THE PIRATE LORD
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A Historical Romance Novel
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CATHERINE LLOYD
Copyright 2017 Catherine Lloyd
Electronic Edition 2017
Writewood Creations
261 Lac Bernard Road
Alcove, Quebec
Canada J0X 1A0
[email protected]
www.writewoodcreations.blogspot.com
ISBN 978-1-988003-44-3
All rights reserved.
This publication remains the copyrighted property
of the author and may not be redistributed for commercial
or non-commercial purposes.
Cover Design by Stunning Book Covers
Table of Contents
THE PIRATE LORD
Table of Contents
Also by Catherine Lloyd
Prologue
The Pirate Lord
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
About the Author
Victorian Villains Saga
Mandrake Falls Four Seasons Romance
Dark Redeemer Medieval Adventure Romance
Also by Catherine Lloyd
Mandrake Falls Four Seasons Romance
The Jilting ~ Summer
Lie for Me ~ Autumn
The Way Home ~ Winter
Love Rising ~ Spring
Dark Redeemer Medieval Romance
Wanton
Wastrel
Traitor
Soldier
Victorian Villains Saga
Windemere Hall
Mark of Caine
The Master of Cliff House
Wracker’s Cove
Prologue
BRONWYN BARLOW had arrived in Penzance the daughter of a curate and two nights later, she was the love slave of the bloodiest pirate ever to sail the Atlantic.
She could collapse into tears over her predicament or she could try to find a way out. Solving problems had always come easily to her. She only had to think—think!
The Black Adder cut soundlessly through the water propelled by a strong westerly wind. The white sails billowed, drawing the ship further and further away from England. Bronwyn gripped the railing and fixed her gaze on the inky blue horizon. A vast ocean heaved under a star-filled sky.
She moved her lips in silent prayer for the good nature that had eluded her all her life. Anger had too frequently gotten the better of her, and for that, Bronwyn was genuinely sorry. And her pigheadedness, she had to admit. That too had landed her in this predicament. She simply did not know when to back down. It was her greatest weakness.
The bell sounded six times signaling the start of the new watch. Bronwyn stiffened. It was time. There was no way out. None that could be implemented in the few moments she had left.
Six bells.
Captain Jon Stag was waiting for her in his quarters. He had instructed her not to be late.
For all that this night would cost her (and it promised to cost her dearly) Bronwyn would not feel sorry for herself—not when her very reason for living was sleeping peacefully below deck. The act demanded of her was neither good nor fair, but when a boy’s life was at stake, anything that saved him was the right thing to do.
This is what she told herself. It was necessary to repeat it several times.
The wind lifted her hair off her face. Bronwyn fastened her eyes on the horizon; her hands had seized up, unwilling to let go of the railing. If the men on board could see her now, with her glittering black hair and eyes, they would be convinced she was the sea witch they whispered about at night.
If only that were true! If only she could summon the wind and sea to fling Jon Stag and all his crew overboard. If only she was a humble curate’s daughter again and had never set foot on this blasted ship! If only—
Bronwyn sucked in her last breath of freedom.
The pirate captain was waiting.
The Pirate Lord
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Chapter One
April 1775 ~ Cornwall, England
THE WHARF was crowded with crates, barrels and nets. Stevedores were loading lighter boats with supplies while fish wives hollered at merchants and gulls screamed overhead. The docks of Penzance in Cornwall smelled like rotting seaweed, the tide and carrion. This was not how Bronwyn had imagined the seaside town would look.
The noise and confusion terrified Roddy who clung to her leg—a thing her brother had not done since he was very little.
“Where is it, Winnie? Can you see it?”
Bronwyn lifted up on her tiptoes, clutching her Roddy’s hand tightly and scanned the squat stone buildings for the boarding house. “I don’t see it, but that does not mean it is not here. We are on the right quay in any case and that’s a good sign.”
It had been a long journey from Somerset and Roddy was exhausted. Her brother was nine-years-old and not strong. He fought for every breath. Since the death of their parents, it had been Bronwyn’s dream to bring her little brother to the seaside for his lungs. She’d heard the sea air contained marvelous properties that would cure infection of the lungs. Bronwyn wrote to numerous establishments on the Cornish coast seeking a position and was at last rewarded with a response from the landlady of a respectable boarding house on the wharf.
But where was it?
She scanned the weathered signs hanging over doorways and then at last, she saw lettering that could be the one. “Potts’ Boarding House for Mariners,” Bronwyn read aloud. “Wait for me here. I’ll go across to enquire of the landlady and tell her there are two of us arriving.”
“You didn’t tell her?” her little brother moaned. “We’ve come all this way ... she’ll say no.” He hoisted himself up on a black iron bollard and balanced there. “You’ll only be dismissed from this one too eventually. We should have stayed in Somerset. You never do what I want to do.”
