Page 7 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

The newcomer wore a loose white shirt with a darker colored waistcoat. He stood a good few inches taller than Maggie, with a thick, muscular neck and arms, and a patch flipped up above his left eye.

“What in God’s name have you done?” he whispered, as though she were guilty of more than poor judgment and profuse vomiting, which couldn’t possibly account for the full range of stench pervading the cargo hold. There was something distinctly bovine about the smell, and no matter how filthy, Maggie hoped she wasn’t capable of smelling like a stable.

“Nothing,” she rasped back, her hackles rising.

Not enjoying the way he towered over her, Maggie pushed herself up the wall to standing, though her legs felt weak and wobbly, and her head began to swim.

He glared at her even harder, now she was close to his eye level, and she scowled right back at him because squinting made her feel less like collapsing.

Then a flickering light appeared behind the man, and her eyes watered from the sudden brightness, while the man’s face turned absolutely thunderous.

“Well, well, well,” a weaselly voice sang, as an equally weaselly little sailor with white skin and wispy white hair limped out from behind another crate holding a candle lantern. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk,” he clucked his tongue. “What do we have here?” he asked in a gleeful tone that made the hairs on Maggie’s arm stand.

The first man turned his head only slightly towards the second and sounded almost sad as he answered, “Stowaway.”

The older man took out a long pipe and tucked it between his teeth unlit, looking slyly at his younger companion. “Just found her down here, did you, Bashy?” he asked, his words tinged with an accent Maggie didn’t recognize.

“Aye, just now, same as you,” the young man rumbled. “ ’Twas Mouser found her first.”

“Sure and you didn’t help her aboard?”

“Of course not, Rooijakkers.”

The second man spoke around his pipe once more. “Well, come on, then. Best take her up top. Mad’ll be none too pleased.”

“Aye.”

Even as a little child, few things aggravated Maggie more than being spoken about like she wasn’t standing right there, and she would have told off both men properly, if she weren’t half so fatigued. And perhaps a touch nervous. She hadn’t expected her hosts to be overjoyed by her presence, but the way the young man kept glancing between her and his companion, along with the fact she was being taken to someone called Mad, made her insides as much like jelly as her knees.

“You coming, or shall I carry you?” the older man asked her, leering over his shoulder, but the first held out an arm to usher her forward almost like a gentleman—albeit a sullen one. When she brushed past him, he stiffened as though she were covered in nettles, but he followed close behind, scandalously close, as they ascended the ladder. And a good thing, too, for she hadn’t found her sea legs yet and she took several missteps, grateful to have his solid form behind her to break a fall. He kept his hands at her hips to steady her, all propriety left behind on the Orkney shore. There was no room for propriety on an adventure, she reminded herself.

Once on deck, she shut her eyes tight against the blinding sunlight and gasped in great lungfuls of the crisp, ocean air, tangy with brine, as she reached for the nearest solid object she could lean against, a mast pole. His left eye now covered by the leather patch, the young man guided her with a firm grip on her upper arm to the far railing where she could lean casually, or vomit over the side, should such a need arise.

The sailor who had climbed up ahead of Maggie roused the other men, directing their attention towards her until she had quite a crowd gawking. Turning away from the hungry, leering faces, she blinked in awe at the square sails hanging limp and torn after the storm.

“What’s all this?” The deep, bassy murmur came from a tall, black man. He stepped close to her, but her young captor just shook his head once and peered sternly down at Maggie.

“Nav?” another sailor asked, coming out of the crowd to scan Maggie with warm, curious eyes. This one was as white and fair as Maggie’s sister Ellen, or would have been if he wasn’t burned to a crispy, painful-looking red. No wonder their mother always fussed about bonnets.

She’d never seen so many varied faces or heard so many differently accented words in her life. As the men drew closer, she suddenly realized quite how foolishly precarious her situation was, and this time she felt only gratitude when the young man who had discovered her moved between her and the rest of the men.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered for her ears only.

The crowd parted as a tall gentleman who could only be the captain strode forward. He wore an impressive tricorne hat of brown leather, a gold earring, and a long, black coat with a row of brass buttons. His mouth curved ever so slightly on the left side as he studied her from top to bottom and Maggie shivered, shrinking back against the railing.

What did you think was going to happen? She could hear her cousin’s words, spoken in exasperation each time one of Maggie’s impulsive notions had resulted in a cut lip or scraped knee, only this time Jory wasn’t there to take care of her. Maggie was very much alone.

Bugger bugger bugger. When Bash had first discovered the girl hiding amongst the cargo, he tried to convince himself she was a ghost. He’d heard tales aplenty of apparitions, despite never seeing one himself. Eyeless, mouthless bastards were supposedly condemned to wander the lonely seas after having been murdered. Women, green with algae, were said to scream their misery in the dead of night.

The girl was certainly pale enough, though he’d never heard of ships acquiring new hauntings after decades at sea, nor to his knowledge had there ever been a living woman aboard the Revenge. And while she looked a bit unkempt and sickly, there was nothing of the tormented soul in her lovely face. No, for now she was very much alive, more’s the pity.

As they had stared at each other for that split second before the bloody Dutchman interrupted them, his mind flew through possible courses of action that wouldn’t result in either of them being keelhauled, a way to hide her until he could put her on a bloody boat back to bloody Scotland. Then the damn cook sidled up like he’d known she was there all along and was just waiting for someone else to find her so he wouldn’t get the blame.

Now the vultures were circling, and it would be a miracle if Bash could save either of their skins.

“A woman,” the captain said, stepping up to examine her, his lips curving into a wolfish smirk. With one long finger he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Where did you come from?”

“Inverness,” she said in a husky whisper. “By way of Orkney, sir.” At least the silly girl recognized the captain’s authority.