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konstantyaTitle: Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix)
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,981
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
Chapter 2
Boston Harbor
"Cap'n, we made good time. We're a good two days early," the first mate said with a touch of pride.
Derrick St. John nodded. "The winds favored us." He looked toward the ocean, admiring the wide lay of the harbor. He'd have just enough time to visit his mother, if only for a short hour or two. The thought was heartening. "As soon as this shipment is unloaded, I'm going ashore."
"Off to see yer mum, eh?" Smythe said. "Give her me best, will ye?"
"Indeed, I will." He paused a moment, and then said, "Have the men back on board by dark. If we leave at first light, there's a chance we can make Port Charlotte by week's end and fetch the last of the shipment."
Smythe blinked. "By dark? But 'twill take them five or six more hours to finish unloading! That's no time at all."
"We've no choice; we've a shipment to make, and the sooner we get there, the more valuable our haul." Derrick cast a critical gaze over his ship. The Sea Princess might have been his only possession, but he was determined that she would make his fortune. He watched as his men unloaded heavy casks of French wine and crates of carefully wrapped spices, and then said, "If we make it back before the month is out, I'll reward every sailor with a double portion."
Smythe brightened considerably. "That's mighty generous of ye, Cap'n. 'Tis one of the reasons the men were so anxious to sign up under yer command in the first place."
"I'm not entirely sure why," Derrick said shortly. "I demand far more from my men than most other captains."
"Aye, but ye pay them what they're worth and ye treat them with respect. A sailor will weather a thousand storms for a cap'n who'll do so much."
Uncomfortable with the compliment, Derrick ignored it. "I hate to ask so much from them, but I will not fail, Smythe. I cannot afford to."
The first mate nodded, all three of his chins bobbing. "I know, Cap'n. We'll make it. See if we don't."
Derrick didn't reply.
The wind lifted, then, bringing the clean scent of the ocean with it, and Derrick tilted his head back to let the sun warm his face, reveling in the familiar sounds of water lapping against the hull and cargo being unloaded onto the docks.
Most men went to sea to seek their fortunes; Derrick St. John had gone to sea to avoid his. His mother had come from a good family, and though she'd married a seafaring man, she'd been determined her son would never step foot on a ship unless it was to travel as a passenger. Derrick's father had agreed, knowing firsthand the hardships to be found as a sailor, and thus it was that Derrick was sent away to school, with the expectation that he go into banking or law or some other such gentlemanly profession.
But Derrick had inherited his father's love of the ocean and had practically begged to be allowed to follow in his footsteps. His parents refused, saying he'd eventually settle in at school and he'd forget all about this sailor nonsense, and that would be that. It might have been the truth, but Derrick hadn't stuck around long enough to find out; he ran away and joined the first ship that would take him, and was en route to India as a cabin boy before his parents even realized he was gone.
Life at sea had turned out to be just as difficult and dangerous as his father had always said it was: The work was hard, and on top of that, there were storms, epidemics, and even pirate attacks with which to contend. Most other boys would have given up and returned home, but not Derrick. He was too proud, too willful to admit he had been wrong, and instead forced himself to survive and endure, never once looking back. And admittedly, it had been exhilarating for a time. But the cost, he eventually found out, was high, and it wasn't until he ended up a wanted man with a price on his head, unable to go ashore even to visit his parents lest he be arrested, that he realized just how high. And then the news of his father's death and supposed treason came, along with word that his family's property had been seized and his mother was to be evicted, and not even the threat of a life in prison could keep him off of dry land after that. He'd jumped ship at the first chance he'd gotten, made his way back to Boston, and promptly turned himself in to the authorities.
A prison sentence had seemed inevitable. An execution, a distinct possibility. But it was the only plan of action he could think of at the time to even attempt to set things to rights. He'd long-since burned any societal bridges he might have once had, and no longer had anywhere to turn.
At least that's what he'd thought. Until Royce Markham came forward.
Royce Markham, Boston's golden boy, who had at least as much faith in people as he did money in the bank. Not only had he respected Derrick's father and believed in the elder St. John's innocence, but he believed in second chances, and so petitioned the government to issue a pardon for Derrick, himself. And then if that wasn't enough, he even went so far as to offer Derrick a job.
