Markwick saluted the captain, then took Chloe by the hand. Together they moved down the mast, using beams to aid their progress. The way was steep, and broken equipment dangled in their path.
“Help me,” Chloe cried out when her foot got tangled in the yardarm ropes and her shoulder spun out over the frothy waves.
His gaze darted to the heaving sea beneath them as he instinctively moved to free her and keep her from falling. He clutched her closer, keeping her no farther from him than mere inches as they made their way to the tethered boats.
Quinn reached out and pulled Chloe aboard as Markwick secured his arms in the ropes and waited to be assured she’d found a steady foothold.
“Keep her safe,” he ordered, swinging upward and onto the mast.
“Where are you going?” Chloe shouted.
He ignored her frantic cry. Too many men had died already. He didn’t intend to leave anyone on the Mohegan, including the officer in charge who was determined to die a hero.
After a jerky climb, Markwick landed on the deck and felt it shift beneath his feet. “Send your men down, one by one.”
“You heard him. Move!” Captain Teague glared back at him as his men lined up and began to climb down to the boats. “Why did you come back?”
“To keep you from making a terrible mistake, Captain. I know what you plan to do and I cannot allow you to perish with your ship. We are at war, sir. England needs more men like you.”
“It’s my duty to go down with my ship.”
“You can do your men more good by staying alive.”
Seamen disappeared one after the other over the makeshift bridge, the process repeating itself until all fourteen had gone across and only Markwick and the captain were left.
The sea slapped against the jet-black rocks, hissing, spitting, and fashioning high plumes of spray that rained down on them before slowly evaporating, leaving a rinsed surface beneath their feet.
“After you,” Markwick said, carefully navigating the slick deck.
“That isn’t how this game is played and you know it, pirate.”
Markwick had wanted to die after discovering his father had betrayed him and left him with a scandal that would follow him for the rest of his life. But hearing that Chloe had chased after him, knowing that she might be in danger, and seeing her now had somehow given him hope. Surely there was something Captain Teague had to live for, too. There was no game more valuable than life.
Markwick narrowed his eyes. “I will not leave without you, sir.”
“Then you will die. Where would that leave your crew, those women?”
“We can all survive this.” Upon his soul, Markwick couldn’t allow the captain to turn the situation back around on him. How could Teague expect him to leave anyone alive behind? That went against every code he valued. He gestured toward the broken mast. “Now, say good-bye to your ladylove. She’s done for.”
Captain Teague searched the Mohegan’s disappearing lines one last time, defeat weighting his shoulders and anguish marring his face.
Nausea swirled inside Markwick. He knew how this would play out. The frustrating man had already resigned himself to die.
Still, he had to try to convince the man not to give up. It was his humanitarian duty. “Give her timber and cargo over to the heartless folk who wrecked her, so you can sail another day.”
“Good folk? Easy for you to say, pirate!” Teague’s rage was palpable. “Aye, if I wasn’t so desperate to save my crew, I’d suggest your timing is downright impeccable.”
How wrong he was.
“My timing? Why, if it had been any later, no one on board this ship would survive.” Markwick took a step forward. “Trust me.”
“I cannot. I will not.”
The Mohegan listed in high-pitched agony, groaning, creaking, as her ribs began to crack. A carronade broke free of its bonds, the large brass twelve-pounder rolling back and practically taking Markwick down the deck with it. He slipped, and Captain Teague grabbed his wrist before he fell to into the abyss.
“Go! Now!” Teague’s wide-eyed stare knifed through Markwick as the captain helped him to his feet.
How could he leave the man here to die? It wasn’t right.
“Captain!” their crews shouted together. “Hurry!”
Markwick clapped his hand over their joined fists, then nodded, overcome by how wretched fate could be. He disengaged, bowed, and took a step toward the mast.
Timber shifted beneath Markwick’s feet, and the deck buckled, beginning to separate under the strain. If the cutters didn’t make it out of reach, the Mohegan’s mast would pull it down when the ship cracked like a nut.
Chloe screamed, the sound seizing his heart, as the mast crashed into the sea.
