It was probably for the best. How would they keep this affair up in Bridgetown? He certainly couldn’t keep sneaking into her bedroom and one too many trips out to a garden would eventually be noticed. But those were just practical reasons for ending it. If they kept this up, it was bound to reach a point where it meant something, at least to her. In fact, that point might have already been reached, promises to the contrary notwithstanding.
It had become readily apparent to her over the last few days that she could make all the vows she wanted about not falling for a man, about not leaving herself vulnerable to the emotions that came with physical contact, but those vows could only serve as warnings, they could not actually force her to take their advice, nor could they stop it from happening.
On board the Queen, the crew was a unified mass of moving energy, everyone busy with their tasks. Kitt’s orders had been plain: make Bridgetown with all speed possible. This would be no leisurely sail home. There would be no side sojourns to swim with dolphins, no waterfalls to bathe under, no languorous afternoons spent on sunny beaches. In short, no time for her.
Bryn took up an unobtrusive post at the rail where she could watch Kitt and stay out of the way, of which the latter was clearly what he wanted. The sting of separation hurt, there was no doubt about it. Even now, with the feel of his body still imprinted on hers, her hand still warm from his grip, she felt bereft—something she had no right to feel, she reminded herself sternly. She had no right to feel abandoned, no right to wallow in self-pity like a jilted miss, no right to feel anything. They’d implicitly agreed it would be this way.
Apparently she wanted to rub salt in her emotional wounds. She couldn’t stop staring at him. Her eyes followed him around the deck, watching him work. He remained shirtless, putting his muscles on display as he heaved ropes and raised the sails, his culottes riding scandalously low on his hips, reminding her she knew precisely what lay beneath them.
Overhead, the sky started to cloud, the wind rising. ‘It’ll make for good speed!’ Kitt called to Passemore, who questioned the weather.
‘Are you sure we shouldn’t stay in the cove and shelter until it passes?’ the first mate called back.
Kitt shook his head, shouting to be heard. ‘We cannot delay in reaching Bridgetown. With a wind like this, we’ll make excellent time, perhaps even outrun the worst of the squall.’
Bryn turned her gaze skyward. Grey clouds gathered, blocking out the setting sun. The peaceful blue-skied day was gone, replaced by an ominous dusky light. The island was still visible behind them. She much preferred Passemore’s suggestion to Kitt’s idea of a fair race between them and nature. Overhead, a fork of lightning lit the sky in the distance, at once both terrible and beautiful in its power. Passemore gave Kitt a final challenging look, but the rest of the crew seemed oblivious.
‘We’ve sailed through far worse.’ She heard Kitt laugh and clap Passemore on the shoulder. ‘You take the helm and I’ll finish with the sails.’ He disappeared to the far end of the ship.
Bryn turned her gaze outward to sea. They were definitely picking up speed. The serene blue waters had turned the colour charcoal, no longer a flat, peaceful sheet of ocean, but an erratic collection of choppy, white-topped peaks as the Queen cut through them. She could feel the ship roll beneath her feet. She hoped Kitt was right and they would outrun the weather. Otherwise, it might be a very long night. It was going to be a long night anyway in an empty bed.
The first raindrop caught her on the nose, a fat, wet splat. She blinked, wiped it away and blinked again, her eyes catching a shape on the horizon that had not been there before. There was a ship under full sail and it gave every appearance of closing fast.
Chapter Eighteen
Hell and damnation! Kitt swung down from the rigging, calling for his spyglass. Passemore had it waiting before his feet hit the deck. ‘Is it the same one?’ Kitt asked, putting the scope to his eye. This was disastrous. He needed clear sailing to Bridgetown, but fate and nature seemed determined to conspire against him, first with the storm and now with this mystery ship reappearing out of nowhere.
‘I think it is, Captain,’ Passemore affirmed. ‘But the ship is unmarked so it’s hard to tell.’
