The Captain's Caress Read Free

only take the best of what they have. You may need to pack things a little tighter, but the men can double up.”
    “They’ve already doubled up,” Smith reminded him as a few brave souls groaned aloud.
    “Then let them double up again,” Brent roared unsympathetically. “They’ll have more than enough room when we reach Havana.” He looked about him at his still-drowsy crew. “With all the sleep they get on deck, you wouldn’t think they’d have any need of a bunk.” Some of the younger hands fidgeted nervously, but the veterans merely grinned. “Make sure they’re wide-awake, or we’ll be the ones getting a dunking in the Atlantic. Take the usual precautions, but let’s hope they decide not to put up much of a fight. Now turn to!” he shouted as he walked away.
    At the sound of his booming voice, men appeared as if by magic. They went about their preparations with practiced efficiency, each sailor knowing exactly what was expected of him. Captain Douglas wouldn’t sail with a man who had to be driven to his work; more than one reluctant seaman had found himself cast adrift or left to the mercies of a victimized ship’s crew.
    The captain remained on deck throughout the wait. From time to time he used the glass to study the approaching ship, more out of habit than from necessity. Her disorganized crew’s futile attempts to prepare some kind of defense were almost comic, but Brent’s mood was solemn. His attitude communicated itself to his crew and they went about their work without the noisy shouts of encouragement that usually accompanied their battle preparations. A warning shot fired across the bow of the other vessel was not returned, and the men of the Windswept prepared to board without opposition.
    “They ought to show some kind of fight,” Smith said in disgust.
    “Stop moaning. There’ll be enough fights the next time out to satisfy even your bloodthirsty soul.”
    “Is there going to be another voyage?” Smith asked with deceptive casualness. “Now that you’ve got that plantation, I wondered if you meant to settle down.”
    “A planter’s life is too quiet for a man like me.”
    “You won’t have any trouble finding a wife,” Smith ventured tentatively, not meeting his friend’s eye. “Once it gets about you’re thinking of getting married, they’ll come at you so thick you’ll need me to sort them out.”
    “Not to marry a condemned murderer.” Brent spoke with studied indifference, but his gaze turned steely.
    “You never murdered anybody, sir.”
    “Unfortunately, not everyone has your faith in me,” Brent responded. He gathered up his pistol and buckled on his sword. “I’ll probably roam the seas forever like the Flying Dutchman.”
    “But his curse was lifted when he found a girl who’d be faithful to him.”
    “Well I’ll be damned, Smith. I never knew you went in for reading old stuff like that.”
    “You know I’m more comfortable with my figures,” Smith replied diffidently. “My old mother used to tell the little ones stories and the Dutchman was her favorite, probably because of my dad. He did all the roaming while she took care of us and waited for him to come home.” He picked up his weapons. “We never did find out what became of him.”
    “It looks like neither of our mothers got much good from the sea. I don’t suppose a wife of mine would like it any better. Let’s go relieve this captain of his cargo,” Brent said, dismissing the subject of his future. “Then he can finish his trip with an easy mind.”
    Smith wondered what Brent Douglas really did think. One never knew, but with his black moods becoming more frequent, he was fixing to do something, even if he didn’t know it.
    The Sea Otter’s crew was only vaguely aware of Captain Douglas’s reputation, but the sight of his towering six-foot-four frame striding about on deck with an unmistakable air of command had driven any thought of resistance from their minds.
    Smith broke off