Dunham (Tales of Dunham: The Past) Excerpt

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     July 4, 1776 Barbary Coast

    Bare and bloody from forehead to waist, she held the tip of her sword tight to the

    neck of the man who lay on the quarterdeck between her feet, his sword-hand fingers

    ground under her heavy boot heel. Her long, blood-soaked braid whipped and

    snapped in the wind.

    “This ship is mine now, Skirrow,” she snarled. “You have three choices. Adrift,

    keeled, or death by my hand.”

    He would have swallowed, but her sword prevented that. “Adrift,” he whispered as

    best he could.

    “Wrong choice.”

    The blade of a carefully sharpened battle ax glinted and whistled as she arced it

    overhead and brought it down through his neck, cleanly separating his head from hisshoulders.

    Heedless of the blood spurting from their vessels, she dropped the ax and snatched

    her former captain’s head off the deck.

    She whirled to see the crew—her crew now—watching with varying degrees of

    calculation and terror.

    “I AM CAPTAIN FURY!” she roared, thrusting Skirrow’s bloody head, still with

    its terrified expression, skyward. “I am your captain now, by right of my victory. Any

    who challenge me will also be sent straight to hell.”She dropped Skirrow’s head upon his body, then rammed her sword into the deck

    so hard that it sank two inches into the wood and quivered. Most of the crew gasped

    and stepped back.

    “Dooley Smith, step forward!” she shouted.

    A man of indeterminate age with a shock of carrot-colored hair stepped forward

    proudly and saluted. “Sir!”

    She plucked a jangle of keys from the body’s belt and fired them at him. Without a

    blink, he caught them. “Dooley Smith. Leftenant. Second in command. Take who youtrust and go free the prisoners. Bring them to me.”

    A quarter hour passed in which she stood on the quarterdeck, hands on hips, una-

    shamed of her bare breasts, surveying her holdings and crew. Many would die today,

    but most of those not by her hand.

    Only fifteen men knew what this day would bring, and fourteen of them stood

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     2 Moriah Jovan

    spread out, heavily armed, their backs to her, holding weapons to discourage any who

    might forcibly object.

    A gaggle of Moors, Africans, Arabs, Jews, and Caucasians in equal numbers strag-

    gled up on deck, gaunt, nearly lifeless and, for the first time on this voyage, not boundby chains. Two men stood out: An Arab and a runaway Negro slave. Both stood

    proud, their backs strong for all their emaciation, and their bearing dignified.

    “Solomon Ibrahim and Cambridge Bull, step forward!”

    The two who knew they had the most to gain by this mutiny stepped forward with

    purpose. She pulled two leather-sheathed daggers out of her waistband and sent them

    zinging toward the men, who caught them handily.

    “Seek out your enemies and do what you will,” she murmured, and studied the fac-

    es of the crew, a full quarter of which turned to shock and fear.

    The Arab gave no expression to betray his feelings, but he turned on the balls of his

    feet and, with one graceful arc, slit the throat of the man behind him—then plowed

    through the assembled crew.

    The Negro’s expression had turned murderous and he too pursued those who had

    made his life worse than a living hell down in the deep, dark holds below the cargo.

    She watched as men dove overboard to escape the wrath of the two who suddenly

    possessed the strength of madmen. Throats were slashed and bodies dumped, the seabelow them blossoming vermilion as she stood silent, watching, waiting.

    The rest of the prisoners stared agog, their vengeance wrought by proxy, their ex-

    pressions slowly betraying hope.

    The two men ran for hatches and disappeared into the bowels of the ship from

    whence screams erupted only to be abruptly silenced. Bodies flopped in their mates’

    arms as they were dragged from belowdecks into the sunshine and tossed overboard.

    The sun marked three quarters of an hour before the reapers reappeared before

    her, as bloody as she, sheathing the daggers in their waistbands.“Solomon al Ibrahim,” she intoned. “I have no sailor’s rank for you, but you will be

    my equal on this ship, should you choose to sail with me. Anon, we shall together ad-

    dress your grievance with the sultan.”

    His expression still blank, he bowed his head in respect, then raised it to look her in

    the eye. She nodded once.

    “Cambridge Bull. Second leftenant. Third in command.” He, too, bowed his respect.

    “Paulo Papadakos, step forward!” The Greek had taken to the sea at ten, when his

    family had been run out of their ghetto and he had become simply an extra mouth tofeed. “Third leftenant.”

    “Bataar Khan, step forward!” A smallish Mongol looked up at her from under low-

    ered brows. “Bo’sun. And do away with that farce of hair affixed to your chin. You are

    no more male than I.” The woman grinned and spun a Turkish sword over the top of

    her hand before touching the dull edge of the blade to her forehead.

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    Dunham  3 

    “Enrico Espejo, step forward!” Barely out of the schoolroom, this Spaniard had

    proven his worth many times, and no less so today. “Master gunner.”

    “Adrian Croftwood, step forward!” An English nobleman’s fifth son, who had no

    hope of anything in his homeland and had gone to sea seeking a fortune that had nevermaterialized. “Carpenter.”

    “Orlando Telesca, step forward!” Another nobleman’s son, Venetian, heir to noth-

    ing owing to a profligate father. “Surgeon.”

    The afternoon bore on thusly as she named her crew and positions, the last a small

    boy who had been used as a toy for the man she had just slain. No one knew his name

    or his age, not even he. He had always been called Boy.

    “Boy!” Her voice rang out, still true, though she could feel her throat sting. “Step

    forward!” He did, trembling. She placed him at no more than nine or ten years old.

    “Can you speak, child?”

    “Yes, Sir,” he replied, immediate but timid.

    “You shall henceforth be known as Christopher. Take the first watch under my

    command.”

    With the energy of the very young, he ran to the mainmast ropes and climbed,

    swift as a monkey, to the highest platform, where awaited a glass and cone. She looked

    up at him and he looked down at her, then he saluted. She nodded once, then stoodsilent whilst she picked out her own victims.

    She saw where they stood, still alive. Neither Solomon nor Bridge would have had

    reason to kill them.

    But she did.

    And they knew it.

    Lieutenant Smith caught her look and barked an order for five men to be tied to

    the masts of the ship. They ran, but her new crew was quick to capture them and fol-

    low those orders.She clipped down the stairs to the main deck. She approached the first. “Look at

    me. Open your eyes.”

    He refused, mute, miserable, tears rolling down his cheeks.

    “Confess your sin.”

    But he wouldn’t. He knew what he had done, and what she would do to him. Her

    crewman pried his eyelids open. With the point of her dagger, she pried his eyes out

    one by laborious one while he screamed in pain and blood poured out of the sockets. If

    he did not die, she would put him ashore.She went to the next mast to which were bound two men. “Turn this one facing

    wood and get me a harpoon.” Her order was carried out and someone had slapped the

    long spike in her hand. “Spread him open.” With one upward thrust, she drove the spear

    into his back passage. His screams were deafening. They would cease in a moment or

    two.

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    4 Moriah Jovan

    The man next to him was already blubbering and begging for mercy, as he knew

    what was in store for him. She cut his breeches open with her dagger. With one hand,

    she grasped his cock and balls, yanked them toward her, stretching them as far as they

    would go, and sliced them both clean from his body. He passed out. Blood drainedfrom his groin all over her hands and she wiped her palm dry on her arse. He would be

    dead by sunset.

    To the third mast were strapped the last two men upon whom she would visit her

    vengeance. Smitty had ordered the instrument prepared as soon as she’d begun her

    rampage, and brought the red-hot iron tongs to her immediately. “Open his mouth.”

    Two of her newly minted officers muscled his jaw open—twisting it so that it

    cracked at the hinges. Smitty clamped the tongs to his tongue and dragged it out of his

    mouth. She cut it out with short, ragged strokes. He, too, passed out. He could beg on

    a street corner somewhere with the blind man.

    The last man was the ship’s former surgeon. She stared at him, and he stared back,

    his head high. He had participated in the event that had led her to take this ship, but

    not in the same manner as the others.

    “You killed him, the grog you gave him.”

    “I did,” he said without hesitation. “Swift and painless.”

    She took a breath. “Thank you.”He inclined his head.

    “Leftenant Bull! Take him. Lock him in my cabin. I should decide what to do with

    him later.”

    Bridge stepped forward and saluted. “Which cabin, Sir?”

    “Oh, aye. I have a new cabin now. My old one, then. Have a boy move my things

    first.”

    “Aye, Cap’n.”

    That done, she turned and bound back up to the quarterdeck. “Solomon. MountSkirrow’s head on the bowsprit as a warning to anyone else who thinks to take me or

    mine.”

    The Arab’s mouth turned up in a diabolical smile. She and the rest of the crew

    watched silently as he impaled the head on a claymore, then grabbed a measure of rope

    before heading to the bowsprit to lash it tight.

    Turning to address her men, she said, “We put into port in Casa Blanca soon for

    drydock. That will take some weeks. Those of you who do not wish to sail under a

    woman’s command will find your own way back to your homelands. After that, I go toPhiladelphia to apply for a letter of marque. War has begun, and where there is war,

    there is money to be made.