“Go!” Teague shouted again. He hollered to the boats. “Cut away before you go down with her!” He peered at the ratlines, then cut a length of dangling rope, tugging on it for stability. He swung the lifeline to Markwick.
Markwick caught the rope and retrieved his sword. Without a thought to his own safety, he raised the steel and hacked the ropes holding the mast in place, releasing it.
“What have you done? Go, Regent! It’s the only way they’ll make it back to civilization unharmed.”
Quinn barked orders below, and the men bolted into action, hacking at the ropes linking the two ships together. Set free, the Mohegan wobbled as the broken mast slipped between the two vessels. Now neither Teague nor Markwick had a way to escape.
Wind whirred as the ship’s last remaining mast slowly began to topple, its rigging shredding, snapping, and pinging away from its blocks. Over the side, waves breached the broken mast’s long length, tearing at its ragged canvas, careening it away from the Mohegan and onto the rocks with a resounding, ear-piercing whack. Formidable rumblings mounted beneath their feet as water rushed into the bulkheads, and one by one the decks began to break up.
“Now you have no choice.” Captain Teague’s emotionless drone chilled Markwick to the bone. “You want to live. Go now. I belong here. I can’t let her go down alone.”
The Mohegan was broken and finally, so was her captain.
“Save them,” he pleaded.
“I will.” With little time to spare, Markwick gripped the rope Teague had provided. He ran to the port rail abaft of the mainmast’s remains, hurtling himself over the waterline just as the deck gave way.
The rope jerked and snapped, jarring his body. He let go, dropping down, plunging into the frothy, rolling swells. Icy cold shot into his bones as the violent currents tore at him, eager to carry him toward the Mohegan and certain death on the rocks. He fought hard to break free and finally rose to the surface, gulping life-giving air.
A brawny hand clasped onto his then, yanking him to safety. Within minutes, he found himself sprawled in the cutter, dripping wet, surrounded by men who clapped him on the back. Each smacking hand helped relieve his lungs and was a stinging reminder that he was alive.
Quinn was the most vocal. “Well done, Cap’n!”
He choked and coughed up seawater. “Pull . . . away.”
Oars clunked against the hull, grinding in their O-rings as crews in the two cutters bent their backs to row against the churning waves.
The Mohegan’s crew remained silent as their dismantled ship, along with their valiant and stalwart captain, listed and moaned in a long, perishing death knell.
Markwick penetrated the reverential silence. “We commend this ship and her captain to the depths.”
Chloe and Jane clung together, weeping.
Men mumbled, “Amen.” Some cleared their throats or wiped their eyes, but all—accustomed to the dangers at sea—fought to appear unaffected.
“I didn’t think we’d make it,” McHugh finally said.
“We almost didn’t.”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Markwick might have laughed. The irony was so acute. It would have been more fitting for him to perish with the unfortunate others instead of Capt
ain Teague. Death didn’t scare Markwick. Rather, he was terrified of dying without having left a legacy that would neutralize his father’s betrayals.
He bit back his resentment, ran his hands through his hair, and struggled to rise. “Take us back, Quinn.”
He moved through the boat, stepping between the thwarts, grasping the shoulders of his men for balance as he found a spot near Chloe and Jane. He cast Chloe a worried frown as he sat before them, wondering what she thought about her little adventure now.
She turned toward him. Her lower lip quivered almost imperceptibly. “That was nothing short of miraculous.”
“You are right in one respect only, my lady,” he said, attempting to sink her romantic notions. “It was nothing.”
She turned to Jane, clutching the woman’s shivering hands. “Nothing? We are alive thanks to the Black Regent’s heroic efforts.”
Alive . . . for now.
In her euphoria, Chloe had probably forgotten that wreckers waited just offshore. He doubted they’d wait much longer. In fact, he suspected they’d attack when they put out their fires and realized the Fury had picked up the Mohegan’s survivors. What then?
