by Kim Bowman
“Ye’ve tried to kill me once and failed, but ye had something to live for then.”
“That was then,” he admitted, reaching for a dead man’s sword and swatting it through the air. Swish. Swish. Percy goaded Frink with a wave and a curling finger. Frink accepted his challenge. Blade met blade. Clanging steel ignited shards of light as parries snipped the air and metal nicked wood and shattered glass as the two men battled across the deck. “This is now.”
“A braggart, eh?”
“No,” Percy said. “A realist.”
“Perhaps you’d be interested in why I know so much about your sister,” Frink spat.
Taken aback, Percy lost his footing. The slight hesitation allowed Frink to knock Percy off his feet, forcing him to tumble down to the foc’sle. While Percy struggled to regain his balance, Frink wasted no time. His blade sliced Percy’s shoulder, nicking flesh. Frink seized the moment and threw all his weight into another lunge.
“He passed her off to us — one by one.”
The two men circled each other.
How long had his sister been tortured? How many had used her? Mind reeling, Percy couldn’t bear to hear any more.
“Damn you!” he cried.
“You served on the same ship as the men who defiled your sister. You’re the fool, Sexton! Just as much a fool as that whore of a sister you’ve sought to avenge.”
Heat vibrated in Percy’s veins. Beautiful Celeste. He’d failed her, just as he’d failed Constance and his unborn child. Trained not to lose control of his emotions, Percy hung perilously close the abyss, to making a deal with the devil to kill Frink and rid the world of his filth. Vengeance had staying power. If he played his cards right, he’d find an opening there…
With a deft circle of the leg, Percy kicked Frink’s feet out from under him, knocking him off balance. A desire to enact justice for his sixteen-year-old sister gave him newfound strength, as Percy thrust his sword home between Frink’s ribs. Frink cried out and lifted his hands weakly to prevent Percy from skewering him deeper. That would have been too easy. Instead, Percy spun around and lifted a double-edged knife, gutting Frink with an upward jab.
“Vengeance is mine saith the lord.”
Frink blinked disbelieving. Then his unseeing eyes bulged and he slumped over the protruding sword to the deck. Percy kicked the man to be certain he was dead. After all, the man had a penchant for resurrection. Once assured the man couldn’t outlive this death, Percy turned and hurried down the steps through the secret portal to the captain’s cabin. He located Burton’s body unmoving in the middle of the floor. One of Frink’s men, the one who’d held him in check during Burton’s rant, slunk against the wall of the cabin, his eyes peering blankly into space, a bullet to his forehead.
Jacko and Ollie stood guard. Percy’s heart stopped then began to beat anew as his gaze settled on his wife. Constance, alive and whole, knelt against the western side of the room, her ear pressed against Guffald’s heart, sobbing tearfully. Percy stepped forward slowly, so as not to alarm her, and scanned the length of Guffald’s body. The captain had saved her life. But he’d not done so unscathed. He bore a horrible wound to his thigh, one Percy had seen countless times. Without a doctor’s urgent care, Guffald faced certain amputation. For a moment, he entertained the idea of letting the scoundrel die but noticed a tourniquet the color of his wife’s gown had been wrapped around the captain’s leg.
Guffald spoke. Percy had to lean forward to hear. “Forgive me.” He gulped. “S-Simon knows the t-truth.”
“Don’t speak, Captain. No explanations are needed,” Constance said, her voice quivering.
Guffald gasped. “I d-didn’t know… I would n-never have—”
“Oh, Henry.” Constance cried, smoothing the now unconscious captain’s blond hair away from his pale face. Percy didn’t miss the fact that his wife had used Guffald’s given name. Sobbing, she pulled the man to her chest and held his head close to her lovely breast. Percy watched silently, jealousy surging through his veins.
