The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood

Chapter 10

They were boarded thenext night.

The ship’s boy called Grayson was wide awake.

Having seen to their regular roster of tasks and having grown bored with scanning the sea for dolphins, they were lying on their back on the boards alongside the starboard rail with their arms folded comfortably behind their head.

Gazing up at the riggings, they thought eagerly of the day they would climb to the very top.

Grayson had determined the life of a sailor was a good one.

For there was a peace and simplicity that came with a life of hard-work. There was even a kind of beauty to it.

Captain Merriweather was not a harsh taskmaster. His rules were fair and he expected his cabin boys to work hard, but did not push them to their limits as some ships’ captains would have.

These quiet hours just before dawn were Grayson’s favorite. All of the heavy tasks were completed and the main job was to wait to be called to fetch something, deliver something, or merely to keep watch.

They were the only one on watch for the moment, as Bennet, the deckhand on duty with them, had gone below—ostensibly for a cup of tea, but most likely, to refill the flask of rum they kept in their boot.

The helmsman was up at the wheel, of course, so Grayson was not entirely alone, but it felt that way and they rather enjoyed it.

The night was foggy with little wind and the ship was moving at what felt like a turtle’s pace through the tropical waters.

Lying on the deck, looking up at the whitened sky, Grayson could almost pretend they were a part of the boat as it rocked.

They closed their eyes—only for a second; they had never fallen asleep on watch yet and had no plans to allow themselves to for they took their duties seriously—and that was when they heard the thump.

It was a solid thump and it came from the exterior of the ship rather than inside and below. They would swear to that.

Grayson lay there a moment, considering whether the sound might have been a large fish hitting the side when there came another thump and then a swishing sound from above—as if something had been tossed through the air and landed in the rigging.

They opened their eyes and in fascination watched as a human figure flew through the air and landed in the rigging overhead.

Had they fallen asleep after all? They blinked hard, then pinched themselves.

Most decidedly awake.

The swishing noise came again and a second figure flew past.

They were men. Very nimble men. They quickly began to climb downwards.

Something else flew over the side and landed on the deck—heavy and metal. It slid across the boards before catching on the side of the rail and sticking fast in the wood.

A grappling hook.

Fascination changed to fear.

This was no dream but deadly reality.

If the monkey-like men in the riggings had not already confirmed it, a grappling hook could only mean one thing: they were being boarded.

And as no permission to board had been requested and it was the middle of a very foggy night, that could only mean pirates.

Rosalind woke abruptly to the sound of an explosion.

Lying beside her, Perita began to bark loudly in fright, pushing against Rosalind and causing her to nearly fall out of bed a second time.

Ignoring the dog, she stood and quickly began to pull on a dress while calling to Cherry.

She realized she had pulled on the strawberry muslin. So be it. The dress was clean, and anything was better than appearing in her night rail again.

Cherry was replying, thank goodness.

“I am all right, yes. But what on earth was that?”

“I don’t know, but I am going above to see.”

“I’m coming with you,” Cherry said, determinedly, as Rosalind pulled open the door of her little room. “Button me, will you? I do not have time for this.” She waved her hands in frustration at the row of tiny thread buttons that trailed up the side of her frock.

They could hear the sounds of racing feet in the hall outside and crewmen yelling back and forth to one another in a panicked way which felt ominous.

“Could the ship be sinking?” Rosalind whispered.

Cherry had a hand resting protectively over her belly. She shook her head. “Someone would have come for us if they believed that to be the case.”

Rosalind was a little doubtful, but said nothing. In the rush and panic, they may not be thought of at all. At least, not at first. She wondered if Philip had been jolted awake as they had. Surprisingly, Cherry did not demand they stop to see as they passed by the men’s cabins and turned into the main hall.

The corridor was deserted. They walked quietly along the passage to the steps.

A sickly grey light poured from above. Soon the sun would be up.

Rosalind heard the clash of metal on metal, and then, worst of all, the screams of men in pain.

Philip was shaken awake by a pair of small, strong hands.

“Mr. Calvert! Mr. Calvert!”

“Mhmmph,” he said, trying to pull away. It felt as if he had only fallen asleep a few moments before.

“We are being boarded, Mr. Calvert,” a small voice hissed from the dark.

Philip jerked awake and sat up. “Boarded?” He could just make out Grayson’s slim shape in the dim light from the lantern out in the hall. He opened the porthole next to his berth quickly. It did not much improve things.

