Pirate's Wraith, The (5 page)

Gilroy handed her a hard, dry, stale and dirty-looking
thing.
“Hard tack.”

It looked as appetizing as a rock, but she gnawed on it anyway praying that her expensive dental bridgework would survive the unyielding biscuit.

Captain Sterford stepped to the railing and spoke to the men assembled below in the waist. “Yesterday, you men rejoiced with twenty kegs of run. Where are those kegs today? One night of a drunken haze and your prize is gone. We must find a bigger prize than rum, men. We need gold! Let us search the seas for the enemy and make our fortune.”

A cheer went up. Gilroy gave her a slight push toward the captain.

“Go on. Take a look at your crewmates.” He waved her forward.

Her heart raced. If the pirates made her walk the plank now while they were still in the river she could swim to shore. That was altogether preferable to falling into the very deep and very wide ocean. 

She eased closer to the captain’s side and glanced over the railing at the crew. She had expected to see men wearing black eye patches, holding machetes in the air, and screaming, “Avast, ye mateys.” However, the assembly below did not look much like pirates. They had the sad aspect of poor beggars. Their plain trousers, caps, and short jackets were much like the clothes she had been given—though in truth, no two matched. Abundant patches of different textures and colors had been tacked onto the original fabric.

Whispers swarmed from the gathered assembly in the damp morning air, but no one seemed unduly disturbed by her appearance.

The captain gave her no more than a glance, but the power in his light blue eyes hit her like a laser. Energy tingled along her nerve endings and she clung to the railing to keep her balance. In that moment she realized her debilitating migraine had vanished though she had taken none of her medication. Plagued for six months by the excruciating pain, she had required powerful drugs to keep functioning.

This morning, without drugs, not a single spasm troubled her. It could have been a glorious new dawn, save for her being a prisoner or a slave and facing a bunch of pirates in the beginning of the very backward eighteenth century,

She shivered as the chill of autumn bit through her short jacket. The wind picked up and the tangy brine of the ocean blew into the river, permeating the atmosphere. With everything about her so solid and real, the idea of her experience being a hallucination faded. By some monstrous twist of fate, she had been transported backward through time. Her basic knowledge of the laws of physics could not explain it but apparently the electrical storm or the spinning car—or both—had sent her through the time barrier.

How could she survive in this dark age of no electricity, no
cell phones, no microwave ovens, and no lattes? The life expectancy in the 1700s averaged around thirty-five. Her life could be almost over.

She drummed her fingers on the railing.
To live in a world without indoor plumbing and refrigeration amounted to cruel and unusual punishment. She could not discount the possibility that her soul was suffering in hell.

Her musing ended when a man dressed in a long brocade jacket stepped onto the quarterdeck. Ruffled lace adorned his cravat and swirled abundantly about his wrists. The elaborate wig on his head reminded Lesley of pictures of Louis XIV. He had pleasant features, but where the captain was lean and muscular, this overdressed corsair evidently indulged in plenty of the finest food for he had the same shape as a pumpkin.

“What is the occasion, Mr. Moody? You usually dress in your finery when we land in port.” The captain gave a thin smile to the overdone dandy.

“It is a fair day, Captain, and we are headed to New Providence. Are we not?”

The captain appeared to relax. “Indeed we are, Christopher.”

Moody?
Christopher Moody?
Lesley clutched the railing. Jim had a bright red flag hanging in the galley of his boat, a replica of Christopher Moody’s flag. According to Jim, the sight of the pennant struck terror at the hearts of all for it meant no quarter would be given and no life spared.

Lesley stared into the man’s face and a shiver went through her. How could he appear so genial
with a heart as black as pitch? Little information about the life of the wicked Mr. Moody had survived the centuries, but his pirate flag had endured—the most colorful and explicit of them all.

“Is this your new cabin boy?” Moody asked the captain, who gave a slight nod in answer. “Young Lesley, can your fine white fingers bury a knife in an enemy’s heart?”

Instinctively, she knew she must not allow him to detect any fear. That’s how Jim had gotten the upper hand. No, she would be strong from now on. “I have a bachelor’s degree in biology. I know exactly where hearts are located.”

Christopher Moody gave a light laugh but a cruel sneer marred his lips. “We must kill to gain our fortune.”

“There is no need for bloodshed if they hand over their cargo,” the captain reminded.

“Ah, but the point of a knife held to a throat is often the most valuable for persuasion,” the dandy went on. “What say you, Lesley? Would you hand over your jewels if I ask in a polite manner?”

“I have no jewels,” Lesley replied.

“But you may have some soon if we win a large prize.” Moody raised his right eyebrow. “I have quite a collection of baubles. Perhaps you would like to see them sometime.”

He reminded her of a snake slithering through the grass and waiting for an opportunity to strike. She stepped back.

“Mr. Moody, the wind freshens.” The captain urged. “Let us be away for New Providence.”

“Aye, sir. Adventure awaits.” Moody lightly patted Lesley’s shoulder. “We shall be seeing much of each other, since the captain will direct you to give me his orders. I look forward to the pleasure.”

Lesley’s internal radar went off. Spending any time in Mr. Moody’s company would be a big mistake. Perhaps her costume did not fool him. On the other hand, what if he preferred young boys? Fear held her immobile.

Another man with fury creasing his features charged up to the captain. Behind him two sailors dragged another man by the arms.

“Captain, this jack is refusing to do his duty.” The angry man shouted.

Lesley’s insides churned. The pitiful man in tow did not look well. 

“You are in charge of discipline, Mr. Hooper.” The captain’s voice grew gruff in an instant.

Mr. Hooper’s eyes took on an unholy gleam. “He shall be flogged!”

