Chapter 6
“Come, Mr. Darcy. Up with ye,” a rough voice said at his side. Two firm hands pulled him into a sitting position. A dry blanket dropped around his shoulders, and Darcy clung to it as well as he could with icy fingers that would not bend.
From his other side, a flask appeared, tipping toward his mouth. “Drink. This’ll warm yer insides.”
Darcy did as he was bid, gin burning a deliciously warm trail down his throat.
He heard Alex’s commanding voice. “Jaffa, see Mr. Darcy to me cabin.”
Shoving the flask away and rising on his wobbly feet, Darcy barked a haggard but profound, “No!”
She tilted her chin. “Ye dare defy me again?”
He would rather embrace a viper than spend a night in the same room with her. Steadying himself against the mast before he toppled over, Darcy straightened his shoulders under the blanket. “You may comport yourself as you wish, but I am a gentleman, and I shall continue to act like one.”
She scoffed. “A gent used to comfort and luxury, no doubt. Are ye prepared to sleep in a hammock below decks with one hundred and fifty men who’ve not bathed since the last port? Men who’d sooner slit yer throat than have another body crowd ‘em more than they already are?”
He looked around at the men. A few nodded agreement, but the majority shifted their weight uncomfortably. Darcy would take his chances. “You cannot convince me that I am any safer with you.”
Cotton and Bauer stepped forward. “We’ll keep ye safe, Mr. Darcy.” A few others joined them, lending their support.
Alex looked like she might burst into flames. Deliberately defying her was stupid, but Darcy was too miserable to care.
“Take him below,” she snapped, marching away from him as quickly as he had done from Wickham.
How long ago had that been? What day was it? The wedding! Was Elizabeth safe? Would that he could get off this accursed vessel. He kept an eye out, peeking inside the quarters they passed, looking for maps or compasses—anything that might tell him where they were.
They went down narrow walkways, winding around to another set of stairs, then around again until Darcy lost all sense of direction. Some navigator he was.
By the time he puzzled through the maze, deciding they must be at the stern of the ship, Bauer ducked inside a doorway.
Hammocks stretched from beam to beam down the width of the space, some bearing up to four hammocks, one on top of another. It smelled of mold and unwashed bodies.
Cotton noted Darcy’s reaction to the odor. “Ye’ll get used to it.”
Bauer shoved a change of clothes at him with a grunt, and Darcy thanked him. Even Pemberley’s servants were dressed finer, but at least these garments were dry.
Another sailor dumped a pair of boots at his feet. “Reckon’ these’ll fit well enough.”
Before Darcy could even thank him or ask where his own boots had gone, a fourth sailor came out of the shadows with a blanket large enough to wrap himself in.
Carefully peeling off his wet shirt, Darcy inspected the gashes along his arms and back. One still oozed, while the others were angry, red welts.
The man who had handed Darcy the blanket tipped a flask onto a handkerchief and dabbed at his wounds. “I’m Affonso da Silva, ship surgeon,” he said, splashing more liquid over the linen and pressing it against Darcy’s broken skin. The spirits stung like a dozen bees.
Darcy winced, but he turned to allow the man better access to the injuries on his other side, asking, “Portuguese?”
“Sim, senhor. We are from all over the world,” he answered, his English accented with a pleasant lilt.
“Our foreign status discourages the British from impressing us into service. It is a protection, like the black sails we often use and the letters of apprenticeship we carry on our person from the captain.” He tucked the flask into his pocket and pulled out a jar.
“The captain gave you letters?” Darcy prompted, more in disbelief than in a pursuit of more information. Unless Alex had someone else pen the letters for her, she might know how to read and write.
“Aye, she did. Every one of us. Penned them herself.”
Drat. The she-devil was more cunning than Darcy had hoped.
However, she obviously cared for her crew to give them means by which to protect themselves should a naval ship seeking new recruits seize them.
It did not guarantee their freedom during this time of war, but it certainly could help.
Darcy would do well not to underestimate her.
