The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  Thrusting her chin in the air, she gave him a petulant gaze that spoke of a strength he doubted she possessed—certainly not strength enough to shun his offer. Tugging her hand from his, she dropped it to her side, still clutching the pearls, but no denial of their betrothal fell from her lips.

  Sawkins left, heard the door slam behind him, and smiled. He’d accomplished what he’d come to do, though the kiss would have been cream on the pudding. Leaping onto the main deck, he let the evening breeze cool his feverish passions. He’d make her his own soon enough. He just didn’t know if he could wait for her puritan shield of ice to thaw.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The God of Fate

  A searing pain jabbed Hann in her side and spread out like arrows throughout her body. She tried to lift her hand, but it weighed like a cannon ball. Spicy pipe smoke drifted by her nose. Hearing a sigh, she pried her eyelids apart just enough to see Cutter sitting beside her, but unable to keep them open, her heavy lids fell again. Warmth spread across her, becalming her pain and bringing her comfort. Cutter was here. He must care for her in some way. Her heart soared, but that effort alone sent a wave of dizziness crashing through her head, only compounded by the swaying of the hammock she lay in.

  She heard the creak of the door and boot steps across the floor.

  “Cap’n, good to see you.” Cutter said.

  Kent. Hann cringed.

  “How is he doing?”

  “Much better,” Cutter whispered. “Sh—he just needs his sleep. He should be up and about tomorrow, but it might take a week or two for a full recovery.”

  Did Cutter just nearly say she? Does he know? Hann tried to silence the beating of her heart to better hear what they were saying.

  “A close call. I would have hated to lose such a good pirate.”

  “Indeed.”

  A moment of silence passed. “Well, I’ll leave you to care for him.” The floor creaked.

  “Cap’n?” Cutter said, and the boot steps halted. “Do you truly think we’ll be able to find your son?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve grown fond of Lady Ashton. I would hate to see her child harmed.”

  “No more than I.” Kent sighed. “I’ve never even seen my own son. And I fear what Morris might do.”

  “Did you really kill his son?”

  “That he believes I did is all that matters, I suppose. But truth be told, I don’t think I caused that explosion. I was nowhere near the barrels of gunpowder that night.”

  “I see.”

  Hann heard Cutter take a puff from his pipe. “Good night to you then, Cap’n.”

  “Good night.”

  A rat scurried past her feet as Isabel groped her way through the dark hallway the next morning on her way to Cutter’s cabin. Stifling a scream, she jumped aside, allowing the filthy beast to pass. She wondered if it was Hoornes’s rat. The putrid creatures all looked alike to her. The Restitution lurched, flinging her to the other side of the corridor, and she clutched the damp wall. Thunder quaked across the night sky, agitating both the sea and Isabel’s nerves. With each roar of the storm, the ship shuddered in an eerie cacophony of creaks and groans that threatened to tear apart its timbers. Mighty ocean swells pounded the hull. Isabel hated storms nearly as much as she hated ships. No wonder she grew agitated when she found herself in the midst of both.

  Lord Sawkins’s attempt to kiss her loomed in her mind. Perhaps she had been too harsh with him. After all, she’d just agreed to marry him. An innocent kiss was a reasonable expectation. Yet the thought of it sickened her. Why? Certainly, his noble features would please any woman. But no matter. Marrying him was the best thing for Frederick, and it would also be in her best interest in the long run.

  Grunts and guffaws drifted to her from the pirates’ main berth below, where most of them must be taking shelter from the storm. Thankful she didn’t have to descend to that level, she rapped on Cutter’s door, hoping he was there and would let her in quickly. When his smiling face came into view, Isabel uttered a sigh of relief.

  With a gleeful gesture, he motioned her inside. “Good morning. Tis good to see you, milady. Hann has been asking for you.”

  Isabel took in the tiny room. Half the size of her cabin, it had barely enough space in which to move. Three wooden trunks lined one wall, overflowing with clothes, books, and weapons. A table strewn with medical equipment crowded the corner. Two chairs stood on either side. Hanging by ropes from the rafters, three hammocks swung in harmony with the ship—one of them rounded with Hann’s small figure.

