The Pirate Captain (89 page)

She sipped cautiously, then closed her eyes as she blissfully moaned. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Is there anything else what causes you to make those noises?” he asked with a suggestive waggle of his brows.

Cate posed careful consideration. “Come to think on it, there are a few other things which cause me to groan.”

A devilment sparked Nathan's eyes, but his response was cut short by Mr. Hodder’s hail. With a crooked smile and a playful roll of the eyes, he sauntered away, scarf tails wafting in the breeze behind him.

###

Daylight and time having resuscitated the most of the stricken, the scene on the beach was much the same as the night before, although in the glare of daylight, the festive mood gave way to something appearing more in the way of drunken revelry, occasionally breaking into an outright brawl when tempers flared. There was a portion of the men whose only purpose seemed to be to achieve the same level of drunkenness as the night before. A goodly number, however, could not suffer the idleness of drinking and found other pastimes.

There were chess games, although cards and dice were more common. Betting was prohibited aboard, but ashore the pirates were free to lose or win their money at will, with ensuing arguments and fights breaking out regularly. Competitions, however, were what the men did best, and there were a number of them, from arm wrestling, to story-telling—a panel of judges in place—to spitting.

At one end of the beach, an impromptu play reenacting a mutiny trial was presented. Something akin to talent shows were at opposite ends of the beach: singing, magic tricks, juggling, mime, and dancing a few skills on exhibit. From one of those erupted a knife-throwing contest. Distances were paced off, and a cask top, with concentric circles drawn with a charred stick, was set up as a target.

The spectators were unabashedly partisan,
Ciara Morganse
vs.
Griselle
. The best from each was pressed forward, odds shouted, and coins collected at every toss of the knife. Through a process of eliminations, it came down to Pryce against the best Griseller. To no surprise to any Morganser, Pryce handily won. The third place winner was a huge surprise: Mr. Stubbs, missing fingers and all.

Cate was called away to tend the third sliced limb of the day, a nasty-looking slash running from the inside of the man’s arm to nearly his wrist. Not deep enough to require stitches, by the time she finished binding it, the knife throwing had evolved into sword fighting.

The rules were roughly the same as practices on board: a circle heeled in the sand; the first to knock the other over was the winner. Again, the best from each ship was pressed forward. Cate watched in fascination as the men lunged and parried back and forth. The sun flashing off the steel blades, and the metallic clash and grind of the metal stirred primeval blood. The carnage that could be wrought by those razor edges was a fearsome thing. But today was all in fun. At least, that is what she privately chanted.

“No worries, luv!” she growled under her breath in a graveled imitation of Nathan.

On a fervent cloud of one-upmanship, the Morgansers set to bragging that they possessed something unique to any other ship on the Caribbean, hell, the world: a sword-fighting woman. Under Nathan’s watchful eye, a reluctant Cate was dragged into the ring. His dark-framed eyes scanned the Grisellers, and then glanced to Thomas, who barely lifted one shoulder in consent.

The Grisellers eyed her speculatively. They knew her only as the Captain’s guest. A woman pirate would have been a novelty; that she could manage a sword expected. On the surface, however, she bore the aspects of neither, and they placed their bets accordingly.

So consumed by her apprehensions, Cate was only vaguely aware of Pryce coming up at her elbow. Grey eyes bright with the excitement of combat, he pointed with his chin toward her first opponent sidling into the ring.

“Mind what ye’ve lernt, lass. Keep yer elbows down and yer wrist firm. Watch them eyes; ’tis the window to his soul. Ahh, look at ’im! Scairt of ye already, he is. Two-thirds of the battle ’tis won already. But mind, he’s more afraid of embarrassin’ hisself. Take ’im quick, else ye won’t be takin’ him a-tall.”

Pryce was correct. If Biggins had been the ship’s baby, then this one was but a month older. He’d most likely been chosen on a wave of skepticism and reckless male pride, which meant they thought her a joke. To be dismissed so out-of-hand stirred her determination to prove them wrong. Dark of hair and eye, sweat rolled down the lad’s olive skin: he was as nervous as she. It was a good sign.

The sword shoved into Cate’s hand wasn’t a familiar one. This one had a thicker grip and was rough against her palm. The blade was heavier, a weapon built for labor, not finesse. She worked it in her hand, gripping and re-gripping, trying to gain familiarity. She struck her stance, feeling grossly disadvantaged as she touched her blade in salute.