Dabbing his fingers inside the jar, da Silva smeared a vile-smelling ointment over Darcy’s stinging flesh. “It does not smell good, but it will keep infection away.”
The pungent odor diminished in strength as it dried. Or, more likely, Darcy grew accustomed to the smell. The nose, as his recent experiences were teaching him, was a forgiving organ. The balm was soothing.
Injuries treated, dry clothes donned, and feet encased in worn, soft leather, exhaustion overpowered Darcy. The men showed him to a hammock. It was inches off the floor, at the bottom of a stack of four.
“‘Til we know if ye get seasick or not,” Bauer explained.
A young man joined them, carrying a tin plate. “Eat while ye can. Once we’re farther from port, ye’ll get nothin’ but salt pork and hardtack.”
“London port?” Darcy asked, senses sharpening. So, they were not too far.
The men closest to the young man smacked him on the back of the head. Those too far shot sharp glares at him.
Da Silva spoke for the group. “Aye, but do not get any notions of jumping ship. The currents are too strong and the shore is too far.”
Darcy knew better than to trust the word of a pirate—even a well-spoken, educated surgeon like da Silva, but he wasn’t fool enough to test the man, either.
The surgeon poked the bruises on Darcy’s head. “With the beating you have taken, you would not survive the swim. You should be grateful the men pulled the ropes quicker than usual.” His eyes met Darcy’s. “Captain is firm, but she is not heartless.”
Darcy doubted that, and he would not waste his breath arguing with the man.
Taking a bite of the stale bread and finding a deliciously seasoned slab of beef inside, Darcy devoured the meal, washing down every bite with a hot, spiced tea laced with rum.
It was perhaps the best meal he had ever eaten.
So engrossed was he in his meal, he did not notice Bauer, Cotton, da Silva, and the others depart until he looked up and saw they were gone.
Only one man remained behind, watching him and listening. He had strong, wiry limbs and a square jaw grizzled with gray whiskers.
“What day is it?” Darcy asked, voice slurred. He shook his head. He had to know where he was if he had any chance of returning to London.
“Last day of August,” the grizzled man replied, his voice clipped and stern.
One day? Darcy reeled. It seemed like an eternity since he had been at the seedy tavern by the shoreline. He had missed Wickham’s wedding. The ingrate would give Richard difficulty, but Darcy trusted his cousin to manage him.
The man crossed his arms and leaned against a beam. “Name’s Beckett. I’m Cap’n’s first mate.”
The next in command. Darcy would do well to keep Beckett’s favor. He bowed his head, his frustration growing when he had to stifle a yawn. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Beckett,” he responded with a thick tongue.
“Ye’re as slick as Cap’n Nick.”
Darcy caught himself before he laughed. Only months ago, he had snubbed most of a village and delivered the most offensive proposal known to man, and now he was being accused of having smooth manners.
Perhaps he was slick … for a pirate. Elizabeth would appreciate that. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell her. She would laugh.
Beckett watched Darcy woolgather, seeming to understand when he once again had the attention of his audience before continuing, “The cap’n be a woman scorned. She’s a hot temper, and she be fierce in battle. Ye betray her, and any one of her crew’ll take pleasure slittin’ yer throat.”
Darcy nodded. He had felt her fury and was in no hurry to draw her ire until he had gained more strength. Lord, he was tired. He blinked several times, trying to focus on Beckett.
“That said, she’ll keep yer hide alive if ye prove to be a worthy sailor and a trustworthy man.”
The first mate did not trust him—not yet—but Darcy knew his own strengths, and inspiring trust and respect were foremost among them.
He would prove himself, and he would see how he could leverage the crew to help him.
At the very least, he would live long enough to get back to Elizabeth.
“I shall learn whatever you are willing to teach me,” Darcy enunciated. His lips had gone numb.
Beckett nodded. “That’s good to hear, Mr. Darcy.” He slipped away, his footsteps creaking up the steps to the gangway.
Darcy stretched out as much as he could in his hammock, the canvas curling around him like a cocoon that rocked back and forth, back and forth, lulling him to sleep with the image of two fine, bright eyes.