  Hurrying to her friend, Isabel took her hand and pressed it between hers. Warmth radiated from it and Isabel smiled, remembering how cold these same hands had been the day before.

  With a flutter of lashes, Hann peered through half-open lids and offered Isabel a timid smile. “Milady.”

  “Hann, you had me—” Isabel glanced up at Cutter as he took position on the other side of the hammock. “You had us so worried.” Tears blurred Isabel’s vision.

  Hann’s forehead creased. “Why are you crying?”

  “I suppose I’ve become fond of you, ’tis all.”

  “You can’t kill a tough pirate like me.” Hann’s chuckle was quickly strangled by a cough.

  “Be still, Hann.” Cutter laid a palm on her forehead. “You must rest.”

  “Don’t coddle me,” Hann snapped, a playful gleam in her eye. She turned to Isabel. “Did I not tell you this would happen? Once they discover you are a woman, they feel the need to treat you as though you are a fragile flower that will wilt under the first rays of the sun.”

  “When does caring become coddling?” Cutter snorted, and lifted her hand to his lips, placing a kiss upon it.

  “So I see your secret is out.” Isabel raised a gleeful brow at Hann.

  With a smile, Hann shifted her gaze back to Cutter.

  As the ship careened over another swell, the lantern reeled back and forth above them, casting patches of light and shadow over the hammock, but it did not hide the loving glance that drifted between Hann and Cutter.

  Isabel warmed from head to toe. “It would seem you two have declared your affections for one another.”

  “That we have.” Cutter smiled, his eyes never leaving Hann’s. “And I would have done so long ago if I’d known the truth. As it is”—he balled his hands on his waist—“you two allowed me to wallow in shame at my misplaced sentiments. I daresay, I thought I’d gone mad.”

  Hann giggled.

  “I don’t see how I missed it before. ’Tis so obvious now when I look at you.” Cutter brushed a lock of Hann’s hair from her forehead. “No man could ever be as beautiful as you.”

  As he dropped his hands to his sides, a shadow dragged his features down. “I still don’t know what you see in this grotesque body.”

  Hann reached out and touched the sleeve of his shirt. “I see the most honorable, wise, kind man I have ever known.”

  Cutter cleared his throat and turned his face away.

  Isabel wondered if she should leave. Did they even remember she was standing there? She averted her gaze to the wall where a baldric, hanging from a rusty nail, jostled back and forth against the wood with each move of the ship.

  Hann squeezed Isabel’s hand. “The good doctor refuses to tell me how he discovered my gender. Did you tell him?”

  “Nay.” Isabel looked at Cutter, whose face blossomed into a deep purple that matched his scars. “I kept my promise.” Realizing the truth would embarrass everyone, especially Hann, Isabel thought it best to change the subject. “Perhaps now that you do know, Doctor, ’tis not proper for Hann to remain in your cabin.”

  “Alas, but where else to send her?” Cutter rubbed his chin. “Certainly not to your cabin—though that would be the most proper place for her. The rest of the crew still considers her a man—a notion I have every intention of fostering.

  Isabel cringed, remembering the way some of the men had gawked at Hann when they thou
ght she was a boy. Heaven forbid what they’d attempt now. “Perhaps move her back to her own cabin, and—”

  “I’ll not have her sharing quarters with those pirates!” Cutter broke in with an incredulous tone.

  Hann laid a hand on his. “I’ve kept my gender a secret from this entire crew—including you, I might add—for nigh six months. ’Twould seem suspicious if I did not return to my cabin now.”

  Cutter huffed. “I suppose you are right. As soon as you regain your strength, I’ll escort you back.” He gave her a complying grin.

  Hann shifted her gaze back to Isabel. “But what of the Spanish fleet? Last I recall they fired upon us.”

  “We have outrun them,” Isabel reassured her, looking down at Hann’s side, covered now with a burlap blanket. “Are you still in pain?”

  “Aye, a bit.”