He’d lost her. It was too late. He’d failed Constance. Failed to protect her, to win his wife when he had the chance. He’d lied to her. Tricked her. Suspected her of being part of Burton’s plan to rob him and his family of everything — including his heart. She’d suffered unconscionable horror and pain. And now she hated him. Even if he explained that he loved her, she believed him incapable of telling the truth. It made no difference now. Except she was alive. His child would survive. That was enough.
Constance looked up at Percy then and froze, her tear-stained face puffy and red. “He jumped in front of me. He saved my life,” she cried.
Stunned, Percy felt a mix of disgust for himself and his desire to hate the man. Yes. He’d seen Guffald move in front of her. Cursed him for doing what he should have done. But the last minute effort didn’t account for the man kidnapping his wife, betraying his country and Nelson’s Tea. And yet, he owed the man everything. Everything! Damn his eyes!
“What will become of him?” She reached up and stretched out her hand toward Percy.
He moved forward, hesitant to touch her, afraid he was having an illusion, that she wasn’t real, that the blood-stained creases in her knuckles were from her blood and not Guffald’s. He’d done this to her. He was responsible for making her relive her nightmares.
She followed his gaze. “Henry’s blood, not mine,” she assured him.
Her words offered no relief. He watched as she doctored the captain, unsure how it was she’d survived, how it was he’d been blessed not to be mourning over her body now as she did for Guffald.
“Your quick thinking has surely saved his life, my gel,” he said with a nod to the tourniquet.
Constance’s red-rimmed eyes met and locked onto his. The heartache he saw reflected there tore at his soul. His heart sank. She would never forgive him. How could he blame her? It was too much to ask, when he couldn’t forgive himself.
“So much loss. My mother. Your sister,” she cried. “Guffald.”
He nodded. “Constance. The Caddock. If I’d only known…”
She closed her eyes and then opened them, inhaling deeply. Sorrow reflected in her face. “Someday, I shall be able to speak of it.”
“And now?” he asked, fearing her answer.
“What am I to do, Your Grace?” she asked. “I am in love.”
In love? With Guffald? Rightly so, the man had saved her life. Had she gone willingly with him to the Stockton? His heart plummeted into his abdomen. “Listen to your heart,” he said. “Follow it.”
“I am in love with two men.”
Percy blinked. Two? Now that wasn’t what he expected to hear. His gaze fell to the man at their feet. How he hated Henry all the more. “Whatever shall you do?” he inquired, certain he would rather see her happy than forced to live a life she despised. After all she’d been through, he intended to make sure she wanted for nothing ever again, that she didn’t have to sail to Spain or anywhere else to find happiness.
“Come closer, Your Grace.”
He took a knee. She lifted her hand to gently rub the blood off of his face. With one touch, she had the power to disarm him. But then again, his heart was open now, his body eager for what she would never willingly give him. He closed his eyes, relishing her touch, putting it to memory. He inhaled her scent — roses, lavender, and a hint of despair. The moment cut him more deeply than Burton’s tirade on his family.
“I shall love them both,” she admitted.
“Both?” Had the woman gone daft? Perhaps the traumatic events in the cabin had sent her over the edge. Did she propose to entertain a lover and a husband? By all that was holy, what was she suggesting? She was a married woman. He’d be damned if he’d step aside to share her — with anyone. He’d spent too much time sharing her with a pirate as it was.
The look on his face must have jolted her back to reality. “Silly man! What shall I call you? Thomas or Percy?”
Percy’s eyes widened as understanding dawned.
She meant him, his two identities. What she proposed was positively scandalous — enticing. “Percy,” he said, “but only in public.”
“And what shall I call you in private?”
“Thomas.” He winked. “When we make love.”
She lowered her eyelashes seductively. “Are you suggesting that I love a duke by day and a rogue by night?”
He arched a brow. Was it too much to hope for? He answered honestly, “I’m asking you to love two men who share one heart.”
Their gazes locked. “And what is in your heart?” she asked.
