“This isn’t . . .” Walsingham scowled as if the admission cost him everything. “The way I’ve always dreamed of boarding this ship.”
“No,” Markwick agreed. “You labored to take the Fury as your prize.”
He understood the devastation gouging the man’s vanity. He identified with every single emotion flickering through Walsingham’s bones. The captain had been the Black Regent’s greatest foil. He’d made it his life’s goal to bring the Regent to justice and had been the Fury’s nemesis as the two battled for dominance along the coast and at sea.
“I could have let you drown,” Walsingham snapped. His tone attacked Markwick’s integrity like the launch’s wooden hull grinding against the Fury, beating out an uneven, rhythmic tempo.
“I know,” Markwick said on a sigh. He never meant to be a good pirate nor did he boast about being a decent one. He was, remarkably, an opportunist. Every day proved itself a good day when he helped those less fortunate and didn’t get caught. “Thank you for saving my life, Wall.”
Quinn moved to the battens, preparing to board the ship. He shot Markwick a worried frown. “Two captains on board one ship never bodes well.” His expression reminded Markwick how long it would take to sail back to Exeter. And would Walsingham turn them all in once he knew Chloe was safe?
The quartermaster shook his head and began scaling the hull.
Walsingham ignored Quinn. “I can’t believe my eyes. You’ve got the mask, the clothes, but . . .” He took off his hat and ran his hands through his singed, sooty hair. “The voice is . . . different somehow.”
“There are many things about the Regent you don’t yet know.” Markwick pointed to the battens, gesturing for Walsingham to precede him.
Walsingham hesitated. “Have you lost your mind? Breaking the law, becoming this . . . this . . . pirate. Is this to settle a score against those who incarcerated your father?”
“My father?” The word left a foul taste in his mouth. “The mongrel deserved to die in prison.”
“I don’t know why you’ve thrown your title away and put on the Regent’s mask, but know this: you are only alive because my sister cares for you.”
Markwick gulped, fearing what Walsingham would say next. “You know of her feelings for me?”
“I’ve always known, Markwick. Why do you think I’ve been so hard on her?” He placed his hat back on his head and righted his uniform. “She has a heart of gold, that one. No one has ever been good enough for her. Though—” he took off his bicorn and scratched his head “—I never thought she’d be fool enough to chase after you.”
“She didn’t just chase after me. She found me.”
“How? No one has been able to find you. Even I have tried.” Baffled, Walsingham knit his brows together. “The Black Regent’s ship is certainly the last place I would have looked.”
“If,” Markwick reminded him, “you could have caught the Fury.”
“Do you intend to rub my nose in it or tell me how Chloe found you?”
Would Walsingham even believe him? What would he do when he found out Markwick loved Chloe in return? Perhaps even go so far as to prevent Markwick from ever seeing her again now that they both knew he plied a trade outside the law.
He fastened his attention on Walsingham. They were halfway up to the deck. “She booked passage on the Mohegan and sailed to Penzance.”
“And why isn’t she there now?”
Markwick swallowed, dreading his friend’s reaction. “Carnage lured her ship to the rocks off Coverack. We barely reached her in time to save her. When I found out the ship was the Mohegan, I—”
“You saved her and then sent her to the Marauder’s Roost?” Walsingham halted mid-step.
“I love her, Wall. I’ve only ever meant to protect her.”
“From whom?”
“Myself.”
Chapter 14
Sherborne Mercury confirms another ship was forced to ENYS HEAD where it broke up on the ROCKS and was stripped of tightly packed TOBACCO, WINE, TEA, and COCOA, and quickly SPIRITED away to be HIDDEN in a nearby church from EXCISE officers.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 13 August 1809
Whatever you do, do not anger my brother this night.
Oriana’s words echoed in Chloe’s head, especially the confident way in which they’d been bestowed. “Don’t be afraid,” she’d said, as if hinting that her brother was someone of whom to be afraid.
Jane, visibly shaken, stared back at Chloe in wordless horror. The poor girl had obviously not recovered from the thunderclap of sound in the back, a sound that had heightened the tension thickening in the Roost.
