Jumping, Isabel looked up to see Hann grinning at her. Two pistols hung tied to a scarlet ribbon draped over her shoulder. Her tight brown waistcoat well hid her gender. Taller and thicker boned than Isabel, Hann indeed could pass for a fierce pirate, save for the rosy blush that graced her cheeks and the lush dark lashes framing her violet eyes.
“Was I smiling?” Isabel let out a nervous giggle. “Perhaps I’m just happy to be out of that stifling cabin.”
“I’m glad to see you so improved, milady. You gave us all quite a scare—especially the captain.”
“I’m sure he did not trouble himself overmuch.” Isabel raised her chin. “I have not seen him for three days.”
Hann leaned one arm on the railing and cocked her head. “On the contrary, he inquired after you several times each day and ensured that you were well fed.”
Shifting her gaze away, Isabel tried to still the sudden leap of her heart. No reason existed for Kent’s kindness save that he hoped to make restitution for what he had done to her. He must learn that no amount of good deeds could ever erase his horrendous actions of that one night. “Surely Lord Sawkins was also concerned?”
“Difficult to say, milady, since he has spent most of his time drinking and gambling.” Hann crinkled her nose and glanced over Isabel’s shoulder. Her eyes lit up, and before Isabel could turn around, she knew the doctor had come on deck.
With a tip of his hat, Cutter nodded to Isabel, but his eyes lingered on Hann.
“It must be quite difficult for you.” Isabel looked with sympathy at her friend and longed to give her hand a squeeze.
Hann shrugged. “Truth be told, I’m happy just to be near him.” She continued to gaze at Cutter, who stood puffing a pipe across the deck.
“Then you are fortunate indeed.” Isabel gave a sorrowful smile. “I long to feel so passionately toward a man.”
Hann snorted. “Perhaps you already do?”
Boot steps pounded on the deck, and several more pirates emerged from below, scattering to their stations. With a quick nod to Isabel, Hann darted off before Isabel could ask her who she referred to. Sawkins?
The pirates on watch up on the fore- and quarterdeck were relieved of duty. The groan of wood drew Isabel’s glance upward where the masts, which had been shrouded in fog when she’d first come on deck, now poked their tips into the grim blanket hovering above them. Sails floundered in the light breeze, and Isabel spotted the red and white checkered shirt of a man perched in the crow’s nest.
Gibbons trudged up beside her, gave her a surly glance, and tossed the lead line into the water to measure the depth. The tiny splash bounced off the mist and echoed across the ship.
Clutching the rail, Isabel gazed out over the fog—so thick it seemed as though she could reach out and grab a hold of it. She wondered how the pirates were able to navigate the ship.
The clanging of a distant bell sounded, followed by a string of muffled foreign words. Squinting, Isabel peered out into the fog. She darted a glance over her shoulder to see if the pirates had heard anything. The sound had not come from their ship, but from beyond in the haze. Alarm quickened her breath.
Thick, masculine fingers gripped the rail beside her hand, sending a warm tingle down her arm. “Milady, it pleases me to see you looking so well.” The captain’s deep voice blanketed her, allaying her fears for the moment.
Isabel looked up at him. His dark hair was pulled back in a cavalier tie, revealing his firm, stubbled jaw. He narrowed his gaze upon her and gave her a roguish smile.
Gulping, Isabel opened her mouth to relay a sarcastic quip, but the words clumped in her throat. What is wrong with me?
“Perchance, your wound has affected your voice, milady?” He winked.
Isabel’s anger dissolved the knot in her throat. “Don’t be a fool, Captain.”
“I shall take that under consideration.”
A bell chimed again, this time off the port side of the ship. Kent turned and squinted into the mist. A flurry of indistinct words in a foreign accent drifted over them.
Kent’s gaze latched upon Isabel’s.
“What language is that?” she asked, noting the unease flashing in his eyes.
Kent grimaced. “Spanish—flawless Castilian.”
Smithy lumbered up to them. “Cap’n,” he yelled. “I’s—”
“Shh…” Kent raised both hands, marched across the deck, then slowly lowered them. “Quiet, everyone.”
