"Could be she be fine come mornin,'" argued White.

"An' if she ain't?" fired MacTavish.

Hornbach thumbed to his right. "MacTavish is senior among us. He should be captain."

The burly Scot near choked on his rum. "I can tell ye how much powder to use if ye want to blow a tick off an arse at twenty yards, but I don't know nothin' about navigating a ship."

"Summer?" Ric asked.

"Ye want te be sailing in circles?"

White raised his hands in surrender. "Don't be lookin' te me."

"Ric, you got some navigatin' skill," noted Hornbach.

He shook his head. "I'm a gunner, not a captain."

"Ye be a captain now." MacTavish slapped the table. "Yer all we got ken read a chart."

Ric jerked. "Me? Captain of the Scarlet Night? Yer all daft."

MacTavish leaned in. "It's you or Dowd, here, an' he's barely out of short pants."

"I call fer a vote." Summer raised his hand. The rest followed. "Majority rules. Ricochet Robbins be the new captain."

Ric finally raised his own hand, but added. "Just until Tupper is up to the task."

Nods and shrugs circled the table. "Done."

"Aye."

"Agreed."

Ric Robbins was now Captain of the Scarlet Night.

"Don't be bouncing us off anything, eh, Ricochet?" jibbed Summer.

MacTavish filled all their tankards to the brim. "That's settled. Now I say, we drink to our new captain." They raised their mugs and toasted Ric.

The sun was setting on the day that had begun with such bright promise. Never could Ric have imagined it would end like this. He remembered a few of the last words he'd said to Captain Quinn in jest, "Ye could always make me captain."

The thought sent a shaft of pain through Ric. He was no Gavin Quinn. Not even close. But he owed it to his ship and his crewmates to do the best he could. He owed it to Jocelyn Beauchamp to see her delivered safe to her father, and he owed it to his Captain to take care of the Scarlet Night and what was left of her crew.

Ric lifted his tankard. "To hell with me," he countered, "tonight, we drink to our dead."

Chapter 6.

Jocelyn pushed at the abundance of food upon her plate. She'd never eat all this in a week. Here in the galley, the men had spent the last hours eating and drinking as much rum as they could hold. They swapped stories about their fellow crewmates, lifted their mugs to each of their memory. Laughed, cried, sang. The revelry swirled around her. In their drunken state, they hardly noticed her presence. They toasted everything from one man's mother to another's pet rat.

The large Scotsman, who'd helped remove the heavy iron shackles that bound her wrists when she'd been brought aboard--MacTavish his mates called him--slammed an overflowing mug of rum down in front of her before giving her a good natured pat on the back. The blow jarred her teeth. "Drink up, Lassie."

Jocelyn had never been one to imbibe in spirits. It was strictly forbidden. Alcohol, namely wine was only allowed during Communion and at evening meals, of course, but the Sisters of Sainte-Genevieve served a weak, watered down Boudreaux one could scarcely call wine. One small glass. Never more.

She eyed the tall tankard. Perhaps she could take a little taste. Lift her own glass in salute to those she lost today. Sister Bernadette would turn in her grave should Jocelyn toast to her with such a brew. Curiosity was a powerful thing, however. Temptation, the devil's tool.

When Jocelyn had departed from the Abbey, an odd feeling had enveloped her. For the first time in her life she had felt freedom. Even under the hawk-like stare of Sister Bernadette, she was outside the thick stone walls that had sheltered her, caged her, most of her life.

It was true she was heading to her father only to be locked in another cage of sorts, but the sliver of time between had been exhilarating in a way Jocelyn had never dreamed. Heady. She was no fool, she knew her fate. What little freedom she experienced during their crossing would soon come to an end. But for a brief moment, for her, it breathed new life into her lungs.

Being captured and dragged through the fetid streets of Port Royal had been terrifying. The thought of what might have been...horrifying. Even now, surrounded by pirates not knowing what was to come, frightened her. And yet... If asked, she would have to confess that there lay a tiny spark deep within her that looked upon this night as a continuation of some grand adventure. One for which she was destined.

One she had been longing for her entire life.

The sweet, burnt aroma of the rum reached out to her. She leaned closer for another whiff. The strong fumes stung her nose. She pulled back and looked around at the others. They drank this? Willingly?

Once again, curiosity enticed her. She slid the tankard closer, and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. At the abbey there was always someone watching. Jocelyn gave herself a shake. She wasn't at the abbey, and she wasn't a child. If she wanted a taste of rum, then she would have one. Perhaps she would have two.

