Fortune's Bride

by French, Judith E.

  “Cut him!” shouted another.

  A thickset albino surged forward waving a cutlass. “Make crab bait of ’im!” he howled.

  Gordo crawled across the grass toward his captain, begging, blubbering, clutching his charred stump of an arm against his chest. “No. No. Mercy, Cap’n. Ain’t I always been loyal? Ain’t I always—”

  “Off with his other hand!” Kay shouted. He thumped Caroline on the shoulder. “Watch! Watch and see how I’m going to make him pay for touchin’ what was mine. And then think what I’ll do to Osprey—that bastard husband of yours what killed my only son.”

  This time, when Kay lifted his bloody cutlass over the writhing seaman’s head, Caroline tensed to slip the blade between the captain’s ribs. But before she could plunge the knife home, she heard a man shout and the clash of steel on steel. Gordo staggered up and tried to run; Kay dashed after him and buried the cutlass in the man’s back. Caroline used the diversion to flee up the steps toward the main entranceway of the manor house.

  When she glanced back over her shoulder to see if she was being pursued, she saw a knot of crewmen beyond the firelight scatter. Someone cried out; the albino fell facedown into the fire, and Garrett hacked his way through the circle. “Run, Caroline!” he yelled. A blackamoor rushed at him with a pike. He dodged aside, slashed the man in the striped bandanna who was coming at him from the right, and ran straight at Captain Kay.

  A marauder caught sight of Caroline backing toward the front door and ran forward to grab her. She stabbed his outstretched hand with the bone-handled knife. When she looked up again, Kay had drawn a pistol, cocked the hammer, and taken aim at Garrett.

  She screamed Garrett’s name as the gun spat fire and lead. He twisted sideways, and the pistol ball cut a furrow along his chest. Garrett turned and thrust at the captain.

  Kay blocked the attack with his cutlass. “Kill him!” he roared.

  “I said, get the hell out of here!” Garrett shouted to Caroline.

  She flung herself at Kay’s back. He sidestepped and dealt her a stunning backhanded blow that sent her spinning back against the porch. She hit the railing hard and slid down until she was sitting on the ground. She started to rise, but a seaman in red stockings put a knife to her throat.

  “Stay where ye are!” he warned.

  Three men with cutlasses moved in around Garrett and backed him blow by hacking blow toward the house. Again and again, he blocked and parried, but Caroline could see he was weakening.

  “I said kill him!” Kay bellowed. “Give me that musket!” He yanked a Brown Bess from a burly onlooker and raised it to his shoulder.

  “No!” Caroline screamed and tried to leap up. The sailor standing over her smashed his fist against her temple. Her world exploded in a shower of stars. And, as everything went black, the last thing she heard was the boom of cannon fire echoing across the water.

  “How dare you follow me here?” Matthew demanded of his mother. Annemie had been carried ashore from her ship and was now resting comfortably in the master’s high-backed chair in the north downstairs parlor.

  Annemie waved a liveried footman to bring the branched candlestand closer. “More candles,” she instructed. “At my age, I need all the light I can get.”

  “You have no business here,” Matthew scolded. “To sail from Jamaica to this godforsaken island. What can you be thinking of? What if you were to take ill?”

  She pursed her lips and made a smacking sound. “Then I should likely die,” she said. “I am, after all, long past the age for it.” Matthew was nervous; she could see the sweat on his upper lip. The fool could never hide what he was thinking from her. It confirmed her decision to take Falconer’s personal vessel, the brigantine Black Princess, manned by the some of the best fighting men in the Caribbean, and come after her son.

  After her visitation . . .

  She had gone from the Kingston dock, where she had met Matthew, directly to the church to pray. And while she was there, kneeling, a miracle had occurred. She knew it was a miracle. After all, hadn’t she spent a lifetime waiting for one?

  She had been deep in prayer when she’d heard the angel’s voice. Not soft and sweet as she’d always imagined, but firm and clear, ringing with authority. A strange accent, granted, like none she had ever heard. But how would an angel learn to speak properly in heaven?

  Your son is an abomination, the voice had said.

