Bound by Decency Page 6

  At his prolonged silence, India sank into the covers and turned toward the window. Her heavy sigh replaced the echoing melody of her laugh. Assured she would trouble him no more, Cain dropped his feet and picked up a feathered quill. He dipped the sharpened point into a jar of dark ink, then bent over his open ledger.

  With meticulous detail he logged the direction they’d taken away from Britain, including a brief sketch of where they’d met the Navy warship. He noted their change in course, recorded the solitary cannon blast. On the next page, beneath the date, he entered what he knew of Reggie’s ruckus. While the notations would likely serve little purpose, he couldn’t break the ingrained habit. At the very least, if he needed to take Reggie to task, he could refer back to when the problems began and issue proper punishment. Not to mention the habit helped to keep days from blurring into one another.

  When he finished, he set the quill down and looked again to the bed. India lay on her side, one arm exposed. The heavy quilt that gathered at her hips afforded him the most exquisite view of her bare back. His gaze followed the gentle curve of her ribs to the subtle incline of her tiny waist.

  Against the blanket’s dark red hue, her skin was a stark and pleasing contrast. No freckles marred her flesh. No single mark of birth disturbed the flawless ivory canvas. The indentation of her spine, just before it dipped beneath the layers of cotton, marked a path his tongue itched to trace. Below that boundary lay generous hips. A delectable bottom. Legs meant to wrap around a man.

  As another visual of India soft and willing burst within Cain’s mind, his body responded like sails put to a fierce gale. Before his heart could thump a heavy beat, his chest tightened, and his blood warmed.

  With a whispered oath, Cain clenched a hand into a tight fist. Intent on ignoring the preposterous effect she had on him, he spread a rolled map across his desk. This was insanity at its finest. He meant to ruin her, but his initial plans had held little to do with the physical act. Now, when he had no business entertaining ridiculous fantasies, he found himself considering final ruination at every turn. He must remember India was retribution. Nothing less, nothing more.

  Against his will, his gaze pulled to her once again. She shifted, slid one knee in front of the other. The movement drooped the quilt further. Two tiny dimples above the swell of her derriere slipped free, and Cain sucked in a sharp breath. God’s teeth, she would drive him to insanity before they ever reached Nassau.

  Squeezing his eyes shut to the temptation, he focused on her purpose. He must have answers about Richard. Must free himself of this distraction. Before the many months he’d gone without a woman eroded all his common sense.

  Inspiration struck, jarring him upright. He cocked his head and squinted at India. Perhaps he had unwittingly solved his own dilemma by forcing the arrack on her. More than one tongue had been known to wag when influenced by spirits. She had already illustrated the looseness of hers.

  “India?” He rose. Three purposeful strides brought him to the edge of the bed where he caught her by the shoulder and gave her a none-too-gentle shake.

  She rolled over with a frown. “I’m awake.”

  “Good. If you tell me where Richard is, I will insure your safe passage back to Britain.”

  “Safe passage is meaningless when you have already destroyed me.” Her gaze canvassed his face before it narrowed. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know, before it sinks into your thick skull?”

  Choosing to ignore the pang of guilt at her correct observation of her ruination, Cain tossed his hands in the air and let out a harassed sigh. He turned toward a shelf of bound books and pushed his fingers through his hair. “You are promised to be married. At the least, you would know when he was expected to return. Even Richard, faithless cad that he is, wouldn’t vanish on the guest list your father has orchestrated.”

  “I do hope he returns in time. The guest list is extensive.”

  The sleep he had induced thickened her retort, but despite the slowing of her words, her anger simmered through. Cain slowly faced her, unwilling to acknowledge the warning bell that rang in his head. She couldn’t be speaking the truth. If she were ignorant to her betrothed’s whereabouts, he would be no better than Richard. For in taking her, he condemned an innocent to a hopeless future.

  “You don’t sound terribly distressed, Miss Prescott.”

  “Because it’s my father’s worry.”

  He scolded with a sharp frown. “Because you know Richard will return.”

  India presented him with her back.