  “What a miracle that escape was.” Cutter shook his head. “But it still troubles me.” He paused and patted his pockets as if looking for his pipe, then gave up. “Your God, milady. He comes quickly to your aid. He controls not only the wind, but the minds of a whole fleet of Spaniards. Is there naught He is incapable of?”

  “He is the creator. He can do what He wishes with His creation.” Isabel masked her excitement at Cutter’s question and prayed silently for the right words to say.

  “This evidence of His existence causes me great discomfort,” Cutter stated.

  “But why?” Hann wrinkled her nose.

  Cutter crossed his arms over his chest, the withered limb lying atop the strong one. “If He is the creator and does what He wishes, then He must have intended for me to become so hideously disfigured that I need hide myself from society.”

  Pain burned in his eyes, and a lump formed in Isabel’s throat, preventing her from speaking.

  “Cutter, would you tell us what happened?” Hann asked.

  Sighing, the doctor glanced away. “’Tis a simple tale, really. ’Twould be ironic and even satirical if it hadn’t happened to me.” He scratched his head. “You see, I spent my life saving people, healing them. At the ripe age of five and twenty I was handsome, yes”—with raised brow, he chuckled—“I was handsome once. A handsome, wealthy doctor with influential friends and a beautiful fiancée. But one night, fate—or perhaps ’twas your God, milady—led me past the Lady’s Harvest Inn on High Street in Canterbury. Flames burst from her doors, and thick, black smoke poured from her windows. A crowd of people formed in the street and pointed toward the structure. Upon questioning them, I discovered a family was still trapped inside.”

  Isabel raised a hand to her chest. “How horrible. What did you do?”

  Cutter shrugged. “I rushed in and saved them. That is what I do. I save people, but alas, I could not save myself. The roof caved on top of me in a mass of flaming wood. That’s the last I remember until I woke up in the hospital”—he pointed at his gnarled lip and withered hand—“like this.”

  Hann’s eyes moistened, and Isabel remained silent, unsure of what to say to comfort him.

  “So you see.” He grinned. “If God does exist, then He is naught but a cruel God who punished me for risking my own life to save others. Aye, ’tis much easier to believe fate is in control than a God who hates me thus.”

  Hann squeezed his hand and stared at him with concern.

  Isabel swallowed. Lord, what do I say? She opened her mouth. “The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” The words flew from her lips before she had time to consider them. She’d just read them that morning.

  “What did you say?” Cutter’s gaze shot to hers.

  Excitement prickled Isabel’s skin. “’Tis from the Bible—the Gospel of John. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is, are you so unhappy now? You told me yourself you put no value on wealth or position. And you are still saving lives.” Isabel smiled at Hann. “And would you have met Hann if you had not run into that building and been burned?”

  Cutter narrowed his eyes.

  “Do you really think you would have been happy married to a woman who valued you only for your outward appearance?” Isabel raised her brows.

  Cutter glanced at Hann, then back at Isabel, realization sparking in his gray eyes.

  “Doctor, perhaps God has done you a favor. Perhaps what seemed like a tragedy, He has transformed into a blessing.” Isabel bit her lip and silently thanked God for His wisdom.

  Hann reached up and clasped Cutter’s arm, then nodded.

  Cutter tightened his gnarled lips. “You have given me much to consider.”

  Kent took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh, sending a shower of droplets over the floor of his cabin. Slamming the door behind him, he ran a hand through his dripping hair and stomped to his desk. The worst of the storm had passed. Exhausted, he slumped into a chair and leaned his head back with a sigh. He’d not seen Isabel since he’d escorted her to her cabin yesterday. He’d hoped she had fared well and not been frightened during the tempest, but the demands of the storm had kept him on deck. With Hann injured and Cutter attending to him, Kent could think of no one he trusted to check on Isabel. Despite the torment her presence inflicted on him, he determined to see her as soon as he donned some dry clothes. His eyes landed on an old bottle of rum taunting him from the shelf. Licking his lips, he longed for a sip—or two or three—anything to dull the pain carving a trail across his heart.

  Someone pounded on his door.

  “Enter.” He looked up, daring to hope it might be Isabel, but when the sneering face of Sawkins snaked around the open slab, Kent’s insides coiled.

