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PART IV

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NOVEMBER, 1780
BAY OF ALGIERS

CELIA STOOD AT THE wheel, drumming her fingers on it and waiting impatiently for the Iron Maiden, which had signaled hours ago that Suniyya al Ibrahim was aboard, with no sign of chase.

She cast a glance up at the stars, which had moved exactly eight minutes since the last time she had looked, which was at one of the morning. She then sighed when a bank of fog began to roll into the bay, likely covering all five miles that lay between her and the port.

This was fortuitous, but it annoyed Celia anyroad. Her British uniform itched and was far too hot for the region. She would have at least unbuttoned it, but she had seen that her ostensible colleagues wore theirs rather smartly.

And she dare not take her tricorn off, even though her mother had ruthlessly braided her hair close to her head and stuffed the tails in a tightly wound scarf.

Lord, how it itched.

It was really a stroke of brilliance, Dunham’s plan to enlist the British Navy’s assistance in this matter by being almost completely truthful about his purpose, showing them Rear-Admiral Lord Rathbone’s (entirely fake) orders conveyed to Dunham via Captain Lucien Bancroft. It had not taken much to convince them Captain Bancroft thought Dunham better suited to the covert task, as he had certain contacts in Algiers that would allow him to put into port without suspicion.

“Idiots,” she mumbled as she made yet another turn to carry out the patrol orders she had been given by the British fleet commander who thought she was Captain Lucien Bancroft. If Celia’s brother ever found out he’d been demoted to piloting a messenger and patrol sloop, he’d wish she’d killed him in Chesapeake.

But this had taken too long, and they were set to rendezvous with the fleet commander at Menorca to report.

“Iron Maiden’s weighed anchor,” the watch called down softly.

Celia grunted her acknowledgment, but sighed with relief. She couldn’t imagine what had taken him so bloody long, but she planned to give him a drubbing for it. And now there was no wind, so he would have to be towed to get out of the harbor.

It took two hours before the Iron Maiden’s prow breached the fog and ran alongside the Thunderstorm. It was another half hour before she saw Bataar catch a rope and swing from the poopdeck of the Iron Maiden to land beside Celia, who, suddenly amused at the sight of her, said:

“You look rather fetching, Mate.”

Bataar waggled her eyebrows. “I do, do I not? I could become accustomed to this.”

Indeed, she was still in the garb she had worn to infiltrate the harem. The silky loose pants were of sapphire and the tunic fuchsia, heavily embroidered with matching sapphire threads. Her elaborately decorated silk head scarf still concealed her hair, but the face veil hung by one diamond clasp, revealing her bo’sun’s cosmetic artistry.

“Has Smitty seen you?”

A sly grin grew upon her face. “Yes.”

“I will assume, then, that you were successful.”

Her grin turned into an affronted scowl. “Suniyya will be along shortly, but she is quite fragile. She did not recognize Solomon at first and did make some protest until he proved himself.”

“And then all was well?”

Bataar cast her a somber look. “No,” she said low. “She has been in chains and cannot walk properly. Her hands and feet have been broken many times and are all but useless.”

“God’s teeth,” Celia whispered, horrified.

“She has been used viciously and, as we thought possible, there are children. One girl, one boy.”

Celia heaved a frustrated breath. “Bloody hell. That gives the sultan another reason to give chase.”

“No. They are both Solomon’s.” Celia’s mouth dropped open. “Twins. She was barely enceinte when she was snatched from their bed, and the dey was enraged Solomon had planted seed before he could.”

“I am shocked they were not slaughtered.”

“They were made palace slaves to punish her, and are as fragile as she is.”

Celia looked back over her shoulder and wondered … “I will have Dunham propose to the fleet commander that we bombard the palace.”

“No need. Solomon has taken care of the matter.”

At that moment, an enormous explosion from shore startled Celia so badly she jumped back hard against the wheel, and she watched, fascinated, as massive flames shot hundreds of feet into the night sky, nearly blinding her with its brightness.

“I see that,” Celia said vaguely as she watched the port burn. “I assume this is what took you so long?”

“Yes. Sadly, the dey was not in residence.”

Of course not. This was his summer palace, and it had taken Dunham’s men a sennight to find out where she was being kept.

Celia sighed. It wouldn’t matter. The sultan would not know Suniyya and her children were missing, and would also believe the British had blown the city to bits.

“Jack.”

Celia turned at Solomon’s voice and looked to the tall, willowy figure beside him and leaning upon him heavily. She was covered from head to toe in black silk, even her hands. Only her eyes could be seen, but they were so heavily outlined in kohl, neither their color nor her skin color could be determined.

“Welcome aboard the Thunderstorm, Suniyya,” Celia said gently.

“Speak Arabic. I am not sure what French she has.”

Celia repeated herself.

