The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

‘I don’t care if you are angry. Things can’t get much worse.’

‘Oh, they can, believe me,’ Stanier said softly, tilting her head, his fingers hard on her jawbone. ‘Is that eye paining you much?’

‘Only when someone hits it,’ Clemence said, contemplating struggling, then deciding it was certain to be futile. He was too close, far too close for comfort. She could smell him, his sweat. Not the rank odour of the habitually unwashed crew, but the curiously arousing scent of a man who was usually clean, but was now hot and musky from bed. Goosebumps ran up her spine.

‘Well, if you want to avoid that, you can go and find me some coffee and bread.’ Did he really mean it? Would he hit her if she displeased him? Of course he would, he thought her just a troublesome boy and boys were always getting beaten. ‘Then bring it up on deck. It’ll be dawn soon.’ He picked up a telescope from the bunk and fitted it into a long pocket in his jerkin, then dropped a watch into another. ‘Here, take this and remember what I said about staying out of trouble.’

Clemence caught the clasp knife that was tossed to her, fumbling the catch. Stanier frowned, his gaze sharpening. ‘It’s this eye,’ she said defensively, recalling her playmates’ jibes that she caught like a girl. ‘I can’t see out of it properly.’ Then he was gone and she could hold on to the end of the table, ridiculously shaken.

Toughen up, she told herself fiercely. Think like a boy. Which was easier said than done, given that all her treacherous feminine instincts were telling her quite the opposite whenever Stanier was close. The knife fastened to her belt, she made her way to the galley. Instinctively, she kept her head down, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible, until she found she was being stared at curiously. Perhaps looking like a victim was not a good idea in the middle of this crew, used to preying on the weak.

Clemence arrived at the galley, head up, shoulders back, practising a swagger. She conjured up Georgy Phillips, the leader of her gang of childhood male friends. He would love this adventure. He was welcome to it.

‘Mr Street? I’ve come for Mr Stanier’s coffee. And something to eat.’ There was bacon frying, she could smell it. ‘Some bacon.’

‘That’s for the captain.’ But the cook said it amiably enough, slopping a black liquid that might have been coffee into a mug.

‘But there’s lots of it. And Mr Stanier’s to have what he wants, the captain said so.’ Street was hardly likely to check, and it seemed that Stanier had got what he’d demanded as a price to sail with them.

‘Did he now?’ Street shoved a piece of plank with bread on it towards her. There wouldn’t be any of that once they were at sea and the land-bought supplies went stale. ‘Go on, then. You want some coffee, too, boy?’

‘Please, sir.’ Clemence was pretty certain that the cook didn’t warrant a sir, but a bit of crawling did no harm. She carved off four thick slices of bread and slipped round behind the man to layer bacon between them, dribbling on the rich melted fat for good measure. Street let her take a pewter plate, then watched, a gaptoothed grin on his face, as she juggled two mugs of coffee and the food.

‘Don’t drop it, boy, you’ll not wheedle any more out of me,’ he warned.

‘Nossir, thank you, sir.’ Now she had to find her way on deck, up at least two companionways, with her hands full. At least they were still at anchor; she would soon have to do this sort of thing with the ship pitching and tossing.

She made it with the loss of half a mug of coffee when one hand made a grab for the food as she passed him and she had to duck and run. Muttering, she regarded her coffee-stained trousers with resignation, and climbed out of the hatch on to deck.

It was a scene of apparent chaos, but she had seen enough ships preparing to make sail to know this all had a purpose. The light was waxing now, she could see the length of the deck and the lamps were extinguished. With the plate clutched protectively close to her chest, Clemence negotiated the steep steps up to the poop deck and found Stanier deep in conversation with the tall, oddly neat man with the pale blue eyes. The one who had hit her. Mr Cutler, the first mate.

They had a chart spread out on the raised hatch cover of the stern cabin and were studying it. As Clemence came up behind them, Stanier straightened. ‘I agree, that’s the best course if you aren’t concerned about speed.’

‘Are you suggesting there’s a faster way?’

Stanier extended one finger and indicated something Clemence could not see. The sight of that long digit, the one that had traced a question down her bruised cheek, made her shift uncomfortably.

‘That’s a dangerous passage, too big a risk.’ Cutler shook his head.

‘Not if you hit it at just the right time.’ Stanier began to roll up the chart. ‘How much speed do you need? Are you chasing something or just patrolling?’

‘Best pickings have got over twelve hours’ start on us, there’s no catching the Raven Princess now.’ Clemence almost dropped the food. ‘But if you’ve got the knack of that passage, then the captain will be glad to see it.’

‘That’s what I thought. And it brings you out in the shelter of Lizard Island. You’ve got good anchorage, fresh water and command of the shipping lanes through there. And you never know, Raven Princess might have been delayed. Too good not to check, I’d have thought.’

Bastard! ‘Your coffee, Mr Stanier.’ She thrust the mug into his hand, forcing him to grasp the heated metal, and was gratified by his wince as he snatched at the handle. He deserved it. That was her ship he was talking about capturing. ‘And some bread and bacon. Sir.’

