The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  The lad let out a sigh and returned to his meal.

  “What is your real name, Doctor?” Sawkins broke the awkward silence. “If I might ask.”

  Hann set down his fork. “He is John Barnard Preston, of Canterbury.”

  “Seems ye got yerself an admirer, eh Cutter?” Smithy chuckled, then instantly shrank away from Hann. “Ye aren’t no catamite, are ye?”

  Hann sprang to his feet. His chair tumbled to the floor behind him. “Of course not, ye blubbering fool.” He fingered the hilt of his cutlass. “And I’ll have ye take that back before I run ye through and carve ye up for dinner.”

  “Run me through, ye little squeaky varmint? Ha.” Smithy plucked one more piece of meat from his plate and shoved it into his mouth, then stood. “I dares ye to try.”

  Isabel’s heart flipped in her chest. Hann had been nothing but kind to her, and he was just a boy. By size and cruelty alone, Smithy would surely best him in a fight.

  “I’m sure Mr. Smithy did not mean what he said, did you, Mr. Smithy?” She widened her eyes toward the first mate.

  Hann stepped back and wove around the table, heading toward Smithy. “Naw, I’ll be thinkin’ he meant it all right.”

  “There’ll be no fighting at my table.” Kent stood, eyes flaring. “Take the insult back or deal with me, not the boy.”

  Smithy scowled, lowered his head, and mumbled, “Mebbe ye ain’t what I said ye were.”

  Halting, Hann remained standing.

  “Have a seat, Hann.” Kent motioned toward the table.

  “I’ve lost me appetite.” With one glance toward Cutter, Hann left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Sawkins grinned.

  All eyes were upon Smithy. “What?” He scratched his bushy sideburns and belched.

  The stench of sour rum and decaying food drifted over Isabel, and she held her hand to her nose.

  Kent leaned on the table. “You forget yourself, Smithy. There is a lady present.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” Smithy recited with disgust and shifted a sly glance toward Sawkins.

  Holding her stomach, Isabel slowly rose. Perhaps she had eaten too fast or perhaps the company and conversation had curdled the food in her stomach. “I believe I shall retire, gentlemen.”

  Kent, Sawkins, and Cutter sprang to their feet. Cursing, Smithy joined them, swayed, and teetered against Isabel.

  With a shriek she pushed him away. He grabbed onto the table to keep from falling.

  Kent raised his elbow. “I’ll escort you.” Though his voice was commanding, a gentle invitation beckoned from his eyes. It was the first time he’d offered her his arm and not taken hers by force.

  Hesitating, Isabel studied him. He widened his eyes as if to reassure her of his intentions, but she did not wish to give him hope for any affection between them. Refusing his arm, she turned and headed toward the door. The sound of his boots thudded behind her.

  Slowing his pace to match hers, he frowned as they strolled to her cabin in silence. Much to Isabel’s surprise no fear rose to grip her along the way. His warmth and strength, coupled with his scent of leather and spice, seemed to have the opposite effect.

  In the doorway, he paused. His gaze drifted to her lips, remained there for a moment, and then rose back to her eyes. She wondered whether he thought of kissing her, and alarm coursed through her. He gave her a sorrowful smile before he bowed and closed the door.

  Taking the companionway ladder in one giant leap, Kent burst onto the main deck, having no desire to return to the heinous company below in his cabin. The hot, heavy wind blasted over him, and he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to quell his thunderous passions. Sparkling jade eyes filled his vision, so often firing hatred his way, but tonight he’d seen something soften behind their harsh gaze. As Isabel had stood there in the cabin looking so vulnerable, it was all he could do to stop himself from taking her in his arms and covering those full pink lips with his. But he didn’t want to frighten or repulse her with his actions and felt certain he would have done both.

  Nodding at the watchman on the foredeck, Kent pounded to the railing and crossed his arms over his chest. The moon, nearly full now, hung low in the sky. Like a lighthouse in a storm, it sent fingers of light across the raging sea, offering guidance through the dark night until a new day dawned.