“There’s a ship alongside ours,” the boy whispered. “Men are climbing aboard.”

“Why did you not wake the captain?” Philip asked sharply.

“I did!” the boy exclaimed. “He told me to come and get you at once.”

Philip lurched to a sitting position and rubbed his head, wishing he had not drunk quite so much whisky in a last-ditch effort to get himself to sleep. The boy must be exaggerating.

He sat still for a moment recalling what John had said. If there was even the slightest chance...

He leapt to his feet and went out into the sitting room, yanking a wooden chest along the back wall open and beginning to rummage through its contents. He quickly found one of the items he was looking for.

“A pistol!” The boy was wide-eyed. “May I have one?” He watched as Philip loaded it expertly. “Were you a soldier?”

“A privateer. For a time,” Philip said shortly. “And no, you may not.” He looked the boy over. If the worst was truly happening, did the child not have as much right to defend himself? Even more, for he was just a child.

His heart lurched as he thought of his sister and Miss Gardner. “Here. You may take this. Put it in your belt. Pull your shirt over so it’s covered.” He passed the boy a dagger in a leather sheath.

“Now—” He looked at Grayson. “—I want you to go and find Miss Gardner and tell her to keep my sister below deck. Do you understand?”

There was the sudden sound of an explosion from just above their heads. The ship shook. Not enough to cause Philip to think they were sinking, but enough to leave a cold trail of fear behind.

“Powder flasks,” the boy breathed, looking terrified—rightly so. “That was the second. The first was the one that woke you. You were sleeping so deeply. I shook you and shook you.”

Dear God. The ship could be on fire already.

“Go,” Philip commanded. “Go now.”

The boy nodded and flew from the room.

“Let us go to the second ladder,” Rosalind suggested in a whisper.

At least there would be a hatch covering it, as there was not with the main steps. They could lift it slightly and peek through without so much risk of being seen.

They hurried along, encountering no one—friend nor foe—which was almost as frightening as if they had.

Coming to the second ladder, Rosalind mounted it quickly. Cherry huddled at the bottom, a hand to her mouth, waiting.

They could smell smoke and hear the sounds of combat—but the sounds were dwindling.

She reached the top and pushing hard, lifted it an inch, then another, scanning the deck.

It took only a moment for her eyes to confirm what her mind had already known: they had been boarded.

Through a haze of smoke, she could see a tumultuous scene. Some men running, others fighting hand to hand, in groups and pairs. Some were strangers—and these men carried small sabers, others with cudgels and some boards. The crew of the Witch had armed themselves with lesser means of defense—she saw one man hit another with an oar.

The crew was not surrendering easily, but even to Rosalind it was clear that surrender would indeed be the only outcome.

The deck was littered with bodies. Some were moving and groaning, while one lay terribly still and lifeless.

“Captain Merriweather!” Rosalind clapped a hand to her mouth and dropped the hatch.

She looked down at Cherry.

“Captain Merriweather is lying face-down on the deck,” she said, slowly and carefully. “He is not moving.”

Cherry nodded her understanding. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you most certainly are not,” Rosalind said, sharply. “You will remain here or better yet, return to our cabin.” When Cherry set her mouth in a stubborn line, she decided she must make things clear. “Cherry—the deck is a battlefield. The men are fighting. We have been attacked and know nothing yet as to who or why.”

“As to why,” Cherry said, quietly, her eyes meeting Rosalind’s directly. “We are nearing the West Indies. There are slaver ships in these waters.”

Rosalind looked back at her, uncomprehending.

“Britain does not trade in slaves,” she reminded her friend, somewhat proudly.

Cherry gave an acerbic laugh that reminded Rosalind her friend’s experiences in life were certain to have been different in this respect than her own. To many, even in England, Cherry would first be seen as a mulatto woman—and only then, perhaps, secondarily as an intelligent and beautiful lady, a sister, a wife, a soon-to-be-mother. In other words, a free and equal person in her own right.

“Britain may claim not to trade in slaves, but other nations most certainly do,” Cherry shot back. “Some do not care who their captives are—their nation or their color. While others search for freed Blacks to sell to Spain, or Portugal, or any number of other nations. And lest we forget—the owning of slaves is not prohibited by England. Where do you think the owners of plantations turn when they require additional free labor?” She shook her head. “It may not be legal. That does not mean it does not happen.”