He looked at her narrowly over the rim of the mug as he blew on his coffee. ‘That all for me?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Take your knife and cut it up. Take half and eat it.’

‘You’ll spoil the brat.’ The mate’s lip lifted in a sneer.

‘He’s half-starved and no use to me unless he’s fit.’ Stanier gave a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. ‘Clem, eat and then go and get that cabin shipshape. You can unpack everything, just don’t drop the instruments.’

Clemence found a corner on the main deck and curled up with her breakfast on top of a low stack of barrels, safely out of the way of the hurrying hands. Just when she had started liking the man, he turned out to be as bad as the rest of them. She shook her head abruptly; it was a lesson not to trust any of them. Ever.

Despite her feelings, she could still enjoy the food. The bacon was good, still warm, savoury, the bread soaked with salty grease. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, then wiped her palms on her trousers without thinking. The resulting mess—smears of ink, coffee, grease and dust—was unpleasant, but she could hardly change her clothes.

Street was surprisingly helpful when she returned her crocks. ‘Ship’s sail-maker’s over there. Doubles as tailor, for them as wants it.’ He nodded towards a man sitting cross-legged on a pile of rolled hammocks. ‘Hey, Gerritty! Navigator’s boy needs slops.’

The tailor squinted at Clemence. ‘Look in that chest, see what’ll fit,’ he said through a mouthful of big needles, his accent a thick Irish brogue. ‘I’m not making you anything, mind, not wasting my time on boys.’

‘Thank you.’ The trunk held a motley collection, some of it quality, some of it sailors’ gear. Clemence had the uncomfortable feeling that most of it had been taken from captives. She found two pairs of trousers that looked as though she could take them in to fit, some shirts, a jacket and a warm knitted tunic. ‘May I take these?’

‘Aye.’ The sail-maker produced an evil-looking knife and cut some twine. ‘He any good, this new navigator?’

Clemence shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He only took me on yesterday. Talks like he is.’ The Irishman snorted at her tone. ‘Where can I get a bucket and a scrubbing brush?’

She wasn’t looking forward to tackling the privy cupboard, but she wasn’t prepared to live with it either. She was uncomfortably aware that if life had not favoured her with the wealth to keep servants, then she would have made a very reluctant housekeeper, but some hard cleaning was preferable to squalor, any day of the week.

It took her half an hour to locate cleaning materials, dodging some rough teasing on the way. On her way down to the cabin she collected a second lantern by the simple expedient of stealing it from another cabin, then started by washing the portholes and cleaning the lamps. She made the beds, glancing with interest at the thick leather-bound notebook under Stanier’s pillow, but cautiously left it untouched, unpacked his bags and set the instruments out on the table with care.

They were shiny, complex and obviously expensive. She raised the fiddles around the sides of the table in case the instruments slid about and eyed them, fascinated. Perhaps he would show her how they worked.

The rest of his gear she stowed in the lockers. It was good quality stuff, but well worn and included, she was thankful to see, a huswif with thread and needles. At least she could alter her new clothes herself.

And that just left the privy. Clemence had an idea how to deal with that.

They were out of harbour, the island receding behind them, the breeze stiff and steady, the sun on the waves, dazzling. It was a day when it felt good to be at sea, even without the relief of having piloted the ship out under the hypercritical gaze of Cutler and Captain McTiernan, who lounged with deceptive casualness against a raised hatch cover.

‘What’s going on down there?’ Cutler craned to see where a group were clustered round the rail, peering at something in the sea. Laughter floated up.

‘I’ll take a look.’ Nathan stretched, glad of an excuse to shake the tension out of his shoulders. ‘I need to get my sextant, anyway.’

He assessed the mood of the group as he approached it. They were having fun, probably at someone’s expense, but it was good humoured enough. ‘What’s up?’ He shouldered his way to the rail, the hands dropping back, tugging forelocks when they saw who it was. McTiernan’s crew were worryingly well disciplined.

Hell. ‘Clem, what the devil are you doing?’ The boy leant over the rail, a rope in his hands, the muscles on his slim forearms standing out with the effort. His trousers were filthy, he had bound the handkerchief Nathan had given him around his forehead and he looked a complete urchin with smudges on his face and grime up his arms.

Except that there was an elegance about the line of his back, the arched feet, braced on the deck, were small, the backside exposed by the shirt riding up was rounded and the skin below his collar was unexpectedly delicate.

Blinking away a sudden sensation of complete confusion, Nathan snapped, ‘Clem!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ He was hauling at whatever it was now and it rose up suddenly, landed on the deck and showered them all with water. ‘That bucket, sir. Seemed the easiest way to clean it.’

It was, certainly, a very clean bucket. Angry, for no reason he could determine, Nathan narrowed his eyes at the flushed, bruised face that met his gaze with a look of eager willingness that was surely false. Nathan had dealt with dumb insolence often enough to recognise it now.