Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  He studied her. “You’ve openly accepted them as your cousins? Your courage is to be commended. The British are not known for racial generosity, you know.”

  “It wasn’t bravery on my part,” she confessed. “I’ve little to lose. My own social status is little better.”

  She looked at him, her eyes sincere. “Except for my father, who’s away at sea most of the time, Minette and Ty were all I had. We’ve been close—sharing much the same pain from rejection.”

  “You also have Mathias,” he said.

  She smiled, thinking of the elderly saint who had taught her of Christ. “Yes, but I fear I shall lose even him. He grows old, and he’s not well.”

  He watched her. “Tell me about Ty.”

  “I was given several days to come up with the means to spare him from being branded as a runaway. My father was gone at the time, and I had no one to turn to. I went to Lavender, but … well, there was little she could do. Or wished to do. Ty was branded on the forehead.” She turned away to look out at the sea.

  The trade wind began to blow in from the sea, wooing the surface of the bay into little waves, while in the distance tiny ships rested at anchor. The moon was rising, and the palm trees became shivering silhouettes. In the garden, where red and yellow hibiscus grew in profusion, a waft of aromatic scent sailed with the breeze.

  “Where is Ty now?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. That’s the difficult part. He may still be held at Brideswell, or perhaps he’ll be sent home with Jonah, his grandfather. My father has gone to Port Royal to see about Ty. Whatever happens, he’s already been cruelly disfigured for life.”

  “And you expected to use the jewels to buy his freedom before the branding?”

  “Yes, but I was unable to do so.”

  “I’m sorry. You should have told me the truth at once. Who is this scurvy rat who wanted the jewels?”

  “Mr. Pitt, the overseer,” she said quietly. “He came to me, demanding I go to Levasseur.”

  “Pitt,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t know him. Is he the man who took your father’s place running the sugar workers?”

  “Yes. Lady Sophie trusts him,” she said tonelessly. “Why, I cannot understand. Now he’s been able to convince her there was a plot for a slave uprising. He’s a vile man.”

  “No doubt. An overseer with a whip usually is. I’ll see what I can do about getting Ty released, if Karlton hasn’t already done so. But you said there were other friends in Brideswell.”

  She looked away. She couldn’t tell him about Jamie.

  “I was told he escaped. Lady Sophie has Mr. Pitt out searching for him now. I’ve also been told he’ll be hanged.” She turned toward him, her eyes pleading. “Oh, your lordship, won’t you please speak to the family for leniency? I should forever be in your debt!”

  He regarded her a long moment, and she could not tell what he was thinking.

  “Far be it from me to see your ‘friend’ hanged, Miss Harwick. What is his name?”

  She drew in a small breath. “He is Ty’s friend too,” she suggested. “Jamie Bradford is his name.”

  “An indentured servant?” He searched her eyes.

  She turned away, hoping he hadn’t guessed but somehow feeling that he had. “Yes, but he has only six more months until freedom.”

  “I shall speak to the family and attempt to spare his neck. Would that you please you?”

  “Oh, indeed! I shall take back everything I said about you! I do humbly apologize, Lord Buckington.”

  His faint smile showed in the moonlight. “Then I shall try to be worthy of your confidence.”

  The moon seemed to ooze mellow light in the sky above them.

  Baret’s brow lifted as a meteor traced a brilliant path across the velvet sky.

  The night was so still that Emerald could catch the distant murmur of the Caribbean, the sound of Baret’s breathing, and the sudden pounding of her heart. She was aware of an unusual moment enclosing them, a feeling of expectancy and a strange exotic longing in the warm night.

  She stared up at him, words escaping her, her warm eyes unable to tear themselves away from his.

  A peacock emitted a high, shrill cry, shattering the silence.

  He turned toward the Great House, frowning, then seemed to make up his mind suddenly. He looked at her, lifted her hand casually, then bowed his dark head. “I must get back. Good-bye, Emerald.”