    “Those of you who’ve been bound who would be my crew are welcome to stay as

    long as you work. Otherwise, you’ll tell the leftenant where you wish to debark and I

    shall take you there. Any who have wives or sweethearts who would be willing to work

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    Dunham  5 

    for me are welcome to bring them aboard as we pass your home ports.

    “The rest of you who wish to stay as my crew, freely and of your own will sailing

    under the command of a woman, will be well rewarded. This ship will henceforth go

    by the name Thunderstorm. We weigh anchor at dawn. Monsieur Senzeille, two extrarations of rum for each man and other than a skeleton watch of two hours each, you

    may have the rest of the evening to yourselves.”

    The crew erupted in cheers.

    It was a good day’s work, but she could find no joy in it.

    She looked to the sun, low on the horizon, and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Adieu,

    mon cœur,” she whispered and went below to find a dark place to sob out her grief and

    heartache before her new crew saw her tears.

    It was not meet for a commander to weep.

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     July 4, 1776Newgate Prison, London

    cold

    wet

    dark

    hunger

    filth

    stench

    humiliation

    pain

    madness

    death

    England’s traitor awaited the court’s verdict sitting in a puddle of his own filth onfreezing stone, even in summer, barely able to move for cold and pain:

    his back against the equally freezing stone wall,

    his knees up and his arms propped across them,

    his head hung low,

    his ankles with bracelets of iron, a short length of chain betwixt them to hobble

    him; a matching set gracing his wrists—the two chains connected by a third to keep

    him secure from escape,

    his waist-length hair matted, filthy, crawling with lice and maggots,his beard, thick and coarse, itching and crawling with the same vermin as his hair,

    his body emaciated and weak, his stomach aching from hunger.

    Two years.

    He had been sitting thusly for two years here whilst his trial lumbered toward the

    inevitable conclusion of his execution.

    To keep his mind sharp, he created word puzzles and riddles. He made lists of the

    books in the library at home and which ones he had read. He named the names of eve-

    ry tenant, villager, and boarder on his estate.To make himself laugh, he recited by memory long passages from Pope’s Dunciad;

    following that, the works that had inspired such brilliant insults. He stood in the mid-

    dle of his cell and delivered monologues from Shakespeare and Marlowe, twisting

    them beyond recognition into bad puns that made him cackle at his own jokes.

    To keep his sanity, he recalled his boyhood, spent running hither and yon with his

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    Dunham  7 

    older siblings, racing their horses through the woods, hunting small animals with

    primitive snares and weapons, playing games with the village children, sneaking into

    the sea caves to hunt pirate treasure.

    To keep hope alive, he flew far away from this place, to the Ohio river valley he hadfound and made his home for a fortnight, land he had coveted so much he had paced it

    off as if to verify a purchase. Upon reflection, he should have known it could never

    have been his, but in this time and place, as it had for the last two years, it was.

    He split logs for the fences that corralled his bleating, stinking sheep. He walked

    behind yoked oxen guiding a plow, his feet bare in the cool, damp, rich black dirt that

    had never before met steel. He dug precise holes into which he carefully set saplings for

    apples and pears, then carried water and mulch with which to nurture them. He

    mucked his horses’ stalls and milked his cows, and when he emerged from his stables,

    he looked over acres and acres of grain, pastureland, and meadows to the horizon—all

    his, as far as he could see.

    He turned and saw his home, his beautiful home, the one he had built with his

    own hands, along with equally beautiful furnishings inside. Here, a rocking chair he

    had labored over. There, a well-designed roof hip he was particularly proud of.

    A simply dressed woman waved to him from the porch, called his name, and re-

    turned the smile that grew upon his face. He could not see her very well, though, for hewas rather far away. He could, however, hear his children squawking at one another

    over this favored toy or that—one he had made.

    Come to supper, my love! The sun will set again yet tomorrow. 

    “A moment, my love,” he whispered, and gazed again over his land—his! —

    marveling at its vastness.

    The day guards thought him mad, for all that he spoke to himself, asking and an-

    swering his own questions, reciting the same lists and soliloquies over and over again,

    conversing with his nonexistent wife and children, scratching out crop plans on thestone with the jagged edges of the links that tethered him.

    The night guards had nothing better to do than listen to his plans and scoff.

    “TRAITOR!”

     Jerked out of his reverie, he smirked at the screech that came through the narrow

    bars far above his head. He wiped his mouth with his filthy hand, chuckling. How

    many times had he heard that?

    Traitor. He heard it shouted outside the prison walls for hours at a time, the popu-

    lace clamoring for him to dance from a gibbet.Traitor.  He heard it shouted outside the courtroom where his trial took place,

    where he stood stooped because of his shackles. His appearance condemned him even

    to those who could not quite be convinced by any other means that he was guilty of

    high treason.

    Traitor. The word was splashed all over the gazettes, or so he was told. Almost no

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    Dunham  9 

    The nightmares were rare and negligible. They did not shake him out of slumber,

    nor disturb him when awake. He knew where he was: Newgate. He knew his cell-

    mates: No one. He knew that the bars that kept him in kept everyone else out.

    Here he could escape across an ocean and hundreds of miles inland to a land ofpromise, a land flowing with milk and honey, far away from this meaningless existence.

    And here, he had regular visits from people who loved him, who gave him what lit-

    tle comfort they could afford, who had dedicated themselves to winning his acquit-

    tal—whether he was innocent or not.

    The noise outside was swelling. Pebbles and larger stones were tossed into his cell,

    their plinking against the walls faster and faster. A collective bellow gathered and rose

    to a roar.

    traitor!  

    traitor!  

    traitor!  

    It was a chant growing in volume and vitriol.

    He would be drawn and quartered by sundown on the morrow. Unless his mother

    had one of her seemingly endless supply of wily feints at the ready, he would never

    have to worry about anything ever again.

    He found that a … relief. Father was definitely more correct in this, he finally de-cided and hang what Mother would think. At some point, it was easier to accept it

    than to continue fighting against the inevitable. After all, even the best captains and

    generals had to retreat now and again. There was no dishonor in losing a battle to win

    a war, and no war could have two victors.

    Thus, he proceeded to unfurl his mind’s sails and head for Ohio as he had done so

    often, to sink into the soft dirt and sweet grasses on the bank of the Cuyahoga River to

    await the executioner’s summoning. Then it occurred to him that though he could not

    have that in life, he could have it in death: He would ask his family to bury him there.His mother would push back the cliffs of the estate to see this request honored. Aye,

    that was precisely what he would do.

    He smiled and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the stone wall.

    Clanging at the iron doors of the gaol two floors up only surprised him in that it

    was so soon after the verdict was rendered. The voices of his advocates barely pricked

    his resignation to Fate.

    The haste with which his cell door opened and men rushed in did spur him to lift

    his head. The sudden light from the guard’s torch blinded him and he raised an arm toshield his eyes.

    “My son!” He grunted in pain when his father cast himself to his knees and fell up-

    on him, weeping. “My son, forgive me, I pray!”

    There was nothing he could say except, “’Tis of no matter, Father.” Except it was,

    insofar as he was an obedient and dutiful son, and his tribulations were the direct

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    10 Moriah Jovan

    result of that obedience. “But, please, I must ask you to bury me—”

    “Leftenant!” snapped his commander as he sank to his haunches beside him and

    began to fuss with his manacles.

    Lieutenant? He had not been any man’s lieutenant for nigh ten years, but the sharpaddress certainly made him pay attention. What had he done—high treason notwith-

    standing—to be reprimanded so by an ally?

    “Sir?”

    “No one will be burying you in the immediate future. You’ve been acquitted.”

    “Acquitted?” he croaked. Surely he had misheard … ?

    He sat confused, but that was certainly of no matter, either, since he would die on

    the morrow and now felt an urgent need to get his request made before that happened.

    He flinched when the frigid air touched his wrist where the manacle had worn scars

    into his flesh.

    “Father, come.” His older brother’s voice. “Get up. You may weep over him in the

    coach. Nephew, help me.”

    “Grandfather.” Ah, and there was his nephew, his solicitor. Shadows moved as the

    younger man bent over the older one and urged him away from his supplication.

    His commander grasped his left wrist, and he watched in wonder as the key went

    into the hole, turned, and released the mechanism that bound his other wrist. Themanacle fell off, clattering upon the stone floor. He flinched from the sharp sound.

    A fourth man stooped over him. “Mother will take you home as soon as you can

    walk farther than ten feet. You will be at home in time for Christmas!”

    “What?” he whispered as he looked at his younger brother, the barrister who had

    argued his case.

    “Do you not understand?” He pulled away when his brother’s nose nearly touched

    his while he stared directly into his eyes and spoke. “You—have—been—acquitted.”

    He blinked. And again.“Acquitted?” Did he dare hope this was not an hallucination? “I can go home?”

    “Aye,” grunted his commander, who was currently struggling with the lock on a

    rusty ankle cuff. “Your brother did a fine job and your father’s influence is not to be

    discounted, either. Your mother—well, I should not want to cross her in a dark alley,

    to be sure. You’re a free man.”

    Free.

