Once a Pirate Page 2

  “This ship is beautifully restored,” she said, willing the anxiety from her voice. “Do you use it for charters? Or fishing, maybe?”

  “Fishing?” Adonis crossed his muscular arms over his chest. He was looking at her as if she was from another planet.

  Okay, so he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, but he’d been heroic enough to rescue her, so she might as well try to get along. Offering a conciliatory smile, she held out her hand. “Lieutenant Carly Callahan. I don’t believe I know your name.”

  He coughed out a laugh.

  “Is something funny?”

  “Aye.”

  Carly jerked the wool blanket taut with white-knuckled fists. Was it possible to go from gratitude to fear to exasperation in the space of two minutes? “Who are you?”

  He inclined his head in a mocking bow. “Sir Andrew Spencer.”

  Bitterness left over from her dirt-poor childhood—and from the man who had so recently spurned her—coiled its fingers around her stomach. She’d bet Andrew Spencer was nothing more than a conceited, titled aristocrat playing war games on an antique boat.

  “I trust you recognize the name?” he inquired crisply.

  “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”

  He snorted. “Mr. Gibbons!”

  An enormous black man with a cottony mop of white hair emerged from the room next door, startling her.

  “Have Jonesy secure the guns,” Andrew said. “Then join Cuddy at the helm.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Gibbons collected a wet towel and a bowl, then backed toward the door, nodding respectfully. “Good evening, Lady Amanda.”

  Carly blinked. “Who’s Amanda?”

  “I fear you have been knocked witless,” Andrew said, chuckling.

  “I may have been knocked out,” she shot back, “but I’m not witless.” Gingerly, she probed the matted hair above her right ear and winced. “And I’m not Amanda.”

  “I see. Then how do you suppose you came to be swimming in the middle of the ocean?”

  Talk about witless. “My plane went down near your ship. You must have heard the crash.” She pointed to the patches sewn on her flight jacket. “Look. Says right here—Lieutenant C. Callahan. U.S. Navy pilot.”

  “I am in no mood for this child’s play,” he said, bringing his face close to hers.

  She caught his scent—masculine, a hint of sweat, brandy, the sea. His unkempt brown hair curled around his collar, and she doubted he’d seen a razor in at least a week.

  “Your time would be better spent pondering the seriousness of your situation, Lady Amanda.”

  She tore her gaze from the whiskers on his jaw and met his glare. His pupils were dilated, turning his disconcerting blue eyes into unyielding black orbs. Her heart skidded to a stop.

  Oh, God, he was a drug runner. Or maybe he wanted to salvage the downed jet and sell the parts. One thing was certain: She wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find out.

  She shoved the blanket to her waist, pushed herself upright. He reached for her. She blocked him with her arm, and he grabbed her wrist.

  “Taking your leave already?” he drawled.

  Run! her senses screamed, but there was no way around him. Okay, Carly, time to think your way out of this—and fast. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I’d like to use your radio to contact my carrier.”

  His scowl deepened. “Who is Ray Dio?”

  “Radio,” she repeated, as though to a child.

  They looked at each other long and hard, then shook their heads in identical displays of bafflement. He released her wrist, but only after gaping at her wristwatch as though he’d never seen one before.

  Several shouts echoed from the deck, reminding Carly of the sinking sailboat. “By the way, what happened to that other ship? Was there an explosion?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Were there any survivors?”

  “You.”

  She stared at him blankly—then she opened her mouth.

  He held up one hand. “Enough! You will send me to an early grave with your ceaseless babble.”

  Andrew could not imagine what her father, Lord Paxton, had been thinking when he’d hired this girl’s governess. The woman must have been an uneducated native of the colonies, no doubt; that would explain Amanda’s odd accent. Jamming his fingers through his hair, he paced briskly, no small feat considering the narrow space between the bed and the wall. Blast her incomprehensible chatter! He reached for his decanter and filled his glass with brandy, pausing to contemplate the woman in his bunk, who was anything but fifteen. Hair the color of moonlight spilled from her braid, a few silvered strands sticking to her moist, flushed cheeks. Her fine-boned hands were clenched.