Her veiled head turned up at Solomon. “You are among friends now, my love,” he murmured and shifted. It was then Celia saw he had grasped her hip to keep her from falling down. “May we take off your veil so that she can see your lovely face?”

Suniyya hesitated, but nodded haltingly. Solomon jerked his head at Bataar, who approached carefully and raised her hands slowly to the clasp that held the elaborate scarf and face veils in place.

And when they fell—

“Mother of God,” Celia whispered, aghast, staring at the woman in front of her.

“My love,” Solomon said carefully, “this is your cousin, Celia Bancroft. Your Aunt Marianne is aboard the ship that fetched us here. You are not only amongst friends, but blood family, family who has been looking for you since you were taken.”

Celia could not take her eyes off this woman. “Solomon, did you know?” she asked in English.

“I noted your mother’s resemblance to her,” he returned in like manner, “but did not think of it beyond the fact that many Englishwomen are beautiful in the same manner, and your mother is much older. It was not until Bataar brought her out that I realized.”

“Where are your children?”

“In the infirmary.” He paused, then continued low, “They are quite terrified of me.”

“Lud,” Celia breathed.

Suniyya al Ibrahim—Lady Sarah Munro—made a short sound, halfway between a gurgle and a peep. Solomon’s attention snapped to her. “Say what you will, my love.”

She began in halting Arabic as if Solomon would strike her if she said more than two words in a row. “Is … my papa … here?”

“No. He is in England.”

“Will you … take me … to him?”

Celia didn’t know whether it would be more of a hardship for Rathbone to see her like this or never see her again.

“Ah, Suniyya—”

“I want … my papa.”

Solomon and Celia exchanged appalled glances. “Ah … We—” Celia closed her mouth with a snap. “Suniyya. We cannot go back to England. We will not go back to England.”

She blinked rapidly for quite a long time before she spoke. It was unnerving, really. “You are … my … family?”

“I am your family, yes, but I am an American.”

Her brow wrinkled. She looked at Solomon, who was quite flustered, a state foreign to his stoic constitution. “American?”

“The United States of America. A British colony that is battling for its independence.”

“I want … my papa.”

“Your cousin has her own spouse to reunite with now, my love,” Solomon said gently enough, but there was an edge to his voice that Suniyya did not notice, but Celia did. She and Bataar exchanged a look.

“JACK!”

She turned at the bellow, and saw Dunham on the quarterdeck of the Iron Maiden just two longboat lengths away, his hands braced on his hips. He looked rather devilish in the light from the burning port, his long white mane glinting the same orange it had been once. He was grinning at her. “That was not a bad bit o’ piratin’, if I do say so meself.”

Celia laughed. “Aye, it was a very fine bit, Papa!”

He massaged his bearded chin with his thumb and middle finger. “Say, I’ve been meanin’ to tell ye— I’m proud o’ what ye done wit’ Skirrow.” He laughed. “Beheadin’. Couldna done better meself.”

Celia stared at her father in shock that he had just praised her. Aye, he had likely been prodded to it, but nothing could have forced him to say it if he did not already believe it.

“Well, don’t stand there lookin’ like a codfish wantin’ air. Ye seem to need the words said, so there they are.”

Her heart burst with joy and she grinned. “Thank you, Papa!”

He returned her smile and in that moment, she thought she saw his love for her.

“Solomon, please. I want my papa … ”

Celia huffed and looked over her shoulder at the desperately broken woman-child behind her, her mangled hands attempting to grasp Solomon’s tunic but failing.

“Ye sure ye doonna wanna come sail with yer ol’ da? We could clean up.”

She turned back with a grimace. “We could,” Celia agreed, “but I made a promise and I’m going to keep it.”

He shook his head. “You an’ yer alliances an’ promises. When will ye stop sailin’ through life from one promise to the next, ever addin’ to the list so ye never take care o’ yer own interests? ’Tis as if ye doonna want to do anythin’ fer yerself.”

“I want my husband for myself, and ’tis where I’m bound next.”

His eyebrow rose. “On a farm, yet, says yer ma. That’s a sight I’d like to see.”

“’Twill be a right sorry sight to be sure, but I’ve no need to worry about it until we win the war.”

“Cousin?” Celia looked over her shoulder to see Sarah looking at her with great confusion. “Do you … know … my papa?”

Celia took a deep breath. “Yes. Charles Munro, fourth Marquess Rathbone, Rear-Admiral of His Majesty’s Navy. Your mother and my mother are sisters. He has been searching for you for twenty years.”

She paused at that, as if she had not thought of such a thing. “Then why … will you not … take me to him?”

“Because I am a criminal in England. I will most assuredly be captured.”

“But treated as a prisoner of war,” Solomon said quickly.

Celia slid an incredulous look at him, her mouth slightly open. “Are you suggesting—”

“Husband,” Suniyya pleaded softly, “I would … very much … like to see … my papa. She has hers. I want mine, too.”

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Pirates!