Sea of Treason (Pirate's Bluff Book 1)

by Stacey Trombley

  I let out a chuckle at that.

  He leaves out that at least half of these men were privateers during the war. They’re essentially soldiers... who didn’t stop fighting fast enough.

  "Hang? You mean you're going to kill them? Even the boy?" Her voice quivers endearingly. "Surely the new country wouldn't allow such a thing?”

  "There is no boy," the guard's deep voice calls. "The man in the last stall was an old man. Silver hair, blue eyes. He's over fifty and well knows the choice he was making when he attempted to take over the Marry Anna two weeks ago. He killed two of my sailors in the process."

  Well, that’s a rather grand tale. Those two men died of the pox, though I did “attempt” to take over a ship. I was only caught because I wanted to be. I’ve been waiting for her.

  I plop back down onto the concrete floor as their footsteps fade away, our excitement for the day done and gone.

  "What was that about?" the man next to me asks, standing over me.

  I pick at my fingernails and shrug, unsure if he noticed my shift in appearance or if he’s simply asking about the girl and her reaction—as if I’d have any clue. Or perhaps I do, I just don't want to believe it.

  All the signs are there, after all.

  Is it possible she'd find me before I found her? I chuckle bitterly. Fate is such a strange thing. Clearly, I must work harder if I'm going to win this sick game.

  To think, I’ve been watching her from afar since the moment her father made a deal with Captain Stede and now she’s found me. My stomach knots as I consider the sea witch’s prophecy.

  I’d still rather believe all of it rubbish, but I can’t take any chance. If this is the girl, the subject of the prophecy, and that prophecy happens to hold merit... I swallow.

  I will not be controlled. Not now, not ever.

  The conversations about our pretty visitor last for nearly an hour. I occupy my thoughts away from their disgusting fantasies by searching what little of the sea I can from my cell. There is only one small, uneven opening, but if I press my cheek flush against the cold stone and wait a few moments to allow my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, I'm able to get a decent view. Or at least, I can see some of the water. Maybe I could even spy a ship coming in to dock, if they passed in the perfect position.

  It's time for my exit plan, I realize. But I'll have to wait until the most opportune moment. Dusk sounds ideal, perhaps even midnight. But those are the most expected moments. A better plan is one of sincere patience. I will act just before dawn, right before the morning guards begin their duty.

  The squeal of the main door pulls the crowd's attention back to reality.

  "Did she come back?" someone whispers.

  "Come here, princess," another hisses under his breath, causing more than a few snickers.

  "Shut up!" a guard barks from the hall. "Unless you're eager to meet the gallows now."

  Several jaws snap shut. The entire prison chamber is quiet for a long moment before the movement begins again. Several sets of footsteps pound down the hall, accompanied by the characteristic scrape of feet dragging along the concrete floor.

  Appears we're gaining a new prison-mate.

  "Welcome to your last home, mongrel." One of the three soldiers spits as they toss the thin, scraggly man into an empty cell three down from me. I can smell the sea on him.

  Another pirate, perhaps? I stand on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the new addition. Could it be someone I know?

  The body remains on the ground until the soldier’s chain the door closed and retreat.

  "Oy! Mate," the prisoner next to him calls. "You alive, or dead?"

  The pirate coughs and finally lifts his head. "Water?" he asks through dry lips.

  His neighbor shakes his head. We get food and water once a day at best. Don't bother asking for a bathroom.

  "What ship are yeh from? Where did they get yeh?"

  "The Freedom," he says through heavy breaths as he works to push his body upright. I jerk my head up. I know that ship. I know that crew. One of the few true pirate ships left in these waters.

  This bloke doesn't seem familiar, however. He could be a new hire, a bloke that didn't last long on an easy ship. That, or he’s lying. His long stringy hair falls over his face. "Bloody gripe over a game of dice got me tossed overboard. Damn bitch. I was rescued by the navy and tossed in here."