Nervous and nearly frozen with self-consciousness, the startling swiftness of her foe’s—Rafa, according to his supporters—first move took her by surprise. Within seconds, she had been driven back, until her hem brushed the line in the sand. Irked by his temerity, and determined not to be embarrassed, she counter-attacked. Rafa’s eyes widened, caught unawares. She countered harder, pushing him further back. A twisting slash on her part, and his weapon fell to cheering approval.

An enthusiastic slap on the shoulder broke Cate from the astonishment of winning.

“I knew ye could do it,” Pryce exclaimed, vigorously rubbing her arm and shoulder. Tucking her sword under his arm, he massaged her hand. “Well, done, sir. Yer the pride o’ the
Morganse,
to be sure.”

Exhilarated by the flush of battle and success, Cate dabbed the sweat from her face. She saw Nathan at the circle’s margin, hip cocked and arms crossed, displaying a gold-bedecked smile of approval.

“Watch ‘im,” Pryce said, pulling her attention to her next opponent: a grizzled but wiry one. “Arabie, he is. He be a crafty cove. Mind his eyes; the sneakin’ scug is a-tryin’ to intimidate ye already.”

Pryce was correct. Her new opponent’s ferret-like eyes were stonily fixed on her.

Pryce nodded in affirmation as he massaged her upper arm. “I’ve seen his sort a’fore. He’ll be desirin’ to go high ’n bring ye up, so’s he can cut you low.”

Her abdomen knotted at the word “cut.” “I thought this was supposed to be in fun.”

“Aye! It ’tis! And don’t be a-worryin’ about the difference in swords.”

Cate blinked, only then noticing the weapon: a vicious-looking instrument, with a sweeping curved edge similar to the scythes used in the hayfields.

“They fight just the same,” Pryce assured, judiciously. “The curve’s the better to slit yer gut in tight quarters.” He patted her in a confident dismissal. “You’ll do fine.”

As she took up her position, the onlookers grew feverish, the hunger for battle etched on every straining face. These were pirates, blood and mayhem their bread and butter. The blood drawn in earlier exchanges had only piqued their hunger, and anticipation was a heady nectar.

Again, the Griseller took the early advantage. As predicted, he slashed high, the tip of his blade whirring past her ear. Angered at being played, she parried back. Her height was an advantage, providing a longer reach. Her opponent tried several more ploys, mostly intended to break her concentration, but to no avail. The spectators’ shouts merged into a unified, multi-lingual din. Pryce’s bass rang the loudest, with pointers and encouragements. At length, she drove her rival backward and over the line to win again.

As the cheers went up and winnings were collected, Nathan stepped forward and gently took the sword from Cate. Good-naturedly taking the jibes, shooting back a few of his own, he took her out of the circle and sat her down under a tree. Thomas was there, leaned against a cask, arms loosely crossed over his weapons.

“Watch her,” Nathan said to Thomas, and then to Cate, “Oh, and here.”

He fumbled in his pocket to extract a small leather pouch and dropped it in Cate’s hand with a metallic clink.

“What’s this?” she asked, still gasping for air.

Nathan sighed at her thick-wittedness. “Your share of the wagers.”

“I didn’t bet, especially on myself,” she said as Nathan artfully dodged her attempts to give it back.

“Aye, well, ’tis a good thing at least one of us—two, actually,” he qualified, with an acknowledging nod to Thomas, “have the savvy and good sense to know a sure thing when they see it. One is obliged to answer the door when Opportunity knocks, for she rarely returns.”

Cate gaped at Thomas. “
You
bet on
me
against your own men?”

The lake-blue eyes narrowed to knowing slits. “No man shall ever get the best of you.”

Nathan made a rueful snort as he pivoted and swaggered back to the circle.

“You’re not bad. Nathan’s been teaching you, hasn’t he?” Thomas asked after Nathan was out of earshot.

Still thoroughly winded, Cate lifted the hair from her neck to cool it. “A little. How could you tell?”

Thomas pursed his lips as he regarded Nathan, now exchanging jibes with the spectators. “I recognized a few moves. He never had much formal training. It’s always been a matter of survival than style.”

