by Kim Bowman
“Don’t worry, sir,” Jacko said. “Our men are well-trained and we have what’s left of the Octavia’s crew. And if Frink’s men know what’s good for them, they’ll man the braces with the rest of us. We follow orders. That’s what we do best. That’s what keeps a salted tar alive.”
“Do you actually think we can get Simon Danbury’s niece back home in one piece?”
“We’ve done riskier things, sir.” Jacko’s honesty shook him. In truth, he was right.
Percy nodded and lifted the sextant to view the skyline once more. Simon was a hard man. When you signed with Danbury, you signed on for life, swearing to endure anything until the job was done. If Simon told you to do whatever was in your power to attain a madman’s trust, you did it in spite of your misgivings, if you had any. Admiral Nelson and Simon had trained them all, twenty men total.
“How is her ladyship faring?” Jacko asked, leaning closer so their conversation wasn’t overheard.
Percy peered down from the sextant. “Exhibiting much more spunk than I thought her capable of.”
“Not hard to imagine,” Jacko jested. “She is Simon’s niece.” Jacko squinted toward the north. “If she has but one ounce of Danbury in her, we should expect no less.”
“She’s shown her meddle more than half.” Percy smiled, remembering how she’d used a bedwarmer to neutralize Saracen and how easily she’d softened under his touch.
“You can ill afford to be swayed by the fact that she’s a woman, sir. She’s untainted, thanks to your quick thinking, and Simon will want her back that way — completely unscathed.”
A growl of disgust rumbled up from his core. “Say what you mean.”
“The men expect you to claim your reward.”
“What about you, Jacko?”
“I know you, sir. You’ve sacrificed everything for this,” he said, pointing toward the crew scurrying along the deck. “Lady Constance is as fine as they come. I think you’ll have a hard time resisting her, especially if she shares your cabin.”
Jacko was right to warn him off. When Simon was in the navy, he tackled a young Frenchman named Robert Surcouf in the Indian Ocean and lived to tell the tale.
“What would you do if you were in my position?” Jacko winked. “I’m not you, sir,” he said. “But consider the ramifications. Lady Constance is not weak willed. If you seduce her, Simon will demand your life for it.”
Percy’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “Be a good man and fetch me some grub.”
“Will you not be taking your meal with her ladyship?”
“No,” he said, determined to keep as much distance between himself and Constance.
“Aye.” Jacko grinned. His quick-footed retreat left Percy unsettled.
Food was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, images of Constance’s naked body, strawberry blonde curls, cherubic face, and silken limbs teased his senses. “Damn your hide, Jacko,” he grated through clenched teeth. He was a cad, and being reminded of that fact didn’t sit well.
The sea crested and foamed, mimicking his riotous thoughts. He raised his eyes heavenward and then cast them back to the swells. A storm brewed on the sea and in his heart.
Percy strapped himself to the helm and prepared for the worst.
~~~~
Lord Montgomery Burton opened the missive and held it beneath tempered candlelight, fuming with rage as he read the hastily scribbled note, which had been blotched by drizzling rain.
No one has seen your intended for nigh on a week. After some extensive research into the matter, I’ve concluded that the lady in question has run.
Never fear, I will continue the search.
Your dutiful servant,
Josiah Cane
Embroiled with rage, Burton threw the note into the fireplace. He watched the edges ignite, inwardly laughing at the irony. Months of wooing the Duke of Throckmorton into giving him permission to marry his only child appeared to have been for naught. In horrible financial straits, the duke had been too willing to merge their families in order to release his creditors. He’d also had the untimely misfortune of not being able to keep his daughter under control.
Providence had given Burton a fortune to wield at his whim. His shrewd business sense had grown an empire. What he needed to continue his pretense was a woman to complete the façade, a woman of gentile breeding — one above reproach.
