Perkin gave him a frown. ‘Damnation, Simpson, get her on board the Gryphon before she causes any more trouble.’ He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to Simpson and muttered something in his ear.
The crewman’s eyes widened, then he touched his forelock with a wink. ‘Aye, aye.’
‘No,’ Alice said, ‘not without Richard’, but Perkin strode off as if she hadn’t said a word.
‘Orders is orders, miss,’ Simpson said, his black eyes twinkling.
He grabbed her around the waist and tossed her effortlessly over his shoulder. She landed hard on the bony point. It knocked the breath from her lungs. ‘Ouch, you brute! Put me down.’ She thumped him on the back. Kicked at his stomach. ‘I’m not going anywhere without my brother.’
The man’s only response was a laboured grunt. He strode across the deck and dropped her into a canvas bucket hanging off the side of the ship. The scoundrels had rigged up ropes and a pulley between the ships, no doubt intending to steal everything of value.
Oh, God. The cargo. They were ruined.
She tried to scramble out again. ‘I can’t leave my brother.’ Or Selina. She’d be terrified witless. Who knew what a dreadful man like Kale would do? ‘My friend is below deck. You have to bring her too.’
Simpson hopped in next to her and grasped her arm. ‘Be still, miss. I ain’t wanting to hurt ye. Haul away,’ he yelled at a sailor on the other ship handling the ropes.
She clung to the edge of the bucket, her stomach pitching like a rowboat in a storm, staring back at the Conchita, trying to see what was happening. Was someone bending over Richard? She raised up on tiptoes. Dash it. She couldn’t see.
Simpson must have seen her dismay, because his expression turned almost fatherly. ‘Don’t ye be worrying about yer friends. The captain will see to ’em.’
See to them? Why didn’t that make her feel any better? Indeed, her stomach churned worse than before and her throat dried as if she’d swallowed an ocean of seawater. ‘You have to go back for them.’
The bucket bumped against the side of the brig and Simpson hopped out. He made a grab for her. She backed away. The twinkle in his eyes disappeared. ‘Now then, miss, do as I say, or you and your friends will have more trouble than you bargained for.’
She stilled. She had no wish to bring harm to Richard and Selina.
An elderly seaman with a cherry-red nose traced with blue veins hurried up to them. Strands of greying hair clung to his scalp, his bloodshot-grey eyes looked anxious. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked Alice’s gaoler.
‘Yes,’ Alice said. ‘My brother. He’s received a blow to the head.’
The man, the doctor she assumed, blinked. ‘Hmm. What’s she doing here?’
‘Captain’s orders.’
‘Women. Nothing but bad luck.’ He climbed into the bucket. ‘Haul away, man,’ he said to the other sailor.
Alice clutched at Simpson’s shirt. ‘He will look at my brother, won’t he?’
‘That will be up to the captain.’ He must have seen the protest forming on her lips because he hurried to say, ‘If you do exactly what I says, I’ll make sure he does.’ He pushed her towards the stern, towards the ornately carved walls of the strange-looking poop-deck. It reminded her of pictures of ancient Spanish galleons, only smaller.
Biting her lip, she let him hurry her along.
Simpson opened a brass-fitted mahogany door and ushered her into a chamber lit by the floor-to-ceiling square-paned window angled back over the stern. Surprisingly, the cabin’s furnishings were sumptuous. A Turkish carpet covered the floor, a mahogany desk and a throne-like gilt chair occupied the centre of the room.
Beneath a skylight, an enormous bed covered in fine white sheets filled an alcove. A black gryphon, wings spread wide, curved beak open, and lion claws raking, sprang from the headboard.
The stuff of nightmares.
This must be their captain’s stateroom. Why bring her here? Her heart thumped a warning. She turned to leave and found her way blocked by a sympathetic-looking Simpson.
‘Make yourself comfortable, miss.’
He backed out of the door. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Make herself comfortable? Wasn’t that like telling someone falling off a cliff to enjoy the journey?
Beyond the window, the azure sky and sparkling sea mocked her predicament.
Chapter Two
Eyes closed, Michael relished the cold sting of the salt-water pump as he washed away the filth of days beneath the merchantman’s decks.
Luck had landed on his shoulder these past few days. He touched the talisman hanging on the chain around his neck in silent thanks. Fulton playing into his hands was one thing. Finding both Fulton heirs on board was like throwing a main.
Fulton’s children at his mercy. He could kill them out of hand. Or he could make them suffer the torment of the damned he and Jaimie had suffered. The beys were always looking for infidel slaves. Or the boy could be pressed into the Navy. And the girl? She’d make a fine mistress, for a week or two.
Something dark unfurled deep within his chest as he imagined Fulton’s despair at the loss of his children. Dark and triumphant and ugly.
And that wouldn’t be the worst of what lay in store.
He rinsed the soap from his hair and gestured for Jacko to cease his efforts with the pump. The monkeyfaced lad flashed a salute and tossed him a towel. Michael let the water cascade from his body then dried off.
‘What happened to your arm?’ David Wishart asked from where he leaned against the rail awaiting orders.
Michael glanced down at the puckered red line with its spidery black stitches. ‘Courtesy of the Conchita’s cook. He argued about giving up his berth.’
‘Did you make him stitch you up?’
‘No.’ She’d done that. Alice Fulton. Needle in hand, she’d paled beneath the freckles dusting her cheeks, but to his surprise she’d done better than many a surgeon.
He owed her for that. He hated being beholden to anyone, but a debt to a Fulton tasted bitter.
A female Fulton to boot.
And a bossy one. Even in his lowly position as cook, it hadn’t taken him long to realise she ruled the roost on the Conchita. She’d be his key to learning about her father, not the boy. He was too much the mooncalf to be of any use. Which was why he’d had Simpson take her to his cabin for questioning.
She was certainly no beauty, Miss Fulton, with her serious eyes and plain round face. Nothing like her pretty friend. Yet beneath that mousy exterior lay unquiet currents. A maelstrom.
He’d felt it beneath
