He should have known that McTiernan would choose to drop anchor at the tip of the bar close to the remains of the infamous Port Royal. All that remained of the great pirate stronghold now after over a century of earthquake, hurricanes and fire was a ghost of one of the wickedest places on earth, but the huts clinging to the sand inches above the water would be the natural home for McTiernan and his crew.
It was darker now, out beyond the legitimate shipping huddled together as if for mutual protection from the sea wolves. The bulk that loomed up in front of them was showing few lights, but one flashed in response to a soft hail from the jolly boat. The Sea Scorpion was what he had expected: ship-rigged, not much above the size of a frigate and built for speed in this sea of shallow waters and twisting channels.
He pushed the boy towards the ladder and climbed after him. ‘Wot’s this?’ The squat man peering at them in the light of one lantern was unmistakably the bo’sun, right down to the tarred and knotted rope starter he carried to strike any seaman he caught slacking, just as a naval bo’sun would.
‘Mr Stanier, our new navigator, and that’s his boy.’ McTiernan’s soft voice laid mocking emphasis on the title. ‘Give him the guest cabin, seeing as how we have no visitors staying with us.’
‘What does he mean, guest cabin?’ Clem whispered, bemused by the captain’s chuckle.
‘Hostages. You need to keep them in reasonable condition—the ones you expect a great deal of money for, at any rate.’ And if you didn’t expect money for them, you amused yourself by hacking them to pieces until the decks ran scarlet and then fed the sharks with the remains. He thought he would refrain from explaining why McTiernan was nicknamed Red. Time enough for the boy to realise exactly what he had got himself into.
The cabin was a good one, almost high enough for Nathan to stand upright, with a porthole, two fixed bunks and even the luxury of a miniscule compartment containing an unlovely bucket, another porthole and a ledge for a tin basin.
Clem poked his head round the door and emerged grimacing. Amused, Nathan remarked, ‘Keeping that clean is part of your job. Better than the shared heads, believe me.’ It seemed the lad was finicky, despite the fact he couldn’t have been used to any better at home. ‘Come with me, we’ll find some food, locate the saltwater pump.’ He lifted the lantern and hooked it on to a peg in the central beam. Clem blinked and half-turned away. ‘How did your face get in that mess?’
‘My uncle hit me.’ There was anger vibrating under the words; perhaps the boy wasn’t as passive as he seemed.
‘You stay with me, as much as possible. When you are not with me, try to stay out on the open deck, or in here; don’t be alone with anyone else until we know them better. You understand?’ A shake of the head. Damn, an innocent who needed things spelled out. ‘There are no women on the ship. For some of the crew that’s a problem and you could be the answer.’
Clemence stared at him, feeling the blood ebbing away from her face. They thought she was a boy but even then they’d…Oh, God. And then they’d find she was a girl and then…‘That’s what the captain meant when he said he wouldn’t deprive you of your pleasures,’ she said, staring appalled at her rescuer. ‘He thinks you—’
‘He’s wrong,’ Stanier said shortly and her stomach lurched back into place with relief. ‘Lads hold no attraction for me whatsoever; you are quite safe here, Clem.’
She swallowed. That was an entirely new definition of safe. Whatever this man was, or was not, the fact remained that he was voluntarily sailing with one of the nastiest pirate crews in the West Indies. His calm confidence and size might provoke a desire to wrap her arms around him and hang on for grim life, but her judgement was clouded by fear, she knew that. When the rivers flooded you saw snakes and mice, cats and rats all clinging to a piece of floating vegetation, all too frightened of drowning to think of eating each other. Yet.
‘Right.’ She nodded firmly. Concentrate. She had to keep up this deception, please this man so she kept his protection—and watch like a hawk for a chance of escape.
‘Are you hungry? No? Well, I am. Come along.’ She followed him out, resisting the urge to hang on to his coat tails. As a child she’d had the run of her father’s ships in port, sliding down companionways, hanging out of portholes, even climbing the rigging. This ship was not any different, she realised, as they made their way towards the smell of boiling meat, except that the crew were not well-disciplined employees, but dangerous, feral scum.
They located the galley mid-ship, the great boiler sitting on its platform of bricks, the cook looming out of the savoury steam, ladle in hand, meat cleaver stuck in his straining belt like a cutlass. ‘You want any vittles, you’ll wait to the morning.’
‘I am Mr Stanier, navigator, and you will find food for my servant and me. Now.’
The man stared back, then nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘And as we’re in port, I assume you’ll have had fresh provisions loaded. I’ll have meat, bread, butter, cheese, fruit, ale. What’s your name?’
‘Street, sir.’
‘Then get a move on, Street.’ He looked at Clemence. ‘Wake up, boy. Find a tray, platters. Look lively.’
Clemence staggered back to the cabin under the weight of a tray laden with enough food, in her opinion, for six, and dumped it on to the table that ran down the centre of their cabin. Stanier stood, stooping to look out of the porthole, while she set out the food and his platter, poured ale and then went to perch on the edge of the smaller bunk bed, built to follow the curve of the ship’s side.
What was he staring at? She tried to retrieve some sense of direction and decided he was looking out at the wreckage of old Port Royal, although what there was to see there on a moonless night—
‘Why aren’t you eating?’ He had turned and was frowning at her.
‘I ate before…before I left.’
‘Well, eat more, you are skin and bones.’ She opened her mouth. ‘That’s an order. Get over here, sit down and eat.’
‘This isn’t the navy,’ Clemence said, then bit her lip and did as she was told.
‘No, that is true enough.’ Stanier grinned, the first sign of any real amusement she had seen from him. It was not, now she came to think about it, a very warm smile. It exposed a set of excellent teeth and crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes attractively enough, but the blue eyes were watchful. ‘What’s happened to sir?’
‘Sorry, sir.’ She slid on to the three-legged stool and tried to recall how her young male friends had behaved at table. Like a flock of gannets, mostly. ‘I haven’t got a knife, sir. Sorry.’
‘Have you got a handkerchief?’ Stanier enquired, then did smile, quite genuinely, when Clemence shook her head in puzzlement. With an effort she kept her mouth closed. When he smiled, he looked…She hauled some air down into her lungs and tried not to gawp like a complete looby. Thankfully he had his back to her, rummaging in one of the canvas kit bags piled in the corner of the cabin. He turned back, holding out a clasp knife and a spotted handkerchief. ‘There.’
‘Thank you.’ She tucked the handkerchief in the neck of her shirt as a bib and unfolded the knife, trying not to imagine sitting next to him at a dinner party, both of them in evening dress, flirting a little. And then walking out on to the terrace and perhaps flirting a little more…Which was ridiculous. She never flirted, she had never wanted to.
‘You should carry that knife all the time. Can you use it?’ Stanier speared a thick slice of boiled mutton, laid it on a slab of bread and attacked it with concentration.
‘On a man? Er…no.’ Clemence thought about Lewis. ‘But I probably could if I was frightened enough.’
‘Good,’ he said, swallowing and reaching for his ale. ‘Go on, eat.’
‘I