  ’Twas disconcerting, but he felt as though he knew her, although, to his knowledge, they had never met. “Milady,” he said quietly, “when you are not reciting gibberish, you are quite an enchanting creature.”

  Her golden-brown eyes darkened with fury.

  Andrew smiled and took a sip of brandy. After sighting the Merryweather off the coast of Spain, he’d dispatched two men to Malta on one of the longboats. By now, they were well on their way to London—and Richard—with the ransom note. It was long overdue, but the duke would pay. Aye, he would pay for the lives he had destroyed. Finally, Andrew had gained the upper hand, possessed what the duke so desperately wanted. Ah, how he looked forward to dangling the sweet bait all the way to Emerald Isle.

  First, however, he must determine whether a second ship had accompanied her. If he could cripple another of Lord Paxton’s vessels, it would further disgrace Richard, demonstrating that the cur was incapable of protecting his future father-in-law’s interests. Sighing contentedly, Andrew nursed the pleasant thought.

  The smell of wet wool reached his nostrils as he settled onto a chair and propped his rugged boots on the bed. “Now, I will ask the questions, milady.”

  In response, she folded her arms over her chest and thrust her chin in the air. He chuckled. It would not take long to whittle the chit down to size. Indeed, in a scant two minutes he’d have her bawling like a babe.

  “Carly Ann Callahan, Lieutenant, 242-54-1879,” she repeated calmly.

  Andrew shot to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but his hand was steady as he poured another brandy. He’d expected a spoiled but submissive young girl, not this stubborn woman who willfully stood up to him. No woman had ever dared defy him, not even the spoiled bitches of the ton.

  They had been at this for over an hour, and she hadn’t given him a snippet of useful information about her father’s ship. When he informed her that she’d been kidnapped, she’d prattled on and on about strange laws, Warsaw conventions, and prisoners of war. By God, she’d insisted that she’d fallen into the sea from a flying machine!

  “Just let me use the radio.” She watched him expectantly. “And maybe I can help you find your friend’s ship, okay?”

  “Who the bloody hell is ‘O.K.’?” She’d mentioned the initials a dozen times. For the life of him, Andrew could not recall an acquaintance of Richard’s with those initials. “Oliver . . . Oscar . . .”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Her long lashes framed eyes that were wide and without guile.

  Her innocent look. He detested it.

  “Quiet!” This was maddening. Perhaps her head wound wasn’t the cause. Perhaps she was daft—a family weakness. He recalled the gossip he’d heard years ago about her now-deceased mother’s antics. After a sip of brandy, he resumed his inquiries with a tenuous grip on his composure. “Shall we try again? When did the other ship depart India for England? What is the name of the vessel? What goods do they have onboard?”

  “Carly Ann Callahan—”

  “Blast you, woman!” He slammed down his glass. He’d been too easy on the wench. It was time to switch tactics.

  Strolling to her side, he lowered himself to his knees. He touched his fingertip to her tem
ple, then traced the line of her jaw. She shuddered, but the two clenched fists in her lap indicated her resolve.

  “As I’ve said, I’m holding you for ransom.” His voice dropped lower. “Your intended, Richard, Duke of Westridge, will hunt you down. Oh, but we’ll lead him a merry chase first.”

  “Look, you have the wrong woman. Let me go.”

  Undeterred, he lifted a lock of her damp hair, rubbed it between his fingers. “Oh, no, sweeting. Not when I am so close. So close . . .” He leaned closer, until he was certain she felt his breath against her chin. “You will bring Richard to me. He needs you to breed his heir. Are you looking forward to that, Lady Amanda?”

  She stiffened, and a part of him wondered why. Until now, she had held up magnificently under his barrage. Perhaps there was something in her past, something she wished to hide. Delighted, he reloaded and fired the next salvo: “Spineless Richard. A little boy masquerading as a man. Ah, my lady, do you long to see your belly swell with his child?”

  She swallowed hard. Her gold-flecked eyes misted over as she pressed her palm to her stomach. For a long moment there was silence between them. Then, for the first time, she glanced away.

