When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  “Aye. Ye can count on us, Cap’n.”

  Markwick nodded curtly. His first mate was reliable and had proven a masterful scholar when it came to ships, especially concerning the Fury. And Markwick counted himself quite fortunate, indeed, that Blackmoor had hired Pye, whose strong connections had won them a ship of such superior design.

  He turned toward Quinn, a hulking man of Celtic descent whose strength had proven more valuable than brains. “Let’s go. We’ve no time to lose.”

  “We’ll not find it easy to keep from breaking on the rocks, sir,” Quinn said as he followed Markwick down the battens along the Fury’s hull.

  “We’ve got no choice.” If he and his crew were lucky, they could avoid the rocks and stabilize the boat long enough to get the other ship’s survivors on board. They had a favorable wind, at least, and the sea wasn’t particularly choppy. Good God, they had to try! “We’re the only chance they’ve got.”

  Once inside the cutter, Quinn proceeded to bark orders. “Oars! Put your backs into it, men!”

  Markwick situated himself at the bow and half turned to inspect the two-masted vessel they were approaching, her third mast having snapped in half already. Several sheets of canvas produced high-pitched squeals from their blocks, dancing violently in the wind, no longer taut bellied or heeling but rippling with ear-jarring booms. The mainmast snapped before their eyes, her length barreling down to drape over the larboard hull.

  “Aim for that mast,” Markwick ordered. “We’ll use it to bridge the boats.”

  “Aye, sir,” Quinn shouted.

  The closer they rowed to the disabled ship, the more Markwick weighed the outcome in his mind. How long before the ship succumbed to the forces of the sea and the rocks beneath it, splintering it in two? Would he be able to rescue survivors without risking the lives of his own crew?

  Something twisted cruelly in his gut, reminding him that people don’t always get a second chance, even though Prudence and Blackmoor had.

  If Chloe was on board that ship and he was able to successfully rescue her, what then? Her letter to Prudence clearly stated that she loved him. She’d cast aside propriety and chased after him, throwing the repercussions of her actions to the devil. No one had ever done that for him before. His mother had died when he was a mere boy of seven years old. His father had soon farmed him out to boarding school. He’d never known unconditional love. Hell, he only knew how to be loyal to friends. And his damned conundrum? Chloe was his friend’s younger sister.

  Am I man enough to fight for her, to risk loving the girl who’d grown into a woman right before my eyes, forcing me to distance myself before I lost Walsingham’s friendship?

  Spars creaked overhead as a violent tidal surge doused the ship. When the rinse receded, Markwick craned his neck to look high above them. There, the sole intact mast rocked to and fro, threatening the quarterdeck below and the hull’s formidable structure. Good God, nature had done her worst . . .

  His heart clenched. Was this foundering ship the Mohegan? Had Chloe risked life and limb for him? Was she even now struggling to breathe, lying ashore dying, or . . . dead? The Duchess of Blackmoor would never forgive him if that were the case. Chloe had been her mainstay during her period of mourning. Blackmoor would kill Markwick if he failed to ease Prudence’s mind by producing Chloe safe and sound. He couldn’t bear the weight of another death on his conscience. God knew he had a lifetime of penance to pay already.

  Swells sloshed over the bow of the cutter, the iridescent foam frothing over the gunwale as it cut through the rolling sea as his men—eight in all, including Quinn—pulled the oars.

  “Heave-ho!” his quartermaster shouted. “Heave-ho!”

  Beads of salt water clung to the faces of his men as they worked, rowing forward and back, their muscles flexing beneath wet calico shirts with each movement. Nearby, the eerie sounds of a ship in distress joined the slurping, sloshing tide as it pounded the wreck’s hull. Groaning timber loomed above them, higher and higher, grinding out an ominous rhythm as they rowed alongside.

  “We’ll throw you a line,” a stout hand hollered from above. “Tie off so the surf doesn’t batter you to pieces!”

  Quinn shook his head, immediately objecting. “No, Cap’n. If she breaks over us, we’ll go down with her.” He looked at the men stationed at their oars. “Hold her steady, boys!”