  This loses the attention of several pirates, but it causes me to laugh. Based on his outburst of colorful language, I fully suspect Rosemera is to blame for his swim. But I’d wager it wasn't over a game of dice.

  To the rest of this lot, a pirate tossed overboard isn't likely to be rescued by his crew, which means he's worthless to them.

  "I have news, though," he says, eyes darting around like he's bothered by their quick dismissal. "I saw Stede."

  A hush falls over the chamber. Now this is news they want to hear.

  "Where?" one lone voice calls.

  "South, at least a day away. But he's headed here, if the rumors are right."

  Whispers echo through the chamber in earnest now, cell after cell, rough voices feeding off one another.

  "He's coming."

  Every man here is sentenced to die. Some still have a trial awaiting, but there's no doubt of the outcome. Quick drop, sudden stop. So to hear of a powerful pirate sailing towards us here and now—well, it's a possible way out of their current predicament.

  It's hope to the hopeless.

  To me, though, it's an annoyance. I am not eager to meet Captain Stede face to face yet again. He’s not nearly as despicable as his reputation suggests, but he’s worked hard to live up to his namesake—a legendary pirate of a century ago. He even named his ship after Stede Bonnet’s of the golden age—The Revenge—and copied his old pirate flag.

  The more folk (like me) doubt his misdeeds the more he feels the need to prove himself and do something worse than before.

  And this time, I know what he’s after. I just have to get there first.

  Getting out of this prison has never been a problem. It’s a temporary holding cell until the time is right. My goal is keeping this perceived treasure out of someone else’s hand to save my own skin. It's keeping this grip over my illusive freedom from falling altogether. I can't lose.

  If Stede is on his way—that means the time is now.

  I must get to her before he does.

  Whitley

  "You’re beautiful, miss."

  I bite my lip, unsure I agree, staring at myself in our full-length mirror—a luxury I never had before. My handmaid is old, her back bent forward with age. Not exactly a good judge of beauty.

  "Thank you," I say in a near whisper.

  She approaches slowly, like I’m a wild animal she's concerned she'll spook, then pulls one small clip from my hair, letting a slim strand of blonde hair fall against my face. Oddly enough, that simple act makes me prettier. More natural.

  "Thank you," I say again, but this time it's sincere. "What is your name again?" I ask. She's our servant here. I don't like the idea of servants, because honestly, I should probably be one myself. We're only pretending to be anything other than low class.

  "You can call me Angela."

  "That's a very pretty name."

  She lowers her head as she backs out of the room, and I take one more look at myself in the mirror, wondering if there will ever come a day that I’ll accept this as my life. Ever a day I’ll be happy heading to a high society social function. Ever a day I stop looking to the horizon, imagining what may lie beyond, peering past every turn for an escape route. My fingers glide over the broach on my chest.

  "Wait," I call to Angela just before she disappears down the hall.

  She pops her head back in. "Yes, miss?"

  "Have you seen my necklace? It's an emerald ring on chain. It should have been in the jewelry box." If I have the broach, it means my mother's ring should be nearby as well.

  "No, Miss. Would you like me to search again?"


  "Please. It was my mother’s. I wanted to keep it with me on the journey here, but my father insisted we put it in the box for safe keeping."

  "Of course, Miss."

  "Are you ready, Whitley?" My father’s call sounds through the house. I whip my head towards the hall, not at all ready to leave this room. I may never be ready. But I know father won't wait long.

  "Just a moment!" I call back.

  I turn back to Angela as she searches through my very small collection of jewelry. Two small pieces from Jeb, the rest humble relics from our former life in Wales. She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Miss. I don't see any rings here."

  "All right, thank you. I'm sure it'll turn up somewhere."

  "Whitley!" my father calls again.

  Angela nods, her concern not totally hidden. Perhaps she understands the meaning of such an item.

  I sigh and leave my full-length mirror behind, the heavy skirt of this horrid dress swooshing as I turn the corner.

