Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Perhaps Sir Jasper?”

  “Perhaps. Doubtless they both know who the assassin is.”

  Under Baret’s even stare, Erik showed nothing—although, like Baret, he knew that Lord Felix had men in his service beside himself who were paid not to ask questions but to perform. Any one of them was capable of having thrown the dagger.

  “Take caution, your lordship, in accusing your uncle. You may be wrong about him.”

  Baret gave him a measured look. “Do you think I’m wrong?”

  Erik played innocent. “You think he would hire an assassin to kill his nephew?”

  “He seems to have had no conscience while arranging the death of my father nor in convincing the earl that Father was involved in piracy.”

  Erik would admit nothing that might force him to reevaluate his service to Felix. He avoided the issue by asking his own questions.

  “Why would anyone wish to kill you?”

  Baret’s mouth curved, and he studied him. “Do you not serve my uncle? You would know best.”

  Erik’s gray eyes flickered. Who had told him? “I hope you don’t mean to imply that I had anything to do with what happened in the listening gallery?”

  “No. Hiring assassins is not your way. If you wished to kill me, you would draw sword man to man.”

  “Then you have me in the dark. I know of no conspiracy to take your life nor your father’s. While you have not gotten on well with Lord Felix, I can’t believe he would hire an executioner to kill you.”

  “Think again. Felix knows of my plans to search for my father. I am sure it was he who betrayed him to the Spanish authorities.” Baret’s eyes were hard. “And I trusted you with my plans. I believed you a friend.”

  “A most regrettable bit of news, your lordship. But you misjudge me. Whatever information Lord Felix may have on your present plans, I have not been his source.” Erik was cautious. “I work for him. And I know that you believe Viscount Royce Buckington to be alive. But I have not told Felix your plans.”

  “He is alive. And I’m just as certain that my uncle knows it as well. The question is, does he know my father’s whereabouts?”

  Erik’s eyes were as fathomless as deep pools. He shrugged a shoulder, hand resting near his sword hilt. “If he does, he has said nothing to me.”

  He felt Baret’s penetrating gaze. Did Baret believe him?

  “Felix knows well how I’ve tried to convince the earl that my father lives.”

  “You’ve succeeded in convincing him?”

  “You know I have not. Now I have become a risk to Felix’s ambitions. He will try to stop me from locating my father. And if he knows where my father is being held, he will seek to hire men from Port Royal to find him before I do.”

  Erik watched him, disturbed that he knew so much about Felix.

  “Felix intends that knowledge of my father remain buried at the bottom of the sea—therefore he must remain in the hands of his captors. But I will find him.”

  Erik wore a mask over his emotions. “Whether your father is alive, I cannot say. One thing I do know, if you sail with Henry Morgan, your father’s enemies in London will see you charged with piracy and hanged.”

  “I’ve already sunk a Spanish galleon. Do you think Felix’s threats and assassination attempts will make me return meekly to London?”

  Erik eyed him. “No. You are much too like your father. And yet I will stop you from leaving.”

  Baret’s gaze was challenging. “You could always remove your sword from hire. Join me on the Regale.”

  Erik lifted a brow. “Is his lordship that determined to turn to buccaneering? Your grandfather will hardly approve.”

  “You are right. But what he expects is a secondary matter. Felix has turned him against me, and one day I intend to see him answer for it.”

  Baret placed a chart into his satchel. “These belong to me, in case you wondered. I do not steal from my uncle, though he has stolen all that belongs to my father. It was Felix who took them from my chamber at Buckington House.”

  “Yes, I helped him.”

  “I suspected that. Let us not play games, Erik. Where is the journal?”

  Erik tapped a finger against his scabbard. “I know of no journal, your lordship. If your uncle took it, then only he knows. There were your father’s maps and charts, but a journal?—he must have burned it.”

  “Not likely. It would prove too important for discovering the possible location of the West Indies treasure.”

  “So you too think there is treasure yet unreported to the Admiralty?”

  Baret smiled faintly. “Come, friend Erik. We both know you also search for it.”