  Infuriated, Cain slammed an open palm against the wall. The impact cracked through the room. “Damnation, this is absurdity! His abandonment would shame you beyond all means. Richard would never subject you to such disgrace.”

  “My father. He wouldn’t subject my father to such disgrace. I’m a token to Richard. As I am to you.”

  India’s reply came so softly, Cain had to strain to hear her. When what she said registered, shock silenced him. He slid his hand down the wall and lowered it to his side. For several moments he stared at the rise and fall of her shoulders. She’d seen through Richard. She knew his black soul couldn’t see beyond wealth and influence.

  Cain had suspected some of Richard’s enthusiasm about marriage came with the promise of status and power. Yet even he hadn’t fully realized Richard’s words of affection for India were false.

  Guilt punched him like an iron fist. His gut coiled tight, and he bowed his head against the harsh blow. She’d told him the truth from the moment she arrived. And he, possessed by the demons of revenge, refused to listen. In one full day’s passing, he’d destroyed India Prescott.

  With a dismissive shake of his head, he strode out the door. He couldn’t be faulted for this. He’d done the only thing he knew to do to right the wrongs committed to him. Whether an innocent suffered was none of his concern. Plenty more had paid the unfortunate price of crossing his path. At least India could be grateful she still lived. He refused to concern himself with the triviality of her reputation. More important matters demanded his full attention.

  Matters like locating the bastard who’d sentenced him back to a rover’s life.

  What happened to India once they reached Nassau made no difference. He’d be free of her. Free to follow his own black-hearted soul. The day he delivered her to Old Bess couldn’t come soon enough.

  351

  Bound By Decency

  6

  Cain stalked onto the quiet decks and past a seaman who lounged near the mizzenmast. He nudged the man’s leg with his foot, his frown severe enough to spur the sailor to his feet. Between India’s banter and her insistence she knew nothing about Richard, Cain’s temper was as black as storm clouds and every bit as dangerous.

  “Give a man a bit o’ peace, Cap’n. I be just restin’ me achin’ back fer a spot or two.”

  “Not on your watch, you aren’t. Step to, and mind your lines.” Cain gestured at the sagging mizzensail above the man’s head. “Trim your sail. Mind you, His Majesty’s fleet looks for us.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Looks for us, they do.”

  With a curt nod, Cain dismissed the haggard young man and took his leave. He marched up the steps to the quarterdeck, higher still to the poop, where the mid watch helmsman, and Drake’s finest, looked over the crew. There, Cain breathed deeply, savoring the thick flavor of brine.

  “Fine night, Cain.”

  “It is.” If he didn’t allow India to linger in his mind, the night was indeed, superb. Leaning on the rail, Cain searched the moon-kissed waters. “Any sign of the warship we left behind?”

  “Nary a single lady in sight.”

  Behind the simple answer, censure rang. Cain couldn’t begrudge Stormy’s complaint. They’d been at sea three months now and had yet to snare a single ship. Granted, he’d forbidden raiding until they had captured India. But now the rovers’ restless natures hungered for the spoils of fat-bellied merchant vessels. While the men had food aplent
y, and rum enough for three of The Kraken’s crew, they wouldn’t tolerate much more boredom. The thrill of the chase ran too deep.

  Cain closed his eyes to the breeze and felt the warmth of warmer waters wash over his face. The current drifted from the south, bringing with it the Caribbean winds. Further west, closer to The Colonies’ shore, the waters would shift once more. He searched for the zeal he had once known, the careless spirit that reveled in the complete lawlessness of the ocean. But it eluded his grasp. All that reflected inside his soul was an ache that knew no end. A grief he dared not nurse and couldn’t hope to heal.

  He looked to the invisible shoreline, knowing what he must do to satisfy his crew. “Keep her westward, Stormy. In short time we’ll cross the merchant routes. Many will be returning for the first time since winter lifted. Their holds will be full, their crews small.”

  “An’ the coasts’ll be teemin’ wit’ ’is Majesty’s finest.”

  “We won’t go that far.” Cain drummed his fingers on the smooth rail. “We won’t have to.”

