Within a Captain's Treasure (10 page)

She opened the hutch doors. The familiar smell of fine leather, paper, and ink made her smile. “It will be wonderful to have something to read.” She ran her finger along the spines reading the titles.
Pilgrims
.
Navigations
.
Seafaring Prose
? She slipped the slim volume from its place. “I didn’t image you fancied prose.”

Alice traced the title pressed in gold upon the leather cover before lifting it to her nose and breathing deep. She loved the perfume of fine books. “Captain?”

Gavin watched her with an odd look upon his face. “I’m sorry. I…my mind must still be on my ledgers. Did you ask me something?”

“You fancy prose?” She held up the book for him to see.

“I don’t recall seeing that before.”

“It was hiding amongst your naval strategies. A rose amongst the thorns.”

“Hidden treasure.” His eyes held hers for a long moment before he looked away. “You should keep it.”

Alice caught something in his tone. He’d been acting strangely since she tried on the emeralds. Hidden treasure? Were they still talking about the book? “Don’t you want it?”

Gavin shook his head and kept working. “It doesn’t belong on a ship like this. Amongst a crew of castoffs and freebooters. It should know a life of quiet civility.” His voice was clipped and cool. “Take it with you.”

Alice stared down at the book in her hands. No, they were not talking about the book anymore. All her fears, all the uncertainty crowded in on her. “What if a life of quiet civility isn’t the place for it either? Perhaps its destiny is to be here on your shelf where you can find it whenever you wish. It would be wrong to cast it aside before you’ve learned to appreciate it. You might regret such a hasty decision.”

“It doesn’t belong.” Gavin didn’t raise his head or even glance in her direction. His words hung in the air like smoke after a cannon blast.

Alice blinked away the sudden blur of tears and cleared the catch in her throat. “No, I suppose not. You’re right, it has no place here.” She held the book to her heart and closed the hutch. “I’ve kept you from your work long enough. Perhaps I could look over the Spanish books another time. I’ll stow this treasure in my quarters and return to my duties. Thank you.”

She had to leave before she said or did something she’d regret. But he spoke the minute her hand touched the latch. “How are you getting along with MacTavish?”

Alice closed her eyes.
MacTavish
? Did he want to completely humble her today? “I’ve convinced him I’ll not blow us all to our deaths. I warn you, though, he’s none too happy with you for sending an unwanted lassie into his lair.”

“He’ll come to appreciate my decision.”

The muscle in her jaw ticked. “And perhaps he and I will become the best of friends. Braid each other’s hair over a few pints of ale. Trade recipes. He’s sure to share all his secrets with me.” She stopped.

The rush of sarcasm wouldn’t lift the sudden heaviness of her heart. What was she thinking? Quinn was right. She didn’t belong here. Like a book of prose. Or a fancy necklace. She couldn’t be melted down to become anything of worth. At least not to him. He was right. She’d never belong. So they shared a kiss. One angry kiss. She was foolish if she believed it meant anything else, or made any difference.

Alice opened the door and didn’t look back. “I’ll bet MacTavish doesn’t fancy prose, either.”

* * * *

Returning to the magazine, Alice buried herself in clearing the space, and worked to tidy several corners. The tangle of swords was a melee of sizes and styles. Rapiers, sabers, cutlasses. She’d observed the gathering of swords and all other weapons after a battle. She lifted a beautiful sword with an elegant basket grip. It strained the muscles in her arm to raise it.

“Yer not fit for a hanger. The blade’s too long fer ye.” MacTavish returned still drinkin’ his noon ration of ale.

“What would you suggest?”

“I’d suggest ye git out of me armory, but seein’ I’m stuck wit ye….” He rummaged through a back corner and pulled out an oilskin-wrapped bundle. “A shorter boardin’ blade be what ye need.” He handed her a gleaming sword, its blade sharp and oiled. The brass guard finely etched with what looked like a monogram.

Alice ran her finger over the lettering. “What does this stand for?”

