Buccaneers Series

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  She hesitated. She must face up to her actions. “Yes. When I decided to run away with Jamie. It was soon after the slave uprising on Foxemoore, and I thought I might need it where I was going.”

  “You thought you might need it aboard a passenger ship with a man you knew well enough to marry?”

  Why did he continue to goad her like this? she wondered crossly. “My fears were not of Jamie but for the long voyage to the New England colony. One never knows when pirates will show up on the Caribbean,” she said meaningfully. “I wanted to get away and start a life of my own, as far removed from smugglers and pirates as I possibly could. Jamie offered the opportunity. We intended to settle on a farm of our own in Boston.”

  “Maynerd? Settle down? And honorably use a plow?” He laughed. “He’d have ended up in the local gambling den, leaving the plowing to you.”

  “He vowed to give up such odious ways.”

  “Did he now? A word of advice—never believe a man’s vow until you’ve known him long enough to see he means it. A rogue will promise anything to get his woman. He’ll even promise to be in church every Sunday.”

  She turned with a challenge. “Oh? And does that include rogues like you, Captain Foxworth?”

  If she thought he would be taken aback, she was wrong. He smiled. “Especially rogues like me, madam.”

  She couldn’t refrain. “Did you promise Lavender you’d mend your ways?”

  He folded his arms, and the faint smile was back, but he made no comment. “So dear Jamie Boy promised you an estate in the American colony, did he? I wonder what he intended to buy land and build with?”

  “I suppose you think he was willing to engage in piracy?”

  “Perhaps it was Levasseur’s jewels that would buy you both freedom and escape. The Infanta’s brooch could buy a good many piglets.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If I had stolen the jewels so we could buy a farm, then I would have told him so before he succumbed to your offer of twenty thousand pieces of eight. But enough of me, Captain ‘Foxworth.’ What of you?” she accused. “Your plans are quite mysterious.”

  “My concerns are my own, and I do not care to bandy them about or to involve others.”

  She gave a laugh. “But mine are open to your scrutiny.”

  “A prerogative of being a viscount. I would think by now you’d understand you are in enough trouble without adding to it by delving into mine.”

  She said deliberately, “Perhaps you only use the background of your title in London as a masquerade to hide behind. Why should I believe you? Many men of noble birth and position use their titles to cover piracy, so I’ve been told.”

  “You are very observant. As you suggest, I could be a true pirate after all. I may even keep the Jolly Roger hidden somewhere in my cabin, only too anxious to raise it when coming upon the plate fleet from Porto Bello, laden with fancy gowns,” he said, cocking his head and scanning her dress again. “But I must admit, the style does not favor you. White silk, I think, would be better.”

  Emerald wondered that she was able to keep her poise.

  “And if I am as you too boldly suggest, a pirate,” he went on, “then you are unwise to remove the mask you say I hide behind. Have I not offered you my protection? But if you scorn my chivalry, what need is there to pretend further?”

  She held out her hand. “My father’s pistol, your lordship—and, if you’d be so kind, my cousin’s jewels. I shall have them both, if you please. If you are—as you say—gallant, then you will do as I ask.”

  “My apologies, madam, but gallantry must often wear the three masks of Greek theater. I shall keep the pistol. However, unless I should seem totally indifferent to your concerns, I shall exchange it for another—a smaller one. But the jewels of Levasseur? They’re less likely to be discovered on me. As for the smaller pistol—just be certain you don’t go waving it about when I find it necessary to make use of my desk and charts. That is,” he said wryly, “if you will be so gracious as to permit me to do so?” He gestured to his desk, cluttered with her belongings.

  “I’m quite certain I have no cause to interfere with your duties as captain,” she said stiffly and went to retrieve her things.

  “Thank you.” He came around the front of the desk and, using a small key, unlocked the top drawer.

  Emerald stood watching curiously until his gaze came to hers. “You should remember this desk,” he said smoothly.

  She blushed, indeed remembering back to that dreadful night. She brought her things across the cabin and placed them on top of her trunk. When she glanced back, he had sat down to look through a drawer.

