Copyright © T.M. Franklin, 2017
Published by Enchanted Publications
The right of T.M. Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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A quest for vengeance.
A high-stakes treasure hunt.
An attraction they both try to deny.
Convinced One-Eyed Jack Tremayne killed her father and stole his prized cutlass, Sarina Talbot sneaks aboard the pirate’s ship to exact her revenge. To her surprise, she’s met by a declaration of innocence and an offer of help. She doesn’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust anybody. But they need each other to catch the killer and beat their enemies to a hidden cache of Aztec gold.
They’re not the only treasure-seekers, however, and there’s a traitor in their midst.
Caught between Crown ships and enemy pirates, Sarina and Jack discover a prize greater than gold as their uneasy alliance leads them on the adventure of a lifetime.
Copyright
Summary
Dedication
October, 1745
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
Epilogue
Also by T.M. Franklin
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Kate and Susana, without whom this would never have been written.
And for all the wonderful readers who supported this story along the way . . . you are some seriously crazy people. ☺
October, 1745
She clutched at his bloodstained shirt, her fingers slick and red as she knelt over his battered body. Her heart pounded, loud and fierce in her ears as she fought to stay calm—to do something other than give in to her rising panic, or collapse in devastated sobs and cling to her father as she did when she was a little girl.
“Papa? Dear God, no! What happened?”
In the wreckage of his ransacked study, she barely noticed the scattered piles of papers and books, the overturned chair behind his desk, or the cupboard door hanging crooked by one hinge. It swung slowly back and forth, revealing periodic glimpses of the empty space within . . . the space where her father kept the cutlass, wrapped in linen to protect it from dust and damage.
The hinge creaked—a countermelody to her father’s labored breaths.
He opened his mouth to speak, but thick crimson strangled the words in his throat, bubbling out to drip down his chin and cheeks and seep into the threadbare rug.
“No, no . . . don’t talk,” she whispered through choked tears. She cast about for something to use to staunch the flow of blood and finally yanked a blanket off the chaise behind her and pressed it to his chest. “It’ll be all right. Just stay calm.”
Her father gasped in reply, eyes wide and searching. His lips moved frantically, but no sound escaped.
“Shhh . . .” she said, brushing the hair back from his face. His skin was cold and sickly pale, all color draining out through the gaping wound in his chest. He groaned, and with a rush of strength, he grabbed her wrist, his gaze suddenly sharp and focused as he opened his mouth again.
“Papa?” She leaned in closer to hear the words—the name that would haunt her for years to come. The name that would give her purpose, an avenue for her grief when her father’s erratic heartbeat finally slowed, then stopped. The name that would allow her to forge the pain and loss into a weapon of single-minded furious determination.
“Tremayne,” he whispered with his last, gasping breath. “. . . Tremayne.”
Often, when the sunlight wanes, I find myself perusing the vastness of the sea about me, and ponder the warnings of those who speak of the wildness of this place. Some fear the natives of the islands and their strange ways. Others, the dangerous creatures who dwell in the depths beneath me. I, however, have come to know that the true danger of these waters lies not with the savages, nor with the beasties below. No, the true threat is the man without honor, without conscience.
He calls himself the pirate.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 6 October, 1664
May, 1748
Only a handful of fluffy white clouds marred the wide expanse of blue sky as the Black Arrow sliced through the choppy waters of the Atlantic. Captain Jonathan Tremayne tilted his head, eyeing with approval the full sails billowing overhead and the full crew busily at work on deck. He stood, legs splayed widely, with a compass open in one palm, the fingers of his other hand wrapped lightly around the wheel. He allowed the ship its head more than trying to force it in a specific direction.
The wind was with them today.
The men knew not their destination, save Maxwell Baines, the captain’s second-in-command and most trusted confidant.
Only trusted confidant, to put a finer point on it. Jonathan Tremayne shared neither his thoughts nor his faith easily, but over the years, he had grown to rely on his first mate and indeed trust him with his life.
That trust had been well earned. The captain, in fact, owed his life to Baines twice over.
But that was a tale for another day.
“Baines!” Tremayne bellowed, snapping the compass closed and tucking it into his coat pocket. “Assemble the men.”
“Attend the captain!” Baines shouted immediately, the command echoing across the deck and down the stairs to the bowels of the ship, as well. Within minutes, the crew had assembled in a loose circle around the helm. The captain relinquished the wheel to his quartermaster, Crawley, and turned to address the men. He said nothing for a moment, just paced before them slowly, gripping the hilt of his dagger in his fist, the thump of his boot heels muffled slightly by the crash of the waves. A patch covered what remained of his left eye, a scar running from his temple to chin evidence of the injury that nearly claimed his life. His good eye glinted bright blue-green—the color of the sea—as he appraised each man before him steadily.