“Don’t fuss, it will be all right. I shall inform her that this is her lucky day. Instead of one girl, she gets a fine, strong boy as well. Mrs. Potts will be delighted. I’ll only be a moment. Do not move from this spot.”
Roddy nodded, his eyes were dark and wide, his skin was pale. He looked as fragile and helpless as a bird perched on the bollard, but he was pleased to be described as a strong boy. Bronwyn dashed across the cobbles to the stone building over which hung a sign that indeed read: Potts’ Boarding House and ventured inside.
“Excuse me but are you the landlady, Mrs. Potts? I am Bronwyn Barlow of Somerset. I wrote to enquire after a situation.”
A harried woman bustled around the desk, wiping her hands on a towel. “You are a sight for sore eyes! I’ve been expecting you, and in good time you are too. I’m rushed off my fe
et with this lot. I expect you’ll want to see your living quarters. It is not much, but by the look of you, it won’t take much to make you comfortable—you’re that done in. Where are your bags?”
“I only have this one here.” Bronwyn showed her the battered leather valise that had once belonged to her father. It was all she and Roddy had left of their old life.
“There cannot be much in that,” the lady frowned. “I have an old dress or two that can be made over to fit you if you’re handy with a needle. You wrote that you are the daughter of a curate?”
“That is correct, ma’am. Our parents died two years ago. I have been employed ever since.” Bronwyn squared her shoulders. “My little brother is with me. He is nine years old. I am afraid I cannot take the position without him. He’s no trouble—he does not run and make noise as other boys do. Roddy is—he is—”
“Poorly,” the landlady said with a flat sigh. The tale was a familiar one. “What manner of illness does he have? Is it contagious?”
Bronwyn shook her head firmly, somewhat relieved that the landlady was being sensible about the matter. “He was born with weak lungs. That is all. The sea air will improve his health immensely. I’ve read up on the subject and the seaside is thought to be greatly beneficial.”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” the landlady agreed with resignation. “However, I do not like being taken by surprise. In future, you will tell me everything up front or there will not be a second time. That being said, I’ve no objection to the boy staying. His meals will come out of your wage or from your plate. I’ll not be feeding two for the work of one. He may be seen, but not heard. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.” Bronwyn could scarcely contain her joy. “Thank you, Mrs. Potts. You are very kind. He’s waiting for me outside. I’ll just go and fetch him and I’ll begin work straightaway. Thank you!”
She whirled out of the boarding house, thrilled to tell Roddy the good news. At first glance at the place where she had left him, it appeared he was not there. She wasn’t alarmed right away—merely irritated that he had not listened to her instruction. But then she could not see him anywhere.
Bronwyn spun around, scanning the crowd for his dark head. Not there. Not there. Where is he? “Roddy!” She cried out his name calmly at first but when he didn’t answer, her cries became increasingly shrill. “Roddy! Roddy!”
Bronwyn flew in one direction and another shouting her brother’s name. Men and women stopped to stare at her. Portions of the street went quiet; only the gulls could be heard above her hysteria. “Roddy!”
There was no sign of him. Her brother had disappeared.
She charged over to a nearby merchant who was manning his stall of fresh fish and grabbed his arm, fighting tears and panic: “Did you see the little boy who was sitting over there? He is about this tall—he’s wearing a blue jacket and has dark hair.”
The merchant shook his head in the negative. Bronwyn instantly decided that he was lying. It was impossible that he could have missed him; his stall faced the dock where Roddy was resting on the bollard. “Liar!” she screamed. “You saw him! Where is he? Tell me or I shall call in the law! Tell me! Where did he go?”
“Call in the law,” the man hissed in an ugly undertone, “and you’ll have old Bill Hawkins to answer to. ‘Twas his gang what grabbed the boy to ship out on the Black Adder. Now stop your caterwauling before I give you a sound slap.”
“Where can I find Bill Hawkins?” Bronwyn demanded with equal fury. If the man thought he could stop her with the threat of violence, he was very much mistaken. In the two years since she was orphaned, the curate’s daughter had learned to hit first, hit hard and never give ground.
“How am I to know? You’ll find some of the Black’s crew in that establishment over there. The Mariner’s Tavern, it’s called. Mind how you speak to them. They are not as friendly as some of us on this pier. You’ve got a nasty temper, you have.”
Bronwyn lifted her bag and hurried off in the direction of the tavern. She did not enquire further of the man, knowing he would tell her no more. She ought to have asked his pardon for her rough speech but getting Roddy back was a command that ran through her mind like a battle cry. All forms of politeness were crushed beneath it. One day she would have the luxury of being a nice young lady. Today was not that day.
She barged into The Mariner’s Tavern without breaking her stride. The men she sought were in the back of the low-ceilinged room, crowded near the fire, drinking and smoking.
“Where is he?”