Terror coiled around Isabel.
Chattering ceased as the pirates stared at their captain.
Laughter blared from a group of men on the poop deck.
Smithy flew up the quarterdeck ladder. “Hush ye daft loons,” he blurted in a loud whisper, immediately silencing them. They glared at him, eyes agape, then glanced down at their captain, who held a finger to his lips.
Plucking his spyglass from his belt, Kent leapt up on the foredeck and lifted it to his eye. Hann and Smithy joined him on either side.
Minutes passed as the pirates crept across the deck, staring into the fog on both sides of the ship. Leaning over the railing, Isabel strained to hear. The creak of moist wood and the gentle groan of a hull filtered over her from the distance. A ship sailed nearby—a large one.
Fear pinched her nerves. Inching her way up the foredeck ladder, she joined the captain, longing to feel safe. She brushed his side as she made her way to the main head railing and peered through the gray soup. A torrent of Castilian flooded over her from up ahead. Right before a huge wall of cracked brown wood broke through the murky haze.
Isabel jumped and slowly retreated from the rail as the leviathan glided by the bow of the ship. She backed into something hard. One strong arm encircled her waist while another covered her mouth to stifle her scream.
“Raise the flag of Spain,” Kent whispered above her. “And gather all the Spanish uniforms you can find.” Footsteps sped off.
Moaning, Isabel writhed in his grasp. Pain etched through her shoulder.
“Be still, woman, and I will release you.”
With a sigh, Isabel froze, and he let her go. When she turned, she found herself pressed against his broad chest.
She stepped back. “What ship was that?”
“It appears we have sailed into the middle of a Spanish fleet, milady.”
Isabel raised a hand to her mouth. “But when the fog clears…”
“Aye, then we’re done for,” Hoornes said, cupping his rat protectively in his hands.
Sawkins appeared behind Kent. “What goes on here?” he bellowed, turning his nose up at the sight of the rat.
“Shh.” The captain, Isabel, and two other pirates turned toward Sawkins.
Halting, he scanned their faces, brow wrinkling, then gazed off into the mist. Smithy and Hann returned, arms overflowing with velvet Spanish waistcoats, corselets, and high-crested helmets.
Cutter appeared behind them, pipe braced between his teeth.
“Have the men put these on,” Kent whispered to Smithy, “and send the rest below out of sight.”
Hann glanced at Cutter before rushing after Smithy down the stairs. The woodsy smell of pipe smoke swirled around Isabel as Cutter approached her. “How does your shoulder fare today, milady?”
Isabel gave him a curious smile and gazed upward as a patch of bright blue winked at her through the fog. “I fear we have bigger problems at the moment than my shoulder, Doctor.” Dashing to the railing, she peered over the side. The azure water frothed up against the hull and could be clearly seen several yards out from the ship. Speck by speck, the cold mist dissipated as the hot Caribbean sun gained dominance over the day.
Above her, the red and white flag of Castile flapped against the head of the mainmast. She gazed at Kent, who stood arms crossed over his chest, surveying the fog. His eyes met hers. Unease stirred within their dark depths.
Two more bells clamored, one up ahead, and one off their port side. The rustle of water and moan of wood drifted over them. Turning
slowly, Isabel squinted into the gray mist. The sounds came from every direction. Her legs began to tremble.
They were surrounded.
As if just waking up from a dream, Sawkins sauntered to Isabel and possessively stood between her and Kent. “Faith, Captain, have you sailed us nigh into the gaping mouth of the lion? What foolishness! What danger you have placed upon this lady and your whole crew.”
Kent turned a granite stare upon him.
Osborn, standing on the far side of the deck, turned and spat onto the deck. “D’ye know what Spaniards do with pirates?” He lumbered toward them. “They flay ’em alive and hang ’em by the yardarm.” His lecherous gaze raked over Isabel. “And they don’t be treatin’ a lady no better—that is, after the whole crew has a turn with ’er.”
Isabel felt the blood race from her heart. She grabbed the railing to keep from stumbling. Sawkins’s face turned as white as the fog that surrounded it.