  He chuckled remembering how the pirates with morsels of food nigh lifted to their lips had been halted in their tracks with Isabel’s insistence to say grace. What tenacity. And they’d done it! Her faith remained strong amidst all the tragedies in her life. It baffled him, along with the courage she must possess to leave her family and everything she valued. He knew what she’d given up for her son—their son. She loved Frederick, despite her feelings for his father. Somehow the thought warmed Kent’s soul. But it also saddened him. No one had ever loved him that way. He had never been worthy.

  Deep guffaws interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Sawkins and Smithy emerging from the main hatch. Kent wondered at their acquaintance. Like attracted like, he supposed. They were suited for each other.

  Sawkins posed another problem. Kent regretted taking him on board, but the insufferable man had withheld the exact location of Morris’s expedition as payment for his passage. Cartagena was the only name he’d disclosed, with a promise to offer further details on arrival.

  Blast! Kent gripped the railing. He had vowed never to take that devilish, lying scoundrel on board his ship. Now that he was here, Kent determined to remain sober and alert at all times, especially with Isabel on board.

  He saw the way Sawkins looked at her, like a wolf licking his lips at his intended prey. Lord Sawkins was a nobleman, yes—by his mother’s blood only. But nothing noble existed in his dark soul. Rumor had it he’d left a trail of broken women across the Caribbean. Kent thought of his own conquests, and shame tugged at his soul as he realized he’d done the very same thing. Hadn’t he also pounced on Isabel as if she were just another prize—another trophy to add to his collection? Hanging his head, he swallowed a burst of guilt.

  Sawkins would no doubt dangle his position before Isabel like a mesmerizing charm. Kent must warn her before she succumbed to his wiles, for she had no idea that beneath the gallant façade lurked a poisonous viper.

  Chapter Ten

  Boys Will Be Boys

  Isabel’s eyes popped open. She bolted up in bed. Focusing her sleepy gaze over the bright room, she tossed off her quilt, allowing air to cool her body, damp with perspiration. The heat had risen along with the sun that now glared in through the window. She chided herself for sleeping so long and wondered why Hann had not woken her with breakfast. No doubt the young pirate was embarrassed about the incident at dinner last night. She couldn’t blame him. It was a terrible thing to be accused of, especially if it wasn’t true. Yet she had wondered herself what affections existed between Hann and Cutter.

  Flinging off her nightdress, Isabel took a cloth and dabbed cool water from the basin over her body. The red bumps littering her arms had not disappeared though she’d applied the ointment Cutter had given her. The hot, humid air seemed only to irritate them further, and Isabel found it difficult not to be continually scratching them. With a sigh, she opened the jar and rubbed more of the salve upon her arms, then chose a fresh gown and pinned her hair atop her head in a loose bun, allowing tiny curls to tickle her neck.

  The Bible beckoned to her from the table, and she sank into one of the chairs and skimmed through its pages. “Father, speak to me this morning. I need your wisdom.” She longed for Reverend Thomas. He nearly had this book memorized and always knew where to find solace within. A sudden puff of wind blew the pages over, and Isabel’s eyes landed on Isaiah 49.

  Shall the prey be taken from the mighty, or the lawful captive delivered? But thus saith the Lord, Even the captives of the mighty shall be taken away, and the prey of the terrible shall be delivered: for I will contend with him that contendeth with thee, and I will s
ave thy children.

  Those last incredible words rose from the pages and dove into her heart: I will save thy children. Where had that wind come from? No windows or doors were open. A warm shimmer passed over her, and she knew God had spoken to her.

  “Thank you, Lord.”

  Closing the book, she bounced onto the window ledge and looked out, soaring on wings of hope. The creator of the universe had assured her Frederick would be saved. What else had she to fear? Who else had she to fear? Certainly not Captain Carlton. She no longer believed he would assault her. And with Lord Sawkins—a true gentleman—on board, another assurance of safety settled on her heart.

  Excitement bubbled within Isabel as she gazed over the placid sea and thought of Frederick. “Hold fast. Mother’s coming to get you, my darling.”

  Yet, not a foamy wave in the distance or toss of the ship confirmed her declaration. The brilliant turquoise sea stared back at her like shimmering glass. No snap of sails, no creak of rolling hull reached her ears, no sound save the clank of swords. In fact the unusual silence that snaked through the ship threatened to crush her newfound hope.

