The Pirate Captain (36 page)

“Yes, I remember,” she said faintly. She wrapped her arms about herself against a sudden chill. Scores of men, facing battle, fearing it to be their last, had desired to send final words to loved ones. Unable to write, they had come to her. Through the night, she had furiously scratched words of love, last wills, and tearful farewells.

“Might ye consider the same…now…perhaps?” Worrying the hat, Cameron looked up with hope and dread.

“You, Mr. Cameron?”

“Aye.” Nodding, his assault on the hat’s brim intensified. “’Tis been…well, you’ll know how long, since…everything…” He left the thought to complete itself. “I’ve not sent word home since the day we marched.”

“Never? Your family hasn’t heard from you at all?”

“Wife, mum,” he corrected politely. “I had a wife and bairns.”

“And you’ve never sent them word.” Cate gleaned as much accusation from that as possible. After all, it had been nearly two decades since she had heard from her own family or vice-versa.

“No, mum, I kent it was terrible bad of me, but I never…” Cameron shrugged and looked to his feet.

There was little basis to rebuke the man. Given distances, the scattering effect of war, the scarcity of paper, and the cost of postage, not to mention the not so small detail of illiteracy, communication was difficult verging on impossible for most.

“I understand, Mr. Cameron.” Now she was the one to look to her feet, in hopes of relieving him of his embarrassment. “Life does have a way of sweeping one off in directions not always anticipated. Will there be someone on the other end that might read?”

Cate politely overlooked the small detail of the cost of receiving a letter. When she had left the Highlands, the widespread poverty had made a spare copper a rare find.

“I’d be pleased to write for you. I’ll ask the Captain if he has paper.” She hoped inwardly the coffers of the
Ciara Morganse
were rich enough to provide for that.

In Cameron’s wake, she leaned against the scuttlebutt to compose herself. What Cameron hadn’t seen during the war were the wounded and the dying for whom she written. Day and night, crouched in the dirt, she wrote the words dictated through parched lips. Sometimes, the lips ceased moving, and she completed their last thoughts, closing as tenderly as possible, sometimes adding small addendums to inform the family of their loved one’s last moments. She had been the final bridge, a solace not only to the helpless, but the distant families, as well. It had been exhausting work and she wouldn’t have surrendered a single moment. When weariness burned her eyes and stabbed her shoulders, she drove herself with the single thought that, if the tables had been turned, if it had been Brian dying on a nameless battlefield, what a treasure a last letter would have been.

It was with that frame of reference that propelled Cate through hours of writing for the Morgansers. An eyebrow twitching with suspicion, Nathan provided paper without comment and presented her with a small silver traveling case, which contained a tiny inkwell and a place for quills.

Word passed quickly. Over the next many, the pirates came to her one by one, sometimes in the light of day, sometimes in the confessional dark of ’tween decks. They dictated, facing her square on, wide-eyed and earnest, or with their backs turned, embarrassed by the sentiments they desired to be put to paper. The words were often the same: reasons and excuses for long absences, exhortations of remorse, longings and well-wishing. Hunched over a crate or puncheon, lantern at her elbow, she wrote—in small tight lines for some, brief singular words for others—to daughters, mothers, and wives, sweethearts and sisters, grandmothers and aunts, with a heavy smattering of fathers, brothers, uncles, and sons.

One night, after one particularly draining session, Cate returned to the cabin, exhausted. She slumped in a chair and fell into a trance-like stare at the table as she rubbed a hand gone clubbish from gripping a pen for so long. The watch bell had just rung—possibly five times, she thought.

Nathan was at the table already, the golden lamplight crowning his head as he bent over chart and logbook. Drawing his knife from his boot, he sharpened the quill, scrutinizing it several times before it was to his liking. At length, he uncorked the ink, dipped the quill and set to writing against a backdrop of water, wind and the ship’s people. The scratch of the quill, the periodic tinkle of silver or scuff of leather when he shifted his feet: such interludes weren’t uncommon, the two of them in the same space sharing nothing more than each other’s company.

Companionship.