Burton didn’t delude himself. He was an older man, not the kind a young woman craves, fit and eager to flatter, though his cravings lent themselves to women of the very young persuasion. That left him with little choice. He was going to have to marry a woman above reproach, a young, impressionable one, which would satisfy both needs. To do so quickly meant finding one from the meager stock of families in want or need of financial gain. Yet, that stock had to be of noble blood, of that requirement he would not waver. And, due to a questionable business venture, he had a short amount of time to conceal his deceit by drawing attention away from his trade dealings and onto his personal life.
He made it clear he cared not if Simon Danbury, the Duke of Throckmorton’s brother, was blamed for placing the family fortune in jeopardy, which had been his best selling point. His primary concern was getting what he wanted. If that meant helping Throckmorton’s finances plummet in order to get it, so be it.
Lady Constance was a rarity. He’d recognized that fact the moment he’d set eyes upon her. She was chaste, pure, and thoughts of teaching her ways to satiate his carnal lusts filled him with unquenchable fire. It had been no small feat to keep his hands off of her these past few months. The fact that he’d frightened her off with his violent vow of affection fueled his desire to attain her betrothal.
He hadn’t taken Lady Constance’s rejection at his home a week earlier lightly. Nor did he take the news with stride that the frightened twit had run from their impending engagement. Pulling the bell, he beckoned for one of his maids, a tasty young morsel he’d recently acquired. Until he found Lady Constance and led her to the chapel altar, the young maid would slake his needs well enough. If she didn’t, he had ways of ensuring he got his way.
Chapter Six
Constance stood at the far end of the captain’s cabin, staring out the grand windows to the agitated water in the Striker’s wake. Powerless to champion her family, to plead for her aunt’s intervention, she had nothing to look forward to now but misery. No supporters rallied to her cause aboard ship, save Mrs. Mortimer, and London, their final destination, provided no relief. In a stroke of rotten luck, the heartbreak she’d given her father led her straight back to Throckmorton Manor in disgrace, to Lord Burton, his marriage proposal, and repugnant touch.
Her last image of Burton resurged. His unreadable eyes and bulbous lips had twisted cruelly when she’d made her rejection plain. Portly, a watchful fixity in his gaze, he wasn’t a tall man or a kind one. It was plain she’d underestimated him. Though outwardly he’d exuded a gentlemanly demeanor in all their previous meetings, he was no gentleman. Her refusal to accept his fumbling advances had ignited his anger. In response, he’d treated her no better than a scullery maid or a street urchin kicked out from under his muddy boots.
Hugging her arms about her, Constance was assailed by a terrible sense of loss. Beyond the glowing horizon laid Spain and Aunt Lydia, her last hope. Behind her stood a mysterious man who’d saved her from a sinking ship, plied her with brandy, divested her of her clothes, and coerced her into his bed, stealing the one thing that was hers to give. Her presence on a pirate ship, alone, was enough to ruin her good name. Who would marry her now?
Remember what a real man feels like, Constance. Hard where you are soft, strong where you are weak.
Her body tensed at the mere recollection. Burton was nothing compared to the rogue who all but ravished her with a look, a touch, and made an unwilling subject desire things no refined woman dared to admit. But even ill-bred, the blackguard had not raised a hand against her. In fact, he’d done the complete opposite.
�
��Remember the heat between us when you’re cold and aching with want.”
Constance had no trouble remembering. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest as her body thrummed in response to the memory of the rogue’s hands on her body. What sinful place had the demon unlocked within her to make her long for his touch?
Shaking off her physical response, she stepped away from the window and began to pace. In the minutes and hours since the sinking of the Octavia, she’d secretly plotted her escape, learning as much as she could about the ship by searching through maps and charts on the captain’s desk. She’d learned little in the way of how to get to shore, but she’d seen enough to understand a greater network of pirates existed near Cornwall. It was during one of those investigations the captain had returned and caught her. She’d never seen an angrier man than the blackguard who held her captive. He’d quickly gathered up his maps and documents and left the cabin, slamming the door off the hinge in his wake.