  Grabbing her key, Isabel unlatched the door and burst onto the main deck. A wall of scalding air assaulted her along with a multitude of ribald gazes. Her glance took in the deck roasting beneath the sun. Clusters of pirates huddled in patches of shade afforded them beneath fore- and quarterdeck and next to masts, crates and barrels. Her eyes locked with those of the captain, who with sword leveled upon another pirate, had also stopped to glare at her when she’d emerged on deck.

  Kent’s bare chest heaved as his imperious eyes raked over her. Clad only in breeches, he shook the hair back from his face and let it fall to his shoulders in wild disarray. The other pirate—Gibbons, she thought his name was—froze, sword in hand, beneath the pointed tip of Kent’s blade.

  “Milady.” Kent bowed. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  Shielding her eyes, Isabel pulled her gaze from his muscular chest to Cutter, who was perched upon a barrel, playing cards with three pirates beside the foredeck. One of them was Logan, the master gunner. The other two she didn’t know. “Why aren’t we moving?” She snapped her eyes back to Kent’s.

  “The wind has left us. There’s naught to be done.”

  Isabel glanced over the glassy sea and then up to the quarterdeck, where Lord Sawkins sat in the shade of an old sailcloth strung betwixt the mizzen mast and its shrouds, sipping a drink. She dabbed at the perspiration forming on her neck and let out an exasperated sigh. “But we must catch Morris.”

  Kent offered her a playful grin. “If I could, I would move heaven, earth, and even these seas for your ladyship, but alas, even I cannot control the wind and tides.”

  Snickers rose from the pirates.

  Isabel pursed her lips, feeling familiar hopelessness claw its way back into her soul. “Well, at least we have discovered you are not truly master of all you see.”

  Cutter flashed a smile at her from behind raised cards, and Smithy’s chortle was instantly silenced by Kent’s stern gaze.

  “Lady Ashton,” Lord Sawkins beckoned her from the quarterdeck, “Won’t you join me?”

  Throwing her nose in the air, she twirled around and climbed the ladder, casting a haughty glance over her shoulder.

  The smirk on Kent’s face soured.

  Sawkins rose, hand extended, and led her to a stack of crates beside his. The hard wood chafed the skin through her gown. Beads of perspiration slid down her back, but at least beneath the covering, the bite of the sun’s heat was not as sharp.

  Modishly dressed in a ruffled Holland shirt, Sawkins wore no doublet, giving Isabel a chance to survey his handsome frame.

  “Hann,” he bellowed to the boy who stood against the quarterdeck railing looking down upon the main deck.

  Slowly, Hann turned his head.

  “A drink for Lady Ashton, if you please.” Sawkins snapped his fingers.

  Hann crinkled his nose before he faced forward again, unmoving.

  “Humph,” Sawkins snorted. “If I were captain of this ship, I’d have such insubordination flogged.” He stomped his boot upon the deck, his face twisting in rage. But as soon as he turned toward Isabel, his features instantly softened.

  Isabel gave him a gentle smile. “I fear you are mistaken, milord. Hann is neither slave nor servant, but a quartermaster upon this ship.”

  “Never mind. I shall go below and get you a drink myself.” Leaning over, he placed a moist kiss on her hand and left.

  The sharp clang of swords drew her attention below to where Kent and Gibbons had resumed parrying.

  Kent lunged toward Gibbons, who raised his sword and met his blast with a vibrating chime. With a quick step to his left, the captain spun around and slashed across his opponent’s waist. If Gibbons had not jumped backward, the captain would surely have drawn blood.

  Isabel raised a hand to her mouth. Were they fighting or only practicing? She’d never seen anything quite like it. Hilt to hilt they pummeled each other. Kent drove Gibbons back, the pirate barely able to stave off the captain’s powerful blows. A thrust toward the pirate’s thigh caught Gibbons off guard and sliced his breeches before he could swing his sword about.

  Isabel found she couldn’t pull her eyes from the battle—especially not from Kent. He fought with such skill and ferocity, his strained muscles swelling across his chest and arms, his face set in grim determination.

  When Sawkins returned, his large frame blocked her view, and she craned her neck to see around him. After easing onto his seat, he handed her a mug and followed the direction of her gaze. He spoke, his voice dripping with disdain.

