The Pirate's Revenge

by Sarita Leone

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  The Pirate’s Revenge

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “It is beautiful.”

  She ran a slow fingertip over the ridges on the shell. “You have a good eye. And, you’re right; these don’t usually get to the shoreline. They are too breakable by far to survive.” Pointing, she added, “Too many ships have been lost to those rocks. They run beneath the water in a long, dangerous line. Getting past them is not for the faint of heart.”

  His own heart clutched in his chest. Taking a deep breath, Henry asked, “You say a lot of ships are dashed upon the rocks?”

  “Yes, they are. It has always been that way. Why, I have heard stories of so many men being lost to the sea right beyond our own beach that I have become nearly immune to them. I’m not saying that I don’t grieve for those who are lost. I do…but I cannot say I am surprised they meet with unfortunate ends. It is a miracle for any vessel to get around those rocks. Only one who has been raised in the cove would be aware of them, and able to steer around them and to shore.”

  “I don’t imagine most who journey this way are from the village. Aside from local fishermen, that is.”

  She left off gazing at the ocean and turned to face him. Her head angled to the side, and she squinted slightly. A thoughtful pose, one which pulled a curl loose from its pin beside her cheek. Enchanting, he thought.

  “You are wise beyond your years.” She smiled. “An old soul, perhaps?”

  The Pirate’s Revenge

  by

  Sarita Leone

  The Lobster Cove Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Pirate’s Revenge

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sarita Leone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2016

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0801-2

  The Lobster Cove Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For the one who holds my heart.

  Chapter 1

  1790

  Mary could not be surprised when her father passed. Ned Sweet had lived a long, cheerful life. His was a quiet, peaceful transition. They had all known it was coming. He was, after all, an old man—and old men were destined to reap their rewards eventually.

  Still, she grieved. But compared with Molly and her brothers, Mary was the sensitive one. The daughter who put the needs of those she loved above her own, the one who rose early, worked hard, and made certain she did more than her share of whatever needed doing. She cared less for herself than she did for those around her.

  So, when her father went, her concern was for her mother. But Leah, perhaps more than anyone else, accepted Ned’s demise. She was close to meeting him in whatever lay after a mortal life, and did not cry herself into a heap.

  Mary would have rather taken the heartache the way her mother did, but her heart seemed determined to pain her. No matter how many bushels of beans she pickled, how much laundry she washed and hung, or how often she volunteered to do some of Molly’s chores, her broken heart would not leave off reminding her of their loss.

  Lobster Cove was the kind of village where a young woman could walk safely on her own. Everyone knew everyone. Neighbors helped each other. And when someone needed to recover from a tragedy, walking on the stony beach was the best thing to do.

  Every day since her father’s passing, Mary had walked on Quinn Beach. Morning and evening, without fail. Infrequently she met a neighbor, exchanged a few polite words, and went on her way. No one interrupted her grief, and she began to heal.

  Sunset bloomed on the horizon. It was later than was her habit to stay on the rocky outcropping at the far end of the sand, but the evening breeze was warm and the soft slap of water on shore soothed her. And, the sky…shades of brilliant teal kissed streaks of coral.

  Occasionally someone moved away from the cove, but she could not envision doing so. The place was the blood in her veins and the air in her lungs. She loved the village and prayed she would live the way her father had. Born in the cove. Died in the cove. Buried beneath the spreading branches of the old tree in the back garden, beside her grandmother Lizzie and grandfather Sam.

  Sam was not her blood relation, but she had known no other, so blood did not matter to her. He’d shown up one stormy evening, the victim of a pirate’s nefarious scheme. He had lost his only living relative, his beloved ship and all that mattered, but had found her grandmother, and that, it seemed, more than made up for what was gone from his life.

  He never mentioned the losses, focusing on the things he had rather than what—and who—he didn’t. Mary reminded herself of the fact, every time she missed Ned. It was a small comfort. Still, she would have given anything to speak with him one more time. Just to hear his voice, see him smile, listen to his laughter. Yes, she would have gladly given anything for another chance at any of those moments.

  She stared at the point where water met sky, wondering how it would feel to reach that spot—then go beyond. Her view of the world was sorely limited. She knew nothing more than their immediate surroundings. Loving where she lived and never wanting to leave didn’t keep her from considering what the world beyond Lobster Cove looked like.

  “Beautiful sky, isn’t it?”

  A startled gasp escaped her lips as she whirled toward the unfamiliar voice.

  The man looked ordinary enough. Breeches a nondescript shade of brown. A broadcloth shirt, somewhat wrinkled but fairly clean. Boots, dust-covered. A jacket, its sleeves mended near the cuffs. He looked as if he were no stranger to work. A quick glance at his hands reinforced the notion that the man labored hard—and recently.