He'd never forgotten what he owed Royce. Though they were stations apart in life, they were only a few scant years apart in age, and Royce had apparently seen something of himself in Derrick. Had seen how his own life might have turned out, had circumstances been just a little different, and as such, had wanted to give the younger man the benefit of the doubt. At the time, Derrick had been grateful yet skeptical, seeing Royce's good faith as sheer blind optimism, the naïve hope of a rich, privileged idiot who never had to see—let alone contend with—the dark, dirty side of human existence. But it soon became clear that Royce Markham was far from stupid, far from ignorant, and it wasn't that he was untouchable when it came to the more unsavory aspects of life so much that he was too strong and stubborn to let them become anything more than temporary setbacks. The simple truth was, Royce had a way of wanting to believe the best of people—and the even more remarkable thing was, once he shone his light in your direction and placed his trust in you, you couldn't help but want to live up to his expectations. He was so damnably affable, his character so downright honorable, that Derrick found himself admiring him almost against his will. When Royce hired him the very day after his pardon was made official, just as he'd promised, their business relationship was set. And when Derrick discovered that, beneath the hard-working merchant and Boston-society pillar, there was a man with a love of the sea deep enough to rival his own, a friendship was unavoidable.
Derrick looked down at where his sea-roughened hands rested on the smooth, wooden railing. He'd never forgotten the debt he owed Royce, but he'd also never forgotten the events that had triggered his moral turnabout in the first place. That had led him to become a man who even worried about debts.
"After this voyage," he said to the first mate, "I'm releasing the crew."
Smythe made a gulping noise. "Whatever fer? Ye'll never find a more lively crew than this."
"I'm not making any more shipments until I find the man responsible for my father's disgrace. I've already waited too long as it is. If I wait until this war is over, it may be too late."
Smythe placed a hand on Derrick's shoulder and squeezed. "The crew won't desert ye over that. Most of them sailed with yer father at one point or another; I daresay they'll want to go with ye."
Derrick still wasn't entirely convinced. "There won't be any money in it," he pointed out.
"They won't ask fer any," Smythe said. "Neither will I, fer that matter."
Derrick looked back out over the ocean. "I'm going to find that devil, Smythe," he vowed. "See if I don't."
The first mate patted his shoulder once more. "Ye won't fail, lad. It's not in ye, no more than it was in yer father."
There was a moment of silence, and then Derrick turned to Smythe with an intent, almost searching expression. "Father was a good captain, wasn't he?"
"The best I've ever sailed under," Smythe said solemnly. But then his eyes twinkled, and he added, "Exceptin' one, perhaps."
Derrick shook his head and looked down at the water. "I'm nothing compared to my father."
"Now that's just not true. I've never seen anyone hold a ship like ye do. Yer father would have been proud of ye."
Derrick's jaw tightened. "My father couldn't have been proud of me. I never should have—"
"Ye made some mistakes, laddie," Smythe agreed, almost severely. "Fell into the wrong crowd, ye did. But yer father knew ye'd come around once ye got enough of it."
Derrick gripped the railing harder. "I wish he'd lived long enough to see that he was right."
"He knows, lad. He was a special man, was yer father. The angels have always been with him. I daresay he's sendin' 'em yer way even now."
"I don't need angels. All I need is a pistol and the good fortune to find DeGardineau."
DeGardineau, his father's first mate on that fateful, final voyage, had been the driving force behind the blackening of the elder St. John's good name. Of course, no one would have been quite so quick to believe the worst of Captain James St. John had his son not already turned delinquent and thrown in with a pack of pirates.
Derrick rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to push aside the persistent ache of regret. He'd made mistakes and caused both of his parents great pain, but he'd realized his errors and had the strength to want to atone for them. That was worth something, surely. But before he'd ever be able to truly be at peace with himself, he needed to clear his father's name, he knew.
Straightening his shoulders, Derrick turned his gaze to the sky and hoped the weather would continue to favor their journey. Below him, the dock teemed with activity: Sailors, passengers, and tradesmen mingled; laborers stacked barrels and crates in large, neat piles. A cool breeze wafted, bringing the scent of the sea across the narrow line of buildings that rimmed the harbor.
Despite the fact that the country was at war, Boston Harbor bustled with just as much life as it ever did. While there were markedly fewer ships on the sea due to the British patrolling the waters, shipping was still a very profitable industry. Arguably, it had grown even more profitable since the war began—goods from overseas were scarce, these days, and as such, people were generally willing to pay more for them.
Derrick managed a faint smirk. Shipping had always been a chancy venture, what with the uncertain weather, the tricky currents, and the number of pirates who preyed on ships off the coast—to say nothing of the challenges of procuring worthwhile merchandise and finding qualified sailors. In many ways, the British threat was little more than an additional inconvenience on top of an already difficult chore.
"Thief!"
The word cut through the air, and Derrick's gaze snapped to attention. A large man came into view, hard on the heels of a lanky boy, and Derrick leaned over the railing, trying to get a better view of the commotion on shore. The man was fast despite his girth, but the boy was faster, breaking into a run, his smaller form allowing him to dart between the milling throngs of people.
"He's a fast 'un," Smythe said. They watched as the boy leapt clumsily—but successfully—over a barrel, much to the dismay of the man chasing him. "Looks as if the lad might get away."