  Erik sighed again. “Then if you know as much, you must also know that I cannot allow you to leave Port Royal. I will stop you by force if necessary. You will cooperate?” he said smoothly, knowing that he would not.

  Baret looked up and studied him. There was a flicker in his eyes that made Erik uneasy. He knew it wouldn’t be a simple task to best him as he had done at Cambridge.

  “You could, of course, decide to look the other way,” said Baret.

  “I could, but I will not.”

  “I should hate to see an old friend seek to stop me. It can only end badly.”

  “I do not doubt your determination, your lordship, but if Royce does live, locating him on the Spanish Main will not be an easy prospect. Even if you could find and free him, he is still charged with piracy. They would hang him.”

  “Perhaps we shall both hang. But I shall search for him anyway.”

  For a moment they simply looked at each other.

  “Come with me,” said Baret. “If there is treasure from the Spanish plate fleet, we shall seek it together—along with my father.”

  Erik brushed away a lock of hair. “Leave the comforts of Port Royal? Give up my fair pay for the uncertainty of a pirate’s future? The whole matter of the treasure may be a lie. It so happens the taste of sea spray has become tiring.”

  Baret gave a short laugh. “What a smooth deceiver you are, Erik! Behind your casual expression and velvet garb there is a pirate as cool as any who roam the Caribbean waters! Surely your new civility is a guise fit for His Majesty’s masque! Or,” he said with cool challenge, “was your buccaneering all a boast to impress me as a lad?”

  Erik felt the hair on the back of his neck nettle. He had not only harried the Main with the worst of them, but he deemed himself the best swordsman about. He said firmly, “It was a life I did not surrender easily!”

  “No?” Baret laughed smoothly and raked him with a look.

  “Are you calling me a—” Erik stopped abruptly when he saw the smile on Baret’s lips. Realizing he had fallen into a trap, he straightened and shook back the lock of fair hair that persistently fell across his forehead. His eyes narrowed.

  “Enough of my ventures, your lordship. It is your future we must discuss. Your father is beyond your reach. The way is barbed with traps and pits. If he were alive in the Caribbean, how do you think you would find him?”

  “I have no choice but to become one of the Brotherhood. You know the pirates better than I. They trust you, but still are wary of me. Eventually they will come to see me as one of them. There’s bound to be men who can tell me what happened to Captain Royce Buckington that day on Providence Island.”

  Erik shook his head. “The buccaneers who remained to defend the island against Spain were killed after Mansfield returned to Tortuga.”

  “He lives! Do you think I can be content knowing this? Felix wanted him in the hands of slavers! Do you think I will forget that?” And the snap of the satchel shutting added emphasis to his statement. Their eyes met. “So what of you, Erik?” came the quiet challenge.

  Erik continued to show disinterest. “My wages from Felix are very fine indeed. And if you sail with Henry Morgan, it is I who shall find myself unemployed.”

  A glimmer of irritation like warm coals seemed to glow in Baret’s eyes. “I cannot but think
that you have plans of your own. Would not your sword be put to better use with the buccaneers in the war against Spain?”

  “You deliberately provoke me, my lord. I have proven my loyalty to the Protestant cause in fighting for the Huguenots as a lad.” Erik’s eyes were cool and hard. “My decision is made. I am no longer a buccaneer.”

  “As you wish. I too have made my decision. Do not try to stop me.”

  They looked at one another, and nothing stirred but the rain beating on the window.

  “The Buckington sword, Erik—where did you hide it?” he demanded.

  Erik refused to think of the sword that the old earl had given to his grandson years ago. He knew Felix had taken it from Buckington House. He changed the subject. “Has not His Majesty already hinted that he may wish you in his personal guard? War with the Dutch is inevitable. If you leave to attack Spain when the king prefers peace, you will have thrown away your opportunity to become his favorite.”

  “I can best serve England in the Caribbean. Every Spanish vessel the buccaneers sink will mean less gold for Madrid to use in supporting the Inquisition army in Europe. But I am loyal to His Majesty. I will fight the Dutch if I must. I’ve vowed that to the earl.”

