Rogue's Charade

by Kruger, Mary

  Brendan Fitzpatrick strode along the Dronnigens Gade towards the quay, looking neither to right nor to left, the black cloak he affected even under the warm Caribbean sun swaying from side to side. There was nothing overtly threatening about him; no weapons were in evidence and his face wore a pleasant, if watchful, expression. Yet even the stoutest men fell back at his approach, while respectful greetings followed in his wake. The women weren’t quite so intimidated; they smiled and called out greetings, for Brendan was, in spite of his eyepatch, a fine-looking man. He was also said to be uncommonly generous to any woman he took to his bed, and not just with money. Brendan returned the greetings with a smile, the more ribald comments with sallies that set them all to laughing. Not once did he stop, however. He had a purpose this fine May morning, and he would not be dissuaded from it.

  The harbor was filled with crafts of all description, from the very smallest dory to the largest, lumbering ship of the line. In these days of constant war St. Thomas was unique, a port that had managed to stay neutral and thus welcomed ships of every flag. Briefly his eyes touched on a ship anchored further out, a sleek, black-painted brigantine, and his face softened. Aye, but he wasn’t there to admire his own vessel. There were more vital matters on his mind. Much of what he planned depended on what he would observe today.

  Closer in was another ship, a trader, square-rigged and broad-beamed. The Curlew. She rode low in the water, as if heavy laden, the Union Jack floating from her stern. Even from here Brendan could see the activity on her deck, as the crew made ready to hoist anchor. Aye, she’d be sailing soon. He stood very still, studying the ship as another man might study a woman he desired, noting details of rigging and hull and armament. Six guns, maybe, and she wouldn’t be fast, not with those bluff bows and heavy bulwarks. Easy pickings. Still, Captain Smithers, her master, was a good seaman. Brendan would do well not to underestimate him.

  A small group of people stood on the quay, three men and two women, awaiting the captain’s gig to bring them to the Curlew. Aye, there was Smithers, grizzled and portly. His passengers must be important, to merit his personal escort. The man standing with him was tall and cadaverous, dressed in rusty black. Brendan had never seen him before, yet he recognized him from the description he had been given. So his information had been good. Neville would indeed be aboard the Curlew. The hunt was on. Brendan smiled grimly. He was rather looking forward to action.

  As for the other passengers. Brendan’s gaze flicked over them assessingly. A middle-aged man, a young woman, whose blond curls peeked out from under her high-crowned, stylish bonnet, and—the devil take it! Brendan drew back a pace. She was there, the woman from yesterday who had been quite convinced she’d rescued him, the woman with eyes so deep and so clear they’d haunted his sleep, yet which nevertheless held secrets. Devil take it, she was going to be aboard the Curlew. It was almost enough to make him give up his mission.

  He had seen all he had come to see, all he needed. He turned, the cloak swirling about him, and at that moment the woman looked up, her gaze locking with his, making him stop dead in his tracks. No, he hadn’t imagined those eyes, eyes that seemed to see straight into him. Without conscious volition he stepped onto the quay. You’re pressing your luck, boyo, he told himself, but still he walked, drawn by a force he didn’t understand. For the life of him, he couldn’t stop.

  Rebecca went very still, watching as the man with the eyepatch walked towards her, his gait rolling and easy. Something sparked to life within her, a curious flicker of excitement deep in the pit of her stomach, and her breathing became shallow. He was all she was aware of, all she could see, and the joy of seeing him again, when she had never though she would, sparkled through her.

  Beside her Mr. Neville, who had been talking, broke off in mid-sentence, though she didn’t notice. Following her gaze, he, too watched the man approach, his eyebrows raised. “Who is that fellow?” he said, and both Captain Smithers and Ezra Talbot, Rebecca’s father, turned.

  Smithers turned pale under his tan. “Good God,” he muttered, and stepped away from the passengers, intercepting Brendan before he could come closer. “Captain Fitzpatrick,” he called in his booming quarterdeck voice. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Mornin’, Smithers.” Brendan exchanged bows with Smithers, a lazy smile on his face. “Fine day to weigh anchor, it is.”

  “So it is, so it is. Let us pray the weather is with us across the Atlantic.”

  “You’re for England, then?”

  “Aye.” To Rebecca, Smithers seemed to hesitate. “And you?”

  “Where the wind takes me.” Brendan’s smile didn’t quite reach his eye. “What is your cargo?”

  Smithers turned even paler. “Nothing unusual. Tobacco, sugar, some cotton. Mixed goods.”