Derrick nodded. The man—an innkeeper, Derrick would say, if he had to hazard a guess—was being left farther and farther behind. "He'll make it." But as soon as he said the words, the innkeeper yelled again, and two burly dockhands promptly dropped the barrels they were loading and joined in the chase.
Smythe clucked his tongue and shook his head, his stomach resting on the railing. "Looks like the lad's luck has run out."
Watching the two men dash past the innkeeper and close in on the youth, Derrick was inclined to agree. Finally, they cornered him in an alley behind an alehouse, and though he was too far away to make out the exact words, Derrick could tell by the tones of their voices that they were mocking the youngster. Playing with their prey the way a cat might play with a mouse. Derrick frowned. Life on the docks was hard, and even more so for a boy on his own.
Beside him, Smythe sighed sadly. " 'Tis a pity, Cap'n, but the docks do tend to attract the lowest forms of humanity."
"Aye," Derrick agreed absently.
"Adventurers, gamblers, and worse. I hate to say it, but chances are the boy's indeed a thief."
Thief or no, Derrick didn't like the odds. Two large, grown men against a slender youth? It hardly seemed fair. Especially for what was probably an extremely petty crime in the grand scheme of things.
The boy crouched lower, his hat pulled so far forward that his face was hidden, his entire body tensed as if prepared for the worst. But there was something about his posture, something about his bearing… Derrick squinted against the bright mid-morning light and eyed the boy carefully. Slight in build, narrow in the shoulders, he couldn't have been more than fourteen…could he?
Derrick pulled out the spyglass on his belt, hoping for a better look. Sure enough, though the boy's coat was long enough to cover his hips, there was a certain softness apparent in his long legs. A certain delicateness to his hands. So much so that if Derrick didn't know better, he'd swear he was looking at a girl. A tall, slender girl, but a girl all the same.
Just then, a strand of hair escaped the boy's queue and fell forward over one shoulder. Against his will and with a certain amount of chagrin, Derrick was put in mind of Royce's sister, Catherine. It really wasn't something he ever should have paid attention to—the physical attributes of his best friend's little sister—but he would have bet good money that that tendril was the same exact color as—
He jerked the glass down from his eye. "It can't be!" he exclaimed. Smythe said something, perhaps asked a question, but Derrick didn't hear him. He was too focused on the girl—because it had to be a girl; he was sure of it at this point. But it couldn't be Catherine Markham. It just couldn't. She was quiet, well-bred, demure… Derrick didn't think he'd heard her say more than ten words the entire time he'd known her. She certainly wasn't the sort of brazen female to stride about the docks wearing boys' clothing.
He put the spyglass back up to his eye, and as if in answer to his unspoken question, the girl turned her head just then, revealing a familiar curve of a chin. And with a positively sinking feeling in his chest, Derrick knew precisely what he'd see if she took off her hat and faced him: an oval face, wide-set green eyes, and a full, soft mouth.
Derrick lowered the glass once again and cursed out loud. What in the world was that blasted girl doing?
"Cap'n, what is it? Ye looks a bit pale. Are ye takin' ill? Must have been the shepherd's pie…"
"I'm not ill," Derrick said. With a snap, he collapsed the spyglass and shoved it back on his belt, already turning from the railing and beginning across the deck. "It's that thief."
Smythe trotted behind him, curiosity brightening his watery blue eyes. "The lad? Do ye know him, then?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Stay here, I'll be right back." Derrick bellowed for Lucas, and the cabin boy joined him just as he took the gangplank in four angry strides.
"What is it, Cap'n?" Lucas asked breathlessly. His boots clattered on the dock as he scrambled to keep up.
"Trouble," Derrick said shortly. "There's a boy being cornered in an alley. When I distract the men, I want you to grab the boy and hustle him on board the Sea Princess. Don't stop for anyone or anything, do you hear?"
"Aye, Cap'n. We'll run like the wind, we will."
Derrick nodded. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he could come up with on such short notice. He made his way down the street as quickly as possible, slowing as he came to the end of the alley where Catherine was being held. The innkeeper had since caught up, and as the man gathered his breath, the dockhands seemed to be debating just what they should do with the "boy"—drag him down to the authorities, or simply beat the money out of him right then and there.
Derrick didn't want to give them the time to come to a decision.
With a stern glance at Lucas, he stepped into the alley. "There you are, Royce," he called. "I've been looking all over for you."
At the sound of his voice, the three men spun around, and Catherine's gaze flew to his, her eyes widening with relief upon recognizing him. Derrick gave her a small, reassuring nod, though the truth was, he felt more like giving her the most severe verbal flogging he could manage. What the devil was she thinking? Didn't she know the danger she'd be in, wandering the docks unprotected? No doubt she thought her disguise flawless, but he'd been able to discern that she was a girl from across the entire quay.
