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I sailed a great frigate by the name Nonesuch,
But I’d turn my coat for a four-bit groat,
And so I turned against the Dutch.
Yes, I turned against the Dutch, the Dutch,
I turned against the Dutch.
And what was a xebec? The name alone sent a shiver of excitement up her spine—it sounded so exotic, like something that might have a great, painted lady carved at its bow, or an army of swarthy men working its oars. It looked like the original name had been León de Oro, so maybe it was a sort of Spanish galleon, so laden with chests of gold and silver bullion, it rode low in the water. León de Oro, she mused with a smile, and sang another snippet.
But from Spain I stole their Lion of Gold,
And became the King’s man again, again.
Became the King’s man again.
William Derby-Phipps—why did the name sound so familiar? Captain William Derby-Phipps. The beginning of the song popped into her head, and her excitement turned to dread.
My name is Captain Will, oh Will,
I turned pirate when I killed good men,
Their worthy blood did spill.
Their worthy blood did spill, did spill,
Their worthy blood did spill.
Could this paper have belonged to the Captain Will? She racked her memory—was Derby-Phipps the name of the notorious traitor, or was her imagination running away with her yet again?
The Captain Will she knew had sailed in a small British fleet against Spain in the Thirty Years War. Facing resounding defeat, he’d infamously convinced his crew to go pirate, slaughtering what British sailors wouldn’t turn, and splitting from their Dutch allies.
But he’d reappeared weeks later, having repossessed a ship bursting with purloined gold from the Spaniards. Captain Will comported himself quite prettily, delivering a vast bounty to the Crown’s coffers. King Charles saw only a fine line between pirate and privateer—particularly when the privateer in question had such a knack for acquiring riches—and so with a slap for one cheek and a kiss for the other, he sent the captain off with a pardon and the gift of a strange, sleek Spanish ship.
A chill shot to her bones.
Was it possible this Captain Derby-Phipps was the pirate? Was the man even alive still? And if it was possible, and if he was indeed the pirate, what would Aidan have to do with such a man?
There was another name on the warrant, one Dougal Fraser, King’s Quay, Aberdeen. Did that mean the pirate had business in Aberdeen?
Surely her imagination was running amok. But she reread it, and the evidence was there, written clearly in front of her.
What sort of dangerous business was Aidan dealing in? Was he in trouble? He didn’t seem to value himself overmuch; she was frightened he might blithely place himself in harm’s way.
She’d read such things in stories. Men like him embraced danger, thrived on it. He was so secretive—did it mean he was involved in some sort of high-risk plot?
“You wicked chit. ”
Elspeth yelped in surprise and looked up.
Aidan glowered at her, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, looking like he was deciding between ravishing her or delivering a sound thrashing. He glanced at his papers, and then back to her, lying prostrate on his bed.
His gaze raked a slow path down her body, inflaming her as it dragged along her back, over her rump, down her legs, and back up again. “I knew there’d be perils lurking beneath still waters. ”
His words implied perils beyond her wildest imaginings. She fumbled to respond. “I—I—I came early, and you weren’t—”
