The Pirate Captain (25 page)

“Which means kill afore gettin’ killed,” Pryce added from Nathan’s other side. He stood leaning against the rail, arms crossed loosely on his chest.

Distracted, she didn't see what happened to cause a cheer to go up, proclaiming Rowett the victor. Those two were barely away, before two more stepped into the circle, squared up and the fight commenced again.

“Y’know, Cap’n,” Pryce began thoughtfully, eyes tracking the fight. “If’n she’s to be here, she should be able to protect herself.”

“Right you are.” Nathan pulled his eyes from the match. “Should things happen, you could be need of defending yourself. Can you fight?”

“You mean, as in fists?” she asked warily. The “should things happen” comment was casually made, but his meaning was clear and not to be taken lightly.

“No. You’re feisty, but no match.” Nathan paused to shout encouragement to one of the combatants. “What about swords? I hear tell on the
Constancy
you were quite admirable.”

“You're too kind,” she said tartly.

“No, I mean it. Isn’t that how you saw it?” he said, thumping Pryce on the shoulder.

“Aye, verily sir. A fair hand, to be sure.”

“For a woman,” she said, peering around Nathan to Pryce.

“Well, to be sure,” Nathan equivocated as did Pryce. Alighting from the barrel, he took her by the arm. “C’mon, let's see what you’ve got.”

The crew gathered around and a lengthy group conversation ensued revolving around the finer points of weapon selection, size and weight, the grip being of greatest significance. A more serious debate followed as to who was to be her opponent. Jensen was the first option, by virtue of their similarity in size and his need for practice. Pryce dismissed that out-of-hand, pointing out the lad’s lack of skill could mean her accidental injury. Through the process of elimination, Nathan was finally urged forward, the tacit agreement being if anyone was to cause Cate harm, let it be the captain.

The next thing Cate knew, she had been shoved into the circle, armed and facing him. Wiping her palm on her skirt, she clasped the sword, the grip biting her flesh. A cutlass, actually, curved and wicked, meant for close-quarter fighting, as on the deck of a ship. Much lighter than the long swords of the Highlands, it came alive in her hand; “blooded” as Brian had called it, “a blade that knows its purpose.”

“Loosen your grip a bit, luv,” Nathan instructed calmly. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides. Circling catlike, sword in hand, he became the pirate, barbaric and deadly, the one she had expected to meet.

“Don’t allow your enemy to see fear,” he said. “Stare him in the eye; make him wonder…”

Cate lunged, catching him off guard. It brought a cheer from the crowd and a short outburst of bemusement from Nathan. The surprise lasted less than the time it took for his arm to come up in almost playful defense. Irritated that he dared to take her so lightly, her attack grew more focused with each stroke. Amid the scrape and clang of metal against metal, a small smile gradually tucked one corner of his mouth, pleased and even a bit admiring.

“Keep your elbow down, lass,” Pryce shouted. “That’s it. No, no, keep it down!”

Calling a halt, Nathan seized her elbow. “Keep it down here,” he said firmly. “Let it come up too high and you’re leaving yourself open.” He poked her sharply in the ribs with his finger, eliciting a startled squeak. “Next time, that could be a blade.”

They squared off, Nathan’s dark eyes fixed on her. Without out a flicker of warning, he attacked, pressing her back. Not possessing the strength or skill for a prolonged offensive, she was obliged to rely on defense. Arms and legs burning, she was envious of his freedom of skirts to tangle his legs when he lunged or riposted. Too soon, a flick of his blade and her sword was wrenched from her hand, clattering to the deck. The hands cheered anyway, shouting words of encouragement, many impressed that she could bear a sword at all.

Nathan clapped her on the shoulder as she worked the sting from her fingers and shook out her arm. “Not bad, luv. With a little practice, you could be fair. The problem is strength.”

His words inflated, and then bruised.

Damn him! He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Don’t look so wounded,” Nathan laughed, slapping her jovially on the back. “Bloody awkward for a woman to be as strong as a man; doesn't sound appealing a-tall. What of it, Pryce?”

“Well, she could buy herself a bit o’ time. But strikes me she'd get herself hurt a-carryin’ a sword. We can get ’er practiced up, but she'll be a-needin’ somethin’ more. How’s about a knife?”