Really, the clothing was not much of a disguise—especially not here and now, up close. The loose jacket may have hidden her curves, but if anything, the form-fitting breeches actually appeared to accentuate her long, feminine legs.
Derrick frowned at the direction in which his eyes had traveled and forced himself to look at her face, noting that she seemed rather pale. Her jaw was set, her eyes smudged with both tiredness and fear, and a wave of compassion rose in him, momentarily overpowering his irritation. Usually Catherine looked like some white frosting angel—perfectly dressed in a silk gown, her hair arranged in curls, her delicate feet shod in the most expensive slippers. Which only served to add to his confusion. Exactly what was going on?
"Weel, now," one of the two dockhands said, his red hair matching his dirty shirt. "Who're ye?"
"Derrick St. John, captain of the Sea Princess. I've come for the boy."
The innkeeper eyed Derrick suspiciously. "What's the lad to you?"
"This is my little brother, Royce," Derrick smoothly lied.
"Yer brother, eh?" The man glanced at Catherine. "He don't look much like ye, what with that yaller hair and all."
Derrick shrugged. "He's…my half-brother, in a way."
The other dockhand smirked. As massive as an oak, his neck was easily as thick as Derrick's thigh. "In a way, eh? Born on the wrong side of the sheets, ye mean?"
Catherine stiffened, and Derrick said, "Aye, but he doesn't like to speak of it."
"Brother or no," the innkeeper said, "the lad ain't going anywhere."
Lucas tugged discreetly on his sleeve. "Cap'n, shall I run back to the ship and gather the men?"
"And neither are ye," the innkeeper added, pointing threateningly at the cabin boy. He brushed his lank, brown hair out of his eyes and spat onto the cobblestones. Then to Derrick he said, "Ye might be a captain on yer ship, but ye ain't nothin' here."
Derrick frowned and planted his feet more firmly on the ground. "I've come for the boy and I'm not leaving without him."
The innkeeper snorted. "Ye can have him when he's paid for his meal, the little thief—"
"I didn't steal anything!" Catherine angrily piped up. "I ordered a plate of stew and I left the money on the table."
"So ye say," the innkeeper shot back, "but I didn't see no coins anywhere."
"Is it possible someone else took the money?" Derrick asked.
The innkeeper frowned and fell silent, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "I suppose that could have happened…" He shook his head. "But that don't matter. Any fool knows not to just lay their money on the table and walk off."
Catherine's face reddened, but she had the good judgment to not say anything more. Sensing that the tense atmosphere in the alley had been sufficiently diffused, Derrick caught Catherine's eye and jerked his head, indicating that she was to come to his side. Gingerly, she did as requested, and once again he wondered how anyone could honestly think she was a boy—almost every move she made was unconsciously feminine. Thankfully the innkeeper and the two dockhands were now too focused on him to pay much attention to "Royce."
"Lucas," Derrick said, once Catherine had sidled up to him, "escort my brother to the ship."
"Aye, Cap'n!"
The innkeeper made as if to protest, but the cabin boy didn't give him the chance, immediately tugging on Catherine's arm, and it was with great relief that Derrick watched the two of them disappear into the swarm of merchants and seamen. "Now," he said, turning back to the innkeeper, "what's this about stolen money?"
The man started up again, pointing angrily in the direction Lucas and Catherine had fled. "That—that little thief of yers still owes me fer—" He broke off as Derrick grabbed his outstretched hand and poured a handful of coins into it.
"I trust," Derrick said, "that is enough to make up for the stew and any emotional turmoil my brother might have caused you?"
"Ah—aye," the innkeeper stuttered. "Aye!" he said again, his demeanor immediately shifting upon realizing he was being paid more than thrice over for one meal. "Aye, that'll do just fine, thank ye." The issue finally resolved, the man made to leave, and the dockhands soon did the same.
Alone in the alley, Derrick ran a hand over his face. What a mess. What on Earth was Catherine Markham doing down here, on the docks, dressed as a boy? Whatever the reason, he consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn't have to put up with her for much longer. He'd find her some decent clothing and send her back to High Hall as soon as possible. Royce would be worried sick if he discovered his sister wasn't safely at home.
He had started to make his way back to the Sea Princess, but his footsteps slowed at that thought. Something about this situation didn't add up—and not just because Catherine Markham was running around Boston Harbor, pretending to be a boy. Exactly how long had she been gone? And if it had been more than a mere few hours, as his instincts were telling him, then why had Royce not already come looking for her?
Well, whatever the answers were, he'd have them soon enough. And with renewed determination, he merged back into the crowd, swiftly making his way toward his ship.
