Page 5 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son (Brides of Chattan #3)

Chapter Four

T he air was brisk and bright on deck, a mixture of cool from the wind that filled their sails and warmth from the unrelenting sun. It would singe Maggie’s face to a cherry-red crisp and make her freckle something awful. A part of her old self still cared a little, wondering briefly if she could treat them with lime juice from the bumbo to make them lighten. But the new, adventurous Magnus laughed at this vain line of thinking. What would a whole face full of freckles matter amongst pirates? If anything, they might improve her disguise.

Pirates… she still wasn’t used to the idea, still couldn’t quite reconcile what she was learning with all she’d thought she knew. Now she had signed on as crew, agreeing to abide by their code: no stealing from each other, lights out at eight, no women, and no gambling allowed.

She flexed her hand and shifted uncomfortably on the wooden deck. Despite no actual smacks to her bare behind, after three days in the cramped hold, her bottom was sore anyway, and the thin linen trousers favored by sailors offered far less cushion than her skirts and earasaid had done.

The palm she’d offered up so Bash could make her cry still stung something fierce, her awkward grip on the heavy canvas exacerbating the chafe. Now the fingers of her other hand were beginning to cramp as she struggled to wield a thick sewing needle. She worked it back and forth to form a jagged scar across the sail resembling the one upon Bash’s cheek.

It had been the truth when she said her sewing wasn’t pretty. Despite years of tortured practice, her stitches always turned out rough and uneven. Her sister could embroider lovely designs in delicate silk. Even Jory, who claimed to eschew all of the feminine arts, could sew lace fine enough to reattach a butterfly wing. Not Maggie. She was impatient and impulsive, and besides that, her hands were simply too large for dainty work.

Her hands had been one of her husband’s chief complaints. Or at least one of his first.

She should have realized what was in store the moment Jeremiah tried to slip the wedding band on her finger and found it too small. Such anger had flashed in his eyes. Maggie had been a little embarrassed, but she didn’t blame him in the slightest. After all, her father had sprung the whole thing on her, and she supposed Jeremiah hadn’t had time to adequately prepare either. But when they visited a smithy to have the band resized, Jeremiah had snidely remarked that he hadn’t expected his young bride to possess such mannish hands.

A month later, he stumbled home from the tavern after ripping his shirt doing God knew what, and he threw it at her. “Time to do something useful with those idle meat hooks,” he’d grumbled. Her hands shook as she clumsily repaired the damaged garment. Such a small tear, but she’d wanted to please him, so she had labored over it by candlelight for more than an hour to get it just right.

In the morning he’d thrown the shirt into the fire.

Not to be outdone, Maggie had taken her sewing shears to the rest of his tops and cut gaping holes in the lot of them, tossing those bits in the fire as well. It had been war between them ever after.

Marriage means war , Jory liked to quote her mother’s favorite saying, and Maggie often wondered if she somehow inherited her particular character flaws from the auntie she’d never met and with whom she shared no blood. Because she supposed it had been a war of her own making. She’d always been that way—starving for someone to look after, impetuous and spiteful when her efforts were spurned. Hadn’t she spent half her life being a brat to Ellen and Jory because Ellen needed none but Jory, and Jory needed only herself?

Maggie had also spent most of her life dreaming of a handsome husband—one who couldn’t survive without her devotion, as well as the many children they would give each other. The reality of marriage and the truth of her auntie’s famous words had proved a crushing disappointment.

And yet… feisty Jory and meek Wee Ellen had somehow each found her perfect match.

Finlay Shaw was Jory’s fiercest supporter, teaching her to fight and proud of her independent nature. He also challenged her more than she allowed anyone else in all the world to do, pushing her to see every angle of a problem and solution.

Ellen’s Silas MacKenzie had a heart as big as he was, but one that needed both gentle nurturing and a firm push in equal measure. Somehow, they’d both seen the people inside the other’s skin, the perfect complement to the ones inside their own.

Both women had flourished in their partnerships with the two gorgeous men, made lighter by having someone to share their burdens, and that was it, wasn’t it? Theirs were partnerships.

