Mariah's Prize (15 page)

“Let me go, Gabriel!” As she struggled to wriggle past him, he swiftly trapped her beneath his body.

“Nay, Mariah, no more orders. There’s only one master on board this ship, and it’s not you.”

Unable to move, she lay still beneath him, her heart pounding, his face so close above hers that she felt his breath hot upon her face.

He made no effort to hide the raw hunger in his eyes, hunger that she knew was mirrored in her own, just as her own lips were already parted, waiting for him to take her surrender.

“Cap’n Sparhawk, sir, Cap’n, there be another ship bearin’ down on us two points t’the—ah, Mary, Joseph and all the saints!”

In an instant Gabriel was on his feet, shielding Mariah as best he could from the gaping eyes of Israel Talbot. Damn him ten times for a fool for not taking the time to shut and latch the cabin door!

“What is it, Talbot?” he demanded, shoving his shirt into his breeches.

“This had best be the message of your lifetime or I’ll see it’s the last.”

The fat sailor’s chins worked convulsively as he tried not to look at Mariah, scrambling to smooth down her skirts as she clambered off the bunk.

“Beggin’ pardon, sir, I didn’t know, else I never” — “Spit it out, Talbot!” roared Gabriel.

Talbot took a deep breath, swelling his cherubic cheeks further.

“Mr.

Fan” said tell the cap’n that there’s some frigging French bastard—beg pardon, Miss West—bearing down on us two points on the larboard, south-southeast. Said he’s sure as he be of his own mother that the Frenchman be a frigate bent on taking back the Marie-Claire, and that you’d best come directly.”

Swearing to himself, Gabriel snatched up his sword belt again and rushed past Talbot, taking the steps to the deck two at . a time. There was the Marie-Claire, only just beginning to make sail and bring her nose around north toward Rhode Island, the red-and-blue flag of King George flying proudly over King Louis’s fleur-delis. But to the south was the ship Fair had guessed was French, as well, and Gabriel didn’t even need his glass to see the first mate was right. She was bearing down on the Revenge and the Marie-Claire with every bit of canvas set, and the double rows of black squares along her sides each framing a gun.

He knew his first capture had been too easy. To face a French frigate with such a green crew would be madness,

but if he ran, they’d retake the Marie-Claire and he’d lose both the prize and her crew—not an auspicious beginning to any cruise.

Gabriel’s brows drew together. He didn’t like giving up anything that was his, and he’d never yet run from a fight. And it didn’t have to be a real engagement, anyway, only a few disabling shots, a few quick dodges here and there, to buy the Marie-Claire time to escape before he, too, turned on his heels and fled. He had the wind in his favor, the sloop was lighter, faster than any frigate afloat, and he had more daring than any Frenchman he’d yet to meet.

His gaze swept across the Revenge’s immaculate deck, imagining the carnage and destruction there that could follow his decision, and what might become of the men who trusted him with their lives. Damnation, he was getting soft! Every man who’d signed on with him knew the risks and had weighed them for himself against the possible gains.

Every man had, but not the single woman.

Mariah stood with her back to the mainmast, her hands holding tight to the pin rack. Against the dark tangle of her hair her face was pale in the bright sun, her mouth tightlipped and her eyes wide, and all the fire of her anger and desire had vanished. She looked very small and very young, and for the first time he could remember, very frightened.

“You’re going to fight a frigate,” she said, a statement, not a question.

“You can’t stay here,” he said, avoiding answering what she wasn’t asking.

“You must go below, not to the cabin, but lower, into the hold. I’ll have one of the men take you if you wish.”

She clung a little tighter to the pin rack as her body swayed unconsciously toward him.

“You’re going to let yourself be killed.”

“You’ll be safe enough below.” Gently he pried her fingers free, noticing how cold her hands were. “Go now. I’ll come to you when it’s done.”

“If you still live.” She pulled her hands free of his.

“You’re a fool, Gabriel Sparhawk.”

Unexpectedly he smiled, the warmth of it twisting into her heart.

“I’d never have brought you with me otherwise, would I? Take care, poppet.”

She turned and left him before she wept, before she became the fool and told Gabriel Sparhawk how much she loved him.

