The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst. Louise Allen

head.

      ‘Not if you hit it at just the right time.’ Stanier began to roll up the chart. ‘How much speed do you need? Are you chasing something or just patrolling?’

      ‘Best pickings have got over twelve hours’ start on us, there’s no catching the Raven Princess now.’ Clemence almost dropped the food. ‘But if you’ve got the knack of that passage, then the captain will be glad to see it.’

      ‘That’s what I thought. And it brings you out in the shelter of Lizard Island. You’ve got good anchorage, fresh water and command of the shipping lanes through there. And you never know, Raven Princess might have been delayed. Too good not to check, I’d have thought.’

      Bastard! ‘Your coffee, Mr Stanier.’ She thrust the mug into his hand, forcing him to grasp the heated metal, and was gratified by his wince as he snatched at the handle. He deserved it. That was her ship he was talking about capturing. ‘And some bread and bacon. Sir.’

      He looked at her narrowly over the rim of the mug as he blew on his coffee. ‘That all for me?’

      ‘Yessir.’

      ‘Take your knife and cut it up. Take half and eat it.’

      ‘You’ll spoil the brat.’ The mate’s lip lifted in a sneer.

      ‘He’s half-starved and no use to me unless he’s fit.’ Stanier gave a dismissive, one-shouldered shrug. ‘Clem, eat and then go and get that cabin shipshape. You can unpack everything, just don’t drop the instruments.’

      Clemence found a corner on the main deck and curled up with her breakfast on top of a low stack of barrels, safely out of the way of the hurrying hands. Just when she had started liking the man, he turned out to be as bad as the rest of them. She shook her head abruptly; it was a lesson not to trust any of them. Ever.

      Despite her feelings, she could still enjoy the food. The bacon was good, still warm, savoury, the bread soaked with salty grease. She scrubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, then wiped her palms on her trousers without thinking. The resulting mess—smears of ink, coffee, grease and dust—was unpleasant, but she could hardly change her clothes.

      Street was surprisingly helpful when she returned her crocks. ‘Ship’s sail-maker’s over there. Doubles as tailor, for them as wants it.’ He nodded towards a man sitting cross-legged on a pile of rolled hammocks. ‘Hey, Gerritty! Navigator’s boy needs slops.’

      The tailor squinted at Clemence. ‘Look in that chest, see what’ll fit,’ he said through a mouthful of big needles, his accent a thick Irish brogue. ‘I’m not making you anything, mind, not wasting my time on boys.’

      ‘Thank you.’ The trunk held a motley collection, some of it quality, some of it sailors’ gear. Clemence had the uncomfortable feeling that most of it had been taken from captives. She found two pairs of trousers that looked as though she could take them in to fit, some shirts, a jacket and a warm knitted tunic. ‘May I take these?’

      ‘Aye.’ The sail-maker produced an evil-looking knife and cut some twine. ‘He any good, this new navigator?’

      Clemence shrugged. ‘Don’t know. He only took me on yesterday. Talks like he is.’ The Irishman snorted at her tone. ‘Where can I get a bucket and a scrubbing brush?’

      She wasn’t looking forward to tackling the privy cupboard, but she wasn’t prepared to live with it either. She was uncomfortably aware that if life had not favoured her with the wealth to keep servants, then she would have made a very reluctant housekeeper, but some hard cleaning was preferable to squalor, any day of the week.

      It took her half an hour to locate cleaning materials, dodging some rough teasing on the way. On her way down to the cabin she collected a second lantern by the simple expedient of stealing it from another cabin, then started by washing the portholes and cleaning the lamps. She made the beds, glancing with interest at the thick leather-bound notebook under Stanier’s pillow, but cautiously left it untouched, unpacked his bags and set the instruments out on the table with care.

      They were shiny, complex and obviously expensive. She raised the fiddles around the sides of the table in case the instruments slid about and eyed them, fascinated. Perhaps he would show her how they worked.

      The rest of his gear she stowed in the lockers. It was good quality stuff, but well worn and included, she was thankful to see, a huswif with thread and needles. At least she could alter her new clothes herself.

      And that just left the privy. Clemence had an idea how to deal with that.

      They were out of harbour, the island receding behind them, the breeze stiff and steady, the sun on the waves, dazzling. It was a day when it felt good to be at sea, even without the relief of having piloted the ship out under the hypercritical gaze of Cutler and Captain McTiernan, who lounged with deceptive casualness against a raised hatch cover.

      ‘What’s going on down there?’ Cutler craned to see where a group were clustered round the rail, peering at something in the sea. Laughter floated up.

      ‘I’ll take a look.’ Nathan stretched, glad of an excuse to shake the tension out of his shoulders. ‘I need to get my sextant, anyway.’

      He assessed the mood of the group as he approached it. They were having fun, probably at someone’s expense, but it was good humoured enough. ‘What’s up?’ He shouldered his way to the rail, the hands dropping back, tugging forelocks when they saw who it was. McTiernan’s crew were worryingly well disciplined.

      Hell. ‘Clem, what the devil are you doing?’ The boy leant over the rail, a rope in his hands, the muscles on his slim forearms standing out with the effort. His trousers were filthy, he had bound the handkerchief Nathan had given him around his forehead and he looked a complete urchin with smudges on his face and grime up his arms.

      Except that there was an elegance about the line of his back, the arched feet, braced on the deck, were small, the backside exposed by the shirt riding up was rounded and the skin below his collar was unexpectedly delicate.

      Blinking away a sudden sensation of complete confusion, Nathan snapped, ‘Clem!’

      ‘Sorry, sir.’ He was hauling at whatever it was now and it rose up suddenly, landed on the deck and showered them all with water. ‘That bucket, sir. Seemed the easiest way to clean it.’

      It was, certainly, a very clean bucket. Angry, for no reason he could determine, Nathan narrowed his eyes at the flushed, bruised face that met his gaze with a look of eager willingness that was surely false. Nathan had dealt with dumb insolence often enough to recognise it now.

      ‘Look at the state of you, boy. I’ll not have a servant that looks like a swine-herd.’

      ‘I’ll go and change, sir.’

      The boy was angry, he realised with a jolt. Angry with him. Was he still brooding on Nathan’s role on a pirate ship? Well, he was going to have to accept it, pretty damned quickly.

      ‘Go,’ he said with a jerk of his head, not realising until Clem and the bucket had vanished that the boy had nothing to change into. But that was not his problem—navigating this ship to place it in the best possible position for some fat merchantman to sail right into its jaws was. That was his job.

      When he came down to the cabin over an hour later he was hit by light, air and the tang of salt water and lye soap. The cabin was spotless, the inner door standing open on to what had been a fetid little cubby hole and was now clean and dimly lit with the light from the open porthole.

      A water tub stood on the floor, his mirror and shaving tackle were on the shelf, a towel dangled from a nail and a cloth was draped decorously over the bucket.

      Clem was sitting at the table with a large bodkin, some twine and a pile of newspapers. ‘What are you doing now?’ Nathan demanded.

      In response, Clem lifted his hand. Neat squares of newspaper were threaded onto the twine. ‘For the privy,’ he said concisely.