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‘I am. First food for forty-eight hours.’ Stanier cut a wedge of cheese and pushed the rest towards her.
‘Why, sir?’ Clemence cut some and discovered that she could find a corner still to fill.
‘Pockets to let,’ he said frankly. ‘If this hadn’t come along, I’d have been forced to do an honest day’s work.’
‘Well, this certainly isn’t one,’ Clemence snapped before she could think.
‘Indeed?’ In the swaying lantern light the blue eyes were watchful over the rim of the horn beaker. ‘You’re very judgmental, young Clem.’
‘Pirates killed my father, took his ship.’ She ducked her head, tried to sound young and sullen. It wasn’t hard.
‘I see. And you ended up with Uncle who knocked you around, eh?’ He leaned across the table and put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up so he could see the bruises. ‘Heard the expression about frying pans and fires, Clem?’
‘Yessir.’ She resisted the impulse to lean her aching face into his warm, calloused hand. It was only that she was tired and frightened and anxious and wanted someone to hold her, tell her it was all going to be all right. But of course it wasn’t going to be all right and this man was not the one to turn to for comfort, either. Something stirred inside her, the faint hope that there might be someone, somewhere, she could trust one day. She was getting tired—beyond tired—and maudlin. All she could rely on was herself.
Stanier seemed to have stopped eating, at last.
‘I’ll take these plates back.’
‘No, you won’t. You’re not wandering about this ship at night until you know your way around.’ He took the tray from her. ‘Look in that bag there, you’ll find sheets.’
It was a fussy pirate who carried his clean linen with him, Clemence thought, stumbling sleepily across to open the bag. But sure enough, clean sheets there were, even if they were threadbare and darned. She covered the lumpy paliasses, flapped another sheet over the top, rolled up blankets for pillows and then shut herself into the odorous little cubicle. If she did nothing else tomorrow, she was going to find a scrubbing brush and attack this.
But privacy, even smelly privacy, would perhaps save her. She couldn’t imagine how she would have survived otherwise in a ship full of men. Clemence managed to wedge open the porthole to let in the smell of the sea, then emerged. Water and washing would have to wait; all she wanted now was sleep and to wake up to find this had all been an unpleasant dream.
Could she get into bed, or would Stanier want her to do anything else? She was dithering when he came back in. ‘I am not, thank God,’ he remarked, ‘expected to stand watch tonight. Bed, young Clem.’ He regarded Clemence critically. ‘No soap, no toothbrush, no clean linen, either. I’ll have to see what we can find you in the morning. I don’t imagine going to bed unwashed and in his shirt ever troubled a boy, though.’
‘No, sir.’ Clemence thought longingly of her deep tub, of Castile soap and frangipani flowers floating in the cool water. Of a clean bed and deep pillows and smiling, soft-footed servants holding out a drifting nightgown of snowy lawn.
Stanier sat down on the edge of his bunk and shed his coat, then his waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt. The air seemed to vanish from her lungs. He was going to strip off here and now and…He stood up and she bent to pull off her shoes as though someone had tugged a string.
She risked a peek up through her fringe. He was still standing there, she could see his feet. There wasn’t anything else she could take off while he was there…Belt. Yes, she could unbuckle that. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him heeling off his shoes. One foot vanished, he must have put it on the bunk to roll down his stocking. Yes. A bare foot appeared, the other vanished.
‘What are you doing, boy?’
‘Buckle’s tight,’ she mumbled.
‘Need any help?’
‘No!’ It came out as a strangled squawk. Thank goodness, he was going into the privy cupboard. As the door closed Clemence hauled off her trousers and dived under the sheet, yanking it up over her nose.
The door creaked. He was coming out. Clemence pulled the sheet up higher and pretended to be asleep. Drawn by some demon of curiosity, she opened her eyes a fraction and looked through her lashes. Stanier was stark naked, his breeches grasped in one hand. She bit her tongue as she stifled a gasp. He tossed the clothes on to a chair, then stood, running one hand through his hair, apparently deep in thought.