    Nay. Not so long as he could remember the king’s betrayals of him, nor whilst he

    seethed with the rage that had been building for the last two years.The first betrayal he had been able to put behind him to fulfill his duties with ex-

    traordinary valor.

    The second he shared with fifteen other men, all of them cast under the wheels of

    political expediency.

    This, the third …

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    Dunham  11 

    He was finished bearing the Britain’s sins against him without seeking redress.

    Redress.

    That which the Americans sought also.

    But they were little more than beasts, the colonials, with their primitive weapons,little training, sparse leadership, and no navy.

    He was not.

    When these men, his family, the people who loved him, attempted to pull him off

    the ground, his legs buckled. Even his arms, so long in one position, refused to hook

    around their shoulders with enough strength to hold himself.

    “Bloody hell,” his father hissed before sweeping him up in his arms and cradling

    him as he had done when he was but a wee lad.

    Redress.

    Revenge.

    Suddenly, it was a more intoxicating idea than Ohio.

    Aye, he would seek justice for the crimes committed against him and his family,

    and he would do it in the manner the Crown had trained him. Could there be any-

    thing sweeter?

    His father carried him out of his cell, out of Newgate, whilst the crowds who

    screamed for his execution were held at bay by Bailey guards. Soon enough, he foundhimself ensconced in a comfortable coach, his father tucking warm blankets around

    him.

    “My son,” he whispered as he worked, his eyes glittering, a smile—that smile, the

    one he loved so much to see—growing. “You are a free man.”

    The newly acquitted barked a rough, bitter laugh and said, “Your optimism is al-

    ways the gentlest of salves, Father, if only for a small amount of time, but look.” He

    gestured weakly out the window toward the bloodthirsty crowd. “Does that look like

    freedom? Nay. I shall never be free,” he muttered. “I am a traitor. I will always be atraitor.”

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    1

     January, 1780Oranjestad, Sint EustatiusCaribbean

    “Ye’re goin’ ashore, Jack?” Lieutenant Smith asked, shocked when Celia swung

    from the deck of her ship and dropped into the dinghy already being rowed toward the

    docks.“Shush. Solomon can’t know. He believes I am abed as he bade me.” She cast a

    glance between her first mate and her bo’sun. They were the only two occupants of the

    boat. “I’ll assume you two wanted away from a nosy crew.”

    Bataar glared at her, and if Celia’s head were not throbbing like the very devil, she

    would have laughed. “If Solomon bade you rest,” she sneered, “then why are you here

    disturbing our liaison?”

    “Aye,” Smitty agreed. Celia now could see he was equally annoyed with her. “I’d

    think a body’d rest after sailing through that last stretch of storms.”

    It had been an incredibly long and difficult voyage from Portugal, after an incredi-

    bly long and difficult voyage from Virginia to London and on to Portugal—but for

    different reasons. Truthfully, she would like nothing better than to sleep, having al-

    ready postponed her meeting with her partner until the morrow, but—

    “Not this body,” she returned wearily.

    “Then why … ?”

    She gestured vaguely out to sea. “Dunham sailed into the bay two hours ago. Imust make haste to go to Mohammed before Mohammed comes to me.”

    Bataar sighed in sudden understanding. “Your mother. Does she know he has

    graced us with his presence?”

    Celia grimaced. “Not yet. She’d have my head if I allowed him on board, yet I can

    hardly deny him. I sent a message for him to meet me at the Bloody Hound.”

    “It’s been near five years. He must miss ye much.”

    She slid Smitty a look. “He is not so sentimental as to cross the Atlantic for a visit

    with me, and he cannot possibly know Mama is aboard, so I’ll admit to some curiosityas to his reasons for being here.”

    “More than one?”

    “He does not do anything without he has six reasons at once, and certainly would

    not do such a thing as leave the Mediterranean without those reasons being very large 

    ones.”

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    16 Moriah Jovan

    “An’ what’ll ye do when he requests a tour of the Thunderstorm? He hasna seen it.”

    “I have not thought that far ahead, and I have a singular inability to lie to him. I

    shall have to arrange for Mama to go ashore somehow.” Celia’s head began to throb in

    earnest, and she rubbed at her temples. Certainly, she was happy to see the man, butwhy here? Why now? “Oh, God,” she groaned, closing her eyes and lying back in the

    dinghy. “Does it never end?”

    “Perhaps,” Bataar said haughtily, “you should allow Fate to do what she will. It is

    not your concern.”

    Celia could only groan again. “Do not make me think, Bataar. Your family con-

    cerns are a matter for all scholars of history to sort out, whilst I am alone between

    two—nay, three—warring factions.”

    “They are adults. Stand aside and allow them to war.”

    It was not long until the dinghy scraped the shoals. Smitty hopped overboard, up

    to his knees in the water to haul it close and tie it off. Celia climbed out even as he held

    his hand out to Bataar.

    “I’m off,” Celia muttered. “My thanks for the conveyance.”

    “We’re bound for the Bloody Hound as well,” Smitty admitted reluctantly as he laced

    his fingers in Bataar’s. “There is a quiet inn behind the courtyard, but we’ve yet to eat.”

    “Mmm, I may avail myself of that. I could use—”“CALICO JACK!”

    “God’s blood,” she moaned again, but Smitty and Bataar both turned at Solomon’s

    bellow from behind them. Half the street’s denizens stopped and looked around. Soon

    enough her gunpowder supplier spotted and hailed her. “Four days hence!” she called

    to him. He nodded enthusiastically.

    She was obliged to greet half a dozen people and arrange meetings whilst Solomon

    and another four of her officers fought through the crowd of drunken sailors and

    women to reach her and her companions.“Cap’n Jack! Heads up!”

    Celia’s head snapped to her right just in time to see a bottle flying toward her.

    “Praise be,” she said fervently, snatching it out of the air, pulling the cork, and tipping

    her head back to drink deeply. It was good, strong rum, and once she had poured a

    good quarter of it down her gullet, she saluted the man who’d tossed it to her. “Excel-

    lent, Distiller! One hundred barrels to the Thunderstorm. Come see me this week, as I

    have a Greek spirit for you to sample.”

    “Many thanks, Cap’n!”“We might as well have stayed on board,” Smitty muttered to Bataar.

    “Speaking of that,” Celia said, feeling her headache fade with the alcohol and her

    mood lift as she graciously collected salutations and good wishes with every step she

    took. “Why do you not share a cabin as well as a bunk? I can find a use for a cabin that

    stands empty most of every day.”

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    Dunham  17 

    “Well, Cap’n,” Smitty drawled snidely, “now that ye’ve made a spectacle of us, I

    ’spose there’s no need to keep us to ourselves.”

    “Happy to help!” Celia chirped, suddenly amused, and waved at yet another ac-

    quaintance.“Jack,” came Solomon’s ominous voice from just behind her.

    “Oh, do not berate me. Dunham’s here.”

    “I know and I had a plan to defuse the situation, but you did not stay long enough

    for me to inform you of it.”

    She huffed at the dark Arab, who was clad in his preferred white silk tunic and pa-

     jamas, his bald head wrapped in more white silk that emphasized his black close-

    shaven beard. Her mouth twisted in thought. “Aye, well, now I’m here and he awaits

    and I find myself in dire need of food and more of this fine rum.” She took another

    swig. “That,” she pronounced with a satisfied smack of the lips, “is lovely.”

    He grunted.

    “Solomon,” she said, annoyed with his clucking. “I do not need my physician tag-

    ging after me.”

    “I told you not to come ashore. If I cannot force you to your bed, I will cling to your

    heels like dog shit and follow you like its stench.”

    “Solomon!”His eyebrow rose. “Am I now under your command … Captain?”

    Her jaw ground. “That was a mistake I’ll not repeat.”

    He smirked.

    “Oh, here we are,” Celia said, surprised they had arrived so soon. She looked over

    her shoulder to see that many of her crew had assembled behind her. “Do not get your-

    selves killed—and that’s an order. If I have to knock on hell’s door to drag you back to

    your posts, I will, and then I’ll flog you for putting me to the trouble.”

    The lot of them laughed and wandered off.“So, Jack,” Smitty drawled as they filed through the doorway, “now that ye’re the

    only body occupying your bunk, should I keep an eye out?”

    Bataar laughed and Celia flashed the old salt a grin. “I’m not sure, Smitty. I married

    the last man you brought to me.”

    “Oh ho! I should take up matchmaking, ye say?”

    “You’ll not get my business, then. I have need of a procurer.”

    “Jack,” Solomon growled, “there will be no procuring done on your behalf for the

    foreseeable future. If you test me, I will inform your mother.”“We shall see about that,” Celia said archly. “I’ve not had a good tumble since be-

    fore we made London. I am positively famished.”

    The tavern fair crawled with pirates and privateers, most of whom she recognized.

    She cast around for Dunham, who sat in a back corner of the tavern holding court

    with Maarten Gjaltema, her sailing partner.

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    18 Moriah Jovan

    The last five years had aged Dunham aplenty, his long once-orange hair now al-

    most completely white. His close-shaven beard was the color of new-fallen snow with

    not a patch of orange in sight.

    She had been too busy to think about him much since he’d officiated her wedding,but she had missed the old man and was more than glad to see him. It shocked her how

    much she wished he had come here because he had missed her.

