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PART I

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FEBRUARY, 1780
CHESAPEAKE, VIRGINIA

“I SHALL WRING that woman’s neck when I catch up to her,” Elliott snarled to himself as he wheeled the Silver Shilling hard to starboard. “What was she thinking?”

The Mad Hangman, too, but the Hollander was known for his … well, madness.

“Hellfire,” he muttered as another volley of cannon fire rocked the Silver Shilling, the master gunner giving the orders to fire at the last patrol ship that chased the Indigo—his crew so well-trained they could deliver a sixteen-gun broadside every minute.

“The last patrol is down, Sir. The remaining two are chasing the Mad Hangman.”

Elliott merely nodded as he kept course, heading straight into a cove he knew as well as he knew his ship. They were free of the line, having left behind five first- and second-rate frigates burning, four patrol ships and (unfortunately) one privateer sunk, and assisted seven more privateers on their way out to sea. They’d even helped an American ally evade capture. The Hollander would sink the last two patrols when it suited him to do so.

Likewise, without them, Elliott would never have been able to breach that line by himself. All in all, a good night’s work for the lot of them.

“That was the most lackwit thing I have ever witnessed,” said Yeardley from beside him.

“Aye,” Elliott agreed heartily, still seeing the Thunderstorm’s stern catch fire and still angry about it.

“I would expect that from the Hollander, but Fury is not known for recklessness.”

“She is a female sailing as a female. That is reckless.”

Yeardley didn’t answer for a moment, but clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “There are rumors. One hardly knows what to believe, they are so incredible.”

Elliott waited.

Yeardley reeled off the most common rumors, ones Elliott already knew:

She was the protégée of James Dunham, captain of the corsair vessel Iron Maiden that plied the Barbary Coast, one of the Crown’s useful brigands whose occasional misdeeds against the East India Company went unremarked and unpunished. He was also the last male bearing the name of a noble Scottish clan disenfranchised over the last duke’s regrettable inclination to form bad alliances.

“I know the history,” Elliott said tersely when Yeardley would have expounded. “Dunham lands march mine and Laird Dunham was a good friend to my grandfather. So Dunham’s bitter. As am I. ’Tis the usual story. What more of her?”

She had been trained as a navigator in Portugal by master navigator and astronomer Dr. Rafael Covarrubias, the captain of the Spanish vessel they had just assisted.

She had sailed with Dunham as an officer for a time after she’d left university until, it was rumored, she had openly defied him and been flogged for her insolence. Yet Elliott and his crew could testify of their loyalty to each other.

“All cannot be sweetness between them,” Elliott muttered. “Was there not some trouble ’twixt the two in Sint Eustatius? What of that?”

“Dunham attempted to abduct one of Fury’s women.”

Elliott huffed. “Women aboard cause nothing but trouble.”

“I’d not be averse to testing that superstition,” Yeardley grumbled.

That surprised a grin out of Elliott. “Oh ho! So I am not the only one on this ship with a prick invested in the Thunderstorm.”

“You are far from the only one. The old tars want nothing to do with women aboard, but after having seen that a ship captained by a woman will not sink—one with a couple dozen women aboard, to boot—well, it has the young ones’ imaginations aflutter.”

“Aye, well, ’tis too late to take on women now that we’ve nearly reached the end of our last cruise. More, Yeardley,” Elliott commanded. “About her.”

After Fury had left the Iron Maiden, she had sailed on the Carnivale as Skirrow’s lieutenant and navigator, beheading him after little more than a year under his command. It did not quite make sense to Elliott that she’d hired aboard a slaver, but it was possible she’d simply found the only captain who’d hire a woman. Skirrow would have had to be desperate to hire a woman in Ottoman-infested waters, especially for such a powerful position.

After her mutiny, she had sailed directly for Philadelphia and applied for a letter of marque, legitimizing a lifetime aboard pirate vessels.

“Aye, I know all that,” Elliott said, frustrated when Yeardley finished. “Why did she mutiny Skirrow? He would have been the only thing between her and the Muslims.” Which was, come to think of it, a good reason for her to have quit the Mediterranean altogether.

“No one knows. Her officers keep their mouths shut, and the rest of the crew swear they don’t know. Skirrow was only slightly less cruel than Kitteridge.”

Elliott and his officers knew enough of Skirrow from their Navy days for Elliott to know he’d have mutinied the man far sooner, but since the Siege of Casco Bay, he was not averse to using swift and ruthless preemptive measures against those who might become a problem.

