“That is a shame,” I say. “I am certain she has many stories to tell, and many more shecouldtell.”
“Many stories, indeed, and a life cut short before her time.” His eyes twinkle. “Perhaps you can immortalize her in prose?”
“If you will tell me a few of those stories.”
“I will tell you stories until you beg me to stop, crécerelle. Now, let the tour begin.”
We tour the ship.She has a name, of course. TheTemerity. As Nicolas said, she is in ill health, and there are areas—such as the galley—that he cannot show me. He has sectioned off storerooms for his goods, and that is where he has concentrated his preservation efforts.
As for those goods, he is acting as a middleman between smugglers and the shopkeepers who would sell and distribute exotic items. He is also storing more mundane goods to avoid Lord Norrington’s tariffs, which are one part for the Crown and one part for his pocket.
Nicolas and his confederates buy goods from the shipowners wishing to avoid the tariffs and then sell them to the villagers who could not afford those tariffs. It is more complicated than that, but the exact mechanics do not concern me as much as the fact that, whatever laws Nicolas is breaking, he is doing it for the good of others and not to line his own pockets.
Speaking of pockets, we end the tour in a storeroom filled with clothing, some of it exotic in nature and some merely imported from other parts of the British Isles.
“Your wardrobe awaits, my lady,” he says, waving his lantern at the crates. “Find something that suits you better than that dreadful outfit.”
I bristle. “You mean find myself a pretty frock?”
“Not at all, crécerelle,” he says mildly. “Unless that is what you wish. You certainly may select a dress, but I must warn that you would likely find it inconvenient for climbing in and out of caves and pirate ships.”
I dip my chin. “I apologize for the undeserved presumption.” I look around. “There is much to choose from.”
“Might I make a true presumption and offer my aid, as one more accustomed to male attire?”
“Please do.”
Nicolas finds me an outfit—aloose shirt and tight trousers and a pair of knee-high boots with polished silver buckles that make my heart skip. He leaves me to dress and knocks when he returns. I open the storeroom door and strike a pose.
“It seems to fit,” I say as I turn. “Yes?”
He pauses.
I stop turning. “It does not fit? It seems to.”
I look down at the shirt, on which I had to leave open a couple of buttons for my bosom.
“I did not mean to imply it does not fit,” he says. “I was pausing to consider my response and fashion it in a way that did not make me sound like a libertine. I will only say that you are proof that women really ought to wear trousers more often. They show off your figure admirably, as does that shirt, which...” He clears his throat. “I believe I ought to stop there.”
He lifts a bottle from his side. “Do you drink, crécerelle? I thought that, as we are on a pirate ship, you might care to indulge in that most piratical of spirits. Rum, direct from the islands.”
“I have never had rum.”
“Non?” He waggles the bottle. “Do you wish to rectify that oversight? Share a bottle of rum with me on the deck of a pirate ship, gazing up into the night sky?”
“Will you tell me a story?”
“I will tell you many stories, crécerelle, as promised. The first one shall be the origins of this particular bottle.”
10
For perhaps the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what I am doing. Yes, to others, it seems that when the patron goddess of practicality bestowed her gifts, she passed me by entirely. Yet that is only in comparison to Rosalind and Portia, who fairly bristle with practicality. I am the youngest Hastings girl, and as befits my junior status, I am the wild one, the unfettered one, the dreamer and the fantasist. Even in my wildness, though, I have a plan. I always have a plan.
I planned the relationship with my first lover, pursuing the goal of carnal education. One might say that went very poorly indeed, but one might also say it went very well—teaching me lessons about the dangers of that pursuit. I planned my career as a novelist, pursuing it even more ardently and determinedly. I pursued my goal of crossing the time stitch to see the future. When I ended up in the past, I simply switched goals. I had a privateer to save.
Now I have done that. Nicolas is alive, and so I’m... Well, I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’m torn between wondrous delight and abject terror. I am on a pirate ship, drinking rum with a man who makes my head swim even more than does the alcohol. It is night, and we are alone, and I know that should be dangerous, but it does notfeeldangerous. Or, I should say, it does not feel dangerous inthatway. It does feel very dangerous in another way. Because I know exactly why I am here.