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Robins, his steward, had dutifully filled a pitcher with hot water and left it on the washstand, together with some shaving gear. Matthew poured a stream of water into the blue china basin, worked a bit of lather out of the coarse soap that lay on the stand, and briskly began washing his face, chest and arms.
Corinthian had been built to ply the trade route between Boston and Plymouth. Atropos was not destined for such a plebian existence. She was to sail the warm waters of the Caribbean under a British flag so that her American captain and Crew could stop and seize the French merchantmen that were foolish enough to venture here, for the English and the French were at war.
Some said that privateers like Atropos were nothing but pirate vessels cloaked in a veneer of wartime expediency, but Matthew had never given a damn for anyone's opinion but his own. A man could make his fortune here, if he had the guts for it. Hell, the risks inherent in hunting down and taking a rich prize were what made the game interesting.
He was too young to spend the rest of his life rotting on the beach with the other victims of a president's foreign policy that kept New England seamen from trading with the French and the English.
As for the danger of his new command... there ought to be some danger in life. Some challenge, to keep a man's blood flowing hot.
He looked into the mirror above the washstand and spread a lather of foam over his face, then reached for his straight razor and stropped it to a keen edge.
That was what he was hoping to find tonight. A challenge, but of another sort. Smiling, he tilted up his face, positioned the thumb and forefinger of his left hand on his jaw, and drew the razor down his lightly stubbled cheek.
He had been invited to have dinner this evening at Charon's Crossing, the home of Lord Arthur Russell. Russell was the Crown's representative in these waters but, of far more importance to Matthew, he was also the agent of the cartel that had backed Atropos.
Matthew rinsed the blade in the basin, then brought it to his face again. Russell was to provide him with the letter of marque that would permit him to stop and seize French ships and take them, and their cargo, as prizes.
Matthew looked into the mirror again, his straight white teeth flashing in a quick grin.
He wanted that letter, certainly. But he was equally eager for a first-hand look at Russell's daughter, Catherine.
No sailor would ever admit it but seamen were a romantic lot, as given to boozy flights of fancy as any poet. Matthew had heard more than one man sigh into his bitters as he extolled the fairness of Lady Catherine Russell.
He wiped the last traces of lather from his face, reached for a fresh linen shirt, and pulled it on. He had a fast ship, a sapphire sea to sail her in, and the promise of riches beyond his dreams. Now, if the stories he'd heard turned out to be true and not the fanciful tales of men who'd been too long at sea, he would also have a playmate with whom he could pleasantly while away the hours whenever Atropos was in port.
Matthew grinned at his reflection. It was immodest, perhaps, but what was the sense in playing at being humble? Even if Catherine Russell turned out to be a rival for Venus herself,
she would succumb to his charms. Matthew had not been lucky in the circumstances of his birth nor of his early years, and whatever he had today—his command, his knowledge of the sea and of ships—he had worked mightily to attain.
But when it came to women... ah, when it came to women, he was charmed. They had always flocked to him, as a boy to offer comfort and as a man... He grinned again. As a man, they offered everything they had, eagerly, willingly. Excitingly.
He had left half a dozen conquests behind, in Boston, in Plymouth, in Baltimore and in places far more exotic. Tavern wenches, duchesses, ladies of the manor and even a royal princess had wept copious tears at each departure. Matthew had tried to feel sorrowful as he'd held them in his arms and soothed them but in truth, he'd already been thinking ahead, to the next ship and the next woman.
Now, he had a new ship, the finest on the seas. Tonight, with luck, he would find the other. A man needed a diversion! And that was all a woman could ever be, a diversion. A woman could warm a man's bed. But a ship—ah, a ship could steal a man's heart.
Matthew gave himself one final glance in the mirror. His hair was its usual defiant self, the sun-lightened, softly curling strands struggling to break free of their ribbon. His razor had left his face smooth without imposing any nicks. And the royal blue dress jacket with its high collar and gold frog;, made to order in Baltimore at the expense of his backers, would surely not be out of place at Russell's fancy dinner table tonight, nor would his cream-colored trousers and well-polished, black, knee-high boots.
A knock sounded at the cabin door.
"Come," Matthew barked.
The door swung open and Robins stepped across the threshold and knuckled his forehead.
"Sir," he said. "The gig is at the mainchains."
Matthew nodded. The boy was barely eleven, a year older than he had been when he'd first gone to sea. Had his youth, hopes and dreams, been as clearly inscribed upon his face as they were on this boy's? God, he surely hoped not.
"Thank you, Robins." He strapped on his sabre, then swung towards the boy. "Well? What do you think, lad? Will His Lordship be properly impressed?"
Robins nodded stiffly. "Aye, sir."
"And Mistress Russell? Will I impress her, as well?"
The slightest possible smile twitched at the corners of the boy's lips.
"Indeed, sir. I am certain you will."
Matthew grinned. "Thank you, lad. Oh, and by the way, Robins...?"