For the past year, Maggie had tried to analyze what precisely went wrong in her own marriage. When exactly had it become doomed? Why was it the furthest thing from a partnership? Her conclusion, night after dismal night, was that she was what had gone wrong. She might wish to take care of those around her, but anyone could see she was incapable, and then she proved them right by hurting them over and over again.

Stabbing the needle through the stiff canvas sail as though it were a lance capable of vanquishing her dreary thoughts, she gouged the sharp steel into her thumb by mistake. Quickly, she sucked the sore finger, willing it not to bleed all over her work. The captain might not like that.

When she’d confessed to Lorna her desire to visit someplace warm, she had envisioned lying on her back in the soft sand, pondering the shapes of passing clouds. She really was a perfect fool, sneaking into a den of thieves in the dead of night. So far, she’d been very lucky, but what would happen if her luck ran out?

Nearby, the bell was rung six or seven times to signify the hour, and then a shadow fell across Maggie’s work. She examined her thumb for signs of blood, afraid to look up and see which rotten-toothed pirate was looming there. But then Bash squatted down before her, a bit of dark brown hair peeking from his open collar, thighs filling out his breeches, stretching them obscenely tight, as he studied her work up close. He smelled of tangy sea brine and citrus, and he placed a fresh tankard of spiced rum before her.

“Drink.”

When she reached for it, he caught her wrist, not hard, but firm enough to make a shiver run through her belly. This braw young man might be the stuff of her teenage daydreams, but she was there for adventure, not a dalliance. Besides, when had reality ever measured up to childish dreams?

“Did I not tell you to refill your cup?”

“I was busy,” she explained, lifting the sail and bracing herself for his stern critique.

“When did you last urinate?” he asked, and her eyes shot open wide at the blunt question. She also couldn’t remember, and he knew it. “Drink,” he said again, holding her gaze with such seriousness Maggie dared not refuse .

She gulped the foul-tasting stuff, and he nodded approvingly. She could almost hear the whispered, “Good girl,” from earlier and it made her tingle. Settle down.

“This is very well done,” he said, admiring the sail.

“Oh, stuff it,” she muttered before she realized his praise was genuine. “It’s not even straight,” she added.

“You’re not embroidering a tablecloth, darlin’. You’ve lined the edges up perfectly, and these stitches look tight and strong.”

He ran his fingers over her mending—long, fine fingers—and for half a moment, Maggie imagined him running those fingers down her torso, around the curve of her breast, and over her ribs. Settle down.

“Like scar tissue,” he murmured, with something akin to awe in his voice. “Stronger than even before it was torn.”

His praise made her glow with warmth from the inside out. Who’d have thought so many years of frustrating needlework would land her employment aboard a pirate ship?

“I did my best,” she explained.

“You’ve done fine work, Magnus. This’ll hold up well in the next storm.”

“The next one?” Her eyes snapped up to meet his. They were such a deep, dark brown, like the richest earth after a rain.

He grinned at her, a dimple showing its face just beneath the scar on his cheek. “There’s always a next one, darlin’.”

She frowned, and he shook his head, bemused.

“What did you expect when you ran away to sea?”

She glared up at him because a ferocious temper was her only possible weapon. Bash couldn’t be much older than she was, maybe two or three years at most, and yet he was wise to the ways of the world and thought her a foolish, silly little girl. And wasn’t she? Didn’t everyone think the same, except for the men on this ship who, for the time being, thought her a foolish, silly little boy? No one expected anything from her and never had, because she was flighty and dramatic. A nuisance .

And there he was, too handsome and bossy by half, with some kind of authority over men twice his age, the politics of which Maggie didn’t yet understand. She’d wager he didn’t need much looking after and wouldn’t take kindly to anyone’s efforts to try. Not that she was looking to try. She’d been down that road before. Foolish she may be, but she seldom made the same mistake twice.

Anyway, he’d found no fault with her stitching, and that was something.

He was still staring down at her with dark, volcanic eyes. It made her sweat more than the full force of the sun shining on her face, and she squirmed under the intensity of his glare.