A concept too readily dismissed. It wasn’t necessarily a bad word, unless one was to desire more, so very much more. Still, to a soul drowning in desolation, it was a floating bit of flotsam upon which to cleave. Cate basked in it. In spite of his preoccupation with matters of his ship, it was near enough to having him to herself.

For Nathan, sailing was as compelling as religion. To interrupt his rituals felt a violation of its sanctity. It was a chance to see him in his most natural state, no facades, no pretense. He was pensive and methodical with his log and charts, making entries, checking and rechecking courses. With delicate surety, he walked the brass dividers over the chart in their measured increments. His mouth sometimes screwed aside in deep thought, or moved as if in private conversation as he calculated, his fingers mathematically tapping the surface.

During one such inner dialogue, Nathan looked up from under his brows. They drew together at seeing him flex Cate’s hand. Final notes were scratched in the log, sanded and brushed. Closing it, he rose and pulled his chair around so that they sat knee to knee.

Nathan took Cate's hand and, cradling it as if it was made of glass, began massaging. She twitched at the uncommon breach of the meticulously maintained margin between them. He ducked his head in apology, thinking he had been too rough. They lived in close proximity like a married couple, and yet without the remotest hint of intimacy. Broaching that perimeter happened, but rarely: when they both reached for the coffee pot, pointing to a spot on a chart or during her knot-tying lessons. She tended to start when that happened, drawing back as if burned. While he shied and often bolted, she was left with a tingling sensation, as if touched by St. Elmo’s fire. All in all, it was doubly surprising for him to be so attentive just then.

“What the hell were you doing?” Nathan finally asked, without looking up.

“Writing letters,” she said, wincing.

He made a cross-sounding noise. “You led me to believe ’twas only for one or two, not the whole damned complement.”

“As I thought…at first.”

Nathan rose. With a few adroit flicks, he undid the strip of rag at his wrist which secured the leather palm and tossed both aside. From her blood box, he took the Roman-numeraled Number 37 jar of salve and a stoppered bottle of oil. He scooped a bit of salve, added a few droplets of oil, and then dribbled molten wax from a candle into his palm.

“You’re not the only one with a few cures,” he said to Cate's curious look.

He worked the concoction between his hands as he sat and took her hand once more. Her fingers clawed inward, except the middle one, which stuck out at an odd angle. The sweet, earthy scent of beeswax and sharp, resinous smell of camphor rising between them, he cradled her hand in his and with gentle deftness worked, divining with surprising sensitivity where the soreness lurked in every knuckle and joint.

Nathan's hands were always a fascination, Cate's fatigue rendering them that much more spellbinding. The warm moisture of his breath brushing her forearm suffused her with sensations stirred from a long, deep sleep. It had been years since a man had touched her other than in violence. She flushed with longing and allowed herself to imagine what else those nimble hands might do.

“Let the cack-handed clods write their own,” Nathan grumbled.

Caught so far afield, it took Cate a moment to find her tongue. It wasn’t worth a reply, anyway. He knew full well the men didn’t because they couldn’t. This sudden flush of protectiveness was both surprising and touching.

“Why didn’t they come to me or Pryce?” Nathan said moodily.

“Because you’re men,” she said with the strained patience that came with exhaustion.

“What’s that have to do with it?”

Too tired to argue, Cate shook her head, rubbing her temple with a free hand. “They desire privacy.”

“You know.”

“Because I’m a woman.” She looked up to find Nathan grinning. “What?”

The smug grin broadened. “It would appear you’ve arrived.”

Cate shook a head too fogged by weariness to follow. “Do you ever make any sense?”

Busily massaging, Nathan lifted an unapologetic shoulder and let it fall. “Don’t always have to. Sometimes, ’tis easier not, but I am now. Do you not see? The men, they’ve accepted you; they trust you more than I or Pryce. Bravo, luv. Bravo!”

Blinking, she slogged through senses muddied by long emotional hours: she was no longer a visitor—she belonged. Looking down at the raven crown of his bent head, she wondered in what scheming she had been unwittingly involved, if this turn of events was by plan or hazard.

“You need rum.” Nathan rose, leaving her to stare at the wooden surface before her.

“I need something,” Cate said, over Nathan’s clattering about in the cabinet, “but I don’t think it’s rum.”

