The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (107 page)

He watched as, satisfied for the moment, she strode swiftly back toward the helm, then followed more slowly.

This—the unrivaled, unquestioned female captain of a privateer—was another part, a large part, of who and what Linnet Trevission was.

It was, he could admit to himself, an awesome part, one that boggled his mind, yet also filled him with honest and true admiration. Not an emotion he’d expected to feel for a lover, let alone a wife. Yet she was proving a lady of many parts—and each and every one called to him.

And that, he suspected, as he climbed the ladder to the stern deck where she had once again claimed the helm, was something she didn’t yet understand.

But she would.

Smiling to himself, he settled against the stern railing to watch his lover, his sometime-soon-to-be wife, send her ship racing over the waves to Plymouth.

With her ship smoothly heeling around the northern tip of Guernsey, Linnet set sail to best capture the brisk breeze for a fast run to Plymouth. Setting course for Plymouth Sound was something she could do in her sleep in any weather; Plymouth was the port to which she and the
Esperance
most frequently sailed.

Although Cummins and his men had been on the wharf at dawn, as had a number of other merchants, even with their collective goods in her hold, the
Esperance
was still running light; no need for full sail to streak over the waves.

Beside her, his large hands curled about the rail, Griffiths nodded. “That’s a good pace. If the wind keeps up—and no reason it shouldn’t—we’ll be in Plymouth well before dusk.”

“That’s what I’m aiming for.” Leaving the wheel in Griffith’s capable hands, Linnet stepped down to the main deck and set out on a circuit—a habit when underway. She ambled down the deck, exchanging comments with the crew members she passed. Logan, she’d noticed, had halted in the prow. Hip against the rail, arms crossed over his powerful chest, he stood looking down into the waves.

Lifting her face to the breeze, she briefly closed her eyes,
savored as always the inexpressible thrill of being at sea, of flashing over the waves, the wind tugging her hair, the salty tang of the ocean sinking to her soul. She was a child of sea and ship, of wind and wave. She loved the familiar, reassuring roll of the deck beneath her feet, the creak and snap of spar and sail. Loved the sheer exhilaration of speeding beneath the wide open sky.

Opening her eyes, she continued on, taking stock as she always did. She’d taken Logan’s warning to heart and given orders she hadn’t had to give for some years—not since the end of the war. A Royal Navy ensign might be flapping over her head, signaling to all others on the waves that any vessel seeking to impede the
Esperance
would, in effect, be taking on the English navy—the navy that currently ruled the seas—yet while she found it hard to believe that anyone would engage, she’d nevertheless given the order to have the crew armed, and the guns made ready. Two words from her and the cannon would roll out, primed and ready to fire.

She’d rarely uttered those two words. The
Esperance
‘s guns were especially deadly, and she’d never liked seeing such graceful creations as ships smashed, broken, and sent to the deep. Nature’s wrecks were bad enough; only if the opposing captain gave her no choice would she fire. She’d been forced to do so on more than one occasion, and knew she would again if that was the only way to protect her ship and her crew.

Threaten either, and she would act; safeguarding ship and crew was her paramount duty as captain.

Her circuit had led her into the prow. As she joined Logan by the rail, other ships came into view.

He nodded toward them. “Company.”

She scanned the sails, but could tell little from this distance. “Hardly surprising. This is the Channel—we’re traversing the busiest shipping lane in the world.”

Leaning on the rail, she glanced at him, realized he was looking at the gun port below.

“I went down onto your lower deck, took a look at your,
guns.” He met her gaze. “They’re not positioned in the usual way.”

She smiled, shook her head. “My father built this vessel, the fourth to carry the name. He was always looking to make improvements, and one he designed and implemented was a different sort of platform for cannon, at least of the caliber barques of our size carry. The platform allows a greater degree of swivel than found in other ships. Through using it, and changing the position and structure of the gun ports accordingly, the
Esperance
is able to fire effectively well before we’ve attained the customary broadside position, which puts us one up on the opposition from the first.”

“You can still fire fully broadside as well?”