  “Sounds an excellent prize.” Brendan’s teeth flashed in a smile. “Oh, don’t worry, boyo.” He clapped the other man on the back. “It’s bigger fish I’m after.”

  Amelia had sidled over to Rebecca and was clutching her arm. “Who is he?” she whispered.

  “I’ve no idea.” Rebecca was surprised at how calm she sounded. It was him. His image had haunted her dreams last night. Yet memory, clear though she’d thought it, paled next to the reality of the man. His long black cloak accentuated the breadth of his shoulders and rode over his bent elbows, framing him in darkness and throwing his shape into stark relief. He wore a loose shirt of white linen, open at the throat, disclosing a strong, corded neck and a chest liberally sprinkled with dark hair. Close-fitting black breeches were tucked into well-worn boots, while his hair, tousled from the wind, glinted blue-black in the sun. His strong, even teeth gleamed as he talked with Captain Smithers, and the lean planes of his face were shadowed with beard. His eye, however, was bright and alert, turquoise that rivaled the sea behind her. He was all lean, dangerous male, vital and virile and alive, and she knew somehow that he was as aware of her as she was of him.

  “He’s rather frightening, isn’t he? That dreadful eyepatch. But dashing, too. I wonder who he is. Oh!” Amelia’s face lit up. “I wonder if he’s a pirate.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Rebecca snapped. “He’s an ordinary sailor, like Captain Smithers.” Ordinary. Hah. There was nothing the least ordinary about him.

  Amelia pulled away. “I want to meet him.”

  “Melia,” Rebecca protested, and her father, who stood nearby, turned, in time to see Amelia reach the two men. “Oh, mercy.”

  “What is she doing?” Ezra demanded.

  “I tried to stop her, Father, but—”

  “I’ve no patience with your excuses! You’re supposed to look after your sister. Good gad, girl, must you always be as flighty as your mother was?”

  Rebecca hunched into her pelisse. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Well, go and get her! Good God, I am having serious doubts about your accompanying her to England.”

  Then let me come home, Father! she thought, though she knew better than to say so aloud. She had tried, oh, she had tried, reasoning first, and then begging, but nothing worked. Father was determined that Amelia would not travel to England alone, even if he didn’t always consider her a suitable companion, with her soiled past. Of course, she knew that Amelia needed a companion; of course she thought it should be herself, since she stood almost as a mother to Amelia. What hurt was that she herself was expected to stay there, in exile.

  Amelia was chattering animatedly as Rebecca drew level with her. Captain Smithers looked harassed, but Captain Fitzpatrick was smiling down at Amelia. As well he might, Rebecca thought. There was no one lovelier than her sister in Georgetown, with her cornflower blue eyes and her cornsilk curls. That she was sweet and genuinely friendly only added to her appeal. But did he have to look at her in quite such a way? she thought, and was immediately appalled. Never before had it bothered her when a man admired Amelia. It must be because this man was hardly presentable.

  “Amelia.” She touched her sister on the sleeve
. “Father would like you to go to him, please.”

  “Oh, Becky!” Amelia turned to her, her curls dancing. “Captain Fitzpatrick tells me I will like England ever so much.”

  “Does he? How nice.” She kept her eyes down, afraid to meet his again, afraid of the power of his gaze. “Come, Amelia. Father wants you.”

  “And who is this charming young lady, sir?” she heard Captain Fitzpatrick say as she turned, and she stiffened. Charming! She knew she was no beauty, certainly when compared to Amelia, but he needn’t mock her. “Please introduce us.”

  “Miss Talbot?” Captain Smithers looked at her, and she gave in.

  “By all means,” she said.

  “Miss Talbot?” Brendan was studying her, his head tilted to the side. That devastating smile was on his face, a dimple creasing his cheek. She hadn’t noticed that before. It made him look younger, almost boyish, and yet it enhanced his masculinity, rather than detracting from it. In spite of herself, she felt the beginnings of an answering smile on her lips. “Ah. You are sisters, then.”

  “Miss Talbot, Captain Fitzpatrick,” Captain Smithers mumbled.

  “And a pleasure it is to meet you,” Brendan said, bowing.

  Well. At least the man had manners. “You, too, sir,” she said, and saw the glint in his eyes brighten.

  “Ye travel to England, too, Miss Talbot?”

  “Harumph. She does,” Captain Smithers interrupted. “Ladies, we should be getting to sea.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca said, as if Smithers hadn’t spoken. “I believe my sister told you she is betrothed?”

  “Aye.” He didn’t smile, precisely, but his dimple was quite pronounced. “To a viscount, no less.”

  “Yes.” Wretched man, making her want to laugh at a time like this. “I will be staying with her.”

