Page 2 of Captive of the Pirate King
If this doesn’t work, I’m done.
I won’t find my brother.
Hell, I won’t make it through the day alive.
2
Booted feet tromp along the corridor, and a tall figure shoulders his way into the galley. He’s rangy and long-limbed, with a dirty, ragged shirt that gapes open across his well-cut chest. A stained red kerchief is bound around his head, and he wears a patch over one eye. Two belts hang crooked across his hips, and from them dangle a sword and at least three sheathed knives of different shapes and sizes. A tiny hoop glints along the upper edge of one ear.
He doesn’t even look at me, just heads for the drawers where the ship’s cook kept supplies. Two other men enter behind him, and together the trio collect bags of meal, flour, sugar, and salt. They grab kegs of oil and boxes of biscuit, tins of meat and jars of jam. They leave without saying a word to me.
I stay put, chewing my lower lip. They’ll probably return for the rest of the stores. We had a long voyage ahead, and the captain of this merchant ship likes to eat well. Unlike most captains, he made sure that everyone else aboard ate well also.
Minutes later the same three pirates troop into the galley again, piling their arms with more edible loot—bags of apples, sacks of potatoes, rashers of bacon. As they’re about to leave the galley, the one with the patch fixes his good eye straight on me.
His eye is so pale it’s nearly white. I can’t tell if its true color is very light blue or very light green. I get the strange feeling he noticed me earlier and just hasn’t bothered with me until now.
“Come on, boy,” he says roughly. “Unless you’d rather take your chance with the beasts of the deep when we scuttle this rig.”
Boy. The word burrows into my chest, soothing the worst of my nerves. At least I have this man convinced.
I scramble up and follow the pirates onto the deck.
It’s a bloody mess. Sails have been shredded, railings splintered, barrels knocked askew. Bodies lie slumped here and there on deck. There’s a broad plank connecting the two ships, and across it the goods from the merchant vessel are being carried, chests and casks and bolts of fine cloth wrapped in canvas.
In the center of the deck, by the mainmast, stands what’s left of our ship’s crew. Their hands have been bound in front of them. Some of them have faces so bruised and swollen they’re unrecognizable, but I’m able to pick out Cauley, the first mate, and Jinks, the navigator. Jinks looks up and catches my eye, and a startled flash of recognition passes across his weathered face. Beneath the sandy bristle of his mustache, his mouth moves—a muttered curse, I think.
And here is another test of my disguise. Those who’ve sailed with me know who I really am. I must count on them to keep my gender a secret. They seem to like me well enough—I’ve been an undemanding and helpful passenger. There’s no reason for any of them to reveal me to the pirates.
“Over there, boy, with the others,” growls Eye-Patch.
As I head for the knot of surviving sailors, I jam my bare foot against something. It’s a boot—the captain’s boot—finely tooled leather, with a thick cuff encircling black pants. My eye follows the line of his leg all the way up to the gaping cavity of his chest. Rib bones protrude from the meaty orifice. His eyes stare glassy at the sky.
Bile rises in my throat and I gag.
“Ho there, don’t be sick all over them fine boots,” calls one of the invaders. “Locke, pull ’em dandy duds off the dead captain and bring ’em along.”
“My arms are full,” protects Locke, the eye-patch pirate. “You, boy—take the boots off him.”
He doesn’t pause to confirm my obedience, but clomps across the plank to the pirate ship.
I take a few seconds to ogle the pirate vessel—sleek and trim, with lines that whisper of speed and masts like the spires of a palace. It’s an immense ship, but somehow it manages to avoid the bulkiness of this merchant vessel.
Remembering my task, I grip the captain’s boots and pull them off him. Both the pirates who showed an interest in the boots have gone onto the other ship. I look down at my own feet—bare and tender, with delicate ankles and dainty toes. Why does my body insist on looking so damn feminine?
Gritting my teeth, I pull on the dead captain’s boots. They’re enormous on me, but better than nothing. The captain would have wanted me to have them. He would want to help me survive, to protect myself.
A shout erupts from the plank where the two ships are joined. One man wobbles as the board tilts, and he’s nearly dumped into the sea along with the cask of ale he carries.
“Sea’s gettin’ rough!” calls a pirate. “Time to go, boys!”
The captive sailors are hustled along the plank to the pirate ship. Before I can cross, the merchant vessel groans, tilting, and one of the prisoners sways and pitches off the board, dropping down into the foam with a shriek and a splash.
Everyone else hurries across, and then the plank is removed. “It’s the ropes for the rest of you!” shouts a pirate.
I’m left on the merchant ship with another member of my former crew and two of the pirates. The pirates cut the sailor loose so he can grip one of the ropes that trail from the rigging.
They’re going to swing across to the other ship.
