Pirate Latitudes: A Novel by Michael Crichton

angry. In the clear water, Hunter could see that she was rather too thin for his taste, a small-breasted, bony woman with a pinched face. But her anger aroused him.
    “Indeed, I fear I do refuse.”
    “Then sir, I have misjudged you. I thought you would extend common courtesy and ordinary good manners to a woman at a disadvantage.”
    “What is your disadvantage?” Hunter asked.
    “I am plainly naked, sir.”
    “So I see.”
    “And this spring is cold.”
    “Is it?”
    “It is indeed.”
    “You have just perceived this?”
    “Sir, I shall ask you once more to cease this impertinence and allow me a moment’s privacy to dry and clothe myself.”
    In reply, Hunter walked down to the edge of the water, took her hand, and hauled her onto the rock, where she stood dripping and shivering, despite the warmth of the sun. She glared at him.
    “You’ll catch your death of chill,” he said, grinning at her discomfiture.
    “Then let us be equal,” she said, and abruptly pushed him, fully clothed, into the water.
    He landed with a splash, and felt a shock as the icy water touched his body. It made him gasp for breath. He floundered about, while she stood on the rock, laughing at him.
    “Madam,” he said, struggling. “Madam, I beseech you.”
    She continued to laugh.
    “Madam,” he said, “I cannot swim. I pray you to help—” And his head bobbed underwater a moment.
    “A seafaring man who cannot swim?” And she laughed more.
    “Madam . . .” was all he could say as he came to the surface then sank again. A moment later, he struggled up, splashing and kicking with no coordination, and she looked at him with concern. She reached out her hand, and he kicked and sputtered toward her.
    He took her hand and pulled hard, flinging her high over his head. She screamed loudly, and landed flat on her back, with a stinging slap; she shrieked again as she went under. He laughed when she came to the surface. And helped her out onto the warm rock.
    “You are nothing,” she sputtered, “but a bastard, a rogue, a cutthroat vicious rascally whoreson scoundrel.”
    “At your service,” Hunter said, and kissed her.
    She broke away. “And forward.”
    “And forward,” he agreed, and kissed her again.
    “I suppose you intend to rape me like a common street woman.”
    “I doubt,” Hunter said, stripping off his wet clothing, “that it will be necessary.”
    And it was not.
    “In daylight?” she said, in a horrified voice, and those were her last intelligible words.

Chapter 11
    I N THE MIDDLE of the day, Mr. Robert Hacklett confronted Sir James Almont with disturbing news. “The town is rife with rumor,” he said, “that Captain Hunter, the same man with whom we supped yesterday past, is now organizing a piratical expedition against a Spanish dominion, perhaps even Havana.”
    “You place credence in these tales?” Almont asked calmly.
    “Your Excellency,” Hacklett said, “it is a simple fact that Captain Hunter has caused to have provisions for a sea voyage put aboard his sloop Cassandra .”
    “Probably,” Almont said. “What proof is that of crime?”
    “Your Excellency,” Hacklett said, “with the greatest respect I must inform you that, by rumor, you have countenanced this excursion, and indeed may have made pecuniary gestures of support.”
    “Do you mean I paid for the expedition?” Almont said, a little irritably.
    “In words to that effect, Sir James.”
    Sir James sighed. “Mr. Hacklett,” he said, “when you have resided here a little longer — let us say, perhaps, a week — you will come to know that it is always the rumor that I have countenanced an excursion, and have paid for it.”
    “Then the rumors are groundless?”
    “To this extent: I have given papers to Captain Hunter authorizing him to engage in logwood cutting at any convenient place. That is the extent of my interest in the matter.”
    “And where shall he cut this logwood?”
    “I’ve no notion,” Almont said.