Chapter 8
Warm wind whipped at the hem of Percy’s ill-fitting blue coat as he adjusted the lines.
His feet were braced apart, keeping him balanced as the ship gently rocked on the calmed morning water.
He’d scarcely slept after returning Heather to her cabin, his mind racing and his ears filled with his neighbour’s ungodly snoring.
He’d listened for any sign of movement from the woman’s cabin, ready to leap to her aid should she require it. But she’d remained abed. Then his thoughts had drifted to their tryst in the gazebo: how she’d moved, how she’d tasted, and, Christ, the sounds she’d made…
Clearing his throat, he focused on the topman in the rigging above him and adjusted the lines.
“No, damn it,” the earl shouted across the Sapphire’s quarterdeck. “I asked for port. This is sodding Madeira!”
The noise drew Percy’s gaze. The Earl of Hanley was flapping a hand at one of the footmen he’d brought aboard, and the man of middling years flushed red to the tips of his ears before bowing and scurrying away. Percy frowned. He could scarcely wait to see the blackguard tossed in the brig.
Speaking of the brig…
Squinting through the sunlight, Percy scanned the quarterdeck for any sign of Heather. Damnation. Mayhap her guard hadn’t believed her plea.
Maybe she’s ill due to pregnancy, his inner fear whispered.
Alarm spread across his chest and down the backs of his legs, and, abruptly, he needed to see her.
With a shout over his shoulder, he called the attention of another man, who approached at a trot.
“Have to piss,” Percy said crassly, and the man nodded, accepting the lines.
Instead of turning toward the head—the seat of easement for the crew—Percy spun on his heel and hurried belowdecks.
As he descended the last rung to the gun deck, he noted one of the earl’s maids—whom he’d frequently seen aiding in preparing meals for the crew—leaving Heather’s cabin, her arms laden with a chamber pot and soiled rags.
Holy hell. His stomach all but sank through the frigate and into the ocean below them. He darted toward her open doorway.
“Heather?” he inquired cautiously, his voice rough.
She was sitting sideways upon her bed, resting against the wall with her knees brought up to her chest, her lilac walking dress tucked snugly beneath her.
Her pale skin glistened with perspiration, and her red-blonde locks were unruly and sticking to her forehead, cheeks, and neck.
But the moment her eyes met his, her nearly colourless lips curved upward in a half smile, and his chest constricted. She beckoned him forward.
“Hell’s teeth, Heather,” he breathed, coming closer. “Are you well? Has the surgeon been to see you?”
Her lips thinned, and her gaze slid past him before meeting his once more. “He has.”
And? His heart constricted.
She patted the space beside her on the bed with one hand, and he sat.
“And what of the salve, or whatever Duncan had said of that remedy for seasickness?”
“I…” Her voice was hoarse, her eyes glistening.
“I’m afraid my Nepeta cataria—the catnip plant—has perished in the hold while I’ve been…
imprisoned. In fact, nearly a third of my plants—” A sob caught in her throat, and Percy’s heart gave a sharp pang.
“Never mind. Fresh air, the doctor says, and some buns ought to settle my stomach. But the earl won’t allow it. ”
Percy frowned. “Won’t allow it?”
She swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand and sniffled. “He thoroughly outlined his displeasure with my appear—” With a twisted grimace, Heather gathered the fresh chamber pot sitting beside her and retched.
Another wave of worry and fear rippled through him.
He wanted to put a hand to her back in a comforting gesture, but he’d heard from men at the pugilists’ club that some women—the men’s wives, in particular—despised being touched while being ill.
And Percy didn’t wish to impose himself on Heather without her permission.
He did, however, accept a clean chamber pot from the maid as the woman returned, and he dampened a cloth for Heather to use for her forehead, neck, or mouth, as she chose.
The small space echoed with the wretched sounds of heaving, and Percy’s gut knotted in sympathy. At last, she rinsed and wiped her mouth, then sat back against the wall.
“Thank you, Berta,” Heather murmured with a half-hearted smile toward the maid.
“O’course, miss.” The maid reached forward and withdrew the used chamber pot with a lingering sideways glance at Percy before she retreated.
“Feeling any better?” Percy asked softly, not knowing how else to offer comfort in such a moment.
Heather took a stuttered breath and nodded slightly. “Fractionally.” Her eyes slid closed. “I owe you my thanks, as well, Percy.”
“I—of course,” he returned, nonplussed. “You’re welcome.”
A series of loud shouts rose up above them, followed closely by the sharp ringing of the bell. Heather flinched, and Percy shot to his feet.
“Prepare for battle!” a voice bellowed.
Percy froze.
Impossible. How had a ship come upon them so quickly? A chase often lasted hours, even days. Surely a topman would have noticed long before now that a ship was in pursuit.
“Run out the guns!” someone shouted.
“Hell,” Percy breathed. “Something isn’t right. I have to go.” He turned to Heather, his tone urgent. “Remain hidden. Bar the door behind me, and do not open it for anyone.”
And with that, he left, closing the door on the woman who could be carrying his child.