  Andrew reared back. Bloody hell. What had he said? His chest ached with the vulnerability, the grief in her eyes. What had caused her such misery? And what made him want to take her into his arms and comfort her?

  No! She was no different from the duke’s well-bred companions who had ruined him, the flighty aristocrats who had turned their backs while Richard had destroyed the only two people Andrew had loved.

  No, he would not waste his pity on Lady Amanda.

  Shoving himself to his feet, Andrew raked the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Don these dry clothes and return to my bed. Do not move from it.” Shaken by his reaction to her, he shouldered open the door to the forward cabin, then kicked it closed behind him. He shrugged off his soggy shirt, yanked on his greatcoat, and stormed outside to the deck.

  “Cap’n’!” Andrew’s cabin boy slid the last few feet down the rain-slick mast, landing deftly on his feet. “Mr. Gibbons told me all about it! Everything she said!” As was usually the case of late, Theo’s declaration ended in a squeak. The lad cleared his throat and deepened his voice. “Conked in the head, she was. In all my days, sir, I’ve never heard stranger words.”

  “In all your days, Theodore?” Andrew repeated, amused.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Hands clasped behind his back, Theo mimicked Andrew’s stance while attempting to keep up with his long strides.

  “I’ve quite a few years on you, lad, but I agree wholeheartedly. ’Tis nonsense befitting the wards of Bedlam.”

  Carly sagged forward, seeking peace in the darkness of her palms. It hadn’t been easy, but since returning to duty, she hadn’t let her sorrow interfere with flying, nor had she allowed herself to dwell on her loss. But this man had nearly toppled her with mere words and a cold-hearted stare—eyes fraught with a bitter grief that echoed her own.

  Hell, that was his problem, not hers. She threw off the scratchy blanket, staggered across the cabin, and cautiously opened the door to the adjacent room. He was gone. She stepped inside, memorizing as many details as she could. Paneling covered the walls and matched the antique furniture, which had to be reproductions, because the pieces were in mint condition. Burgundy curtains ran the length of one wall and half-covered a rack that contained silverware, glasses, and decanters. There was a desk, several armchairs, a quilted blue satin robe tossed over one of them, and a brass-trimmed trunk.

  Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she lifted the weighty lid and rifled through the trunk’s contents. It held clothing, period costumes of some kind. Slamming the lid shut, she turned her attention to the desk. A lamp and a half-smoked cigar sat next to a veritable mountain of leather-bound books. She bypassed the volume opened on the desk, The Elements and Practice of Rigging, Seamanship, and Naval Tactics, and peered inside the lamp illuminating the pages. Inside was a stubby, yellowish candle, not a lightbulb. Chewing on a fingernail, she glanced around the room. No plugs, no switches, no phone jacks. Not a single sign that the twenty-first century existed here.

  Maybe the storm hadn’t taken out the ship’s generator.

  Maybe there was no generator.

  Dread crawled along her spine, chased by an eerie, ever-present sense of déjà vu. Fingertips trembling, she brushed the throbbing lump above her ear.

  Could she be dreaming this? Reliving some past life?

  Yeah, right. This isn’t the twilight zone. This is real life, and you’re in a heap of trouble.

  She resumed her search of the desk, finding old-fashioned pens, a seal with a fancy crest, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, but no electronics, no portable telephone, and no radio transmitter. A worn black book sat next to a bottle of ink. The captain’s log. She swished through the dog-eared pages, reading as she went. Most of the records centered on one man, the duke of Westridge, and more recently, a woman, Amanda Paxton—who Andrew thought she was! Carly dislodged a quaint London Times clipping announcing Lady Amanda’s engagement to the duke of Westridge. The ensuing entries, meticulous notes, detailed plans to abduct the woman.

  She nervously skimmed to the last page. January 23, 1821. Today’s date, she realized belatedly, but almost two hundred years in the past, matching the time frame of the other entries.

  Written on pages that looked . . . new.

  Carly shuddered and shoved aside the log. It’s another fake antique. She inhaled a calming breath, then opened the outside door and stepped down to the deck. The storm had passed, but the spray-laden wind was strong enough to push her backward. Eyes watering, she squinted at the early morning sky, praying that maybe, just maybe, there would be a helicopter circling, searchlights, anything. But only Venus hovered above the silvered horizon.