  His quartermaster was right, but what other choice did they have? “When Talbot and his men reach us, we’ll join our boats together.” Markwick moved across the thirty-four-foot boat, stepping over the thwarts and between his men, gesturing to the other cutter as it approached. “Talbot!” he shouted. “Toss your mooring lines!”

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Talbot repeated the order and gestured to several men who hefted ropes and threw them across the distance.

  Markwick ably caught the rope. “Brace our two boats together, men. We’ll use their broken mast as a bridge.”

  He inspected the fractured beam as he climbed the gunwale. A rogue wave splashed over him, and he wrapped his hands around the wooden beam to prevent slipping to his death. He shook water out of his face, then tested the mast’s stability to make sure it would hold his added weight.

  “It appears sound!” he shouted back to his crew.

  “Help us!” men shouted from above.

  “Hold where you are. I’m coming to you!”

  Quinn jerked Markwick’s arm. “No, Cap’n. It’s too dangerous. What if the mast gives way?”

  “That’s the chance we’ll have to take. Someone has to test it, and it might as well be me. I have to find out if Chloe is on board.”

  “She’s ready!” a man with an authoritarian bearing shouted down to them.

  Quinn grabbed Markwick’s arm. “Could be a trick.”

  “Innocents clubbed to death on shore are not part of any trick.” Markwick shrugged off Quinn’s hand. “I’ll go first.”

  He grabbed hold of a precariously angled yardarm, climbing onto the thicker beam, then walked ably across the timber up to the pitching rail. Someone extended a hand out to him. He accepted it and landed nimbly on the ship’s main deck.

  “How many are still alive?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Welcome aboard.” A large man, done up in officer’s finery, moved forward. He ushered Markwick to the side. “I’m Captain Teague, and I’m indebted to you.”

  Markwick quickly assessed the man, acknowledging him with a nod. “Captain.”

  “I don’t care why you wear that mask. What is important is that you came to our aid. I cannot express how relieved and grateful I am, sir. I am at your service.”

  “No time for pleasantries, captain.” He inspected the battered deck. “What ship is this?”

  “The Mohegan, sir.”

  Markwick’s heart slammed into his rib cage. “The Mohegan, you say?”

  I made it! I have found Chloe . . . haven’t I?

  He glanced at the haggard faces staring back at him. Chloe’s wasn’t one of them. Hell’s fury, wasn’t she aboard?

  The sounds of the ship’s destruction pummeled his ears, loudly heralding the passage of valuable time. Wood ground against wood. Sails yanked against their blocks, protesting their neglect. Waves thundered against the deadly rocks imprisoning the ship, raining slippery spray over the deck.

  Angry voices rose in the distance, and Markwick fought to control the bloodlust raging through him.

  Am I too late?

  “From what ship do you hail, sir?” Teague asked.

  Would the truth keep these men from accepting aid? They’d be fools to refuse.

  “The Fury,” he admitted confidently.

  “The Fury!” Several cries erupted among the Mohegan’s crew. “It is the Black Regent!”

  Markwick stared down the men. “What difference does it make who has come to help you?” He turned back to Captain Teague. “Are there any injured aboard, passengers who need particular attention?”

  Markwick prayed
no one on board had been harmed, but the ship’s sparse crew and crippled condition proved otherwise. Smugglers had wrecked the ship, luring it to the rocks with lead lights. Even now, the scabrous cowards waited on the beach, their carefully angled lights signaling the other ship offshore.

  Captain Teague’s shoulders sagged slightly but enough for Markwick to understand the heavy weight the man bore. “Those who survived have minimal injuries.”

  “Then we must hurry to get everyone on board our boats so we can transport you to safety. I’m not sure how much time the Mohegan has left.”

  “There are . . .” Teague hesitated, assessing if he could trust Markwick. “Two passengers take precedence over my crew.” The captain disappeared momentarily, then produced two women. “Lady Chloe, Jane, this man will take you to safety. I give you over to his care.”

