The Pirate Captain (114 page)

“You shouldn’t flatter me so.” Never had she been made to feel so paltry so handily.

The longboat was now nearly alongside the
Morganse
. Nathan was still at the bow, his shoulders set with the determination not to look back. A bubble of panic rose as Cate realized this could be the last time she ever saw Nathan.

Pirate captain. Damn his soul.

Cate made a caustic noise. “It ’tis a wonder if that man will ever find anything he treasures more than his freedom and that ship.”

She turned and trudged back to the cabin, home…for now.

Excerpt from
Nor Gold
, the next book in
The Pirate Captain
series.

Cate and Thomas left behind the waterfront’s rumble of drays and rolling hogsheads, and the guttural roar of teamsters and freight masters. They followed a slight incline up into town, to a lower-voiced but no less raucous market square. In many ways, it was much like one in another Charles Town Cate, so very far away. With its Turkey carpets, South American monkeys and parrots, African drums and talismans, and China lacquer-ware, one might have thought it to be the crossroads of the world. It was a veritable Tower of Babel, but Thomas shifted easily from one tongue to the next as he haggled. Given his size, heavy armament—sword, pistol and massive knife in the shoulder strap of his baldric—and blue eyes that could turn into the hardness of the steel he wore, his price was usually met.

Desiring protection from the sun for Cate, Thomas’ first stop was at a straw weaver. The broad-brimmed hat he picked out sprang from Cate’s tousled locks twice in as many minutes in spite of a string tied under her chin. A parasol was the next option. Cate put back Thomas’ selection, with its inlaid pearl handle, pink tassel, and lace and ribbon edging, and picked out a blue-and-white striped one, with a carved handle, in its stead.

At a goat-cart stand, Thomas found a modesty piece for Cate, a netted lace with a vine-and-rose pattern. His big blunt fingers were surprisingly adept at arranging the delicate fabric around her neck. She stood very aware of his nearness as he tucked it into the edge of her bodice, so very conscious of his resemblance to her dead husband, a resemblance strong enough to stir her heart and tightened the pit of her belly.

The day he had taken possession, Cate had tried to give herself to him. He had declined, saying, “I wish desire, not necessity.”

Yes, she often favored giving in, but to do so still felt like obligation. Her heart was still too crowded by another, no matter how desperately she wished it else.

She felt guilty, as if she was somehow taking advantage of him, an odd thought toward the man who owned her. When did the slave ever feel obliging of the master for his food and shelter?

As they strolled, the more persistent vendors seized Cate by the arm to shove their bargains before her. Standing a head and more above the teeming mass, Thomas imposed himself and edged them away. Under the draper’s striped awning, several dress lengths of fabric—silks and an unfamiliar weave, light and airy, perfect for the tropics—and fine linens for small clothes were selected.

They passed the dog and pony carts, lean-to’s and tables, selling everything from charms to children, monkeys to melons, to find what Cate would need to create her new wardrobe: buttons, crinolines, hooks, stays tapes, lace and the like. It didn’t come easily, for she was unaccustomed to such grand expenditures. Thomas, however, had a second sense for what caught her eye. Bags, baskets, and bundles were sent back to Mrs. Crisp’s via a pair of knob-kneed lads, the coins Thomas paid them chinking in their pockets as they sped away with their burdens.

Cate stood gape-mouthed at an apothecary’s table, the selection there too vast to be able to choose. Thomas readily stepped in and selected skin creams, smelling of jasmine and roses, honey-and-almond soap, and shampoo, bright with rosemary and a spicy sweet flower she couldn’t name. Taken individually, the purchases were not extravagant, but on the whole, Cate was overwhelmed. Her married life had been a comfortable one, but living in the Highlands had never provided opportunity, nor funds for such indulgence. She felt like a pampered little girl, and didn’t quite know how to react.

To be so provided for came with a double edge. It meant she was protected, but it also meant she was controlled. Self-reliance had been her only means of survival for all those years she had lived her own. That independent side bridled at the thought of bending to someone else’s will. And yet, that independence had taken the worst of all blows: being sold by Nathan Blackthorne, peeved, fed up, or whatever his reason had been. Thomas was comely, good natured and caring, but she was still his property. If not a slave, then what else could she be called?

