The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst. Louise Allen

a tall man with a tricorne hat on his head said, stepping round to block her retreat.

      ‘Cap’n,’ she repeated obediently. ‘I’ll just—’

      ‘Come with us.’ The tall man gave her a shove, right up to the rest of the group. The man he called Cap’n put out a hand and laid it on her shoulder. She was close enough to see him now, narrow-faced, his bony jaw obscured by a few days’ stubble, his head bare. His clothes were flamboyant, antique almost; coat tails wide, the magnificent lace at his throat, soiled. The eyes that met Clemence’s were brown, flat, cold. If a lizard could speak…

      ‘What’s your name, boy?’

      ‘Clem. Cap’n.’ She tried to hold the reptilian stare, but her eyes dropped, down to where the wrist of the hand that held her was bared, the lace fallen back. There was a tattoo on the back of his hand, the tail and sting of a scorpion, its head and body vanishing into his widecuffed sleeve. Her vision blurred.

      ‘Come along then, Clem.’

      There was nowhere to run to and the long fingers were biting into her collarbone. Clemence let herself be pushed towards the tavern. It was crowded, she told herself, inside she’d be able to give them the slip.

      She knew what they were, and knew, too, that she would be safer by far with Uncle Joshua and Lewis than with these men. They were pirates, and the man who held her, unless scorpion tattoos were the latest fashion, was Red Matthew McTiernan.

      They bundled her up the steps, across the porch and into the heat and light and noise of the tavern. She let herself be pushed along, her eyes darting about the room for an escape route as the crowd shifted uneasily to let McTiernan and his men through. This was a rough place, but the customers were reacting like foxes when the wolf arrives at the kill.

      A man came forward, wiping his hands on a stained apron. ‘He’s over there.’ He jerked his head towards a table in the far corner.

      The man who sat there was alone, despite the pressure for tables. He was playing hazard, left hand against right, his attention focused on the white cubes that bounced and rolled. He was tall, rangy, carrying no surplus weight. Built for speed, like a frigate, Clemence thought, staring at him when she should be watching for her chance. His hair was over-long, brown with sun-bleached tips, his skin very tanned, his clothes had the look of much-worn quality.

      ‘Stanier.’

      He looked up, his eyes a startling blue against his dark skin. ‘Yes?’

      ‘They tell me you want a navigator’s berth.’ The man called Stanier nodded. ‘Are you any good?’

      ‘I’m the best in these seas,’ he said, his lips curving into what might, charitably, be called a smile. ‘But you knew that, McTiernan, or you wouldn’t be here.’

      The bony fingers gripping her shoulder fell away, down to rest on the hilt of the sword that hung by the captain’s side. As a ripple of tension ran round the small group, Clemence eased back, poised to slide into the crowd behind.

      ‘That’s Captain McTiernan to you.’

      ‘It is if I serve with you,’ Stanier said, his tone equable. ‘And I will, if it is worth my while.’

      ‘You know what I’m offering,’ McTiernan snapped.

      ‘And I want my own cabin. And a servant.’

      ‘What do you think you are? One of his Majesty’s bleeding naval officers still? They threw you out—so don’t go putting on airs and graces with me.’

      Stanier smiled, his eyes cold. ‘More fool them. I’m just the best navigator you’ll ever see, navy or no navy.’

      Now. Clemence slid one foot back, then the other, half-turned and—

      ‘Oh, no, you don’t, my lad.’ The big man with the tricorne spun her round, fetching her a back-handed cuff that hit her bruised face. Blinded with the sudden pain, Clemence staggered, fell and crashed into a chair in a tangle of limbs.

      She put out her right hand, grasping for something to hold on to, and found she was gripping a muscular thigh. Warm, strong—somehow, she couldn’t let go.

      ‘What have we here?’ She looked up, managing to focus on the interested blue eyes that were studying her hand. She looked down as the navigator lifted it from his leg, prizing the fingers open. An ink stain ran across them. ‘You can write, boy?’

      ‘Yessir.’ She nodded vehemently, wanting, in that moment, only to be with him, her hand in his. Safe. Lord, how desperate was she, that this hard man represented safety?

      ‘Can you do your figures?’ He put out one long finger and just touched the bruise on her face.

      ‘Yessir.’ She forced herself not to flinch away.

      ‘Excellent. I’ll take you as my servant, then.’ Stanier got to his feet, hauling Clemence up by the collar to stand at his side. ‘Any objections, gentlemen?’

       Chapter Two

      ‘That’s our new cabin boy.’ Nathan Stanier studied the speaker. Big, of Danish descent perhaps, incongruously pin-neat from the crown of his tricorne to the tips of his polished shoes. Cutler, the first mate, the man with the washed-out blue eyes that could have belonged to a barracuda for all the warmth and humanity they held.

      ‘And now he’s mine,’ Nathan said. ‘I’m sure there’s someone else in the crew who can carry your slops and warm a few hammocks.’

      The lad stood passively by his side. Nathan thought he could detect a fine tremor running through him—whether it was fear or the pain from the blow to his face, he could not tell.

      The boy looked too innocent to be aware of the main reason this crew wanted him on board. It was no part of his plans to act as bear-leader to dockside waifs and strays, but something was different with this lad. He must be getting soft, or perhaps it was years of looking out for midshipmen, so wet behind the ears they spent the first month crying for their mothers at night. Not that training the navy’s up-and-coming officers was any longer a concern of his. Lord Phillips had seen to that, the old devil.

      Cutler’s eyes narrowed, his hand clenching on the hilt of his weapon. ‘Let him keep the boy,’ McTiernan said softly. ‘I’m not one to interfere with a man’s pleasures.’ Someone pushed through the crowded room and murmured into the captain’s ear. ‘It seems the militia is about on the Spanish Town road. Time to leave, gentlemen.’

      Nathan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t even think about making a run for it,’ he murmured. There was no response. Under his palm the narrow bones felt too fragile. The lad was painfully thin. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘C…Clem. Sir.’ That odd, gruff little voice. Nerves, or not broken properly yet.

      ‘How old are you?’

      ‘Sixteen.’

      Fourteen was more like it. Nathan gestured to one of the waiters and spun him a coin. ‘Get my bags—and take care not to knock them.’ He didn’t want his instruments jarred out of true before he’d even begun. ‘Have you got anything, Clem?’

      A mute shake of the head, then, ‘They just grabbed me, outside.’ So there was probably a family somewhere, wondering what had happened to their son. Nathan shrugged mentally—no worse than the pressgang. He had more important things to be worrying about than one scruffy youth. Things like staying alive in this shark pool with all his limbs attached, making sure McTiernan continued to believe he was exactly what he said he was—right up to the point when he despatched the man to his richly deserved fate.

      The boy scrambled down into the jolly boat, moving easily between the half-dozen rowers. He was used to small craft, at least. He huddled into the bows, arms wrapped tightly around himself as though somehow, in this heat, he was cold.

      The