Mariah sat deep in the hold, huddled on the broad, curving side of a water cask. The lantern with the single candle gave little light and less comfort as she tried to imagine what was happening two decks above her. She had lost count of the times the long guns were fired, each broadside sending a shudder through the sloop that she could feel clear down here, and she was sure they’d been hit, in return. There had been explosions of a different kind, and screams of pain mingled with the shouting. She squeezed her eyes tightly, wishing she could close her ears, as well. She’d never thought of men screaming, especially not any of the men she knew on the Revenge, some she’d known all her life.

And Gabriel. God in heaven, what had become of Gabriel, standing so proudly on his quarterdeck, his height and size an easy mark for any Frenchman? He wouldn’t scream. He would swear, spending his last breath cursing. No, she wouldn’t think of it. He couldn’t die. He wouldn’t. He was too large and strong and full of life and he’d survived worse than this before. And he’d promised her he’d come for her.

Just as Daniel had promised he ‘d come back. She forced her thoughts away. She guessed from how the sloop’s speed had been cut that she’d been hit at least once up high, with a mast or some of the standing rigging carried away. More crashes, more shouts and the sharp crack of splintering wood, and then, suddenly, no sounds beyond the usual creaks and groans of the timbers around her. Whatever had happened must now be done. The relative silence proved that.

Her heart was still pounding, and she didn’t realize how tightly she had curled herself until she tried to stand and every tensed muscle screamed in protest. She had no idea how long she’d been hidden away—one hour or six, a day and a night? They were still afloat, and they were still moving through the water, so she guessed that they’d escaped the way Gabriel had hoped.

But where in God’s name was Gabriel? He had told her to wait here until he came for her, but what if he couldn’t? What if he was wounded, delirious from pain, dying while she hung here below, doing nothing but waiting? He’d always called her brave, his brave, fierce poppet. Hot tears stung behind her eyes as she remembered how he teased her. She wouldn’t disappoint him by being a coward now, when he might need her most.

Carrying the lantern, she slowly felt her way across the stacked barrels to the ladder. With her skirts looped over one arm and the lantern in the other, she climbed clumsily up the rungs through the gloom to the berth deck, and nearly collided with Dr. Macauly, She gasped as she saw by the lantern light how his coat was rusty with blood, his hands stained bright red as he thrust a basin of dark water at one of the ship’s boys for him to carry away.

“Och, Miss West, is it finally! Come along, lass, I’ve need of another pair of hands.” He grasped her by the shoulder with no regard for the bloody fingerprints he left on her gown and steered her aft along the passageway.

“You know well as I that Captain Sparhawk ships no idlers.”

“Where is the captain?” she asked breathlessly.

“I’ve not seen the man this day, lass.” In the heat he had left off his wig when he’d been called to quarters, and the bristly stubble of his close-cropped hair gleamed as he shook his head.

“Rejoice that he hasn’t come across my platform, but that’s not to say they haven’t tossed him over the side. The butcher’s bill today is as steep as ever I’ve seen on a Sparhawk ship.”

Mariah’s heart refused to accept the possibility of Gabriel dead, Gabriel’s body unceremoniously thrown overboard, Gabriel never to be seen or held or kissed or loved again in this life.

He had promised to come for her. Numb, she let Macauly lead her from the passage to the makeshift surgery in the cable tier, made bright with thick candles. With a little cry of horror Marian recoiled, backing into Macauly’s chest.

The surgeon’s mate was sluicing down the bloody planks laid on barrels that served as the platform for operations, and spread along one side were saws and hooks and needles that looked more suited to mending furniture than men. Two seamen ge

“Big splinter caught ‘im, sir,” said the first seaman, his face twisted with apprehension. ‘“E be a top man sir, so ‘e begs ye special not t’take ‘is arm.”

Wearily Macauly stepped forward, ripping off what was left of the man’s sleeve and ignoring his screams while his two companions held him still. The mate tried to pour the draft of rum to deaden the pain into the young man’s mouth, but weakly he twisted his head away.

“Come now, laddie, drink up,” coaxed Macauly as he held the man’s jaw steady.

“No, don’t force him!” said Mariah, stepping forward to look down at the wounded man.

“He’s a Quaker, a Friend, and it goes against his faith to drink spirits.”

Macauly snorted.

