Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  When Whitehead had risen from his sickbed and learned that Caroline was missing, he’d naturally assumed she was with her new husband. Neither of them was under arrest. He’d had no reason to consult Captain Talbot or even to tell him of his cousin’s absence.

  He had every intention of freeing Talbot after he’d cooled his heels in the makeshift cellar jail cell. Talbot needed to learn manners. But he’d seen no need for a formal court-martial. A proper public apology from the captain, some extra duties, and a small fine would have satisfied Whitehead. After all, if he got rid of Bruce Talbot, headquarters might send him someone even less efficient.

  Now there was a totally different light on matters. If Talbot had had Osprey and he’d let him escape—no, not only let him, he’d assisted him. God’s teeth! He’d even participated in Faulkner’s wedding—being one of the witnesses.

  A man’s career had been lost for far less than this, Whitehead thought, regretfully. He’d been deceived by the prospect of extracting ten thousand pounds sterling from the girl. Now, he’d lost not only the money, but a dangerous traitor as well.

  Remembering the missive from Lord Cornwallis, Whitehead went back to the deck and thumbed through his correspondence until he found it. Yes! There it was in black and white. Mr. Garrett Faulkner is to be released from house arrest. The major breathed a sigh of relief. He had only acted against his own best judgment after receiving direct orders from his general. He’d make a written statement to that end. Taylor’s bungling of the message, and Captain Talbot’s involvement, only added pages of complications to the official report. He would issue a warrant for the arrest of Faulkner at once. If the man had left Maryland, it was hardly his fault, after all. The navy should have finished Osprey at Lewes.

  Whitehead had banished the last of his panic by the time Bruce Talbot reached the office, and he maintained a cool detachment as he informed the captain of the unfortunate happenings of the past few days.

  “Gone? Caroline’s gone?” Talbot said. He’d not troubled to shave during his confinement, and Whitehead found the captain’s uniform in disgusting condition.

  “So it seems,” Whitehead admitted. “But you are still in control of her finances. And since she seems to have married a traitor, I must believe the courts would be unwilling to return Fortune’s Gift and Mistress Caroline’s other assets to an enemy of the crown.” He smiled at Talbot, but the pleasantry extended no further than his lips. His eyes were hard. “I believe what happened between us at the church can be overlooked and we can continue on here as we were. Naturally, I will expect you to permit legal defense of Reed Talbot to continue. Difficult case, I understand. But he is your blood cousin. Even a loyal Englishman would want to see an innocent man get a fair trial.”

  Bruce scoffed. “You expect me to pay to get Reed out of prison?”

  “To get him legal representation. A different matter indeed,” Whitehead said loftily. “A long process, I understand. Considering the conditions of the prison ships, it’s possible that a man could die while waiting for his trial.”

  “It’s possible,” Bruce agreed. “As I understand it, I help you cover your back in this, and you whitewash my military records.”

  “There’s no reason to be crude, Captain Talbot.”

  “And you expect to drain money from Fortune’s Gift?”

  “For Reed Talbot’s legal defense.”

  “I think we understand each other, Major.” Bruce’s face twisted into a grin. He offered Whitehead his hand. The major hesitated for an instant, then reached out and shook Bruce’s firmly.

  “Now, let us call Mr. Taylor back in here and see what we can do about convincing him that his message was somehow waylaid before arriving here. After all, if one of us goes down, we will all surely fall together. Chain of command, Captain. Nothing can touch Lord Cornwallis’s reputation. It’s possible the courier is at fault.”

  Much later, Bruce returned to his own room on the second floor, his head pounding. He thought he’d come out of this bargain for the better, but he wasn’t certain.

  Of one thing he was sure—Caroline Steele hadn’t gotten away from him for good. Yes, he controlled her finances now, but what would happen when they beat the Continentals? He had no intention of allowing Caroline or Garrett Faulkner ever to lay claim to Fortune’s Gift again. There was one sure way to hold total control of the money—his original plan. He must wed Caroline. Only through her could he gain complete and legal ownership of the wealth she’d inherited.

