Whatever it was, it seemed to be following, full sails arching in the wind.
He knelt on the narrow window seat and lifted his hands around his eyes to cut the glare, trying to make out the vessel’s origin, praying to see the Union Jack fluttering in the sky. It was no use, the ship still too far away.
More time passed, the ship steadily gaining on them. Nathaniel’s damp skin squeaked on the glass. The mystery vessel came about another few degrees, and there was its flag, snapping in the wind. His stomach dropped.
Black.
It was solid, no white or red embellishments, simply a blunt declaration of intent. But why would pirates attack each other? He supposed for the same reasons they attacked any ship, and it was foolish to expect any kind of loyalty amongst thieves. Pirates surely made rivals of one another.
The ship disappeared from view, and Nathaniel waited. The Damned Manta didn’t seem to be attempting to outrun it now. Perhaps the captains knew each other and were friends, and now that they were close enough to make a certain identification—
Nathaniel flew off the window seat as the blast rocked the ship, air slamming from his lungs as he crashed flat on his back. Then another blast, and another. Another, another. Wood splintered, the boom of each cannon rattling his teeth, his ears ringing, heart about to burst from his chest.
He scrambled into the enclosure under the massive desk, tucking the chair back in after him as if that would help, curling into a ball, grateful the wood on three sides reached the floor, giving him an effective hiding place.
The humid, cloying air in his enclosure was even harder to breathe, and terror seized his lungs. If these other pirates won, what would become of him? Would they want him as a ransom, or simply slit his throat or toss him over the side? Or worse?
He gripped his knees tighter, making himself small, hoping to be as forgotten as the cobwebs that strung across the underside of the desk. What if they kept him? Passed him around, or tortured him, or God knew what pirates were capable of.
As much as he hated being Hawk’s prisoner, and as much as he hated the idea of living on Primrose Isle with a stranger for a wife, doing his father’s bidding, either prospect seemed preferable to this horrifying unknown that had exploded upon him.
He huddled tighter into a ball, whispering a prayer, the continued blasts wreaking havoc on his nerves. Screams tore the air, ragged and despairing, the song of dying men.
The ship shuddered and groaned, its own cannons returning fire. On and on it went, jolting and rolling, the air made of thunder. He plugged his ears and only knew he was screaming by the hoarseness of his throat.
At any moment, Nathaniel was certain The Damned Manta would disintegrate in the roar of gunfire, sending him plummeting to the bottom of the sea, the desk his coffin.
Abruptly, the guns went silent. More shouting up top, and the other ship’s cannons fired again but seemed to miss their target with mighty splashes. Were they moving? He wasn’t certain. Then there were no more cannon blasts at all.
Had they surrendered? Were they to be boarded? He strained, listening, but he couldn’t make sense of it. Sweat drenched him now, and he swiped it from his eyes, his shirt and breeches clinging to his skin as he waited, barely breathing, afraid he might piss himself.
Nathaniel wasn’t sure how long he remained huddled under the oven of the desk before the key turned in the lock of the cabin door. He pressed his lips together, frozen. Oh Lord. Please. Please save me. I promise I’ll be a better man.
The door opened.
Whoever it was didn’t say a word. Nathaniel would be invisible to them beneath the solid desk. Yet there was a little chunk of wood missing at the bottom, a gouge that had perhaps been ripped away in some unknown battle, or was simply due to a clumsy job moving the desk.
Heart booming in his ears, Nathaniel inched down to peek through. He’d never thought it possible to be so very relieved to spot those gold-tipped boots, but he exhaled in a rush as Hawk thundered, “Where the fuck are you?”
Nathaniel hadn’t intended to anger him, and now he stayed motionless, terrified any movement or response would be his last. The door slammed shut, and Hawk’s boots thudded on the planks. Yet it didn’t sound like his usual confident stride, and then there was a burst of noise—a venomous curse and a mighty bang.
It startled Nathaniel from his hidey-hole, and he shoved the chair aside, crawling out and coming almost face-to-face with Hawk, who had tripped onto his hands and knees. Blood splattered across his face, and he grimaced, teeth bared. He wore his coat, which must have been terribly warm although it was unbuttoned.