The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,233

gold or silver what some other poor slob found and hid to keep it safe from the next pirate what seeks that same treasure. And as soon as he finds it, he’s trying to hide it from the next.”

The Cap’n’s mouth took a sharp downward curve. “So, you’re saying, immediately upon finding said treasure,” he began slowly, “you’re invariably and inevitably cursed to a life of maintaining and securing its safety?”

“Aye. And, so long as it be treasure, yer forever to be lookin’ over yer shoulder, a-worryin’ about who is comin’ to take it.”

“But, she’s not a chest of Spanish coins, she’s…oh, I see…”

Leaning on the rail, the Cap’n buried his face in his hands. He rubbed hard and groaned. “Seems I’m doomed before I begin. So where might I put said treasure?” he asked tiredly, peering through his fingers.

“Dunno, Cap’n,” Pryce sighed. “Some treasures be more difficult to hide than t’others.”

###

"Is that the ship?” asked Cate.

“Good chance.” Thomas lifted the spyglass to his eye. “She’s the look of a merchant and flying Company colors.”

The next day had broken brightly, Cate waking shortly after first light.

Thomas’s bunk had proven to be far more pleasant than anticipated. His appreciation for finer things extended to sheets, and feather mattress and pillows, as opposed to the canvas, oakum-stuffed one on the Morganse. It had smelled of him: a male mixture of musty and sharp. It wasn’t offensive, in fact quite the contrary. Sleep hadn’t been long a stranger.

Worried for what the day might bring, Cate had bounded out of bed. She paced under Thomas’s mocking eye as the watch bell marked off the hours. Just past mid-afternoon, legs aching and back burning from being on her feet for so long, she heard the lookouts hail.

Thomas stood watching then closed the glass. “Mr. Al-Nejem!”

An Arabic man large enough to dwarf Thomas in both height and breadth loomed forward. “Aye, sir?”

Thomas lifted his face to the wind, and then gave the surrounding water a final look. “Prepare to make way. Hands to the t’gall’nts ’n’ royals. And hoist the colors. Let’s make sure they can’t miss us.”

Touching his fingers to his chest, and then lips, the First Mate bowed and left. In a burst of what might have been Arabic, the Griselle flashed out her canvas. The sails bellied and the deck became alive under Cate’s feet. A rousing cheer erupted. The flap of something other than canvas drew Cate’s attention to the Griselle’s tops, where a black banner had been unfurled. This one bore a scarlet heart speared by a cutlass held by an unseen hand. Perhaps it was the infectiousness of the enthusiastic joy of the Grisellers, but the sight of it sent a surge of pride through here, which tightened her throat and quickened her heart.

Shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, Cate could see the approaching ship, running with the wind, by the look of her staysails and studdingsails—yes, Nathan was a thorough master. She was learning, slower than he would have preferred, but learning. The flag at its mainmast was the same as she had seen her first day aboard the Morganse, on the privateer Nightingale. Nathan had ordered it to be burned. Seeing the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company’s blue and white stripes, with the Union Jack for a canton, now carried a whole new meaning.

As the race of the water at the Griselle’s sides increased, Cate looked again across the Straits, and the island where the Morganse laid. She longed to know what was happening there, but the headland blocked any view.

“Well, they made us,” Thomas announced, the glass to his eye. “They just fell off.” He gave a satisfied smile as he lowered his arms. “Luckily, these Straits are wide enough; they can pass without raking us, which means we won’t have to fire, either.”

“So, they think the Griselle is after them?”

Thomas nodded. “For now. That’s why they’re hugging the far shore, which puts them right in line with the spider.”

He swung the spyglass toward the island’s hidden bay. “Aye, I see ’er; the Morganse’s startin’ to make her move, t’gallants and royals a-flyin’. Nathan always was a flash with the canvas.”

Cate chewed the inside of her mouth. “He’s done this before?”

“Oh, aye. More times than one would care to think. For Ol’ Scupperbait, the challenge ’tis more the prize. How he loves to best somebody.”

“She’s opening her port lids, sir!” came the call from the masthead.

“Aye, a bluff; we’re out of range.” A smug smile was