Chloe chose her words carefully, borrowing the casual tone she used to discuss the weather or a scene in one of her beloved books. That always seemed to do the trick when Jane was upset. “What, do you suppose, could we possibly do to anger a man we’ve never met?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Jane said thickly.
Owens stretched his neck and slurped a large gulp of ale. “There be some quick to rise, my lady, no matter where you go.”
Uneven footsteps stomped heavily on the wood-paneled floor, an ominous portent, drawing expectant stares toward the hallway. Chloe slanted her gaze at Oriana. The woman cocked her head to the side, staring toward the back of the inn. Her expression was worried, reminding Chloe of a hare caught by a hound.
Her heartbeat quickened within her breast. She had been fearful of Pierce’s unorthodox tactics at one time, but in the end, the benefits had proven resourceful. Her brother had never truly scared her. He’d always considered Chloe’s safety first and foremost. As an exciseman, he’d undoubtedly witnessed instances where protective skills meant the difference between life and death. Now, surrounded by strangers, Chloe fortunately understood. No matter how she wished it, there was only one person she could rely on—herself.
But what about Oriana? What was she so afraid of? Then Chloe remembered the bruise on the young woman’s arm . . .
A disturbing mixture of anxiety and fear consumed Chloe as she copied Oriana’s actions, riveting her stare on the doorway, expecting the barkeeper’s brother to appear. But how had he entered the inn?
She eased her hand off her lap and grasped Jane’s to offer support. “I’m sure we have nothing to fear, dearest.”
“Of course,” Jane said, offering a weak smile and covering their joined hands with her free one.
Owens leaned close, lowering his voice so only they could hear him. “Take this,” he said slowly, easing his dagger across the mahogany table. “You should have something to protect yourself with, just in case these men get violent.”
“If ye thought this was a dangerous place, Owens, ye should not ’ave brought us ’ere,” Jane protested.
“Thank you, Jane. I’ll handle this.” Chloe released Jane’s hand and willingly took the blade he offered—she wasn’t a fool—drawing it closer to her breast. She regarded Markwick’s boatswain curiously. “Mr. Owens, let me remind you that I am not one of your subordinates. While I appreciate your protection, I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
“My lady, you must listen—”
“More ale, if ye please, Oriana,” Clyde shouted.
Quick footed and sure, Oriana cast a curious glance down the hallway, then produced a pitcher crowned with white frothy foam. She sauntered to Clyde’s table, filled his tankard, and then spun around to face the direction from which she’d come. But she wasn’t fast enough.
Clyde gripped his clay pipe in one hand, then gave her bottom a shove with his boot. “Here’s something for your trouble.”
She turned and raised the pitcher, her arm poised in midair, prepared to dump ale over Clyde’s head. “Ah, ye aren’t worth it.”
Jonas stood, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “Isn’t that what Marion told ye last night?”
Resigned laughter, far from gay, filled the room.
Chloe couldn’t imagine what kept Oriana at the Marauder’s Roost. Being su
bjected to a man’s every whim had to be a hard life for a woman. Unless that man was tall, dark, and handsome as the day is long, smuggling supplies to benefit the downtrodden as the Black Regent.
Holy charity, who am I to judge?
There was no denying the woman loved this place. She’d left her mark and made it her own. Dried flowers were arranged artfully in old, forgotten pitchers, and fine cloth decorated the windows overlooking the courtyard. She kept the bar in pristine condition, wiping down tables, straightening chairs, and mingling happily with her patrons, no matter how poorly they treated her.
The Marauder’s Roost was Oriana’s home.
“Oriana!” a deep voice yelled.
Several large men strode into the bar looking as though they’d scaled the cliffs with their bare hands. Each carried a pistol and dagger thrust in their trousers. Leather straps crossed their chests, sheathing cutlasses. One in particular strode into the room as if he owned it, quickly gaining the attention of Clyde, Jonas, and the others.
Oriana continued walking back to the bar. “Good morrow, Charles.” She nodded to the others, giving Chloe a sense that these men held some power over her. “Men.”
