by Unknown
Colin sighed. He was quite certain he owned nothing approaching courting clothes. Perhaps the mourning suit he’d worn to Great Aunt Sophonisba’s funeral would do.
Colin sprawled in a corner of the nursery, listening to the governess, Miss Fitzgerald, read to his ward, Ward. He wasn’t entirely sure what his connection was to Ward. When Miss Fitzgerald had suggested that most dukes had wards and that Ward was available for the position, he’d taken her up on it immediately. In reality, he wasn’t sure where Miss Fitzgerald had come from either. She’d simply appeared one day with Ward in tow. Thus he’d acquired the requisite ward and governess in a single fell swoop, as it were.
He was trying to fulfill his duties as a duke, after all. Although marriage to a complete stranger seemed a bit extreme. Colin still treasured daydreams of perfect maidens swooning at his feet. Or perhaps imperfect maidens swooning elsewhere.
“So there you have it,” he’d explained glumly to Miss Fitzgerald and Ward. “I’m to be married to some local gel I’ve never met. Pots of money and all. Apparently, the estate’s up the River Tick and I’m to marry this female to set it back to rights.”
“How dreadful,” Miss Fitzgerald murmured. “But I’m sure you’ll do your duty with a firm heart, Your Grace.”
“How did the money disappear in the first place, if you don’t mind my asking, sir? Shouldn’t you be investigating that?”
Ward was a curious lad. Quite precocious. Always asking questions. Colin ignored him, as usual. If one listened to him, he only went on talking. “Do carry on, Miss Fitzgerald. Go on reading or whatever it is you’re doing with the nipper here.” He closed his eyes, cushioning his head in his hands, ruminating on his fate.
After a moment, Miss Fitzgerald’s soft voice broke through his reverie.
“Little is known about the early life of Blackbeard the Pirate. But his ship became the most fearsome scourge of the Caribbean. With his thick black beard, he had a most terrifying appearance; he is reported to have tied lit fuses in his flowing hair to frighten his enemies. Blackbeard used his alarming reputation instead of force to elicit booty from those he robbed. While he was a blackguard, there is no indication he harmed any of those he held for ransom after removing them from their ships.”
Colin sighed again. Pirates weren’t responsible for penniless estates. Pirates didn’t have to marry complete strangers. Pirates sailed around the Americas tying lit fuses to their hair. “Perhaps I should become a pirate. It sounds an interesting life.”
Miss Fitzgerald nodded vigorously. “Very interesting indeed, Your Grace, not to mention stimulating. Exciting. Exhilarating. And quite romantic.” She sighed as she stared out a nearby window at the rolling lawns of Netherloin, blinking away a furtive tear.
Ward frowned slightly, his hair flopping across his furrowed forehead. “I’m sure the experience wasn’t very exciting for the people Blackbeard kidnapped. And aren’t most pirates thieves and murderers? And wasn’t Blackbeard beheaded by the British fleet in his last engagement?”
“Simple misunderstandings, I’m sure,” Miss Fitzgerald said, patting Ward stoutly on the head.
“It seems to me that ninjas are much more admirable,” Ward continued, rubbing his head. “They protect the weak. And they’re fantastically skilled. And they have much more interesting weapons. Shurikens, for example. Star-shaped throwing devices.”
Colin was intrigued in spite of himself. “Ninjas?”
“Japanese warriors,” Ward said dreamily. “They specialize in unorthodox fighting methods. They’re masters of combat and espionage. Much more interesting than the average pirate, bludgeoning away.”
Miss Fitzgerald cleared her throat sharply. “Ward dear, I’m sure His Grace is uninterested in heathen fighting methods. Pirates are, after all, English. And people who throw themselves on their own swords in times of distress are hardly to be emulated.”
“Ninjas don’t throw themselves on their own swords. That’s Samurai.”
“Whoever it is,” Miss Fitzgerald said between her teeth, “the subject is closed.”
Ward gave her a narrow-eyed look but said nothing more.
“Miss Fitzgerald, you have convinced me.” Colin leaped to his feet. “I shall turn to piracy. Far better than marriage to a stranger, no matter how rich.”
