Dunham

Chapter 3

3

February, 1780
Chesapeake, Virginia

Not a fortnight after he had left the Caribbean, Elliott dropped the spyglass, wondering how the hell he was going to get the Silver Shilling through the barricade of British ships o’ the line strung out along the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. If he had a smaller ship … 

Then again, if he had a smaller ship, it, along with its captain and crew, would be at the bottom of the ocean. Instead, the last two British frigates whose captains were foolish enough to turn and fight him were the ones now breaking bread with Davy Jones.

“Dr. Covarrubias is near three miles north of us, Cap’n.”

“Wonder why,” Elliott muttered to himself more than his lieutenant. It was dark, but the moon was just bright enough to catch a glimmer of another vessel.

“Do you think he’ll give us trouble?”

Elliott shook his head. “I see no reason that he would. He is neither one of King Charles’s minions nor any variation of pirate, and our quarrel is with the British. To my knowledge, he’s never opened his gunports without being pushed to it.” He churned through the possibilities and put the glass to his eye again. “He probably has cargo and awaits what we do.”

The British line was rumored to be changing soon, and any captain worth his salt would take advantage of it.

“The man is the best astronomer since Galileo. One would expect him to be a decent captain.”

“He’s too impetuous for command,” Elliott grunted. “Reckless. But his navigation is impeccable, clearly, and he has a gift for squeezing the last pence and more from his cargos.”

Yeardley snorted. “If he can get his cargos to port.”

“Aye, precisely. He should simply hire a captain and keep to navigation.”

“And Fury? She’ll want her figurehead back.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two men closest to him glance at her magnificent wooden effigy. His. He’d claimed it, and by doing so had dealt her and her crew a grave insult. Figureheads were sacrosanct and men had gone to war for far milder offenses. If she or her crew were the least bit superstitious … 

Yet she’d not pursued him for it. He wondered, not for the first time, if she had any intention of pursuit.

Elliott had taken care to learn her intentions and had then followed her out of the Caribbean, losing distance every hour the wind blew. Had she a mind, she could have sailed around him and approached him from behind. But a ship built for speed and cargo was not built to declare war on an unusually large pirate ship and crew. The Thunderstorm was no match for the Silver Shilling and a captain of her rumored accomplishments would not consider such action for more than a moment.

There are many ways you could have acquired my undivided attention for a night or six.

Or … did she understand Elliott was determined to keep her attention now that he had it, and stealing her figurehead simply the first notice of his intentions?

His cockstand, it seemed, was interminable. Truly, taking that figurehead had been a mistake, if only for strategic purposes because he couldn’t seem to think beyond that fine wooden arse that permanently graced his line of sight, parting at the thighs to reveal … nothing.

Aye, she had had reason to be angry with him, but before it had occurred to her to be angry … Oh, that kiss. What would have happened if he’d stayed in Oranjestad, swallowed his pride, and groveled adequately?

He didn’t grovel well.

“Cap’n?”

Elliott started.

“Fury?”

Elliott looked toward the Virginia coast. Rumor had it that Fury and the Hollander (Elliott had no idea how to pronounce the Dutch captain’s name, nor, he gathered, did anyone else), were, at this moment, somewhere in the Bay with God only knew how many more American privateers, awaiting the change of line.

“If she is in the harbor and if she gets through the blockade and if she sees us, she will sail on past and blow us a kiss whilst she outruns the Navy fleet that will be pursuing her.”

“And after that? She’ll have the Hollander with her.”

The Mad Hangman was a fourth-rate frigate with at least forty guns—three-quarters the size of the Silver Shilling—andthe Hollander was rumored to be at least as merciless as Elliott. If Elliott were caught fore and aft ’twixt a ship of the line and a fully armed sloop-of-war whose captain had reason to sink him, he would have a fight on his hands—a fight he did not need or want, and might not be able to win.

But that kiss … 

“Point taken. We cannot underestimate anyone capable of mutinying Skirrow, alone or otherwise, so you need not worry I’ve lost my head over her enough to allow her to engage us at any point without reprisal.”

Sage nods all ’round.

“Cap’n,” said another of his crew, lightly landing on his feet beside Elliott. “The line is shifting watch, right on schedule.”

Elliott grinned. “Excellent.” If they were trapped in the Bay, the privateers would take the opportunity of the change to break through the line and head out to sea. “The patrol vessels?”

“There are six. The three to the north have not seen Covarrubias, so far as I can tell. The other three have not come close enough to us to see us.”

Nor would they.

“Sir, I took it upon myself to watch for the Iron Maiden behind us. Should I continue?”

Elliott was still chafing at what had happened in that tavern, though his men thought him daring for having claimed a kiss from Captain Fury and felt the figurehead more than compensated them for the loss of a brawl in which they were so badly outnumbered.

“Nay,” Elliott rumbled. “I gather Dunham went back to Morocco. But good thinking, seaman. Thank you. Dismissed. Leftenant, you stay.”

Yeardley lowered his voice once the rest of his men had scattered to tend their battle preparations. “Do you mean to chase the woman hither and yon?”

Only Elliott’s most trusted officers could get away with asking that question. “Wouldn’t you?”

Yeardley opened his mouth to protest, and then muttered, “Aye, I suppose I would.”

“I want her, Ian. Mayhap as much as I want that pay ship.”

“I don’t have to ask why, but I have never seen you like this over a woman. ’Tis a bit disconcerting.”

Elliott shrugged. “How long have we ever been in one place long enough for me—either of us—to form some attachment?”

“You formed an attachment the minute you saw her in the door.”

He ignored that. “We are here for several reasons, only one of which includes Fury. However, should she have any trouble, we shall assist.” He tilted his head to his right. “I would not be surprised if Covarrubias thinks to charge the line by himself. If possible, we shall assist him also.”

Yeardley accepted that with a nod. Elliott and his crew, the American privateers, and the Spaniard had a common enemy, and engaging the British was the first priority. He had no quarrel with Covarrubias or the privateer fleet, and his bone of contention with Fury could be settled at a later date.

There was only one way Elliott wanted to settle his bone with Fury.