    “HO, DUNHAM! HOLLANDER!” she bellowed, her hands cupped around her

    mouth.

    “HO, JACK!” Dunham returned in the heavy brogue he affected in public. “Come

    aboard, Lass! Make room, lads. ’Ere comes me finest work.”

    She made only a little stir as she worked her way through the writhing mass of

    male and female bodies. Whether she knew any particular individual or not, most eve-

    ryone here knew her by sight or deed, and dare not offend her.

    Except one.

    It was not until she had made half her destination when she found herself pulled

    down into a hard, muscled lap and her mouth thoroughly kissed.

    The man tasted of rum and cocoa.

    Surprised, shocked, and so unexpectedly warmed as she looked into amused ice blue

    eyes, she ceased to think. She opened her mouth to let his tongue stroke hers, raisedher hand to caress his rough, stubbled cheek. His body was big and strong, so she re-

    laxed against him with a sigh, closed her eyes, tilted her head to get closer, and kissed

    him for a long moment.

    She whimpered when he palmed one of her arse cheeks, caressing and squeezing—

    —but no matter how beautiful his eyes, no matter how well he kissed, no matter

    how sweet he tasted, no matter how famished she was, allowing just any sailor to accost

    her so … publicly … would set an inconvenient precedent.

    The point of her dagger just under his jaw convinced him to let her go.He drew away from her carefully and Celia caught her breath. Never had she seen

    such a beautiful man in her life. Long silver-streaked blue-black hair, chiseled features,

    dark tan, good, white teeth—and those eyes!

    “There are many ways you could have acquired my undivided attention for a night

    or six,” she remarked mildly after admiring his face and making no secret of it. “Mistak-

    ing me for a whore is not one of them.”

    She slipped off his lap and sheathed her dagger as she walked away without a

    backward glance. She felt her wrist grasped and prepared herself. By the time he hadswung her around to face him, she had drawn her cutlass with the unmistakable ring of

    battle, silencing the mob of people in the great room of the tavern. Her crew gathered

    behind her, as did the Hollander and the crew of the Mad Hangman, Dunham and her

    former shipmates from the Iron Maiden.

    Other men gathered behind this beautiful stranger who had kissed her so well.

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    Dunham  19 

    “Take—your—hand—off—me,” she growled, then whirled into his arms to drive

    the tip of her elbow into his breastbone and her thick boot heel down onto his instep.

    The battle erupted with a roar, and she found herself in an unexpected sword fight

    with the man. Solomon and her crew, as did the two other crews, fought alongside her,outnumbering her opponent’s men two to one. Sword in one hand, dagger in the oth-

    er, she was forced to fight better than she had ever fought before—even against her

    own master.

    “Dunham!” she bellowed above the mêlée, “who is this bastard?”

    “Judas,” the man himself snarled just before half the tavern shouted likewise. “My

    name is Judas and you’ll have reason to remember me, lady, never fear.”

    “Oh, aye. I’ve heard of you,” she announced as she parried and thrust. “Little boys

    playing pirate.”

    That seemed to infuriate him and he pressed her backward, raining strikes upon

    her faster and harder, forcing her to drop her cutlass and snatch her other dagger.

    The pirate was brought up short by the Hollander’s sword point near his throat.

    “Well, now that you have met,” he said conversationally, his Dutch accent thick with

    amusement, “allow me the honor of the formal introductions. Anon, we can gather in

    Philadelphia for a ball my wife will be delighted to plan, and you may continue this

    dance there. Sans weapons. Fury, this is Judas, captain of the Silver Shilling . Judas, this isFury, captain of the American privateer Thunderstorm, formerly the Moroccan corsair

    Carnivale. Most know her as Jack.”

    That brought a glimmer of recognition to his face, but for her name or the Carni-

    vale’s, she could not tell.

    “Jack here,” Dunham murmured from Celia’s other side, “is me best student and I

    see you’ve near bested her, which is a feat. Jack,” he drawled, chastisement so heavy in

    his voice she grimaced. “Ye’re out of practice. Been lazin’ on yer laurels?”

    “Aye, Cap’n,” she breathed, her chest heaving. “’Twill not happen again.”“Judas, yer crew’s outnumbered. Ye might have bested Jack here—” Dunham shot

    her a disgusted glance. “—an’ he shouldna be able to do it again or I’ll know the reason

    why, Missy—but your crew be not so lucky. Turn an’ look.”

    Indeed, the clash of swords had nearly ceased. Celia looked over her opponent’s

    shoulder and saw that between the crews of the Thunderstorm, the Iron Maiden, and the

    Mad Hangman, Judas’s crew had no chance.

    “I should think you’ll not assault a woman again without knowing who she is and

    the extent of her firepower,” Celia murmured. She felt Dunham start. “Aye. Hegrabbed me and kissed me like some common whore.”

    “No, wench,” Judas growled. “No common whore, I see now.”

    Celia sucked up a breath, then glared at the Hollander when he laughed.

    “Sheathe your weapons, Judas,” Dunham commanded, “an’ you an’ yer crew be on

    yer way. You got yer kiss an’ she got ’er fight, so ’tis a draw. You can hash this out at

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     20 Moriah Jovan

    sea. I wanna enjoy me time ashore with me protégée.”

    “I’m sure.” Judas drawled as he put his weapons away and sneered at her. “Your  pro-

    tégée.” He turned and stalked out of the tavern, his crew following reluctantly.

    “Well, me girl,” Dunham chuckled as they watched him leave. “I doonna knowwhere ye’ve been in the last year that ye’ve’na crossed paths with Judas—bloody hell,

    even I’ve heard of him all the way’t the Holy Land, wagin’ his own war on King

    George. No’ payin’ attention, are ye?”

    Celia’s mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed on her former captain.

    “Aye, and make no mistake, either. Now he’s gotcha in his sights. Whether to bed

    ye or kill ye, I canna say, but it dinna look like ye’d object to bein’ bedded.” He paused,

    then slid her a significant glance. “I’d not object should ye bed him.”

    To that she replied with great precision, “Rafael Covarrubias.”

    Dunham’s humor vanished, his facing flushing bright red. “Ye gods, woman!” he

    roared. “You dare speak that man’s name to me?!”

    “You are as predictable as the sun, Cap’n,” she said with a sweet smile. “Makes one

    wonder how you’ve escaped the hangman’s noose this long.”

    He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Rum’s on Jack tonight,

    lads! Tell the port!” She heaved an annoyed sigh, and he grinned at her. “What’s ’at,

    Whelp?”She should have known better than to engage in a battle of wits with the man

    who’d made a commander out of her.

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     2

    Elliott brooded as he rowed back to his ship.

    He had never lost such a battle before. Granted, it was not one he’d meant to start,

    and had taken him and his crew completely unawares. Granted, too, that while he’d

    outmatched a highly skilled swordswoman, his men had had to fight three crews at the

    same time over her—

    —and there was no honor in besting a woman at swords, no matter how accom-

    plished she might be.

    Still …

    Captain Fury.

    Dunham had called her Jack, but it did not sit well on her shoulders, and definitely

    not as well as her nom de guerre.

    It and tales of her adventures traveled from the Colonies to the Caribbean, fromEngland to Egypt, from Africa to Argentina. He’d thought her a myth, such as sirens

    and mermaids and selkies. He’d heard she was striking, though not beautiful, and even

    that only as an aside. He’d also heard she occasionally went bare-breasted about her

    ship and always, without fail, in battle.

    ’Twas said she had taken the Carnivale on her own, with no forewarning, no con-

    spiracy, but he refused to believe that. Captain Skirrow was known far and wide as a

    tyrant so cruel even the Ottomans feared him. Considering the women in Elliott’s fam-

    ily, he could easily believe in the existence of a female privateer captain, but not that awoman could lead a mutiny to acquire it.

    If she had indeed taken it—no one seemed to know why—she would have had to

    have its crew behind her.

    mutiny

    by a woman

    accepted as an equal by two well-respected commanders

    Elliott searched his mind for more tidbits he’d long forgotten because her exist-

    ence—if, indeed, she did exist—made no difference to him. A woman pirate. Notsince Anne Bonney and Mary Read. Even they had worked as men, and under Jack

    Rackham’s protection.

    Myth.

    Most men weren’t capable of the exploits laid at Fury’s feet.

    Striking? Aye, he supposed. Not beautiful. She had generous hips, magnificent

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     22 Moriah Jovan

    breasts, fair skin that had the faint look of perpetual sunburn, and eyes the color of

    burnt sugar. Her hair had initially caught his eye: pink. A red so light and so streaked

    blonde by the sun it looked like a strawberry, peach, and creme purée.

    But it was the smile she had cast at the old man with whom she’d entered the tav-ern that transformed her into something ethereal.

    Fierce? Aye. She had challenged him so that he had been stretched to defeat her,

    and even then her mentor had reprimanded her for being out of practice. He could see

    why she might be; she likely relied upon her reputation to stay out of as many battles

    as possible. ’Twas logical: the most reward for the least risk.

    Captain Fury.

    She kissed like a woman who knew how to spike a man on his own lust, and her

    arse had filled his hand perfectly.