“Have you ever sailed a ship before?” Ward asked.
“No, but it can’t be much different from driving a carriage. That’s dashed hard, I assure you.”
“And don’t you have responsibilities here—to your tenants and the people who work at Netherloin?” Ward continued.
Colin waved an impatient hand. “I’m sure they’ll manage. Meanwhile I’ll be on the high seas. Living the life of a swashbuckling buccaneer.” And avoiding marriage to the unknown Lady Chastity Feelsgood.
“But…” Ward began.
“Ward dear, I’m sure it’s time for your warm milk,” Miss Fitzgerald said quickly.
Ward grimaced. “If I stop talking, can I skip the milk?”
“We’ll see. Run along.”
Ward ran.
“We shall miss you, Your Grace,” Miss Fitzgerald said, wiping away another tear.
“Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I shall return when I attain my majority.” Colin still wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded grand. “Take care of the nipper. And watch out for my uncle.”
He opened the casement, ready to climb down the vines tangled on the walls of Netherloin, then, glimpsing the distance to the ground below, decided to use the stairs instead.
“Farewell, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Farewell, Your Grace.” Miss Fitzgerald waved her hankie appealingly as Colin strode from the room.
He felt like buckling a few swashes already.
Chapter Three: Pirate versus Ninja
Wherein the Duke encounters a Mysterious Opponent in his first Pirate Attack
By Kelly Jamieson
Colin sat on the wooden deck of the Motley Crew, gazing out over the undulating turquoise waters of the Caribbean and listening to the pirates sing songs and tell bawdy jokes. The ship sat anchored off a tiny island of white sand and palm trees. The sun beat down on him, warming his body through his loose shirt and breeches, the ship bobbing on the waves in a rhythmic rocking motion that had him pleasantly relaxed and soporific. Which was exceedingly better than the dry heaving and puking he’d done in the first weeks at sea.
“Batten down the hatches!” squawked Pemberley. Colin ignored him. The cork-brained bird. There was nary a cloud in sight and certainly no need for battening of any hatches.
After a month at sea and not a single looting or pillaging under his belt, he was ready for some action. Neither Captain Keelhaul nor his crew wore sashes stuffed with pistols and daggers. Nor did they have lit fuses in their long hair. Although Sam the Rum-Swiller did have braids in his beard, which Colin greatly admired. He stroked the scruff on his chin.
Thus far his pirate life hadn’t turned out to be the thrilling adventure he’d hoped for.
“Avast!” This time one of the crew shouted.
Colin’s eyes flew open and he leaped to his feet.
“Avast, ye! Ship ahoy!”
Excitement coursed through his veins as he raced to the rails where the crew had gathered. “Is it…?”
“Aye.” Sam the Rum-Swiller stared across the azure expanse, the sun illuminating the sails of the other ship a sparkling white.
“Are we going to attack?” Colin asked, excitement mingling with dread in the pit of his stomach. Much as he’d wanted to see some pirate action, now it was actually upon him, apprehension tightened his muscles and his fingers curled tighter around the rail.
“Aye.”
“All hands on deck!” Captain Keelhaul barked. “Weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen!” Everyone hastened to do his bidding to prepare to attack the schooner.
Quinn Fitzgerald entered the captain’s cabin of La Mèche de Fouet looking for the captain’s log as her men secured
the ship. Boarding the vessel had been easy, not even a challenge for her Ninjutsu-trained crew. They would soon have the slaves quartered below moved to their own craft, the Mizigumo. They would return control of the ship to the captain and crew, then sail to Cuba to release the slaves.
The boom of a cannon had her head jerking up. What the…? She froze as more noises reached her ears—the pounding of booted feet running across the deck, shouts, the crack of gunfire.
“By the goddess O-Wata-Tsumi,” she whispered. “What is happening?”
Thudding footsteps came closer.
She quickly looked around the cabin, training and reflexes coming to the fore. She reached for the grappling hook on her belt and flung it upwards. With a few agile moves, she was clinging to the ceiling in the shadows of the dim cabin.
The door burst open and a man rushed in. He paused at seeing the empty cabin.