-----
All other fics can be found here.
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,981
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
- Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix) -
Chapter 2
Boston Harbor
"Cap'n, we made good time. We're a good two days early," the first mate said with a touch of pride.
Derrick St. John nodded. "The winds favored us." He looked toward the ocean, admiring the wide lay of the harbor. He'd have just enough time to visit his mother, if only for a short hour or two. The thought was heartening. "As soon as this shipment is unloaded, I'm going ashore."
"Off to see yer mum, eh?" Smythe said. "Give her me best, will ye?"
"Indeed, I will." He paused a moment, and then said, "Have the men back on board by dark. If we leave at first light, there's a chance we can make Port Charlotte by week's end and fetch the last of the shipment."
Smythe blinked. "By dark? But 'twill take them five or six more hours to finish unloading! That's no time at all."
"We've no choice; we've a shipment to make, and the sooner we get there, the more valuable our haul." Derrick cast a critical gaze over his ship. The Sea Princess might have been his only possession, but he was determined that she would make his fortune. He watched as his men unloaded heavy casks of French wine and crates of carefully wrapped spices, and then said, "If we make it back before the month is out, I'll reward every sailor with a double portion."
Smythe brightened considerably. "That's mighty generous of ye, Cap'n. 'Tis one of the reasons the men were so anxious to sign up under yer command in the first place."
"I'm not entirely sure why," Derrick said shortly. "I demand far more from my men than most other captains."
"Aye, but ye pay them what they're worth and ye treat them with respect. A sailor will weather a thousand storms for a cap'n who'll do so much."
Uncomfortable with the compliment, Derrick ignored it. "I hate to ask so much from them, but I will not fail, Smythe. I cannot afford to."
The first mate nodded, all three of his chins bobbing. "I know, Cap'n. We'll make it. See if we don't."
Derrick didn't reply.
The wind lifted, then, bringing the clean scent of the ocean with it, and Derrick tilted his head back to let the sun warm his face, reveling in the familiar sounds of water lapping against the hull and cargo being unloaded onto the docks.
Most men went to sea to seek their fortunes; Derrick St. John had gone to sea to avoid his. His mother had come from a good family, and though she'd married a seafaring man, she'd been determined her son would never step foot on a ship unless it was to travel as a passenger. Derrick's father had agreed, knowing firsthand the hardships to be found as a sailor, and thus it was that Derrick was sent away to school, with the expectation that he go into banking or law or some other such gentlemanly profession.
But Derrick had inherited his father's love of the ocean and had practically begged to be allowed to follow in his footsteps. His parents refused, saying he'd eventually settle in at school and he'd forget all about this sailor nonsense, and that would be that. It might have been the truth, but Derrick hadn't stuck around long enough to find out; he ran away and joined the first ship that would take him, and was en route to India as a cabin boy before his parents even realized he was gone.
Life at sea had turned out to be just as difficult and dangerous as his father had always said it was: The work was hard, and on top of that, there were storms, epidemics, and even pirate attacks with which to contend. Most other boys would have given up and returned home, but not Derrick. He was too proud, too willful to admit he had been wrong, and instead forced himself to survive and endure, never once looking back. And admittedly, it had been exhilarating for a time. But the cost, he eventually found out, was high, and it wasn't until he ended up a wanted man with a price on his head, unable to go ashore even to visit his parents lest he be arrested, that he realized just how high. And then the news of his father's death and supposed treason came, along with word that his family's property had been seized and his mother was to be evicted, and not even the threat of a life in prison could keep him off of dry land after that. He'd jumped ship at the first chance he'd gotten, made his way back to Boston, and promptly turned himself in to the authorities.
A prison sentence had seemed inevitable. An execution, a distinct possibility. But it was the only plan of action he could think of at the time to even attempt to set things to rights. He'd long-since burned any societal bridges he might have once had, and no longer had anywhere to turn.
At least that's what he'd thought. Until Royce Markham came forward.
Royce Markham, Boston's golden boy, who had at least as much faith in people as he did money in the bank. Not only had he respected Derrick's father and believed in the elder St. John's innocence, but he believed in second chances, and so petitioned the government to issue a pardon for Derrick, himself. And then if that wasn't enough, he even went so far as to offer Derrick a job.