She dropped her chin and marveled at her bravado. When had she become so unrefined? When had the fact that she was alone in a room full of men--pirates--not scandalized her?

She'd never been without a chaperone before this morning. Alone with a man, let alone half a dozen was a disgrace. Her reputation lay in tatters at her feet. She should be horrified. Traumatized. Not reckless and wild and contemplating swilling rum like some tavern wench--if that was indeed what tavern wenches swilled.

The men before her lifted their mugs to their uncertain futures. With a cheeky grin, she followed suit.

The liquor blazed a fiery passageway into her belly. Had she swallowed burning treacle? It stole her breath and turned it into that of a dragon. Jocelyn set her drink down then covered her mouth with her hand and choked. Hot fingers unfurled like scorching tentacles through her body as her eyes watered in protest.

MacTavish circled back, staggered, and jostled her table. Rum sloshed from Jocelyn's mug and ran to drip off the edge.

"A thousand pardons, lass." He refilled her drink from the bottle he'd been hoisting.

"How can you drink this?" Jocelyn coughed again and pushed it away. "It's liquid fire."

MacTavish pushed it back. "After the third or fourth swallow, ye not be noticing the flames." He joked. "After the ninth or tenth, ye'll not notice damn near anything."

"Don't force her te drink, ye damn fool." Ric stared down at her with eyelids at half-mast. How many swallows had he had? "Can't be deliverin' Beauchamp's daughter drunk as a Finnish flounder."

Why she took his words as a personal challenge she didn't know. Jocelyn straightened in her seat, pulled the tankard back toward her, and turned the flame in her stomach into an inferno with a large gulp. She put the back of her hand against her lips. Partly to stifle the gasp threatening to escape, partly to keep her stomach from throwing it back.

Ric's expression of disbelief was followed by another good-natured wallop from MacTavish's meaty paw against Jocelyn's shoulder. "See there. None be forcing the lass."

Jocelyn recovered her ability to speak after what seemed like a week. "The nuns drank rum all the time." She lied and took another healthy swallow to prove her point. "L-like mother's milk," she wheezed.

Ric narrowed his eyes at her before turning back to the others. MacTavish once again topped off her mug.

Jocelyn slumped when Ric's back was turned. She was feeling slightly lightheaded. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation. She caught Ric looking back over his shoulder toward her. Now that she had started this game, she was obliged to finish it. She took another drink.

MacTavish was right. After the fourth sip, the burning had lost some of its edge and become more of a bright heated glow. It made her feel flushed. She raised cool hands to her overheated cheeks, the chilled tips of her fingers a blessed feeling against her skin.

Any more of this, and she'd be lifting her skirts and dancing about singing sea shanties like a true pirate. Only pirates didn't wear skirts. Not even women pirates.

As soon as the words slipped through her mind, she thought of Tupper. Fascinating woman. Jocelyn had never met anyone like her. But tonight, her heart went out to her. She'd been dealt such a blow. It was clear that she must have loved Captain Quinn a great deal. Jocelyn wondered how they met. How they fell in love. Was it love at first sight? Had they been pledged in marriage, then came to have feelings for one another? Or had she been one of the pirate's captives? Held against her will only to have her heart softened by a handsome scoundrel?

Jocelyn's maiden imagination got the better of her. She was being far too dreamy. Silly. Sister Bernadette would have called her a flibbertigibbet for getting lost in such a nonsensical daydream. Love. What did Jocelyn know of love? To her it was as foreign as rum.

Ah...rum.

She gave a small laugh, and took another sip. Her head was quite light. Around her things seemed to move in a slow blur. Maybe she would go out on deck and get some air to clear the childish musing of her mind. At the same time, she wondered if Tupper would want something to eat. There was still plenty of food filling the table. Jocelyn found a long wooden trencher and filled it with bread, fruit, and roasted fowl.

Managing the trencher and lantern while navigating the ladder way below proved more complicated than it should have. The effects of the rum were playing havoc with her coordination.

It took her two trips, but Jocelyn managed to get herself, the heavy iron lantern, and the trencher down to the deck below without injury. Making her way through the narrow galley way, she stopped at Tupper's quarters. She placed the lantern at her feet and held the trencher under one arm to knock.

"Tupper? Are you well? I've brought you some food."

No sound came from within. Perhaps she was sleeping.

"Tupper?" Jocelyn tried the latch. It was locked.

Below deck, the movement of the ship was more pronounced than above. It was hot and smelled of tar and fish and bilge. The combination of rum, heat, and sway of the ship was making her slightly nauseous.

"I'll leave this here."