Kitt gave a grim nod and handed the glass back to Passemore. It was his belief, too, that it was the same ship. ‘Run up the quarantine flag and let’s see what she does.’ A ship meaning no harm would respect the warning and leave them in peace with their sick. Only a ship bent on menace would ignore the quarantine, or even suspect the quarantine was a lie.
Another fear began to surface. If it was the same ship, it had picked them up fairly quickly after they’d left the island, suggesting to Kitt it had deliberately lain in wait for them. He looked up at the white sails filling with the full force of the wind. The Queen was fast. This would not be the first time he’d outrun storms and villains. Now that the Queen was under full sail, the other ship would be hard pressed to keep closing. He made a decision. ‘Passemore, let her run. If these bastards want us, they’ll have to catch us.’
Passemore grinned with far more enthusiasm than Kitt felt. ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’
Kitt risked a glance to where Bryn stood at the rail looking out over the sea, soaking in the rain. The silly woman, she should be off the deck. Didn’t she know she was in danger up here? Of course she didn’t. He hadn’t told her, not explicitly. He grabbed up an oilskin from the storage trunk they kept on deck and strode towards her. His tone was gruff and sharp when he spoke, anger disguising his concern. ‘You should have gone to the cabin the moment it began to rain. I don’t need you sick with a chill.’
‘We had a squall or two on the crossing, I can manage bad weather,’ Bryn said confidently, but she didn’t shrug him off when he draped the oilskin about her.
Kitt had every intention of ushering her to the cabin, but she twisted out of his grip, refusing to be mandhandled. ‘Will they catch us?’ Bryn asked, her gaze riveted on the dark shape of the ship trailing behind them.
‘They may not want to. I’ve run up the quarantine flag. We’ll know soon enough if they mean business. Now, let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.’ This time, she let him lead her away from the rail and he knew relief as they gained the shelter of the cabin, not just because it afforded her protection from the elements, but also because it afforded her safety.
If this boat behind them meant menace, Kitt would prefer it not know a woman was on board. He wanted a fair fight if it came to that. He’d match his men man for man and the Queen, too, against any roguish frigate’s crew in the Caribbean. But he absolutely didn’t want a fight where Bryn was used as leverage against him. There would be nothing fair about that.
Bryn was no fool and his gruff tones hadn’t masked his concern. She reached for him as he turned to go, a firm hand on his arm. ‘I have two pistols in my valise and I know how to use them.’
Kitt gave her a curt nod, understanding her implicit message. If the worst happens, I’ll be fine. You needn’t be distracted by worry for me. It was a gesture entirely her, selfless Bryn thinking of others before herself even in a potential crisis and it was the undoing of him. His mind screamed a desperate warning: Not now, not now!
‘The Queen is fast,’ he assured her, trying hard to betray none of the emotions rocketing through him as he stared into those eyes of hers, so hard and determined. His insides were chaos. He’d not imagined it would happen this way. He’d always thought if, on the remote chance, it ever did happen to him, it would happen in bed, a beautiful woman staring up at him with soft, dreamy eyes. It most definitely wouldn’t happen in the midst of a crisis with a woman telling him she was priming her pistols. That was when he knew. Love had found him and at the worst of all possible times. It was a hell of a time to realise he’d fallen for Bryn Rutherford. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t change anything, it could only hurt more. He would
get over it. He’d hurt before and he’d survived.
‘You won’t need them,’ Kitt repeated with a final grim nod before stepping out into the rain, shutting the door firmly behind him and wishing he could leave his emotions behind as easily.
She won’t need them, he silently vowed, pulling his arms through an oilskin slicker and joining Passemore at the helm. The rain had picked up substantially, but that was expected. The storm was bound to get worse before it got better. Beyond the rail the dark ship was keeping its distance.
That was expected, too, either because the storm and the Queen’s speed had not allowed any further gains or because the quarantine flag had done its job. The distance was reassuring, but Kitt suspected it was for the former reasons and not the latter. If the flag had worked, the ship would have probably charted a different course. Even small-time pirates would not have made the effort to go after a quarantined ship. Still, it would be difficult to overtake them. Byrn could put her pistols away.