She dropped the valise, grabbed the nearest one by the collar and shoved his face into the flames. The man screamed and she yanked him back but kept a tight grip on his jacket. The other men fell back, their eyes wide with shock. How she must appear to them! Like a whirling dervish, arriving out of nowhere, shouting violence. They stared at her as though she was Medusa herself.
The man pounded her arm but Bronwyn refused to relax her hold. Never lose the advantage. The sailor was in pain enough to incapacitate him and frighten the others into talking.
“What the devil are you about?” shouted one of his confederates. “Whom do you seek?”
Bronwyn put her victim in a chokehold and glared at her interrogator—a bearded man of some years who looked and smelled like dead codfish. “My brother, a boy of nine years, is missing. A man named Bill Hawkins stole him off the street only moments ago. I want him back.”
The bearded man broke out into a smile. “Vagrant was he? Loitering on the dock, picking pockets and stealing from honest vendors—we have a solution for such pests here. The little brutes are made to work—an honest day’s labor for an honest wage. Mind you, there is no wage for the likes of them until they’ve earned out their fine. Vagrancy is a serious offense.”
“Roddy was not a vagrant.” Bronwyn endeavored to control her fury. “He was waiting for me. I was speaking with the landlady of the boarding house and when I returned to the corner, he was gone.” She released the burned man with a shove and pushed up against the bearded man since he had all the answers. “If you are Bill Hawkins, you will tell me where he is or I shall have you charged with kidnapping.”
The man frowned as though trying to take her seriously and his cohorts smothered their laughter. Bronwyn’s victim scampered out of harm’s way to pour out his complaint to a sympathetic bar maid.
“Was the lad wearing a blue jacket?”
“He was,” Bronwyn said stonily.
“Aye, I remember him, eh, lads? Aye, we picked him up. Oh but he is long gone by now. We apologize for the misunderstanding. We acted in good faith believing him to be the troublesome type. You are welcome to get him back though. The boys were pressed into service aboard the Black Adder. She’s anchored about half-a-mile west of the harbor. If you can commandeer a lighter boat, you might be able to board her before she weighs anchor at the next tide.”
The men could contain their mirth no longer and broke out in harsh laughter.
Bronwyn ignored them. She had shut down sensations of shock, grief and terror and was evaluating whether the man was telling the truth. “Are you Bill Hawkins?”
“Nay, miss,” the Beard laughed with gusto. He was enjoying playing the fool for his friends. “Mr. Hawkins is First Mate on the Black Adder. Old Hawkins gave us orders to acquire crew and it was he who paid out the fee for each lad we caught.”
“A press gang,” she said, looking into each of their faces. “You snatch boys off the street and press them into service aboard a scow. The Black Adder—what manner of ship is it?”
“A privateer vessel,” replied a man who was sitting in the corner and not part of the group standing at the hearth. “The worst sort of bargain for any man, never mind a lad. Her captain is Jonathon Stag. He sails under a letter of marque from whichever country he decides will offer the greatest prize. At present, it is England. He must have something big in the wind if he’s taking on lads through a press gang. That isn’t his usual way; I’ll say that for the man.”
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“I don’t understand. What is a letter of marque?”
A tall man leaning against the mantle groaned in loud contempt, but the sailor in the corner answered her question. “It is a commission issued to a privateer vessel that allows the captain to attack enemy ships and take them as prizes. Under Prize Law, the crew, who are mostly debtors, convicts and pirates, get to divide the spoils. For a man with no sense of honor it is a lucrative way of life but dangerous. If the shelling doesn’t kill you, the sea will. The ocean floor is littered with the blasted out hulks of privateer vessels.”
Chapter Two
BRONWYN HEARD the words blasted out hulks and her pulse thudded at the base of her throat. Terror mounted that Roddy would die at sea and she was helpless to stop it.
The bearded man made a snort of derision. “Captain Stag abuses his power as we who have sailed under him can testify. He has yet to be caught and prosecuted for piracy but it is just a matter of time. One day, his luck with King George will run out and then there’ll be trouble.” He chortled darkly as he mimed a hanging.
“I agree with our friend here; Stag is plotting something. He loves his purse almost as much as he loves the Black Adder and he’s gone to expense preparing for this next sailing.”
“It will be the Dauntless he’s after,” hissed a tall man leaning against the mantle. “Stag has got a flea in his ear the ship is carrying gold and he means to give chase. He’ll be in a good deal of trouble if he does. The gold is to pay the British soldiers under siege in Boston, Massachusetts. If he interferes, it will be treason and Governor General Thomas Gage will see that he hangs for it. I’ll pull the bloody lever myself. I can’t stomach a traitor.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Bronwyn listened closely to their talk to learn as much as she could about Captain Stag. There was much to be gleaned from men’s gossip, of which they were seldom aware.
The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy. Page 1