“This is a particularly fine brandy.” He presented the squat green bottle as if it was royalty. “If this doesn’t fix what ails, then there’s no fixin.’”

Cate reached for the glass, only to have a spasm seize her, the glass skittering away. With a pained yelp, she clutched her hand, frantically trying to rub the cramp away. Clucking his tongue as if she were a child, Nathan took it and sat again.

“You’re good at this,” she said, wincing.

“Years of practice, luv.” Intent on his task, Nathan's lashes fanned darkly across his cheeks, the sun-bleached tips bright copper in the candlelight. “After hours of sword practice, there were times I couldn't move me fingers to let go. Always had to make me water before, because I couldn’t hold me cock to do it after.”

She sputtered a laugh. “Well, I suppose that would be a problem, wouldn't it?”

The corner of his mouth took a wry tuck. “You’ve no idea. Bloody difficult to attend your business with the wrong hand.”

Cate's gaze fixed on his right hand and the fine lacework of scars that webbed it. The last two fingers were unnaturally flat, as if severed and at an angle acute enough to nick off the outer nail corners. The two middle fingers bore tattoos of small birds, facing each other in flight.

“Are those sparrows?” she asked.

“Nay, swallows. See the tails?” Intent on his ministrations, it was several moments before he added, “’Tis a seafarer’s tradition, a larger one after his first ten thousand miles.”

A jerk of Nathan's arm flipped his sleeve back to display exactly that on his forearm. This one, however, clasped a string in its beak. A heart dangled from the string, impaled by a dagger, the droplets of blood trailing down his arm. The image called to mind his flag, the fallen angel crying those same tears of blood. She glanced up and wondered what laid behind those walnut-colored eyes, what heartbreaks he had suffered, the ones he would never share?

“One gets another for every five thousand miles after,” Nathan said, flipping the shirt back.

“That’s a lot of miles,” she said faintly, mentally adding up the distances in evidence.

“Lifetime at sea, darling. They’re a mariner’s symbol for safe travel, of sorts.”

Cate drained the glass and he refilled it. The brandy was indeed a very good one, deep and mellow, with a tart, berry-like undertone. The skeptical side of her wondered why it had taken him so long to bring it out. It was making its presence known, a fortifying ember blooming in her stomach, burning the fog from her head.

Her gaze settled on a braid at his shoulder. It was adorned with a silver bell, one of the score that decorated his hair and mustache. She heard them at his every step, and yet had never seen one closely. Barely the size of the tip of her little finger, it wasn’t a bell in the classical sense, but a clamshell, a tiny pearl the clapper. The surface was tooled with inscriptions far too fine to decipher.

“What?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh, your bells.” Flustered at being caught, she forged on before caution stopped her. “I was once told there was one for each virgin.”

“Did you now?” Nathan mused, hooding his eyes. He snorted and shook his head. “Virgins are highly overrated. The ones with a bit more experience are ever so much more agreeable.”

He checked himself, sobered, and resettled to his task.

Dragging her thoughts away from paths that shouldn’t be followed, Cate focused on the swallows and strained to recall lore regarding the little birds. Facing each other, as his fingers moved, their beaks periodically touched, as if kissing.

“Don’t swallows mate for life?” she asked.

Nathan stiffened. His grip tightened, but quickly returned to its soothing ways. Without looking up, he said quietly, “Something like that. Most prefer to think of them as a sign of good luck. To spot one at sea means land is near. Some say when the bearer dies, they swoop down and lift his soul to heaven.”

“In the Highlands, they thought swallows carried the souls of dead children back to their mothers.”

They both fell quiet, a territory neither wished to explore. Her mother had passed when she was 12. Nathan had mentioned his only in passing, but judging by his sudden inwardness, he had lost his at a young age as well.

Watching his fingers continue to work their magic to mesmerizing effect, the birds on his knuckles seeming to flutter, her gaze traveled up his wrists. A woad tattoo ringed both, an intricate chain identical to the one at his throat. His pulse was visible, a surge of life throbbing just under the surface. Hers quickened at the thought, the warm rush in her belly from more than the brandy.

So near and yet so very far.

Sometimes it was almost physically painful.

She fought against the urge to close her fingers around his and hold his hand…just once—