The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,275

play this out and see who the true prevaricator is, eh?”

Cate settled back in her place between them to watch as a new game developed: the My-Turn-to-Move-Three-of-Your-Pieces version. It included the If-You-Can-Move-Mine-I-Can-Move-Yours rule, which led to the Punch-You-So-I-Can-Move-Your-Man-While-You-Recover method. Oddly, that particular game ended in an impasse. Swearing heartily, the board was wiped clear and they began anew.

As the hour grew late, the game settled into something more familiar, with long, pensive stretches between moves, murmurs of admiration and soft rumble of male laughter. A bottle of brandy appeared and they shared, regularly toasting each other for a number of reasons.

A moving shadow and stirring of air marked Artemis’ passing. Swooping low, she roosted in a nearby tree to blandly observe humanity. Altogether uninteresting by owl standards, she swooped off into the island’s interior. Later she returned, dipping low over the fires to show off the fruits of her labors: a large rodent dangling from her claws.

Sometime later, footsteps approached with a speed and suddenness that launched Nathan to his feet. His sword drawn and Cate shoved behind him, before he realized it was only Prudence’s lad, Biggins.

He drew up before Nathan, fists curled at his sides. “I challenge you…sir!”

Sword forgotten in his hand, Nathan gaped. “Me?! What the bloody hell? Did you put him up to this?” he cried, whirling around on Thomas.

“No.” Chin still propped in his hand, Thomas looked on benignly. On closer inspection, he was visibly struggling to keep a straight face. “I wish I had, but…”

The lad swayed slightly. His eyes focused on Nathan with considerable effort. “I challenge you, sir,” he cried in a quavering voice. It was unclear if it the thin voice was the product of fear, drink, or youth.

Cate had learned much in the way of the pirate way of life, but on the matter of dueling she was woefully uninformed. The first question that came to mind was “Were there were any rules at all?” Was there such a thing among a lot who fancied themselves beyond rules? It stretched credulity to image two pirates squaring off at 20 paces and firing. One just outright killing the other in a brawl seemed more likely. “To the death” echoed in her mind, but in what context was lost. Observing the puzzled reaction of the gathering onlookers, it appeared that either rules did exist and Biggins had failed to adhere to them, or he was trying to instill rules which didn’t exist.

Among the “civilized,” a glove would have been dropped or a calling card delivered by a second. Something was dropped at Nathan’s feet just then. Possibly intended to be a glove, the thing bore more resemblance to a sock, and a sad representation it was: a non-color brownish grey in the firelight, tattered and multi-holed.

Nathan slipped his sword back into its scabbard with a deft flourish that indicated he had no intention of drawing it again. He prodded the challenge token with the toe of his boot.

“What is this?” Nathan bent to pick up the thing and shoved it back. “Here, take this and cut along, lad, before—”

Biggins jerked it away, only to throw it again, with even more conviction. “I challenge you, sir! I’m calling you out.”

“Me? Out? The poor boy’s drunk,” Nathan said to the increasing crowd of curious rogues.

“I’m no boy,” Biggins huffed, his thin chest heaving with conviction. “I’m calling you out in defense of the honor of Miss Prudence Collingwood.”

“Thomas,” Nathan roared, turning. “What nursery did you pluck this one out of?”

“You defiled her, sir,” Biggins cried.

“I never laid a hand on her,” Nathan sputtered whirling back around. “Aye, I grabbed her by the damned hair, swung her about a bit and smacked her bum, but I never touched her.”

“Then you defamed—”

“Make up your mind, lad.”

“Goddamn you, sir!”

“You’re a bit late on that one, mate. ’Twas achieved long ago,” Nathan grumbled back. A small chuckle came from those around.

“Pistols or swords?”

“Go back to your mates, lad. You’re skirt-sick.” By this point, Nathan was sounding quite strained.

“Pistols or swords!” Biggins insisted louder.

“Pick that bloody thing up, and be done with this. Where is that insufferable wench? We’ll stint this foolery…”

Said insufferable wench was, at the moment, either through luck or plan, not to be seen. Cate entertained the same need to speak with her; this smelled of her in more ways than one.

A small crowd was gathering. They were of little guidance as to what to expect next, their faces carefully impassive lest they show a favorite,