He'd never forgotten what he owed Royce. Though they were stations apart in life, they were only a few scant years apart in age, and Royce had apparently seen something of himself in Derrick. Had seen how his own life might have turned out, had circumstances been just a little different, and as such, had wanted to give the younger man the benefit of the doubt. At the time, Derrick had been grateful yet skeptical, seeing Royce's good faith as sheer blind optimism, the naïve hope of a rich, privileged idiot who never had to see—let alone contend with—the dark, dirty side of human existence. But it soon became clear that Royce Markham was far from stupid, far from ignorant, and it wasn't that he was untouchable when it came to the more unsavory aspects of life so much that he was too strong and stubborn to let them become anything more than temporary setbacks. The simple truth was, Royce had a way of wanting to believe the best of people—and the even more remarkable thing was, once he shone his light in your direction and placed his trust in you, you couldn't help but want to live up to his expectations. He was so damnably affable, his character so downright honorable, that Derrick found himself admiring him almost against his will. When Royce hired him the very day after his pardon was made official, just as he'd promised, their business relationship was set. And when Derrick discovered that, beneath the hard-working merchant and Boston-society pillar, there was a man with a love of the sea deep enough to rival his own, a friendship was unavoidable.
Derrick looked down at where his sea-roughened hands rested on the smooth, wooden railing. He'd never forgotten the debt he owed Royce, but he'd also never forgotten the events that had triggered his moral turnabout in the first place. That had led him to become a man who even worried about debts.
"After this voyage," he said to the first mate, "I'm releasing the crew."
Smythe made a gulping noise. "Whatever fer? Ye'll never find a more lively crew than this."
"I'm not making any more shipments until I find the man responsible for my father's disgrace. I've already waited too long as it is. If I wait until this war is over, it may be too late."
Smythe placed a hand on Derrick's shoulder and squeezed. "The crew won't desert ye over that. Most of them sailed with yer father at one point or another; I daresay they'll want to go with ye."
Derrick still wasn't entirely convinced. "There won't be any money in it," he pointed out.
"They won't ask fer any," Smythe said. "Neither will I, fer that matter."
Derrick looked back out over the ocean. "I'm going to find that devil, Smythe," he vowed. "See if I don't."
The first mate patted his shoulder once more. "Ye won't fail, lad. It's not in ye, no more than it was in yer father."
There was a moment of silence, and then Derrick turned to Smythe with an intent, almost searching expression. "Father was a good captain, wasn't he?"
"The best I've ever sailed under," Smythe said solemnly. But then his eyes twinkled, and he added, "Exceptin' one, perhaps."
Derrick shook his head and looked down at the water. "I'm nothing compared to my father."
"Now that's just not true. I've never seen anyone hold a ship like ye do. Yer father would have been proud of ye."
Derrick's jaw tightened. "My father couldn't have been proud of me. I never should have—"
"Ye made some mistakes, laddie," Smythe agreed, almost severely. "Fell into the wrong crowd, ye did. But yer father knew ye'd come around once ye got enough of it."
Derrick gripped the railing harder. "I wish he'd lived long enough to see that he was right."
"He knows, lad. He was a special man, was yer father. The angels have always been with him. I daresay he's sendin' 'em yer way even now."
"I don't need angels. All I need is a pistol and the good fortune to find DeGardineau."
DeGardineau, his father's first mate on that fateful, final voyage, had been the driving force behind the blackening of the elder St. John's good name. Of course, no one would have been quite so quick to believe the worst of Captain James St. John had his son not already turned delinquent and thrown in with a pack of pirates.
Derrick rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to push aside the persistent ache of regret. He'd made mistakes and caused both of his parents great pain, but he'd realized his errors and had the strength to want to atone for them. That was worth something, surely. But before he'd ever be able to truly be at peace with himself, he needed to clear his father's name, he knew.
Straightening his shoulders, Derrick turned his gaze to the sky and hoped the weather would continue to favor their journey. Below him, the dock teemed with activity: Sailors, passengers, and tradesmen mingled; laborers stacked barrels and crates in large, neat piles. A cool breeze wafted, bringing the scent of the sea across the narrow line of buildings that rimmed the harbor.
Despite the fact that the country was at war, Boston Harbor bustled with just as much life as it ever did. While there were markedly fewer ships on the sea due to the British patrolling the waters, shipping was still a very profitable industry. Arguably, it had grown even more profitable since the war began—goods from overseas were scarce, these days, and as such, people were generally willing to pay more for them.
Derrick managed a faint smirk. Shipping had always been a chancy venture, what with the uncertain weather, the tricky currents, and the number of pirates who preyed on ships off the coast—to say nothing of the challenges of procuring worthwhile merchandise and finding qualified sailors. In many ways, the British threat was little more than an additional inconvenience on top of an already difficult chore.
"Thief!"
The word cut through the air, and Derrick's gaze snapped to attention. A large man came into view, hard on the heels of a lanky boy, and Derrick leaned over the railing, trying to get a better view of the commotion on shore. The man was fast despite his girth, but the boy was faster, breaking into a run, his smaller form allowing him to dart between the milling throngs of people.
"He's a fast 'un," Smythe said. They watched as the boy leapt clumsily—but successfully—over a barrel, much to the dismay of the man chasing him. "Looks as if the lad might get away."