Once back on deck, Jocelyn pulled great gulps of fresh sea air into her lungs. The cooler night air, a blessing. Overhead the stars carpeted the sky and dipped to twinkle in the ripples of the sea. It was as if the ship floated in a glittery bubble.

Jocelyn slid down the inside of the ship's rails to sit. She pulled open the edges of Ric's shirt to allow the chilled air to whisper over her skin and cool her heated cleavage.

"There you are." Ric staggered, then half sat, half dropped alongside her. "Thought we'd lost you, too."

Jocelyn tugged the neckline of the shirt back as best she could. "I needed some air."

"Aye...air." He lifted his bottle, took another drink, and passed it to her.

She shook her head. "I think I've had enough for tonight."

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. For a long minute she thought he'd succumbed to the alcohol and fallen asleep. The lantern's light carved shadows across his handsome face. His legs stretched out long in front of him encased in snug buff homespun ending in tall unpolished boots.

Jocelyn was tempted again, although not for rum. Something much more intoxicating. She simply wanted to touch him. Feel the solid muscle of his chest and arms. Run her fingertips across the scratch of his jaw. Lay them upon the small tender well at the base of his throat where she could see the pulse of his heart. She'd like to kiss him there.

A tremble of remembrance tumbled through her. Jocelyn flushed in the dark. She wanted him to touch her again, too. Feel the rake of his fingers along the back of her thigh. His breath against the side of her neck. What would it be like to have his lips upon hers? She was suddenly curious to find out.

Ric stirred and startled her. He dragged a heel across the deck boards to raise one knee. "I can't be captain," his voice quiet on the night air. "What the bloody hell they be thinkin?'"

"Sounded to me like you're the most qualified."

Ric cranked open one eye to peer at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "What do you know about it? So I can read a chart. There be more te captaining than knowing which way be north. I'm a two-bit scallywag scraping through this life by the seat of me britches." He turned and looked her over. "You sure are a beauty. Took my breath from me first time I laid eyes on ya."

He reached out to her with the hand that still held the bottle and ran the backs of his knuckles over the edges of the shirt she wore. "In my shirt. So lovely. Damn kissable mouth. Sorry now I didn't kiss you when I had the chance."

Jocelyn held her breath. Each pass of his hand lowered the wide neckline a bit and brushed a careless knuckle across the swell of her breast.

He pulled his hand away to take another swallow from his bottle. "Most beautiful woman ever been in me shirt. Just don't be thinkin' 'bout gettin' in me pants." He stomped his boot. "I'm puttin' my foot down on that one." He scowled at her. "If I'm captain now, there'll be no more sharing my pants with every female we come across." Ric pointed the bottle at her. "That's an order."

Ric closed his eyes again. "My first order." He laughed. "No more women in my pants." A low moan escaped him. "I can't be the bloody captain..."

Chapter 7.

The sun burned into his brain through the painful cracks of his eyelids. Ric didn't dare move. Bloody hell! How much had he drunk last night? Maybe if he sat perfectly still, he could die right on this spot and never have to fully open his eyes again.

"Well, look what we have here. Captain?"

Knives pierced his skull. Why were they screaming? And why did it feel like his clothes were made of lead?

"Ric?" The screamer kicked his boot. "Captain Ric?"

Captain Ric? He was too hungover for games. Ric tried to kick back, but his leg was pinned.

"Go away," he managed to mumble. Good Lord, his mouth tasted like it was full of dead barnacles. Captain Ric. Suddenly it all came rushing back. The horrible events of yesterday weren't a gruesome nightmare. They were real. Gavin Quinn and most of their crew were dead, and by some form of insanity--and a barrel of rum--the rest had made him captain.

Ric groaned. The last thing he remembered was--the weight holding him down shifted and moaned in return. Jocelyn.

He peeled open one eye. The woman was spread across his chest like honey on bread. Dark curls hid her face. Her skirts were hitched high allowing a pale bare thigh to rest over his hip, and her knee...well, her knee was precariously placed.

"Don't ya two make fer a cozy couple?"

Damm. Attempting to lift his hand to shield his eyes from the flaming arrows of the sun, he released the grip he still had on his bottle. The glass toppled from his hand and rolled away.

MacTavish stopped it with his boot and bent to pick it up. He tipped it over. Not a drop remained. "Dinna leave a tipple for a tosspot."

"Jocelyn," Ric mumbled. The word blasting through his skull.

"La lumiere. Couper la lumiere." She moaned, curling tighter into Ric's side, her knee crushing into his balls. "Please turn out the light."

"Jocelyn." He shoved at her hip. "Get off me, woman."