    There are many ways you could have acquired my undivided attention for a night or six.

    His eyes narrowed as he rowed harder and his jaw clenched.

    He definitely wanted her undivided attention. Wanted to run his fingers through

    that incredible pink hair. Wanted to grind his mouth against hers. Wanted to wrap

    her thighs around his hips. Wanted to bury himself so hard, so deep within her she

    would never, ever forget who he was or what he could do to her.

    What pleasure he could give her.His men had left the tavern to seek their fun elsewhere, but Elliott had lost his taste

    for whoring tonight. With each pull of the oars toward the Silver Shilling , he cast about

    the bay for the Thunderstorm. Ah, there, not so far from his ship, though he could be

    easily forgiven for missing it, as it was painted entirely black so as to disappear in the

    night.

    The stern was sparsely embellished, but its design was definitely British. He rowed

    slowly toward it. It was a sixth-rate sloop-of-war, three masts, ship-rigged. He counted

    no fewer than sixteen carronade and at least twelve swivels. It was a rare vessel, Swanclass, the same size as the HMS Rose, which Elliott had once numbered in a fleet he

    had commanded. It was the perfect privateer: enough room in the holds to put a de-

    cent amount of cargo, enough armament to fend off most predators as well as take

    merchant vessels much larger, and enough speed to outrun any warship she came up

    against.

    He found himself nodding in approval as he rowed slowly past it, admiring its sleek

    lines. He was just past the ship’s hull when he looked up at the prow and his mouth

    dropped open.That figurehead!

    “Almighty God,” he whispered, thoroughly awed.

    Fury herself. Carved thrice scale in mahogany, with her hair streaming behind her,

    her body bare to the apex of her thighs, which then parted and straddled the prow as if

    she rode a lover, her bare arse firm, her wooden feet curled up over the rail. Her breasts

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    Dunham  23 

    were high and well-formed, the erect nipples large and prominent. Her right fist

    gripped the hilt of a massive steel sword, its point thrust deep into the wood beneath

    her thigh, its blade dripping wooden blood down the hull. Her left hand was out-

    stretched to the world, her first finger pointing the way.Her face had been caught in an expression of savage ecstasy; one could not tell if

    she was receiving ungodly pleasure from her prow or from battle. If Elliott had not

    already been half aroused thinking about how that arse fit in his hand, he was fully

    engorged now, watching her fuck her ship.

    Then he grinned. No, he had not intended to do anything other than kiss a pretty

    wench with an entrancing smile, much less start a war, but there was only one thing to

    do after one had lost a battle to an enemy: Win the next and with it, finish the war.

    By dawn, Elliott and his ship, its crew lively from a good night’s work and now not

    at all resentful of a lost tavern brawl, weighed anchor and put out to the other side of

    Sint Eustatius.

    Elliott could barely think to command, his attention riveted by the sword-wielding

    mahogany privateer captain who now fucked the prow of the Silver Shilling   instead of

    the Thunderstorm.

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     3

     February, 1780Chesapeake Bay, Virginia

    Not a fortnight after he had left the Caribbean, Elliott dropped the spyglass, won-

    dering how the hell he was going to get the Silver Shilling  through the barricade of Brit-

    ish ships o’ the line strung out along the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. If he had a

    smaller ship …

    Then again, if he had a smaller ship, it, along with its captain and crew, would be at

    the bottom of the ocean. Instead, the last two British frigates whose captains were fool-

    ish enough to turn and fight him were the ones now breaking bread with Davy Jones.

    “Dr. Covarrubias is near three miles north of us, Cap’n.”

    “Wonder why,” Elliott muttered to himself more than his lieutenant. It was dark,

    but the moon was just bright enough to catch a glimmer of another vessel.

    “Do you think he’ll give us trouble?”Elliott shook his head. “I see no reason that he would. He is neither one of King

    Charles’s minions nor any variation of pirate, and our quarrel is with the British. To

    my knowledge, he’s never opened his gunports without being pushed to it.” He

    churned through the possibilities and put the glass to his eye again. “He probably has

    cargo and awaits what we do.”

    The British line was rumored to be changing soon, and any captain worth his salt

    would take advantage of it.

    “The man is the best astronomer since Galileo. One would expect him to be a de-cent captain.”

    “He’s too impetuous for command,” Elliott grunted. “Reckless. But his navigation

    is impeccable, clearly, and he has a gift for squeezing the last pence and more from his

    cargos.”

    Yeardley snorted. “If  he can get his cargos to port.”

    “Aye, precisely. He should simply hire a captain and keep to navigation.”

    “And Fury? She’ll want her figurehead back.”

    Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men closest to him glance at her mag-nificent wooden effigy. His. He’d claimed it, and by doing so had dealt her and her

    crew a grave insult. Figureheads were sacrosanct and men had gone to war for far mild-

    er offenses. If she or her crew were the least bit superstitious …

    Yet she’d not pursued him for it. He wondered, not for the first time, if she had

    any intention of pursuit.

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    Dunham  25 

    Elliott had taken care to learn her intentions and had then followed her out of the

    Caribbean, losing distance every hour the wind blew. Had she a mind, she could have

    sailed around him and approached him from behind. But a ship built for speed and

    cargo was not built to declare war on an unusually large pirate ship and crew. TheThunderstorm was no match for the Silver Shilling  and a captain of her rumored accom-

    plishments would not consider such action for more than a moment.

    There are many ways you could have acquired my undivided attention for a night or six.

    Or … did she understand Elliott was determined to keep her attention now that he

    had it, and stealing her figurehead simply the first notice of his intentions?

    His cockstand, it seemed, was interminable. Truly, taking that figurehead had been

    a mistake, if only for strategic purposes because he couldn’t seem to think beyond that

    fine wooden arse that permanently graced his line of sight, parting at the thighs to re-

    veal … nothing.

    Aye, she had had reason to be angry with him, but before it had occurred to her to

    be angry … Oh, that kiss. What would have happened if he’d stayed in Oranjestad,

    swallowed his pride, and groveled adequately?

    He didn’t grovel well.

    “Cap’n?”

    Elliott started.“Fury?”

    Elliott looked toward the Virginia coast. Rumor had it that Fury and the Holland-

    er (Elliott had no idea how to pronounce the Dutch captain’s name, nor, he gathered,

    did anyone else), were, at this moment, somewhere in the Bay with God only knew

    how many more American privateers, awaiting the change of line.

    “If  she is in the harbor and if  she gets through the blockade and if  she sees us, she

    will sail on past and blow us a kiss whilst she outruns the Navy fleet that will be pursu-

    ing her.”“And after that? She’ll have the Hollander with her.”

    The Mad Hangman  was a fourth-rate frigate with at least forty guns—three-

    quarters the size of the Silver Shilling —and the Hollander was rumored to be at least as

    merciless as Elliott. If Elliott were caught fore and aft ’twixt a ship of the line and a

    fully armed sloop-of-war whose captain had reason to sink him, he would have a fight

    on his hands—a fight he did not need or want, and might not be able to win.

    But that kiss …

    “Point taken. We cannot underestimate anyone  capable of mutinying Skirrow,alone or otherwise, so you need not worry I’ve lost my head over her enough to allow

    her to engage us at any point without reprisal.”

    Sage nods all ’round.

    “Cap’n,” said another of his crew, lightly landing on his feet beside Elliott. “The line

    is shifting watch, right on schedule.”

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     26 Moriah Jovan

    Elliott grinned. “Excellent.” If   they were trapped in the Bay, the privateers would

    take the opportunity of the change to break through the line and head out to sea. “The

    patrol vessels?”

    “There are six. The three to the north have not seen Covarrubias, so far as I cantell. The other three have not come close enough to us to see us.”

    Nor would they.

    “Sir, I took it upon myself to watch for the Iron Maiden behind us. Should I con-

    tinue?”

    Elliott was still chafing at what had happened in that tavern, though his men

    thought him daring for having claimed a kiss from Captain Fury and felt the figure-

    head more than compensated them for the loss of a brawl in which they were so badly

    outnumbered.

    “Nay,” Elliott rumbled. “I gather Dunham went back to Morocco. But good think-

    ing, seaman. Thank you. Dismissed. Leftenant, you stay.”

    Yeardley lowered his voice once the rest of his men had scattered to tend their bat-

    tle preparations. “Do you mean to chase the woman hither and yon?”

    Only Elliott’s most trusted officers could get away with asking that question.

    “Wouldn’t you?”

    Yeardley opened his mouth to protest, and then muttered, “Aye, I suppose Iwould.”

    “I want her, Ian. Mayhap as much as I want that pay ship.”

    “I don’t have to ask why, but I have never seen you like this over a woman. ’Tis a bit

    disconcerting.”

    Elliott shrugged. “How long have we ever been in one place long enough for me—

    either of us—to form some attachment?”

    “You formed an attachment the minute you saw her in the door.”

    He ignored that. “We are here for several reasons, only one of which includes Fury.However, should she have any trouble, we shall assist.” He tilted his head to his right.

    “I would not be surprised if Covarrubias thinks to charge the line by himself. If possi-

    ble, we shall assist him also.”

