Page 12 of Kidnapped by the Pirate
Nathaniel blinked at the cabin. He’d opened his eyes at some point, and he was still there. If only he could wake on the Proud William with Susanna’s snores rumbling. His throat tightened painfully. God, would he ever see her again?
He couldn’t just sit there. He had to try and do something. Anything! With one eye on the door, Nathaniel tiptoed, the floor creaking. He wagered the pirate wouldn’t be back for some time.
He stopped to unbuckle his shoes and roll off his woolen stockings, which he tossed into the corner where he’d been told to stay. He spread his toes on the worn planks in relief.
Peeking in drawers, he found dark clothing—trousers and shirts. Some pale linen underthings. No stockings or waistcoats, for what use would a pirate have for those? Nathaniel couldn’t deny a moment of jealousy at the freedom. He unbuttoned his own hated waistcoat and tossed it in the corner as well.
He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Did he imagine he would stumble upon a weapon and then…what? Best not only the pirate captain, but the entire crew? Still, he searched.
The chest only held more linens and odds and ends. The dark desk dominated much of the cabin, facing the door, which was tucked off to the side near the port hull. The bed was built into the wall adjacent to the door.
Red velvet drapes were tied back with yellow tassels on either side of the bed, the colors faded from the sun. Judging by the dust clinging to the velvet, the drapes hadn’t been closed or shaken out in some time.
The bed linens were wrinkled, though surprisingly white. Nathaniel glared at his scratchy, musty blanket. Listening for footsteps in the corridor, he examined the wide, dark-wood desk.
It had a tinge of red in the grain and was well constructed, wood extending on the front and sides all the way to the floor, making it a singularly solid piece of furniture.
The carved chair was of an almost-black wood. The high back was carved in the form of a winged bird—a hawk, naturally—looming over serpents. The neck of one was captured in the hawk’s beak, talons tearing into the thing, its fangs useless as it struggled.
The chair certainly made a statement.
The seat cushion was again red velvet, well-used. The top of the desk was neat. A nautical chart had rolled in on itself, and the thick captain’s log sat closed, ink and quill nearby. A curling silver candelabra with melted-down candles sat off to the side, a few drops of wax having dripped onto the desk and dried there.
There was no guest chair on the other side of the desk, perhaps indicating that the pirate didn’t entertain much consultation. The desk of course contained drawers. Bottles of rum and port were stashed in a lower one.
As Nathaniel edged out the top drawer, he heard a thud and voices outside the door. Heart in his throat, fresh panic popping in his veins, he dove for the corner, curling against the wall atop the horrible blanket, eyes locked on the door, waiting for the key to scrape in the lock.
Yet it didn’t, and as minutes passed, no one entered. The Damned Manta sailed on, hull creaking, rocking gently as it cut through the waves. Would the merchant ship reach Primrose Isle when its captain had predicted? And would his father care enough to attempt to save Nathaniel?
Would the last days of his life be spent locked away in this room, either alone or with a monster for company? He wasn’t sure which was worse as he lifted his fingers to his tender throat, which throbbed after Hawk’s rough treatment.
He imagined Susanna’s slender hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they strolled the decks of the Proud William in the afternoon. Could hear the lilt of her sunny voice reading him story after story.
Useless tears pricking his eyes, he bowed his head and prayed she and her babe were unharmed on their journey to Primrose Isle. If only their father hadn’t set them all on this course to the New World. Nathaniel pushed away his fear in favor of resentment.
Father had spent a ridiculous sum importing primroses and other flowers from England to the island. According to Susanna’s husband, he’d been furious when they hadn’t taken root, the tropical plants running roughshod over them, choking them with flowering vines and bright bursts of blooms.
The island had previously been uninhabited, and Nathaniel secretly hoped it would remain untamed for years to come. Yet he knew no matter how unyielding the vegetation, if England was determined to overrun it, she would, without concern as to how many suffered and were enslaved in the process.
Some years ago, during one of Walter’s visits home from Jamaica, Nathaniel had argued with him at breakfast about paying fair wages for labor in the colonies. If the law said a person could not be a slave in England, how was it right in the New World?
