Chapter 8 No Dream At All
The lantern’s flame flickered, as if holding its breath against the damp, musty air of the hold.
Barrels of salted pork and crates of musket shot loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows warped along the wooden beams. In the furthest corner, cloaked in shadow and silence, Ayida Noire knelt beside a battered crate, a tattered cloth spread before her like an altar.
She hummed under her breath—low, guttural, and pulsing with ancient rhythm. From the folds of her apron, she drew a tiny leather pouch and emptied its contents—a dead black beetle, three rat bones bound with red thread, a lock of hair—Caleb’s—and a pinch of ash from the stove.
She whispered ancient words as her fingers moved deftly, weaving the bones into a crude figure with twine, binding it tightly with hair and ash.
Grabbing a small vial, she uncorked it, releasing a rancid, iron-tinged stench into the air.
She smeared the foul liquid over the rat-bone talisman and held it aloft.
“Let dem come, swarming in shadow… bring rot an’ fear to dis vessel,” she breathed, her voice rising. “Let de captain lose sleep, let him doubt his course. Let his men whisper o’ curses…an’ force him to’ de island.”
A gust of unnatural wind whispered through the timbers. The lantern sputtered.
And then, a faint rustling…scratching…skittering claws.
Ayida smiled. “A storm be brewin’, Captain,” she murmured. “But it won’t be from de skies.”
She tucked the talisman into the shadows behind the crate, doused the lantern, and melted away into the dark, leaving behind only the whisper of her song and the gnawing of teeth.
?
Desi was never one to sit around and do nothing.
She’d been a hard worker her entire life.
Not that she had any choice. She’d been only ten when her father died and just months later, her mother followed him, leaving her alone with a sick sister and an eccentric grandfather.
Regardless, she’d excelled at school, and instead of going to college, she’d taken over her grandfather’s failing company and turned it into a success.
Running Ocean’s Echo and caring for her sister left little time to relax.
But sitting in this tiny cabin, watching the sunlight leap over the bulkhead and listening to the dash of the sea against the hull was making her crazy.
Apparently whatever ship they’d sighted had not been worthy of their attention, for they’d neither increased in speed nor run out their guns for the chase.
Hours had passed, at least it seemed like hours.
And by the shadows creeping across the cabin, shoving aside the light, she assumed night was approaching.
One quick look out the window revealed the fading crimson and gold of a sunset, no doubt positioned on the other side of the ship. Which meant they traveled north.
But north from where? She plopped back onto the cot and dropped her head in her hands.
How could this be happening?
The words of her grandfather came back to haunt her.
You’ll find all you need upon that ship, my little urchin. All you’ve ever desired. It must be you. You’re the one it calls to.
Could he have known she’d be transported back in time? But how? It made no sense!
Yet here she was. Her growling stomach, knotted nerves, and the weight of heaviness on her eyelids destroyed all hope she was dreaming. One did not feel such things when sleeping, right?
One certainly did not feel the strange sensations she felt when in the captain’s presence. As if she knew him, as if she trusted him…a man who locked her up and threatened her!
Yet a man who came to her defense against the lustful glances of that sailor…what was his name? Liam. Not that she couldn’t handle him. But if she admitted it, the chivalrous act warmed her more than it should any modern, liberated woman.
A light scuffing sound came from beneath her cot. Rats? Of course there would be rats aboard a ship. Hoisting her feet onto the bed, she waited, wondering what they could find to eat in the cabin.
A furry head poked out and then a moment later, two paws stretched across the deck before a black cat appeared, stared at her curiously, and then sprang into her lap. Patches!
She’d laugh if she weren’t so terrified. “How did you get in here, little one?” Hugging the feline, she stroked her fur, enjoying the low rumble of purrs. At least someone liked her aboard this ship.
“I’m sorry, Patches. I’m afraid you’re stuck in here with me.”
The lock clanked and the door flung open so fast, it crashed against the bulkhead. A tall man with few teeth and even less hair stared first at her, then at Patches. Smirking, his fingers tightened around the blade at his belt.
“Cap’n says come to dinner.”
“Tell him…” she started to say, but then bit her lip. If she really was in 1718 and the captain really was a pirate or ex-pirate, it wouldn’t be good to defy him outright. Besides, she was starving.
Hoisting Patches in her arms, she followed the beast out the door and down a lantern-lit hall to the captain’s cabin once again.
The heavy oak door creaked as Desi stepped inside, the scents of roasted meat, sweat, rum, and salt assaulting her senses.