Pirate’s woman.

In most circles, it was a very unflattering title.

As they made their way through the market, Cate tried not to look up the side streets they passed, and the tidy rows of homes and cottages. To see them set off a longing which left her standing motionless in the middle of the throng. Home. A place to belong. It was what she longed for, and yet it might as well have been the rings of Saturn.

Cate’s eyes lit at a dry goods stand. The tables were laden with spools of threads and ribbons, thimbles, hoops, frames, and needles, gold, no less! There was no hesitation on her part there. Thomas’ smile widened in direct proportion to her mounting treasure trove. As the proprietor filled score upon score of ivory and bone bobbins with thread, Thomas poked through the ribbons, until he found the exact shade of turquoise. Claiming it matched the color of her eyes, he tied it about her head, a pert bow at her crown.

Thomas was occasionally met by acquaintances, proof that he wasn’t a stranger to these waters. Sailing might span the Seven Seas, but the sailor’s world was a small one. The greetings were mutually hearty, but the pursuant conversation was carried on with a reserved eye toward Cate, for never was an introduction made. For Cate’s part, it couldn’t be taken as a social snub. Thomas was aware of the warrants for her arrest. Presenting her under a false name threatened entanglements. Leaving her to stand unaddressed was the safer route.

During one such stop, Cate lifted the hair from her neck and dabbed the sweat at her temples. She thought with great longing of the sea breeze, now unable to squeeze between the stands and buildings. Fish and vegetables lying in the tropical sun, tobacco smoke, tightly packed bodies, and an underfoot slurry of dung, urine, and refuse rendered the air nearly unbreatheable. Combined with the heat, she grew light-headed. The market voices went dull in her ears and the ground tipped. Thomas caught her as she swayed and sat on a bale of dried hides. He hailed a black man with a sack of coconuts slung around his shoulders and a machete in hand. The end of the great green nut was whacked off, and Thomas held it while Cate sipped.

Thomas frowned as he dabbed the milk from her chin. “I need to get you out of here. Hungry?”

“Starved.” Her stomach cleaved onto the coconut milk, but demanded something more solid. Breakfast had been a very long time ago.

Thomas rose and put out his hand. “Your wish is but my command, m’lady. To
The Crown
, it is.”

A rain shower, so sudden it seemed to be falling from the sun, made the decision superfluous. Under the protection of her parasol, they trotted down the street toward the docks in the mist-like rain, so thick it was as if the air had just turned to water. Cate smiled as they ducked into a doorway with a sign
The
Crown
over it, with an appropriate yellow image painted on it.
The Crown
had to be the most popular name in the Empire. In her limited realm of East London, there had been six such-named places.

This
Crown
wasn’t the seedy hole one would expect at a waterfront. It was a typical tavern, however, a long room, filled with rows of tables and benches, and a serving counter at the far end. The floor was rush-covered, the low-beamed ceiling blackened from years of wood, candle and tobacco smoke.

“Why aren’t we eating at Mrs. Crisp’s?” Cate asked as Thomas guided her to a table along the wall.

Thomas smiled tolerantly. “Mrs. Crisp is a slave to the application of mop and broom, almost as much as you,” he added wryly. “But she has no sense of duty to pot, nor spoon, nor will she spend the money to engage someone who does. You might as well go to the cooper’s or the ropewalk, for the fare would be barely different.
The
Crown
, on the other hand,” he went on with an admiring eye. “Has a clientele whose main concern is the liquid in their tankard, in spite of a kitchen that produces some of the best sea pie in the New World.”

No sooner had Cate sat than she shifted uncomfortably, considering. “I need to go to the privy,” she said to Thomas’ questioning eye. She started to rise only to see him do so, as well. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I can do this much on my own.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, hovering between standing and sitting.

She gave his hand splayed on the table an assuring pat. “I’ve been doing this for some years now. I can manage.”