  It was not a statement she could argue with; it was truth, pure and simple.

  “He is all I have left of Peregrine,” she answered.

  No. Another, more worthy, awaits your coming.

  “Where? How?”

  Osprey.

  “He is our enemy.”

  Matthew is your enemy. He will shame his father’s name. He will destroy the house of Falconer. You must stop him, before it is too late.

  She had waited for nearly an hour, waited until her old bones were stiff from kneeling, but the angel spoke no more. She had called her servants and had them carry her back to the harbor, where she had laid eyes on the Black Princess, and she had known then what the angel wanted her to do.

  The Black Princess now lay anchored broadside to Matthew’s schooner Reiver. By now her captain, Nathan McCarthy, would have control of the Reiver. Matthew had not expected trouble from the sea; he’d brought most of his crew—including his gunners—ashore. The Black Princess carried more cannon and more men than the Reiver. Whether he knew it or not, Matthew had been outsmarted and outgunned by an old woman.

  “I am weary, Matthew,” Annemie lied. In truth, she required little sleep and was rarely tired. “Where is Garrett Faulkner?”

  “Osprey? You promised him to me,” Matthew reminded her.

  “Yes, yes, I did, but only after I was finished with him. I have the right to face my grandson’s murderer—do I not?”

  “If you’d not interfered, he’d be dead by now.”

  “You were instructed to bring him to Falconer before disposing of him.”

  “Stop it, Mama. Why must you keep up this ridiculous pretense? My father has been dead for nearly half a century. There is no Falconer. It’s only you. You give the orders. You make the decisions. It’s past time that this playacting was at an end.”

  “Who then should take Falconer’s place? Your father created an empire. Would men continue to obey his wishes in Boston if they knew a woman ruled? In Galway? In Lisbon? How many ships does Falconer command, Matthew? Where are our funds deposited? What contracts for shipping do we control? How many sugar plantations do we own? In short, my son and heir—how much do you know of Falconer’s affairs?”

  “And whose fault is it?” he demanded. “Who has deliberately kept me in the dark? Who treats me like a hired servant?”

  “Your father, Peregrine—”

  “To bloody hell with my father! May he rot in his grave. And you with him! I’m sick of your foot on my neck. I have Simon’s killer and I will do with him as I please.”

  “And the woman, Caroline Talbot?”

  His reply was so crude that Annemie’s wrinkled cheeks grew hot and she looked away in shame. She closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands, and rocked to an fro in silent misery. If only Peregrine were here. He would know what to do with Matthew.

  The angel’s words came back to her. He will destroy the house of Falconer. And: Another, more worthy . . . She raised her head slowly and looked at the only living descendant of the man she had loved with all her heart and soul. “May God forgive you for your sins,” she said. “Does the Bible not say, ‘Honor your father and—’ ”

  “Enough, old woman.” Matthew stood up so quickly that he overturned the delicate French chair he had been sitting in. Angrily, he kicked it aside, and the toe of his boot cracked one of the rungs.

  A waste, she thought. Such a pretty chair with all that gilt trimming . . .

  Her thoughts drifted back to her grandson, Simon. Annemie had had such high hopes for Simon, but he had proved as stupid an
d as heartless as Matthew. How could she and Peregrine have produced such worthless offspring?

  “It grows late,” Matthew said, “and my bride awaits my coming. Talk to Osprey if you wish. I will deal with him in the morning.” He paused in the doorway. “When we return to Jamaica, you will content yourself with your religious concerns, and I will take Falconer’s chair.”

  “You will take it? From me?” She asked the obvious to make certain she understood the extent of his disrespect.

  His answer was a muttered curse and the slamming door.

  Annemie clapped her hands. “Bring me the prisoner,” she instructed her servant. “At once.” She waited, tapping her fan against the chair arm, impatient as only the very old can be, when they know each minute is precious. And when they dragged Osprey before her, she looked long and hard into his angry gray eyes.

  Caroline strained at the ropes that held her wrists to the bedpost. Her head throbbed fiercely, and a trickle of blood ran down her cheek from the place where she’d been struck.