“Anything else? Family? Name? Circumstance?”

“No one knows her family name. When one is required, she signs Calico Jack.”

“Odd, that. Of all the buccaneers in history, why take his name?”

Yeardley shrugged. “Who knows? ’Tis said she’s quite wealthy.”

“I should think so. If she is not after all this time, I’d take her for a fool.” He paused. “Husband? Lover?”

“Possibly Covarrubias.”

Elliott’s mouth tightened. “Do tell.”

“Since she studied, ah, under him at university … ” Elliott curled his lip and Yeardley chuckled. “In fact, she was suffered to undergo a full course and it’s said she is degreed in her own right.”

“In what?”

“Mathematics and music.”

That shocked him.

“Aye, so,” Yeardley said slyly, “’twould seem reasonable to suppose Covar­rubias facilitated her education. Perhaps astronomy and mathematics were not all he taught her.”

“Just a supposition?”

“Everything concerning Fury is supposition and speculation. The Hollander probably knows, but they are—”

“Lovers?”

“Possibly. One cannot give credence to any such rumors when ’tis also rumored that you are one of her lovers.”

Elliott barked a laugh. “I am, am I?”

“Aye. After having handled her so familiarly in Oranjestad—”

“She took exception to that.”

“Only because you did not respect her as she is accustomed. We were the only ones in the entire port who did not know who she was.”

“I have no reason to think a woman in a tavern is anything but a whore, much less the captain of a ship.”

“Does it matter? What I witnessed was a lovers’ kiss, not two strangers’. ’Twould seem the rest of the island shared my impression.”

And there was the rub: It had been a lovers’ kiss—right up to the second she’d stuck her dagger in his throat.

Elliott smirked. “I intend to make that more fact than rumor.”

• • •

ELLIOTT ARRIVED at the private club where he was expected, handing his tricorn and long skirted coat to the butler, pausing only slightly when he saw who sat at his usual table.

“What is your pleasure, Captain?” came the voice of a comely and very expensively dressed woman.

“Brandy, if you have it, Miss.”

That was not the answer she wanted, and her pout was real when she turned to do his bidding. She had light red hair reminiscent of Fury’s, but green eyes, and she was shorter, thinner. In point of fact, she was far more beautiful.

She was not the woman he craved, but he had to tup something other than his hand.

Especially after what he’d seen the night before, watching Fury through his glass as she commanded her men and sailed her ship with expert grace and confidence into that foolhardy blast through the blockade.

Elliott discreetly adjusted his trousers as he pulled out a chair and sat with no greetings exchanged. All but two of the five men already present were waiting for Elliott, and their covert expressions let him know not to speak.

Rafael Covarrubias’s presence at the table would make short work of what had promised to be an enjoyable evening with the harbormaster and the merchants to whom he sold his cargos. Hellfire. Covarrubias already had a stack of gold, silver, and papers in front of him.

Elliott looked around at the fifth player, who likely did not know that the man he played was a mathematician and possibly unbeatable. Elliott didn’t care about winning or losing; he had bigger business to conduct at this table, which he could not do in the presence of Covarrubias and a Prussian mercenary. Meeting here, playing a few hands—that was the cover under which he did business. However, he was not averse to losing a bit of money and time if it meant observing a man who was probably a rival for Fury’s affections.

Two women were draped over Covarrubias’s shoulders, ignored except when he absently raised a hand to caress a breast or pinch a nipple. At that moment, the wench who had hoped Elliott would request more of her than whisky set the glass on the table and leaned against him.

“Felicitations, Captain Judas,” the Spaniard said after a moment, his accent moderately heavy.

“For … ?”

“Slipping past the blockade, of course.”

“No credit to me, alas. I had too much assistance.” Elliott cocked his eyebrow and waited.

“Gracias,” Covarrubias drawled wryly, then said with far too much disinterest, “You seem to have acquired a lovely new figurehead.”

Everyone remarked upon it, hoping for an on dit that Elliott never granted. Nor would he now. “Aye.”

“You are aware that it belongs to me, are you not?”

Goddammit.

“Possession is nine points of the law, Doctor.”

No answer. Covarrubias made his play, then slid a glance at the man to his right. “Señor, I do believe you have misplayed your hand.”

Elliott wondered if Covarrubias could defend a charge of cheating against a man almost as big as Elliott. Covarrubias was large for a Spaniard and as Teutonic in appearance as the soldier he’d challenged, but not nearly so tall or burly.