If it wasn’t for Bryn, Kitt would have opted to turn and fight, the only sure way to end this guessing game once and for all: who was indeed behind these attacks on his person. Outrunning the ship simply delayed that particular resolution for another day. It was clear to him that he was the target of this chase. At least that gave him something to bargain with if it came to protecting his ship and protecting Bryn: himself. But he would not go easy. He would put his faith in the Queen’s speed.
* * *
‘I thought you said this ship was fast!’ Devore fumed, water dripping in his face in a cold, steady stream. The rain was miserable and they were making no headway in catching Sherard’s ship. The storm was working to Sherard’s favour, but not theirs. Every time Devore looked up, it seemed they were falling further behind.
‘The Queen’s a fast ship, I’m doing all I can!’ the captain yelled over the wind, as surly as Devore. Devore swore and turned away, kicking a foot at a coil of rope in frustration. Dammit all! This was supposed to have been easy. They’d lain in wait, sails at the ready to take the Queen swiftly before Sherard could get it under full sail.
Even then, they’d been outplayed by the rising wind, but not before Devore had caught sight of something of interest in the spyglass; Sherard had gone to the woman at the rail, his hands lingering at her shoulders as he’d wrapped an oilskin jacket around her. It was definitely not a neutral act. He could have sent someone else with the jacket, he could have simply handed one to her. Sherard’s gesture spoke of a caring that went beyond politeness. It confirmed what he’d seen through the telescope earlier. Sherard had developed feelings for Miss Rutherford. Devore almost rubbed his cold hands together in glee. Before, he’d counted on deep-seated honour to make Sherard accountable. He didn’t think Sherard was callous enough to stand by and watch any woman under his protection suffer regardless of his attachment to her. But now, this was different, this was better. A woman Sherard cared about would be exquisite leverage indeed. It guaranteed Sherard’s capitulation if they could just capture the ship.
‘We need more drastic measures.’ Devore returned to the captain at the helm. ‘We’ve got to slow him down, make him turn and fight. You have cannons. It’s time to use them. Shoot to disable the ship only. I don’t want to sink it.’ Not yet anyway. He wanted to do that when Sherard could watch. Oh, this was perfect. With the limited visibility of the rain, Kitt Sherard would never see it coming, not until it was too late.
* * *
The first shot shook the cabin, sounding like a clap of thunder had occurred directly overhead. Bryn screamed in abject shock, the force of the sudden explosion sending her reeling on to the bed. Outside the cabin door, footsteps pounded across the deck, the air filled with the abrupt shouts of men racing to do a task. Bryn picked herself up off the bed, a terrible thought occurring. It hadn’t been thunder, but something worse.
Bryn scrambled for her valise tucked away at the bottom of the wardrobe. Now seemed like a good time to retrieve those pistols she’d boasted of to Kitt. Her heart was racing and she took a few breaths. A shaky hand didn’t do anyone any good, nor did a shaky mind. She needed to be calm, she needed to think with cool detachment.
Her hands closed around the smooth butt of one pistol, then the other. The feel of the familiar grip offered some measure of comfort. She’d bought them before she’d left England and had taught herself to shoot. She was by no means an extraordinary marksman, but she’d find her target in close quarters. She hoped she wouldn’t have to prove it.
Bryn checked to make sure the safety was on and returned to the bed just in time. The ship made a sudden lurch. They were turning back! There was a low rumble and the clank of chains from under the deck somewhere. It sounded as if cannons were being rolled out. That meant engagement. Someone had fired on them. Worse, it likely meant Kitt couldn’t outrun them.
Oh, the curiosity was killing her! Bryn fought the urge to go out on deck and demand information. She wanted to see the damage first-hand, wanted to know what was going on. Most of all, she wanted to see with her own eyes that Kitt was unharmed. But she was practical, too. She understood on deck she was a liability: a distraction to Kitt and a danger to the crew. If she were taken, their lives could be forfeit to save hers. Kitt would be forced to bargain, to choose whose lives mattered. It would be an intolerable situation. So she did the right thing, the hard thing. She sat on the bed with guns primed and aimed at the door in case the worst happened, occasionally risking a glance out the window, but since it was in the bow and they were turned sideways to face the oncoming ship, the window could tell her little of the action.