Rosalind was horrified. She had led a sheltered life, she realized with startlement, to have never had to consider such things.

She certainly had given them no consideration when she selected the West Indies as her destination. She had merely thought of it as a beautiful and exotic place.

But what was a risky locale for a single, young white Englishwoman was evidently much more dangerous for a Black married one.

“Is it safe for you to go back to Tortola then?” she blurted out, feeling like a fool for not having thought of such things before.

“Safe?” Cherry repeated, wryly. “It is not safe in the way that you mean. But my husband is there. I have no choice. I am under my brother’s protection. He passes as white, as I do not. I must hope that will suffice.”

The sounds of chaos were coming closer.

“Go,” she whispered. “Go quickly, Rosalind. But come back.”

“I will be back,” Rosalind promised, with much greater certainty than she felt.

Truth be told, all she wished was to find out if the captain was dead. Which was a fool’s errand, for from the look of it he most likely was, and by poking her nosy head out she might swiftly wind up in the same state.

But what else could she do?

Despite what she had told Cherry, she could not be still and do nothing.

She raised the hatch, looked about to make sure no one had noticed her, and then slithered carefully through the opening on her hands and stomach. She did not care a fig for her dress. Which was good because it was going to be ruined by the end of this, she realized, seeing the disturbing smears of red spattered across the boards.

Captain Merriweather lay across the deck, opposite to the hatch.

As she slithered closer, she saw in horror that he lay in a broad pool of deep red. And it appeared to be growing.

She drew closer.

Then closer still.

For a wild moment she believed she would reach him, unseen, and began to formulate a plan which involved dragging him by the shirt back over to the hatch and pulling him down below.

She was no more than a few feet away when someone grasped her painfully by the hair, yanking her to her feet. She let out a sharp cry of pain, and put her hands up to try to scratch the person who held her.

It was in vain. No sooner than her hands were raised, they were snatched up and pulled fast behind her back.

“What have we here?” A smooth English voice murmured in her ear. “I believe there is more precious cargo on this vessel than we were made aware of.”

A male hand almost lazily reached out to fondle her breasts, squeezing one so firmly and painfully that Rosalind gave a sharp cry of anger. Turning her head, she could see the flesh of her captor’s arm and meeting it with her mouth, dug in her teeth as hard as she could.

The man let out a growl of rage. Shoving her away from him, he dealt her a slap to the head with his good arm that left her spinning.

She sank to the deck, her forehead pressing against the boards of the deck as she waited for the dizziness to pass. Touching her face, she sat up and looked up at the man who had assaulted her.

When Philip reached the top deck, Captain Merriweather was already dead, and, for one terrifying moment, he believed Miss Gardner was as well.

She was lying at the feet of a heavy-set bearded man, who hovered over her with an enraged expression.

For a moment, she lay face-down, deathly still.

Philip found himself unable to breath.

Then she sat up and put a hand to her cheek.

She was alive. At least, for now.

Pure fury filled him.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and took careful aim.

At such close range, he had no doubt it would be an easy shot.

He pulled the trigger... and waited for the man to fall.

Nothing happened.

The mechanism had jammed.

Cursing his luck, he threw the gun down. Unbelievably, the pirate standing over Miss Gardner had not even noticed his near escape.

Philip barreled forward, like a spring from a box.

He would use these last few seconds before being noticed to his full advantage.

With a beast-like cry of rage, he hurled himself into the pirate, launching him hard against the ship’s rail and nearly knocking him off his feet.

He followed up by delivering a blow to the man’s jaw, then his nose, appreciating how quickly the blood began to flow.

That was all he had opportunity for before many hands grabbed him roughly and pulled him off, as he cursed and spat and kicked and struggled against them all the while.

“Who the devil are you?” the bleeding man demanded, with a hand to his nose. “Do you not see your captain lying over there? Do you not see the state of your crew? Your ship?”

“I am the owner of this vessel and I demand you remove yourself immediately or face the full force of British justice,” Philip panted, still trying fruitlessly to break from his captors’ hold.

The other man gave a hearty guffaw.

He heard the men holding him laugh as well—there was more than one of them. Three. Perhaps four. How many had boarded the Witch?

All around him, he heard laughter breaking out across the deck as if by contagion.

He had known it was a ridiculous bluff. But now there was little else he could do but talk.

