His bald statement hung between them like an omen of doom. In addition to the problems Finster had bluntly listed, at two and twenty years Eden was advancing past marriageable age. Not that she wasn’t comely enough to attract a husband, if a man held a penchant for skinny brown-haired scarecrows. For it was Eden’s plight to be cursed with her father’s height, and bones that refused to pad themselves with abundant flesh, as was both preferable and fashionable. Her curves were slight, lending her more the appearance of a lad than a robust woman. Though she possessed a slim waist and adequately formed breasts, she also had a terrible habit of slouching in an attempt to disguise her height, which successfully hid her best feminine attributes.
Even in her youth, she’d been awkward and gangly in comparison with other girls. Too late to bloom while the harvest was prime. And too educated by far for any man who might care to look beyond her physical shortcomings. It was little wonder then that Eden had preferred to hide herself away in books while prettier, rounder maids were giggling and batting their lashes. With her heart yearning for impossible things that came so readily to other women, Eden studied. Through her books she traveled the world, and dreamed of someday finding a man who would love her as she was, for the person she was inside herself, for her mind and her wit, and all the pent-up love she had to offer.
As time, passed, she’d determined not to settle for anything less, even if it meant remaining a spinster until the end of her earthly days—which it seemed she very well might, if all the world had to offer her for a husband was the likes of Dudley Finster! Or some widower such as Walter Bromley, with eight mewling children and wanting only a warm body in his bed in order to create even more little mouths to feed. Or that aged, toothless lecher Uriah Kempler, who was too old and bent to stand a chance of enticing anyone better. Besides, deep in her heart of hearts, she still waited and hoped for that one man who would make her heart trip over itself and sing wildly with joy.
Meanwhile, here she sat, with the bill collector intent on not only pounding down her door, but also demanding marriage in lieu of debtors’ prison. Not just for herself, but for her poor disabled mother! The greedy mongoose!
Why, to her mind, he even looked like a cross between a ferret and a mean little mouse. Surely, he was no catch himself on the marriage mart, for he was short and thin, with bony narrow shoulders that seemed barely capable of supporting his clothes. He had close-set hazel eyes, teeth too prominent for his mouth, and sparse brown hair pulled back into a stringy queue. By no stretch of the imagination did Dudley Finster measure up to Eden’s idea of Prince Charming, and she’d risk losing her last farthing—nay, she’d beg in the streets for bread—rather than sell herself into his bed, a thought so revolting that it made her shudder in disgust.
“Well, I will leave you to contemplate my offer once again,” Finster told her, setting his teacup aside and rising from his seat. “But not for long, Miss Winters. I am a patient man, up to a point—and that point is fast approaching. I will have you, by fair means or foul, the choice of which is entirely in your hands. Do not tarry too long with your decision, my dear. You have one month. At the end of that time I will expect either your acceptance of my proposal of marriage, or your debt paid in full.”
He graced her with a thin-lipped smile. “Of course, garnering both would be a superb delight, but since I doubt you will find yourself capable of gaining that amount of coin in such short order, I shall forge ahead with plans for a forthcoming wedding.”
He sketched a brief bow toward her. “Good day to you, and please convey my best wishes to your mother for her improved health.”
As Finster let himself out the door, as if the Winters’s home already belonged to him, Eden collapsed into her chair, a heavy sigh escaping her trembling lips. What had she ever done to deserve being hounded by that mealymouthed vermin? How grandly he’d stated his terms; how graciously he’d extended the brief reprieve! Month? This being the fifth day of the fifth month of the Year of our Lord, 1718, by the first quarter of June, she would either be a reluctant bride-to-be or ...
Or what, for heaven’s sake? Out on her ear, with her mother beside her? With no coin in her purse or any legitimate means of gaining more? Of course, they would probably be able to keep the house for a while, though the warehouse would be forfeit. Perhaps they could take in boarders. Or find someone else who was willing to buy up her note from Finster, or go into the business with her for part ownership. But who? No one Eden knew at present was interested, at least no one with money.