  "Ah, there you are," my father says as I descend the marble staircase, eyeing the crystal chandelier all the while. I have no idea how he afforded this place. If he couldn't pay back his debts, but could buy this extravagant place... how much did he actually owe?

  "Didn't I tell you she was beautiful?" Angela says, appraising me. Now I believe she means it. No matter how crooked her back is.

  "Quite presentable," my father says with a grin.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. By "presentable" he means "it'll do."

  Again, I feel ugly, frumpy. Stupid.

  Still, I smile at Angela, thankful for her kind words. If only I didn't care what my father thought. I wish more than anything I didn't.

  "Come," my father holds out his hand for me to take. "Don't want to be late."

  I take it, knowing full well we do actually want to be late. Much better to make a grand entrance that way. The "gathering" will surely be full by the time we get there.

  There is a grand coach, pulled by two horses waiting for us. One horse is solid black, and the other is white, speckled and splattered with black and gray. I wish I could forgo the coach and just ride him into town, wind blowing my hair back. Perhaps I can steal a ride tomorrow while my father is sleeping off the drink he’ll surely overdo tonight.

  Perhaps I can ride her over the hills and never come back. That's a thought that may just get me through the evening.

  "Come," my father says from inside the carriage. There is a servant, a man, holding out a gloved hand to help me in. His expression catches my attention. It's not a polite servant-ish smile. It's more like amusement. I narrow my eyes at him, but I enter the carriage to appease my father.

  The man hops onto the carriage with the step of a younger man and urges the horses forward, much faster than is appropriate.

  The coach bumps and jumps as it coasts down the hill into town.

  My father grunts and clears his throat, annoyed at the driver’s urgency, but he says nothing. This sincerely surprises me. But the ride is so short, only a moment later people dressed in their high-society best are visible outside out coach's window. I assume he doesn't want to risk anyone from town hearing him scold a coach driver in public.

  We stop in front of a brightly lit house, larger than the one we just moved into, but only just. Its walls are made of white stone that almost shines like marble.

  The driver hops from his spot on the coach and opens the rickety door. "My lady," he says, his eyes twinkling, a crooked grin on his face. His expression is so strong, I almost suspect he's flirting with me.

  The grimace my father gives the servant could kill, but he grips his hand and exits the coach behind me. Except his feet miss their place on the step, causing him to stumble onto his knees, and scuff his right pant leg.

  Was it my imagination or did the servant purposefully put his foot there?

  I stifle a laugh, and the driver winks in my direction. Something about his eyes draw me in. They're familiar. Grey eyes. Where have I seen such eyes before?

  Was he one of the sailors from our journey here?

  My father grabs my arm and pulls me towards the party. I follow hesitantly.

  "Miss Whitley!" Mary calls to me. "My, you do dress up nicely." Her smile reaches from ear to ear. My blue silk dress is humble compared to hers, which is yellow, adorned with beads about the neck, cut lower than I’d be bold enough to wear, with a bustle, making her bum appear larger than is at all natural.

  "Oh, well, thank you." I say, politely as I can manage.

  "Come!" she says, wrapping her arm in mine. "There are so many people for you to meet."

  She pulls me through the crowd, introducing me to several people in a whirlwind. I try my best to greet them appropriately and remember them after, but the girl’s enthusiasm makes that difficult. The social “rules” here are certainly different than what I am used to, then again, Father was always stricter than others. He was always intent on me learning the “proper” way, even though many American’s didn’t bother with much of it.

  As we shuffle through the crowd, Mary continues whispering various scores of gossip in my ear. This is her idea of a “little gathering.” I should have known. This is nothing short of a ball.

  The attendees’ dress shows varying levels of wealth in the room, but that’s unsurprising considering the size of this gathering in such a small town. They must have invited nearly everyone.

  Eventually we make our way over to a table full of refreshments. A quiet servant woman keeps her eyes cast down as she pours liquor in crystal glasses. I force a smile as several forgettable people introduce themselves. They are all very polite. Which is polite speak for boring.