    Yeardley accepted that with a nod. Elliott and his crew, the American privateers,

    and the Spaniard had a common enemy, and engaging the British was the first priority.

    He had no quarrel with Covarrubias or the privateer fleet, and his bone of contention

    with Fury could be settled at a later date.

    There was only one way Elliott wanted to settle his bone with Fury.

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    4

    “Celia, my love, what troubles you so? You have been out of sorts since we left Sint

    Eustatius.”

    Celia did not want to think about Sint Eustatius and all the things that had hap-

    pened in the fortnight they had spent there, so she settled on the least concerning thing.

    “Having my figurehead stolen by a pirate might be a good enough reason, don’t you

    think?”

    Mary chuckled as she braided Celia’s hair. “What I am thinking is that you are rest-

    less over what that pirate didn’t steal.”

    Oh, aye, and Celia was still famished, but now she had her mouth set for him. She

    harrumphed.

    “I think it’s a good sign. Especially after the last row between you and that … person.”

    “Mama, please. You have made your opinion of Rafael perfectly clear. So has eve-ryone else.”

    Mary made no answer.

    “’Tis the war,” she burst out. “Rather, my competing tasks, all of which are urgent

    and none of which I can complete with efficiency. I cannot be in three places at once

    and time spent on any one of them comes at the cost of the other two. And then Dun-

    ham sought to add to my list.”

    There was a moment of silence, though her mother never slowed in her task, her

    hands deft in the weaving of Celia’s hair. It was a ritual they indulged in often, Celiaseated on the floor between her mother’s knees, being cherished by the only parent she

    had never disappointed.

    Mary had taken a fancy to use seven strands this time and Celia could only imagine

    the braid’s intricacy. ’Twas a shame to waste it on a crew intent only on getting to

    London without dying.

    “What did he want?” Mary asked low.

    Celia had hoped Dunham had simply missed her, but no. His true purpose for

    crossing the Atlantic had little enough to do with her and everything to do with him.She swallowed hard and pressed a closed fist to her breast. “’Tis of no matter, as I re-

    fused him. In truth, I am weary. Bored. I have more money than I can spend in three

    lifetimes. I’ve accomplished things I never set out to accomplish. I do not now, nor

    have I ever had a goal.” She shuddered. “I wish to—”

    “Wish to what, love?”

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    “Sleep!” But then Celia sighed. “Truly, I do not know. Something … anything  else.

    Preferably something I have not yet done. I am … empty.”

    “Babes. That is what you lack.”

    “I have no wish for babes, Mother,” Celia said wryly. Rather, they had no wish for her.“Not now,” her mother countered with a jerk of her scalp. “But when ’tis too late,

    you will, mark my words. And I want grandchildren. You will have them because you

    do not deny me anything.”

    “There are one or two things I would refuse you, Mother.”

    The door to Celia’s cabin flew open and banged on the wall. Christopher was out

    of breath and panting. “Line’s changing, Cap’n.”

    Celia had no need to move. It was the very thing they had been awaiting.

    “The Mad Hangman?”

    “Sent the signal.”

    “Aye. The black sails?”

    “Ready, Sir.”

    “Braziers?”

    “Being prepared.”

    “Good, Kit. Dismissed.”

    The door slammed closed behind him and his feet pounded toward the hatch, andthen above. Indeed, the ship was vibrating from the men and women running hither

    and thither to prepare for their night’s work.

    “Allow me topside, Captain,” Mary said, mocking the whine Celia had used to get

    her way when she was small. “Please?”

    “Learn to wield a sword properly and I may consider it. I cannot keep watch over

    you and ’twould only take one small mistake to send us all to the judgment seat.”

    “I would rather meet God by way of a fire fight on a ship captained by my daughter

    than waste away alone.”“You are alone by your choice.”

    “Celia,” she warned.

    “Do not speak to me of your loneliness,” Celia snapped. “I’ll not tolerate it. After

    what happened in Sint Eustatius, you cannot now cry ‘Lonely!’ at me nor instruct me

    on how to conduct my affaires.”

    Mary sighed and did not press. In silence, she finished the braid and tied it off. “I

    am so proud of you, my love,” she murmured finally, her hands resting on Celia’s

    shoulders. “I cannot imagine that such a brave girl came from my body.”Celia stood and twisted to look down at the woman before her. She was smiling,

    enhancing her beauty to that of the angels’. Celia had gotten none of that beauty. “Per-

    haps I was a changeling,” she muttered.

    A dimple appeared in her cheek as her smile deepened. “Then the fae granted me a

    great boon.”

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    “A devil changeling, I meant.”

    “CAPTAIN!”

    “Go,” Mary said. “Would that I could watch my daughter command during battle.”

    Celia’s mouth twisted into a reluctant smile. She would grant most all her mother’swishes if she could, but that was not one of them. She bent and brushed her mouth

    with a kiss. “I shall see you tomorrow, Mama.”

    No strategic planning for the evening’s adventure was necessary other than a slight

    recount of the drill and which ships were positioned where in the blockade, which

    were new, and who captained what.

    “Bancroft and Rathbone,” Bridge reported to her. “Commanding His Majesty’s

    Ships Grace and Purity, respectively.”

    That did not bode well.

    “Which Bancroft?”

    “Lucien.”

    “Bugger. Mind you do not let his name slip to my mother.”

    “Oh, never fear,” he said fervently. “We know. Speaking of captains awaiting your

    pleasure—”

    “Do not, or I shall have Solomon transform you from a bass to a contralto.”

    “Not a soprano?”“Nay. I’ll not have my second mate singing fairer than I.”

    His grin flashed in the meager celestial light of night. “The Silver Shilling ’s rumored

    to be a few miles out, to the south.”

    “Ah, so I was right. He did follow us here.”

    “’Tis a rumor.”

    “As good as fact in this harbor.”

    “Perhaps the figurehead is too much for him and wants a smaller portion.”

    “More likely because it has no convenient holes in which to stuff his yard.” Bridgebarked a laugh and Celia sniffed. “God knows he cannot catch us with that poor excuse

    of a boat, so he is deprived of both the figurehead and my person.”

    “And a Spanish vessel called the Indigo IV  is a few miles to the north.”

    She started. “Another one?”

    Bridge simply shrugged. “’Twould seem he might learn from his misadventures as

    any rational man would.”

    “He did not tell me about this.”

    “As I recall, you two were not speaking when we set him down in Portugal.”“That was only four months ago and he is here with a full hold?”

    “He had to have left soon after we did.”

    Celia sneered at no one in particular—or at least, no one who was present. “His

    family must need more funds. They would drive him to the ocean floor for their greed,

    then spit upon his memory for being so careless as to leave them without income.”

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    “You also have difficulty denying your parents anything,” Bridge pointed out.

    “I forget: Are you under my command or not?”

    He laughed and disappeared into the darkness to direct the rest of their prepara-

    tions while Celia headed up to the quarterdeck to take the wheel.Solomon was ghostly in his black tunic and trousers as he bent and checked his

    work. She saw the faint glow of lit coals in twelve copper braziers tucked solidly in

    weighted lead boxes along the wale of the main deck, six to a side and spaced evenly

    along the deck’s length.

    An unfamiliar flash between two hatches caught her eye and she squinted through

    the darkness, as if she could see better doing so.

    “Jack,” Bataar said from her right. “We’re ready.”

    Celia ignored that and gestured toward the crewman she did not know and said,

    “Who is that?”

    “He came on board two days ago wanting to roust the British. He said he was sent

    by the General. Marcus Zimmerman.”

    Celia looked at her officer, her eyebrow raised.

    She shrugged.

    Well, if General Washington sent him … Celia’s lips tightened. “I do not like not

    knowing my entire crew. There are few enough of us.”“I had need of a large man willing to work.”

    She watched the stranger a bit longer and saw that he was indeed an ox of a man

    working with an enthusiasm that was not misplaced. “Aye, then. How far is the blockade?”

    “Within the hour.”

    “Good. ’Tis time.” She took a deep breath. “Fore course!”

    A lone black canvas rose low against the night, and blocked nothing but a few stars,

    then filled. It would be enough to get them to the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay and

    give them some momentum, but not enough to outrun the patrol vessels.“Weigh anchor!”

    Soon the Thunderstorm was under way, and Celia put everything out of her mind to

    maneuver the sloop through the shoals. From where she stood, she could barely see

    her crew, outfitted all in black, any exposed white skin covered with kohl.

    Her own snug black breeches, black stockings, and tar-soled deerskin moccasins

    were invisible in the darkness, as was her black shirt. Her head was covered with a long

    black silk scarf that hung down her back and camouflaged her mother’s braid work.

    Her face, she knew, shone like a beacon in the night. Solomon would arrive—“Your face can be seen from England,” he murmured before she felt his fingers rub-

    bing kohl over her cheeks and nose.

    “’Tis my misfortune to glow,” Celia replied. The only sounds were the wind in sails

    drawn tight and the slosh of a ship carving its way through a calm harbor.

    Celia spent the next forty-five minutes alone at the wheel in utter concentration, re-

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    Dunham  31 

    fusing to think about what they had planned. The sea was calm, the wind favorable

    and loud, and the constellations twinkled helpfully. If all went aright, they would slip

    through the British blockade without being noticed.