Several dipped their heads, their aggressive postures prepared to handle anything within the Roost’s four walls. It was like they’d come from or had come to battle.
Charles, a broad-shouldered man of nearly six feet tall, searched the room with an unnerving, lethal stare that narrowed on Chloe. A scar trailed his chin, rising to his temple, where it bulged distinctly white against his soot-stained skin. His clothing was tattered, the threads newly torn. His vengeful, tilting brows arched over cold, dead eyes while his mouth, set in a grim line, promised no tolerance, assuring her he never smiled. Muscles flicked angrily in his jaw. He was annoyed, furious, and the most dangerous man she’d ever seen.
Determined not to allow him to see her squirm, Chloe maintained a stiff posture. She raised her mug of hot tea and sipped, pretending the man’s eyes weren’t boring through her.
“Charles!” Oriana shouted.
He paid no attention to Oriana but continued to stare at Chloe, his hand sheltering a bloody, bandaged arm. Then, with astonishing brutality, he said, “Sister, I’ve a thirst that must be quenched.” When he finally dragged his stare away from Chloe, his irrational rage had grown into a palpable, living thing.
“You’re hurt.” Oriana appeared at his side and began to examine his arm.
“’Tis nothing compared to what I’m going to do.”
The barkeeper managed a tremulous smile. “What do you mean, brother?”
Madden and Jenkins kept their heads low and eyes downcast, making Chloe wonder if they hadn’t already drunk too much ale. Fiske jumped to his feet and eyed the courtyard door.
Charles’s mouth twisted scornfully. “What have we here?”
“Nothing.” Oriana began to uncoil the bandage. “Just some travelers looking for a place to rest.” She sucked in a hiss. “Charles, this will need to be stitched closed.”
Kelly’s eyes rounded in abject terror as he sat at the front of the inn.
What had come over Fiske and Kelly? There was no doubt in Chloe’s mind that Charles was dangerous, but he’d done nothing yet to garner such a disquieting reaction in them.
Patience, Chloe, Pierce’s voice reminded her. It is always the key in gaining the upper hand.
If Fiske and Kelly gave Charles reason to mistrust them, what then?
“You there!” Charles lifted his finger, a wide range of cruelty evident in his tone and motions. “Stay where you are!”
Fiske’s lips moved, saying something to Kelly, before they bolted for the door to abandon them.
“Stop them!” Charles shouted, pointing to Clyde and Jonas.
Jane gasped softly as Clyde and Jonas made quick work of following Charles’s command. Kelly was immediately apprehended, his arms angled painfully behind him, but Fiske, more youthful, quick footed, and sure, broke away from Jonas and escaped out the courtyard door.
“Bring him back, Jonas!” Charles yelled.
Chloe slanted a glance at the fireplace pokers, counting how many steps it would take for her to reach them. Then she passed Jane the dagger and pressed the handle into her palm. “We are not helpless.” She moved her hand slowly toward the spoons and lifted one, grasping the pewter handle, pretending she’d use it for her tea.
Oriana shook Charles’s arm. “What is the meaning of this? How many times have I told ye, ye cannot just come in here and throw your weight around? This is my inn!”
Charles tore his sister off him, held her at arm’s length, and then slapped her across the face.
Oriana staggered backward. He let go of her, and she fell to her knees, gasping.
“How dare you strike a woman,” Chloe shouted in Oriana’s defense. She rose to her feet, positioning the spoon’s rounded edge in her palm, hiding it in the folds of her pelisse and attempting to draw Charles’s attention so Oriana could rise off the floor and get out of his way.
In an instant, Jane grabbed Chloe’s hand, pulling her back down to the stiff, dark oak bench. “Stay here,” she begged. “We don’t ’ave the right to interfere.”
Surely Jane didn’t condone this type of physical abuse?
“It is our duty to help.”
Several more loud thumps reverberated from the back of the inn, the sound echoing like some kind of hatch closing in on itself.
