Ransome's Quest (7 page)

As soon as Salvador released her, she turned to look at him. Who was this man? Concerned about her modesty? But he was a pirate, a black-hearted villain.

“Come.” He stalked toward his cabin.

Head hung, avoiding the curious stares of the crew, Charlotte followed him.

Suresh stood at the cabin door, which he closed after Charlotte entered. The steward had already laid out a change of clothes for Salvador. The pirate scooped them up and took them to the quarter gallery—his private privy—to change.

Suresh handed Charlotte a towel.

“Thank you.”

The East Indian man, probably not much older than Charlotte herself, inclined his head but did not speak.

She rubbed her hair vigorously, grateful for its shortness. It would dry quickly, unlike her clothing. She had not given her plan much forethought, especially this scenario: Ending up right back where she started—only now with every piece of clothing she possessed soaked with seawater.

Salvador came out of the quarter gallery in fawn breeches and a billowing white shirt that exposed quite a bit of his chest before he pulled the laces closed.

“You owe me a pair of boots, Miss Ransome.” He tossed the waterlogged ones back into the privy. Suresh bustled about him, helping the captain don fresh hose and boots, a neckcloth, waistcoat, and his gold braid–adorned coat.

Charlotte did not dare move throughout the proceeding. Once Salvador again resembled a Royal Navy commodore, he crossed to exit the cabin. But before he did, he turned and looked at her.

Here it came. The rebuke for her action. Would he yell? Be deadly calm like William?

“In that trunk there”—he pointed to an ornate chest under the hammock she’d slept in—“you will find clothing you can borrow until yours dry.” He left the cabin, Suresh his silent shadow.

Strange man.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around her middle and shivered. Jumping out the stern window had not been wise. She’d realized that as soon as she struck the water and almost drowned in the ship’s churning wake. But the opportunity had been there.

Unsure of when the pirate captain or his steward might return, Charlotte flung away the pirate’s dressing gown, peeled off her wet dress, and crossed to kneel before the trunk.

She lifted the lid, and the delicate perfume of roses met her nose. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent, picturing herself in Lady Dalrymple’s garden again. Dressed in…

Not a wet chemise and petticoats, certainly. With a sigh, she opened her eyes. Inside the chest lay gowns that rivaled those she’d left behind in Portsmouth—silks and satins in shades from palest pink to deep rose, yellows and greens, and the blues, greens, and grays of the sea. Half a dozen fine dresses, petticoats and undergarments, stockings, and even two pairs of softest kid dancing slippers.

She lifted each layer carefully, impressed by the richness of the fabrics and the exquisite tailoring of each of the garments. She lifted the last layer and her finger caught on something hard. She peered over the edge of the trunk. Two large, leather-bound books lay in the bottom of the trunk. She lifted the top one out and opened it.

A ledger. She carried it to the window seat for better lighting. Columns of dates, ship names, cargo, and amounts of money filled each page written in a fine hand. Dates, ships, cargo, and money—a reckoning of everything Salvador had ever taken?

Noise beyond the door startled her. If Salvador learned she had discovered his account books, he would not be pleased. She returned the ledger to the trunk and layered the garments in on top of it again. She put aside the plainest garment she could find and requisite foundation garments and finished repacking everything else.

Charlotte removed the remainder of her wet garments and gratefully slipped into dry underpinnings, and then she held the dress she’d chosen up to her chest. Dark blue with white trim around the square neck and a white sash. She could no longer wear her midshipman’s uniform, but this dress served as a good reminder of her experiences aboard
Audacious.
She slipped it on—grateful it was a round gown that buttoned at the left side instead of lacing or buttoning up the back—and wrapped the white ribbon sash tightly around her ribs twice before tying it in the back to address the fact the gown had been made for someone quite a bit larger. She’d have to remember to pick up the skirt before walking to keep from tripping over the several inches of extra length.

She wished Salvador had a full-length mirror in his cabin, but the man defied all descriptions she’d ever heard of pirates being self-centered and concerned only with accumulation of wealth and their own appearance.

The indigo silk swished with a soft hiss when she moved. She lifted the skirts and executed the opening steps of an allemande. If only Ned could see her in this gown.

But Ned couldn’t see her in this dress. Reality doused any sense of joy she took in the fine garment with the same force she’d hit the water with less than an hour ago, bringing with it a different, but equally frightening, sensation of drowning.

She closed the trunk lid. The light from the windows glittered across gold letters painted in fine scrollwork in the center.
SD.

Who was SD, and why was her trunk full of dresses aboard a pirate’s ship?

Charlotte staggered back and sank into Salvador’s desk chair. A trunk of clothing like this meant only one thing: She wasn’t Salvador’s first female “guest.”

Would her fate be the same as the woman whose gown she now wore?

William slammed his hand on the table, making his charting instruments clank. Though showing Ned and his own crew nothing but confidence they would quickly find the pirate ship and rescue Charlotte, here, alone in his cabin, fear and doubt reigned. His prayers seemed to bounce off the ceiling.

Where was God? How had He allowed this to happen?

“Everything all right, Com’dore?”

William squeezed his hands into fists. “Everything is fine, Dawling.”

