‘He would and he does. He’s got a very strange idea of entertainment, has our captain. He isn’t called Red because of his taste in spotted kerchiefs, it’s because blood’s red and he likes it. Lots of it.’
‘You…you’re frightening me,’ Clemence managed to say around the constriction in her throat. She didn’t want him to treat her like a sheltered little girl, but like a grown woman. On the other hand, there were some details she could very well do without.
‘Good. Be very frightened—you are less likely to do anything foolish.’
‘I’d heard he had a dreadful reputation, but I didn’t know he was like that.’ She shuddered. But she couldn’t just let men she knew be sold off as slaves. She would have to think of something.
‘Mr Stanier!’ The light was breaking through, chasing the night back into deep pools of shadow either side of the channel. Ahead, in the open sea, a brisk breeze was making white horses on the wavelets.
‘Coming, sir.’ Nathan pushed his ale into Clemence’s hands. ‘Now, things get lively.’
Nathan studied the open waters of the Windward Passage as Sea Scorpion slipped out of the channel and turned starboard to the sheltered deep anchorage between Lizard Island and, at their back, the scatter of islands they had picked their way through the night before. Ahead was the major route for shipping between Hispaniola and Cuba and topsails were distantly visible. Closer to the island the white lateen sails of fishing boats dotted the sea—small fry, safe from the big shark.
He turned on his heel, seeming to glance casually over the forested slopes and rock-strewn beaches behind them. Somewhere, if things had gone to plan, spy glasses were watching them and messages were being sent to a middling-sized merchant vessel with a conveniently damaged mast. It would come limping out of shelter, like a bird with a broken wing, right under the nose of the Sea Scorpion—and McTiernan would not be able to resist.
‘You seem pleased with life, Mr Stanier.’
‘Who wouldn’t smile at a morning like this, Mr Cutler?’ On his other side he sensed Clem stiffening, but she neither pressed closer to him nor moved away. She was scared of Cutler, but she had guts.
‘Drop anchor!’ There was a roar as the pinions were knocked out and the chain rushed free, the anchor dropping through clear water to the sand beneath, then a few moments of peace again until the bo’sun began ordering the hands to their morning chores.
‘You’re not expecting any business along yet?’
‘No.’ Cutler was looking up into the rigging, his eyes checking, evaluating every knot and sheet. ‘Those fat lazy merchantmen won’t stir themselves for a while yet.’
Beside him Clem gave a muffled snort and Nathan kicked her lightly on the ankle in warning; the last thing they needed was her giving Cutler a lecture on the superiority of merchantmen over pirate vessels.
A jolly boat was swung out with water casks to fill at the stream that burst out of the forest on to the beach in a miniature waterfall. Even without the telescope he could make out the spreading pool beneath the fall. ‘Imagine swimming in that,’ Clem said wistfully.
Nathan looked at her. Leaning with elbows on the rail, chin in hand, rear end stuck out, she was lost in a daydream. With no difficulty at all he joined her in it. Somehow he had no trouble at all imagining Clemence naked, slipping like a fish through the water, coming up to the surface laughing, her hands full of shells, walking towards him, small high breasts covered in sun-reflecting droplets…
He looked again and hissed, ‘Stand up straight and pull your shirt down.’
She jumped to obey, startled question in her eyes.
‘You might be too thin,’ he muttered in her ear, ‘but no lad has got a backside like that!’ Oh, God, and now that was in his head, too, pert and rounded, just asking to be cupped in his palms like a ripe peach.
She went pink, but looked pleased. ‘Really? That’s good. I must be putting weight on.’
Women! ‘It is no such—’
‘Sail ho!’ The cry from the masthead had everyone turning towards the rail. There, emerging slowly from behind the headland, was a small merchantman, sail drooping, mast oddly angled, crew swarming over the rigging in frantic activity.
‘Raise the anchor!’ Cutler roared and the bo’sun came at the run, starter in hand, shoving and bullying the hands into place around the capstan. Men were climbing the rigging, making for their designated places on the yards ready to lower the sail, and the lids of sea chests crashed open as the crew left on deck armed themselves.
‘Get below.’ Nathan pushed Clem towards the companionway.
‘No!’ She dug in her heels, then saw the look on his face. ‘I’ll go down before we close with them,’ she promised.
‘Do that. This is going to be a hot fight.’
‘How do you know?’ Clem demanded, half-running to keep up with him as he made for the nearest arms’ chest to find a cutlass. ‘It’s a small ship.’
‘Instinct,’ he lied, mentally kicking himself for the slip.
‘But they aren’t heavily armed,’ she continued to speculate.
‘Spare me your views on marine strategy,’ Nathan said coldly, desperate to stop her talking.