A long, scarred table dominated the room, mismatched pewter plates already laid out while flickering lanterns cast golden light on the gathering of men. Patches wiggled in her arms.
Five pairs of eyes immediately swerved to her, each set carrying a different reaction and sentiment. Pushing out his chair, the captain stood, along with Alden. The rest continued their gawking until one rather defiant throat-clear from the captain forced them all to rise.
Men who stood when a lady entered? Desi never thought she’d enjoy such an honor.
That honor faded as sparks fired from the captain’s eyes. “You stole my cat!” He charged toward her and snatched Patches from her arms.
“Apparently,” she spat back. “She prefers my company to yours.”
Several of the men chuckled.
Scowling, the captain set Patches in a wooden crate filled with blankets in the corner.
“Come now, Captain,” the rough-looking man with the scar on his cheek spoke up. “You know Patches likes to wander the ship. The lady hardly stole her.”
“Nevertheless, she seems to have a penchant for thievery.” The captain’s suspicious gaze bored into her.
Desi turned to leave. Hungry as she was, she had no desire to dine with these men. All of whom were still staring at her like she was the dessert. All except the doctor who sat in one of the chairs, open book in hand, reading.
But the MMA wrestler who’d brought her here stood in the doorway, arms folded across his bare chest, preventing her exit.
She spun back around. “What is it you want, Captain?”
Oddly, a soft look had replaced his anger as he gestured her forward. “Dine with us, Miss Starr. You’re among friends. For now.”
His last words carried a threat, one she knew was real. So, she moved cautiously toward the only empty chair, flanked by the captain on one side and the handsome Irishman on the other.
“You remember my officers.” The captain waved a hand over his men before taking his seat.
“Evenin', love,” Liam O’Neil said with a wink. “At yer service, m’lady. Boatswain, poet, and available for courtship in thirty-seven ports.”
The heavyset man across the table looked up from his book. “Ignore him. He flirts with figureheads.”
“Only the finely carved ones,” Liam protested with a wink.
Across the table, the rugged man with a broad chest and weathered face gave a polite nod. The quartermaster, if she remembered. Candlelight flickered over the wooden cross at his collarbone. “Alden Shaw,” he said, “and the last sane man on this ship.”
“I heard that,” grumbled the man beside him, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Dr. Oliver Brandt. Ship’s surgeon and resident alchemist of lost causes.”
Caleb gestured to a scrawny-looking sailor with a shock of red hair and freckles that covered his face like measles. “Shorty, our helmsman.”
The lad nodded but quickly looked away as if he were shy around women.
“And Keg, our master gunner.” Caleb pointed to the beefy man across from Shorty with black stains covering his shirt and the edges of his hair singed.
“Keg!” Caleb shouted, and the man finally glanced up and attempted a smile.
“Lost his hearing a while back,” Alden offered. “Too many gun blasts.”
Dr. Brandt looked up from his book. “It may return to him one day. Time will tell.”
What an odd group of sailors. But then again, if she really was aboard a pirate ship in 1718, what did she expect?
The growl of her stomach was thankfully drowned out by the men’s laughter and the rush of water against the hull.
Her gaze darted to the steaming platters of pork, root vegetables, and a strange dish that smelled vaguely of cinnamon and smoke.
“Sweet yam stew,” Caleb said, catching her hesitation. “Ayida’s specialty. You’ll find no better cook on land or sea.”
As if on cue, the Creole glided into the cabin with a tray of warm biscuits and a satisfied smirk. “Mind your tongues, gentlemen,” she said, setting it down. “An’ your manners. Dis one here,”—she nodded toward Desi—“ain’t used to your crude ways.”
Shorty, the wiry helmsman with a shock of ginger hair, leaned across the table. “Aye, where did you come from, miss? You drop from the clouds or swim from the depths like a selkie?”
“She fell from the heavens,” Liam said with theatrical reverence. “Sent to torment me heart.” He laid a hand on his chest.
“You mean your groin,” muttered Dr. Brandt without looking up from his book.
“Same thing.”
Uncomfortable, Desi shifted in her seat. Ayida wasn’t kidding about crude ways. Not that she wasn’t used to men flinging indecent comments her way. It was unavoidable in the modern world. And apparently in this one, too.
“I must apologize for my crew,” the captain said, his voice steady and rich. “It’s not every day a lady graces our table.” He speared each of them with a gaze that needed no vocal warning.