  Not unfamiliar to work, perhaps, but a definite stranger to the cove.

  Polite behavior had been ingrained since birth. Mary nodded as she pulled her bonnet back onto her hair and tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

  “It is quite lovely.” She straightened her skirt and gave her bonnet a final pat. “Every night, it seems, we are granted a show. And, each night it is different from the last.”

  “A true miracle.” He smiled, a tight-lipped movement that did not reach his eyes. “No one can fault a miracle, can they?”

  Her gaze swept the beach. They were alone. And, the sun was going down. It would be dark soon. The stranger stood between her and the path leading home.

  Slowly, she made her way down the rocks. When she reached the las
t one above the sand, the man held out a hand. What could she do? Declining would be an insult, so she placed her right hand in his open palm. His fingers closed around hers, a warm, gentle touch. When she leaped to the sand, he waited until she straightened before releasing her.

  “Thank you.” One large step to the side, and she was around him.

  He turned, gave a fast nod. “My pleasure.” A hesitant look, then, “Tell me, is there any place to stay in town? Just a clean spot for a man to lay his head.”

  “The Iron Pub. It’s been there for ages, run by a family named Abbingdon.” Mary took two steps toward the path. “Right near the stables. You can’t miss it.”

  With matching steps, he accompanied her across the sand. She did not move quickly. Now that she was on her way, curiosity overcame her.

  “Thank you. I will see if they have room for a lodger for the night.”

  Now was the chance she’d been hoping to find.

  “Have you travelled a long distance?” Near the edge of the beach, where sand met the path, a canvas duffel bag. It looked only half-filled.

  “Yes, rather.” He paused. Swallowed hard. His eyes took a shine and she wondered why the question affected him so.

  “I apologize; I do not mean to pry.”

  He shook his head, and the bit of leather holding his hair into a loose tail allowed one strand to fall forward. It had a curl to it, the dark brown lock. A most unlikely impulse to reach out and wind the curl around one fingertip swept over her. But of course she resisted.

  “No apology necessary, miss. It is not your fault—or the fault of your question—that I am affected thusly.” He straightened his shoulders, sending the worn fabric tight across the muscles that bulged when he moved. “I have recently lost my family. This is a difficult time for me. I thought a change of view would do me some good.”

  Her heart fell. Sad news.

  Trying to lift his mood, she admitted her own circumstances.

  “I understand. I have recently suffered a grievous loss as well. As you can see, I seek solace here on the beach, praying my wounded heart will begin to heal.”

  They reached the path. He bent, raised and shouldered his duffel, and managed a small smile.

  “Perhaps I will give your boulders a go. They seem a peaceful spot for reflection…and healing.”

  “They are. Truly, it does help me a great deal to sit there.”

  “Well, then, I must sit and ponder tomorrow. And, perhaps I shall see you again when I am here. You are the first person I have met in Lobster Cove. You give me a lovely impression of your small town. I think I may have chosen the right place to let my heart mend.”

  Chapter 2

  Mary watched as her mother rose from where she knelt in the kitchen garden. They were gathering cucumbers and would make pickles before nightfall. She had wanted to do the picking herself, but mother insisted she not be left out of the work. Now, it was painfully obvious that the older woman’s back did not appreciate the bending and pulling that it took to separate vine from fruit.

  Leah stood, rubbing a hand low across her back. A small grimace did not go unnoticed.

  As she grabbed her mother’s full basket by the worn wooden handle, steadying her shoulders to carry a load in each hand, Mary said, “I know you are put off by the notion you let either Molly or me do some of this harvest work, but I do believe you need to rest this afternoon. I have made pickles with you all my life, practically. I am sure I have learned a thing or two, Mother. I can manage.”

  Eighteen years in the kitchen made her no stranger to a canning pot or wooden spoon.

  “I suppose you can. But I hate to leave the work all to you, my helper bee.”

  The nickname had been bestowed upon her when she was but a little girl, and it had stuck. She never minded being referred to as an insect; bees were, at least, attractive with their stripes and busy which did appeal.

  The childhood affection had not been uttered since Ned’s demise.

  Mother looked at her, seeming to stare into her soul with the intensity only one who has borne the person she views can muster. Waiting to see how the endearment was taken, certainly.

  It was time, she realized, to let go of some sad memories and embrace the shift of direction their lives had taken. Swallowing around a sudden lump in her throat, Mary lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. It was all she could do with the full baskets in her hands.

  “You know me. Always buzzing. Always busy. And happier to be occupied than not, so I do not mind the work. Besides, I enjoy canning, so it does not feel like a chore.”