Mr. Hooper barked out orders. Sailors tied the unfortunate victim to one of the masts.

“Who is Mr. Hooper,” she asked the captain in a whisper.

“He is our quartermaster.” He delivered his brief answer in a clipped tone.

Lesley’s stomach churned.

“I think I’ll go tidy up your cabin now.” She gave the captain a salute. He nodded and she hurried away. She could not watch someone get flogged. How archaic
! How barbaric!

Hadn
’t a law been invented to prevent such abuse?

She struggled to remember all she could about the early years of the eighteenth century. She couldn’t come up with much. She knew the Pilgrims landed in 1620 but she could not think of any other important events until the latter half of the 1700s when the French and Indian War gained George Washington some fame. The Boston Tea Party happened before the Revolutionary War began, though she could not be sure about the date on that. The signing of the Declaration of Independence occurred in 1776.

What historical milestone marked 1711?

A sickening realization came to her as the screams of the man being flogged drifted into the captain’s cabin. The Golden Age of Piracy was in full swing. Jim had dressed as a pirate for a Halloween party last year. He had expounded on pirates—horrible, bloodthirsty, merciless men like Blackbeard, Edward Low, and
Christopher Moody.

She would warn the captain about his evil first mate.   

Chapter Four

Harlan paced the floor while Lesley sat at his desk and sketched the image of a pirate flag belonging to Christopher Moody. What sort of trick did she intend to play? Did she believe her foolery would confuse him?

“The background consisted of a bright vivid red, not white on black like the traditional pirate flag,” she explained.

He stopped his restless feet and glared at her. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps she suffered from being
weak headed. “Many English privateers fly the red jack.”

“Oh.” Her hand paused.

A sudden craving came over him, an urge to lift her hand in his and taste the creamy skin above her dimpled knuckles. He struggled against the inclination. If Lesley was related to Elsbeth in some way, he must be wary.

She bent low over her drawing, scratching in more details with the quill. “Of course, red symbolized blood, but in addition Moody portrayed an hourglass with wings, an arm holding a dagger, and then the typical skull with crossbones, but he had them painted gold--or perhaps he used gold leaf, which would be very extravagant I suppose
, but maybe he did it to display his wealth. Rumors claimed him as a member of Bartholomew Roberts’ crew.”

“I have never heard of Bartholomew Roberts.” Harlan had not been a pirate for long, but he had already spent half of his life on ships.

“Roberts captured over four hundred ships.”

Harlan halted in his tracks. “Impossible.”

“Jim always gets his facts correct—when it comes to anything nautical.”

“Jim?”

“My former fiancé. We were engaged, but the deal is off. I will not marry him.”

Most of her words still made little sense to him—and yet he managed to comprehend her meaning. “Did you run away to avoid marriage?”

“No. He can go to hell.”

He saw
her bite down on her lip and wondered why. Strong language from so dainty a woman shocked him. Her fine skin, perfect teeth, and obvious health signaled an upbringing in a well-to-do family. She could not be a child of the street though she spoke as one did.

He fingered the carved pony in his pocket. Who had given it to her?

“Jim had a copy of Christopher Moody’s flag on his boat. That’s where I saw it.”

“You’ve never met Mr. Moody until now?”

“Uh. No. I’ve only seen a replica of his flag.”

“But Mr. Moody does not have a ship.” Harlan’s position as captain remained tenuous. The men could hold another election at any time and someone else could become captain. However, Harlan
’s knowledge of direction gave him an advantage. He had been almost everywhere on ships and he remembered the sight of every coastline he had visited. Still, the crew could decide if they wanted Moody--or someone else. 

“Well, Moody will have a ship—in the future.”

His mood veered sharply. Now her nonsense became clear—in a way that chilled him to the core for it reminded him of the pain he had suffered in the past. “Those who claim to know the future and who dabble in the black arts are witches.”

The quill slipped from her fingers onto the paper and the ink splattered on the corner of the paper. Panic touched her delicate features. He narrowed his eyes. Would a witch appear so fearful? Lifting a strand of her hair, he found the feel of the silky filaments sent a thrill straight to his loins and had him believing she possessed the magic of a temptress.

“Your hair is as black as a raven’s wing. It is said that witches can change form. It could be that you flew upon the ship for how else could you have come? The water is chilly this time of year for swimming. You had no boat. The men would have discovered a stowaway. Why did you appear--other than to bewitch me?”

“I don’t know anything about spells and magic.” She pulled her hair from his fingers. “If I did do you think I would stay here in this backwar
d century on a boat with a horde of bloodthirsty pirates who rob people—at gunpoint—or knifepoint—and kill them if they don’t hand over their valuables. This ship is full of murderers and thieves.”

“Enough
!” He fisted his hands and held them rigid at his sides.

Her amazing green eyes closed. A chill went through him as if the sun had been blotted out.

“Salem.” Though her voice sounded small, it filled the silence in the cabin. “Didn’t that happen in the 1600s? Hasn’t everyone gotten over that by now?”

Wrapping her arms about her thin frame, she moved to the furthest corner of the cabin. Huddled against the bulkhead, she looked like nothing more than a poor street urchin—not a witch, nor a temptress. Yet, while the connection between them had been severed, he continued to experience a strange pull that drew him toward her. He seemed caught in the sticky whorls of an invisible web and he could not resist moving toward his inevitable doom.

“Do they still burn witches at the stake?” she asked.

He shook his head. “They hung the guilty in Salem.”

“They were not guilty because they were not witches.” She spoke with an unmistakable note of defiance.

Weariness settled upon him. He did not want to be reminded of Salem. He had found Dr. Gilroy in Salem—or rather Gilroy had found him and healed him. He did owe the doctor his life.