“Why,” asked the Prussian carefully, threateningly, “would you say that?”

“I say that because four sevens have been played, all in their appropriate suits, and you just played a fifth seven.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “Are you implying that I have cheated?”

“No. I declare that you are cheating. And with no cunning whatsoever.”

It happened too fast for Elliott to have described later. The soldier had apparently drawn his weapon, but not before Covarrubias had the point of a short sword at his throat. It was an oddly shaped blade with the barest of curves, not tapered, and a long, flat, two-handed hilt wrapped in what looked like black silk thread. It was like nothing Elliott had ever seen, much less used.

The Prussian watched Covarrubias, who spoke with an impressive insouciance, “I’m sure it was a simple mistake, Señor, no?”

It took the soldier a moment to decide to take Covarrubias’s mercy. “Ja.”

“You may forfeit your winnings to me and be gone. I have no taste for duels, but should you challenge me, you will lose. Should your compatriots set upon me, you will all lose.”

The Prussian was studying that odd sword and seemed to understand he could not win. A quick look around convinced Elliott that everyone else did, too. Covarrubias might be a barely competent ship’s captain, but he seemed to be able to acquit himself exceptionally well on land. Arising stiffly, the soldier walked out of the club with what one could mistake for wounded dignity.

“That’s an interesting piece,” the harbormaster said, much to Elliott’s delight.

“It is from Japan,” Covarrubias answered matter-of-factly as he sheathed it. “I spent much time in the Orient in my youth and have a particular fondness for its varieties of cultures. And women.”

The gentlemen chuckled. “Ah. A misspent youth.”

Covarrubias’s attention flicked up to the merchant who’d spoken. “Not at all. It was thoroughly educational.”

“Captain?”

Elliott looked up at the wench he’d forgotten about. “Tell me your name, my lovely,” he said with the graciousness of a properly begotten and reared lord of the realm. “I’ll be along shortly.” Once she’d disappeared, he settled in for a silent evening of gaming. Covarrubias glanced at the door through which the whore had disappeared, then at Elliott and smirked.

“I’d prefer her hair to be lighter,” Elliott mused, tossing two coins into the pot, then raised his gaze and met Covarrubias’s. “Somewhat more … pink. Her eyes aren’t the right color, either, but she’ll do for now. All eyes are whisky in the dark, eh?”

Covarrubias’s smirk faded and he fingered the hilt of his odd sword. “I have no reason to believe such a … pink … -haired woman could be swayed overlong from her long-lived loyalties. Such a woman might dally, but never commit. I would feel it my duty as a gentleman to warn any man enamored of such a woman to carefully guard his heart.”

Elliott’s colleagues shuffled and coughed. Elliott pointedly studied Covar­rubias’s female companions. “I question that any such woman would long tolerate the dalliances of a man who does not return the loyalty he demands of her—did she but know.”

No reaction.

“Gentlemen,” said the harbormaster. “Please.”

Without a word, Covarrubias stood and swept the table clean of his winnings. “Señores,” he said absently, and signaled to his women to follow him up the stairs.

The remaining men at the table breathed a collective sigh of relief once the Spaniard had disappeared with his coin and his women.

“I should know not to play Covarrubias,” grumbled the harbormaster as he counted out three coppers and threw them into the middle of the table. “But one does not simply get up and walk away when he sits down.”

“So, Judas,” murmured another. He was a merchant who made a practice of buying British goods American privateers had seized, then selling them back to the Tories at criminally inflated prices. Elliott had liked him immediately. “There is a woman between you, I take it? Mayhap … Fury?”

Elliott grinned. “Do you know of any other women with pink hair?”

“This should prove entertaining.”

“Already has,” grumbled the harbormaster.

The merchant lowered his voice. “When do you plan to sail?”

“Two days hence,” Elliott murmured equally low.

“Ah.” It would surprise no one that Elliott would want to get out of the Bay while the entirety of the British line was flotsam, and the fleets in New York and South Carolina were thoroughly occupied. But every one of these men knew Elliott wanted to run Fury down and bed her, especially after Covarrubias had all but dared him to try.

The tale of this encounter would be all over the harbor and every village along it by dawn. “So I shall see you at ten of the clock?”

“Aye.”

Elliott played his last hand and arose, extending his hand to each of his opponents, and collecting his meager winnings before heading upstairs to the strawberry-blonde who awaited him.

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If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.

Pirates!