Pryce pulled his from at his back and handed it off to Nathan.

“Think you could handle that?” asked Nathan as he handed it to her.

Cate balanced the weapon in her hand, feeling its weight. The steel shone coldly in the sun. “It was a long time ago, but I used to have one,” she said quietly.

Nathan caught her tone and sobered. “Your husband?”

Nodding, she swallowed an unexpected lump. “He thought I should be able to protect myself.” The irony in the repetition of that theme brought a faint smile. “He and his men taught me how to use one, how to kill.”

Nathan hesitated, the men circled around staring.

Forcing a smile, she gripped the handle with overt confidence. “So, what would you like me to do with this?”

The awkward moment past, Nathan’s graveness deepened. “You’ll need to be able to protect yourself and be ready to kill, if you must. Could you do that?”

Cate's throat tightened. A cold ball formed in the pit of her stomach. “I’ve done it before,” she said, meeting Nathan’s gaze.

It wasn’t meant as to be cavalier nor bold, but facts were facts.

“Fair enough.” Nathan clapped her on the shoulder in assurance.

With little hesitation, Mr. Pryce was voted best knife-bearer and, therefore, Cate’s new master.

Pryce’s knife was returned to him. Nathan pulled a dagger from his boot and handed it to her. “Go ahead, luv, show us what you have.”

Cate rolled the scrimshawed weapon in her hand, its ivory patina glowing. Well-balanced and compact, it was considerably larger than the one lost in her bag of belongings on the
Constancy
. It had been a
singh dhu,
a tiny Highlander’s stocking knife. Switching hands, she wiped her palm again, and then re-gripped it several times, until the comfort spot was found.

“’Pears like she knows what she’s doing already,” observed Hughes as she and Pryce circled each other.

“That’s right, Mr. Cate,” called Towers. “’Under hand is always better than over’and.”

“If you’re as short as you are,” jibed Smalley. “Overhand is a much better kill if you’re tall.”

Their arguments faded from consciousness as Cate focused on Pryce. Slightly crouched, his grey eyes held hers, measuring and waiting. The corner of an eye barely twitched and he dove for her arm, seeking to grab and twist. It was the same move her brothers had used. She slid away and come around to knee him in the backside. He shot forward, the pirates cheering. He stumbled, and then whirled back around.

At first skeptical, Pryce now settled in for a true contest. In one flowing move, he seized her arm and jerked her around to poise his blade at her neck.

“That’s a kill,” declared the by-standers and cheered for more.

They skirmished time and again, taking up various scenarios of possible assaults: from behind, the front, or ambushed. Nathan and the others shouted suggestions and encouragements, intermixed with jeers when either was bested. A few times, Nathan or Pryce called a halt, in order to give pointers on stance or angle. By virtue of his strength and reach, Pryce prevailed most of the time, but Cate was able to win enough to prove capable.

Both perspiring heavily now, Pryce posed as an assailant and grabbed Cate from behind. The momentum sent them tumbling to the deck, Pryce coming down on top of her. He cuffed both her wrists in one hand and forced her arms up over her head. She struggled to wrench free, but his hips held her tight. His weight brought her breath short and her anguish rose. The cheering faded and she heard only his heavy breathing as he grunted and wriggled on top of her. Drops of sweat pattered her skin. She looked up into eyes no longer familiar, predatory and lusting, on a face she no longer knew.

Panic surged. Cate screamed and thrashed, berserk to escape. The weight on top of her went away. More hands came at her, groping and tugging. Shrieking, she batted at them, pleading for them to leave her be.

And they did. Cate sat up into a blur of faces, slack-jawed and goggle-eyed. Movement. A person knelt next to her, Pryce poised behind him, wearing a mask of bewildered guilt. She blinked several times before sorting out that the face before her was Nathan’s. His mouth moved, but it was like he spoke a foreign tongue. He reached out. She jerked away and lurched to her feet. Warding off more hands, she raced down the deck to the forecastle rail, stopping only because she could run no further. Splaying her hands across her stomach, she looked down. No blades this time. No blood, no agony, nothing, not this time, but…?

They’re gone. You know it. They’re gone!

She collapsed against the rail and dug her nails into a kevel, seeking an anchor against being dragged back to the nightmare.