“And even angled sternward. It gives us more freedom in any engagement, whether the other ship is coming up on us or we’re chasing them.”

“What’s the largest cannon you can carry?”

Somewhat to Logan’s surprise, she knew the answer. An almost disconcerting discussion of ordnance ensued, one he would never have imagined having with any female.

After that, a comfortable silence enveloped them. With her leaning on the railing alongside him, they looked out to sea, at the sails of the seven other ships they could see crossing the waves under the gray sky.

They’d been watching for some time when three ships changed course, some sails furling while others were released to billow and catch the wind.

Slowly, Linnet straightened.

Logan glanced at her face, saw the intentness of her expression as she tracked the three ships.

Then her lips tightened. “Damn!” She watched for a moment more, then glanced at him. “The idiots! They’re coming for us.” She glanced back at the ships, exasperation in her face. “Perhaps once they get closer they’ll remember what the ensign means … but they would already have seen it, and I’m not taking the chance they’ll rediscover their brains.”

Whirling, she strode, bootheels ringing, back up the ship. “All hands on deck!” Fully raised, her voice carried clearly. “All stations!”

Thunder rolled below, then erupted as men pounded up the stairs, pouring out on the deck, buckling on swords and bandoliers, checking pistols and knives, short swords and cutlasses, tying back long hair, yanking on coats. Many swung straight up into the rigging, climbing with focused attention to specific positions on the spars above.

Everywhere Logan looked, men rushed with single-minded purpose. Every man knew exactly where he needed to be, what he had to do. Not one questioned why they were summoned; like an excellently drilled company, they swung into battle-ready formation.

Following Linnet as best as he could, he caught the glance she threw over her shoulder. “You’d be best up with me at the helm.”

He knew she meant that there he’d be out of her men’s way, but he wasn’t about to argue. Catching up, he stayed on her heels as she ducked and wove unerringly through the organized chaos that filled the
Esperanc
e’
s
main deck.

Jimmy, Linett’s cutlass and belt in his hands, popped up at the bottom of the stern ladder just as Linnet reached it. She grabbed them and went up the ladder faster than a monkey, giving Logan a glimpse of the sailing brat she’d been.

Giving thanks for the impulse that had seen him buckle on his saber before he’d come on deck, he followed. His dirk was, as usual, in his left boot.

By the time he reached Linnet, she’d buckled on her sword and reclaimed the helm. Taking up a position behind her right shoulder, Logan saw with surprise that the deck that an instant before had been a sea of rushing bodies was now the epitome of calm preparedness, all the men standing ready at their stations.

With one eye on Linnet, the crew watched the three approaching ships; that they were approaching was no longer in doubt. Griffiths, standing off to Linnet’s left, had a spyglass,
to his eye. “The buggers are circling to come up astern. They’ve pitch-dipped arrows ready, and braziers on deck, archers standing by—looks like they think to slink close, within range, take out our sails, slow us, then board us.”

Linnet snorted, an eloquent sound. After a moment, she said, “They’re smaller and faster than us, but they don’t have what it takes to take us. Here’s what we’ll do.”

She’d spoken in a clear, decisive, but even tone; she paused to let Griffiths repeat her words loudly, then they were bellowed by the bosun, Claxton, standing amidship, so all the crew could hear.

When Claxton fell silent, Linnet continued, pausing every now and then for Griffiths and Claxton to relay her words. “There’s three enemy ships out there—all frigates and as quick as frigates can be. No flags, so we can’t know how experienced they are in these waters. Regardless, two are circling to come up astern, to get within arrow-range and take out our sails, then presumably they think to flank us, and wedge us between for boarding. Of course, we’re not going to let that happen. As they pull close, we’re going to put on all sail—as they’ll expect us to do, as if we think to outrun them. They’ll chase, and put on all sail, too, to run us down. But we’re not going to run—at just the right moment, we’re going to veer hard port, and cut across the bow of the ship on that side, raking her with our guns as we go. Our sail changes are going to have to be slick, we’ll be at full speed, so be ready.