  Worse of all, she did not know if Garrett was dead or alive. He had been on his feet and fighting when she’d last seen him, but no swordsman—no matter his skill—could survive attack by three or more armed men. If he was already dead . . . She shut her eyes and tried to summon up her powers of sight.

  “I hope you’re not asleep,” Matthew said, coming into the room and closing the door behind him. “A bridegroom expects better on his wedding night.”

  Her eyes flew open. “I am not your wife,” she cried. “I will never be your wife!”

  He shrugged off his tight red and gold damask waistcoat and dropped heavily into a chair. “Are you fertile?” he asked. “My mother wishes me to get you with child.” He tugged at one of his boots. “Would you do this for me if I untied you?”

  Caroline lowered her head to hide her eyes. “Remove your boots?” she whispered.

  “Yes, remove my boots. What the hell are we talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s better.” He rose and walked stiffly over to the bed. Using a knife, he cut her bonds. “Don’t try to run, little chicken,” he warned. “My men are everywhere.”

  “There is blood on your shirt,” she said. He smelled like a hog wallow.

  “You should know. You cut me.” He settled back into the chair and held out his foot.

  She forced herself to take hold of his boot and pull. The stench of his filthy stocking made her ill. She gritted her teeth and removed the other boot. “Your wound should be bathed and tended,” she said. “Otherwise it will fester in this heat.”

  He laughed and groped crudely at her backside. “One would think you are reluctant to perform your marital duties, little chicken,” he said.

  “No.” She raised her head and looked into his dull brown eyes. They seemed lifeless, like those of a fish. No, she decided, they were goat’s eyes. “I am a practical woman, Captain. If I am to be yours, then my interests lie with you.”

  “Sensible.” He smiled with his lips, but the goat’s eyes remained flat, without any hint of amusement. He raised the bottle of rum he’d brought with him and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  “I take it that my husband is dead.”

  “Enough talk.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his lap. “Give us a kiss.”

  She knew it was useless to fight him. She knew the logical thing was to pretend to give in and watch for a chance to kill him, but she couldn’t. She balled her fist and drove it into this wide nose with every ounce of her strength.

  Blood flew. Matthew backhanded her and she tumbled onto the floor. He was on her before she could move. He slapped her once, hard, and then ripped the front of her gown from neckline to waist.

  Caroline screamed.

  Matthew lowered his body onto her and cruelly squeezed one breast until she cried out with pain. “Bitch!” he growled. “I’ll teach—”

  He broke off as a bolt of lightning shattered a massive tree branch outside the window and shook the whole house. Matthew gasped and scrambled back as a ball of white light materialized in the corner of the room. “Mother of God!” he muttered. Caroline crawled away and put a table between her and Matthew Kay.

  The ball of energy exploded through the nearest window, and a gust of wind extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Where are you?” he shouted.

  She held her breath, afraid to breathe.

  The door burst open. “Caroline!”

  Garrett’s voice. She drew in a deep breath. “Be careful,” she warned.

  As soon as she spoke, Matthew lunged for her. The table saved her. He struck the edge of it, slipped, and fell facedown. She was on her feet and running across the room. She threw herself into Garrett’s arms.

  He crushed her against him for an instant, then pulled her away from the vulnerability of the doorway and into the hall. “Did he—”

  “No. I’m all right,” she managed. “But be careful. He’s armed.” Then she realized that Garrett had a sword in his hand. “How did you get loose?”

  “No time for that now.” He pulled her down the hall and thrust her into the first bedchamber they came to. “Go inside and lock the door,” he ordered. “Don’t come out until I—”

  Matthew appeared in the hall, a pistol in his hand. He raised it and cocked the hammer. “You’re a dead man, Osprey,” he said, taking aim at the center of Garrett’s chest.

  It seemed to Caroline as if time had stopped. She heard the sound of the hammer snapping into place. Then a Brown Bess rifle roared; a second later, the explosion was followed by the crack of Kay’s pistol. Splinters of wood and plaster sprayed across the hall. For what seemed an eternity to Caroline, Garrett and Matthew stood staring at each other, then the captain clutched at the saucer-sized hole in his chest, staggered against the wall, and slid down with open, sightless eyes.

