William slammed his fist into the cabin wall. Once. Twice. He was such a fool, playing house, pretending death wasn’t looming over him, that Madeline wouldn’t notice it, ask about it. That she would pretend, too, and ignore the obvious. But it was always there. Death.
He punched the wall again. “Shit!”
He wanted to tear the ship to pieces, to rip up every deck board until the ocean swallowed him. Instead, he braced his hands apart and leaned them against the wall, bowing his head, heaving. He’d have to find the damnable strength to keep away from Maddie until he rescued her grandfather, but even now he burned for her, for the comfort of her touch.
She wasn’t to blame for the letter. She wanted the truth. But he wouldn’t dare tell her. He wouldn’t dare tell anyone. He would give the letter to his lieutenant with orders to pass it to Madeline once the ship reached England. If she read the letter then, it wouldn’t matter. His whole family would know the truth by then, and he’d be on the other side of the world. Dead.
Bang. Rattle. Thump.
William listened to the commotion next door. What the devil was Madeline doing? He wanted to throttle the woman. Kiss her. He wanted to toss her overboard. He wanted to take her in his arms and never let her go.
Blast it!
He left his cabin and entered her room, eyed the carnage scattered across the floor: a broken chair, pewter plates, books. Was that the chamber pot broken in half?
She folded her arms under her breasts and lifted her chin in defiance. “It was either the furniture or your head.”
Her cheeks were wet, flushed, and his innards twisted at the sight of her pain . . . pain he had caused. He wanted to fix everything that was broken, including her. It was his nature. He had always settled the squabbles between his siblings. He had always cleaned up their social messes, even hauled them away from dangerous spheres, but he had never been immersed in the fray. He was the peacemaker, not the instigator. And now he didn’t know what to do to make it right for Madeline.
He shut the door. “Maddie—”
A pewter cup went sailing passed his head, crashed into the wall behind him, then clattered to the floor.
He saw red.
When she reached for a fork, he spanned the room and grabbed her wrist. “I won’t tolerate destruction aboard my ship.”
That was his prerogative.
“Then you’ll have to lock me in the brig, Captain.”
And she flicked the fork.
He cocked his head to avoid the utensil before it, too, hit the ground. Her insolence disarmed him. He clinched her other wrist and crossed her arms over her chest, pushing her against the wall.
He spotted the tiny red veins in her green eyes and desired to take back everything he had said to her, but he had said it for her own good—for both their goods.
“Let me go, Maddie.”
Her lips trembled. “I know it’s easy for a man to dismiss his whore, but I—”
“Damn it, you are not my whore!”
“Well, no gentleman would’ve treated a woman like you treated me unless she was his whore.”
William sucked a breath between his teeth with such swift force, the air whistled. He dropped his brow, resisting the temptation to kiss away her tears.
“I’m sorry, Maddie.”
“I don’t forgive you.”
But she believed him sincere, the incorrigible woman.
“Stay angry with me, lass,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Keep that fire burning in your soul. Hate me, even. It will protect you in the end.”
“From what?”
“Trust me, Maddie. I-I cannot give you a future.”
It was the closest he had ever come to confessing his secret. He stepped away from her, shaking, sensing he was on perilous ground.
He turned away. “I should go.”
“William.”
He paused at the door. “What?”
“If you could give me a future, would you?”
At the enduring hope in her voice, he looked over his shoulder. “You are shamelessly persistent, woman.”
She huffed, indignant.
“That,” he clarified, “was a compliment.”
And he left the cabin.
~ * ~
Madeline sat in her room, sewing, but she was a wretched seamstress, the repair in the garment a rumpled mess, her finger bandaged from all the times she’d stabbed the tip. She finally tossed the dress aside and curled onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees.
For two days she’d fretted, stewed, cried and cursed, but she wasn’t any closer to making a decision. Should she let William go? In truth, give up on him? Or should she fight for him like the shamelessly persistent woman he’d claimed to admire? Was he asking her to fight for him in a roundabout way?
She pounded the pillow. The man was impossible. She would never really know what he wanted from her, if anything a‘tall . . . so perhaps her choice was easier than she imagined? What did she want? To be with William? Or not?
An explosion off the starboard stern shattered her rumination.
Shrieking, she rolled off the bed and onto the floor, covering her head. For several breathless moments, she waited before easing off the ground and peeking through the scuttle. Smoke wafted across the glass. She detected the scent of sulphur. But there were no more canon blasts. No sound of breaking wood. No smell of fire. A warning shot?
She scurried topside, bumping into tars making madcap dashes across the deck. She heard the lieutenant’s orders for gun power and manning the canons, shouts to the helmsman to take evasive maneuvers. Amid such organized chaos, she spotted William on the poop, spyglass in hand, as he scrutinized the other ship, fast approaching.
“Her colors, Captain?” hollered the lieutenant. “Spain? Portugal? Or the Jolly Roger?”
“No colors,” returned the captain, unflappable.
Madeline’s throat closed. Why would a ship attack without revealing its colors? Even pirates raised a flag to signal their intent.
As she sidestepped bustling sailors, she wondered if the attacking ship was a pirate rig, the one holding her grandfather hostage, but she quickly dismissed the idea. The Nemesis had left port in a hurry, without revealing its destination, so the tropical brigands would never expect Madeline to arrive with a crew of armed privateers to rescue her grandfather. Besides, they were still days away from the Bahamian islands. Who was the other vessel, then? And why was William so calm? Was he always so unnervingly blasé in battle?
“Your orders, Captain?” from the primed lieutenant.
“Stand down.”
A silence came over the crew: a funeral-like silence.
Madeline scaled the poop. “What are you doing?!”
“Surrendering,” he said with barefaced displeasure.
She snatched the spyglass from him and focused on the other ship, counting its masts and canons. “You’re a match for her, William.”
“I’m not going to fight her.”
“But she’ll sink us.”
“Trust me, Maddie.”
“But—”
“Raise the white flag,” he roared. “Let her come abreast. Prepare to be boarded, men.”