on the left side as he studied her from top to bottom and Maggie shivered, shrinking back against the railing.

What did you think was going to happen? She could hear her cousin’s words, spoken in exasperation each time one of Maggie’s impulsive notions had resulted in a cut lip or scraped knee, only this time Jory wasn’t there to take care of her. Maggie was very much alone.

Bugger bugger bugger. When Bash had first discovered the girl hiding amongst the cargo, he tried to convince himself she was a ghost. He’d heard tales aplenty of apparitions, despite never seeing one himself. Eyeless, mouthless bastards were supposedly condemned to wander the lonely seas after having been murdered. Women, green with algae, were said to scream their misery in the dead of night.

The girl was certainly pale enough, though he’d never heard of ships acquiring new hauntings after decades at sea, nor to his knowledge had there ever been a living woman aboard the Revenge . And while she looked a bit unkempt and sickly, there was nothing of the tormented soul in her lovely face. No, for now she was very much alive, more’s the pity.

As they had stared at each other for that split second before the bloody Dutchman interrupted them, his mind flew through possible courses of action that wouldn’t result in either of them being keelhauled, a way to hide her until he could put her on a bloody boat back to bloody Scotland. Then the damn cook sidled up like he’d known she was there all along and was just waiting for someone else to find her so he wouldn’t get the blame.

Now the vultures were circling, and it would be a miracle if Bash could save either of their skins.

“A woman,” the captain said, stepping up to examine her, his lips curving into a wolfish smirk. With one long finger he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Where did you come from?”

“Inverness,” she said in a husky whisper. “By way of Orkney, sir.” At least the silly girl recognized the captain’s authority.

In the sunlight, it was plain her lips were dry and cracking, her eyes a bit sunken. Had she drunk a drop since coming aboard? She must be dangerously thirsty.

“Inverness by way of Orkney,” Mad repeated, stepping back from her a pace. “Welcome aboard Auldfarrand’s Revenge , madam,” he added, gesturing around them .

She blinked back at him. Bash could almost see her mind working as she realized it was no ordinary merchant ship, not with a name like Revenge . She licked those poor parched lips, while the captain scrutinized his pirate crew.

“Who brought a woman aboard my ship?” Mad demanded, his voice soft but cold as chert.

The men looked from one to another suspiciously, but none came forward.

“Who?” Mad yelled, and the girl flinched but lifted her chin defiantly.

“No one,” she answered, but the captain ignored her.

“Was it you, Langley?” he asked the youngest lad, a lanky, sunburned boy of seventeen. “I’ll bet you like them young and pretty.”

Young Langley shook his head. “No, sir, Cap.”

“Duffy?” Mad barked, and the next youngest, a ginger sailor with gangly limbs and a beaklike nose, snapped to attention, shaking his head. “Roo?” Mad asked the cook. “You’re down in the hold more than anyone else. What say you?”

Rooijakkers shifted his weight from foot to foot, no longer so eager to expose the girl now Mad’s suspicions rested on him. “Well, now I?—”

“Roo?”

“It were Bash with her down below when I spied ’em just now,” the damn cook offered, casting a shrug Bash’s way.

Mad turned back to Bash with a delighted sneer. “You brought a woman onto my ship?” The surprise in his voice didn’t quite mask a note of something like pride.

Bash stared straight ahead and didn’t answer. There’d be no winning anyhow. The captain wanted it to be him, and maybe if he drew Mad’s wrath he could at least protect the girl.

“The cat,” Mad ordered without taking his eyes off Bash. And he didn’t mean the mangy mouser which had led Bash right into this godforsaken trap in the first place. So much for good luck .

His bowels twisted, his palms beginning to sweat, but Bash would be damned if he let any of them see it.

“Captain, you know it wasn’t him,” Dutch argued in his placid, even way. “He’s not allowed ashore. Where would he find a girl to smuggle aboard?”

Mad cut his gaze to the quartermaster. “Perhaps he’s disobeyed more than one order,” he hissed. “Bring me the cat o’ nine tails.”

Dutch glanced sideways, but when Bash didn’t protest or even acknowledge him, he stepped away to retrieve the dreaded sack while Mad continued his grandstanding.

“You see, madam, there are rules on my ship. Forty lashes,” he reminded Dutch when the quartermaster removed the blood-stained whip from its bag. Thirty-nine may be customary, but Mad always liked to go that one extra.