  What if she had married Faulkner? She’d been a widow when Bruce had first courted her; she could easily become a widow again. And if they were going to the Caribbean, there was only one place Caroline could be bound for—the family estates on Arawak Island.

  Faulkner might believe that Bruce couldn’t follow him south, but he was all too wrong. Bruce might not go himself, but he knew of someone far more influential who was already there.

  Falconer.

  For a hundred years, the Caribbean had been the private duck pond of a influential family business that operated under the name Falconer.

  Some said Falconer was a smuggler and pirate. Others accused him of dealing with the French and Spanish. None denied his power. In ports from Jamaica to Charleston to Philadelphia, Falconer’s agents listened and reported on the schedules and cargos of ships. Royal governors boasted of having Falconer as a personal confidant, and some—it was said—paid him tolls so that their vessels would arrive with cargoes intact.

  For a century, the Falconer enterprise had grown, and like the roots of a mighty tree, the family’s interests had wound themselves around the heart of the shipping industry in the New World. And yet, despite the size of the organization, Falconer had remained very human. His friends tended to prosper, his enemies to fall. It was said that Falconer never forgot a good deed to the company or forgave an evil one.

  And Bruce possessed a bit of information that he was certain Falconer would like to have. On October 23, 1776, Osprey had fought a running sea battle with one of Falconer’s ships, the Golden Hare, a square-rigged brigantine out of Jamaica. According to an eyewitness report, a cannon ball fired by Osprey’s gunner had struck the Hare at the waterline amidships and sent the Falconer vessel to the bottom. All hands but two were lost.

  The Golden Hare was suspected of piracy, but that was nothing to Bruce; all that mattered was that Osprey was Falconer’s enemy. Bruce seated himself at a table, took a quill pen and sharpened the point, dipped it in an inkwell, and began to write.

  An hour and three abortive attempts later, Bruce reread his letter to Falconer. First he explained that Garrett Faulkner was the privateer known as Osprey and that Osprey had sunk the Golden Hare. Then he stated that Garrett had married his betrothed under false pretenses. Finally, he made his daring offer. If the family would find his cousin, Caroline Talbot Steele—he refused to give her the title of Caroline Faulkner—dispose of her new husband permanently, and return her safely to him, he would hand over half of her inheritance in gratitude.

  He sprinkled sand over the parchment to be sure that the ink was dry, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope. He would send the letter to Falconer’s representative in Philadelphia. With luck, Falconer would know Garrett and Caroline were coming before they were halfway to the Caribbean. And he would no doubt prepare a unique welcome.

  “I’m glad I’m not you,” he said softly, remembering a story he’d heard in Chestertown last year. A tax collector—a representative of the crown—had refused to cooperate with Falconer’s captains and insisted on claiming a heavy toll from each shipment that entered the port. Then, abruptly, the tax collector had vanished. He was not found until six months later, when a distiller of rum in Massachusetts broached a keg of West Indies molasses and found the missing man. No blame was ever attached to Falconer, but the next tax collector was much more understanding with Falconer cargoes.

  Bruce chuckled. Yes, setting Falconer on Garrett’s trail was the best solution. Once Garr
ett was dead, Bruce could handle Caroline. She would either wed him at once or see her dear brother rot in prison. He went to a window and stared out at the gray, bitter day. “Have a pleasant voyage, cousin,” he whispered harshly. “And enjoy your bridegroom.” He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. “Do enjoy,” he said, “for you’ll be widowed again soon enough.” He rubbed the frosted windowpane absently and wondered what it would be like to have both Caroline and Amanda share his bed at the same time.

  Some days later, on the deck of the Gillian Rose, a half mile off the coast of Carolina, Garrett Faulkner slept fitfully. Sleet mixed with rain kept up a steady tattoo against the length of sailcloth he had wrapped tightly around him.