  "Did you hear?" Mary says excitedly as soon as the last person is out of ear shot. I sip my champagne and raise my eyebrows as if I'm interested.

  "A prisoner escaped."

  "Prisoner?”

  "Yes, from the fort. It's all very exciting."

  Exciting. Yes, I'm sure. My mind jumps to the disgusting men and the comments they made as I passed their iron cages. The thought of those conditions still causes a tightness in my chest.

  "Who was it?"

  "Oh! No one's quite sure. Or at least they won't say. One of the pirates probably. I did hear one story that was simply fantastic."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, you see—" Mary looks around as if nervous someone might overhear our conversation. I find it strange how different she is here from on the street. All of a sudden, the excited fifteen-year-old girl is bursting out. "When the guard went to check on the prisoners, well, he says there was a child in the cell. A boy, only about eight-years-old."

  I suck in a breath. "That's terrible."

  "I know!" she says giddily. I wonder if not much happens around here. This girl is enjoying this far too much. "So, of course the guard opens the door to get the boy out—and he changed!"

  "Changed?"

  "Yes! Into a great big man. He grew four feet and attacked the guard. That's how he got out."

  "Changed," I say, no longer believing her story.

  "Yes, like a shape-shifter or something. I heard my husband talking all about it."

  My eyes drift away from Mary. She's a bit delusional to be sure.

  That's when a surprisingly handsome man steps in front of me and holds out a hand, asking me to dance. He's closer to my age than any man I've seen yet. A set of dimples appears as he grins, his soft brown eyes shining.

  "May I have the pleasure?" he asks.

  I’m not sure this is appropriate, given I have no idea who is he, but I take his hand, because, well, I've never danced with someone this handsome before. Mary gasps, but she says nothing as I leave her behind.

  The stranger swings me out onto the dance floor. I glance back once to see a Mary's mouth hanging open, but my attention is ripped away as I’m swept through the crowd in the stranger's arms and I fall into step with the waltz.

  "I don't believe we've met," I say to him, noting his crooked grin. Does eve
ryone smile like that in the south?

  "Hmm," he says, not seeming very interested in telling me who is he. I raise my eyebrows. "And you are?" he asks, as if he told me his name and now it's my turn.

  "Whitley." My eyes narrow. "Are you going to tell me yours?"

  "Not right now."

  I stop and begin to pull away from him. What kind of game is he playing? His grip tightens, and he pulls me in close.

  "Would you rather I lie?" he whispers into my ear, his warm breath tickling.

  Lie? Why would he lie? "You can't just tell me the truth?"

  "I could, but then I'm not sure you'd continue to dance with me. And that would be a shame."

  I pull back to meet his eye, our feet still moving mindlessly to the beat. "Tell me, or I won't ever dance with you again."

  His eyes glisten, and his smile broadens. "Bluff."

  "What?"

  "I told you."

  But I don't let go. His hand feels good on my waist, and truth be told—I don't want to stop. My father may grow angry if he witnesses the gentleman’s strange behavior, but that’s all the more reason to continue. I take joy in every small rebellion.

  But a crash of shattering glass whips my attention from my strange dancing partner.

  The music stops abruptly, and all heads turn towards the entrance of Mary's home. Standing in the doorway is an oddly dressed man, with blood shot eyes, a large black beard and a black scar stretching temple to chin across his nose. His skin would likely be fair, if not for the layer of scum over every inch of his face. He makes the man at the fort look like the New York City mayor.

  I rationally muse he could be a military man, but my heart is throbbing, stomach squirming. Images of the night the mob came for us flash through my mind. Every instinct inside me is screaming that whoever this man is, he is not friendly.

  Several other men file in behind him, dressed in a similar fashion most with beards and tattoos all over. Though I don’t recognize a single one, their general appearance is reminiscent of the pirate prisoners.

  My heart leaps to my throat, and I no longer question the truth: these are definitely pirates. And it's not just one escapee—it's an entire crew.