She should close her eyes, she knew that, but still she stared into the shifting shadows, mesmerised. Long legs, defined muscles, slim hips, flat stomach bisected by the arrow of hair running down from his chest. Clemence’s eyes followed it, down to the impressively unequivocal evidence that she was sharing a cabin with a man. She had known that, she told herself. Of course she had. It was just seeing him like this, so close, so male, made it very difficult to breathe.
It was not as though she was ignorant, either. She had swum with her childhood playmates in the pools below the waterfalls, but this was no pre-pubescent boy. In a slave-owning society you saw naked adults, too, but you averted your eyes from the humiliating treatment of another human being. She shouldn’t be staring now, but Stanier seemed so comfortable with his own body, so relaxed in his nudity, that she doubted he would dive for his breeches if he realised she was awake. Only, he did not know she was a woman, of course.
‘Asleep, boy?’ he asked softly.
Clemence screwed her eyes shut, mumbled and turned over, hunching her shoulders. Behind, she heard his amused chuckle. ‘You’d better not snore.’
Nathan eyed the bunk. The lad had made it up tidily enough, but sleep did not beckon. In fact, he felt uncomfortably awake, which was a damnable nuisance, given that he was going to need to be alert and on his guard at daybreak to take Sea Scorpion out of harbour and on to whatever course McTiernan wanted. Knowing the man’s reputation, he would set something tricky, as a test.
He found the thick notebook in his old leather satchel and climbed into bed with it. From the opposite bunk came the sound of soft breathing. And what the hell was he doing, acquiring someone else to take care of when he had his own skin to worry about?
Nathan set himself to study the notes he had made on the area a hundred miles around Jamaica. He had not been bragging when he had told McTiernan that he was the best navigator in these waters: he probably was. In theory.
He did not underestimate his own strengths, his depth of knowledge, his experience in most of the great oceans of the world. The problem was, the Caribbean was not one of them and he knew that two months spent weaving through their treacherous waters making endless notes was not enough. Not nearly enough. At which point he became aware of the nagging heaviness in his groin and finally realised just why he was so restless.
What the hell was that about? And why? He had more than enough on his mind to drive any thought of women from it, and in any case, he’d hardly seen a female all evening, so there should be no inconvenient image in the back of his mind to surface and tease him.
The flash of dark eyes and black hair, the remembered lush curves of his late wife, presented themselves irresistibly to his mind. Nathan shifted impatiently. He thought he had learned not to think about Julietta; besides, lust was no longer the emotion those thoughts brought with them.
The recollection of Clem’s slim, ink-stained fingers gripping his thigh rose up to replace that of Julietta’s hands caressing down his body. Nathan shifted abruptly in the bed in reflexive rejection. For God’s sake! He was as bad as this crew, if that was the cause of his discomfort.
From across the cabin came an odd sound—Clem was grinding his teeth in his sleep. Nathan grinned, contemplating hefting a shoe at the sleeping boy. No, he could acquit himself of that particular inclination—it must simply be an odd reaction to finding himself in the most dangerous situation in all his thirty years. The thought of straightforward danger was somehow soothing. Nathan put the book under his pillow, extinguished the lantern and fell asleep.
Chapter Three
‘Wake up!’
Clemence blinked into the gloom of the cabin, momentarily confused. Where…? Memory came back like a blow and she scrabbled at the sheet twisted around her legs. It was, thankfully, still covering her from the waist down and her shirt shrouded the rest of her.
Stanier was tucking his shirt into his breeches. She felt the colour flood up into her face at the memory of last night, then found herself watching as his bare chest vanished as he did up the buttons, long brown fingers dextrous despite his speed. As if she was not in enough trouble without finding herself physically drawn to the man! She had never felt that before, but then she had never been rescued by a tough, attractive man before either, which probably accounted for it. Whatever the explanation, it was not a comfortable sensation. Surprising areas of her insides seemed to be involved in the reaction.