Neither was she aware of anyone in need of lodging, though she could post a notice at the dock prior to the next passenger ship’s arrival and hope that someone of good character would apply. It simply would not do to let just anyone take up residence in one’s home, of course, so she would have to demand references of some sort, if that became her only recourse.
Mama would not be at all pleased to be brought to such dire straits. But there was only so much a person could do, after all, and at this point Eden imagined only an act of Providence would save the business for them, with perhaps an added miracle to send “Finny” Finster looking elsewhere for a wife.
Maybe she did need a husband after all, Eden concluded with a wry shake of her head. A big, strong, rich, handsome man with enough muscle and sufficient wits to meet all her many needs and solve her problems for her. She chuckled softly. “Aye, Eden, my girl. No doubt he’ll come strolling into your life any day now. The answer to all your hopes and prayers. Now, that’s not asking for much, is it? Godly intervention, a miracle or two, and all your secret fantasies fulfilled in the space of a month! Ho! What a grand dreamer you are becoming! Such a dotty old maid!”
Chapter 2
Once the shock of Devlin’s disappearance began to pass, or to truly set in perhaps, the pirate crew of the Gai Mer went crazed. They began running around, screaming and tearing at their hair, scrambling in all directions at once with no place to go, some of them crawling about the decks whining pitifully, cravenly cowering beneath the doubtful shelter of their own arms. A few tried to recall the forgotten practice of prayer, long-dulled from disuse. Four of the men leapt overboard, preferring a quick drowning to whatever else the Fates might have in store for them.
It was to this bedlam that Devlin awoke.
At first, he was aware of nothing more than his own misery, for he felt as if he’d run full tilt into a stone wall. It seemed as though a ton of rock rested upon his chest. While his limbs were oddly weak, there was a strange tingling throughout his body, similar to the sensation of having one’s foot fall asleep. His ears were ringing, his vision was blurred, and his head ached abominably. His thinking was very sluggish, and he had only a vague recollection of being enveloped by that eerie blue light, and little of what had happened afterward. Indeed, he had no memory of how he came to be lying on his back on the deck, or how long he’d been unconscious, though it could not have been but a few minutes, for the first pale hues of daybreak were only now streaking the eastern sky.
As his mind began to clear, Devlin became aware of a terrible commotion, an awful din that made his head throb all the worse. By sheer willpower, he rolled to his side, caught hold of the wheel, and pulled himself into a sitting position. He almost wished he hadn’t—for the painful effort of moving was certainly not worth the confusion it brought as he witnessed his crew running about like so many chickens with their heads lopped off.
“What in Hades is happening?” he murmured aloud. Forgetting himself, he shook his head, to his instant regret. “Aah! Damn but that hurts!”
Cautiously he levered himself upright, gaining his feet, only to wobble dizzily until the world righted itself again. Despite the pain, he braced himself and shouted down to his men on the deck below him. Twice, thrice, to no avail. The clamor they were making with their wailing was such that they might not have heard a cannon blast in their midst. With no help for it, Devlin stumbled the few steps to the ship’s bell, and, clamping his teeth against t
he resulting agony to his poor head, he gave several hearty yanks to the clapper.
A startled, wary silence fell immediately, as all eyes turned upward toward the imperious signal. Now that he had their full attention, Devlin ordered brusquely, “Listen sharp, you dunderheads! Belay that racket and get back to your stations! We’ve a ship to sail!”
Rather than obey his commands, the crew stood as one, staring in stupification. “Move, I say!” he roared, his deep, distinctive voice ringing the length of the ship. “Or I’ll have strips off all your hides before the day is half-begun!”
Still they gaped openmouthed. Several trembled visibly. One gave a hoarse shout, and, with a running leap, launched himself overboard. Another threw himself down and began to weep like a babe. Beside him, the young cabin boy fainted without a sound. Finally, one brave soul offered tentatively, “Be that you, Cap’n Kane?”
Wondering what had bedeviled his men, Devlin gave a snort of disgust. With his fists riding atop his hips, and his black eyes snapping, he retorted, “O’ course ’tis me, you befuddled bilge rat! Who else? Were you expectin’ your mother at the helm, mayhap?”
