Page 45 of A Pirate's Pleasure
“Ah!” West said in a knowing fashion as he pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and fastened it around my head. “I see. You and the captain were reconnecting, were you? That figures.”
My cheeks burned all the hotter. It wasn’t like I could deny West’s assumption when he’d hit the nail on the head.
West made a few adjustments to the bandana until he was happy with how it looked. “Wait there,” he said before disappearing out of the cabin. He was back within a couple of minutes, a much simpler coat than Zephyr’s clasped in his hands. This one was shorter and plain black. “It’s mine in case you were wondering,” he said as he encouraged me to turn so he could help me into it. It fitted surprisingly well, but then we were of a similar size.
He grasped me by the shoulders once more, his scrutiny resulting in far less furrowing of his brow this time. “I don’t suppose we have time to give you a tattoo or a piercing. Shame.”
“Isn’t it?” I drawled. “I do love a bit of permanent maiming in the name of role play. It really makes it stick in your memory.”
West chuckled, his gaze dropping to my dagger. “We’ll get you a cutlass. Can’t have you waving that tiny thing around when The Navarino has a reputation to uphold.”
“I’ve had no complaints about the size of my equipment,” I said.
West’s smile revealed his dimples. “I bet you haven’t. Which reminds me… How far did you and the captain get with your… reconnection?”
I could have kicked myself for reminding him of the previous conversation. “Not far.”
West nodded. “Well, when you spearhead his rescue, he’ll no doubt be so grateful that he’ll fall into your arms, and all past transgressions will be forgiven.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You think? That doesn’t sound like the Zephyr I know.”
West clapped me on the shoulder. “I guess we’ll see who’s right, won’t we? Nothing like a little wager to make life sweeter.” His expression turned serious. “First, though, you need to get the crew on side. Show them what you’re made of.”
A sinking sensation settled in my gut at the reminder of the ticking clock. “You can’t think this is a good idea?” A flare of optimism bloomed in my chest as something occurred to me. “Maybe you could talk Whitby out of it.”
“I probably could,” West said, “but..” He left a dramatic pause. “Given it was my idea in the first place, I can’t say I have any inclination to do that.” He laughed as I stared at him open-mouthed, words failing me.
Despite feeling like I might throw up at any moment, I forced myself to stand tall on the deck and look… piratical. I didn’t feel like I was pulling it off all that well, though, not when a quick scrutiny of the crew found them with a hungry look in their eye. While I’d rather be somewhere else—anywhere else—they were chomping at the bit to get started, their excitement palpable.
West had provided me with the cutlass he’d promised, its nagging weight a constant reminder that this wasn’t just playacting, that it was serious. As for the other ship, it was still a good five hundred meters away. We were gaining on it fast, though, the inevitable meeting between the two ships down to minutes.
“Do you want us to hoist the flag?” Whitby asked, the look of amusement that accompanied the question being directed at me, not appreciated in the slightest.
“The flag?”
“The Jolly Roger. Do you want us to announce that we’re pirates or keep that information to ourselves for a little longer?”
How the fuck was I supposed to know? What would Zephyr do? I couldn’t ask that question, though. Not without looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. Which I didn’t. But the whole point of this trial by fire was about proving my worth to the crew. Not showing that they’d been right all along and I didn’t deserve to be taking up space on their ship.
Was there a right answer? Sweat gathered at the nape of my neck, making me itch. I resisted the urge to reach up and wipe it away as I tried to think rationally. If the question was being asked, then it wasn’t a foregone conclusion, or they’d just have done it. “Yes,” I said, injecting a confidence into my voice that I was a long way from feeling. “Hoist the flag.”
There was a flurry of motion as they followed my instruction, the skull and crossbones hauled up the mast to flutter in the breeze. And then all eyes were on the ship to see what they’d do. They had three choices: change course and try to outrun us, attack, or agree to being boarded and therefore raided.
“Guns are primed,” Essex announced. “Just say the word and we’ll fire on them.”
Nausea had me regretting having eaten that day. It only grew worse as Whitby turned to me, his expression expectant of an answer. “We’ll wait,” I said, praying the other ship wouldn’t do anything stupid that would require giving the order. Seconds as long as hours ticked by, more sweat gathering in places that made me sorry I was wearing a borrowed coat.
“They’ve dropped anchor,” someone shouted.
“Marvelous,” Whitby announced. “We do like an open invitation to come aboard, don’t we, Lief?”
If it meant not having to blast them out of the water, then yes, I liked it very much. Hopefully, the rest of this would go equally smoothly and no blood would be spilled. Which would leave me relieved. Oh, and conscious. Which was always useful when spearheading an assault. Nothing said useless pirate, quite like lying prone on another ship’s deck. If that happened, I’d probably wake to discover the crew of The Navarino had cut their losses and left me behind.
Now that we were closer, I could read the name of the other ship. Unfortunately for the Incharran, it wasn’t their lucky day. As Fletcher brought the ship around and we dropped anchor alongside, I took a deep breath, scraped together what little knowledge I had of how pirates operated from past conversations with Zephyr, tavern talk, my brief periods at sea when I’d been younger, and my imagination, and I prepared to put on the most convincing show of my life.
Bracing my hands on the railing, I leaned forward as far as I could. Pale and drawn faces stared back at me from the other deck, the women on board looking particularly fearful, as well as they might, given the reputation of some pirates. “Where’s your captain?” I hollered.
A man stepped forward. Despite the relatively cool temperatures of the day, his forehead bore a sheen of sweat, droplets also glistening in his thin pencil moustache. “I’m the captain and I ask for mercy on behalf of myself and my crew.”