The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (13 page)

That must have reassured him because he turned to his crew. “Prepare for action!”

Barefooted men responded immediately, monkeying up and down the ratlines with unequaled speed. Several stationed themselves on platforms, armed with muskets, prepared to take aim on the enemy ship.

“
Capitán
,” she said, grabbing his sleeve. “Didn’t Admiral Nelson disapprove of this practice?”

A menacing tic emerged in his stubbled jaw. “Nelson’s dead.” As a member of Nelson’s Tea, Seaton had surely been privy to the admiral’s code of ethics. “He’s dead because French marines employed mercenary tactics, raining bullets down on his quarterdeck. I will not allow history to repeat itself.”

He gave her no time to reply but spun to face his men.

Mercy wrung her hands together.
What in God’s name am I supposed to do now? I haven’t been trained for this.

Stalwart seafarers toiled as if their lives depended on it. They did. That truth made her fear for each living soul on board the
Priory
. Each man had loved ones dependent on their return. Most of all, she couldn’t help but be terrified for Seaton, the real man lurking beneath
Capitán
Blade’s stony façade. He’d suffered untold agony at Delgado’s hands. This one-eyed captain was the metamorphosis of the earl’s son, a cynical man raging silently at the world. One had merely to gaze into his penetrating stare to witness the depth of misery trapped inside him.

Her heart constricted. Her corset disallowed the deep breath she needed to satisfy her lungs. How far would Seaton go to fulfill his mission? Was he willing to sacrifice his ship and his crew to protect her?

Heaven help her, she needed something to preoccupy her mind. “
Capitán
.”

He ignored her.

“Captain,” she repeated in English, hoping that would get his attention.

Nothing.

A quick look over her shoulder gave her ample reason to understand what diverted his attention. The French ship sailed one hundred yards away from the
Priory’s
stern… within firing range.

Randall sprang up the ladder to the poop deck. He touched his hat with respect as he passed Mercy to report to Seaton. “She’s got all the wind she can find, sir.”

“All?” Seaton frowned.

Mercy white-knuckled the netting at the rail and stared down at the fire buckets attached below.

The captain turned from the taffrail where he’d spoken with Simmons at the signal locker. He stepped onto the rail beam, grabbed the rail, and leaned over the side of the
Priory
’s hull to examine its one-hundred-foot length. Mercy watched him inhale a long breath as he lifted his gaze to the shrouds.

She did the same, completely mesmerized by the ropes rising out before them like bobbins of thread in a weaver’s loom.

Seaton stepped down from the railing then glanced at her before turning his attention on Simmons who stood nearby. “Strip her down.”

Mercy gasped at the lack of sympathy in the captain’s voice.

Simmons’s curious gaze cut to her. “Captain?”

“You heard me.” Seaton’s face contorted cruelly. “What are you waiting for?”

“But Captain.”

Dios mio!
This couldn’t be real. Was it Seaton’s plan to strip her down before his crew to punish her for her disobedience or use her to distract the French crew?

Nearby, Moore paled. “Are you certain you want to do this, Cap’n?”

Mercy dug her nails into the rail for leverage. She stared down at the water webbing past the ship, considering climbing the rail and jumping overboard. Was a watery death better than being subjected to such a disgrace? She’d asked for something to do. Was this the job he meant to give her?

She swallowed the thick lump welling in her throat. When she finally found her voice, she turned to confront him. “
Diablo!
How will stripping me out of my clothes help you evade the enemy?”

Randall and Moore stared at her blankly. Simmons, eyes wide, burst out laughing.

Seaton arrogantly crossed his arms. “Is that your idea of preventing bloodshed? Distract the enemy in all your glory?”

The gall! I would never suggest such a thing.
She held her breath and fumed, silently cursing him to Hades. If he
ever
tried to take off her clothes, she would scratch his remaining eye out.

The captain grinned with a steady unreadable stare. “I say again, strip her down.”

Randall and Simmons immediately moved to do his bidding.

Tears filled her eyes, and her heart hammered against her ribs. “This isn’t necessary. I assure you.” She watched the men approach, and then looked frantically back over her shoulder at the foaming sea racing past. Her only avenue of escape was over the
Priory
’s side. Did she have the courage to jump? If she did, who would help Lord Melville?

Randall and Simmons were nearly abreast of her.

She turned toward the rail. Molten heat coursed through her veins as waves crashed against the hull and wind whipped her hair into tangles. She batted the unruly tendrils away and fought for breath as she glanced over her shoulder at the advancing men.

Randall and Simmons flashed her wicked grins.

A lump of fear lodged in her throat. Would they really take off her clothes before the entire crew?
Dios mio
, it went against everything she believed in to kill herself. Her knees buckled and she almost crumpled to the deck as they came within reach.

The two men lifted their arms.

She backed into the rail.

Instead of grabbing her however, they tipped their hats and continued on their way, humorously jabbing one another.

Mercy gasped in surprise. Her jaw slackened. Dumbfounded, she watched them descend the ladder to the quarterdeck and disappear from sight. Trembling, she sagged against the rail and breathed a sigh of relief.

Seaton’s order,
“Strip her down,”
echoed man to man on the quarterdeck.

Nauseated and alarmed by how perilous her position on board the
Priory
appeared to be, Mercy silently watched the crew sprint into action.

“Wouldn’t it be better to send the
señorita
below, Cap’n?” Moore’s question drew her attention back to her dauntless captor.