Something touched her shoulder. Cate shrieked and whirled, blindly swinging out with the knife she still clutched. A man stood there, his face obscured by the glare of the sun at his back. He shifted, and she saw it was Nathan again.

“I’m sorry.” It came out in a thin gasp. Shrinking back tighter against the rail, she looked down at the knife, suddenly strange in her hand, and dropped it.

“Are you well?” His inquiry was carefully measured.

Cate mutely nodded, starting again when he brushed her arm. Recoiling as if seared, he spread his hands before him in a display of good faith.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a quavering wheeze. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m all right.” Cate put up a hand to assure him, but buried it in the folds of her apron upon seeing how violently it trembled. “I’m fine.”

Nathan wasn’t convinced. “Allow me to take you the cabin. You’re scaring the hands.”

Senses congealing, Cate became aware of the men clustered at the waist. They bore the quizzical look reserved for the deranged, and wasn’t she: fighting hands that weren’t there, screaming at faces that didn’t exist? Nathan tentatively took her by the elbow and eased her down the forecastle steps. Numbness gave way to mortification. She walked woodenly next to him toward the cabin, drawn by its promise of refuge. She thought to apologize, but couldn’t bear to see their revulsion and pity. Instead, she ducked her head to hide behind the protective curtain of hair that fell down around her face.

Once inside, she paced before the stern gallery.

When does the nightmare of reality become just a nightmare?

Or is one doomed for them to always be as one? Is the reality bent by the dream into something worse than it really was? Everyone claims time heals everything, but when? How long? How much of one’s life must be devoured, before it finally goes away?

Cate was seized with the urge to tear at herself, rip away skin and muscle, down to the bone, if she must, to be rid of the terrors that lay within.

“Don’t tell me it’s only a dream,” she seethed, making short paths like a caged cat. “It was real. I’ve lived it. I’ll carry the scars to my grave. All I have to do is look and I know it was no dream. It was a nightmare, but it’s in the past…except it’s still here…”

She drew up, realizing she had just said far more than intended, far more than she had ever admitted to herself let alone to anyone else. Panting like a half-maddened dog, she turned to find Nathan had withdrawn to the far side of the room. He stood uncommonly still, as if fearing any movement might precipitate something worse. Surely he thought her crazed by now. There was none of the accusation or disgust expected; only the intent gravity that came with seeking to understand.

“Would you be greatly fraught if I were to beg you to come away from the window?”

The unexpected direction of his comment stopped her in her tracks. She looked at the window, and then him.

“You think I’m so hysterical I might jump?” she asked coldly. Wild-eyed and hair probably resembling oakum by then, she had to have appeared quite the madwoman. In the spirit of easing the demonic resemblance, she made a furtive attempt to smooth her hair.

“You did before,” he said evenly. “And again, or tried, at any rate, from just there.” He gestured to the sill between the two guns.

It took Cate a moment to follow his meaning: her first night aboard, she had attempted to jump, overlooking, of course, that the act had been prompted by Nathan attacking her.

“That was different. I was scared…then,” she said with a vague gesture, and resumed her agitated path.

Nathan regarded her narrowly. “And you’re not now?”

“No! I mean yes…But no…not…Damn it!” she shrieked with a vehemence that startled them both.

Cate took a deep breath and exhaled slowly in an effort to recompose. “No, it’s not pirates…this time.”

He forbore pressing the point. He ventured close enough to shepherd her to a chair. Grabbing up the rum bottle, he poured her a small dose. “Drink.”

She fumbled for the glass, nearly spilling it. Nathan dared to come near enough to guide her unresponsive fingers around it, and then to her mouth, retreating as she drank. The resulting shudder pulled her back into her body. Her heart slowed and the humiliation settled deeper. She felt Nathan circling, as if observing a lunatic, afraid to go near and yet more fearful to leave her alone.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, her throat tightened by drink and embarrassment.

“Might you allow a hint as to what that was all about? Did you really imagine Pryce aimed to attack you?” His query was carefully posed, gleaned of all accusation.

“No, I mean, yes, I know…but no…” Cate dug her nails into her scalp, hoping the pain might help bring a cohesive thought. “I know! I mean…I know he didn’t mean anything.”