  The raw, biting cold and the ever-present danger of floating logs and hidden sandbars made the night travel even more hazardous than normal. But this stretch of beach was known to be the haunt of wreckers, land-based pirates who lured merchant ships ashore for loot and murder. The black water of the wind-tossed Atlantic offered little mercy to unwary sailors, but what she did give was more than travelers could expect on land.

  Garrett had gone for nearly two days and nights without sleep before he finally nodded off. He was as cold and uncomfortable as the crew and captain of the Gillian Rose, but what space below that was not filled with cargo was taken up by Caroline, Amanda, and the baby, leaving only the exposed deck for him, his friend Noah, and Noah’s brother Eli.

  Sleep had not come easily to Garrett since the sinking of the Osprey off Lewes, Delaware. Tonight was no exception. Memories of the sea battle that had cost the lives of his friends and crew tore the fabric of his dreams.

  . . . The acrid scent of brimstone choked the smoke-filled passage as Garrett fought his way up the narrow ladder to the deck of the Osprey. He gasped for air and shielded his face from falling shreds of fiery canvas. Men shrieked in agony as iron chain shot whirled through the riggings, then fell, bringing down splintered spars to rend human flesh like hot wax. Cannon roared from the starboard side; seconds later the boom was echoed off the bow. Garrett staggered and fell facedown on the tilting deck, and when he forced himself up, his hands were soaked in the dark red blood of his comrades . . .

  “Garrett! Garrett, wake up!”

  Someone was shaking him.

  He opened his eyes groggily, pushing back the scene of carnage that filled his head. “Who—”

  “It’s me, Caroline. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.” She shook him again.

  He was soaked with perspiration. He could still smell the blood. He could taste it. Coming fully conscious, he realized he’d bitten the inside of his mouth. “What is it?” he said, throwing back the makeshift canvas hood. “Is something wrong?”

  She crouched beside him as freezing rain soaked through her wool cloak. For once, she was at a loss for words. How could she tell him that she’d awakened from a terrible dream herself—that she had seen the deck of the Osprey in her death throes? That she had seen Wesley fall, clutching his shattered chest . . .

  That the vision was real, she had no doubt. But how could she tell Garrett that she possessed witchling powers—that she could see past and sometimes future with unerring accuracy? Or that once she had come awake, she had become aware of his distress?

  “What are you doing on deck?” he asked. “Have we sprung a leak? Is the vessel in danger?”

  “No more than we’ve been since we set sail in this floating deathtrap,” she said, wiggling under the comer of his sailcloth shelter.

  “You’ve no business being up here,” he said gruffly, but he slipped an arm around her, wrapping them both in the thick folds of canvas. “You could have fallen overboard. The deck is slick with ice.”

  Caroline squirmed until she found a comfortable position, knees drawn up under her full skirts, arms crossed over her chest, and head nestled against Garrett’s shoulder. “It stinks down below,” she said.

  “The open deck is no place for a woman.”

  She shrugged. All her life she’d gone places and done things that were more expected of a lad. She’d found that the best argument against such narrow male thinking was to do what she wanted and not discuss it. That way, when she didn’t fall off the spirited horse, drown in the river, or topple out of a treetop and break her neck, the men who’d been protesting didn’t have to admit they were wrong. “You were having a nightmare,” she reminded him.

  “Is the babe well?”

  “Sleeping. What were you dreaming about?”

  “My dreams are my own affair. Who remembers what they’ve dreamed of, once they’re awake?”

  “I do.” She took his hard hand in hers. “And I think you do too.” Garrett’s tone was as frigid as the open deck, but he didn’t pull away from her and she sensed his need for companionship.

  “’Tis a foul night,” he said. “But the captain claims he’s run this stretch in every kind of weather. Cape Hatteras is known for sudden storms. This is where the cold Atlantic waters from the north strike the warm Gulf Stream coming up from the Florida coast. Once, we were sailing south from Philadelphia to—”

  “Was that when you were in the British Royal Navy?” She felt his muscles tense slightly. When he answered her, she felt—rather than heard—the thin edge to his voice, and she knew she had touched on a subject Garrett Faulkner didn’t care to discuss.

