Chapter 5
Darcy leaned down, forcing the impertinent captain to focus solely on him so that she would not mistake his meaning. Nothing she could say or do would make him change his mind. “No,” he said resolutely.
Quicker than a flash of lightning, Alex reached to her side, her eyes never wavering from his.
Darcy held his breath, determined to face the consequences with his eyes wide open. Before he could so much as flinch, he heard a thunk at his foot. He looked down to see a blade, six inches long, vibrating at the tip of his boot. He bet that if he looked, there would be a neat nick on the sole.
“Next time ye refuse a direct order, I’ll aim higher.” She pulled her dagger out of the deck, rubbing her fingers lovingly over the sharp tip.
Darcy untied his cravat and worked on his buttons, hating how easily she had made him yield. Worse than the discomfort of disrobing in the cold, the humiliation of standing half-naked in front of hundreds of men led by this unscrupulous woman irked Darcy.
She watched him with a self-satisfied smile, replacing her dagger in its sheath only when he untucked his shirt. How he hated her. Pulling the soft linen over his head, he let the shirt dangle from his hand. It could work as effectively as a rope should she step closer.
As though Jaffa could read his thoughts, he took the shirt from Darcy, arching an eyebrow in warning.
Alex grinned, satisfied to be the cause of his shame, and drew closer. Her smile faded when she did not see what she had expected. She rubbed her fingers against his shoulder, poking and prodding. “It’s not here.”
Darcy was curious, but he had no desire to engage Alex in conversation.
She jabbed again. “Nick has a jagged scar here.”
“How do you know that?” he asked, despite himself.
She looked up at him, challenge in her eyes. “I was the one who put it there.”
He should have kept silent. He could practically feel her anticipating all the scars she could leave on his person.
She tapped his side where his breeches covered his skin.
Darcy jumped away from her.
Arching a brow, she pointed at the puckered skin at his side. “How’d ye get that?”
He was so relieved she did not order him to remove his breeches, he replied, “I jumped off a rock into a lake. There was a fallen tree under the water that had not been there the summer before. One of the branches cut me.”
“Never leap before ye look, Mr. Darcy.”
Did she now believe he was not Nicholas? Her use of his real name was promising.
A gust of frigid air puckered his skin, and he shivered. “It is a mistake I have not repeated since.” He reached out to Jaffa. “I would like to put my shirt back on.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Alex said, letting him stand exposed in the cold for longer than necessary, milking every advantage she gained from his cold humiliation. Finally, she nodded her assent to Jaffa.
Darcy slipped on his shirt and rubbed his arms. It was either the last of August or the first of September—he did not know how long they had kept him under.
A day? Two? A week? Nor did he know where they were.
Had the breeze been warmer, he would suspect they had sailed south to the warmer currents.
But it was too cold for them to be anywhere but in the northern Atlantic.
So much for attempting to swim to shore. He would freeze before he made it.
He would have to use his wits. “Now that we have established that I am not this Nicholas, when can you return me to London? I presume we are not far from shore?”
She tapped her ragged nails against her chin, keeping her eyes on him and revealing nothing of their location.
Not so much as a glance in the direction from whence they had come.
“Ye’re the mirror image of him, but ye’re not Nick.
” Her nostrils flared. “And ye’ve made me lose precious time, exposin’ me and me crew to capture in these Navy-infested waters.
Bauer! Cotton! Come here, ye scurvy good-for-nothins! I gave ye one job. One.”
The crew quieted, the only sound that of the flapping sails overhead and the feet of the two men Alex had called scrambling to the helm. One was as large as an ox—the muscle. The other was lanky and wore an eye patch—the brain? Darcy’s abductors.
They stood in front of her, their heads bowed, hands clasped in front. The large one was missing the tip of his little finger on his right hand. Looking at the pair, Darcy tried not to be overly disappointed in himself for allowing them to overpower him outside the tavern.
Eye patch opened his mouth to speak, but Alex shut him up with a hiss and the point of her dagger.
“Not a word from ye, Bauer.” Flicking the pointy end of the blade between the two, she added, “I ought to cast both of ye over the side. Ye’ve endangered me and yer shipmates—yer brothers—our entire livelihood, and, most unforgivable, the Fancy.
Have ye anything to say in yer defense?”
Only the worst fool would try to defend himself when Alex had already passed judgment.
Cotton mumbled, “Ye said it yerself, Cap’n: He and The Blade, they’s identical.”
Bauer, to whom Darcy had credited with more mental faculties than the man deserved, added, “Ye had a hard time knowin’ ‘tweren’t him, Cap’n. Ye can’t punish us fer makin’ the same mistake.”
Darcy cringed. How had he fallen prey to these two?
Alex shot them a look as sharp as her preferred weapon.
Her words were clipped, acute. “When I ask me crew to get a job done, they’d better get it done right.
Or would ye have me take a ship with a bunch of buffoons blundering at the cannons, cuttin’ their fingers on their own cutlasses, and blastin’ each other to pieces with misfiring pistols?
Out here, failure to follow orders leads to early death.
Stupidity is unforgivable.” She turned to a man standing behind her.
“Keelhaul ‘em. Side to side. Once over.” To Cotton and Bauer, she said, “May God have mercy on yer souls, for I cannot.”
