The Pirate Captain - By Kerry Lynne Page 0,1

understand it had been her coin that spoke the loudest.

She looked away into the darkness, lest the keen eyes see the deception. “Yes, my brother will be most anxious.”

She spoke with the conviction of an oft-told lie. The game of maintaining it for so long, however, had grown tiresome. She dreaded the same questions posed over and over, the resulting weariness undermining her will to carry on the charade much longer. The worst the Captain could do was throw her overboard—not an all-bad prospect.

She shifted uneasily under Chambers’ scrutiny, dreading the inevitable line of questions to come.

“You seemed to have gotten on quite famously with Mrs. Littleton and her daughter.”

Ah, yes, her traveling companions, the only other passengers. The wife of the new King’s Commissioner of Jamaica and their daughter, just coming of age, had been the initial purpose of the Constancy’s journey. Commissioner Littleton had gone ahead the year before to report to his new post and set up a household. Through some intrigue or malchance regarding a Royal Navy ship, exclusive passage had been arranged on the Constancy to deliver said family to the Commissioner’s waiting arms. They would have—should have—been the only passengers, but Cate had arrived at the last minute, coin in hand, eager to leave England. The good Captain Chambers wasn’t above a little extra profit, and since they were to be aweigh immediately, no one would be the wiser.

There had been one overshadowing flaw: Mrs. Littleton and Lucy, her daughter, sickened and died, barely a month from England’s shores.

“They were both very dear,” she said, straining to glean the desperation from her voice.

Falling into another one of his torturous pensive pauses, Chambers drew deeply on the cold pipe, the dry rasp sharp over the backdrop of ship and sea.

“We’re in pirate waters, now,” he said.

“Here?” Startled, she looked around, wondering how, amid hundreds of miles of ocean, this particular track could be different.

“Caicos Passage is just ahead; virtually every ship bound for the Caribbean passes through there. Makes every vessel an easy target, ready for the picking.”

“You sound as if you’ve a bit of experience on your side.” she said, scanning the water.

“A bit. I’ve only been boarded once and we fought ’em off. We barely made port. Three feet in the well, and only jury-rigged jibs and staysails to fly, but we lived to tell of it.”

He stared across the water, seeing far beyond the horizon, his voice shook with uncharacteristic vehemence. “Be bloody goddamned if I was going to allow those black-hearted bastards to have my ship. Pardon the language, ma’am,” he added, ducking his head.

“They’ll take your ship, if they can,” he continued, much composed. “And give the crew option to either sign on or join Davy Jones. If one among them is prime for captain, the ship is his and sails as consort. Some have built up nigh on to a fleet. Or, they take what they desire and scuttle her right before your eyes. Couldn’t allow that to happen to the old girl, either way,” he said, lovingly stroking the rail.

“So, you fought them off?” she asked with growing interest.

“Wasn’t easy, mind. I’ll carry the scars to my grave. We lost our share of men; we figured we were all as good as dead anyway. Most vile, black-souled, murderous lot you’d ever face. They’d kill their own mother for the gold in her teeth. They don’t call ’em sea wolves for nothing; like a pack of rabid dogs, they are.”

He contemptuously spat over the rail. Mr. Ivy, the First Mate, softly cleared his voice, indicating he had come on ship’s business. While Chambers was thus occupied, she slipped away.

Her cabin was a rabbit-hole of a place: a bunk and the necessary foot space to reach it. She threw open the port and inhaled deeply. Compared to the heat, stench, and stuffiness of below deck, the night air was exhilarating. Thanks to the steadiness of trade winds, the cabin had been to windward for most of the voyage, allowing her a bit of moving air, when the seas allowed the port to be open.

The lantern’s golden halo curved up and down the bulkhead as it swung. She pulled a small, often-mended bag from its hiding place between the wall and the mattress. As was her evening ritual, she set its contents with reverential care in precise order before her: a hairbrush—actually a discarded horse brush, but serviceable—and a tin can containing several pebbles—a tried-and-true alarm for one sleeping alone—a needle,