  At the sound of Chloe’s name, Markwick’s breath caught. She is here—now—alive! Would she recognize him? Would she divulge his identity if she did? Impatiently, he waited for Chloe to step out from behind the captain’s large frame. When she did, his first reaction was one of relief. Then, as he inspected her for any signs of injury and found no visible evidence that she’d been hurt, her appearance nearly stole his breath. This was not the Chloe he remembered, the young lady who’d followed him around like a puppy. It had only been a few months but no mere girl stood before him now! A grown woman stood in her place, shivering in a green pelisse that hugged her figure so completely that nothing was left to his imagination.

  Upon my soul, she’s magnificent!

  No, this was not the high-strung redheaded child he forced himself to remember but a full-figured woman who stared at him like he hung the moon and stars. Fabric molded to her full breasts, clinging to her skin and the hips perfectly suited for childbearing. No wonder Walsingham had ensured her curves were fashionably hidden. If Chloe’s physical attributes had been known, the captain would have never kept suitors, let alone his friends, at bay!

  Markwick’s reaction struck him so swiftly, he nearly stumbled backward. Was it the same for her? What did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the pirate or the man who’d never felt more human in his life than he did standing before her now?

  Their gazes clung. Was it possible to fool someone who claimed to love you enough to sail to the farthest reaches of England to find you?

  He had to try. He tore his stare away from her then inspected the young woman standing closely beside Chloe. She looked familiar. Jane, is it?

  He cleared his throat. “We will transfer the women first.” But he had to do something about Chloe’s appearance before he did. Without another thought, he loosened the laces on his shirt and pulled the linen fabric over his head, stepping forward to drape the garment over Chloe’s shoulders.

  Her defiant, intelligent, seductive, wide, violet eyes bore into him. “It’s you,” she whispered. “I knew you’d come. Thank you.” Her warm breath came out in a rush, heating his skin with a fiery urgency he tamped back before he stepped away.

  Of course. The pirate had always been the hero of her dreams, not him. And yet, for one moment, he’d wanted her to recognize him somehow. He craved for her to know it was he who had come to save her.

  Quinn, a brawny man with wide muscular shoulders, sauntered forward, following suit. He offered Jane the use of his shirt.

  Jane’s eyes widened, but she nodded her thanks. The poor maid was clearly terrified.

  Chloe took hold of Jane’s hand. “I told you God would send us an angel and he has. Look, it’s—”

  “Come.” Markwick had no idea whose name Chloe was going to use but he couldn’t take the chance she’d expose him. “We’ve no time to waste.”

  “Now, see here,” Captain Teague said, his face straining under pressure, “light as life, I have standards. I have heard of the Black Regent. Aye, your name precedes you, sir. I must have your promise that you will not put these women in jeopardy.”

  Markwick turned to the captain. Blocks squealed in protest as canvas rippled and popped with ear-piercing thwacks above them. The hull shook beneath their feet, forcing them all to straddle the deck. Men looked to him in awe and fear.

  “You have no choice but to trust us.” He sensed, more than saw, several of the Fury’s men land on the deck behind him.

  “I do!” Chloe’s impassioned plea kept Markwick from turning to his men. “Captain Teague, we have no reason to fear these men, I assure you.”

  “A young woman like you cannot possibly know what these men are capable of,” Teague argued.

  “We’re offering these women and the rest of your crew a chance to live, Captain.” Without another thought, Markwick motioned to Jane. “Quinn, take Jane down to the cutter.”

  Quinn nodded. Then McHugh, a portly man with surprisingly good balance, stepped up to take Chloe’s hand.

  “Not this one,” Markwick told him. He snagged Chloe’s arm, overcome by a possessive urge to keep her close. “I will see to the lady’s safety myself.” He glanced around the deck to the unhappy faces of the Mohegan’s crew. “How many more are left?”

  “Women? None.” Teague inspected the faces of his crew. “This is all that remains of us. The rest of my men met their deaths on the rocks or while trying to swim ashore.”

  “Nasty business.” Markwick spat. “We don’t abide wreckers.” He did a fast count, keeping his mind on the task they faced. Fourteen. “How many numbered your crew?”

  “When we left Torquay? Fifty hands.”

  Fifty? That meant those damned scavengers had murdered thirty-six men!