“I am going to kill you,” he snarled, unwisely—still furious with the man, his comrades, but most of all himself.

He had failed her.

He had bloodied the man but left him standing, while there she lay, still sprawled on the boards.

He glanced down at Miss Gardner. She was looking up at him with an inscrutable expression. He could not tell if it was terror or something else.

He tried to pass a message with his eyes: Be still, be calm, I will protect you.

But he knew how futile both the attempt and the message were.

“No, my good sir, you will not kill me,” the man he assumed was the pirates’ captain said with a broad grin, stepping up to him. Then he slammed his skull against Philip’s hard, knocking his head back and forcing the men who held him to take a few steps back. They did not loosen their grip.

“No, you will not kill me,” the man continued, almost cheerfully. “You will pay me, however. Or I most certainly will kill you. And everyone else on this vessel.” He turned back to where Miss Gardner reclined, gave her a long appraising look, then met Philip’s eyes. “Or worse.”

He leaned forward to whisper into Philip’s ear. “And believe me, I can think of much worse. At least, I believe she will think so. But who knows, perhaps she will like it.”

“You dog,” Philip snarled, gnashing his teeth and struggling against his captors. “You devil. You bloody bastard.”

Something hard struck his temple and he sank to his knees, his vision blurring.

“Stop! Please stop,” he heard Miss Gardner cry.

Philip could hear the cudgel whizzing through the air before it hit him. On the shoulders this time. He let out a groan despite his best efforts at silence.

“Please! Sir, tell your men to stop,” she cried again.

“And why should I do that, when the men are having so much fun?”

“Because,” a different female voice rang out authoritatively, “he is my brother and her husband. I command you to stop this instant.”

“Your brother and her husband?” The captain chortled.

He had a wicked laugh.

But of course, he did; he was a wicked man.

It was not his actions alone which told Rosalind this was a man without a conscience or any tender feeling.

It was his tone of voice—eager and merry. He enjoyed the mayhem. He was enjoying the pain. And he was hoping for more.

Now Cherry had simply added to the spectacle, and Rosalind feared her friend had made a terrible misjudgement.

She did not think this man would care any more about their lives believing them interconnected. But he now had an advantage. He could use them against one another.

“Oh, pretty lady,” he said, stepping closer to Cherry. “You make this all too easy.”

With a swift fluid motion, he yanked her against his chest.

“Hand me a blade,” he commanded, stretching out his hand into the air and waiting.

One of his crew quickly thrust something into it. A small knife.

The pirate held the blade to Cherry’s neck and ran it along her skin. A thin line of blood appeared.

“No matter how grand the fun, no bitch is going to give commands while I live and breathe,” he whispered against her cheek, loud enough for all to hear.

Rosalind saw Cherry close her eyes and press her lips together.

“Ah, a little babe on the way as well?” the pirate cooed, noticing Cherry’s figure, and reaching out his free hand to caress her belly familiarly.

Cherry was audacious. She slapped it away. “Do not touch me. Do not dare touch my child.”

“Whether you’ll have a child very much depends on me, you know,” the pirate said, nonchalantly. “I am not sure I should like to have a squalling infant on my ship.”

Cherry said nothing, but met Rosalind’s eyes. They held one another’s gaze in a moment of shared terror.

“Listen to me,” Philip interrupted, struggling to rise while the men holding his arms tried to push him down again. “Listen to me, Captain...?”

He was too strong for them, Rosalind saw. There were three men behind him, though he had no idea. It had taken all three to pull him off their captain and two to hold him even now, injured though he was.

She had known he was a bull of a man. Had he used this brutal strength against his wife?

Even now, seeing him at his most brutish, she found herself unable to accept the assertion she had overheard when he had claimed himself to be a murderer.

He was a fierce man, yes—but she had only witnessed him protecting the ones he loved. She could not imagine him harming her or Cherry—with words, perhaps, yes. But not with his hands, not after she had learned his touch could be so gentle.

“Captain Carew of the Bloody Britannia,” the other man said, bowing with an elaborate flourish. “So pleased someone finally thought to inquire.”

“I have heard of your ship,” Philip said. “But I had heard it called by another name.”

“Yes, well, lamentably, the man who chose that one is now deceased. Doff your hats for your former captain, boys,” the pirate commanded, with a sadistic grin. “Show some respect!”

Philip saw the men gathered around them either remove their hats or pretend to—if they were not wearing one.