  “Where be this traitor we hunt? I’d like to set me guns to ’im as well. Ain’t never cared fer the slimy bastard.”

  Cain arched an eyebrow. “When did you meet Richard?”

  Stormy shrugged whalish shoulders. “’Ere an’ there. Ain’t you figured why I signed on wit’ Drake fer this ’appy occasion?”

  Confusion puckered Cain’s brow. “You’ve sailed with Drake as long as I’ve known him. I wouldn’t expect you to refuse.”

  Stormy glanced over his shoulder with a crooked grin. “Ye’ve fergot.” Whiskied laughter rasped through the relative stillness.

  Forgotten? Cain narrowed his eyes. For almost ten years, Richard and he had sailed together. Not once, in all their time aboard The Kraken, had they spent time with Stormy. Drake, Alex, and Royce, yes, but the captains of The Flying Gang hadn’t gained their monstrous reputations by making friends out of their crewmates when they were ashore.

  Unless Richard had kept things from him—a possibility that no longer surprised Cain.

  “Perhaps you should refresh my memory?”

  “Aye. Mayhap I should.” Stormy barked another hoarse laugh. He gave the wheel between his hands a slow half turn and shook his head. “1709, Cain. The year ye signed wit’ Cap’n Jennings an’ set out fer the Spanish wit’ a letter of marque. Ye be fergettin’ the night ye met Richard Grey?”

  Cain searched through memories fogged by too many years at sea. He recalled the first ship he’d boarded, knew Richard fought at his side. Visions of lounging with the men beneath the decks, a mug of port in each hand, came easily. Escapades with women, tavern fights after too much punch—all the things that bonded them stood out like a beacon against an onyx sky. But the day he met Richard?

  “Ye were comin’ on to the middle watch. Came up from the main ’atch right into a fight.”

  The memory burst to life, and along with it came Cain’s laughter. He’d walked onto the decks to find fists flying and a chorus of foul words. Beneath the main mast, men old enough to be Cain’s father dog-piled on two scrawny men not much younger than himself. He’d reached into the fray, grabbed the first collar he caught, and hauled one of the boys out. Richard, he later learned, as he took catgut to Richard’s forehead. Several months passed before Richard sucked down his pride, ceased his belligerence, and they became friends.

  Cain grinned at Stormy. “I’ll be damned. What did you do to set him off?”

  “Ain’t what I did.” Stormy’s features hardened. His hands curled more tightly around the thick wooden spokes. “Night afore, I bested ’im at Pharo. Caught ’im countin’ cards, skewed me bet. He cut me lines that night, an’ I called ’im out. Few o’ the men ’eard the truth. An’…well…ye walked in on the rest.”

  Cain ground his teeth together. Devil’s claws, he’d assumed the brawl began over some misconstrued insult to Richard’s pride. If he had but asked, he would have never befriended the lying cheat. How could he have been so blind? All the harbingers of betrayal now loomed before him like scarlet on a field of snow. Had he been so desperate for a chance at decency that he’d completely misjudged Richard’s character?

  He lifted his gaze to the gently flapping vane, high atop the foremast. Indeed, he had. Exhausted by the constant instability of a life of piracy, he’d have struck a bargain with the devil himself if it meant a chance at a home. A place he could return to after weeks at sea, where he could walk amongst the townsfolk, not fearing who might slide a knife into his back. Where he could leave his windows open to catch a seaward breeze and never consider who might slip inside.

  His chest constricted, and he closed his eyes to the lost hope. Breathing deeply, he looked once more toward the English shore they’d left behind. The sun peeked above the horizon, turning the sky pale lavender. Home was here now. On The Kraken. In the dung pit of Nassau, where thieves, beggars, and rovers dwelled. He was Cain, not Teddy. Nothing would come from longing.

  The low toll of eight bells marked the changing of the watch. As men hastened to tie off ropes and tighten down sails, Cain departed from the aftmost deck. Cleaver would be tending to his kitchens now, and India could benefit from another mug of gingered tea. Especially after the copious amount of arrack she’d consumed. He could only pray that when she awakened, she would not give such freedom to her words again.