Madden and Jenkins sat quietly composed, staring thoughtfully into their tankards of ale. The only visible cue they were aware of the violence and the danger to Fiske and Kelly was the incessant drumming of their fingers on the table’s edge.
The nauseating cadence unnerved Chloe. Her heart beat tremulously as several more men strode into the main room from the back of the inn.
“Follow them, Tom,” Charles said to one of the men who’d entered the inn with him. “And make sure the boy doesn’t get far.”
Charles took a step toward Oriana. “I’ll tear out your liver and devour it whole if ye try to stop me again, sister.”
Chloe froze. The man’s lack of empathy revealed an unrestrained, despicable nature she’d never encountered before, but one Pierce had constantly warned her about. She thought of Manfred and his plot to kill Isabella, his murderous blade slaying Matilda by mistake. Blood did not always honor its kin.
Mercy me, where was Markwick? Where was her brother when she needed him most?
Oriana rose slowly to her feet, swaying slightly. She pushed her red hair out of her face and dusted off her apron. Clearly struggling to muster all the dignity she could, she asked, “What has gotten into ye, Charles?”
“Them, that’s what.” His mouth twisted cruelly.
“Them?” Oriana drew her arms close to her, a look of confusion marring her face. “These people haven’t done ye or anyone else any harm.”
“It isn’t what they’ve done, sister. It is who they are and where they’ve come from.” He pointed at Kelly, Madden, Jenkins, and Owens, and then settled his penetrating gaze on Chloe and Jane.
“Exactly where do ye think they’ve come from?” Oriana asked, her shoulders rising confidently. “They are travelers, nothing more.”
“Damn your meddling. They came from his ship. And he sank mine, an offense that deserves a reckonin’!”
The realization barreled into Chloe in that moment. He was Captain Carnage! God help them! And the Viper had been destroyed, praise the saints.
“Whose ship?” Oriana asked for her, casting a worried glance at Chloe that took in the visible black hem peeking out from Chloe’s pelisse sleeves, then dropped to her booted feet.
“The Black Regent’s, that’s whose!” he shouted, his face reddening with his ever-mounting rage.
Chloe forced indifference into her own expression, even as her mind raced. If Carnage was here, what had happened to Markwick and her brother?
Half fearing the answer, she grasped her throat and decided to play him false
. “The Black Regent?”
He analyzed her with a cold, punishing wave. “Don’t act coy.”
Terror tore at her insides. “Oh . . . You speak of the pirate listed in Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post?”
His black stare sharpened. “Ye know I do.”
Her stomach churned, a live roiling thing battering her defenses and brokering no mercy. She stood there, the spoon hidden within the folds of her pelisse, a dash away from the fireplace rods. She maintained a poise that felt strangely foreign but refused to cower before the brigand who’d ended the lives of Captain Teague and his men.
“What would I know about the Regent other than what I’ve read in the weeklies?”
Only that I love him and fear I will never see him again . . .
Charles stepped menacingly closer, his massive arms seeming larger and larger, clearly capable of snapping lesser, weaker men in half. With every footstep to close the distance between them, the brigand ignited her primitive instinct to run.
Chloe swallowed the palpable regret rising in her throat, praying resourcefulness didn’t fail her now in the face of these insurmountable odds. Her mind reeled, and her breath caught, trapping frantic winged creatures in her chest. Revenge was a necessary evil in gothic romances. No matter the challenges in any book, vengeance solicited death. The only question was whose.
She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood, determined to ensure neither Jane nor herself would end up like Matilda. If they were going to get out of this inn alive, she needed to access her quick mind, to employ the ingenuity Pierce had taught her.
Carnage frowned, disgust marring his face and making him look more hideous and frightening than she’d first supposed. “And ye? Where have ye come from?”
Oriana shook her head, warning her not to answer. “These lads are helping this woman,” she said on Chloe’s behalf.
“Yes, my father is a baron in Exeter and I am traveling with my maid and my escorts to join my husband.”
His stare raked over her covetously. “Propertied, eh? Ye’ll find rank does ye no favors here.”
When a Rogue Falls Page 46