Once a Pirate by Susan Grant Read Free Book Online

a striped stocking cap back on his head, allowing his reddish-blond hair to spill forward. The weather-beaten bandanna knotted just above his collar was as grubby as the rest of him.
    She patted the F-18 patch on her shoulder. “Later we’ll find a comfortable spot and talk jets some more.”
    His blue eyes flashed with anticipation. “Aye, the flying machines!”
    Theo was like every other thirteen-year-old boy she’d ever met: He loved hearing about fighter jets. Yet, unlike those teenagers, he showed no grasp of twenty-first-century culture or technology. She might as well add his all-encompassing ignorance to the list she was mentally compiling. Already, there were the dates in Andrew’s log; the ancient
London Times
clippings that appeared new; the crew’s assertions that it was 1821. Not to mention the utter absence of modern items on the
Phoenix.
    She shuddered—perhaps from her mounting fear, perhaps from a week’s worth of restless nights.
    Or perhaps from the noxious odors oozing under the galley door.
    Inhaling one last breath of fresh sea air, she followed Theo into the cramped galley. Vials, tins, and jars were wedged onto crooked shelves, and a pile of bloody chicken feathers was stuck to the table underneath. A pot rattled atop a scarred, rusty stove, its contents overflowing in sizzling bursts. The boiling chicken—or what she assumed was a chicken—did little to mask the smell in the room, reminiscent of the odor of a backed-up garbage disposal.
    The tall, gangly cook sat on a stool. It no longer surprised her to see him using a quill pen to scratch wavering trails of indecipherable numbers on the pages of his ledger. She’d come in several times since her capture, and the man was always working.
    “Hello, Mr. Willoughby,” Carly said.
    His wizened features softened. “Lady Amanda.”
    “Miss Carly,” Theo corrected.
    “Ah, yes. Miss Carly.” Willoughby rapped his knuckles on the side of his head. Then he selected several cylindrical tins from a wooden box. Reading the labels, he logged more figures into his book.
    “Would you mind heating some water for my bath? Mr. Gibbons said he’d carry the buckets to my quarters.”
    Willoughby set a kettle of water on the flames. He gestured to his stool.” ’Twill be a while yet. Have a seat.”
    Carly watched him stir the contents of a huge copper pot. The hunk of dried, salted beef had been towed overboard in a net to wash out much of the salt. Then Willoughby had boiled it all afternoon. Now he reached into the water with a ladle and scooped up a glob of the lumpy yellowish fat floating on the surface. “Fresh skimmings, milady. Fetch yourself a biscuit.”
    Carly’s stomach roiled. “You’re kind, really, but no thanks.”
    “I won’t hear of it, milady. Eat your fill while there’s the chance.” He slathered a thick layer of glistening fat atop a biscuit. “I’ll be selling the lot by noon tomorrow.”
    “You go right ahead and serve yourself, Mr. Willoughby. Don’t worry about me.”
    He made a tsking sound and ladled the remainder of the fat into a crock to cool and congeal.
    The ever-hungry Theo plucked two biscuits out of a basket, handing one to Carly as Willoughby served them soup.
    “If you won’t take your skimmings,” the cook said, “I want you to eat this. You’re too thin.”
    “I don’t know about that. I could live for a month off my thighs alone.” Carly tapped her biscuit on the sideboard to dislodge any weevils. Hunger had almost deadened her aversion to the creatures that inhabited the bread onboard the ship, but smearing unadulterated, artery-clogging fat on her biscuit was a line she would not cross. The men, though, were more than happy to buy the coveted lumps of lard. Willoughby made a handsome profit selling it.
    The curry-scented broth should have been tempting, but she didn’t feel like eating. She propped her chin on her hand and pushed her spoon through the maze of turnips and bits of