  “State your business and be gone.” Kent leaned forward to remove his wet boots.

  “Ah, Brother, how discourteous.” Sawkins entered and closed the door. “But you always were the savage.”

  Tossing his boots aside, Kent leaned back in his chair, glaring at Sawkins. “Do not call me brother.”

  “Well, stab me if you aren’t an ornery fellow. No wonder she chose me.”

  A knot formed in Kent’s throat. What mischief was the scamp up to now? “I have no time for games. Now if you please.” He gestured toward the door. All Kent wanted was to check on Isabel, and then get a warm meal and some sleep.

  Sawkins sauntered toward the desk. With one hand alighting upon his waist, he picked up a parchment with the other, and after a cursory glance, dropped it. “I’ve come to inform you that congratulations are in order.”

  “Indeed?” Kent stood, circling the desk, and glanced at the bottle of rum that suddenly looked even more appealing.

  “Lady Ashton has agreed to marry me.”

  The words formed a rope of agony that strung itself around Kent’s throat, squeezing the life from him. Unable to speak, he stared at Sawkins as the cad’s face broke into a devious grin.

  “I see you’re quite overcome with joy.” Sawkins tugged on the lace at his sleeves. “Yes, ’tis true. Last night, in her cabin, she professed her ardent love for me. As soon as this heinous voyage is over, she will be mine.”

  “You are lying.”

  “Nay, ask the lady yourself,” Sawkins said with a chuckle. “I must say I’ve ne’er seen a woman so ecstatic about a betrothal. Swounds, for propriety’s sake, I had to insist she keep her passions at bay, lest she tarnish her already somewhat tainted reputation.”

  Fury pounded through Kent, igniting all the vile cravings within him. He charged toward Sawkins and hammered a blow across his jaw. Shock widened Sawkins’s eyes before he tumbled backward, arms flailing as he tried to grab the corner of the desk. He thumped to the floor.

  Clutching Sawkins by his satin cravat, Kent lifted him and dragged his writhing body to the wall, where he pounded it against the hard wood. “I’ll kill you if you touch her again.” Lightning flashed, emblazoning the shadows of madmen on the wall. Kent grimaced as hatred flamed hot up his neck.

  A wave crashed against the window. A roar of thunder shook
the panes.

  Sawkins’s hair loosened from its tie and flared against the wall with each thrust. Bumbling, he caught his breath. Fear skittered across his eyes “You forget yourself, Brother. You cannot kill me,” he sputtered.

  “Nay, but I can beat you senseless and throw you in the hold.” Kent struck him again.

  Sawkins rammed his knee into Kent’s groin. “Not if you wish to find your son.”

  Doubling over, Kent gasped for breath. Before he could recover, Sawkins jumped on him, forcing him onto the desk and sending charts, pens, and sextant crashing to the floor.

  Kent pounded his forehead into Sawkins’s skull, stunning him, and then with a shove of his feet, sent him careening to the shelves behind him.

  Struggling to his feet, Sawkins stared at Kent, gasping.

  Kent stormed toward him, grabbed the lapels of his waistcoat, and raised a fist to strike him again. Wincing, Sawkins squeezed his eyes shut. Kent’s fist hung in the air as he stared at his half brother. The rasping of their breaths filled the air between them.

  Kent let his hand fall. He tossed Sawkins into a chair, then stomped away, grabbed the bottle of rum, uncorked it, and took a swig. Slamming it down, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back on the desk, arms over his chest.

  A vision of their father swarmed before him—his deeply lined face pale as he wheezed his last breaths. “Promise me, son…,” he had gasped. “Promise me you won’t lay a hand on your brother.” He’d known of the hatred between his two boys and didn’t want his precious brat, Richard, harmed. Of course he hadn’t forced Sawkins to vow the same on Kent’s behalf.

  His whole life, Kent had longed to close forever those frigid blue eyes that glared so vehemently at him now, to silence that insolent tongue, but his promise to a dying man who had done naught but berate Kent had kept him from it. Now curiously, as he stared at the ruthless shell of a man before him, he found he could not kill him, promise or no promise. The realization stunned him.