“Something else?” she finally demanded when he didn’t look away.

He nodded at her half-finished tankard, and she rolled her eyes, tempted to slosh it back in his face. Except she still didn’t feel certain of the rules here, despite having signed a false name to them, and she had some inkling that such insubordination, at least if observed by others, would find her breeches around her ankles for a session with his strap, for real this time. Or perhaps not. He’d warned her the next time would be public, which would end the ruse for both of them, and besides all that, she really was thirsty—so thirsty she almost didn’t notice anymore.

Bash held her gaze, as though he could hear every immature thought tripping through her head, but he waited patiently to see what she would do. So she picked up the tankard and drained it to the last drop. He nodded, satisfied, and for some reason she longed to hear that whispered, Good girl again, as he took himself off up the prow.

Alone on the forecastle, Bash peered through his spyglass at the endless ocean waves, pretending to be busy so he wouldn’t be caught looking at her. They were far off course after the storm, and wasn’t that an apt summation of how he felt, from his head clear down to his groin, and she, the gusty wind that made him so.

After a time, Dutch joined him, and they stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the vast wide world. The ocean had always been their domain, his and Dutch’s, and Bash was reminded of the first of many thousand hours they had spent in just this way.

He, a boy of nine, had staked out this very spot, wondering whether anyone would care if a strong gust of wind tossed him overboard. When the tall West African had joined him, not uttering a word but simply taking up space alongside him, Bash had known the wind wouldn’t dare. Now an unusual tension separated them in a way it never once had done before.

Bash retracted his telescope and said, without turning, “You’re not usually one to hold back speaking your mind.”

Dutch stayed quiet a minute longer before replying, “Just wondering whether you’ve lost yours.”

“That’s more like it.” Bash grinned. As long as they could speak plainly, things would be all right.

“Your cabin boy, Bastian?” Dutch spat with disgust.

Or maybe not.

He fought to keep his face impassive. No one could read him like Dutch could.

“You know as well as I do what can happen to a lad who goes unclaimed.”

“That’s all it is?” Dutch’s voice softened.

“Aye, same as I should’ve done for Langley,” was all Bash dared reply lest some tell in his voice give him away.

“Langley wasn’t your fault,” Dutch argued, his voice tinged with the same guilt that chafed at Bash’s conscience, believing his own words as little as Bash did.

Well anyway, together they’d set things right for Langley once they realized he needed them to. They’d fed him up and taught him to fight. No one bothered Langley anymore, Bash had made certain of it.

Dutch cleared his throat. “None could blame you having needs, son,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Man wasn’t meant to be cooped up his whole life as you’ve been.”

“That’s all it is, Dutch.” Bash studied his feet. “Same as you and me,” he added softly. It wasn’t a lie. Sure, the girl was beautiful, but he was nothing if not disciplined, and he was determined to keep her safe.

“Good. Still, I’ll have a word with Mad when we reach Port Royal. He can’t object to your visiting a brothel or two.”

Bash snorted. “Too afraid I’ll find his missing gold up a whore’s?—”

Dutch cuffed him, and Bash shut his mouth immediately, not because the quartermaster outranked the sailing master, which he did, but because this quartermaster had a sixth sense Bash trusted with his life.

Sure enough, moments later the captain stepped around the mast to join them.

“Any sign of the Woebegone Whale ?” he asked, and Bash had to credit the man’s commitment to his own farce, but they were far enough off course it almost felt deliberate, and Bash meant to understand why.

He shook his head. “No sign of the Whale . This close to England, I’m more concerned about running afoul of the Pursuit. ”

Dutch glanced at him sharply. The navy was a legitimate concern, but mentioning it to the captain was tantamount to poking a bear.

Mad’s eyebrow twitched up and he tapped his spyglass two times against his thigh. Then his lips quirked into a jagged sneer. “Still the same frightened little rabbit, are you boy?”

“It’s His Majesty’s ocean,” Bash replied with a shrug.

Mad bared his teeth and laughed, but it sounded more like a hiss. “Exactly why the blue devil won’t be looking for us here. I haven’t dodged the bastard this long by playing it safe,” he boasted. “I mean to find the bilge-sucker Walsh.”