The answer was not what Devlin anticipated. Rather than see his crew turn back to the business of sailing the frigate, they began to murmur excitedly amongst themselves, their mutterings growing louder and more discordant as he watched. Scraps of comments drifted up to him, carried on the early-morning breeze.
“Saints preserve us! ‘Tis the Cap’n’s ghost!”
“It can’t be! We seen ’im disappear! He’s gone, I say!”
“Aye, but I know the Cap’n’s voice when I hears it! ’Taint another like it thet I’ve ever heard!”
“Then why are we hearin’ ’im an’ not seein’ ’im?”
“An’ what made the bell ring?”
“If it comes t’ that, what made the cap’n melt into air like he done?”
“What in bloomin’ blazes are you fools blathering about?” Devlin bellowed at last. “Hell’s bells and little fishes! Have the lot of you gone daft? What’s all this nonsense about disappearings and ghosts? Why, I’m standin’ here as big as life, with a head that’s about to split wide with all your yammering, and ...”
“Nay, Devlin—or whoever ye be—ye’re not standin’ there as big as life. I’d stake my own skin on that.” Nate Hancock, the Gai Mer's quartermaster and Devlin’s best friend for the past nine years, stepped forward from the rest of the cowering, befuddled group. Like those around him, he gazed upward, toward the point from which the voice was coming, and claimed, “I swear by all the saints, Devlin, I can hear ye, but I’ll be double-damned if I kin see ye.”
Several others nodded in fearful agreement.
This brought Devlin up short. Certainly he’d never thought to hear anything this crazy. Why, it was ridiculous! Impossible! Suddenly he grinned. Ah! The rotten passel of sea dogs was tweaking his nose a bit, thinking to trick him into believing all this rot. It was a jest they’d brewed up among them, that was all! And a right good one, at that. “All right, lads. You’ve had your laugh for the day. Now, go fish Harl out of the brine a’fore he drowns, and let’s be on our way.”
“Ye think we’re teasin’ with ye, Devlin?” Nate asked incredulously. “Ye think this is a prank? God in heaven, man, I wish it were! Take a look at yerself, and tell me what ye see.”
Thoroughly perplexed, and more than a little worried now about the state of his crewmen’s minds, Devlin frowned and cast a quick look at his own body. “I see limbs and cutlass and boots and breeches, same as always, Nate. There’s nothing the least bit different, and I think this joke has gone too far.”
“Touch yerself and tell me what ye feel,” Nate persisted.
“Damn it all, Nate—”
“Just do it.”
Devlin felt like an absolute fool, but nothing else was going to appease his friend, so he touched his hands to his chest. “Fine. I’m here,” he announced tersely. “Aching from my hair to my toes, but all in one piece, as near as I can determine. Does that satisfy you?”
“Actually, no. Do something that’ll prove ye truly are standin’ up there talking to us. Move something. Pick something up—something we can see.”
“Blarst it all, Nate! This has gone far enough. I feel like a buffoon, set up to play to your warped sense of humor.”
Still grumbling, Devlin looked about him. Upon spying Zeus, lying motionless on the deck, he sighed. “Drat! The stupid bird is dead! And just when I had him well-trained!” He walked over and lifted the hawk by his talons, hanging him high overhead. “Now!” he yelled triumphantly. “Tell me you don’t see that, you scurvy varmints!”
“See what, Cap’n?” came the reply.
“What are ye doin’ that we should be seein’?”
“Blimey! This is sendin’ shivers down me spine fit to stand me hair on end!”
“Ye don’t have no hair, Jonesie. But I thinks I sees a crop o’ gooseflesh sproutin’ on yer skull about now.”
Nervous laughter broke out, but it did little to ease the strain of the moment.
“Devlin . ..”
“Nay! Don’t you dare say it, Nate! Here I stand, holding a dead falcon like a bloomin’ flag, and you blind loonies are bound to claim otherwise.”
Before Nate or anyone else could answer, the hawk gave a queer little quiver and a pitiful squawk. “I’ll be hanged! He’s not dead after all,” Devlin exclaimed with relief. This was the first good sign since the storm had taken them all by surprise. He gave the bird a sharp shake, and Zeus emitted a loud, angry screech and twisted about to snap at Devlin’s hand, demanding release.