A peg-legged man named Mr. Banks had been assigned to restore her privacy by manning the broken cabin door until it could be repaired. Since the regretful exchange over the maps, Banks had not moved or eaten, though he’d grumbled and complained about falling so low and being forced to keep watch over a woman.
Constance listened to the rugged man’s tirade until thoughts of her own hunger helped her develop a new devious plan. She cast a glance at the liquor cabinet and then rose from the floor to unbolt the beveled glass, selecting a bottle of brandy from its post. She swirled the contents before her. Yes, this will do nicely.
“Mr. Banks,” she purred, striding to the door. “You’ve done a wonderful job keeping watch. I think it’s only fitting you’re rewarded, don’t you?”
The old curmudgeon’s eyes gleamed.
“With a drink,” she quickly added, when his eyes scanned her body appreciatively. “It’s the least I can do after your harrowing sacrifice,” she said, playing coquette.
“Sacrifice?” Banks repeated. “Don’t coddle me, woman. ‘Tis a big one by far. Besides, I’m the laughin’ stock of the ship. It’s bad enough women are aboard, but no tar alive wants to be stuck guarding a woman when the action is above deck.”
“Action?” she asked, suddenly nervous. “What action?”
His eyes locked onto hers. “We’re bracing for a storm, miss.”
A storm! Confound it. Oh, that didn’t fit in with her plans at all. Shock yielded quickly to desperation. She had no time to lose. She leaned forward until her nose breached the opening in the door. “Did the captain mention there would be a reward for keeping me safe, Mr. Banks?”
The man’s beady eyes narrowed on her. His expression took on a hopeful optimism. He surveyed the hallway before redirecting his attention to her. “Reward?” he repeated. He licked his lips and smiled.
“Behold,” she said, holding up a brandy bottle and swishing the contents around with a flick of her wrist. “The captain’s last words to me were, ‘Make sure Banks gets a good swig of this brandy. He’ll be doing you a service standing guard over your door and will need something to ease the ache in his gullet and his wounded pride.’”
Banks’ eyes twinkled, and she smiled at how easy it had been to trick him. His eyes watered and his mouth puckered. He gazed left then right, as if uncertain her offer was legitimate.
“Have you had brandy before, Mr. Banks?”
The man’s eyes opened wide. “Once. At a dinner for a fine gent me parents knew. Burned all the way down my throat, it did.”
A sound echoed down the companionway. Banks drew away but then returned when all grew silent again. “Never took a liking to it,” he added with a frown.
“Ah, but surely you are cold,” Constance said, noticing the worse for wear clothing he wore. “After the Octavia sank, the captain gave me some brandy and it warmed me, inside and out. I cannot speak highly enough of its medicinal value.”
“Medicinal value?” Banks repeated. “Perhaps I should try a taste. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dollop of rum. Couldn’t hurt, eh?”
“No, indeed,” she insisted.
Her heart raced as she passed the bottle through the partially opened door, past the broken hinge, to the little man. The man hissed and coughed at his first drink, making a fuss as if he’d been poisoned, then hummed as the fiery liquid began its work. While he drank, she asked him fairly innocent questions about the ship. He answered, downing one swig after another. When the bottle was nearly empty, Constance grew fearful Banks would never pass out.
Beads of perspiration formed on her brow. She had no idea when the captain would be returning and had little time to waste. Thankfully, Banks finally hunched over. Snapping her fingers near his ear and confident he’d succumbed to the liquor’s bite, she opened the door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The drunken sailor slithered to the floorboards and began to snore.
In the hallway, Constance took a deep breath. The trickiest part of her plan, getting out of the cabin, was done. She gazed down the companionway and peered up the hatch then, certain she was alone, directed her attention to doors lining the hallway. Before her a door stood ajar. A quick glance proved the room was empty. That left one other door. This room, according to the Striker’s blueprints, housed the lieutenant’s quarters.
