the orange glow cast by the flickering lanterns. She filled her tankard, downed it. Filled it again. Drank the sweet fire more slowly this time, letting it filter down and out into every cell in her body. Her pounding heartbeat begin to steady, and she felt the trades kissing her hot and sweaty skin, drying her face and arms and torso beneath the loose shirt she wore.
“Good match, Captain. I thought she had ye there,” Karena remarked, drawing her knife and paring a mango.
“And here I had my money on Enolia tonight.” Tia flung a coin into a wooden bucket.
“Should’ve known better!”
Maeve’s lips curved in a grin. “What, you think I’ve lost my touch, Tia?”
“Nay, captain, merely your heart to that handsome rake. I knew we should’ve shot him the moment he crawled onto our beach!”
Tia’s observation hit too close to the bone. “Have a care for what you’re saying,” the Pirate Queen growled, “or you’ll be the next one I challenge to a sword fight.”
“Well then, in that case—”
“Belay it, Tia,” Maeve said, waving her off. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
Tia, her eyes dancing, gave an elaborate sigh, for she, like her crewmates, considered it a privilege to duel with their formidable leader. After all, the Pirate Queen had learned to fence under the tutelage of her father, and seven years in the Caribbean had only honed her natural aptitude for the skill into one that few men dared challenge—let alone survived.
But sword fighting was the last thing on Maeve’s mind. She sat down on the deck and
leaned against the truck of a cannon, feeling her little ship rising on a swell, settling, rising again beneath her. Even the fierce energy she’d put into her match with Enolia had failed to drive the image of the pirate’s face—or the memory of his kiss—from her mind. She quaffed the rum in fierce, angry swallows, seeking to drown her torment in tipple instead.
“That black-haired devil again?” Orla asked quietly, discerning the reason for her captain’s sour mood.
Maeve stared mutely out into the darkness without answering.
“So, he tried to take some liberties with you,” Karena said. She stabbed the mango peelings with her dagger and flung them over the side. “What man hasn’t?”
“Aye, you’ve got to give ’im credit for trying,” Jenny pointed out.
“He’s your Gallant Knight,” young Sorcha cried, from her seat atop one of the guns. “I’m
sure of it!”
“Aye, Majesty,” her sister echoed, “your Gallant Knight!”
“He is not my Gallant Knight!” Maeve retorted, slamming her mug onto the varnished deck and staring down each face in turn. “My Knight—God, how I loathe that word—will be a brave, noble officer, someone honorable and upstanding and good. This ‘Gray’ is naught but a traitor and a spy, the both of which I have no use for! Besides,” she added, glaring sullenly off into the night, “he’ll only break my heart. ”
“But Majesty, he’s not like those other men who’ve tried to court you, can’t you see? None of them were worthy of you.”
“He’s a spy!” Maeve cried, in frustration. “He’s a traitor! He deserted his navy!”
Only Enolia, leaning calmly against the rail and backhanding the sweat from her brow,
seemed to be on her side. “And if he could desert his navy,” she said pointedly, “he could desert you. “
No one spoke. They all knew their captain had been deserted enough. She was not to be blamed if she didn’t trust men. She was not to be blamed for not trusting this man, with his wicked smile and dangerous charm. And she did have the Sight—who could know what it had shown her?
Enolia stalked to the barrel, drew a hefty measure of rum, and, lifting it to her lips, faced the crew. “I’m with the captain,” she said. “Let’s bring him to Nelson. The British’ll pay a hefty sum for him, if only to keep him from spilling his guts to Villeneuve.”
“And we can do far
“Good match, Captain. I thought she had ye there,” Karena remarked, drawing her knife and paring a mango.
“And here I had my money on Enolia tonight.” Tia flung a coin into a wooden bucket.
“Should’ve known better!”
Maeve’s lips curved in a grin. “What, you think I’ve lost my touch, Tia?”
“Nay, captain, merely your heart to that handsome rake. I knew we should’ve shot him the moment he crawled onto our beach!”
Tia’s observation hit too close to the bone. “Have a care for what you’re saying,” the Pirate Queen growled, “or you’ll be the next one I challenge to a sword fight.”
“Well then, in that case—”
“Belay it, Tia,” Maeve said, waving her off. “I’ve had enough for one night.”
Tia, her eyes dancing, gave an elaborate sigh, for she, like her crewmates, considered it a privilege to duel with their formidable leader. After all, the Pirate Queen had learned to fence under the tutelage of her father, and seven years in the Caribbean had only honed her natural aptitude for the skill into one that few men dared challenge—let alone survived.
But sword fighting was the last thing on Maeve’s mind. She sat down on the deck and
leaned against the truck of a cannon, feeling her little ship rising on a swell, settling, rising again beneath her. Even the fierce energy she’d put into her match with Enolia had failed to drive the image of the pirate’s face—or the memory of his kiss—from her mind. She quaffed the rum in fierce, angry swallows, seeking to drown her torment in tipple instead.
“That black-haired devil again?” Orla asked quietly, discerning the reason for her captain’s sour mood.
Maeve stared mutely out into the darkness without answering.
“So, he tried to take some liberties with you,” Karena said. She stabbed the mango peelings with her dagger and flung them over the side. “What man hasn’t?”
“Aye, you’ve got to give ’im credit for trying,” Jenny pointed out.
“He’s your Gallant Knight,” young Sorcha cried, from her seat atop one of the guns. “I’m
sure of it!”
“Aye, Majesty,” her sister echoed, “your Gallant Knight!”
“He is not my Gallant Knight!” Maeve retorted, slamming her mug onto the varnished deck and staring down each face in turn. “My Knight—God, how I loathe that word—will be a brave, noble officer, someone honorable and upstanding and good. This ‘Gray’ is naught but a traitor and a spy, the both of which I have no use for! Besides,” she added, glaring sullenly off into the night, “he’ll only break my heart. ”
“But Majesty, he’s not like those other men who’ve tried to court you, can’t you see? None of them were worthy of you.”
“He’s a spy!” Maeve cried, in frustration. “He’s a traitor! He deserted his navy!”
Only Enolia, leaning calmly against the rail and backhanding the sweat from her brow,
seemed to be on her side. “And if he could desert his navy,” she said pointedly, “he could desert you. “
No one spoke. They all knew their captain had been deserted enough. She was not to be blamed if she didn’t trust men. She was not to be blamed for not trusting this man, with his wicked smile and dangerous charm. And she did have the Sight—who could know what it had shown her?
Enolia stalked to the barrel, drew a hefty measure of rum, and, lifting it to her lips, faced the crew. “I’m with the captain,” she said. “Let’s bring him to Nelson. The British’ll pay a hefty sum for him, if only to keep him from spilling his guts to Villeneuve.”
“And we can do far
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