On the mess deck, the night shift of men scrambled to ready themselves for battle, some still dressed. Some ran belowdecks toward the magazine, while others darted above. Percy ascended to the gun deck, where the cannons and carronades were being run out, and his gut knotted.
What the devil am I doing? Heat spread across his chest, and nerves twisted inside him.
He ought to be with Heather, not leaving her to hide.
What would he do should the Sapphire be boarded?
What if he was engaged above deck and something happened to Heather?
She’d begun her training, but she was by no means an experienced fighter.
Two men jostled him as they hurried past, and Percy blinked. Ballocks. He turned on his heel to return belowdecks when an officer appeared before him.
“To your duties, linesman,” the officer grunted, thrusting a water-filled bucket and a French cutlass at him, his eyes creased with poorly disguised trepidation. “Pirates are approaching. Fast.”
The small cabin echoed with the sound of Heather’s agitated breathing, men shouting, footfalls overhead, and the rushing of her pulse in her ears.
Had the maids been ushered to an officer’s cabin, or had they been sent to the hold?
The Earl of Shite had undoubtedly commandeered the captain’s cabin in which to hide, and demanded his men stand as personal protection. The bloody coward.
Oh, blast, her plants! The surviving plants were in the hold. She hoped no harm came to them during the battle.
More shouts rose up overhead, and nausea churned in Heather’s stomach. Aware that she might soon be required to flee—and abhorring the metallic tang on her tongue—she hastily retrieved her tooth powder and toothbrush and set to cleaning her mouth.
Battle. The word whispered through her mind as she brushed.
Footfalls raced back and forth, followed by heavy thuds. Are those bodies or cannonballs? She loathed not knowing what was happening and not being able to help.
A detestable sense of helplessness stole over her, and she retreated once more to her swinging bed.
Boom! Her cabin vibrated with the first blast of a cannon, and, for the first time, a tremor of fear shot through her nerves.
Battle. It wasn’t just between the men, it was between the sodding ships.
But what of the ship meant to be sailing behind the Sapphire?
There was no way of knowing if they’d encountered these attackers first, or if the attackers approached from another direction.
If their partnered ship hadn’t been attacked, surely they would soon come upon them and offer their aid.
Two ships against one would see them to victory against these aggressors.
Boom-boom! Two more blasts, followed closely by the bellows of men. Heather’s breath caught.
Pulling her legs to her breasts, she trained her ears above her, listening to every movement and wondering if Percy was all right.
Boom…boom…boom…
“Ready to turn, lads!” the officer said.
Percy tugged on his forelock and obeyed the order, set to line up the ship in preparation for battle. He pulled on the halyard, keeping the rope taut and awaiting his next command. But despite the overwrought air surrounding him, his gaze drifted to the companionway.
Was Heather still unwell? Was she frightened? Hell, he ought to have defied orders and returned to her cabin to be with her.
“Turn!” the officer shouted, as the topmen worked and gunners scrambled along the deck, preparing the cannons.
Avoiding being cut by the French cutlass tucked into his newly found belt, Percy heaved hard on the halyard, his hands fisting one over the other as he pulled. The rope reached its end, and he swiftly tied it off at the main jeer-bitts.
“Ready, men! Aim!” their captain hollered from the helm.
Christ, this was it. Percy turned from his task, his heart in his throat.
“Fire!”
Boom! The explosion reverberated through his chest, which swelled with…hell, was that anticipation? He hadn’t engaged in battle in some time, and while he was terrified for Heather, part of him was desirous for a fight.
Boom-boom! One of the Sapphire’s cannons fired, just as their opponent drew alongside them and fired theirs, the ball sailing through the air not far from Percy to glance off the far taffrail. Hell, that had been close.
A row of men stepped up to the bulwark between the cannons and carronades and lifted muskets to their shoulders, aiming at the opposing ship. Above him, the marksmen on the fighting tops took aim as well.
“Fire at will!” the captain called.
Crack-crack-crack-crack!
More gunpowder filled the air, shaking Percy from his momentary immobility. He’d been in countless battles before. But while there might be more at stake for him now, he knew how to fight, and he bloody well knew how to win.
Boom…boom…boom…
The Sapphire shook with the force of the cannon fire, and a ball sailed through the air to splinter the mizzen topgallant mast. Percy darted sideways as several topmen leapt for the shrouds, clinging for life to the ladder-like ropes, while a few others fell to their doom. Fuck.
Withdrawing his French cutlass, Percy hurried to the bulwark, where the men were either reloading the carronades and their muskets or preparing the planks to board the other ship. That’s what Percy was waiting for, that was when he would excel, his—
All thought ceased as a wicked, keening laughter cut through the cacophony of noise. Hell’s tits, he knew that laugh. He’d heard it before, many times…for it was the sound of his nightmares.
Breath caught in his throat and his pulse fluttered like a sodding butterfly as he scanned their opponent’s ship.
He knew what he’d see, and still he froze at the sight of the enormous Scotsman, his wild, greying red hair and beard visible even through the haze of gunpowder.
Sunlight glinted off the insignia on the man’s pilfered Redcoat and, his experience notwithstanding, a tremor stole over Percy’s body.
The Butcher.