“Once we’re past her, we’ll be in position to go after the third ship, the one presently hanging well off to starboard—most likely the one with their senior commander aboard. If they give us the chance, we’ll board his ship and capture him, but meanwhile, we’ll need to keep an eye on the other ship, the one we’ll have left to come around. By the time she does, we need to be clear of the commander’s ship, so if we do board, we keep it fast. This will be a raid—we go in, we do what we came to do, and we get out
tout de suite
—do you hear me?”

An instant later, when the question was relayed, a resounding “Aye!” rose from the decks.

“Good.” Linnet kept speaking, her words fed down the line. “The instant we’re all back, we pile on sail for Plymouth and race the bastards there. I don’t think they’ll give chase, but who knows? If they do, we might turn and savage them, but”—she slid her gaze to Logan—”today our duty is to get Major Monteith into Plymouth, so as far as possible, we’ll stick to our course.”

Logan stepped closer. “Tell them that if they come up against dark-skinned men with black scarves about their heads, they’ll be Indian cultists, and they shouldn’t hold back. The cultists won’t. They’ll be eager to kill anyone any way they can.”

Linnet glanced at Griffiths, nodded. The first mate relayed Logan’s words.

“Good luck,” Linnet called. “Now stand ready!”

The crew shifted again, some going below to the guns, others taking up fresh positions, waiting for Linnet’s order to change sail as, far to the rear, the two unflagged frigates completed their circling manuever and fell in on either side of the
Esperance’s
wake.

As she’d intimated, Linnet called for all sail. Overhead, canvas was released; it billowed for a few seconds, then the wind rushed in and filled it—and the
Esperance
leapt.

The pursuing frigates at first fell behind, but then fresh sails blossomed in their rigging, pulled taut, and they came on.

Pushing, pushing, surging to get nearer, they reminded Logan of pursuing hounds. Further back, the third frigate was forced to set all sail to keep up.

“Bosun—message to the gun captain.” Linnet held the wheel lightly, steady on her course. “He can fire the port guns at will after we start the turn.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Claxton pointed at Jimmy, who raced off below to deliver the order.

An odd silence fell, broken only by the waves splashing against the hull, the caw of an inopportune wheeling gull.

Logan recognized the lull, the universal nerve-racking hiatus before battle was joined—that moment when no one wasted even a breath.

“They’ve taken up our challenge and are coming up fast.” Linnet glanced at Griffiths; he relayed her words. “They won’t be able to change direction as fast as we can. You know what to do, which sails to furl, which to trim. Which angle we need to catch the wind. We’ve drilled often enough, so stand ready now … on my word when I give it, hard to port.”

They waited. The entire crew held still, expectant and ready, barely breathing. To Logan, it was exactly like waiting for the order to charge. Battle-ready tension sang in the air, yet every man stood reined, poised, all but quivering.

He waited, too, fist resting on the hilt of his saber as he stood beside Linnet, facing astern, watching the ships draw nearer and nearer—and still nearer. And still Linnet held to her course. She glanced over her shoulder, once, twice, gauging distance, but still she held the wheel steady.

Jaw clenched, he swore behind his teeth. He was about to appeal to her—if she didn’t move now, surely the ship on their portside would cleave the
Esperance
in two—

“Now!
” Linnet swung the wheel hard.

Griffiths helped her haul and haul.

The ship heeled to the left so violently Logan had to grab the rail to keep from being thrown. The instant the turn, a tight one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, was commenced, sailors aloft were hooking and trimming sails, hauling in others, changing angles of spars as the ship swung around.

Logan held his breath, hand fisting on the stern rail as he felt the changes take hold, felt the force of the wind in the sails combine with the pressure on the rudder to push the
Esperance
smoothly through the turn at maximum speed.

He saw how close Linnet had judged things, and wondered how she’d dared. From his position in the stern, he could clearly see shocked faces on the sailors and, yes, the cultists crowded on the frigate’s deck.

Then the
Esperance’s
stern slipped past the oncoming frigate’s bow, and he—along with many others, he was sure—exhaled.

Then the
Esperance’s
port guns boomed, once, twice, a raking, staggered volley that ripped a long, jagged hole right on the waterline of the frigate.