  Erik pressed, “This time the earl will remove your name from his will altogether. It was not a light thing when you sank the Prince Philip.”

  But it was all a vain attempt. Baret seemed not to be listening. His boot kicked aside the plush rug. “Ah …” His narrowed gaze scanned the floor. “So that is where he hid it. It may be that both the journal and the sword are here.”

  Matters were not going in Erik’s favor. He watched Baret stoop down to examine the floor.

  Erik’s gaze strayed to the bronze lion bookend sitting on the table close to his hand. Knocking out his lordship would save a good deal of trouble. He sighed, calmly reached for it, and said to distract him, “There must be just cause provoking your uncle’s decisions. Why else would he not permit the possibility of your father’s being alive?”

  “I could almost believe you were gullible. Neither family affection nor justice has any place in his plans. Take my word for it.”

  “Maybe. And yet, if he kept back some knowledge from you, he must have a sound reason for doing so. Stay, my lord. Discuss your grievances with him.”

  “Think as you will. Ah!” Baret removed his dagger from his boot. “So this is its hiding place.”

  “For the life of me I did not know anything was there.”

  Baret worked with his dagger to lift a board. “I wonder what else my noble uncle may have hidden.”

  Erik quipped, “If there is a morsel of your father’s Spanish booty, I beg you leave it, my lord, lest I be blamed for coming to his chamber.”

  “The journal is not here, but …” Baret stood with a faint smile. He held the prized Buckington sword in its scabbard boasting the family heraldic. He looked pointedly at the bookend in Erik’s hand. “A rather menacing bit of bronze. What do you intend to do with it?”

  Erik ignored him and gently set it down on the table. “Do not be hasty in your judgment of your uncle,” he said again. “You could be wrong about everything.”

  Baret measured him, then casually glanced about the chamber.

  Erik watched as Baret retrieved an expensive cloak from a high-backed velvet chair, took a key from the desk, and walked with it to the wardrobe. He glanced back as though in no hurry to be off.

  Erik wondered about the faint smile he wore.

  “Would you mind if I replace this velvet cloak? It’s jeweled,” Baret told him.

  Erik studied him. What did he have in mind?

  “Felix owns a fortune in garments,” said Baret. “As you say, you would not wish to be blamed should one be missing.”

  Erik looked at the rich black cloak embroidered with gold and sewn with gems. He shrugged. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Baret inserted the key. “He usually keeps his wardrobe locked.”

  Erik watched him. Was he going to give in and stay? Would he cooperate so easily?

  “Erik … I begin to think that you knew from the beginning how Felix betrayed my father.”

  Erik tensed. He straightened.

  Baret looked at him. “But you sold your silence for a jeweled cloak—one like this.”

  Erik felt the sting. The insult, coming unexpectedly, made it more bewildering. He stared at Baret. That he would feel such discomfort over Baret’s distrust surprised him, yet he managed to control his affront and said with false calm, “Strange that you would suggest so low and cowardly a motive for me. I respected your father. But you already know that.”

  “Do I? You have sold your allegiance. What do I know of you actually? Yes, you befriended me when I was a lad, but times have changed. It is said by some that you will do anything for a price. Anything.”

  Erik’s eyes glittered like a cobra’s. “Caution, my lord,” he breathed. “My loyalty is also toward you, but it is brittle and easily broken by insults.”

  “Loyalty?” Baret gave a laugh. “What do you know of loyalty? You know more than you admit about my father. I insist it is so.” He pointed at Erik. “And that cloak you are wearing, for example—was it payment for remaining silent about my father? It is much like this one, is it not, Erik? I challenge you!”

  Erik felt his temper snap, a danger sign. The cruel goad could not be thrown off this time. In brief strides he was beside Baret.

  Baret held up the black robe with green gems. “Take a careful look, pirate!”

  Erik did look—and was startled by sudden darkness.

