Chapter 4
Darcy opened his eyes and waited for his vision to clear. It was dark. He lay on a soft surface. It swayed. Everything swayed.
He did not know where he was, nor did he know the day or the hour.
He knew, however, with a certainty that made his stomach knot, that he had missed Wickham’s wedding.
Would the ingrate go through with it if Darcy was not there to give him the promised bribe?
What kind of a man sold himself for a thousand pounds and a commission?
Darcy’s disgust turned again to frustration.
Why had he insisted on being the one to witness the signatures?
He could easily have included Richard. The fact of the matter was that the idea had not even occurred to Darcy until that moment.
Was he so proud that he believed others incapable?
Even Richard—a man who had repeatedly proven his strength of character and proficiency?
Darcy shook his head, and instantly regretted it when the throbbing there increased.
Gritting his teeth and holding his head still, he tried to find solace in Richard’s reliability. Richard was competent. He would lose no time making the needed adjustments with Hastings. Richard knew how important this was; he would not fail.
Slowly, gingerly touching the bump on the back of his skull and the swollen protuberance on his forehead, Darcy sat upright.
Moonlight shone into the room through a round window—a porthole. His stomach bottomed out at the implication. He was on a boat, on the water, sailing away to Lord-knew-where.
Spinning around so that his feet touched the smooth wooden planks, he found his boots by the bunk, wiggled his feet inside, and then looked for the door. His examination of his surroundings came to an abrupt halt when he saw a shadow.
He was not alone in the cabin.
A large man with skin the color of the night blocked Darcy’s escape.
The ship dipped, casting the moon’s rays over the stranger.
A leather vest covered his muscled chest. Canvas trousers frayed above his ankles.
The curved scimitar at his side discouraged Darcy from attempting to wrestle his way through.
Besides, there was a good chance that more men like him were on the other side of the door. Darcy would not get far.
The man uncrossed his arms, dropping his chin to his chest. “You, stay.” With that, he left the room, securing the door behind him.
Darcy listened for footsteps. Were there guards outside the door? Where was he? What kind of ship was this?
He stood, trying to gain his balance, and looked about the cabin for clues: the gowns draped over closet doors, the ruffles on the curtains, the faint smell of perfume. A woman’s quarters.
Strange. Sailors were a suspicious lot, and most would agree that a female aboard a ship was asking for trouble.
Naval ships did not allow women on board.
Most pirate ships avoided them, although every Englishman knew the stories of Lady Killigrew, Anne Bonny, and Mary Read.
It could not be Ching Shih, could it? Darcy swallowed hard.
The fearsome Queen of the South China Sea had been granted amnesty two years before, but with a fleet numbering into the thousands, she had many who would be willing to expand her floating empire in her stead. Or had she joined forces with the Navy?
A penknife on a desk built against the opposite wall offered a small but effective weapon. Darcy grabbed it, losing his balance on the way and knocking his shins against a chest.
Before he could see if the chest contained a better weapon—what he would give for a sword! —the door opened.
Concealing the penknife in his palm, Darcy fingered the weapon up his sleeve as the big guard crossed the room and patted him down.
He tried to hide the knife, but the man found it. Pulling it out from its hiding place, he held it in front of Darcy’s face. “If you lay a finger on her, I shall cut you from navel to nose.”
Darcy did not doubt he could do it, but he risked the guard’s ire. He needed information. “Who is she? Why am I here? Where are we?”
The man ignored him, shoving Darcy in front of him and jabbing the knife against his back, reminding Darcy of his disadvantage. Up a set of stairs he prodded Darcy, who bounced against the railings like the landlubber he was, until they reached the helm.
A woman stood at the wheel, her long, black hair braided down her back. She wore a loose shirt spilling with lace frills down the front tucked into dark breeches, high boots, and a bejeweled dagger gleaming at her thigh. She did not appear to be Chinese.
She shouted an order—she did not sound Chinese either—and two men immediately scrambled up the masts like monkeys to tie up the sails, shouting, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Captain?
She turned to him, stance wide, chin high—a woman confident of her command.
Darcy felt his chest puff, and he drew himself to his full height. She might be the captain of this ship, but he would not allow her to command him.
The goon behind him pushed him forward, sending Darcy sprawling toward her as the boat underneath him rolled.
He righted himself, doing his best to appear dignified when his legs were as steady on the water as a newborn foal’s.
Knowing full well that the strength of his intimidation was in his glare, he leveled his eyes at her and communicated the depth of his displeasure with a firm stare.
Freckles dotted her nose—darker and more plentiful than the light spattering over Elizabeth’s nose and cheeks. Blue-gray eyes, harsh and steely like the edge of a blade, inspected him in turn. Like Elizabeth, this woman was not easily intimidated.
The scimitar-wielding man slipped by Darcy and whispered into her ear, then took his place between them, his hand poised over his curved sword.
“Jaffa says me men must’ve knocked out yer senses, Nicholas,” she said.
Darcy bunched his forehead, trying to perceive her meaning. “Why do you call me Nicholas?”
She nodded at Jaffa. “I see what ye mean. He’s even talkin’ funny.”
Darcy did not know what she was talking about, but if she had mistaken him for another man, then there was no reason for her to hold him on her ship. “My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire.”
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze raking over him from head to toe.
He was grateful he had dressed in more simple attire.
Glancing at the cutthroats crowding the lower decks, any one of them would have killed him for the diamond he usually wore in his cravat.
He would prefer to leave the ship alive and in one piece, thus his omission of Pemberley.
He would only use his wealth if he could use it to purchase his freedom.
The woman captain swaggered up to him, her finger tracing up his arm and over his chest. “Ye sound like Nicholas. Ye always was good with accents.” She trailed her finger up the center of his neck, her nail scratching a thin line up to his chin.
Darcy sensed her danger to him, but it was not in his nature to back down. He met her gaze boldly, planting his feet wide and steady. “I assure you, I am not whom you claim me to be.”
“Yer glare tells me otherwise.”
“I do not lie.”
She crossed her arms, and watched him warily. “Every man lies. I’ll get the truth from ye … one way or ‘nother.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. Blast, she was stubborn.
Slowly, her look boring through him, she asked, “Does the name Alexandra Lafitte mean anything to ye?”
Darcy breathed in slowly, restraining every part of his body to hide his alarm.
He had read the stories, heard her incredible adventures read at the broadsides and shouted in the streets.
A female pirate so fierce, she was claimed to have ripped the hearts of her victims out of their chests while they yet breathed.
Not to mention her brothers, Jean and Pierre Lafitte, the plagues of the southern colonies. A pirate dynasty.
And Darcy was on La Femme Lafitte’s ship, where her word was law and his life was dispensable. He felt the blood drain from his face, and he praised the heavens for the darkness concealing his discomposure. “La Femme Lafitte,” he repeated the name given to her in the papers and pamphlets.
Her eyes hardened. “Call me Alex. Unless ye make yerself difficult, then ye’ll call me Cap’n.” She walked around him, continuing her inspection. “I don’t believe ye’re not Nicholas. I know yer voice. Yer face.” She twirled around him, trailing her finger around his shoulders. “Yer body.”
Darcy struggled to keep his limbs loose when every nerve stretched taut.
She tilted her head. “Do ye have family? A brother?”
“No. It is only me.” Whatever the lady pirate’s plan was, he would not involve his family. He would rather die than put Georgiana in danger.
She tsked, her raised eyebrows settling into a smirk. “No secret, twin brother?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind havin’ two of ye at me beck and call.” Her breathy voice turned sharp, and she jabbed her nail into his chest. “There’s only one way to settle this. Take off yer shirt.”