“That will be all, Osborn.” Kent’s low, commanding voice was enough to send the aged pirate scampering away with a moan. The captain faced Isabel. “Perhaps you should go below, milady.”
Sawkins took a step forward and darted an anxious glance around him. “Captain, if you intend to pursue this ruse of being a Spanish merchant, wouldn’t it be better to keep the lady on deck?” he whispered and clasped his hands together. “Spanish captains often travel with their wives.” He glanced at Isabel with a nervous grin. “And Lady Ashton makes a lovely señora.”
“You would put her at risk?” Kent shook his head.
“Nay, please, Captain,” Isabel pushed past Sawkins. “I want to stay on deck. Perhaps I can be of help.”
“Let her stay above, Captain,” Cutter interjected between puffs of smoke. “If we are captured, we are all done for anyway.” The calm tone of his voice drew all eyes to him, Isabel’s included. His stolid acceptance of whatever fate brought his way put Isabel’s own faith to shame.
Kent flexed his jaw, then nodded his assent.
Smithy and Hann flew up the ladder and stood before their captain.
“Have Logan ready both batteries,” Kent ordered his first mate, “and tell the men to hide their weapons beneath their coats.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Smithy spun on his heels.
With a quick glance of concern toward Isabel, Hann handed the captain a Spanish coat with silver embroidery. He slipped it over his white shirt, then donned a Spanish helmet.
“How do they wear these blasted morions?” He twisted it atop his head.
A beam of sunlight struck the deck and blossomed outward, grazing the tip of Isabel’s boots. She glanced out to sea and saw similar beams striking the rippling water, chasing the fog from their midst. Blotches of blue sky invaded the haze above them. Isabel’s heart slammed against her ribs.
The pointed masts and square hull of a massive galleon emerged from the haze off their port side.
A bell tolled.
Isabel turned to see another ship appearing on their right. Following Sawkins’s groan and the point of his trembling finger, Isabel faced forward. The high flat stern of another galleon rose not fifty yards off their bow. Through the dissipating haze, the bright red of a cross painted on her high arching sails soared above them like an omen of death.
Isabel’s breath stole from her. Was this the end? What would become of Frederick? And her? She’d heard of the horrifying tortures inflicted by the Spanish on those who did not follow their faith.
“Quién va allí?” The words flowed to them from one of the ships.
“What are they saying?” Sawkins retreated from the railing, ashen faced.
“I believe they are asking who we are.” Kent leveled a gaze upon Isabel. “If ever there was a time for prayer, milady, this would be it.”
Cutter snorted.
Hann eased beside the doctor, and he looked down upon the lad with concern.
Of course. Isabel chided herself. ’Twas the first thing she should have done. Why did it always seem to be the last? Shamed at her own weakness, Isabel knelt on the deck, all propriety aside, and bowed her head. “Father, I need You. We need You. Please rescue us. Please deliver us from our enemies. Show these men who do not believe in You, Your might, power, and glory. Cover us in the shadow of Your mighty wings. In name of Your Son, Jesus, I thank You. Amen”
Opening her eyes, Isabel stared at the sodden wood of the foredeck, examining the cracks and lines and listening for the thunderous booms of the cannons that would end her life. Where is my faith? Her back warmed under the glaring sun that now brightened the deck around her. Visions of Frederick sailed through her mind: his playful grin—so much like his father’s—his curly umber hair and eyes alight with innocence and love. Her heart ached.
Gasps sounded from the men above her.
“Egad!” she heard Sawkins exclaim.
Isabel lifted her gaze. Kent offered her his hand, and she took it, rising to her feet. Following the men’s gaping glances, she looked out across the water. The morning fog had disappeared, hammered back into the sea by the sun’s rays. In its stead, as far as her eye could see, Spanish galleons dotted the horizon.
Raising a hand to her mouth, Isabel slowly turned to see several more ships behind the Restitution. Her gaze met Kent’s, and he raised his scarred brow.
“I hope your God heard you.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Unveiling
Terror consumed Isabel. “Where did all the Spanish galleons come from?” Her voice quivered. “Why are there so many?”
