Damn, there went any hope of sleep. The one thing he had been resolved upon was that he must protect her, not hurt her, and instead he had leapt to conclusions and in trying to reassure her he had managed to both wound her and shatter the confidence between them. And come daybreak she was going to need that confidence.
The fact that her violent repudiation of his proposal made him not irritated, or relieved, but disappointed, was not lost on him. If she were not having unwise feelings, then he most certainly was. But increasingly the idea of marriage to Clemence, young as she was, ignorant, too, of the realities of life to a man who made his living at sea, was becoming strangely tempting.
He lay, dozing fitfully, part of his mind noting the ship’s bell counting the hours, vividly aware of the pattern of Clemence’s breathing as she finally slept.
When a thin light began to show through the porthole he got to his feet, methodically working the protesting muscles, wincing as the healing lash marks stuck to the bandages.
It was better than he had feared and once the action began he would not be so aware of it. He’d fought with a bullet in his upper arm and a sabre slash down his thigh before now. Nathan laid out his pistols on the table and quietly began to strip them down and clean them. More than his life was going to depend on them today.
When he could not leave it any longer, he went to her bunk and laid the back of his hand against her cheek. ‘Clemence.’
‘Mmm?’ She turned her face against his hand like a cat, a smile curving her lips, eyes closed. Nathan saw the exact moment when she recalled where she was and what had happened yesterday. He took his hand away and turned back to the table, unwilling to see her eyes on him, for her to see him lift his own hand against his cheek for a fleeting moment.
‘Time to get up. Stay near the head of the companionway and then, when we’re about to grapple her, go down to the orlop.’ He wanted to say take care, for all the good it did, but his voice seemed to be failing him and he needed to be out of there.
The door handle was in his grasp when she spoke. ‘I just want to say, I do trust you. And, good luck, Nathan.’
He should turn, talk to her, but he found he could not. Something was tight in his throat—it felt, impossibly, like his heart. Somehow he got the door open. ‘Thank you.’
Superstition maintained that when something was going absolutely to plan, then disaster could not be far away. By that reckoning, he was in for a bad time, Nathan decided, watching the merchantman Bonny Lass tack and turn ahead of them, harried by the light guns of the skiff blocking the open sea. The gap between the islets beckoned, temptingly. Unless they had a man in the top-mast crow’s nest, then they would never see the danger shimmering beneath the waves, not if they were the ship McTiernan believed them to be.
Closer and closer they drew, gaining on their prey. ‘Terrible sail handling,’ Cutler remarked as Bonny Lass lost more way.
‘Panicking,’ Nathan suggested, one wary eye out for Clemence, loitering by the dark mouth of the companionway. Don’t overdo it, he thought urgently as though he could reach James Melville, his old friend, captaining the decoy in his shirtsleeves with no gold lace to betray his true identity.
Long minutes passed as the two ships closed. He could see them in his mind’s eye as though from the peak of Lizard Island, two elegant toys skimming across the green-blue ocean without a hint of the carnage that was about to be unleashed.
Bonny Lass slid into the trap. Nathan felt himself hold his breath. Had he miscalculated? Was the smaller ship going to clear the sand-bar? And then it struck as though it had hit a wall and Sea Scorpion, responding to the helm, swung round to come up alongside it.
Nathan spun on his heel; the mouth of the companionway was empty. Clemence had gone. He drew his pistol and turned back, one target in mind, but McTiernan was already down the steps, dodging amidst the mêlée. Cursing, Nathan followed Cutler, searching for a clear shot.
Clemence was buffeted by the men running up from the gun deck to join the hand-to-hand fighting above. That one last glimpse she had of Nathan, pistol in hand, seemed burned into her mind as she stumbled down, snatching a lantern as she went.
The key was still on its hook and behind the closed door she could hear shouts. As she tried to unlock the door something heavy hit the inside, sending the key tumbling from her fingers. Doggedly she tried again and it came open, bringing with it the men who had been trying to break it down.
One of them lunged for her throat. ‘Johnnie Wright! It’s me, Clemence Ravenhurst!’
She hardly recognised him. The mate of the Raven Duchess, his face white and pinched, his eyes wild, stared at her, hands still raised. ‘Miss Clemence?’
‘Yes. No time to explain, Johnnie—we’re alongside a naval vessel. Can any of you fight? I know where there are weapons.’
‘Aye, we can fight, can’t we, lads?’ There was a roar from behind him, then they were tumbling out of the hold, bearded, stinking, out for blood. Clemence turned and ran up the companionway, her scarecrow army at her heels.
‘Here.’ She gestured at the open weapon chests. ‘Hurry!’
They stampeded past her up to the noise of shouting, shots, the grinding of the two ships against each other. Panting, Clemence pulled her knife out of its sheath and followed.
She couldn’t see Nathan, but she could see McTiernan, Cutler at hi
s side, fighting surrounded by bodies. There were blue naval uniforms, officers fighting hand to hand, seamen she didn’t recognise who must be part of the decoy’s crew. Splinters flew up from the deck at her feet and she saw marines in the rigging, firing down. A hand descended, pulled her back through a door.
Street wiped blood off his meat cleaver and showed his teeth. ‘Your Mr Stanier’s not what he seems, boy. Told me to look out for you. You reckon I ought to heed him?’
‘He’ll help you, if you do,’ ’ Clemence promised, craning to see past the cook’s bulk. ‘He said you’re the best of the bunch. You can’t want to follow a man like McTiernan, surely?’
‘He’s my captain, I don’t turn my coat, leastways, not while the bastard’s alive and breathing.’
A shadow fell across the doorway, a sailor, pistol in hand, the barrel pointing directly at Clemence. Trapped against the stove, she threw up her hands in a pointless gesture of defence; after all this, she was going to die here, now. It seemed impossible to feel such terror and still be conscious. She wanted to live, she wanted Nathan and now it was all going to end in noise and blood and smashed bone and agony—