  “Forgive me.” He made a sound of amusement and became the polished gentleman again. “I should be reassuring you, instead of boring you with old sea stories. I’m sorry if these accommodations aren’t what you’re used to. A spring sailing date would have been much more pleasant, but once we reach the waters off Georgia, the weather should start to improve.”

  “How is your leg holding up?” she asked. There was more to this man she’d married than she had first believed, and she was determined to break through his carefully constructed exterior. “You’ve not had further bleeding, have you?” She’d noticed he still limped when he walked, but the pain lines around his eyes were gone.

  “The wound is healing. Your nursing skills are excellent.”

  “I would have done better with more preparation. You gave me little warning that first night you came to my bedchamber.”

  “I didn’t have a great deal of warning myself.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, with only the sounds of the rain and water and the creak of rope and canvas. She knew she should have been frightened here in this wild place, but she wasn’t. Garrett Faulkner had a solidness about him that made her feel safe.

  Gradually, his body warmth seeped through to her, and except for her feet, she was almost comfortable. “You haven’t asked me about Wesley,” she said finally. “I know you were closer to Reed, but you must be curious about Wesley’s death.” This time, Garrett didn’t tense up. Instead, she felt the wave of pain that washed over him.

  Something was wrong. Why should Garrett react so to the mention of Wesley’s name? It certainly wasn’t out of jealousy. He’d made it plain what he thought of her and their arranged marriage.

  “I’ve put it about that Wesley drowned accidentally,” she admitted. After all, if Garrett was an American sympathizer as she believed, he’d know who was for the cause, wouldn’t he? “I have something to tell you. I hope you won’t hold it against me.” She tried to keep her voice meek and womanly. “Wesley died a rebel.”

  “Your husband was a Continental?” He let go of her hand.

  “You can’t blame me for that, can you?” she whispered. “He was aboard the Osprey with Reed.”

  “Wesley was a good man,” Garrett said noncommittally. “A little hotheaded, but a good man.”

  “You can say that about a traitor?”

  “Why speak evil against the dead?”

  “And do you think it strange that I, a good Englishwoman, should have both a husband and a brother fighting for the wrong side?”

  “Many families are split. No one could fault you for their sins.”

  Caroline nibbled on h
er lower lip. This wasn’t going the way she’d expected it. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?” she whispered. “I am your wife. I can’t be forced to testify against you. Admit that you are a rebel, as well. Admit that you are the one who blew up the powder magazine.”

  He chuckled. “If I was an American sympathizer, I’d be a fool to admit it to you, wouldn’t I?”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Should I?”

  It was her turn to stiffen. Suddenly, she wanted him to trust her—to think highly of her. “Why not?”

  “We have been thrown together by circumstances. We aren’t even of a class. If it wasn’t for your cousin Bruce, tell the truth—would you even have considered my suit if I’d pressed one?”

  “I might have.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  She pushed his arm away and squirmed out from under the canvas. “You don’t like me, do you?” Pellets of sleet stung her face and hands.

  “What have I—”

  Without warning, Garrett seized her around the waist and threw her hard against the deck. Her outraged scream of protest was drowned by the blast of a swivel gun. Caroline’s heart rose in her throat as she saw another ship materialize out of nowhere, directly in their path.

  A hair-raising jeer drifted across the narrow gap of water that separated the two vessels. A torch flared on the deck of the black ship, and a coarse voice shouted through a speaking horn. “Heave to or be blown to hell!”

  Chapter 9

  “Gillian under attack!” Garrett shouted. “All hands!” He ducked as a cast-iron ball thudded onto the deck and rolled toward Caroline. “Grenade! Look out!” he warned.

  Before she could grab the sputtering fuse, Garrett kicked it over the side. A wave carried the two boats closer together, and Caroline could see shadowy figures of armed men crowded on the deck of the ghostly vessel.