  She watched him leave the square. The strange exhilaration fled on wings, leaving in its wake a dull sense of bewilderment. How could she have harbored the faintest romantic inclination toward him when she loved Jamie? She could not understand herself.

  She sank to the bench and covered her face with her palms. She could not possibly go back to the ball now. She must get home. And tomorrow—what would Lavender say?

  Then she heard footsteps, hesitating at first, now rushing toward her. A small cry sounded.

  Emerald lifted her face, and her heart sank.

  Lavender appeared, her white face harsh in the moonlight, her eyes snapping with anger.

  “You!”

  Emerald stood, words of denial on her tongue, but Lavender suddenly gasped and stepped back, her eyes riveted upon Baret’s periwig cast carelessly aside—his mask lying nearby. In horror Emerald immediately envisioned Lavender’s worst fears, and her eyes welled with tears. “It isn’t true, Lavender.”

  Lavender gave a furious cry and drew back her palm.

  Emerald’s face stung from the impact.

  “You wench!” hissed Lavender. “You’re just like your trashy mother! I never believed it—until now.” She snatched up the periwig and mask and, clutching them against her, backed away, then turned and ran toward the house.

  Dazed, holding her cheek, Emerald sat back on the bench. “O God,” she whispered finally.

  She struggled to her feet and ran as though fiery demons in the form of jackals were at her ankles. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she felt the wind against her face as she raced down the carriageway and beneath shadowy palms that appeared to hem her in. Her buggy was somewhere ahead, near the field …

  A figure came running toward her.

  “Oh, Minette—” She wept.

  “Vapors! What is it? You look like a pack of Furies is on your trail.”

  Emerald nearly collapsed in her arms. “I’m shamed. They’ll never believe me, not now, not ever—O God!”

  Minette hugged her tightly and turned to look toward the brightly glowing Great House, scowling. Swiftly she led Emerald toward the buggy. “Come. We best get back. You can explain later. I’ll believe you. You can depend on me, Emerald.”

  As Baret left the garden, his thoughts were unpleasant, but they did not include Sir Karlton’s daughter. Returning to the Great House by a back door, he went to his room and changed into rugged clothing. It was then that he remembered leaving the periwig and mask.

  He lay on his back in the candlelight, hearing the music from the hired orchestra below in the ballroom. Lavender would wonder why he had disappeared. But there was more on his mind now.

  There was a possibility, though small, that his father’s journal from his first voyage to the West Indies held valuable information he needed in locating him. He reasoned that if his grandfather did not have the journal, then Felix probably did. It should contain the names of certain Spaniards—political and military men, as well as landowners producing tobacco, spices, cocoa, and coffee, who had done secret privateering business with his father.

  These Spaniards, though serving Madrid, were not above covert trade for profit. His father had used his contacts well in order to discover the sailing times of certain Spanish ships. His hope was that his father would have recorded those names, as well as those of governors, viceroys, and Spanish commanders, that might reveal anything of his father’s whereabouts—for a price. Baret stared restlessly at the ceiling, his arms behind his head. There should also be information on the friendlier Indians, who
might prove willing to talk, and the Cameroons—Maroons, as they were called on Jamaica.

  One of the Maroon leaders—a very old warrior named Zobi, who originally had been taken from his tribe in Sierra Leone by a slave trader—might offer information, for he looked upon Baret’s father as a friend.

  Did the journal also link Felix to piracy and smuggling? On the one hand, Felix was a man of breeding and clever strategy. If the journal incriminated him in any way he would have destroyed it by now. Yet Felix was also ambitious and greedy. And Baret was counting on that malady of the soul. If his uncle and the men working with him sought the treasure taken from the Revenge, Felix would wait to destroy the journal, believing it could contain a coded message.

  Greed. It was a trap in itself.

  For the first time since returning secretly to his room, he thought of Emerald Levasseur Harwick. She would be surprised to know that he had suspected all along that she possessed character—even that night aboard his ship, he thought with a reminiscent smile. Her innocence had been reflected in her eyes, her face, her every protest. Perhaps he had been too hard on her, but he had not trusted her cousin Levasseur, and for a time he believed that they were involved romantically.