She blinked. A bandana covered his hair. Dark whiskers shadowed his deeply-tanned face and square jaw. Was this one of the crew who had escaped her men?
Then his eyes fell on the chest against one wall. He moved toward it with masculine grace, his legs long and muscular. More muscles in his arms and broad shoulders flexed beneath his loose white shirt as he lifted the lid.
He was going to steal the captain’s treasure chest! Was he a pirate? Her eyes narrowed. He wore no eye patch, had no peg leg, nor did he reek of rum. Yet she was almost certain he was a pirate.
Pirate versus ninja.
This could not happen. She was a ninja. She could remove a man’s spleen with one swift motion. She could run a hundred miles on her hands. She could make her shadow disappear. No pirate could ever triumph over a ninja!
She glanced up to the poop deck. What was happening above? Were her men defending themselves and protecting the lives of the slaves and the crew of La MPche de Fouet? She had every confidence in her crew against a band of ruthless murdering buccaneers who cared naught about the lives of others, unlike her own ninja crew whose mission was to help those too weak and vulnerable to defend themselves.
As the man raised the lid of the trunk, gold and multi-colored jewels glinted and sparkled in the dim light of the cabin. She heard his sharply indrawn breath.
“Booty,” he murmured.
At that moment a strange fluttering, flapping noise drew Quinn’s gaze from the man to a bird flying into the cabin. It perched atop one of the posts of the four poster bed and regarded her with shiny dark eyes. It tipped its head to one side and squawked, “Avast, me proud beauty!”
Quinn glared at the bird, a putrid purple color. A parrot.
“Shut up, Pemberley,” the man said without looking up from the booty he’d discovered.
Bloody hell. The parrot belonged to the man! He was a pirate!
She clung tighter to the ceiling, blending into the shadows.
The man began to drag the chest toward the door. No! This could not be allowed! She eyed him, preparing herself, every sense alert, her body poised, waiting for the right…moment…yes.
Silently she dropped from the ceiling and landed on the man’s back, taking him to the floor. His cry of surprise was echoed by the parrot’s, “Awk! Shiver me timbers!”
She curled one arm around his throat as she reached behind her for her katana.
Colin’s breath left him on a whoosh at the impact. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! On the floor with a weight on top of him and something pressing against his windpipe, his heart slammed into his ribs and his breath froze in his throat. Wrestling had never been his strong suit. He’d fared much better at fencing, and he needed to get to his sword. His first pirate attack would not end in humiliation! He’d anticipated the pleased reaction of the captain and the crew when they saw what he’d discovered there, and nobody was going to take away his one chance to prove himself on the high seas. Nobody would call him landlubber again. With all his strength, he rolled.
He wrestled with his attacker, a small but fierce and astonishingly strong individual. Who—or what--- was this creature? With a grunt, he dodged a knee aimed at his bollocks, adrenaline rushing through his veins and giving him the strength to finally throw his attacker off.
They both leaped to their feet and stood there, facing each other, chests heaving. His attacker held a sword, oddly shaped. Colin whipped out his own weapon. They stepped lightly around each other, assessing, planning. He focused on the creature, garbed all in black—soft black breeches, a black shirt and a black hood covering its head and most of its face. A belt around the waist held an arsenal of tools and weapons. Ninja!
His eyes met those of his attacker—aquamarine as clear and sparkling as the Caribbean, framed with long, thick lashes. He sucked in a breath. His momentary lapse cost him the advantage and the ninja lunged with his weapon. At the last second Colin was able to deflect the blow and they parried, swords clanging. A thrill raced through him, heating his veins.
His opponent’s skill with the sword met his own, and sweat stung his eyes and rolled down his back beneath his shirt as they dueled. The ninja seemed unaffected, fighting on until, with a lunge, Colin disarmed him. The unusual sword crashed into the wall. Ha! He had the blackguard now.
Then something whizzed by his ear. Thunk. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto something embedded in the wall behind him. Shuriken. As his attacker reached for another throwing star, Colin lunged toward him.
With blinding swiftness, the creature spun and kicked, knocking Colin’s sword out of his hands. The ninja launched himself at Colin, again taking him to the floor. They wrestled, rolling around the floor of the cabin, knocking into the desk, then a cabinet, a decanter of spirits crashing beside their heads.