‘Come on, look lively!’ So, now she had to get out of bed, find her breeches and get into the cubby hole, all under Stanier’s, admittedly uninterested, gaze. She tugged at the shirt, which came to just above her knees, slid out from under the sheet, scooped up her trousers and edged round the table.
‘You are far too thin.’
She whisked into the cupboard and shut the door. Enough light came through the porthole to see the bucket, but of course, there was still no water to wash in. ‘Things were difficult since my father died,’ she said through the thin panels, fumbling with the fastenings on her trousers and tightening her belt. Thinking about her father, she felt reality hit her. Pirates had taken Raven Duchess, killing her father as surely as if they had knifed him, and now here she was, not only in their hands, but feeling grateful to a man who was as good as one himself. She’d had some excuse last night, she had hardly been herself. Now, after a night’s sleep, she should face reality.
He was a pirate. She had seen him accept the position with her own eyes, heard him state his terms to McTiernan. So he was just as bad as the rest of the crew and deserved a fate as severe as theirs should be. Clemence opened the door and stepped out, jaw set.
‘I’m sorry about your father.’ Stanier was coatless, a long jerkin, not unlike her own waistcoat, pulled on over his shirt. ‘Do you know which ship it was that attacked his?’
Clemence shrugged, combing her hair into some sort of order with her fingers. They had never discovered who had been responsible. The one survivor, found clinging to a spar, was too far gone to communicate, even if his tongue had not been cut out.
Her face felt greasy, she was sticky and sweaty under the linen bindings around her chest and there was grit between her toes. ‘Could have been this one for all I know,’ she said, having no trouble sounding like a sulky boy.
‘I hope not,’ Stanier said.
‘Why should you care? You’re one of them,’ she pointed out, too angry with him and his casual sympathy to be cautious.
‘True.’ She had expected anger in return, even a cuff for her insolence, but he looked merely thoughtful. ‘There are degrees of piracy.’
‘Like degrees of murder?’ Clemence retorted. ‘Anyway, you’ve chosen to sail with the absolute scum of the seas, so that makes it first-degree piracy.’
‘You’re outspoken, lad.’ Stanier came round the table and took her chin in one hand, tipping up her face so he could study it. ‘I wonder you dare.’
‘I don’t care if you are angry. Things can’t get much worse.’
‘Oh, they can, believe me,’ Stanier said softly, tilting her head, his fingers hard on her jawbone. ‘Is that eye paining you much?’
‘Only when someone hits it,’ Clemence said, contemplating struggling, then deciding it was certain to be futile. He was too close, far too close for comfort. She could smell him, his sweat. Not the rank odour of the habitually unwashed crew, but the curiously arousing scent of a man who was usually clean, but was now hot and musky from bed. Goosebumps ran up her spine.
‘Well, if you want to avoid that, you can go and find me some coffee and bread.’ Did he really mean it? Would he hit her if she displeased him? Of course he would, he thought her just a troublesome boy and boys were always getting beaten. ‘Then bring it up on deck. It’ll be dawn soon.’ He picked up a telescope from the bunk and fitted it into a long pocket in his jerkin, then dropped a watch into another. ‘Here, take this and remember what I said about staying out of trouble.’
Clemence caught the clasp knife that was tossed to her, fumbling the catch. Stanier frowned, his gaze sharpening. ‘It’s this eye,’ she said defensively, recalling her playmates’ jibes that she caught like a girl. ‘I can’t see out of it properly.’ Then he was gone and she could hold on to the end of the table, ridiculously shaken.
Toughen up, she told herself fiercely. Think like a boy. Which was easier said than done, given that all her treacherous feminine instincts were telling her quite the opposite whenever Stanier was close. The knife fastened to her belt, she made her way to the galley. Instinctively, she kept her head down, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, until she found she was being stared at curiously. Perhaps looking like a victim was not a good idea in the middle of this crew, used to preying on the weak.
Clemence arrived at the galley, head up, shoulders back, practising a swagger. She conjured up Georgy Phillips, the leader of her gang of childhood male friends. He would love this adventure. He was welcome to it.