  “You are going to make some man very lucky someday. My cheerful, hard-working, beautiful girl.” Her mother reached a hand out, pressed her palm against Mary’s shoulder, and gave her a quick squeeze. There was still strength behind the gesture, and that, more than the reassurance, made the younger woman’s heart swell. She’d lost her father; she wasn’t ready to lose her mother, too. So often, one followed the other in short order…

  “I pray you are right. I’m not sure there are enough men in the cove for all of us, sometimes. So many go to sea, and never return. Why, just last week…”

  Living seaside had so many benefits but wasn’t without its share of hardship, too. A day could turn from blue-sky sunny to gray, wind-whipped frightening in an hour. That had happened six days prior, when a fishing boat had been caught in the fury of a swift-moving storm.

  “I know, my dear. A shame, losing those young men that way. But, we know it happens. Why, I believe their wives, sisters, and mothers grieve a bit easier knowing they went down together doing what they loved most. Four good young men, taken to the bottom in a heartbeat.”

  “Four men who are now not only lost to their families, but to the eligible marriage pool.” The pickings had been slim; now they were even more so. When she realized her mother held her in a puzzled gaze, she hurried to add, “Not that I was interested in any of them! No, not at all. But Adelaide Abbingdon—now, she had her eye set on the Newton fellow. I saw her yesterday, and she’s wearing the loss in her face. Red nose, red eyes—goodness, she is so reddened from crying it looks as if she’s been in the sun for days. Poor thing.”

  They walked to the back steps. Long ago, her grandfather had planted a lilac bush beside the door. He found it growing wild beyond the marshlands and carried it home in a leather pouch. Now, it was nearly as tall as Mary and laden with lavender flowers whose scent filled the air. They both inhaled deeply, ever mindful of the small pleasure the bush brought.

  “Loss is hard, but she will move past this. We all move forward, don’t we?”

  Mary did not miss the hitch in her mother’s voice.

  She placed the baskets on the bottom step and gave her arms a few shakes as she met her mother’s gaze. Quietly, she replied, “You know we do. Father always said you were the one who kept him from losing his mind when Grandma Lizzie passed.” She reached out, bent a branch on the bush, and retrieved a flower. She chose the biggest bloom. A fast sniff, then she handed it to her mother. “It seems that even though a person is gone, the way those men are and…Grandma Lizzie, Grandpa Sam, and even Father are, they are not entirely gone as long as we love and remember them.”

  A tired nod. “Beautiful and wise, as well.”

  “Mother, you really must go lie down. You are weary, it is written on your face.” She pointed to the baskets and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I will make the best pickles I have ever made, and you will be restored by dinnertime. Please, go inside and rest.”

  “I will not argue. It seems I am wearier than ever these days.” They climbed the four small steps, Mary carrying the baskets and Mother holding the lilac. “It will pass, I am sure. In time, all things pass.”

  She ushered her mother into the kitchen and, after depositing the cucumbers near the wash bucket, took the lilac. “I will place this in water and bring it to your room when you are asleep. That way, you will wake to the glorious scent.”

  A
kiss on the cheek from the woman she adored more than any other. “You are a good daughter, thank you. And don’t fret; when God wants you to meet the man He has chosen for you, He will send him along. All things in time, my dear.”

  “You are, as always, right. Now, to bed with you. I want you well rested when you sample the dinner I have in mind for tonight.”

  Three hours later, the pickles were in their jars, cooling on the scarred pine tabletop. The scent of brine and dill filled the air, and the space was warm, but the time and trouble were well worth it. The hard work done one afternoon yielded nourishment for months, and Mary would taste satisfaction—and summertime’s warmth—in every bite.

  Their kitchen was not large, with only the one area for family eating, so she set the jars to an end of the table. There was just enough room for the family to sit comfortably at the other. Since Father’s passing, dinner was more necessity than the lingering, entertaining event it had always been before. Now, everyone ate, spoke sparingly, and left their seats as soon as was polite to do so. Hopefully that would eventually change, but for now they were all less inclined to live the life they’d known with the man they missed so much.

  Dinner passed in a blur.

  The best part was that the matriarch of the family looked better rested than she had earlier. A short respite, some time alone to pray, contemplate, and remember Ned, had given her some vigor, which made every one of her children stronger just for having seen her looking less peaked. Mary’s great-grandparents had been missionaries, and the family’s faith endured. A new land—but an old, deeply ingrained faith served them well.

  She did not feel guilty leaving Molly to clean up after dinner. And, her sister did not mind, either. When she would have helped clear the table—or the half of it they used—she was dismissed.

  “No, you did all the kitchen work you’re going to do for this day.” Molly piled stoneware plates one atop the other. No food remained on any one, so they stacked neatly in her hands. “It’s my turn, sister. Go take a walk, it will do you some good. And the boys are going to pull Mother into a poetry reading on the front porch. They have invited some friends and already have the book outdoors. So we are all accounted for and you, our worker bee, needs to buzz away for a little bit.”