“Your supper’s ready, sir.”

“Any sightings?”

“No, sir. Not yet. But it’ll be soon, sir. I feel it.”

Of course there had been no sightings. He would have been notified at the least hint of a sail in the distance. “That will be all, Dawling.”

“Aye, sir.” The steward left as quietly as he entered.

William stood, turning his back on the charts and reports showing the most recent pirate activity in the waters near Jamaica.

Emptiness filled the large day cabin. Before, this had been his place of refuge, of peace, of retreat from the crush and cacophony created by the almost eight hundred men aboard. Now, something was missing.

No, not something. Someone. Much as it pained him to admit, he wanted—needed—his wife. Less than two months married, and she’d managed to twine herself around his heart and soul. Without her, he foundered like a sinking ship in shallow shoals.

Eating supper alone at the long, empty dining table did not help his frame of mind. More from necessity than hunger, he bolted down the food and then retreated to the quarterdeck, hoping the crew’s activity and noise would help drive away his doubts and self-recrimination, even if only for a short while.

“Commodore, request permission to beat to quarters for evening inspection.” O’Rourke saluted, shifting from foot to foot.

“Granted.” Perhaps he should have had the crew practicing at the guns all afternoon. After all, it had been months since their last engagement. They were bound to need the refresher.

The boatswain’s whistle and the shouted orders of the officers, midshipmen, and masters temporarily drowned out William’s thoughts. As soon as the men were at their stations, William started his inspection, O’Rourke trailing behind.

William forced himself to focus on the men’s dispositions, giving a word of praise or correction where warranted. On the main gun deck, O’Rourke went before him, a lighted lantern held aloft.

Kennedy snapped to attention when William paused to review the senior midshipman’s gun crews. The eighteen-year-old would be standing for his lieutenancy examination soon, and William resolved to spend time preparing him—

“Sail, oh!”

William’s heart jumped, as did most of the crew, at the shout from the lookout high above. He dashed up the nearest companion stairs.

“Where away?” he called, craning his neck to see the sailor on the mainmast top.

“Two points off the starboard bow.”

William grabbed his spyglass from Dawling, who panted and puffed from his haste to bring it from the cabin. William scanned to the right side of the bow.

There. Definitely sails.

“Alter course to intercept.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” O’Rourke ran to the wheelhouse to relay the order to the sailing master.

Anticipation vibrated through William’s limbs. He tamped down his hope of finding Charlotte so quickly. And if it were the pirate ship and battle ensued, he could put his sister’s life in jeopardy. But she’d survived the attack on
Audacious
on the voyage from England. He prayed she would be able to protect herself now.

He paced the quarterdeck, checking the position of the other ship every few minutes through the telescope. The setting sun made seeing the details of the other vessel harder.

“Sir, she sails under the British ensign,” the lookout called.

Disappointment weighed on William’s shoulders, threatening to drag him to the deck. He collapsed the glass and strode to the wheelhouse. “Close with them. We shall find out if they have seen anything.”

“Aye, aye, Commodore.” The sailing master knuckled his forehead.

William turned to his first officer. “Release the crew to duty stations. I will be in my cabin.”

O’Rourke saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”

William returned to the day cabin, but again his quarters failed to provide the respite he sought.

Dawling entered and lit the candles in the wall sconces and hanging lanterns. “Aught I can do for you, Com’dore?” He hesitated near the door separating the main cabin from the dining cabin.

“No. That will be all.” William did not look up from the charts—the charts he’d been staring at but not seeing since returning here half an hour ago.

“Aye, sir.” Dawling disappeared. Time, however, made its presence quite clear—and it seemed to want to stay stationary, the periods between the bells stretching longer than thirty minutes.

To conserve the candles, William allowed Dawling to believe he would retire for the night a few hours later, but he dismissed the steward before Dawling could help him undress. After Dawling doused all the candles and retreated to his own bed, William sat at the round table in the middle of the cabin, staring out the bank of windows at the sea and stars.

If Julia were here, she would have kept vigil with him.

His body tensed, as if by straining he could make the bells marking five o’clock in the morning come any faster. Instead of bells, however, he leaped to his feet at the sounds of scuffling and voices out on deck. He flung the door to the wheelhouse open and then jumped back to avoid getting knocked on the forehead.

“Report.”

Flustered, Lieutenant Jackson staggered back a few steps and stammered briefly before recovering himself. “Sir, we are within range of the other ship. They just cleared for action.”

Anticipation roiled in William’s chest. Could it be they had stumbled upon the pirate ship flying under false colors?

Without bothering to put his waistcoat and jacket back on, William charged out onto the quarterdeck. He braced himself against the ship’s rolling and took a deep breath, to put all the power he could behind his voice.

“All hands! All hands to battle stations. Clear for action.”

W
illiam shrugged into his coat but shooed away Dawling’s attempts to button it for him. He snatched his telescope from where Dawling had it tucked up under his arm.

“Lieutenant Blakeley, signal the other ship our identity and tell them to stand down.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

In the predawn gloom, William could not make out much detail of the other ship, save that it was smaller—with only one gun deck to
Alexandra
’s two.