His heart? It was a miracle the organ still operated after the emotional trauma she’d put him through. He had to admit, it swelled, beat harder, louder, more true than it ever had before. Percy reached for Constance and drew her close. He tilted her head, bringing her lips inches away from his. “I love you, Constance. I love you more than life itself.”
“You do?” she asked, incredulous.
“We do,” he answered. “Both of us are most definitively yours, my gel.”
She grabbed his hand and placed it over her slightly swelling stomach. “His as well?”
“His too.”
As he laid his hand on Constance’s stomach, all the hatred he’d kept close to his heart dissipated. Consumed with an urge to kiss his beautiful wife, Percy’s lips sought Constance’s most urgently. It no longer mattered where they had been, where they were, or what they’d been through. He no longer needed vengeance as a means to live. His heart now belonged to his wife, his child. And offering Constance a rogue by night for the rest of his life was bound to be his greatest pleasure.
About the Author
Katherine Bone has been passionate about all things historical since she was an Army brat traveling all over the world. Initially, she dreamed of being an artist, but when she met and fell in love with Prince Charming, her own dashing Lieutenant vowing duty, honor, and country, she found herself saying, “I do.” Whisked away to Army bases, castles, battlegrounds, and cathedrals, where tales of swashbuckling adventure filled the lonely gaps when the Army called Charming away, Katherine’s imagination took flight. No longer nomadic, she calls the south home and spends most of her time daydreaming about Charming and heroes of yesteryear.
Katherine would love to hear from you!
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Searching for Lady Luck
by Patricia Kiyono
Dedication
For Ken and Rose. Thanks so much for inviting us to experience the beautiful beaches and the excitement of the Boardwalk at Wildwood, and for helping with research for this story!
Chapter One
Charlie Brannigan shivered and pulled the collar of his coat tighter. The action chilled his gloveless hands, and he spent a moment wondering whether or not to put his hands back in his pockets, leaving his neck and chest open to the elements. His mother had knitted a scarf for him at Christmas time, but he’d left it at home. Maybe his parents were right — he acted before thinking things through.
At least he was trying to do something more about the family finances. Since the awful stock market crash in ‘29, things had grown steadily worse for the Brannigan family. He’d left his career in New York and come home to Anglesea, on the New Jersey shore, and the only job available was delivering newspapers in Cape May. But if the rumors were true, more people were returning to the vacation homes on the island, and business on the Wildwood Boardwalk had picked up. Perhaps some of the wealthy women who had arrived would like some of his paintings to decorate those homes.
Seven years ago, before the day the newspapers called Black Tuesday, Charlie had made a decent living selling his art. But when the economy soured, people stopped buying extras like paintings, and the main gallery displaying his artwork had closed down. Luckily, he’d managed to get all his work back before the doors had been locked for good.
If his hunch was right, the rich ladies would start walking along the Boardwalk in mid-afternoon. As soon as he’d finished delivering newspapers, he’d packed a basket with several of his small watercolors and attached it to the handlebars of his bicycle. After getting permission, he’d set up outside his friend Bernie’s ice cream shop — an easel and a crude shelf made from a board and a couple of wooden crates borrowed from Bernie — and waited for the customers to come along. But they hadn’t yet appeared. He had to admit, the late April breezes were still a bit chilly for strolling on the Boardwalk.
He turned the collar of his coat up around his neck and pulled his cap down as far as it would go. In his haste to get there, he’d left without bathing and shaving, but he hadn’t wanted to delay by prettying himself up, as his father would say.
A wind gust blew one of his smaller paintings off its perch and onto the Boardwalk. Charlie scrambled after it, but a woman bent and picked it up before he could reach it. She studied the scene painted on the tiny canvas — a mother robin tending her eggs in her nest.
“Good morning, ma’am. That’s one of my best miniatures. If you like it, I’d be happy to give you a bargain on it.”
She looked up from the painting and met his gaze. He blinked, wanting to make sure he wasn’t imagining the lovely face. Smoky gray eyes, wide and welcoming, in a heart-shaped face, made her look much younger than the clothing and severe hairstyle suggested.