    If all went awry …She supposed she would have no more reason to worry about boredom or babes.

    After another quarter hour had passed, Celia took out her spyglass and peered

    through the darkness until she could barely make out the silhouette of the warships

    blocking the harbor. A smile slowly stretched her face. It wouldn’t be too much a chal-

    lenge, after all. The ships lay at anchor far enough apart to allow the sloop’s passage.

    Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone on the starboard side.

    Captain Lucien Bancroft on the larboard.

    Her mouth went dry at what they were about to attempt.

    It had been Rafael’s idea, sparked after a long night of heavy drinking and fucking.

    Yet even soused, Rafael’s calculations were precise and his judgment on probabilities

    above reproach.

    The plan was as dangerous to the Thunderstorm as it would be to the ships they tar-

    geted, and Celia would never have done such a thing under normal circumstances. Not

    even Dunham, who despised Dr. Rafael Covarrubias, could come up with an alterna-

    tive plan should they be caught in Chesapeake Bay, and agreed that eventually theywould be caught.

    Maarten had been enthusiastic about the plan, but then, the Hollander was inordi-

    nately cruel to those he considered to have wronged him, and what King George had

    done to him embodied in the person of Lord Rathbone …

    Even though she and Maarten had known they would have to blow the blockade,

    they had not anticipated they would need to do it so soon.

    As the vessel slowly approached the line of battleships, all noise on the already qui-

    et ship ceased completely. The wind was up, making the lone sail snap, so it was tight-ened further. Among the noise of the wind, the ocean, and the creaking of the two

    British vessels, the Thunderstorm would—hopefully—pass silently, invisibly.

    Every man in her crew crouched in the shadows, waiting. Celia steered the ship by

    degrees toward the sea and death.

    Another ten minutes passed, a tense ten minutes, before the Thunderstorm  slid

    through the calm night within shouting distance of the British frigates. Still no alarm

    was raised on the dark vessels—most likely the result of bitter sailors impressed into

    service and unwilling to aid their captains in any way.According to the plan, the Hollander was to slip through a gap two ships up the

    line. Were Maarten and Celia sailing alone, their only goal would be to slip the line,

    but with six more privateer vessels following them, all with less experienced captains, a

    path would have to be cleared. The Thunderstorm and the Mad Hangman would slip the

    line and then attempt to sink four British frigates of war and outrun five patrol ships

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     32 Moriah Jovan

    with one suicidal maneuver.

    Dear Lord. Eight crews and vessels hung in the balance of her and Maarten’s luna-

    cy—and she could not but help the smile that stretched her face.

    Closer and closer she steered the ship until they were sliding through the corridor.Sweat rolled down her back and dotted her brow. There was only enough room on

    either side of her ship for her yards and rigging not to catch with those of the warships.

    “Ahoy, lads! Mind the grappling hooks! Ship off the stern and she’s tryin’ to run

    the blockade. Step lively!”

    Celia and her crew whipped into action. Once they had sunk these two ships, they

    would have to outrun the patrol ships that would give chase. Timing was crucial.

    “Hoist the mains’l!” Celia bellowed over the sudden din. “Ready the topsails and

     jibs. Kit! Run up Congress’s colors!”

    “Avast, Thunderstorm! In the name of His Royal Highness, King George, we order

    you to stand down or we will fire upon you!”

    “Lord Rathbone!” she called, and stepped away from the wheel long enough to

    drop a quick but elegant curtsey. “You would waste shot on me? You flatter me.”

    “You’re outgunned, Fury! Stand down!”

    “You know me better than that.”

    She might have laughed when she heard his order to ready the cannon being given,but they were far more efficient than she hoped they would be. “Bugger,” she hissed,

    her plan set awry by enough moments to put them in even more danger than they had

    been before.

    With a wave of her hand, twelve small—but deadly—flames burst on the tips of

    arrows held by archers and aimed at the frigates on each side of them.

    “By God, woman, are you mad?! ” Rathbone bellowed. “You’ll die with us! ”

    “You stand down, Marquess!” she roared back. “You too, Bancroft! You both have

    more to lose than I do!” Both captains gave the orders, but it was a faithless gesture.This was war and she was tired of it. She was in no mood to honor an expedient.

    “FIRE!”

    The arrows were loosed into the rigging and slack sails of the British ships. The

    next volley went directly into the open ports of the gun deck.

    Fire on the ships erupted immediately, and Celia simply knew their magazines

    would blow before the Thunderstorm was clear.

    “Smitty! Bridge! Bataar! For the love of God! Get—us—out of here! ”

    At that, every sail on the Thunderstorm immediately unfurled and filled to capacity.The night, formerly impenetrable black, was lit bright as day as the two ships blazed

    on either side of the Thunderstorm. The wind was up, feeding the fire, and blew the

    sloop quite clear of burning frigates.

    The crew raced to douse the coals in the braziers, and Celia nearly allowed her

    heartbeat to slow when—

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    “FIRE AFT!” Smitty roared.

    “Mother of God,” Celia gritted, as a score of crewmen raced passed her and up to

    the poopdeck with buckets of water and sand, then formed a line. The Thunderstorm 

    rocked with a gust of wind, and all of Celia’s concentration and strength were againtaken with the steering of the ship.

    If that fire were not extinguished …

    Death screams from the British frigates followed them, cutting through the sound

    of flames, wind, and water. She could hear men diving overboard to the relative safety

    of the water, for a watery death was imminently preferable to a fiery one, and most of

    the men who could swim would survive.

    “Please God, let Bancroft survive,” she whispered fervently.

    “Fourth-rates off the stern, larboard and starboard, three points each, Cap’n!”

    She did not need to turn around to see the two ships burning; they lit the night and

    the water reflected the carnage. What she did not know was how much of that fire was

    coming from the Thunderstorm’s stern.

    She did not dare attempt to assess the situation.

    Behind her, the two blazing ships finally exploded, sending debris raining down on

    her and her men. She looked up, terrified a spark would touch her tarred rigging and

    masts, and send them down with the Grace and Purity.But no. The cadre of young sailors who regularly plied the rigging raced in the

    ropes to douse each stray ember they could find.

    “Fire is OUT!” came Smitty’s voice, and Celia allowed her head to drop back as she

    partook in a brief moment of relief.

    That was all the time she could afford.

    Another two explosions, but those far enough from them so as to make no differ-

    ence. The Hollander had done his job well, from the sound of it.

    “Step lively, lads!” Celia shouted as she turned her mind fully to evading capture.“Hangman’s on our tail!”

    “Aye, she is, Cap’n!” Kit called from on high. “One … Two … Three privateers

    clear.” Celia held her breath. “Four … ” Another, smaller, explosion. “That was num-

    ber four, Cap’n.”

    “Damn.”

    “The Mad Hangman’s turning! Engaging a patrol.” Pause. “Five, six. They’re all

    through but the one. I don’t know which.” Another explosion. “Mad Hangman set up-

    on another frigate, Cap’n.”“Lord, Maarten,” she gritted. “Enough is as good as a feast.”

    “Three fourth-rates after us now, Cap’n.”

    “BY GOD!” Bridge thundered. “Off the starboard stern! Kit! Report!”

    “The Silver Shilling , Sir!”

    Celia’s heart stopped.

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    The roar of cannon fire.

    “She’s opened fire on the patrol vessels! The third one is turning back … Now the

    second. The first is sinking.”

    “Where’s Rafael?”“Sails up, and gaining speed. Tacking into the breach of the Mad Hangman’s last

    frigate.”

    Maarten wouldn’t be happy about having aided the Indigo in any way. Celia snort-

    ed. The Indigo FOUR.

    “Our fleet’s pulling up closer, Cap’n. Silver Shilling ’s sailing in to the rest of the line

    and giving cover to the Mad Hangman.”

    “How many guns does that man have, anyway?”

    “At least sixty, Sir. Maybe more. The Silver Shilling  looks like a third-rate.”

    “A third-rate pirate ship?” she demanded in utter disbelief.

    “Aye, Cap’n. She’s a biggun. Brit-built.”

    “But he still cannot take on the rest of the line himself.”

    No answer while Celia steered and barked orders to gain as much speed as possible.

    “He is!” Kit cried. “He’s breaking through the line. Heading into the Bay.”

    Celia’s head whipped around and saw a third-rate frigate with guns blazing. “What

    in blazes for?”“She’s heavy in the water, Cap’n.”

    Ah. The Silver Shilling  would not have been able to breach the blockade alone, but

    with four burning frigates, six patrol sloops occupied with eight privateer vessels, at

    least two of which could and would engage in battle, the Silver Shilling  could assist them

    and take advantage of the opportunity to unload her cargo.

    “The Mad Hangman’s headed out to sea, and the Indigo’s through the line.”

    “Good,” Celia whispered with much relief.

    “We’re clear, Cap’n!” Kit called after a tense fifteen minutes of reports on the activi-ty behind them. “No sign of pursuit.”

    Another explosion. God help her, if that was the Silver Shilling  …

    “Hollander’s last frigate, sir. Five ships o’ the line down.”