  Swells slammed into the ship and spray slashed horizontally over the deck, whipping her hair across her eyes. She pushed the strands aside to find dozens of men leering and laughing at her. Scruffy and hard-eyed, they looked like a gang of bikers minus the Harleys.

  “Get back to work, the lot of you!” Andrew shouted from where he stood, evidently not noticing that she was the focus of their attention. In quite a different tone, he addressed the silver-haired man standing next to him. “Let us get underway again, if you please, Mr. Egan.”

  The older man cupped his hands around his mouth and called out a series of rapid-fire instructions.

  The ragtag group sprang into action. Men scurried up and down the swaying masts, yelling incomprehensible orders one after the other as they loosened the main sails. Like enormous sheets hung out to dry, the sails thundered in the wind, then billowed and stretched taut. Ropes uncoiled. More sails unfurled. The ship tilted to one side and the wind caught and lifted her like a graceful bird.

  Awed, Carly grabbed the polished wooden railing with both hands. A sailor, no more than a boy, clambered up the tallest mast. He tore down a tattered English flag and fastened another in its place. Unfurled, the black canvas snapped in the wind, a grinning white skull above two swords.

  A pirate’s flag.

  A shiver of fear and dread raced along her spine. “God help me,” she whispered, and made the sign of the cross.

  Chapter Two

  “Sail ho!” cried a sailor from a lookout high up the mast. He held an antiquated telescope to one eye. Another man in the rigging echoed his call.

  Hope surged through Carly. A ship had been sighted—search and rescue, surely. But where?

  “Beat to quarters!” shouted the man named Egan.

  The Jolly Roger came down, but no flag went up in its place. The sailors rushed off in all directions. If their anxious expressions were any indication, whatever was approaching frightened them.

  Pinpricks of frozen mist scoured her cheeks, hampering her ability to scan the horizon.

  Her heart lurched. A majestic, old-fashioned wooden vessel glided past. Its sails were plumped with wind
, and it flew an unfamiliar flag. The moisture in her eyes blurred the ship into a mystical, ethereal beauty. She blinked, and its sails were back, as clear and real as everything else around her. Raw fear punched her in the belly.

  “She’s run up her colors,” someone shouted.

  “Aye. And she’s got no reason to lie.”

  Evidently, that dissolved the tension, and the sailors drifted away from their battle stations.

  Hands trembling, Carly backed away from the railing, her thoughts a whirlpool of denial, disbelief, fear. One antique vessel was explainable; another was unthinkable.

  She must have been hurt in the ejection, knocked senseless. She was in a coma and this was her sick nightmare. Perfectly understandable. There’d been so much stress lately. Any second she’d wake up in the hospital, her body bristling with IV tubes. She gave a quick little laugh.

  “Damnation! What is she doing out here?” Bare-chested, his coat swirling, damp hair whipping around his face and neck, Andrew strode toward her.

  Gritting her chattering teeth, Carly forced herself to keep eye contact with him as she’d done once with a stray dog she’d feared would turn vicious. Wrapped inside her F-18, she was equal to any male foe. Here, she was nothing but a small woman armed with her wits . . . and the Glock 26 handgun hidden in her thigh pocket.

  “I don’t know who you are, mister, or who you think I am,” she said with a bravado that was slipping fast, “but you can’t hold me prisoner.”

  “I cannot?” He fastened the buttons on his coat one by one. “Mr. Gibbons, return her to my quarters. And bolt the door.”

  The white-haired man grabbed her wrist.

  Carly tried to yank her arm free. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I use your radio.”

  “Take her,” Andrew said in a dismissive tone as he walked away, “before I weary of her game and toss her overboard.”

  “That’s against the Geneva Convention! Don’t forget, I’m a naval aviator.” Addressing Gibbons, she demanded, “That ship that just sailed by—whose was it?”

  “’Twas but a Dutch merchant.” Gibbons gave her wrist a gentle tug. “Come now. You need to change into dry clothing or you’ll catch your death.”