No. Only a fool—or flighty, indulgent female—would consider him heroic. Captain Teague was the true hero. He’d protected Chloe and died with dignity and honor while doing so. Teague’s steadfast code reminded Markwick that no matter what he did with his life, he must do everything in his power to continue the Black Regent’s legacy and restore the Halford name, be it as the Earl of Markwick or Marquess of Underwood.
But how did one restore one’s good family name? How did a man pretending to be a pirate repair an aristocratic title subject to gossip and revulsion?
Oars clunked against the rim of the cutter as men hauled them in, circling, heaving, and straining against the tide. Behind them, what was left of the Mohegan cracked and hissed, moaning hellishly as she broke apart, her beams cinched in a cracker, splintering and collapsing from view.
Markwick swallowed thickly, putting to memory the last images of the wreck and of the poor souls who had been cut down, then turned his attention to the Fury where a lantern motioned in the darkness.
If only destiny were so resourcefully guided.
Chapter 4
WOE to citizens on the CORNISH coast! A new SMUGGLER has emerged with a BLOODLUST unparalleled. Can the Black REGENT save us from Captain CARNAGE and the VIPER? Or will Captain CARNAGE and his crew of miscreants continue to OFFER no MERCY to shipping vessels at sea?
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 30 July 1809
Chloe huddled next to Jane, her book satchel held close to her chest. If she didn’t, she feared she’d lose her worldly treasure in the foaming swells that lapped against the cutter’s hull.
Likewise, Jane clutched their other belongings. Her maid’s resolve to keep Chloe dressed appropriately far surpassed any expectations Chloe had ever had of her faithful servant the day she’d enlisted her help. Together, they sat quietly at the bow of the boat, surrounded by strangers and the murky depths, shivering just beyond the captain’s reach.
Agonizing minutes ticked by as the small vessel listed, then righted on the rolling waves. Seamen grunted with effort, their strong arms maneuvering the mammoth-sized oars.
Markwick sat within arm’s reach. Chloe studied him from the safety of her sodden little perch, struggling to understand why he wore the Regent’s black mask tied around his shoulder-length dark hair. Black trousers molded like sculpted clay against his thighs, and leather bracers began mid-forearm and stopped at his wrists. Black leather boots finished off his swashbuckling attire.
The Regent was Markwick—she would know his voice anywhere—and yet, the earl had changed remarkably. She trailed her gaze appreciatively down his bare shoulders and back—now covered with salty brine—to his narrowing waist, noticing everything about him, mortified by the heated flush rising to her cheeks. It couldn’t be true! Could it? Markwick and the Regent were one and the same. The very idea seemed too impossible for words!
Why wasn’t Markwick in Penzance? How many people knew about his involvement as the Black Regent?
Unnecessary dialogue scrolled through her mind. Nothing in books she’d read had prepared her for this. And yet she was extremely fortunate and content to be near him, to have been saved from the circumstances in which she had found herself. If she didn’t survive, she could at least go to her grave knowing that she’d been given the chance to tell Markwick she loved him.
Markwick.
Her heartbeat raced with revitalizing fervor. She shivered and hugged his linen shirt closely about her. Was he cold? He’d given her the shirt off his back. And had he injured himself when he’d plunged into the sea to escape the sinking ship?
Seated in Markwick’s cutter, cloaked in his clothing, Chloe felt incredibly shallow. To think that she’d cast all inhibitions to the wind and sailed off for an enterprising adventure, only to need to be rescued by the very man she’d set out to find. Though she hadn’t known she’d be finding the Black Regent.
Regent sightings were rare for the average villager. She’d never known anyone who’d actually met the gallant hero that stole from the rich and gave to the poor.
Oh, to be sitting so near to him now, to have touched him, to be in love with him, is even more exceptional than I imagined it would be!
She fought to curb the jubilation pulsing through her veins, igniting her headstrong passions, and forced herself to remember this was all about her devotion to Markwick and the lives lost on the very ship on which she’d obtained passage. To anyone else, the Black Regent might be a dashing pirate who’d just plucked her off the Mohegan’s decks and saved her from certain death, but Markwick was also the man she loved.