Carew was mad, he realized with a shock. Not in a hyperbolic sense, but truly, actually mad.

“An excellent selection,” he replied smoothly. “A much more vivid name.”

“Yes, I like to think so.” Captain Carew rubbed his hands together. “We do need a new flag painted, however. Something like a pair of bloody shackled hands...”

“Shackled?” Philip interjected. “Are you a slaving vessel then?”

“Not always. When it pays to be.” Captain Carew stifled a yawn. “Pardon me, haven’t had a wink of sleep. Hard work, pirating, you know. Very much underestimated.”

“Perhaps you and your men would like to sleep below decks for a spell,” Philip suggested. “While myself and the crew take care of the injured and clean up the deck.”

Looking about furtively, he saw that the small fires which had been smoldering when he came above had been put out. By whom?

Had the ship been saved by the Witch’s crew or the Britannia’s? There were no crew from the Witch above deck that he could see.

He wondered where Duffels had gotten to. But then, the man was a first mate—not a skilled fighter. And as he had already been terrified of the prospect of being sighted by the Britannia, he was probably huddled amidst the barrels of Portuguese madeira in the cargo hold below.

Captain Carew eyed him appraisingly. “You’re rather one of the injured yourself, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “No, we’ll be off by dawn. We’ll take these women off your hands when we go, along with your cargo, though there’s not much down there. Rather disappointing. But these two should fetch a good price when we get to Algiers.”

He stepped up to Philip slyly and whispered de sotto, “I say, I take it this one’s a virgin?” He nodded towards Miss Gardner.

“No, she is not,” Philip answered quickly, before he could think twice. He repeated himself, clearly and loudly. “No, she is not a virgin. She is my wife. And when you speak of abducting my wife and my sister, I should like you to be aware of something first which should interest you greatly if you have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever.” His mind was racing with the smallest seeds of an idea. A ludicrous idea, true, but then, he was dealing with a ludicrous man.

“Not a virgin,” the captain repeated, ignoring the rest, and looking at Miss Gardner with evident disappointment. “Not as good a price then. But perhaps the men can take her. They deserve some sport after their hard work, don’t they?”

Shockingly, a cheer from the men did not go up at hearing this as Philip might have expected. Perhaps the crew was not as lost as its captain.

Philip ground his teeth, his stomach heaving at the threat. “Listen to me, Captain Carew. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Can’t say, I do, really,” the captain said, cheerfully, spitting a mouthful of dark brown liquid onto the deck and just barely missing Cherry’s skirts. He adjusted his arms around her, slinging one tightly around her neck.

“Then allow me to enlighten you,” Philip said, as coldly and haughtily as he could. “I am the Duke of Danelagh.” He had pulled the name from thin air.

He struggled against the men who held him again and was surprised when this time, they released him. He stepped away, rubbing his wrists. “Now, in all of your ravaging and pillaging and murder and mayhem, perhaps the average ship you come upon is full of ordinary crew. Perhaps some of them may even be English. But rarely does the British crown concern itself with thieving pirates, no matter how many ordinary Englishmen may have been slaughtered. Am I correct?”

“Absolutely,” Captain Carew said contentedly, with a calm smile. “We’ll all be hung some day, but it won’t come soon and it won’t come from England.”

“No,” Philip continued calmly. “But it will come from Port Royal. It will come from Road Town. It will come from Port-of-Spain. It will not come from England. It will come from England and France and Spain and every other country with ties to Britain if you harm these women in any way. You will not hang some day. You will hang soon. You will not simply hang. You will hang after excruciating torment. You will not be paid, sir, you will be paid tenfold—in your own blood and sweat and tears and the blood of any man who serves with you. I swear this to you upon my life.”

He paused for a breath, glancing about to see if his words had been understood by the pirate’s crew. Some of the faces he could see looked chastened and men were whispering to one another.

Captain Carew appeared impressed. “That was an excellent speech.” He looked around at his crew. “Clap, men! I command it.”

There was a scatter of applause until a deep mellow voice from behind Philip called loudly, “Pardon me, Captain, but perhaps the man has a point.”

“Yes, you there—” Captain Carew said, pointing like an Oxford don and not seeming the slightest bit put-off by the interruption.

A young man stepped forward. He was handsome with dark features. Gold rings hung from each of his ears lending him a rather dashing appearance. If all pirates looked like this, Philip might understand why they were perceived so romantically.