  “I know about your father’s journal and map that you sought from Lord Felix. Did you locate them?”

  He rummaged for something. “No. Felix must keep the journal elsewhere. It is an ambition of mine to find it.”

  “He would have been wiser to keep it in London—hide it on one of his estates.”

  He leaned back in his chair looking at her. “Hm—I’d never thought of that.”

  She smiled.

  His eyes glinted with humor. “Well, it takes a certain mind to understand the ways of pirates.”

  Stung, she said no more.

  “Ah …” And he lifted a hand-drawn map from the drawer. He spread it out and pulled the swinging lantern closer. “One of my father’s maps. Our point of rendezvous with the Venture is most likely to be about … here. Probably a pirate cove in Spanish waters.”

  “A pirate cove?” she asked uneasily, an edge to her voice.

  “I wish I knew …” He squinted at the map and mused to himself as he appeared to trace some line along the Main.

  Emerald walked to the desk and peered curiously at the drawing of the West Indies.

  “I am meant to be kept in the dark,” he said wryly, “until we near the location, yet I know these waters well enough. The Venture should be somewhere in this area. Once there, I will unfortunately need to board your cousin’s ship.”

  “What of me?”

  “If my plans do not go awry, you needn’t worry. You’ll be properly attended to before I board the Venture.”

  She wasn’t satisfied, but since he was in no mood to explain, she turned her attention to the map. “Did Levasseur choose the cove or Sloane?”

  “Levasseur. Yet I put no cunning past Sloane. I’ve a suspicion about his intentions where Levasseur is concerned.”

  She hesitated, wondering if she should say what was on her mind. “I’ve heard my cousin mention a cove he particularly likes. He says he could stay there for a month and never be noticed by the Spaniards.”

  “Could you remember the name now?”

  She folded her arms. “I might.”

  He smiled. “Does your hesitancy mean you wish to sign articles for a share of the intended booty, or have you a reluctance to betray a Frenchman to an Englishman?”

  “Neither one. The name is … well, rather difficult to remember offhand.”

  He stood and bowed her to his captain’s chair.

  She smiled at his lightness and sat down, bringing the map closer as he looked on, watching her with his dark head tilted, amusement in his eyes.

  Emerald could not read the map and cleared her throat. “Where is Port Royal, Captain?”

  He tapped his finger on the spot.

  “Oh, yes, now I see. Of course.”

  After a minute crept by and he paced the cabin floor deep in his musings, she called anxiously, “This is it, I think.”

  He came to her side quickly and bent over the desk as she traced the Caribbean southward from Port Royal to Bocas del Toro near the tip of Panama.

  He frowned and shook his head. “No. A dangerous spot. But here, maybe. Yes, I am sure of it now. Monkey Bay. It’s near San Juan River. Ah! Sweet genius!” he said, and in a bold moment cupped her chin in his hand and planted a swift innocent kiss on her lips.

  She realized the moment had meant nothing to him, and she refrained from reacting, hoping to app
ear as indifferent as he did. She stood quickly, smoothed her hair from her cheek, and walked to the other side of the cabin.

  “Um … Monkey Bay?” she repeated too casually.

  “Yes. Monkey Bay,” came his smooth voice. “Sound familiar now? Anyway, it is so. You’ve been more help than you can imagine, Emerald. This is most excellent news to me, a great weight off my mind. Whatever you do, say nothing of our secret to anyone—including Zeddie.”

  He folded the map and picked up his cloak, meeting her gaze. He produced a small pistol. “Can you use it?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll have two men on guard. They can be trusted.”

  He now appeared in a hurry, and she followed him to the door.

  “Do not under any circumstance leave the cabin unless in my company. The captain of the Regale is now known to be a jealous man. Let us keep it that way, for your sake.”

  He placed her father’s pistol in his belt, and she said swiftly, “I’ve not given you that, sir!”

  “No, you did not. I’m taking it.”

  “You are impossible to understand.”

  “Not to those who count me friend.”

  “But it belongs to my father,” she pleaded.