“Queer sort of Quaker that’s too nice for a tot of rum, but takes to killing his brethren on a privateer. You know the poor lad, then?”

“George Clarke’s his name, and yes, he lives on the next street from mine.” Mariah looked at him and saw Gabriel’s face instead, Gabriel’s body lying broken and bloody. Lord, she’d seen more spilled blood in the past few minutes than in her entire life.

“Then come sit here near his head and talk pretty nonsense to him to take his thoughts from the pain. If he won’t take the rum, you’re all he’ll have. Be lively at it, lass, the man’s suffering!”

Mariah swallowed hard, forcing herself to turn her back to George Clarke’s mangled arm and concentrate instead on his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth working convulsively, wordlessly.

“George, it’s Mariah, Mariah West from Water Street. I played dollies with your sister Sara.” She thought he might have shifted his head toward her voice, and she plunged onward.

“Mr. Macauly here is going to do everything he can for you, George. Most privateers don’t have a surgeon, but Gabriel wanted the best for his men. Gabriel will see that you’re well looked after, no matter what happens.”

The tears were slidmg down her cheeks now, falling on the stained planks beside George Clarke’s pale face. She wept for him, and for Gabriel, and for Daniel, and for herself. Dear God, look what had become of them all!

“Mariah, I ask thee, do not tell my mother I sailed for thee—for thee and Gabriel Sparhawk,” gasped George.

“Thee—I—would not give her that sorrow.”

As she touched her hand to his cheek he stiffened suddenly, his face contorted and then relaxed. Behind her Macauly grunted with satisfaction as the splinter pulled clear of the muscle.

“There now, I’ve but to bind up the break and then back to his hammock he’ll go,” he said as he dropped the footlong splinter into the bucket beside him.

“Though it’s best that he’s lost consciousness before I set the fracture.”

“No, Mr. Macauly,” said Mariah, her voice wavering upward.

“He’s dead.”

She took her hand from George’s cheek and pressed it across her mouth as the doctor searched for a pulse and found none. As if from a great distance she heard Macauly sigh with resignation, and explain sorrowfully to the others that the shock to his heart had carried the poor lad off. She closed her eyes, searching for the strength to pray, to hope, to be as brave as Gabriel had told her she was.

“Mariah!” At once Gabriel’s exhaustion and grief vanished, forgotten in his concern for her. She was sobbing, huddled on the deck at Macauly’s feet, and she was covered with blood.

“Lord, Mariah, are you hurt? I’ve gone mad trying to find you, but I didn’t think to look here.”

Swiftly he raised her up into his arms, and she stared at him with disbelief before she buried her face against his chest, clinging to him as if she’d never let go.

Macauly snorted.

“Don’t go looking like someone tried to drown your kitten, Cap’n. The girl’s fine. More’n fine.”

“Then why the devil is she here?”

“I found her wandering ‘tween decks. The blood’s poor Clarke’s, not hers, and she brought a sight more comfort to his dying than I could.”

“I

Gabriel swore softly as he looked down at the young man’s body, his arm tightening protectively around Mariah. He’d meant to spare her this. He loved the exhilaration of battle, the wild excitement that came when he’d bettered another, but even after so much fighting, so many ships captured, he’d never become hardened to the sight of men, young men like George Clarke, who’d died because they’d followed him.

What must an innocent like Mariah make of this kind of slaughter?

“How many others, Macauly?”

The surgeon began wiping his instruments clean with a rag.

“Six brought down dead, two died under the knife-nay, three, including this one, six I’ve kept below and eleven more sent back to their hammocks.”

Gabriel nodded grimly. Thank God it wasn’t worse.

“I’ve already visited the wounded. I thank you, Andrew, for all you’ve done for them.”

“The shares mean more to me, Cap’n.” Shrewdly he glanced at Gabriel from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

“I’ll warrant you took the day? Saved that pretty prize?”

Trust the surgeon 10 be the most mercenary man on board.

“Aye, the Marie-Claire‘1’s safe enough, and we left the Macedonia licking her wounds, foremast and mainmast gone and a ball through her side. I’ll warrant her captain won’t be tempted by another Englishman any time soon.”

Mariah’s sobs had stopped, but still she kept her face hidden, and he could feel how she trembled in his arms. He’d kept her waiting long enough.