“J. A. S.” MacTavish sat on a short barrel and rested his mug on a bare knee. “Been told the tale of how ye survived weeks of torture an’ dragged yerself from the bottom of the sea to save Captain Jaxon Steele, och, pardon,
Lord
Steele and his wife from the hands of a murderous duke. You emptied three of yer pistols into the man, but he kept coming at ye weldin’ a dagger. Then ye dodged the slice of his blade and took off his head with one swing of yer cutlass. An’ while his head was rolling around the floor still hollering that he was gonna kill ye, he walked another eight steps before falling into a pool of his own blood ’n expirin’.”

“That’s the tale they’re telling?”

“White told me. Says ye come screamin’ in like a banshee an’ rushed into the fight seconds before the madman was to cut Steele’s heart from his chest.”

Alice shook her head. “White exaggerates.”

“It’s what Robbins said. Claims
he
saw the duke’s head and it was still attached. Mostly.”

Alice dropped onto a low stool and covered her eyes. No wonder they’re making up songs. They’ve worked the truth into a tale as tall as the mast. If she denied it, would MacTavish even believe her? She didn’t want to call out White as a complete liar. The others must realize the story had been embellished.

MacTavish jerked his chin in the direction of the sword. “J. A. S. Jaxon, whate’re be his middle name, Steele. Only fittin’ ye have one of his blades.”

Alice cradled the sword in her lap. “The A. stands for Alexander.” She should set them all straight, tell them the truth, but what purpose would it serve to spend her remaining time on board defending and denying what happened in that cave on Port Royal.

Yes, she’d shot the duke. Once. After the gun she’d raised had practically shaken from her grip and only after she’d wiped the terrified tears from her eyes. She could barely recall squeezing the trigger. Her aim was to shoot him in the leg. It hit his shoulder and spun him around. The shot didn’t kill Duke Wolfsan, true, but it brought him to his knees. Wolfsan hadn’t been about to cut Jaxon’s heart from his chest. He’d been about to rape Annalise while he forced Jaxon to watch, however.

Everyone believed she’d saved them. Truth was, Jaxon had freed himself from the ropes binding him. He could have fought Wolfsan himself even if Alice hadn’t shown up when she did. She was no hero. How she hated that word. She was a murderer.

At least the tale had been true in one thing. Killing Benedict Wolfsan wasn’t something she had to do; it had been her choice. From some cold, dark place within her, she decided the man had to die, and she wrestled a cutlass from its scabbard and charged the man with it raised over her head to do just that.

She could still feel the force of the impact when the blade met the side of the man’s neck. It reverberated up her arms. Where had she found the strength to inflict such a blow? Blood sprayed across her body. Hot across her cheek. She remembered the smell and how dark it was. It stained her clothes, her hands, her soul. That instant had altered the path of her life forever.

This sword would be a constant reminder, but wasn’t it better to face the memories rather than bury them and live in fear of them? It was time she accepted there were things she couldn’t change. “I’d be proud to carry Jaxon Steele’s blade.”

Let White and the others have their tale. Let Gavin convince himself there was nothing between them, that the passionate kiss they shared was an accidental slip of the tongue. She was strong enough to know the truth.

Alice held up the blade so it caught the light. It felt good in her hand. She tested the swing and looked to MacTavish. “Could you choose a pistol for me, as well?”

The rest of the afternoon, MacTavish’s grumbling had given way to a grudging respect. True or not, he believed enough of the story to bear her presence in his armory. She’d spent the rest of their day loading black powder into the cloth sacks the powder monkeys ran to each cannon during a skirmish.

MacTavish had even taught her how to prepare a proper slow match. He’d only cursed at her twice. As they both emerged on deck after six bells, however, MacTavish cursed again.

“Dammit, we be in for a time of it.” He turned on his heel and headed back.

“What are you talking about?”

“Pay attention, lass.” He pointed to the rush among the crew. Even though the winds and the sea were calm, everything on deck was being lashed down. “Now be looking off the starboard. See the color of the sky? Got one hell of a storm droppin’ in on us, and it be comin’ fast and hard. Follow me. No time to be jawin’. We got powder to cover and barrels to secure.”

After tying everything to the spars of the ship and making sure all the precious powder was covered tight, Alice and MacTavish struggled against the growing pitch of the
Scarlet Night
and made their way to the upper deck.