  Behind Kay, standing at the top of the stairs, Caroline saw a tall liveried blackamoor in a red turban holding a smoking rifle.

  Garrett took a few steps toward the stairs, and the blackamoor lowered his Brown Bess and held up a broad palm. “No trouble, monsieur. Madame give order Jantje shoot Capitaine,” he said.

  “Who is Madame?” Caroline asked. “And why . . .”

  Garrett took her in his arms. “Falconer,” he said, as he covered her face with kisses. “Falconer is a lady, and—” He held Caroline at arm’s length. “Are you certain he didn’t hurt you?”

  “He knocked me around,” she answered. “And yes, that hurt like hell, but he didn’t have his way with me. That lightning storm—”

  “What lightning? What are you talking about?” He rubbed the lump on her temple gently. “You’ve taken a beating, Caroline. It’s only normal that you’d begin to imagine—”

  “A lightning bolt took a limb off a tree right outside the house. You didn’t hear it?” she asked in disbelief. “Ball lightning rolled right through the room. It scared Kay—”

  “Honey, you need to be in bed.”

  “Kutii,” she said softly.

  “It’s all right,” he soothed. “You’ll feel better after a little rest. I’ll look for your sister and Noah—”

  “They’re at the cave. They’re safe. At least, I hope they are. But the rest of the pirates—Kay’s crew—what about them? They—”

  Garrett picked her up in his arms and carried her into the nearest bedchamber and laid her down on the bed. “It’s all right, Caroline. It’s all right. Falconer is here. Whatever power Captain Kay had, it wasn’t as much as Falconer’s. She promised us safe passage home to the Colonies.”

  “But why? How? She held on to Garrett’s hand with a death grip, fearful that he’d vanish. Afraid she’d wake up and find that this was the dream.

  “Shhh, trust me. I’ll call Pilar to stay with you for a while until I can—”

  “Pilar? But I thought she was d
ead.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Kay’s men killed Angus. Pilar was hurt but she’s alive. She’s tough. I just saw her a few minutes ago, downstairs.”

  “This Falconer is a woman, you say?”

  “Yes. A very great lady, and Captain Kay’s mother.”

  “But that man just said—”

  “That she ordered him shot.” He exhaled softly. “I don’t understand that part, but I believe if. I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “You? How do you know her?”

  “Her men saved my ass when they came ashore.”

  “But why?” Caroline demanded.

  “My grandfather, Perry Faulkner, was a bond slave on Jamaica. He cut sugarcane on one of the plantations there before he escaped and came to Maryland. His mother, Keavy, was from Dublin, but he never knew his father.

  “Falconer—Mistress Annemie—claims that her husband, Peregrine Kay, mentioned an Irish bond girl named Keavy whom he once loved when they were both in their teens,” Garrett continued. “Peregrine said the girl told him that she was pregnant with his child, but that she vanished without a trace, and he thought his mother had gotten rid of the wench.

  “Mistress Annemie believes old Perry Faulkner was her husband’s bastard by Keavy. Peregrine Falconer Kay was the only son of the royal governor. Mistress Annemie thinks Keavy gave my grandfather the name Perry Faulkner because she was afraid to call him Peregrine Kay.”

  “But the names aren’t quite the same.”

  “My grandfather couldn’t read or write. I’m sure his mother couldn’t either.”

  “So you are related to Falconer?”

  “So she says. It makes me her step-great-grandson, or something like that.”

  “He carries Peregrine’s blood,” came the dry whisper from the doorway.

  In the light from the hallway candlestand, Caroline saw an old woman leaning on a cane. “It seems we have much to thank you for,” Caroline said. “You saved us both from—”

  “I knew it when I laid eyes on him,” Annemie continued. “Pergrine’s son’s son’s son. He has the look about him. It’s the Kay eyes.” She glanced back over her shoulder at the prone body on the floor. “Matthew never had them. I’m not sure who he took after.”