  The cloak was over his head, cutting off his breath before he knew what had happened. He struggled violently like a trapped panther. Pain stabbed at the back of his neck and sent him down on his knees, dazed. Dizziness swirled through his brain and overcame him. Erik remembered the last thing he had seen—Baret’s eyes glinting with malicious amusement at having won the game.

  It seemed to Erik that a bolt of lightning had struck him. Stunned, he felt himself being shoved into the wardrobe where he fell into a jungle of robes, cloaks, boots, and slippers. The door shut, the key turned in the lock. Erik sucked in his breath and struggled to remove the black velvet cloak from his face. He heard Baret laughing.

  “You may keep the cloak, Erik! It was mine.”

  Erik struggled to get to his feet, furious with himself for falling for the trick.

  “You shall pay for this! I shall find you if it is the last thing I do!”

  “Come then! You shall find me with Henry Morgan! Farewell!”

  Erik was about to bang on the door but stopped and leaned his shoulder against it instead. No use bruising his hands. No one would hear him until Lord Felix retired after the ball—and who knew when that would be?

  How clever to make him angry! He had known it would take him off guard. And it had!

  21

  STORM WARNING

  Emerald touched her cheek, and a sickening feeling weighed heavily upon her. Lavender hadn’t believed her. Her throat cramped as she swallowed back the pain of rejection. Heavenly Father, she prayed, the others won’t believe me either—they’ll all choose to think the worst about me.

  Minette frowned. “She had no cause to slap you like that. But don’t fret, Emerald. Uncle Mathias won’t believe the gossip, and he knows you far better than they do in the Big House. Let her show the periwig and mask to the family. The viscount himself will deny that you did anything wrong. Don’t think about it.” Her face brightened. “Besides, I have better news.”

  Emerald glanced at her.

  Minette smiled. “Jonah’s back with Ty. And Ty was right when he said he’d take the branding like a man. Know what he said to me? Said, ‘Christ gave me the dignity to be a man of God, and my soul is His. No brand on the forehead can change that.’”

  They arrived at the buggy, shielded in the dark cane, and Emerald embraced Ty’s words as an encouragement from the Lord. She glanced soberly back toward the
house where golden light crowned the elite abode of the fair and favored.

  “Ty’s right,” she said softly into the evening darkness enveloping them. “Others may falsely accuse us of evil, but if God defends His own, the charges will fall like dead seed on rocky soil.” Emerald looked at Minette, who watched her hopefully, and she smiled briefly, although her heart felt lashed from the whip of cruel words. “If Ty’s home safe and he’s still standing tall as a child of God, then we’ve something to thank Him for.”

  Minette’s amber eyes glowed. “That isn’t all,” she said in a secretive tone. “Jonah also brought a message from Jamie.”

  Emerald’s breath caught. “Jamie!”

  “Aye, indeed, and he isn’t in the Blue Mountains with the Cameroons. Jamie’s found a ship!”

  Emerald caught her shoulders, and they laughed for the first time. “Oh, Minette, a ship! Surely this is the answer to our prayers. Where is he now?”

  “Jonah wouldn’t tell me but said for you to come right to the house.”

  With new energy bolting from renewed hope, Emerald dashed to the driver’s side of the buggy. “Hurry, Minette, climb up. I can’t wait to find out what Jamie has to say.”

  Minette laughed as she sprang nimbly to the worn leather seat, her long honey-brown ringlets glowing in the moonlight. “You’re feeling fine again.” She suddenly sobered and her expression took on a wistful look. She leaned toward her. “Oh, Emerald, will we really be able to start a new life in Massachusetts? You’ll take me with you like you promised? You’ll help me become a great lady?”

  Emerald reached over and embraced her, and beneath the big moon their eyes shone. “I wouldn’t go without you, Cousin Minette.”

  Minette stared at her, and at the deliberately emphasized word cousin her eyes glistened with moisture.

  Emerald smiled. “We’re already the King’s daughters. What more could we want? He has provided everything we need to come into His glorious Presence fully accepted and loved in His Son Jesus. With His hand upon us, we’ve naught to fear, for He will surely lead our feet to the right path.”