  “In England? Ah, but ye’ll not like it there, leannan.”

  “What does that mean?” Amelia put in.

  “‘Tis my country ye should visit. A poor land, true, but of great beauty, and poetry. Do ye like poetry, Miss Talbot?”

  “Aye—yes.” Mercy, what was the matter with her?

  “Sure, and I thought ye might. Ye’ve the soul for it.”

  “Captain Fitzpatrick—”

  “Oh, what a lovely thing to say!” Amelia exclaimed. “Oh, I do wish we could stay here longer, now that we’ve met you. Will you be coming to England, sir?”

  His face went very still. “I am sorry, lass, but no true Irishman goes willingly to England.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.” His smile included them all impartially, and Rebecca felt abandoned. “I must be off. ‘Tis time and beyond ye were gone.”

  “Aye.” Captain Smithers smiled for the first time. “Good day, Fitzpatrick.”

  “Good voyage, captain. Oh, and Miss Talbot.”

  Rebecca looked up, and was again caught by his blue, blue gaze. “Yes?”

  “Watch out for pirates,” he said, winked, and strode away, the folds of his cloak billowing about him.

  Rebecca stared after him, mesmerized by his easy grace. “Whatever did he mean by that?” Amelia asked.

  “Come, Miss Talbot, Miss Amelia.” Captain Smithers mopped at his brow with a capacious handkerchief. “Best I return you to your father, now, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  “But who is he, sir?” Amelia said, dancing alongside him on the quay. “And what did he mean about pirates? Sir!” She stopped, hand to her heart. “Are we likely to meet pirates?”

  “No!” Smithers spoke just a little too loudly. “There’s the gig. We can go out to the ship.”

  “Rebecca.” Ezra’s face was contorted with rage. “What did you mean, allowing Amelia to speak with that man?”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she said, hastily. “He was polite enough.”

  “Polite! Hah! His kind don’t know how to be polite. If this is the care you take of your sister, I fear for her safety, I truly do.”

  “That’s not fair!” Rebecca protested, stung. “I watch after Amelia. You know I do.”

  “Do not speak to me in such a way, girl.”

  Rebecca’s eyes lowered. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “But, Daddy.” Amelia took her father’s arm and smiled up at him. “He was very charming. Who is he?”

  “Ahem.” Mr. Neville stepped forward, pulling at a cravat that was already loose and wrinkled and dingy at the edges. “A most dangerous man. Do you not know?”

  “No. Who is he, sir?”

  “He is believed to be the Raven.”

  “The Raven!” Amelia exclaimed.

  “The Raven,” Rebecca said, more weakly.

  “Aye,” Captain Smithers said, his voice heavy. “The Raven. And I pray I never encounter him on the open seas. Come. Let me help you into the gig, Miss Talbot.”

  Rebecca gave her hand to him almost automatically, stepping from the stone quay into the dancing, rocking boat. The Raven! Good heavens. Even in quiet Georgetown his name, and his exploits, were known. What she hadn’t heard was how handsome he was, how charming and compelling. The stories instead concentrated on his daring, infamous raids at sea. For Captain Fitzpatrick, the Raven, was the most notorious pirate ever to prowl the Atlantic.

  Mary Kingsley is the author of Regency and historical romances, including the RITA nominated The Rake’s Reward, and the Regency novella “The Runaway Duchess,” winner of the New Jersey Romance Writers’ Golden Leaf Award. As Mary Kruger she is also the author of the Gilded Age mystery series, and two knitting mysteries.

  Mary has, alas, never danced with a dashing duke or flirted with a rake, but she hopes that you, the reader, can have those experiences through her books. A librarian, she lives in Massachusetts with her daughter. She enjoys reading, crafts, walking, and, of course, chocolate. She is currently at work on her next book.

  Please email Mary at marykruger@verizon.net

  Books by Mary Kruger

  Sabrina

  An Unsuitable Wife

  (originally published as A Gentleman’s Desire)

  The Rake’s Reward

  A Summer Folly

  An Inconvenient Affair

  (originally published as An Intriguing Affair)

  Scandal’s Lady

  In a Pirate’s Arms

  Rogue’s Charade

  (originally published as Masquerade)

  Beyond the Sea

  An Angel’s Wish

  Marrying Miss Bumblebroth

  The Reluctant Hero

  Gifts of the Heart

  The Crystal Heart

  The Gilded Age Mystery Series

  Death on the Cliff Walk

  No Honeymoon for Death

  Masterpiece of Murder

  The Knitting Mysteries

  Died in the Wool

  Knit Fast, Die Young