The winds had risen. Waves crashed over the bow. Orders shouted from man to man as the crew scrambling to clear the decks and secure the sails. Day had turned to night as the fierce storm bore down upon them. Lightening split the sky. Rain and seawater seemed to come from every direction at once. MacTavish shouted for her to get herself below and buckle in for a wild night.

Alice headed toward the forward ladder. She clung to the ropes to keep her footing and not be tossed out into the churning sea. The sails had been lowered and lashed except for the top mainsail. A handful of men gathered below struggling with the ropes and riggings.

The
Scarlet Night
fell into a deep trough and Alice soon found herself grabbing for the first solid thing she could reach. Jessup.

“Tupper, there ye be. Been lookin’ fer ya. Need ye climb up an’ free up the buntline.”

“What? Climb the rigging?”

He pointed straight up and shouted into her ear. “The buntline. It be snagged on the end of the yardarm and ye gotta release it or the ship be fittin’ te roll in these winds.”

Panic made her voice catch. “M-me?”

He narrowed his eyes at her and sneered. Rain plastered his hair to his skull. “Ye thinkin’ ye be part of this ’ere crew, ain’t ya? Every man’s gotta climb the riggin’. Every woman, too. Now, climb. That be an order.” He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the climbing ropes.

A howl of wind whipped the words from his mouth but she saw clearly, “Now.”

Alice looked up the tall rigging and saw the tangled rope on the topsail flapping wildly at the top of the mast. It looked miles away and on a beautiful calm day, it would have been a frightening prospect of climbing to such a height, but in the middle of a storm? She shot Jessup another questioning look. The smirk upon his face told her all she needed to know. He knew she wouldn’t do it. Counting on it, he’d crow for weeks if she refused.

Alice glared at him, handed him her sodden hat and bent to remove her boots. Swallowing her fear, she started to climb, concentrating on the thick rope before her. One hand, one foot, she made her way up the wet, slick lines.

“Don’t look down, don’t look down,” she chanted.

A gust tipped the ship and she lost her footing. She let out a scream and clung to the ladder with all her strength. After what seemed like a week, she somehow regained her hold.

Alice ignored her own strict orders and looked down. More crewmembers had gathered to watch her kill herself. Finch and Summer started after her, but Jessup pulled them down.

Screwing her eyes shut, she fought the nausea and paralyzing fear. Damn her stubborn pride. Damn Jessup. There was no turning back. The sooner she got up there, the sooner she could use her shiny new pistol and shoot him.

One hand, one foot. The next few yards were done in a surreal slow motion. Each blow of the wind, each wave crashing over the decks filled her with a fresh terror. And the hardest part was yet to come. If she lived to reach the topsail, she’d need to crawl out across the yardarm to slip the tangled rope off the end.

The storm surged. Wind howled in her ears like a caged beast. The muscles in her arms and legs burned. But from somewhere a renewed sense of panic mixed with a rush of irrational, insane determination. Alice climbed the remaining distance and swung her leg over the yard.

Laying her body along the ridge of the pole, she crept inch by painstaking inch along its length clinging to any hold she could find. She shook so her teeth chattered. Each sway of the mast had her hanging on for dear life bracing for it to sway in the opposite direction. Tears, rain, and the icy spray of a furious ocean blinded her, but she dared not release her hold to wipe at her eyes. Exertion and fear had sapped her energy. The muscles in her limbs shook with the effort, but somehow she made it to the end.

Alice fought to free the tangled line. Each time the wind howled, the mast would swing, the rope would pull taut and refuse to move. She needed to time the release on the downside of each blow, but at that angle the sail would flap and the roll of the ship would threatened to toss her off.

Finally, the rope released its hold. Was that a cheer she heard from below? She wasn’t about to look as she was too busy mustering enough strength and courage to get the hell down. It took a moment riding the yardarm like an unbroken horse before she gathered her will and began to back up.

* * * *

Quinn handed over the helm to the most skilled helmsman on the crew, First Mate Simons. Man was small in height, but he had arms like forged steel. Quinn set course due north hoping he’d read the sky right and they could dodge the worst of it. He needed to do a last sweep of the ship to make sure all was secure.

A small crowd of men stood at the base of the main mast. What the hell were they doing? The sail needed to drop or the mast would snap in these rising winds. Through the driving rain, he could see a man had been sent up to release the line. He couldn’t make out who it was.