  Drake would be about as well. Even greater than the need to tend to India was the need to see to the crew’s contentment. If Drake hadn’t reined Reggie in, and the gunners were still disgruntled, it wouldn’t take much for the powder-keg of trouble to blow.

  Cain hurried to the kitchens where Cleaver kneaded a sticky round of dough. “I need another mug of your tea, Cleaver.”

  Three, fat, stubby fingers wiped strawberry hair away from a sweat-peppered brow. “Cap’n,” Cleaver grumbled. “Knock. Else you’ll be finding rat tails in yer supper.”

  Cain couldn’t help but chuckle. “Quit your belly-aching. You aren’t holding knives.”

  He jammed his fists into his hips and huffed out a harsh breath. “It be the principle. If ev’ryone came in without anouncin’ themselves, how many fingers ye think I’d have? I lost two to that very thing. I ain’t of mind to lose more.”

  Inclining his head toward the entryway, Cain grinned. “Tack up a sign.”

  Cleaver scoffed. “Half the worthless dogs can’t read their own names.” Amusement brought the corners of his thick mustache to life. He covered his mouth with the back of his arm in attempts to hide his good humor.

  Cain expected nothing less. The cook’s bark stung far more than his bite. Large though he may be, Cleaver had difficulty squashing the weevils that feasted on his flour. While he might steam and simmer, he cooked because he couldn’t fight.

  Cain opened a cupboard and pulled down a heavy mug. “Is the water boiled?”

  “Put that away.” With effort, Cleaver hefted his weight in a tight circle, reached between the oversized kettles on the brick stove to pull out a small soup pan. Using his free hand, he picked up a matching mug. “I expected you’d come early. Ain’t met no one who recovers from seasickness with just one mug. Ye be needing to give it to her at the start of every watch, Cap’n. Else, it won’t do her no good.”

  The last thing Cain needed was to spend more time with India. He grimaced inwardly.

  Cleaver tipped the pan on edge and poured the tea into the mug. Steam rose from the curled lip of silver, carrying the pleasant aroma to Cain’s nose. Strange a concoction could smell so good yet taste like hot horse piss.

  “How would some honey do in there?”

  Cleaver paused mid-pour. “Ain’t never thought to try it. S’pose it can’t hurt none. I’d say she’d taste right sweet.”

  Mug full and honey added, Cleaver passed it across the large chopping block to Cain. “Here ye be. I’ll set the pan here.” He pointed at an empty, covered burner. “If ye ain’t gonna knock, ye can help yerself.”

  Even better. If h
e didn’t have to disturb Cleaver, Cain wouldn’t have to suffer conversations he was in no frame of mind to hold. Though he had slept, exhaustion still weighed down his limbs. If he hurried, he could snatch a few more hours of rest before the forenoon watch began and he would be expected on the decks.

  As Cleaver gave the lump of dough his full attention, Cain fled his company in search of Drake. When he couldn’t find his quartermaster amidst the men, he took the small set of stairs up to the tiny alcove between his cabin and the quarterdeck and hammered a closed fist on Drake’s barred door.

  “Go away, miserable louse. Dawn ain’t hardly broke,” Reggie’s youthful voice answered.

  Hand still lifted, Cain hesitated. He hadn’t realized Drake’s wardship included instilling the scamp in his private quarters. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise him. As Drake’s only living family, Reggie held Drake’s full favor. He’d protect the belligerent gunner even if Reggie deserved a flogging.

  Cain rapped again. “Open up, it’s me. I want to talk to you, Reggie.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.”

  Despite the protest, the door creaked open. Tangled blond hair framed a face that didn’t look a day over fourteen, though Cain knew Reggie was almost twenty-three. Master gunner Reggie might be, but intimidating man—never. It was no wonder the gunners resented Reggie’s heavy-handed discipline.

  Shouldering past, Cain let himself into the meager cabin. From a bunk in the far corner, light snores announced Drake still slept. The opposite bunk was nothing less than a shambled mess. For one so concerned with the cleanliness of muzzles, Reggie’s living space left little to be desired. “You’d do well to apply the discipline you expect of your crew to your bunk.”