“Did ye hear thet?” one sailor cried. “Now, we’ve not only a captain we can’t see, but ’is bird too! I’m tellin’ ye, we’ve all gone round the maypole, mates! We’ve sailed too close to the Devil’s lair this time, an’ gotten ourselves caught up in it, like those on the Flyin ’ Dutchman did!”
“The ship’s doomed! And us with it!” another chimed in.
“Haunted! Great gallopin’ ghosts! What’re we to do now?”
The panic was growing again, fueled by mutual fright, but before it could gain full momentum, the ship’s bell rang out again with a tremendous clang, almost flying from its mounting. “Nate! Get up here!” Devlin raged.
When his quartermaster hesitated, obviously uneasy about complying, a belaying pin came soaring through the air, missing the man’s head by a hairsbreadth. “That’s an order, Mr. Hancock!”
With the air of a martyr about to meet his end, Nate slowly climbed to the upper deck. Silent now, afraid to breathe let alone speak aloud, the crew watched apprehensively, waiting for the worst to happen, as their quartermaster walked gingerly toward the bell. Four steps from it, he bumped into something large and solid, an object that heaved a stream of furious, hot oaths into his face.
“By heaven and hell, Nate, if you dare tell me I’m not standin’ here cursing you, I’ll throw you to the sharks!” Devlin warned darkly.
“Cap’n, I know yer standin’ there. I can hear ye and feel ye. Lord, I can even smell ye!” Nate drew in a shaky breath and added hastily, almost cringing with his next words, “But, dang it, I still can’t see ye! I’d be a liar if I said differently. Do yer worst to me, but it won’t change anything, Dev. Ye’ve turned into a ghost. A specter.”
“Nay!” Devlin denied vehemently. “I’m no phantom, I say! Nor am I a wraith of any sort! I am a man of flesh and blood, the same as ever before!”
Sadly, Nate shook his head. “Deny it if ye must, but ’tis true. When that bolt of Saint Elmo’s fire caught ye up in its flames, something queer happened. And now ye’re no longer visible to any but yerself. Not even so much as a mist in the air.”
Fear clutched at Devlin’s belly, cramping it, as he read the truth in Nate’s awe-filled eyes. Below them, the faces of the crew echoed Nate’s sentiment, most of them still grappling with the notion, but swiftly coming to accept it as fact, though none could begin to compreh
end how or why such a calamitous thing had come to pass—or what any of them might expect next.
With a hoarse shout, Devlin shoved his friend aside and raced down the steps. Dashing to the rail, he leaned overboard, trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the sea. Far below, the choppy, storm-stirred water offered no aid. Frustrated beyond bounds, he pushed away from the rail, roughly shouldering his way through a throng of anxious, skittish pirates—men now newly alarmed as they hastily attempted to give way to a force they could not see, not knowing which way to go to get out of his path.
His footsteps fell like thunder on the bare planking as he stomped to a nearby barrel and ripped the cover from it with a furious flick of his wrist. The lid went sailing, thudding to the deck. It was still spinning on its rim as Devlin bent over the barrel and gave an awful, agonized gasp.
Dear God, it was true! It was right before his disbelieving eyes to be seen—rather, not seen! Oh, merciful heaven, what was happening? How? Why?
Tentatively, Devlin raised trembling fingers to his face. Flesh met flesh without doubt, yet in the calm pool directly below him, no vision mimicked his movements. There came only a faint ripple to disturb the surface of the water, a consequence of the anguished moan Devlin could not contain as, overwhelmed, he hung his head in despair.
A few hours and several tankards of rum later, Devlin sat slumped in the captain’s chair in his cabin. Across the desk from him, Nate did likewise. Both were soused to the gills, morosely pondering Devlin’s fate as a ghost. “How? Why?” Devlin parroted for the thousandth time.
“Dunno, Dev,” Nate commiserated drunkenly. “Mayhap the penalty for the wayward, thievin’ life ye’ve been livin’ these past years?”
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