‘Mr Street? I’ve come for Mr Stanier’s coffee. And something to eat.’ There was bacon frying, she could smell it. ‘Some bacon.’
‘That’s for the captain.’ But the cook said it amiably enough, slopping a black liquid that might have been coffee into a mug.
‘But there’s lots of it. And Mr Stanier’s to have what he wants, the captain said so.’ Street was hardly likely to check, and it seemed that Stanier had got what he’d demanded as a price to sail with them.
‘Did he now?’ Street shoved a piece of plank with bread on it towards her. There wouldn’t be any of that once they were at sea and the land-bought supplies went stale. ‘Go on, then. You want some coffee, too, boy?’
‘Please, sir.’ Clemence was pretty certain that the cook didn’t warrant a sir, but a bit of crawling did no harm. She carved off four thick slices of bread and slipped round behind the man to layer bacon between them, dribbling on the rich melted fat for good measure. Street let her take a pewter plate, then watched, a gaptoothed grin on his face, as she juggled two mugs of coffee and the food.
‘Don’t drop it, boy, you’ll not wheedle any more out of me,’ he warned.
‘Nossir, thank you, sir.’ Now she had to find her way on deck, up at least two companionways, with her hands full. At least they were still at anchor; she would soon have to do this sort of thing with the ship pitching and tossing.
She made it with the loss of half a mug of coffee when one hand made a grab for the food as she passed him and she had to duck and run. Muttering, she regarded her coffee-stained trousers with resignation, and climbed out of the hatch on to deck.
It was a scene of apparent chaos, but she had seen enough ships preparing to make sail to know this all had a purpose. The light was waxing now, she could see the length of the deck and the lamps were extinguished. With the plate clutched protectively close to her chest, Clemence negotiated the steep steps up to the poop deck and found Stanier deep in conversation with the tall, oddly neat man with the pale blue eyes. The one who had hit her. Mr Cutler, the first mate.
They had a chart spread out on the raised hatch cover of the stern cabin and were studying it. As Clemence came up behind them, Stanier straightened. ‘I agree, that’s the best course if you aren’t concerned about speed.’
‘Are you suggesting there’s a faster way?’
Stanier extended one finger and indicated something Clemence could not see. The sight of that long digit, the one that had traced a question down her bruised cheek, made her shift uncomfortably.
‘That’s a dangerous passage, too big a risk.’ Cutler shook his head.
‘Not if you hit it at just the right time.’ Stanier began to roll up the chart. ‘How much speed do you need? Are you chasing something or just patrolling?’
‘Best pickings have got over twelve hours’ start on us, there’s no catching the Raven Princess now.’ Clemence almost dropped the food. ‘But if you’ve got the knack of that passage, then the captain will be glad to see it.’
‘That’s what I thought. And it brings you out in the shelter of Lizard Island. You’ve got good anchorage, fresh water and command of the shipping lanes through there. And you never know, Raven Princess might have been delayed. Too good not to check, I’d have thought.’
Bastard! ‘Your coffee, Mr Stanier.’ She thrust the mug into his hand, forcing him to grasp the heated metal, and was gratified by his wince as he snatched at the handle. He deserved it. That was her ship he was talking about capturing. ‘And some bread and bacon. Sir.’
He looked at her narrowly over the rim of the mug as he blew on his coffee. ‘That all for me?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Take your knife and cut it up. Take half and eat it.’
‘You’ll spoil the brat.’ The mate’s lip lifted in a sneer.
‘He’s half-starved and no use to me unless he’s fit.’ Stanier gave a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. ‘Clem, eat and then go and get that cabin shipshape. You can unpack everything, just don’t drop the instruments.’
Clemence found a corner on the main deck and curled up with her breakfast on top of a low stack of barrels, safely out of the way of the hurrying hands. Just when she had started liking the man, he turned out to be as bad as the rest of them. She shook her head abruptly; it was a lesson not to trust any of them. Ever.
Despite her feelings, she could still enjoy the food. The bacon was good, still warm, savoury, the bread soaked with salty grease. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, then wiped her palms on her trousers without thinking. The resulting mess—smears of ink, coffee, grease and dust—was unpleasant, but she could hardly change her clothes.