Derrick nodded. The man—an innkeeper, Derrick would say, if he had to hazard a guess—was being left farther and farther behind. "He'll make it." But as soon as he said the words, the innkeeper yelled again, and two burly dockhands promptly dropped the barrels they were loading and joined in the chase.
Smythe clucked his tongue and shook his head, his stomach resting on the railing. "Looks like the lad's luck has run out."
Watching the two men dash past the innkeeper and close in on the youth, Derrick was inclined to agree. Finally, they cornered him in an alley behind an alehouse, and though he was too far away to make out the exact words, Derrick could tell by the tones of their voices that they were mocking the youngster. Playing with their prey the way a cat might play with a mouse. Derrick frowned. Life on the docks was hard, and even more so for a boy on his own.
Beside him, Smythe sighed sadly. " 'Tis a pity, Cap'n, but the docks do tend to attract the lowest forms of humanity."
"Aye," Derrick agreed absently.
"Adventurers, gamblers, and worse. I hate to say it, but chances are the boy's indeed a thief."
Thief or no, Derrick didn't like the odds. Two large, grown men against a slender youth? It hardly seemed fair. Especially for what was probably an extremely petty crime in the grand scheme of things.
The boy crouched lower, his hat pulled so far forward that his face was hidden, his entire body tensed as if prepared for the worst. But there was something about his posture, something about his bearing… Derrick squinted against the bright mid-morning light and eyed the boy carefully. Slight in build, narrow in the shoulders, he couldn't have been more than fourteen…could he?
Derrick pulled out the spyglass on his belt, hoping for a better look. Sure enough, though the boy's coat was long enough to cover his hips, there was a certain softness apparent in his long legs. A certain delicateness to his hands. So much so that if Derrick didn't know better, he'd swear he was looking at a girl. A tall, slender girl, but a girl all the same.
Just then, a strand of hair escaped the boy's queue and fell forward over one shoulder. Against his will and with a certain amount of chagrin, Derrick was put in mind of Royce's sister, Catherine. It really wasn't something he ever should have paid attention to—the physical attributes of his best friend's little sister—but he would have bet good money that that tendril was the same exact color as—
He jerked the glass down from his eye. "It can't be!" he exclaimed. Smythe said something, perhaps asked a question, but Derrick didn't hear him. He was too focused on the girl—because it had to be a girl; he was sure of it at this point. But it couldn't be Catherine Markham. It just couldn't. She was quiet, well-bred, demure… Derrick didn't think he'd heard her say more than ten words the entire time he'd known her. She certainly wasn't the sort of brazen female to stride about the docks wearing boys' clothing.
He put the spyglass back up to his eye, and as if in answer to his unspoken question, the girl turned her head just then, revealing a familiar curve of a chin. And with a positively sinking feeling in his chest, Derrick knew precisely what he'd see if she took off her hat and faced him: an oval face, wide-set green eyes, and a full, soft mouth.
Derrick lowered the glass once again and cursed out loud. What in the world was that blasted girl doing?
"Cap'n, what is it? Ye looks a bit pale. Are ye takin' ill? Must have been the shepherd's pie…"
"I'm not ill," Derrick said. With a snap, he collapsed the spyglass and shoved it back on his belt, already turning from the railing and beginning across the deck. "It's that thief."
Smythe trotted behind him, curiosity brightening his watery blue eyes. "The lad? Do ye know him, then?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Stay here, I'll be right back." Derrick bellowed for Lucas, and the cabin boy joined him just as he took the gangplank in four angry strides.
"What is it, Cap'n?" Lucas asked breathlessly. His boots clattered on the dock as he scrambled to keep up.
"Trouble," Derrick said shortly. "There's a boy being cornered in an alley. When I distract the men, I want you to grab the boy and hustle him on board the Sea Princess. Don't stop for anyone or anything, do you hear?"
"Aye, Cap'n. We'll run like the wind, we will."
Derrick nodded. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he could come up with on such short notice. He made his way down the street as quickly as possible, slowing as he came to the end of the alley where Catherine was being held. The innkeeper had since caught up, and as the man gathered his breath, the dockhands seemed to be debating just what they should do with the "boy"—drag him down to the authorities, or simply beat the money out of him right then and there.
Derrick didn't want to give them the time to come to a decision.
With a stern glance at Lucas, he stepped into the alley. "There you are, Royce," he called. "I've been looking all over for you."
At the sound of his voice, the three men spun around, and Catherine's gaze flew to his, her eyes widening with relief upon recognizing him. Derrick gave her a small, reassuring nod, though the truth was, he felt more like giving her the most severe verbal flogging he could manage. What the devil was she thinking? Didn't she know the danger she'd be in, wandering the docks unprotected? No doubt she thought her disguise flawless, but he'd been able to discern that she was a girl from across the entire quay.