  Isabel heard his murmur but was unclear what he’d said. “I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned toward her, and the sharp scent of cedar oil from his mustache stung her nostrils. “Savage beasts, I said.” He nodded toward the sword fight.

  She returned her gaze to Kent, who’d just swung to his right and brought his sword from behind him in a clever move that sent Gibbons reeling backward. “Yes.” Isabel feigned a smile. “Brutes.” Yet the word floundered in effect as it fell from her lips.

  Sawkins shifted in his seat. “However, I cannot help but perceive your interest in the game.”

  “Interest?” Isabel raised her hand and swatted nonexistent wind over her, wishing she’d not left her fan below, and all the while wondering where the blast of sudden heat came from. “Not at all. I merely am curious how they can exert themselves in such torrid weather.”

  Sawkins sipped his drink. His blue eyes scoured over her.

  One more strike and Kent knocked Gibbons’s sword from his grasp, sending it clanging onto the deck. Bending over, Gibbons held a hand up, with chest heaving and sweat dripping from his brow. “I concede, Captain.”

  Kent mopped his brow. “Then, I believe you owe Lady Ashton an apology.”

  “An apology?” Isabel glared at the defeated pirate and then at Lord Sawkins. “Whatever for?”

  Sawkins dabbed the perspiration on his neck with his handkerchief. “’Twas naught but a trifling squabble amongst savages.”

  Kent pointed his sword at Gibbons. The pirate grunted and glanced up at Isabel. Drops of sweat glistened in the coarse hairs of his chest. “Me apologies, milady,” he muttered. Kent’s sword poked deeper into his side. “Fer callin’ ye a trollop.”

  A trollop? Indignation lifted Isabel’s shoulders. She glared at Sawkins. “A trifling squabble? You call this degradation of my character a trifle?”

  Sawkins shifted his gaze uncomfortably over the deck. “You must consider the source, milady. There is no honor among pirates.”

  “Indeed, but I fear it was not their honor which needed defending.” Isabel huffed and returned her gaze to the deck below where the captain’s sly grin indicated he was enjoying their banter. If she had expected anyone to come to her defense at such an insult, it would have been Lord Sawkins, not the captain.

  Fling
ing his saturated hair behind him, Kent scanned the pirates loitering over the ship. “Anyone else have an opinion regarding Lady Ashton?”

  Grumbles emanated from the mob, but no one stepped forward.

  The captain’s squinted gaze landed on Sawkins. “Lord Sawkins, perhaps you would do me the honor of engaging me in swordplay?” A sardonic grin twisted Kent’s lips. “Purely for sport, I assure you.”

  Sawkins face paled. “In this heat? Surely you are mad.” He waved his jeweled fingers through the air.

  “Nay, I suppose we wouldn’t want to strain your delicate, noble nature.” Kent chuckled and swiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “By all means, stay in the comfort of the shade where you belong.”

  Chortles echoed across the ship, and a few pirates prodded Sawkins to accept Kent’s challenge.

  Fingering his mustache, Sawkins drew in a deep breath and rose to his feet. His hands twitched as he unbuttoned his shirt and flung it over his head. Isabel wondered at his hesitancy. He seemed most content to lounge in the shade and sip his drink while others worked. Perhaps he feared defeat, yet certainly as a nobleman he’d be well trained with a sword and most willing to use it when the need arose. He cast a regretful glance at her before jumping down to the main deck.

  Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he stood to face the captain.

  Kent swaggered around him as the pirates began to cheer.

  Sawkins attacked at once with a ferocious lunge that Kent quickly tossed aside with his blade. The captain then swung about and drove his cutlass in from the left. Sawkins dipped his sword in defense, and the two weapons crashed with a resounding clank. Chuckling, Kent lengthened his arm in a riposte that forced Sawkins backward to avoid the point.

  His face purpling, Sawkins increased the ferocity of his onslaught, but it spent itself idly against the captain’s skill, for each thrust, each blow, each assault was met with a calm defensive maneuver and an immediate counterattack that sent Sawkins reeling. His body, though tall and lithe, carried not the strength and power that Kent’s did, and he suffered immensely under each blow.