“I know there’s been talk of our heading,” he began, “and what booty lies at the end of this journey.” He stopped his pacing, his gaze locking on each of his men in turn. “At morning’s light, we will encoun
ter the Enchanted Lady, and I plan to take her.”
At the mention of the notorious vessel, a nervous murmur arose from the crowd.
“Avast!” Baines barked, silencing the men immediately.
“Now,” Captain Tremayne continued, “there’s treasure aplenty on board the Lady, and each will get his fair share. But somewhere on that ship is a chest that is mine and mine alone.” He glared menacingly to emphasize his point. “Baines will give you a description of the chest. The man who brings it to me will earn a double share of the Lady’s treasure.” An excited rumbling rolled through the crew.
The captain raised a hand, silencing them. “And I need not tell you that anyone found to be keeping back a portion of the booty before it’s duly divided by Crawley will find himself dangling from the main mast.” His voice lowered to a threatening growl. “And any who might think to keep the chest for himself I’ll see to Davy Jones myself, at the point of my sword.”
A collective gulp resounded across the deck, and Tremayne turned abruptly on his heel. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye and he paused, seeking out the source. A young boy he didn’t recognize huddled behind the massive hulk of Sam Hutchins, the master rigger.
“Boy!” the captain called. “Show yourself!”
The crowd parted, all eyes following the captain’s gaze as he took a step toward the boy.
“Don’t make me ask again,” he snarled.
The boy stepped tentatively out from behind Hutchins, his bowed head covered by a dark woolen cap. His breeches were torn at the knee, his body swallowed by a voluminous shirt and flapping leather vest. He wrung his hands nervously, and the captain frowned at the delicate bones, wondering how such a fragile creature could survive at sea.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked gruffly.
The boy mumbled an answer.
“Speak up!” Tremayne ordered.
“Smith, sir.”
“Smith, eh?” He looked to Baines questioningly.
His first mate shrugged. “He came on board at Hispaniola. We needed another powder monkey.”
Tremayne scowled at the information, for some reason uneasy at the idea of the boy serving on the gun crew. “How old are you, boy?”
The boy hesitated only a moment and the captain’s scowl deepened. “Do not be lying to me, now.”
“Seventeen,” he replied quietly, his eyes still focused on the deck.
“Seventeen?” Tremayne repeated. “Mite small for seventeen, aren’t you?” He eyed Baines, but the man just shrugged again in response. “I doubt he could even carry a half-empty powder barrel, if that,” he muttered, half to himself.
“I’m stronger than I look,” the boy said stubbornly, and Tremayne fought back a chuckle of surprise. The boy had spirit.
Still, spirit had its limits, and the captain quickly rearranged his features into his trademark glower. “Mind your place, boy.”
“Aye, Cap’n.” He wrung his hands again, the knuckles white with tension.
Tremayne’s good eye narrowed as he came to a decision. “Baines, have you found a replacement for young Tom as of yet?” The cabin boy had jumped ship in Havana and had not been seen since.
“No,” Baines replied, picking at his teeth with the tip of his knife. “Not yet.”
The captain removed his hat, scratching at his scalp briefly before replacing it. “That settles it, then. Smith here will take his place.
“Boy,” he said in a brusque tone. “You’ll be seeing to my needs from now on. For now, I’ll be wanting a shave and my supper.” When the boy stood frozen in place, the captain planted his fists on his hips, raising his voice to a near roar. “Move it, Smith! Don’t be keeping me waiting!” The boy rushed to the stairs, and the captain stalked after him.
“The rest of you—back to work!” he bellowed, the command echoed by Baines as the crew scrambled to return to their stations.
Nobody noticed the satisfied smile on the face of the boy named Smith.
Captain Tremayne wasn’t exactly certain what compelled him to help the boy. Part of it was the fact he did indeed need a replacement for Tom—someone to keep his cabin in order and keep his things in repair. Despite his bloodthirsty reputation, Tremayne had a need for order and structure . . . discipline amidst the chaos. For in reality, his ship was a well-oiled machine, each crew member fulfilling his tasks with efficiency and pride.
But they also knew how to relax. Which led to the other reason he felt compelled to take young Smith under his wing.
His men worked hard, but they also played hard. After a long day of backbreaking labor, and a few jugs of rum, they were wont to take their pleasure where they could find it. Many would wait until they made port, finding relief in a willing female at a pub or a brothel—or in a dark alley, if the need be. But a few took what they could get where it was offered, opting for hard muscles instead of soft curves.
Jonathan had no problem when both the participants were consenting. But he’d already caught a few longing looks toward young Smith as he had charged him with his new post, and he wouldn’t stand for anyone taking advantage just because he was smaller and weaker. If the boy chose to participate in some onboard recreation, that was his choice, but no one on his ship would live in fear of such a thing.