The volley of cannon fire rattled the cabin, this time from the Queen’s own. It was returned. Outside, men yelled, items shattered and crashed. She thought she heard Kitt’s voice calling to reload the cannons. It was comforting to know he would fight to the end, but what would that end look like? Would Kitt and the Queen prevail? Bryn thought not. A ship would not fire and demand a battle if it didn’t think it could win.
The Queen was a merchant ship, and its prime weapon was speed. Its cannons were primarily for protection, not for deliberately provoking other ships into a fight. It was quite likely only a matter of time. Kitt could not hold them off indefinitely. That decided it. She would not meet her fate quietly sitting in a cabin waiting for it. Bryn cocked her pistols and stepped out the door.
The deck was a ghastly scene straight from a pirate novel, exacerbated no doubt by the dark weather. Wind whipped at her hair, the slanting rain pelted her newly dried skirts. Debris lay strewn about. She could see where the first shot had severed part of a mast and ripped through a sail. The jagged mast piece lay on the ground, looking much larger at her feet than it had up in the air.
It was all she had time to see. A body barrelled out of nowhere with a yell, taking her to the wet deck with a bone-jarring thud just as something whizzed overhead, ripping the air. ‘You are supposed to be in the cabin.’
Kitt! She pushed at his heavy form, trying to regain her breath after the sudden impact. But Kitt would not let her up. His voice came low and fast at her ear. ‘How can I protect you if I don’t know where you are? If you don’t follow instructions? Cannon balls are indiscriminate things, Bryn. They don’t care who or what they hit.’
‘They’re coming, Captain!’ Passemore scrambled across the deck towards them. Kitt rose. ‘They just launched the longboats. Shall we fire again?’
‘Fire as long as you can,’ Kitt barked out for everyone to hear. ‘Cannons are our best chance. We want to keep them at a distance. Do not let them board this ship!’ His voice was full of authority. Men ran to obey, but Bryn saw the futility of it in his eyes. She grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her.
‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ She willed him not to lie to her. She was too smart. She knew the numbers. Kitt had a crew of thirty. It appeared the numbers were against them, three to one.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t sink the ship, Bryn. They don’t want the Queen, not right away at least.’
She searched the grim lines of his face. ‘What do they want?’
‘They want me.’ His eyes moved beyond her, looking at a point past her shoulder, his mind already calculating options and discarding choices of which she knew there weren’t many. The question now was not if they’d surrender, but when and how.
‘No, Kitt. You can’t.’ Bryn’s grip tightened on his arm as if she could hold him there with her strength.
‘If anything happens to me, Passemore will see you to safety. Get to your father. Tell him what we found.’ He shook his head, his tone softening for a moment, his eyes caressing her face with their gaze. ‘I am sorry, Bryn, for dragging you into this.’ He kissed her on the forehead, a quick hurried gesture. ‘Stay in the cabin. Hide, defend yourself. I’ll have men posted outside the door, good men, it will be hard for anyone to get through. You will not be alone.’
But not with him. Bryn understood that message and worry ripped through her. What was he going to do? He simply couldn’t turn himself over. Of course he couldn’t be with her. It would be tantamount to suicide for them both to be caught together. Strategically, she understood that. Emotionally, though, it was all she wanted. If she could see him, she would know he was safe, she would have a chance perhaps to protect him. Out of sight, she could control nothing.
‘No, that option is unacceptable,’ Bryn said, her challenge taking Kitt by surprise. She was not going back there to sit and wait. It was the very thing she’d come out here to avoid. If she went back and sat on the bed with her pistols, fate would just outwait her. The end to this adventure would be inevitable and obvious. ‘There has to be another way.’
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