  “I beg to differ. It bears the coat of arms of Viscount Royce Buckington. My father.”

  She stopped, stunned. “Viscount—”

  “Yes. I’ve seen my father carry it many times in London.”

  His father’s pistol! But how?

  “Where Karlton got it remains the mystery.” His gaze hardened. “I shall find out.”

  “If you are insinuating my father stole—”

  He opened the door and glanced into the companionway. It must have been empty. “Bolt the door after me.”

  Frustrated, she whispered, “If I survive this wretched ordeal, I shall be the first to inform Lord Felix Buckington that his nephew is a blackguard! A companion of pirates! I will tell him and the Admiralty how you helped Levasseur!”

  “You can still behave the little minx, can’t you? Karlton is right. You could use a few years under the puckered brow of a headmistress at a finishing school.” He shut the door behind him.

  Emerald stood there, then abruptly slid the bolt into place. She heard the sound of his steps die away.

  Her mind swam with too many questions. She looked gloomily about the cabin that was to be her confinement for weeks to come.

  She thought of the pistol. He had said it belonged to his father. That would explain the coat of arms. Then why hadn’t her father told her so? And what was her father doing with it?

  Unless he didn’t know …

  It was difficult to believe that he wouldn’t have recognized the coat of arms even if she had not. Baret had seemed troubled about the pistol. What could it mean?

  Wearily, Emerald sank into the velvet chair and tried to pray, but a sense of gloom hung over her.

  29

  BUCCANEERS’ RENDEZVOUS

  A week crept by as slowly as one of Hob’s turtles, which he had brought aboard and kept in a crawl for his prized soup. Emerald had not spoken to Baret alone since the night of Jamie’s death.

  Although she came often to the dinner table in the Round Room and obligingly sat beside him, the words exchanged between them were few. She avoided Levasseur’s gaze, convinced that he was involved in Jamie’s death.

  Thankfully, Sloane did not eat with the captains but took his meals with the crew.

  There were also evenings when she chose not to come to the table and dined in the cabin alone. Hob always brought a tray and saw to it that a precious half of an orange or lime squeezed into water and sweetened was added to her meal.

  He grinned when she commented on his thoughtfulness. “His lordship’s order.”

  During that week no member of the pirate crew lurked about her cabin. Evidently Baret had been right when he told her he had convinced the crew of his intentions toward her. One night she had awakened with a start to hear Baret’s voice and Levasseur’s sharp answer, then retreating boot steps. She had tensely waited in the sultry darkness, but only the sound of the sea filled her ears.

  If Levasseur held to his insistence that she had stolen his jewels and brought them aboard the Regale, he must have decided to let the matter lie dormant for the present. Since Baret had removed them for safekeeping, she’d not heard any more about them.

  It was now their first Sunday on the Caribbean, and Sir Cecil held a chapel service in the Round Room, whereupon Emerald had quietly attended with Zeddie, masking her surprise when the captain of the Regale and one other crewman were also in attendance, although late.

  Baret remained standing unobtrusively in the back by the open door, where warm breezes filtered inside, looking out at the sea and indulging in a tin of coffee that Hob faithfully brought to him while Sir Cecil taught the Scriptures.

  Emerald was unable to avoid satisfying her curiosity and glanced back over her shoulder to see what he was doing and how well he was attending to the lecture on the struggles and temptations of David while fleeing from the murderous intent of King Saul. Baret did not have a Bible, she noted, but his respect and attention to Sir Cecil awed her, and she pondered the expression on the handsomely chiseled face.

  After the years of upbringing under Great-uncle Mathias, she knew enough to recognize a man’s heart for God when she saw it. She stared at him, secretly pleased. Then, when he must have felt her gaze and looked at her, she turned her head and stared at the open Bible in her lap.

  He does believe.

  When the service was over and she stood, thinking he might come to speak to her, she saw that he had already left.

  Emerald’s interest grew, as much as she sought to stifle it. Baret Buckington was not the sort of man any woman could easily forget, she thought warily.