Street was surprisingly helpful when she returned her crocks. ‘Ship’s sail-maker’s over there. Doubles as tailor, for them as wants it.’ He nodded towards a man sitting cross-legged on a pile of rolled hammocks. ‘Hey, Gerritty! Navigator’s boy needs slops.’
The tailor squinted at Clemence. ‘Look in that chest, see what’ll fit,’ he said through a mouthful of big needles, his accent a thick Irish brogue. ‘I’m not making you anything, mind, not wasting my time on boys.’
‘Thank you.’ The trunk held a motley collection, some of it quality, some of it sailors’ gear. Clemence had the uncomfortable feeling that most of it had been taken from captives. She found two pairs of trousers that looked as though she could take them in to fit, some shirts, a jacket and a warm knitted tunic. ‘May I take these?’
‘Aye.’ The sail-maker produced an evil-looking knife and cut some twine. ‘He any good, this new navigator?’
Clemence shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He only took me on yesterday. Talks like he is.’ The Irishman snorted at her tone. ‘Where can I get a bucket and a scrubbing brush?’
She wasn’t looking forward to tackling the privy cupboard, but she wasn’t prepared to live with it either. She was uncomfortably aware that if life had not favoured her with the wealth to keep servants, then she would have made a very reluctant housekeeper, but some hard cleaning was preferable to squalor, any day of the week.
It took her half an hour to locate cleaning materials, dodging some rough teasing on the way. On her way down to the cabin she collected a second lantern by the simple expedient of stealing it from another cabin, then started by washing the portholes and cleaning the lamps. She made the beds, glancing with interest at the thick leather-bound notebook under Stanier’s pillow, but cautiously left it untouched, unpacked his bags and set the instruments out on the table with care.
They were shiny, complex and obviously expensive. She raised the fiddles around the sides of the table in case the instruments slid about and eyed them, fascinated. Perhaps he would show her how they worked.
The rest of his gear she stowed in the lockers. It was good quality stuff, but well worn and included, she was thankful to see, a huswif with thread and needles. At least she could alter her new clothes herself.
And that just left the privy. Clemence had an idea how to deal with that.
They were out of harbour, the island receding behind them, the breeze stiff and steady, the sun on the waves, dazzling. It was a day when it felt good to be at sea, even without the relief of having piloted the ship out under the hypercritical gaze of Cutler and Captain McTiernan, who lounged with deceptive casualness against a raised hatch cover.
‘What’s going on down there?’ Cutler craned to see where a group were clustered round the rail, peering at something in the sea. Laughter floated up.
‘I’ll take a look.’ Nathan stretched, glad of an excuse to shake the tension out of his shoulders. ‘I need to get my sextant, anyway.’
He assessed the mood of the group as he approached it. They were having fun, probably at someone’s expense, but it was good humoured enough. ‘What’s up?’ He shouldered his way to the rail, the hands dropping back, tugging forelocks when they saw who it was. McTiernan’s crew were worryingly well disciplined.
Hell. ‘Clem, what the devil are you doing?’ The boy leant over the rail, a rope in his hands, the muscles on his slim forearms standing out with the effort. His trousers were filthy, he had bound the handkerchief Nathan had given him around his forehead and he looked a complete urchin with smudges on his face and grime up his arms.
Except that there was an elegance about the line of his back, the arched feet, braced on the deck, were small, the backside exposed by the shirt riding up was rounded and the skin below his collar was unexpectedly delicate.
Blinking away a sudden sensation of complete confusion, Nathan snapped, ‘Clem!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ He was hauling at whatever it was now and it rose up suddenly, landed on the deck and showered them all with water. ‘That bucket, sir. Seemed the easiest way to clean it.’
It was, certainly, a very clean bucket. Angry, for no reason he could determine, Nathan narrowed his eyes at the flushed, bruised face that met his gaze with a look of eager willingness that was surely false. Nathan had dealt with dumb insolence often enough to recognise it now.