  “Very well. We cannot change what has passed, but perhaps we can turn this to our advantage. I’ll take Lady Chloe first. Send your men over the bridge after me. One at a time. Understood? We have no idea how sturdy our bridge will prove to be or how long the Mohegan will remain afloat.”

  Captain Teague organized his men. “We’ll rig the mast and hold it steady while the transfer is done.” Determination glinted in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Captain.” But Markwick understood the man’s intent. He’d been trained well. He wouldn’t leave the bridge until the last man had gone across. Could Markwick blame him? The Bible verse, He who is first must be last, came to mind.

  Teague nodded as if a silent communication sparked between them. He did not intend to leave his ship. “Owens, Tindle, take hold of the line there.”

  When the men had done his bidding, Markwick gave Quinn a nod.

  Quinn grabbed Jane by the hand. “No.” She pulled away. “I cannot leave m’lady. She must go first.”

  “Crazy wench,” Quinn fussed, grappling at her resistant form. “You’re going to get killed.”

  “Jane is not crazy.” Chloe tried to jerk out of Markwick’s reach, but he held her fast. She turned to him, her pleading stare knifing into his heart. “She cannot swim. She’s afraid. Please. I know you care. Take Jane first. Get her to safety.” Her attention settled back on Jane. “Once I know you are safe, I shall follow.”

  Jane nodded, albeit slowly, as if Chloe had settled her fears somewhat. She raised her gaze to meet Quinn’s. “I’m f-frightened.”

  Quinn’s demeanor instantly softened. “Why, it’s no different than steppin’ out on a bright sunny day, lass. Follow me,” he said, stepping onto the beam, then lifting her up to follow. “That’s it. Don’t look down. I won’t let go. I promise.”

  “Quinn, is it?” At Quinn’s nod, Chloe smiled and called out. “He’s almost as big as a tree! Quite capable of protecting you, Jane. I assure you.”

  Instinctively, Markwick put his arm around Chloe’s shoulders. How good of her to insist a servant in her care should be led to safety first. Chloe’s concern for her maid surprised Markwick, but it shouldn’t have. He recalled how she always thought of others before considering her own needs. Hadn’t she been the one to encourage the Duchess of Blackmoor to move on with her life, to allow Markwick to help her manage her unentailed estate, and then, after a year of mournin
g, accept his marriage proposal at the expense of Chloe’s own apparent feelings for him? Wasn’t that the truest form of unconditional love? She’d valued his and her friend’s happiness over her own.

  A knot rose in his throat.

  Quinn descended to the cutter with Jane, who twice found herself wrapped in her colossal protector’s arms upon unfortunate missteps. With each one, Chloe tightened her grip on Markwick’s arm and sucked in a breath. The action burned Markwick, traveling to his extremities and his very core, making him ache to know what her touch would feel like elsewhere on his body. If the merest contact coursed through and through him with unexplainable fiery heat, a heat he’d never experienced before, what would a kiss bring?

  He dropped her hand as if he’d been stung and sought distance between them as Quinn and Jane found purchase in the waiting boat.

  “Are you ready?” he asked Chloe.

  “Yes . . . I-I am ready.” Her voice shook only slightly, proving she did trust him no matter who she thought he was.

  He couldn’t afford to lose her, not after Blackmoor had charged him with bringing her home safely, not when his best friend depended on his aid whether he knew it or not.

  He reached for the bundle she held in her arms. “This will only hinder your safety.”

  She yanked the satchel back. “Books are my life!”

  “Nothing is as important as living.” When her stubborn arms refused to comply, he released a ragged breath. “Very well. Hand it to me. I’ll make sure it gets aboard.”

  The ship rocked and a loud thunderclap of sound echoed around them, followed by a loud, menacing wail.

  Her fingers dug into his arm. “Promise me you won’t drop it.”

  Markwick pulled Chloe closer. “I promise.” He escorted her to the beam. There was no time to lose. “Hold the mast secure.” He bowed to the captain. “Once we’re down, send someone else.”

  “Aye,” Captain Teague agreed. “You heard him, men. Control the lines! Cinch those knots tight!”