The two men trembled in place, their eyes wide, and their knees buckling as they were jostled down to the lower deck—two men who had been asked to fulfill a task beyond their capabilities.
Like a slap across the face, the irony of Darcy’s situation struck him.
Far be it for him to defend his kidnappers, but the injustice of them paying for their mistake so harshly burned in his bones.
He could not remain silent. In his most authoritative voice, Darcy commanded, “No. Do not do this. It is inhumane.”
Silence. Darcy’s skin prickled as hundreds of eyes turned to him. Even Cotton and Bauer gawked open-mouthed at him.
Slowly, very slowly, Alex spun around to face him.
Stepping closer, she said, “Ye dare to defy me? The cap’n of this ship?
My word is law here. To defy me is to die.
” She now stood toe-to-toe with him. She barely reached his shoulder, but her commanding presence more than made up for her lack of height.
Darcy stood his ground, grateful the boat did not sway so much lest he budge from his intimidating pose.
Looking down at her with all the imperiousness in his possession, he said, “It is cruel. You are renowned as a fierce pirate, but before me, I see a lady capable of commanding the respect and obedience of her crew without making herself a bloodthirsty, unredeemable monster.”
“I already have their obedience.”
He pierced her with his sternest stare. Tougher men had wilted under it, but Alex did not even flinch.
Steeling his voice, Darcy said, “Tell me, do your men serve under you out of fear, or have you won their respect, thereby earning their loyalty and making each of them an invaluable member of your crew—men who would die before they would even consider betraying you?”
The men milled about, whispering and grunting.
He had struck a nerve.
Alex noticed, too. She was not a fool. When her gaze returned to him, he saw as much fury as there was frustration, and Darcy knew she would make him pay. Dearly. But then, she winked—twice, in quick succession—confounding Darcy fully.
Spinning away, she shouted to the lower decks, “Cotton, Bauer, ye owe this man yer miserable lives. Since Mr. Darcy is so eager to save ye, then he’ll take yer place. Side to side, two times, one for each of yer sorry carcasses.”
At her nod, Jaffa gripped Darcy’s arms and pushed him to the main deck. At the bottom of the steps, Jaffa whispered, “Hold your breath. Protect your head. You will live.” He pushed Darcy forward.
Another sailor looped a rope around Darcy, and in one fluid motion pulled it snug and shoved him over the side.
Freezing water stabbed Darcy like thousands of glass shards scraping his skin. He gasped just before he was pulled under the surface. The rope tugged him deeper, jostling his memory to recall Jaffa’s instructions. Hold your breath. If only he had thought to take another breath sooner.
The rope heaved, and Darcy struck against the keel of the ship, knocking the precious breath from his lungs. Protect your head. Darcy wrapped his arms over his head, curling into a ball as he slammed against the bottom of the ship.
Barnacles slashed into his arms and legs. He opened his eyes, desperate to see the surface, desperate for air. The salt water burned, but he kept them open, watching for the surface, for hope. You will live. Darcy prayed Jaffa was right.
A slight shift in the weight of his body told him that he was surfacing. Darcy counted seconds, convincing himself that he would make it. He had to make it. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Come on! Three. Two. One. Almost there. You have to live! Three.
Darcy could not tell the night sky from the water, but he felt the breeze cuff his face. Quickly, he gulped in the blessed air just as he was plunged back under.
Again, he smacked against the keel, but he was prepared this time.
He did not lose all of his breath. Dragged across the bottom, his arms and legs took a beating.
He tried to hold himself into a tight ball, his arms crossed over his head, but the shock to his body and the lack of air in his lungs made Darcy weak.
He drifted through the water, his limbs unfolding. He fought it; he tried to pull himself back. He attempted to count, but no sooner had he thought of a number than he forgot it. He needed air.
Fear gripped Darcy, and try as he might not to lose consciousness, he could not deny the very real possibility that this was his end.
You will live. He had to live. He had to see Elizabeth again.
He saw her—hair wild and billowing around her, cheeks in high color—and a calm warmed his chest. She was as real as if she stood in front of him at the Meryton Assembly, then at Lucas Lodge, where she had refused to dance with him.
Darcy smiled as the images flickered through his mind like portraits lining a gallery: Elizabeth tramping through the muddy fields, reading at Netherfield, playing the pianoforte at Rosings, the fire in her eyes at Hunsford Cottage, her smile at Pemberley.
That was the memory Darcy cherished the most. He had made her smile.
He had pleased her when he had thought such a worthwhile aim impossible.
Darcy needed Elizabeth like he needed air. Elizabeth. Elizabeth, he repeated over and over, seeing her smile and letting her pull him to her side.
With a violent jerk, he broke the surface of his watery grave. He coughed and gasped. Cold needles stabbed his skin, and he shook uncontrollably. It occurred to him that he might have survived; misery made him doubt.
He hit the deck with a smack. Rolling on to his side, he coughed and sputtered more, every breath an agony and a relief.
Darcy felt like a cat that had used up one of its nine lives, but Jaffa had been right.
He was alive. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he dreamed of Elizabeth, her dark eyes warm and vivacious.
There is nothing like a near-death experience to give a man clarity. Darcy was alive, but he did not want to live without Elizabeth … if he could convince her to have him.
He would get off this infernal ship. He would gallop his fastest horse to Hertfordshire. He would grovel on his knees. And he would beg her to end his misery and become his wife.