  The trade wind, which had freshened since dawn, now swept the ship with early coolness. With topsails unfurled there was a list to starboard, and the Regale was moving through the sea on a southwest course. They were many leagues south of Jamaica now, and land was nowhere in sight.

  Sir Cecil had arranged for Baret’s crew to erect an awning from the cabin bulkhead extending out over the deck to provide shade for Emerald’s comfort. Every afternoon when the heat in the cabin grew unbearable, she would don a light cotton frock and come out to sit beneath the shade on a cane daybed. Here she would contemplate the music that Great-uncle Mathias had gathered and was working on before he died. But she had no notion what she might do with the material if she were sent to London.

  She couldn’t imagine the state church in England finding any interest or value in it—though Mathias had told her there were those in the church who were heartily opposed to slavery and even preached against it before the king.

  Perhaps the best part of the afternoon was when Sir Cecil came to keep her company. Inevitably he brought his King James Bible and would fall easily into a discourse on the blessings of Christianity.

  “It’s not merely a religion,” he said one day. “It is based on the character of a Person. And all the blessed gifts bestowed freely by divine grace are wrapped up in the beloved Son of the Father. In Christ we have all that is fitting for both this life and the hereafter, when we shall look with great joy and peace upon His most benevolent face.”

  After his discourse they often fell into a discussion of her uncle’s novel idea of a singing school for the slaves. Sir Cecil would lean back against his chair, bring palms together to tap his fingers, and ask her to be so kind as to hum a slave chant, while he considered thoughtfully.

  At first she had felt self-conscious, but after several such episodes she grew bolder and even encouraged Hob and Zeddie to sound the African rhythm by beating cane sticks. Hob was especially good at this.

  Then one day Emerald was remembering the aged Jonah, grandfather of Minette and Ty, and she became so totally involved in singing the chant Jonah had helped Mathias to create that she was almost unaware of the African pir
ate who approached. Upon hearing the chant, and Hob and Zeddie’s beating the cane sticks, the pirate climbed on the rail to listen, his cutlass within easy reach.

  Minutes later when her emotions had cooled and her eyes were yet moist with tears, she found him listening with an awed expression on his handsome dark face, the gold ring in his left ear glinting in the sunlight.

  From below, Baret stood hands on hips, looking up, his dark eyes alert while watching the response of the pirate.

  Sir Cecil, tall and rigid, saw Baret and went to the taffrail and leaned over. The gray locks beneath his Spanish hat moved in the breeze, a thoughtful half smile on his mouth.

  “The dean of Saint Paul’s should be so broadened in his methods as to hear and see this. What you hear, my delinquent student, is what Emerald deigns to call a ‘slave hymn.’” Cecil gestured toward the African pirate. “At least Kill-Devil is impressed.”

  Whether Baret was or not she had no notion.

  During these informal afternoon meetings, Zeddie was never far from her, usually dozing in the tropical sun. Hob would then appear, climbing the steps with a tray to bring them his private concoction of squeezed limes and sugar.

  “Be the tastiest punch in all Caribbee,” he’d say with a wink.

  Emerald had come to look forward to these afternoon visits and discovered that Sir Cecil was indeed a renowned scholar.

  “An unusual calling,” he had said of her uncle’s work. “Who would have thought to seek to translate the African chants into a form of Christian teaching, using their own rhythm and tone. It seems most obvious to me that they would respond best to the Savior when He speaks their native tongue.”

  She smiled wistfully, remembering Mathias. “So said my great-uncle. There were times when he became discouraged with the leaders of the church in England for being so blind. He used to quip that the Masters believed that God only spoke English.”

  Sir Cecil looked pointedly at his Bible. “There was a time, my dear, when the church insisted the Word should only be spoken in Latin. A trail of martyrs lines the way to Smithfield for insisting otherwise. I commend your great-uncle! I wish I had met him. And I commend you, Emerald. I can see your love of his work is a smoking flax ready to burst forth into holy fire one day. Let no man put it out. Saturate this cause with prayer. Seek His will and purpose. And who knows? One day you may carry that torch forward.”