She sighed, half trembling, half in despair. Unable to tear her gaze away, she desired to stretch out her fingers and touch the man, to assure herself that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. What kind of nightmare would that be, to discover she was dreaming and that Markwick really wasn’t there?
Oh, but the blackguard truly was just as she’d envisioned! In her mind’s eye, he’d been a swashbuckling champion born from the pages of fiction and fantasy. Now, sitting before her, was the living man whose very existence defied her infatuations because he was the man she loved. Broad-shouldered, lean, with a firm authoritarian profile, he stood a head taller than she did, and oh . . . when he’d held her in his arms on board the Mohegan, a lightheaded euphoria had immediately stunned her. Markwick had stood behind her before but only to teach her how to shoot a bow and arrow. Not like this. Never like this!
Her gaze lowered to his upper arms. They were thick, flexing muscular limbs capable of sweeping her off her feet at a moment’s whim. And oh, she wanted to be his Matilda. She wanted him to be her Theodore.
Bother. Matilda and Theodore were Horace Walpole’s creations. She and Markwick lived in the real world. She inhaled a breath of frigid, moist, salty air.
Admit the truth, you silly girl. Markwick triggered breathless exhilaration and the unbridled beat fluttering within her breast, not the Black Regent. For her, there had always only been the Earl of Markwick.
She searched the boat, settling on one face after another. Who were these men? What kind of intrigue had she stumbled upon? Finally, her gaze locked with Markwick’s. His blue eyes glinted like silver in the moonlight, flashing daggers of superior intellect and harbored secrets. No wonder the Black Regent championed the innocent and less fortunate. He came from wealthy, noble, honorable stock. Butterflies danced to life in her stomach, and she gasped. Did he know she’d recognized him? Surely he must have.
She broke free from his stare, freely studying the superior muscles rippling across his shoulders and arms with every movement. Her pulse raced like that of a horse spurred into motion as she effortlessly recalled how agreeable it had felt to touch and—Lord-a-mercy!—be touched by those very arms. There, in his embrace, she’d never felt so secure, so safe and protected,
when all around the danger convinced that the opposite was true with absolute abandon.
But how could Markwick possibly be the Black Regent? By her estimations, the Regent had been active on the Cornwall and Devon coasts for two years before Markwick had disappeared. And yet, the crewmen in this boat followed his orders, making it quite clear that Markwick was their captain.
Heaven help her, she was at sixes and sevens. If Markwick had been the Regent all along, that meant he’d known about Lord Underwood’s treachery and had pirated his own father’s ships long before the fracas in the wedding chapel and the duel he’d fought with Blackmoor on the Downs. But that didn’t make sense . . .
“Pinch me, Jane.”
Her maid peered sideways at her as if she’d grown two heads. “W-What?”
“Pinch me,” she insisted. “I must know whether this is really happening or not.”
“Are ye unwell, m’lady? I can assure ye our circumstances are very real without causin’ ye bodily ’arm.”
Chloe lowered her voice. “Do it.”
“Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn ye.” Jane shifted and cinched her thumb and forefinger on Chloe’s upper arm. With a tremulous frown, she squeezed . . . hard.
“Ouch!” Good heavens, she had no idea Jane was that strong!
Markwick and several men stationed at their oars turned their heads to discover the reason for her outburst.
She smiled wanly until they looked away and then whispered to Jane. “Did you have to pinch me so hard?”
“I cannot ’elp that my fingers are strong.”
“Very strong.” Chloe rubbed her arm to ease the sharp, stinging pain throbbing in that one spot. Never again would she take Jane’s strength for granted.
Jane leaned in. “Are ye swayed now?”
“Certainly,” Chloe answered as the prickling sensation faded.
So this isn’t a dream. The Mohegan had struck the rocks. Captain Teague and most of his men were dead. She didn’t dare cast a glance over her shoulder at the crippled ship. It reminded her only of tragedy and death, things she had yet to understand how to process. Instead, she concentrated on Markwick’s back, wondering if he could feel her eyes upon him.
When a Rogue Falls Page 33