    “And Judas?”

    “Clear, also, with three fourth-rates to his credit.”

    “Now will you forgive him?” Celia bellowed.

    A collective roar arose from the Thunderstorm’s decks: “AYE! ”

    “It’ll take a mite for the Royal Navy to replace a fleet that big, what with the occu-pations north and south,” Smitty observed from somewhere overhead. “The harbor

    should be free for some time to come.”

    Celia breathed a long sigh of relief. “That was a satisfactory way to get my undivided

    attention. I shall fuck him as soon as ’tis convenient for me to do so.”

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    5

    “I shall wring that woman’s neck when I catch up to her,” Elliott snarled to himself

    as he wheeled the Silver Shilling  hard to starboard. “What was she thinking ?”

    The Mad Hangman, too, but the Hollander was known for his … well, madness.

    “Hellfire,” he muttered as another volley of cannon fire rocked the Silver Shilling , the

    master gunner giving the orders to fire at the last patrol ship that chased the Indigo—

    his crew so well-trained they could deliver a sixteen-gun broadside every minute.

    “The last patrol is down, Sir. The remaining two are chasing the Mad Hangman.”

    Elliott merely nodded as he kept course, heading straight into a cove he knew as

    well as he knew his ship. They were free of the line, having left behind five first- and

    second-rate frigates burning, four patrol ships and (unfortunately) one privateer sunk,

    and assisted seven more privateers on their way out to sea. They’d even helped an

    American ally evade capture. The Hollander would sink the last two patrols when itsuited him to do so.

    Likewise, without them, Elliott would never have been able to breach that line by

    himself. All in all, a good night’s work for the lot of them.

    “That was the most lackwit thing I have ever witnessed,” said Yeardley from beside

    him.

    “Aye,” Elliott agreed heartily, still seeing the Thunderstorm’s stern catch fire and still

    angry about it.

    “I would expect that from the Hollander, but Fury is not known for recklessness.”“She is a female sailing as a female. That is reckless.”

    Yeardley didn’t answer for a moment, but clasped his hands behind his back and

    rocked on his heels. “There are rumors. One hardly knows what to believe, they are so

    incredible.”

    Elliott waited.

    Yeardley reeled off the most common rumors, ones Elliott already knew:

    She was the protégée of James Dunham, captain of the corsair vessel Iron Maiden 

    that plied the Barbary Coast, one of the Crown’s useful brigands whose occasionalmisdeeds against the East India Company went unremarked and unpunished. He was

    also the last male bearing the name of a noble Scottish clan disenfranchised over the

    last duke’s regrettable inclination to form bad alliances.

    “I know the history,” Elliott said tersely when Yeardley would have expounded.

    “Dunham lands march mine and Laird Dunham was a good friend to my grandfather.

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    So Dunham’s bitter. As am I. ’Tis the usual story. What more of her?”

    She had been trained as a navigator in Portugal by master navigator and astrono-

    mer Dr. Rafael Covarrubias, the captain of the Spanish vessel they had just assisted.

    She had sailed with Dunham as an officer for a time after she’d left university until,it was rumored, she had openly defied him and been flogged for her insolence. Yet

    Elliott and his crew could testify of their loyalty to each other.

    “All cannot be sweetness between them,” Elliott muttered. “Was there not some

    trouble ’twixt the two in Sint Eustatius? What of that?”

    “Dunham attempted to abduct one of Fury’s women.”

    Elliott huffed. “Women aboard cause nothing but trouble.”

    “I’d not be averse to testing that superstition,” Yeardley grumbled.

    That surprised a grin out of Elliott. “Oh ho! So I am not the only one on this ship

    with a prick invested in the Thunderstorm.”

    “You are far from the only one. The old tars want nothing to do with women

    aboard, but after having seen that a ship captained by a woman will not sink—one

    with a couple dozen women aboard, to boot—well, it has the young ones’ imaginations

    aflutter.”

    “Aye, well, ’tis too late to take on women now that we’ve nearly reached the end of

    our last cruise. More, Yeardley,” Elliott commanded. “About her.”After Fury had left the Iron Maiden, she had sailed on the Carnivale  as Skirrow’s

    lieutenant and navigator, beheading him after little more than a year under his com-

    mand. It did not quite make sense to Elliott that she’d hired aboard a slaver, but it was

    possible she’d simply found the only captain who’d hire a woman. Skirrow would have

    had to be desperate to hire a woman in Ottoman-infested waters, especially for such a

    powerful position.

    After her mutiny, she had sailed directly for Philadelphia and applied for a letter of

    marque, legitimizing a lifetime aboard pirate vessels.“Aye, I know all that,” Elliott said, frustrated when Yeardley finished. “Why did

    she mutiny Skirrow? He would have been the only thing between her and the Mus-

    lims.” Which was, come to think of it, a good reason for her to have quit the Mediter-

    ranean altogether.

    “No one knows. Her officers keep their mouths shut, and the rest of the crew

    swear they don’t know. Skirrow was only slightly less cruel than Kitteridge.”

    Elliott and his officers knew enough of Skirrow from their Navy days for Elliott to

    know he’d have mutinied the man far sooner, but since the Siege of Casco Bay, he wasnot averse to using swift and ruthless preemptive measures against those who might

    become a problem.

    “Anything else? Family? Name? Circumstance?”

    “No one knows her family name. When one is required, she signs Calico Jack.”

    “Odd, that. Of all the buccaneers in history, why take his name?”

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    Yeardley shrugged. “Who knows? ’Tis said she’s quite wealthy.”

    “I should think so. If she is not after all this time, I’d take her for a fool.” He

    paused. “Husband? Lover?”

    “Possibly Covarrubias.”Elliott’s mouth tightened. “Do tell.”

    “Since she studied, ah, under him at university … ” Elliott curled his lip and Yeard-

    ley chuckled. “In fact, she was suffered to undergo a full course and it’s said she is de-

    greed in her own right.”

    “In what?”

    “Mathematics and music.”

    That shocked him.

    “Aye, so,” Yeardley said slyly, “’twould seem reasonable to suppose Covarrubias facili-

    tated her education. Perhaps astronomy and mathematics were not all he taught her.”

    “Just a supposition?”

    “Everything concerning Fury is supposition and speculation. The Hollander prob-

    ably knows, but they are—”

    “Lovers?”

    “Possibly. One cannot give credence to any such rumors when ’tis also rumored

    that you are one of her lovers.”Elliott barked a laugh. “I am, am I?”

    “Aye. After having handled her so familiarly in Oranjestad—”

    “She took exception to that.”

    “Only because you did not respect her as she is accustomed. We were the only ones

    in the entire port who did not know who she was.”

    “I have no reason to think a woman in a tavern is anything but a whore, much less

    the captain of a ship.”

    “Does it matter? What I witnessed was a lovers’ kiss, not two strangers’. ’Twouldseem the rest of the island shared my impression.”

    And there was the rub: It had  been a lovers’ kiss—right up to the second she’d

    stuck her dagger in his throat.

    Elliott smirked. “I intend to make that more fact than rumor.”

    Elliott arrived at the private club where he was expected, handing his tricorn and

    long skirted coat to the butler, pausing only slightly when he saw who sat at his usual

    table.

    “What is your pleasure, Captain?” came the voice of a comely and very expensively

    dressed woman.

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    “Brandy, if you have it, Miss.”

    That was not the answer she wanted, and her pout was real when she turned to do

    his bidding. She had light red hair reminiscent of Fury’s, but green eyes, and she was

    shorter, thinner. In point of fact, she was far more beautiful.She was not the woman he craved, but he had to tup something other than his

    hand.

    Especially after what he’d seen the night before, watching Fury through his glass as

    she commanded her men and sailed her ship with expert grace and confidence into

    that foolhardy blast through the blockade.

    Elliott discreetly adjusted his trousers as he pulled out a chair and sat with no

    greetings exchanged. All but two of the five men already present were waiting for El-

    liott, and their covert expressions let him know not to speak.

    Rafael Covarrubias’s presence at the table would make short work of what had

    promised to be an enjoyable evening with the harbormaster and the merchants to

    whom he sold his cargos. Hellfire. Covarrubias already had a stack of gold, silver, and

    papers in front of him.

    Elliott looked around at the fifth player, who likely did not know that the man he

    played was a mathematician and possibly unbeatable. Elliott didn’t care about winning

    or losing; he had bigger business to conduct at this table, which he could not do in thepresence of Covarrubias and a Prussian mercenary. Meeting here, playing a few

    hands—that was the cover under which he did business. However, he was not averse

    to losing a bit of money and time if it meant observing a man who was probably a rival

    for Fury’s affections.

    Two women were draped over Covarrubias’s shoulders, ignored except when he

    absently raised a hand to caress a breast or pinch a nipple. At that moment, the wench

    who had hoped Elliott would request more of her than whisky set the glass on the ta-

    ble and leaned against him.“Felicitations, Captain Judas,” the Spaniard said after a moment, his accent moder-

    ately heavy.

    “For … ?”

    “Slipping past the blockade, of course.”

    “No credit to me, alas. I had too much assistance.” Elliott cocked his