The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,138

“I desire you to bless me with your opinion of our handiwork.”

Nathan pressed Samuels outside, and then stood back in anticipation. Samuels hesitated, raced several steps forward, and then slowed as he gaped at his ship. The Sybilla’sdeck and every soul present was now bright pink—red and white did indeed make a very festive color. The paint dripped from her scuppers like frosting on a French confection. The giggling from the Morgansers grew louder, amid the muffled thuds as they elbowed each other into silence.

Samuels whirled around. “You gallowsy, false-tongued bastard. We had a deal.”

“Which would have only held water until the next person slushed your palm. Don’t play righteous indignation with me. Mr. Towers?”

“Aye, sir! Solvents and paints taken n’ tossed, as desired, sir. ’Twill be hell to pay a-gettin’ it off,” he added, unable to curtail his smile.

A paint bucket, pink drooling from its lip, and a brush was delivered to Nathan’s outstretched hand. A piece of old canvas was used as a doormat for those pink-footed men, giddy as school children, returning from the Sibylla. Samuels was guided to it. With great care not to spatter, Nathan smeared the rigid Samuels with pink, from the brim of his cocked hat to his Hessian-booted toes. After a few flourishing strokes across the chest for a finish, Nathan dropped the brush into the bucket with two-fingered delicacy.

Grinning, he tossed the money bag to the sputtering Samuels. “Worth every farthing.”

Nathan took a step back, cautious of the wet paint. “I deserve a great thanks for saving your ass. How else are to return with credibility without some show of defeat? You’re the one what declared no quarter; wanted to blow me out of the water and take me head for the reward.”

His hands useless, Samuels strained blinked the paint from his eyes. Cate felt a wave of sympathy—albeit a small one—for it must have stung like hell.

“It’s not your head he desires,” Samuels sneered. “The prize is triple if you’re alive.”

Nathan doffed his hat and executed a sweeping bow. “Pray give me regards. Away with you now. Ta ta!” he called as Samuels stalked back to his ship.

A heavy thunk! of the boarding axes and the Sibylla was set free of her bonds. Uproarious laughter broke out from up and down the Morganse’s deck as the ship drifted away.

“You tormented the poor man,” Cate said to Nathan under the levity.

Nathan shrugged. “I gave him enough rope to hang himself. ’Twas not my fault that he took off running, figuratively speaking.”

“Setting fire to his britches wouldn’t have been your fault either, figuratively, that is.”

“Can’t help it if the man is oversensitive to heat.” Grinning, he strolled off.

Pryce came up next to her at the rail. He peered up at the red “No Quarter” flag at the Sibylla’s mainmast. “After havin’ that flashed in their face, many a captain woulda took their water and boats, an’ let ’em die a-drinkin’ their own piss. Others woulda unmanned ’em, cut out their tongues, or slit their eyelids and let the sun bake their eyeballs.”

Pryce ducked his head between his arms on the rail. The wide back convulsed under his shirt, and for the first time, she saw Pryce openly laugh.

“I’ll warrant this is a damned sight better,” he wheezed.

###

It came one night that the Morganse’s decks barely pitched, with only the faintest trace of foam streaming from her bow as it cut the water, “Bearing well on a port tack on a tops’l breeze,” as reported by Pryce.

There was a joyous mood aboard. Still in tearing spirits following their victory over the Sibylla—pink-tinged feet now a badge of honor—it had been another fortuitous day. The Morganse had come upon a sloop, riding low in the water, alone, “beggin’ fer the takin,’” declared Pryce.

“Flyin’ a Spanish flag,” Nathan had snorted, peering at it through his glass. “You’d have to be as stupid as a French fuddler to believe it.”

Surrendering at the mere sight of the famed pirate ship and her blood-crowned sails, the ship proved to be Dutch, according to her papers handed over by a profusely sweating master.

“Her guns had been tampioned so long, it would have required a bloody beaver to chew them out,” Nathan sniffed in disdain after.

“Aye, a pitiful example of seafarin’ she were,” Pryce nodded. “Near ancient, with twice-laid rigging and furry-bottomed . The guns were honeycombed and fit to blow up in the face of the first hen-hearted swab stupid enough to touch a match. Held together with nothin’