“Blow me down!” Pemberley squawked, wings flapping above them. “Blow me down!”
No. He was not going to be humiliated. Landlubber. He was not going to let down his captain and the crew fighting above. Though things on the poop deck above had gone strangely quiet.
Colin closed his hand around soft black fabric. He yanked. The hood came off in his hand, his small but strong attacker now pinned beneath him on the floor.
Golden waves of silky hair spilled out from beneath the hood, framing a face that was pure perfection. Those limpid aqua eyes gazed back at him in shock, lush lips parted slightly. Her hair gleamed like fine Puerto Rican gold, like Jamaican rum, like…the ocean at sunset.
A woman.
They lay staring at each other, bodies pressed together, and he became aware of the softness of the curves beneath him.
“Governess!” Pemberley squeaked. Colin ignored the daft bird as his body hardened. A month at sea listening to bawdy pirate talk had him as randy as a three-balled tomcat. He moved against her soft bosom.
“That is some treasure chest you have there,” he murmured.
Her eyes widened.
And then with more of that astonishing strength, she flipped him onto his back with a quick move. In seconds she had a length of rope out and his hands bound in front of him.
Blasted with double barrels!
“Hempen jig! Hempen jig!” Pemberley cried, wings flapping wildly.
Colin lay helpless on the floor staring up at her.
“Pirate versus ninja,” she said, rising before him. Her golden hair curled riotously down her slender back and her turquoise eyes flashed with triumph. “You will never win. Now you are mine.”
Chapter Four: The Dread Highwayman...Colin?
In which a Highwayman loses his ferret and discovers Ladies, Avon, and Venison
By Skylar Kade
Even highwaymen needed vacations, decided the exhausted Dread Highwayman Westley. Especially when the days ran so close upon the feet of a loved one's death. He threw a rock into the stream, as he'd done on his first eve with Roberts. The highwayman had taught him everything he now knew—robbing carriages, saving damsels, even giving to the poor when the occasion warranted—and though the Dread Highwayman was loathe to admit such emotion, he missed the old chap.
“
It's just you and me now, Brigid,” he said to his ferret. She chortled from upon his shoulder as he recalled happier times, of the long nights spent with a wench of the same name up on the coast of Ireland. He let his head sink down upon his shoulder, sure none of the passing fishmongers or townspeople would notice a man in black keeping to himself by the riverside. “There's no crying in highway robbery,” Roberts had told him, but he felt tears prick his eyes nonetheless.
Brigid nuzzled his ear and then jumped into her basket, looking up at him with wet doe eyes. “Ah, Brigid, you're the only woman for me.” He scratched her delicate chin and almost laughed away his sorrows when she nibbled his little finger.
They had been traveling by horse night and day since Roberts’ funeral three days past. Something had drawn him to stay in this small town of...well, he wasn't sure where. Shropshire? Leeds? He could not reckon why. But it was long past time for him to be off.
Before he could gather up Brigid’s basket and mount, three men surrounded him, cutting off all avenues of escape.
Calm and collected—for he'd been in more dire circumstances before—Westley drew his sword.
“I don't think that will be necessary,” an oily voice said from behind the largest man, the one standing between him and his horse. And that was exactly where Westley pointed his sword.
A small, bald man appeared from behind the blackguard, holding Brigid's basket. And a knife to his dear ferret's throat. Fear choked him, but a highwayman never let it show. He put up his sword. “How may I be of assistance, good sir?”
A crooked smile curled the bald man's lips, evoking images of a gassy babe. “Now that we understand each other, I'd like to offer you employment.”
Westley straightened. “Do you oft do business at sword point?” His highwayman morals were offended at the thought.
“Why yes, I've found it quite efficient for having my way.” The man snapped his fingers and his brutes backed off. But his hand did not budge from poor Brigid, who was as still as could be. Westley knew she understood the gravity of the situation. “I am Willoughby Wickham the Fourteenth and for your services, I can promise you riches beyond a,” he looked at Westley's patched getup with disdain, “a bandit's best dreams.”