“My first mate,” the captain explained to Philip. “I allow James to challenge me as I do no one else for the boy has a bright idea in his head now and again.”

“We do not wish to bring excessive trouble down upon ourselves now, do we, Captain Carew?” the young man continued in the lilting accent of the West Indies. “None of us would wish to see you hang, Captain. Would we men?”

The men muttered their assent, shaking their heads quickly.

“No, I suppose not,” the captain mused. “I am a beloved commander. A fearless leader. You would all sink and starve without me. Do you truly think this man is a duke, however? He looks rather shabby to me.” He looked at Philip appraisingly with a suspicious frown.

“If he says he is a duke, he may very well be a duke,” James said with a shrug. “And if he is, his words may be true.” He raised his voice. “This may be an ill-fated ship.”

The men around began muttering again amongst themselves. This time some of their voices seemed angry.

Philip decided Carew was likely not as beloved nor as well-trusted as he believed himself to be.

“He is most certainly a duke,” Cherry snapped. “And I am his sister, if you will recall. So let me go.” She stamped her foot imperiously.

The captain ignored her, but did remove his arm, and followed this up by shoving her surprisingly gently out of his way.

“Let us cut off his ears,” Captain Carew suggested, looking at Philip in fascination. “Then we will know we have the truth from him. Or better yet, let us cut off her ears—oh yes, if she truly is his wife that would be much better! He will watch, of course. And if he is lying, we will cut out her tongue.”

Philip saw Rosalind blanch.

He watched the man the captain had called James. The first mate of the Britannia approached Carew like one might a rabid animal—warily and slow, as if the captain might turn on any one of his own men at any time.

Thinking back to what Carew had said about the Britannia’s former captain, perhaps that was not unwarranted. Had the ship experienced a mutiny?

Rather ironic amongst pirates.

“James is correct. Err on the side of caution,” Philip encouraged. “Protect your men, even if you care nothing for yourself, and leave these women alone. Take the cargo.”

He pointed at the two women. “But you will leave them, or pay the price for your mistake.”

Captain Carew crouched down beside Miss Gardner and fingered a strand of light-brown hair that had fallen over her face. “Or perhaps we will take one of the women. And you may pay a ransom. Yes, an exceedingly handsome ransom. And what is more, you will not send anyone after us—or the woman will die. We will leave her in... oh, a safe place somewhere.” He waved a hand impatiently. “And once the ransom has been paid, we will tell you where she is. Yes, indeed. I like that idea. I like it very much.”

James watched his captain stony-faced.

Philip did not believe James was in favor of the proposal, but suspected it could be dangerous for the first mate to challenge Carew a second time.

“Excellent, Captain,” James said, evenly. “And now, perhaps some rest for the crew and some grog?”

The men did not have to be commanded to cheer this time.

“Yes, yes,” the captain said, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. He stifled another wide yawn. “I believe I will spend a few hours on the Britannia until we are ready to get underway. In the meantime—” He looked at Philip and grinned. “—Give this man his wife. Lock them in the great cabin. They may have a few last precious hours together. I may be very compassionate when I so choose, you see, Your Grace?” He laughed loudly.

“Do you mean to say you will be taking her?” Philip said in disbelief.

“Either her or your sister. I will leave it to you to decide,” the captain said courteously.

Philip looked at him blankly.

“Choose. You may choose which one I take. It is a generous offer.” He winked and then turned to his men. “Clean up the deck. Check on the crew you have restrained below. Inventory the cargo and bring me the list. Put his sister down below somewhere for safekeeping.”

“Promise you will not touch her,” Philip commanded. “You or your men.”

James approached Cherry quickly and took her arm. He looked at Philip from where he stood behind Carew’s back and gave a little nod.

“I am taking the woman below deck now, Captain,” James said loudly. “We would not wish for her to have her child up here, would we?”

“No, we most certainly would not,” the captain agreed. He turned around. “Is she about to?” He sounded simultaneously appalled and intrigued.

“I just might, you bloody bastard,” Cherry muttered, with her eyes closed. Her face was pale, her features clenched and tightened.

Was she in pain? From the bastard’s mistreatment? Or was it time for her lying-in?

If so, the timing could not be much worse.

“Tsk! Such words from a fine lady,” the captain called after her, appearing impressed.

He looked past Philip’s shoulder at the men who still held him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Throw them in.”