Thomas reluctantly lowered himself to the bench. She could feel his eyes on her back, however, as she wove her way through the tables and crowd. A well-worn path in the floor planks led to a door outside. The rear yard was enclosed by a fence. It was tall and solid enough to block any movement of air, which could have served well, for the space smelled like old vomit and one vast overused chamber pot. The sun-battered boards bore the yellowish-brown stain of years of being urinated upon, as a man did then. Doing up his breeches, he barely ducked a nod and scurried back inside.

The privy was at the rear of the yard. Cate tiptoed down the path as one would through a cow byre. She opened the door and reflexively ducked to avoid the cloud of flies, irritated at being disturbed. The leaning shack was as foul and rank as would be expected, and she made quick use of it.

When Cate came out, she was met by a pair of women, each wearing a strained, impatient look. The straggling updos, dragging hems on much-mended skirts, stays loosened, the dark ends of their breasts showing through the tissue-thin shifts, and shoes walked to the point of shapelessness marked them as street whores. Her first impression was that they were waiting their turn, but it would be quite remarkable for these two to stand on such formality. Any semi-secluded patch of ground would usually do.

They were more or less bookends, with only slight variations in coloring or build to separate them: one light-headed and squat, the other dark and slim. A thick layer of powder, streaked and uneven by sweat and rough handling, was ostensibly to give an appearance of gentility, but it also served to obscure the pallor brought on by near-starvation and hard use. The blots of rouge, like cheeks on a rag doll, failed to provide the intended allure of health. Under the power, the curling edges of wax patches could be seen, slathered on to cover old pox scars or open sores.

Cate bore no complaint against whores. They were merely women left to their own devices, resorting to their only means of survival. There but for the grace o’ God could have gone she. Only luck had saved her, and only arrogance would allow her to think she was far removed. If Thomas was to grow weary of her, she could easily wind up being one of those gaunt and hollow-eyed wraiths roaming the streets, begging for a man’s favor like curs at a butcher’s doorway.

“Bugger off, bitch. This ’ere is me ’n’ Iris’ territory,” said the light-headed one.

This was delivered with both whores herding Cate backwards with their shoulders and hips, until she came up against the privy door. During her time living alone in East London, they would have never gotten her cornered. While cursing herself for having grown so soft, Cate eyed them. Her fist balled, but then relaxed. Both women were at least a half-head shorter than she, but it would be unwise to underestimate them. Street life would have rendered them wiry. A simple shout would bring Thomas—hopefully—but also the entire tavern and anyone else within earshot. It was a scene Cate didn’t wish to cause, if it could be avoided. Her senses told her she was in no danger. This was no more than the everyday strain of intimidation. Still, she squared her feet and balanced her weight in preparation should a fight ensue.

“This is first comes what’s first served best ’ere,” said the lighter of the two, pressing Cate with her shoulder.

“Aye, ’n what we gets is best, first pick that ’tis. Newcomers go to the end o’ the line,” said Iris, in a slight Irish accent. Her point was punctuated with a thumb stabbed over her shoulder. “And don’t forget me ’n Rose gets half comin’ o’ yer earnin’s,” she added, ramming a finger into Cate’s chest.

It took Cate a moment to figure what they were about. Laughing in their faces being ill advised, with some effort she bit back the urge to do so.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m not—” Cate began.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?”

The harlots whirled around at the sound of the male voice and jerked back like scalded cats. They shied, declawed by their apparent master. He was a hatchet-faced, simian-like man, with long arms, bowed legs, and a wall-eye.

Rose flashed a tense smile as he strolled nearer. “Nuthin’, Squires. We wuz just advisin’ the new’un here as to how we do things hereabouts.”

As Squires neared, the bookends inched away from Cate, like two children seeking to distance themselves from a third about to be disciplined. He drew up and shrewdly eyed Cate as one might a new brood mare. The wall-eye made it difficult to track where he was looking, while the other peered at her with the warmth of a shark. The air grew more pungent, the stench of him overcoming the privy behind her.

“Hmm…not bad,” he said, with disquieting appreciation that made Cate’s skin creep. “A mite old, but with little powder and rouge; pull down that bodice so as to show the customers you’re friendly-like; do something with that hair and you’ll do well…
very
well, indeed.”