Bash removed his waistcoat and shirt, then stepped towards the post, extending his wrists for binding. He reached for a faraway place in his mind, but the imprint of the girl upon his senses made the fog difficult to access. She gasped when she saw the nine-tailed whip, and likely the scars adorning his skin. He willed her to shut up and turn away until the business was over.

Instead she exclaimed, “Wait!”

“You may not have known the rules, madam, but Bash most certainly did,” the captain advised her.

“But he didn’t bring me aboard,” she argued in that surprisingly low, raspy, lilting voice of hers, unable, it seemed, to simply hold her tongue.

“Who did then, miss?” Dutch asked her.

“No one. I brought my own self. So if anyone’s to be whipped, I suppose”—her words wavered—“I suppose it should be me.”

Christ.

Bash closed his eyes as a rumbling murmur went up from the gathered men, and Dutch stood frozen, unsure what to do .

Bloody foolish girl, playing games with her life and she didn’t even know it.

“Seems reasonable,” Dutch murmured to the captain.

After decades sailing under Mad, the quartermaster was skilled at whipping so as to inflict the least damage possible. He wouldn’t kill her, but it would be a torture right enough, for her and for anyone decent who watched.

“Shall we vote?” Dutch called to the rest, before Mad could order elsewise.

Bash hazarded a glance around at the crew, all of them nodding and shouting their approval. Even the most bloodthirsty, eager as they were to see him thrashed, would rather see the girl stripped bare for whipping and nodded their eager assent.

“Fine,” Mad agreed, and the girl nodded, though her face was all scrunched up with worry, and even more pale than before.

Dutch waved her forward, and Bash slipped his shirt back on.

“No.” Mad held a palm out towards Dutch, whose eyes widened, but he handed over the cat, unwilling to openly defy the captain.

Bash froze. If Mad meant to do it himself… but then the captain gleefully shoved the whip at Bash. “You found her. You do it.”

“?’Tis the job of the quartermaster, not the sailing master,” Bash protested, but his words were drowned out by the cheering of the horde, and the captain pressed the whip into his hands. There would be no getting out of it. Mad would torment him one way or the other. He knew whipping the girl himself would be worse than having Bash’s own back flayed open yet again.

Mad tilted his head and growled, “You or me, boy,” forcing Bash to take the whip.

He hated touching the thing. It was all he could do not to drop it on the deck like it was on fire. He glanced at Dutch for guidance, and the quartermaster’s eyes darted toward the ladder and the deck below. It might work. Anyway, what was there to lose?

“Fine,” Bash said, thinking quickly. “But she’s a lady, not some common whore. I’ll not do it up here.” And before there could be any argument, he grabbed her roughly above the elbow and shoved her towards the hatch, weaving through the men who hooted and hollered and refused to step out of their way, each one salivating for a chance at a poke, as they realized they were being deprived of the best entertainment they were likely to get all year.

Bash stared them down one by one as he forced his way through. With his lips so close they brushed the soft shell of her ear, he whispered, “Don’t try to run. Do exactly as I say. You’ve no idea how much danger you’re in. Bloody fool.”

He hadn’t meant to say the last part out loud, squeezing her arm a little as he murmured it. The girl shot him an angry look, but she scrambled down the ladder and waited for him at the bottom, glancing nervously at the cat o’ nine tails still clenched in his fist. Not pausing to flip the patch off his left eye so he could better see her in the dim light, he took her arm once again to guide her away from the leering sailors above.

Not yet accustomed to the sway of the ship, she tripped along the narrow passage to the almost-private alcove where he hung his hammock, and he shoved her inside, releasing her arm to draw the curtain closed.

The two of them certainly filled up the tiny space in an intoxicating sort of way. Even the ceiling seemed suddenly too low, though there was normally space aplenty.

“Don’t say a word,” he breathed harshly when she opened her mouth, and jerked his head to remind her of their audience. At best, the men would be crowded around the hatch to hear her screams.

She snapped her lips closed and then opened them again and drew a breath.

“Not a word,” he whispered once more, close enough to take in the heady scent of her hair, then he stepped back, putting some distance between them.

How in Christ’s name did he end up here? The whipping wouldn’t be the end of it. She was a woman, after all. Mad wouldn’t keep her aboard. If she wasn’t a specter when he’d found her, she’d be one soon enough, haunting him and the Revenge until their final days, more efficiently than the navy had ever done. Even if it wasn’t by Bash’s own hand, the stain of her death would forever taint his soul for having found her and failing to prevent it. What the hell was he going to do?