Footsteps tap, tapped along the ceiling. Constance rushed to the door and quietly tried the latch. Locked! Voices grew louder and the ship leaned unexpectedly. Desperate now, she raced back to Banks and rummaged through his pockets. She wrinkled her nose at the man’s horrible stench, pressed her lips together, and focused on her task, lifting the folds of his shirt to find a belt and a ring of long, iron keys attached. Dislodging them, she returned to the lieutenant’s cabin and began trying them, one by one.
By now, Mrs. Mortimer could be heard whimpering from the other side of the door. “Shhh,” she hissed. “It’s Constance. I’ve come to free you.”
Silence, then the woman shouted, “No, child. What are you thinking? Return to your cabin.”
“I’ve got a plan, Morty. We shall be free of these men soon.”
~~~~
The time to act had come.
Lieutenant Henry Guffald grimaced as he reached for the door sealing the hold. Wind pelted his face and the wounds he’d sustained during the Octavia’s attack burned with salty brine. He was drenched to the core, exhausted, but no longer paralyzed by orders of the crown.
A storm had overrun them. Every capable sailor manned the lines. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He couldn’t have planned or predicted an outcome so fine. Sexton, whom he’d recently learned was in fact the Marquess of Stanton in disguise, focused his attention on the Striker, his newly acquired crew, and the squall. No one would be missed. And if he was going to get off the ship with Lady Constance before anyone was the wiser, he needed a diversion — Frink. Setting Frink free provided the perfect cover.
While he revered Stanton like a brother, Henry knew the man’s moral compass. He would take Lady Constance back to London and return her to her misguided father. But London had nothing to offer. Once there, she would be forced to wed Lord Montgomery Burton, the man she’d fled when she’d boarded the Octavia bound for Spain. Henry had been privy to the information thanks to Simon Danbury, and before setting sail, he’d sworn to protect her. The best way to do that, he reasoned, was to become her champion. Rescuing her from the Striker’s men would surely raise his credibility, especially since he had no other opportunity to prove himself worthy of marrying a duke’s daughter. He wanted Constance, had wanted the beautiful lady ever since he’d seen her visiting her uncle on the docks. His lowly status as a naval officer prevented interaction with a woman of her rank. This was his chance to prove himself.
Certain he hadn’t been noticed, Henry lowered himself into the hold. He expected no difficulty. Most of the men present knew him in more ways than one.
The ship swayed left and then pitched right. Henry braced himself against a rail. “Captain wants all able-bodi
ed men topside,” he shouted to two tars guarding the Striker’s crew.
“We’ve been given strict orders not to let these men out of our sight,” one of the guards shouted.
“No doubt you have,” Henry agreed. “But there’s a wicked whip to this wind and the braces aren’t secure. Unload the lot so we can get the ship under control. We’ll round them up soon after.”
The men looked at each other, uncertain. “To keep them below would be a waste of muscle,” Henry reasoned. “These men know every splinter on this ship. If we lose sail now, we lose this ship.”
The other sailor spoke. “What if they try to escape?”
“Where are they going to go, man?” he asked. “Worst case, they’ll get blown overboard by gale force winds. Best scenario, we stay afloat.”
The second man nodded to the first guard. “Can’t argue with that logic.”
Henry grinned. He had them. They couldn’t quarrel about facts.
“Tell the captain we’ll be bringing the men as soon as we get them loose,” the smaller tar said.
“Captain’s at the helm. Deliver the message yourself. I’ll make sure these men are released and impressed into service. This will have to be a group effort. I fear we’ve lost one sail already,” he added for effect.
The two men bolted for the hatch. When they disappeared, men inside the hold began to rattle their chains.
“Stand back,” he ordered the Striker’s crew, as he approached the iron monstrosity the men had been impounded in. “Captain Frink, step forward.”
The group parted and the weathered looking captain closed the distance between the back of the cell and the gate.
“Thought you was dead.”
“Not quite,” Henry replied, opening the gate, his instincts honed to Frink’s every move. “Do you fancy avenging the mutiny of your ship?”
Frink’s bony nose wrinkled and his beady eyes narrowed. “Aye, and then some.”