A devilish smile contorted the deceitful captain’s mouth. He and his men knew all along what he’d been asking them to do… strip down the ship. She bit her lip, holding back her anger, and straightened her spine.

Seaton didn’t bother to look at her.

“She stays with me.” He frowned and wrinkled his brow. A scarred piece of flesh tugged mercilessly at his eye patch leading her to wonder again if the expression pained him. “It’s the only guarantee I have of keeping her out of trouble.”

“I…” Mercy was too agitated for words. “That is to say I—”

“I know what you were thinking,
señorita
. You may be half Spanish, but I am not
that
cruel.” He gave her his back and raised the spyglass up to his eye again, cutting off the conversation before she could rail against his unorthodox tactics.

“You are the most—”

“Get down!” he shouted.

A loud wail erupted in the air. One minute she was advancing on the captain, the next she found herself planted on the pristine deck with the dumb ox on top of her, water splashing over the rails, soaking her through to her skin.

He rose up on his elbows and looked down at her in a disarming, disturbing way. “Are you hurt?”

Gooseflesh prickled her neck but otherwise she was fine. “No.”

She licked salt off her lips. The action made him frown, and he moved suddenly to stand.

He took a deep breath and let it half out as he thrust himself to his feet then stretched out his hand to help her up.

Mercy gratefully accepted it. “Thank you.”

As she tried to wring water out of her clothes, she gazed beyond the taffrail. There she saw a sickening sight. Dense smoke swirled outward from one of the French ship’s guns and floated half-way up the masts, drawing patterns in the air. Worse, all the vessel’s gun ports were now wide open. Cannon jutted forward like forty birds peeking out of their nests.

“A warning shot,” he said, following her gaze. “They won’t miss again.”

~~~~

Garrick tensed as
fury pulsed through him. He’d be damned if he’d allow a rogue Frenchie to send the
Priory
to her watery grave. Devil damn him, he’d only just recovered his beloved ship, and he didn’t intend to return to Abbydon Cove empty handed.

He gazed down at the helpless
señorita
at his side then leaned over the poop rail to inspect the quarterdeck below.

Hacking sounds pounded out a rhythm. Now and again a splash sounded as his once pristine deck littered with wood shavings and chunks of severed finials was cleared. By all that was holy, he’d discard the Spanish additions marring the
Priory’s
simplistic lines. Losing the accoutrements would release the drag that weighed the
Priory
down and gave the
Armide
an advantage.

Moore conversed with men at the helm.

Garrick hailed him over. “How deep is her draft now?”

“She’s struggling at the bow, sir.”

Garrick glanced over his shoulder. The French clewed sail to break free of the
Priory’s
wake. Their persistence proved to be a hellish bore. And that damned captain offered no quarter. If, as Garrick suspected, he was dealing with Captain Troude, he could expect no less.

One hundred yards separated the two ships now, allowing Garrick to easily differentiate the officers and crew.
Devil damn me, if the
Priory
doesn’t widen the distance and fast. One good shot and our sails will be riddled with holes, her masts falling like fresh cut timber.

The
Priory’s
one hundred-foot long deck spanned out before him. She might not clearly resemble the sleek-lined ship Keane had originally designed, but no matter how hard the Spaniards had tried to reconstruct her, she was still a Seaton innovation. Her keel a marvel as it cut through the swells, littering the deck with raining spray.

“Deck there! Cap’n!” The hail came from Fitz, aloft.

Garrick tilted his head to better see the topman, an uneasy sensation knifing into his gut. “Aye, Fitz.”

“Fog, sir! Off the larboard bow.”

He turned left and peered west, a plan already manifesting in his mind. “Man the axes! Let her run!”

Moore didn’t question the order but instantaneously repeated it, hollering loudly once again as he sprinted amidships. “Man the axes!”

Sailors armed with axes and marlinspikes attacked the garish Spanish embellishments that had transformed the
Priory
from swift runner to a lumbering heap of timber. Meanwhile, topmen adjusted the sails, taking advantage of a following wind. Sheets squealed from their blocks.

“Look to the bow,” Garrick ordered, intent on taking advantage of his only window. “Dump the carronade shot!”

Blood drained out of Mercy’s face. Her trembling lips and chin reminded him what this mission was all about.
Her.

A banging sound made her flinch. “Surely that isn’t necessary. Without ammunition, how will you defend the ship?”

“I
am
defending her. I’m trying to keep her from getting blown out of the water.” If he wasn’t so determined to get her to England for Melville’s benefit, he’d order his men to standby the tack and then helm a’lee. Then he’d turn on the French and play with them until he beat the
Armide
and secured it as his prize.

“But…” Her voice turned shrill. “We cannot survive against a larger ship without ammunition.”

He didn’t respond. They had plenty of ammunition below decks. That wasn’t the point.

Men sectioned into teams of ten shuffled up from gangways. Two teams broke off to heave the twenty-five pounders over the side. One team hauled barrels and threw them over the rails.

Her distrust of his abilities couldn’t have been clearer when Mercy grasped the cross hanging around her neck and muttered a prayer.

Half-amused, half-irritated, Garrick pointed to the western horizon. “There are other ways to survive.”

“You should have never tried to save my life. This will be a costly mistake.”

He grabbed her chin and turned her face to the west. “Make no mistake.
That
will be our salvation.”

“A fog bank?” He took it from her expression the fog bank wasn’t the divine intervention she’d been praying for. “Is that wise? The Breton coast is riddled with rocks. How will you miss them?”