“More’n likely a treasure fleet, miss,” Smithy offered her without a glance. “Transportin’ their fortune to Cadiz. Pearls from Rio de la Hacha and silver and gold from Peru.” Eyes gleaming, he rubbed spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. “They grow tired of pirates stealin’ their gold.” He gave a coarse chuckle.
“Identifíquelo y su barco!” The Spanish demand blasted over them from a man standing on the galleon off their port side.
Cutter withdrew his pipe from his lips. “I hope you remember your Spanish, Captain.”
Amazed at his calm demeanor, Isabel shifted her gaze from Cutter to Sawkins, who kept shaking his head and repeating the same phrase. “Sheer folly. Sheer folly.”
Hann stared at the towering square-shaped galleon veering toward them. She cast a glance over her shoulder. “They’re opening their gun ports, Captain.”
Adjusting his helmet, Kent marched to the railing and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Somos la Restitución,” he shouted. “Comerciantes españoles.”
Surprised at Kent’s command of the language, Isabel watched as the soldier leaned and spoke to a man next to him. The harsh angles of his corselet and morion gleamed in the sun.
Planting his fists on his hips, Kent swung about. “I told them we are Spanish merchants. Let us pray they believe me.”
A moan from Sawkins drew attention to another galleon just thirty yards off their bow. Spanish soldiers had taken their posts behind two swivel guns mounted on the taffrail and were preparing to fire.
Lord Sawkins’s anxious gaze swerved to Kent. “We must surrender.”
“Nay.” Kent’s brow darkened. “’Twould be better to die than to fall into their hands. I will not have Lady Ashton subjected to their cruelty. We will fight.” He faced Smithy. “Have Logan stand by with the guns, but do not run them out yet.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” Smithy leapt down the ladders, his normally hardened gaze pricked with fear.
“’Tis madness!” Sawkins spat.
“’Tis fate, your lordship,” Cutter retorted.
Father, are You there? Please help us. Isabel hugged herself in an effort to stop trembling. Kent moved closer to her, concern warming his eyes. He raised an arm as if to place it on her shoulder, then hesitated and dropped it to his side.
Isabel’s heart sank. At that moment, she longed for the strength of his touch. She looked up at him, no longer trying to shield her feelings. Bewilderment tinte
d his gaze as he examined hers, and a sad smile played on his lips.
Confusion tripped through Kent at the affection he saw in Isabel’s eyes. He wished her display of emotions had not come so late, but at least she had given him a token of tenderness before he died.
He glanced at the galleon sailing off their port side. A cluster of soldiers lined the railing. The Spaniard who had conversed with him lifted a glass to his eye and scanned the length of their ship, then lowered the scope and turned to talk to his men. The muttering of Spanish words drifted to them over the expanse of water.
Surely the Spaniards had seen past their deception.
“What are they saying?” Isabel asked.
“I cannot make out the words.” Kent tried to mask his growing fear. He did not wish to alarm her, but truth be told, a few of the captain’s words—words such as fire, capture, and sink—had wrangled their way from Spanish into English and charged into his mind.
At the thought of what would happen to Isabel should they be captured, an unfamiliar feeling of terror clamped Kent’s heart. Grimacing, he hung his head. He had let her down again.
Soft hands gripped his arm. Startled, Kent turned to see Isabel, her eyes tightly shut, clinging to him as she braced herself against the oncoming blasts. So brave. Warmth poured through him, despite the dire circumstances. She could have reached for Cutter or Sawkins for comfort, yet she had embraced him. He cupped a hand around hers and patted them gently. She did not pull away.
Kent glanced at the galleon in front of them. One of the men manning the swivel guns held a glowing linstock in his hand and was lowering it to the touchhole to ignite the charge. So, this was it. At least he had Isabel by his side. Thoughts of Frederick burst into his fears. Kent didn’t even know what his son looked like. What would happen to him now?
Muttering, Sawkins stumbled to the foremast and gripped it with one hand. “’Tis my folly to have sailed with you, Brother. You always were a failure.”
“And what would you suggest we do, your lordship? By all means.” Kent raised a hand toward him. “Favor us with your wisdom.”
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