He chuckled quietly at a memory. “There was a time—a short one, mind—when we had an opportunity to study with a master. He was on a ship we raided off Tenerife. We convinced him to trade instructions for his life.”

Thomas assured himself of Nathan’s location, and then leaned very near her ear. “I said it before, and I’ll say it again: if that damned fool ever hurts you, I will not abide it.”

Cate stared up at Thomas, puzzled by his low-voiced vehemence.

“If he is that blind or damned stupid then there’s no help for him,” Thomas went on. “But I can save you, and by the gods, I will not watch him destroy you the way—”

He was cut off the rise of voices chanting his and Nathan’s names. The latter now stood in the circle, with his arms spread in invitation.

“Seems they shan’t settle for less.” Nathan called over the voices. Grinning, he gave a dramatic shrug. “It would appear I’m obliged to best you again.”

Thomas straightened to sketch a formal but mocking bow. “
A votre plaisir, Monsieur
,” he said, in impeccable French.

“
Le plaisir est
à
moi
,” came Nathan’s equally fluent reply.

As Nathan approached, Thomas turned back to her. “By the gods, I mean it.”

The two men threw off everything, until they wore only shirts, breeks, and boots. The rest was piled it into Cate’s arms, Nathan’s hat poised haphazardly on her head. The two captains were virtually carried to the circle on a wave of enthusiasm. There, under a barrage of outcries and adulations, they drew their swords and squared off.

“Morganse! Morganse! Morganse!”

“Griselle! Griselle! Griselle!”

Neither man was above a little showmanship. Slowly circling each other, they allowed the suspense to build. These were pirates, who lived and died by the sword, in the most literal sense of the phrase. There were no formal stances here, no address or salute. They stood loose armed, eyeing and waiting. Cate had never given Thomas’ sword much notice, before. Standing side by side, as he and Nathan often did, she had seen the hilt was heavier and more ornate than Nathan’s, but little else. Now, she could see the weapon in its full glory—and a glorious weapon it was, with a basket-style grip of carved silver and intricately detailed guards. It was larger in not only breadth but length by a good third. Nathan’s sword was stoic in comparison, a layman’s weapon, made to impress with its lethality, not looks.

Nathan’s eye imperceptibly twitched; a corner of Thomas’ mouth quirked. A plan offered and accepted.

It began with such startling swiftness Cate didn’t see who moved first. As they lunged and parried back and forth, the contrast between the two was striking. Thomas was big and powerful, but amazingly graceful for his size. Nearly a head shorter, Nathan was lithe and athletic, virtually gliding over the sand. The two’s advantages were counter-balanced, the larger man’s reach neutralized by the smaller’s agility, strength countered by guile. Like their chess matches, they knew each other’s game, countering effortlessly, sometimes laughingly, sometimes with a grunt of surprise and a flood of cursing.

The sun flaring on the blade edges, their steel voices rang clear, with an underlying hiss of threat. Calm and intent, each bore a faint smile. Both captains knew what the audience desired and gave it with a flair. It might have been all in fun, but neither held back. Cate was afraid to look, but unable to look away, gasping at moves which would have been fatal had it been anyone else. If there had been the slightest error in judgment, the force of their swings could easily have sliced the other from gullet to craw. She had seen such exhibitions before, but in this setting, surrounded by sea rogues cheering for blood, it took on a new lethality.

Breathing heavier, shirts darkening with sweat, they fought. Their expressions sobered as they grew more absorbed and focused. Caught up in the fervor of the battle, the pirates brandished their own weapons as they clamored for victory, in a myriad of languages. Bets were made, the odds fluxing with the fight’s ever-changing momentum.

With a loud grunt, Thomas riposted with a vicious slash, forcing Nathan to scramble backwards. A flick, and the back of Nathan’s right hand bloomed red. Thomas lunged with a curling downward swipe, knocking Nathan’s weapon away. An upper cut with his fist sent Nathan onto his rump. A victorious uproar erupted from the
Griselle
’s crew and bets were settled.

Thomas pulled Nathan to his feet, and they heartily clapped each other on the back, accepting adulations as they departed. In the shade, where Cate waited, they hung onto each other, bent and gasping for air. Faces streaming with sweat, mutual compliments collided in mid-air. Cate tried to inspect Nathan’s bleeding hand, but was genially waved away.