  His smile faded, and he frowned a little. There was a moment in the garden tonight when he sensed that he could have taken her into his arms. He had also sensed something else—an alarm warning that emotions once indulged might not offer escape. Self-preservation, he mused. A necessity.

  He arose from the bed and pulled a satchel out from under the coverlet. A risk must be taken if he were to locate the journal.

  He considered his situation. He must be cautious. After the attempt on his life at the Bailey, he put nothing past his enemies. If he could, his uncle would stop him from leaving Port Royal.

  There was no time to waste.

  He tried to recall when he had last seen his father’s old sea chest, but the date was impossible to recall. He had been so taken up with the intrigue with Lucca and with his own service at the Academy that he rarely came home to Buckington House in those early days soon after his father’s reported death. During that time Felix may have removed the journal and the maps.

  Blowing out his candle, he collected his satchel and walked to the window to look below. There was yet time, for Felix would be attending the ball with Geneva.

  He left his chamber for … the last time? Closing the door, he quietly walked to the end of the hall and took a small flight of stairs to the third floor—and Lord Felix Buckington’s chambers.

  20

  FRIEND OR FOE?

  In the Great House on Foxemoore, Sir Erik Farrow suppressed a cough and continued his silent vigil behind the velvet drape in the dressing chamber belonging to Baret’s uncle, Lord Felix Buckington.

  It was fortunate, thought Erik, that Felix was downstairs attending the ball. If Felix discovered him here, he would need to do some explaining.

  Seated in a plush red velvet chair behind the drape, his strong legs in black woolen hose and boots stretched out as he listened in the darkness, he dozed between wakefulness and sleep. He drew his deep burgundy cloak about him, keeping one hand on his jeweled sword belt, an expensive gift from Lord Felix. There was also a shorter, pearl-handled blade in his left boot, a gift from Baret.

  The old earl had recruited Erik to spy on Baret, who was prone to follow the steps of his father and take to a life of buccaneering against Spain. But Erik had also taken a second employment, unknown to either the earl or Baret—he was providing information for Felix.

  Erik knew there was more to Baret’s buccaneering life in the Caribbean than revenge against Spain for the torturous death of his mother. Baret questioned the accuracy of the information Felix brought to the trial in London concerning his father’s piracy and death. Baret suspected that he yet lived, perhaps was being held as a slave in one of Spain’s colonies.

  Erik was privy to Baret’s recent contacts with the spies who were quietly seeking information about his father. He knew about Lucca, but as yet he had not shared that crucial information with Felix or with the old earl.

  It was Erik’s duty in service to Lord Felix to stop Baret from leaving Port Royal and sailing with Henry Morgan and his buccaneers. Erik was to return Baret under guard to London—at sword point if necessary. Baret didn’t know it yet, but Erik had been reporting his actions to Felix regularly, though he did not always explain them with as much detail as he knew.

  Erik tapped his fingers against his satin vest. He casually pushed back a lock of golden hair from his forehead. He frowned. When it came to Baret, Erik was both his antagonist and his ally, if that were possible.

  He smiled when he remembered first meeting Baret years earlier. Baret had been a reluctant student attending Trinity College, Cambridge. It had not taken long for Erik to discover that he was the son of the buccaneer Royce Buckington. Though Baret had excelled at Greek and Latin and theology from the viewpoint of the Puritans, he still resolved to join his father against Spain in the West Indies.

  Baret had been in his teens when Erik had first met him in the armory, thinking it strange and even amusing to see a young man wearing a scholar’s robe and carrying books arrive to practice the sword.

  Erik’s own skills with the blade had impressed Baret, and when he discovered that Erik had a reputation as a buccaneer at Tortuga, he sought to hire him as his fencing master and trainer for the tournaments. Erik accepted and soon found that Baret had already acquired some skills of his own from making friends with men at the armory, skills that Erik honed as Baret swiftly became a challenge.

  Perhaps too much of a challenge, he thought wryly as he sat in Felix’s chamber.