“This is very lovely, but I’m sure I can’t afford it,” she replied.
“Oh, I’m sure you can,” he hedged. He didn’t want her to go away, so he named a price about a third of what he would normally charge for it.
Her eyes grew wide. “How can you afford to sell these at that price? You have to pay for more canvases and paints and make a profit.”
“I make my own canvases. And I have lots of paint. And… if you want it, I’d like you to have it.”
She smiled then, and Charlie thought he’d never seen such brightness. The glow from her face warmed him, and he stopped shivering for a moment.
“You’re so kind. But really, I can’t buy this just now. Sometime, when things are better for our family…”
“Of course. This will probably still be here. And if it isn’t, I’ll paint you one just like it.”
She laughed, and the warmth spread to his toes. He’d known beautiful women. Ladies dripping with pearls and diamonds, heiresses and foreign royalty, but none had ever affected him like this.
“I’ll remember that promise. But for now, I’ll put this back with your other lovely paintings.” She set the canvas on the shelf’s empty spot then gently touched the two on either side — similar paintings with different birds. “These three would make a wonderful grouping in a dressing room or waiting room.” She turned and cast her sunny smile toward him. “I’m sure you’ll sell them soon. I heard business is picking up on the Boardwalk.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a calling card. It was an older one from his days in New York with his parents’ address added in ink. “Here’s my card. I look forward to seeing you again, Miss…”
“Sheffield. Rose Sheffield.” She looked down at his card then back up. “It was good to meet you, Mr. Brannigan.” She turned then and walked away.
He watched as she made her way down the Boardwalk. Rose Sheffield. What a lovely name. She didn’t amble unhurriedly like the wealthy ladies who vacationed on the island, but instead she strode, each step determined and full of purpose. Her back was ramrod straight, unlike many of the local women who seemed to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. Rose radiated hope and light and—
“Excuse me, sir, but how much would you charge for a set of these miniatures?”
Charlie tore his gaze away and greeted his would-be customer. His smile slipped a bit when he saw she held the same picture his muse had, as well as the coordinating watercolors Rose had touched. Somehow it didn’t seem right to let them go to someone else, so he quoted a price four times
what they were worth.
To his surprise, the woman simply nodded, set them down, and reached for her purse.
Charlie tried to hide his amazement when she pulled out a wad of cash, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his heyday in Manhattan. She counted off the bills and handed over the sum he had named.
“These will be perfect for my dressing room,” she gushed. “I’m so glad I stopped to look at your work.”
“Er, thank you, ma’am,” Charlie replied. He pulled out another calling card. “Please tell your friends about me. Would you like your paintings wrapped?”
“Oh no. I’m going home right now, so they’ll be fine in my shopping bag. But thank you for offering. Good day.” She trotted off.
Once again, Charlie stared as a woman walked away from him. After a long afternoon with no customers, two different women had stopped, drawn to the same paintings. Was it magic? Or a stroke of luck?
Chapter Two
Rose left the Boardwalk with a lighter step than when she’d entered it. After a long day washing linens at the hotel, her hands burned. Mrs. Barnes insisted on the hottest water and just the right amount of starch. Then everything needed to be hung outside until dry and ironed to suit the wealthy patrons who came to the Seaside Hotel on the shore. Now that her shift was done, she had another long afternoon of washing and cleaning at her own home. Mother did what she could but was too fragile for most of the domestic chores.
Instead of walking through the town, Rose had decided to spend a few minutes on the Boardwalk. The calming sound of the waves nearby and the fresh ocean air had indeed lifted her spirits. And then she’d met that nice man with the paintings. He’d been so polite and, despite his rough appearance, had treated her with courtesy and gentleness. His speech wasn’t rough like most of the working class on the island, though he’d pronounced certain words with drawn out vowels, as the locals did. But his manners were impeccable. He must have spent some time in polite society.