Abruptly, Smith halted in the narrow space, and Jonathan stumbled into his back, knocking the boy sideways into the wall. Smith grunted as Jonathan leaned into him, gripping his hip to regain his balance.
“What the bloody hell?” the captain growled as he righted himself.
“I’m . . . sorry, sir,” the boy said meekly, his eyes on his worn shoes. “I wasn’t sure which way to go.”
Tremayne adjusted the leather belt that held his flintlock across his chest and propped his hands on his hips. “To the right, boy. Through the door.”
Smith nodded and hurried down the dark hallway, tripping slightly over his own feet. The captain followed behind, striding into his quarters and throwing his hat onto the massive bed—one of the captain’s few bows to luxury. As soon as he’d taken command of the Black Arrow, he’d replaced the uncomfortable bunk with a feather mattress and silken coverings. His cabin was his sanctuary after all; filled with personal items and prizes from his many conquests. Few were allowed in his private abode, and even now he was nervous about allowing Smith entrance into his lair. He spotted the boy out of the corner of his eye, standing awkwardly by the door, waiting for instructions.
Tremayne sighed. He had no patience for training the boy, but there was really no alternative. Usually, he’d leave the task to Max or one of the cook’s boys, but he was starving and filthy and had no time to wait.
“To the galley, boy,” he ordered. “Fetch water for my shaving, then see the cook about my meal.” When the boy hesitated, he added gruffly. “Be quick about it before I change my mind and have you swabbing the head.”
Evidently the threat of having to clean up the toilet area at the bow of the ship was enough to spark Smith into action. He jumped and darted out the door, and Jonathan chuckled at the sound of his feet pounding toward the galley in the bowels of the ship. The captain shrugged out of his coat and pulled his weapons belt over his head before tossing them both onto the bed. Tugging his shirt from the waistband of his breeches, he reached for the jug of rum on his heavy wooden desk and poured a hefty dose into a tankard. His dagger belt stayed in place around his hips, a second pistol tucked into it and his jeweled dirk secure in his right boot. Captain Tremayne was always armed. Even in sleep, his hand gripped the dagger under his pillow; his flintlock tucked securely beneath the mattress.
Taking a long swallow from the tankard, he collapsed into a carved wooden chair he’d liberated during a raid the previous summer while rubbing a hand absently over his scruffy cheek. He could glimpse the blue sky out the porthole above the bed, the swaying of the ship bringing the deeper blue of the sea into view every few seconds. He was lulled by the hypnotic swaying of his ship, combined with the relaxin
g buzz of the rum. So much so, that at first he didn’t realize his cabin boy had returned, a steaming bowl of water in his hands.
He waved a beringed hand at a small table beside him. “The soap and razor are on the shelf over there,” he said, pointing across the room. Smith hurried over, setting the bowl on the table carefully, but still managing to splash a little on the polished wood. He gasped, using his shirttail to wipe up the water before retrieving the mug of soap and straight razor. Adding a little water to the mug, he began to swirl the shaving brush into the soap.
Jonathan eyed the boy carefully, noticing the nervous way he swallowed. He really was a little thing, practically skin and bones with wide amber eyes and cheeks smooth as a babe’s.
“You ever shave a man before, Smith?” he asked gruffly.
“Aye, sir.” His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat. “My . . . my father.”
The captain nodded, leaning his head back on the chair. “Well, carry on then.”
Smith reached for a strap attached to the side of the table and began to run the straight razor slowly back and forth before testing the edge against his thumb. He reached for the mug without meeting Jonathan’s gaze, and the captain closed his eye and felt the soft sweep of the brush against his skin. He could hear Smith’s shaky breaths and wondered why he seemed so terrified of him. When the boy set the mug aside and Jonathan felt the razor touch his cheek, his hand flashed up to grip Smith’s wrist as his eye narrowed on the boy’s reddened face.
“Take care,” he warned. “I’d not like to have to gut you because your hand slipped.” Tremayne’s hand gripped his dagger, slipping it from the scabbard with a quiet hiss to emphasize his words before laying it across his stomach.
Smith swallowed thickly and nodded. “Aye, sir.” He hesitated briefly before taking a deep breath and sliding the razor across the captain’s skin with a gentle scrape. Jonathan relaxed, but his fingers remained wrapped around his dagger as the boy shaved him, dipping the razor into the bowl of water between each stroke, and finally wiping his face with a piece of rough toweling. Jonathan reached for a small tin of salve on the table, dipping in his fingers before smoothing it over his cleanly shaven cheeks. The spicy scent wafted in the air, and he felt Smith watching him carefully.
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