Really, the clothing was not much of a disguise—especially not here and now, up close. The loose jacket may have hidden her curves, but if anything, the form-fitting breeches actually appeared to accentuate her long, feminine legs.
Derrick frowned at the direction in which his eyes had traveled and forced himself to look at her face, noting that she seemed rather pale. Her jaw was set, her eyes smudged with both tiredness and fear, and a wave of compassion rose in him, momentarily overpowering his irritation. Usually Catherine looked like some white frosting angel—perfectly dressed in a silk gown, her hair arranged in curls, her delicate feet shod in the most expensive slippers. Which only served to add to his confusion. Exactly what was going on?
"Weel, now," one of the two dockhands said, his red hair matching his dirty shirt. "Who're ye?"
"Derrick St. John, captain of the Sea Princess. I've come for the boy."
The innkeeper eyed Derrick suspiciously. "What's the lad to you?"
"This is my little brother, Royce," Derrick smoothly lied.
"Yer brother, eh?" The man glanced at Catherine. "He don't look much like ye, what with that yaller hair and all."
Derrick shrugged. "He's…my half-brother, in a way."
The other dockhand smirked. As massive as an oak, his neck was easily as thick as Derrick's thigh. "In a way, eh? Born on the wrong side of the sheets, ye mean?"
Catherine stiffened, and Derrick said, "Aye, but he doesn't like to speak of it."
"Brother or no," the innkeeper said, "the lad ain't going anywhere."
Lucas tugged discreetly on his sleeve. "Cap'n, shall I run back to the ship and gather the men?"
"And neither are ye," the innkeeper added, pointing threateningly at the cabin boy. He brushed his lank, brown hair out of his eyes and spat onto the cobblestones. Then to Derrick he said, "Ye might be a captain on yer ship, but ye ain't nothin' here."
Derrick frowned and planted his feet more firmly on the ground. "I've come for the boy and I'm not leaving without him."
The innkeeper snorted. "Ye can have him when he's paid for his meal, the little thief—"
"I didn't steal anything!" Catherine angrily piped up. "I ordered a plate of stew and I left the money on the table."
"So ye say," the innkeeper shot back, "but I didn't see no coins anywhere."
"Is it possible someone else took the money?" Derrick asked.
The innkeeper frowned and fell silent, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "I suppose that could have happened…" He shook his head. "But that don't matter. Any fool knows not to just lay their money on the table and walk off."
Catherine's face reddened, but she had the good judgment to not say anything more. Sensing that the tense atmosphere in the alley had been sufficiently diffused, Derrick caught Catherine's eye and jerked his head, indicating that she was to come to his side. Gingerly, she did as requested, and once again he wondered how anyone could honestly think she was a boy—almost every move she made was unconsciously feminine. Thankfully the innkeeper and the two dockhands were now too focused on him to pay much attention to "Royce."
"Lucas," Derrick said, once Catherine had sidled up to him, "escort my brother to the ship."
"Aye, Cap'n!"
The innkeeper made as if to protest, but the cabin boy didn't give him the chance, immediately tugging on Catherine's arm, and it was with great relief that Derrick watched the two of them disappear into the swarm of merchants and seamen. "Now," he said, turning back to the innkeeper, "what's this about stolen money?"
The man started up again, pointing angrily in the direction Lucas and Catherine had fled. "That—that little thief of yers still owes me fer—" He broke off as Derrick grabbed his outstretched hand and poured a handful of coins into it.
"I trust," Derrick said, "that is enough to make up for the stew and any emotional turmoil my brother might have caused you?"
"Ah—aye," the innkeeper stuttered. "Aye!" he said again, his demeanor immediately shifting upon realizing he was being paid more than thrice over for one meal. "Aye, that'll do just fine, thank ye." The issue finally resolved, the man made to leave, and the dockhands soon did the same.
Alone in the alley, Derrick ran a hand over his face. What a mess. What on Earth was Catherine Markham doing down here, on the docks, dressed as a boy? Whatever the reason, he consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn't have to put up with her for much longer. He'd find her some decent clothing and send her back to High Hall as soon as possible. Royce would be worried sick if he discovered his sister wasn't safely at home.
He had started to make his way back to the Sea Princess, but his footsteps slowed at that thought. Something about this situation didn't add up—and not just because Catherine Markham was running around Boston Harbor, pretending to be a boy. Exactly how long had she been gone? And if it had been more than a mere few hours, as his instincts were telling him, then why had Royce not already come looking for her?
Well, whatever the answers were, he'd have them soon enough. And with renewed determination, he merged back into the crowd, swiftly making his way toward his ship.
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