“And Walsh left word he was headed to the colonies, did he?” Bash countered. “I told you before, we’re too far off course. We’ll come to port in Boston at this rate.”

Mad cut his gaze to Dutch who simply shrugged.

“To be clear, I think New York or Boston could be extremely lucrative, but if Walsh is bound for warmer waters, then we’ve under corrected after the gale.” Bash said we , but they both knew he meant the captain had failed to follow his navigational advice.

“I’ve been sailing longer than you’ve been alive. Perhaps your compass is wrong.”

“The compass?”

Mad shrugged. “Many an inexperienced sailor lets his tools get tossed about on a choppy sea. Maybe you’ve lost true north.”

Bash sighed. ’Tis a poor worker blames his tools . His granda’s words echoed in his head like it was yesterday, making sure his grandson learned the lessons his firstborn had not.

“Shall I recharge it, sir?” Bash asked in a clipped tone.

Mad inclined his head ever so slightly, and Bash nodded once before striding away to retrieve the lodestone from his berth.

He stormed past Maggie, who glanced up at him with such a look of startled delight that he rather wished he could take her below with him, hang the captain, the navigation, his promise to Dutch, and everything else. He ignored the urge, ignored her completely along with his sudden erection, and counted to a hundred while focusing instead on cold wet sleeves, and cold, thin gruel, and the sear of the hangman’s noose.

Dutch had made himself scarce in the few minutes Bash was gone because nothing made the captain dig in his heels like having an audience.

“Will you do the honors, sir?” Bash asked, offering up both navigational tools, but Mad gestured for him to continue, as though the very suggestion were beneath him.

Bash showed the captain the current reading, then removed the compass needle and drew it across the lodestone. When he returned it to its casing the reading was exactly the same. They were sailing west-nor’-west even still.

The captain shrugged. “Perhaps your stone is faulty.” He’d never admit to an error. Either he would course correct for the Caribbean in secret, or they’d have the opportunity to harass the colonies after all. Bash didn’t particularly care either way, so long as there was a port and a ship headed back to the British coast with Maggie aboard.

“Before the earlier excitement,” the captain said, glancing at the girl as though reading Bash’s mind, then taking out his spyglass to scan the sea, “there were murmurs of a ship.”

Whispered rumors had reached Bash’s ears too, but he shook his head. “I’ve seen no sign of the Whale .”

“Not the Whale ,” Mad said, his eyebrow twitching up again as he stared down his crooked nose at Bash. “A converted galleon. Idle chatter, of course, but is that why you fear the Pursuit ?” He tapped the spyglass twice more against his thigh.

Bash pursed his lips to suppress a smile at the captain’s tell.

In truth, he’d only mentioned the navy to elicit a reaction. Because despite his best efforts not to surrender to paranoia, or maybe because of them, Bash had begun to wonder whether Captain Constantin was any threat at all or a mere figment, his aptly named Pursuit a ghost ship of Mad’s own conjuring. What better way for the captain to maintain order in lean, uncertain times than by uniting his band of thieves against a common foe?

Bash would rather believe it was a ghost ship. The vessel had pursued Mad across time and space in an effort to retrieve the very same gold he’d lost twenty years ago, and they’d been outrunning the ghost ever since. But even now, he couldn’t quite decide what was true.

Bash shrugged. “I’ve seen no ship.”

The captain stared hard, like he didn’t quite believe him, as though Bash weren’t painfully aware that capture by the Royal Navy would mean death for them all. A pirate was a pirate, regardless of rank, and the navy had a powerful appetite for seeing pirates dangle.

“Alert me at once if you do.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Mad turned away, hands clasped behind his back, and strode off as though he hadn’t a care in the world, but Bash knew better. The old man was cracking into pieces, and his single-minded pursuit of a hoard that only Dutch seemed to believe had ever existed would kill them all if the navy didn’t do it first.

When they finally docked at whatever harbor found them, Bash wouldn’t only have to book the girl passage back to Scotland. He needed to find a way off the ship for himself as well.