Passenger (Passenger, #1)(14)

“And be forced to admit that one of this ship’s cabin boys caught me unawares with a spoon as I went below? Wicked little bugger. I’d rather be boiled in oil.”

Nicholas snorted. “Did you find the women?”

“Aye, they’re in one of the officers’ cabins in the stern. Safe and sound, the little doves,” he said.

Relief bloomed through Nicholas, replacing his fury at the dying man’s last words. Good.

“This job…” the captain began, for the fifth time that day. “I have to tell you, Nick, I’m grateful for the prize and its cargo, but I feel uneasy. I would rather you have nothing to do with the family. It seems like there’s more to this than simply transport to New York.”

Of course there was more to it; with this family, there always was. Ironwood’s note had arrived a few days after the much-awaited Letter of Marque and Reprisal had come to Nicholas’s employer, Lowe & Lowe Shipping, authorizing Hall’s ship to act as a privateer and legally—at least in the colonies’ view—hunt British ships. He’d had less than a week to consider the man’s offer, to bring it to Hall and ask for his compliance in searching for this particular vessel and her passengers. They’d agreed to secrecy over the truth of their focused hunt, rather than draw any of the crew into Ironwood business. He’d been slow to send his acceptance of Ironwood’s terms for this job, all the while turning over the chances of it being a ploy to lure him back into Ironwood’s nets for one last act of revenge.

But—it had been three years. They’d known precisely where to find him, having stranded him here themselves. Surely they would have come sooner if they’d wanted blood for blood?

He could live with a fair bit of uncertainty, and he could fight to protect himself if it came to that. But the simple facts were these: the job Ironwood offered was a good one, and the reward for its completion would help him achieve his life’s aim far faster than simple privateering.

The neat, meticulously formed words had leapt off the page. Bring the two women into New York City by the 21st of September. Do what you will with the ship and its cargo.

He’d spent these three years in the employ of Lowe & Lowe, toiling on merchant vessels, overseeing shipments from the West Indies to the colonies until the outbreak of the war, all the while forcing himself to close off the part of his heart that stung deeply at any thought of Julian, of traveling. Nicholas had been hoping that Messieurs Lowe would reward him with his own privateer ship to captain, but he’d seen the uneasy way the old man and his son had surveyed him when Captain Hall first suggested it. He delivered results for them; he knew their hesitation couldn’t be due to that. So then, it was merely him—the reality of the color of his skin—that made him unworthy. Their hesitation only renewed his interest in purchasing his own ship, one not beholden to any company.

As it was now, the Lowes would get the bulk of whatever payment the ship’s cargo brought in, and the rest would be divided among the crew of the Challenger. It could be months before they found another prize. The ocean was wide and vast and the shipping companies were growing cleverer about avoiding privateers—perhaps this would be it for them, and Nicholas would be left to scrape together coins, scrimp and save, until he was dead in the heart and old in his bones. He hated the Ironwoods with the fury of a hurricane, but they owed him a debt for the time they’d stolen from him. And he intended to collect it.

“Did you survey the cargo?” Nicholas asked.

Hall sighed, recognizing the diversionary tactic. “A glance here and there.”

A sailor exploded through the cloud of smoke in front of them, hollering and whooping, a cutlass brandished over his head. Nicholas whirled, his hand on his knife, but by the time he had it out, the captain had whipped out his pistol and fired.

“Sugar, rum, cotton, munitions for the ballast,” Hall continued blissfully. The dead man slid away in a smear of blood. “I’m almost frightened of how well this has played out—you have your ladies, and we have a fair share of wealth coming to each of us. They’ve even got a bulkhead for us in the hold to detain the crew. Speaking of which, I’ve yet to see anyone I could reasonably believe would be the captain. Why don’t you go find him so we can get the business of lowering their colors done with—” Hall broke off, distracted by something.

Nicholas had not seen such a look of unwelcome surprise on his captain’s face since the time their former cook announced he had served the crew stewed rat instead of salted beef.

He followed the man’s line of sight. There, between the sailors snarling at each other, a towheaded figure was emerging from below decks, rising through the curling smoke like Persephone returning from the underworld.

Nicholas winced as she slammed into the bare, scarred back of the master gunner, but she didn’t scream, not even when Davies swung around, axe in hand, and made as if to gut her. It was his startled yelp that drew the attention of every man around them, damn his eyes—

It wasn’t Sophia—he knew to expect another woman aside from her, but who was this…?

“Poor darling has her feathers all ruffled,” Captain Hall said at his back. Despite the wash of blood at his feet and the bodies strewn around him, his features went as soft as a kitten’s. The old bastard couldn’t help himself in the presence of young ladies, especially those in need of rescue. And this one was. Her white gown was torn at the hip—and bloodstained?