  The young heir to the title of viscount was no longer a comely lad but his adult equal, and their past friendship was being tested.

  Erik made no excuse to himself for his divided loyalty, though there were times when he felt uncomfortable. His primary allegiance now belonged to Felix and in some degree to the old earl. Thus he waited in the dressing chamber at Foxemoore, certain that before Baret left Port Royal to join Henry Morgan he would seek to locate a journal that had disappeared from his father’s sea chest at Buckington House.

  Erik sighed. This was not a situation he liked. But if he permitted Baret to leave Port Royal, it would mean the end of his knighthood, his pay, his plush quarters in Jamaica, his sumptuous meals and wine. Perhaps more important, it would mean removing himself from a position that permitted him to associate with a certain young damsel that he cared for but could never marry, for she was nobility.

  Erik silently shifted his weight in the chair as the sound of the chamber door opening convinced him that he had been right to wait.

  He rose to his feet quietly and eased aside the heavy drape to look into the room.

  Baret lit a candle on his uncle’s desk. Opening a drawer, he searched, collecting charts and maps into a leather satchel.

  As Erik watched, he was convinced that Baret would prove equal to any buccaneer sailing with Morgan. The determination was visible in the set of the jaw, in the raw glitter of restless energy that stirred too easily in the dark eyes.

  In Erik’s earlier days he might have rallied to that drive for adventure that now bestirred Baret. But where once Erik had been boldly belligerent and a little too ready for trouble, now he was more like a trained panther, content to remember the hunt but satisfied to have his meat brought to him. Even if the one who brought it was a man such as Lord Felix.

  Smothering a slight smile, Erik parted the drape, stepped out, and said with exaggerated sobriety, “Seeking something of importance, your lordship?”

  He admired Baret’s measured reaction. He turned at the sound of his voice but did not look surprised and retained an almost relentless calm that bespoke cool nerves.

  “I’m beginning to believe the Soothsayer’s suspicions about you,” Baret said.

  Erik arched a fair brow. The Soothsayer—the name Baret sarcastically called
the astrologer who worked for Felix.

  Erik leaned his muscled shoulder into the wall, his face expressionless by choice. “What suspicions are these, your lordship?”

  “The Soothsayer claims you have a druid ancestry dating back to werewolves. Since you rarely sleep, I’m beginning to wonder.” And Baret deliberately turned his back and went on searching the drawer as though Erik’s presence changed nothing.

  Erik rubbed his chin.

  “What did Felix do with my father’s journal?” asked Baret.

  Erik ignored the question. “I gather that striking out with Morgan is not detrimental enough to your reputation. Now you have fallen so far into apostasy, Lord Buckington, that you entertain the thoughts of werewolves.”

  The truth was, Baret had a solid foundation in the Scriptures, and Erik knew it. He also enjoyed a somewhat salty relationship with the scholar Sir Cecil Chaderton.

  At Cambridge, Baret had brought Erik to meet with some of the Puritan scholars in the Head Master of Arts’s chamber, and the two of them had spent many winter evenings sitting before a fire eating sweetmeats and debating with the Masters. Some of their theological debates had been as hot as the crackling flames that warmed their feet.

  “I’m relieved to see the dagger missed its mark.”

  Baret made no perceptible movement. “So you know about that. I thought I saw you at Maynerd’s trial. Who was the assassin? Someone hired by my uncle?”

  Erik might have winced at his blatant honesty but did not. He knew Baret too well to be surprised. Erik did not know who had hired the assassin, but in order to try to throw Baret off from suspecting Felix, he continued, “An enemy of your father, no doubt. Perhaps a crewman who thinks he has located the treasure from the Revenge and wishes to rid himself of competition. Whether your father truly buried it or not, there is no convincing those who seek for it that it does not exist.”

  “Including Felix?”

  Erik showed no expression at the cynical remark.

  Baret turned and looked at him. “I was not meant to leave Port Royal alive. But the attempt to kill me was poorly planned. That tells me you did not order it. That leaves Felix.”