Sarina reached out beside her, her fingers searching the desktop for something . . . anything to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around an object, but she dared not look to see what it was.
“It can’t be,” he said, his eyes dropping from her face to her body as his shock loosened his hold on her ever so slightly.
Seizing the moment, Sarina lifted the heavy paperweight and with all her strength slammed it into Tremayne’s temple. His eye widened in surprise as his grip on her tightened painfully. She lifted her hand to strike again, but the captain crumpled to the floor. Sarina stood over him, her heart racing wildly as she tried desperately to breathe.
Had she done it? Was he dead?
A moment of euphoria was followed almost immediately by a wave of nausea. She looked down at his slumped form, the paperweight still clutched in her hand. Her dazed gaze drifted to the small statue she held—a bronze casting of a roaring lion standing on its hind legs. A dark smear marred the metal, and as it dripped onto her hand, Sarina realized what it was.
Blood. His blood.
With a whimper, Sarina dropped the paperweight, and it hit the wooden floor with a thunk, coming to rest against his shoulder. More blood trickled from his head, winding its way through his tangled hair to seep into the floorboards.
Sarina’s hand flew to her mouth as she dropped to her knees.
What had she done?
True, Jonathan Tremayne was a murderer. But now . . . now, she was as well.
Suddenly, the door to the cabin burst open and Max Baines rushed in.
“Captain, a Crown ship approaches!” His words ended on a shocked gasp as he took in the scene before him. Sarina jumped to her feet, fear and panic pushing aside the guilt that paralyzed her. She dashed for the door, only to be caught up into the first mate’s strong arms. He held her in an iron grip, her toes barely touching the floor.
“Release me!” She kicked at him, but he held her easily. A moan from the floor had both of them stilling their motions.
“He lives,” Sarina murmured in relief, quickly followed by a chill of fear.
She would die. Unless she could escape, she would die.
Tremayne groaned again, drawing Baines’ attention, and Sarina fought against her instincts and went limp, feigning a swoon. The first mate adjusted his grip, muttering in complaint, and Sarina took the opportunity to sink her teeth into his arm . . . hard.
Baines jerked in surprise, and Sarina whirled about, kicking her knee between his legs with all her strength. With a loud groan, his body closed in on itself, falling to the floor next to the captain.
Sarina knew it was only a matter of time before someone else came looking, so she dashed for the door, pausing only long enough to pluck her father’s cutlass off Tremayne’s desk. She ran for the stairs, keeping to the shadows, and emerged onto the deck, walking quickly and avoiding eye contact with anyone. The crew ignored her as they hurried about, securing the load and preparing to get underway. She ducked behind a pile of canvas and took a deep breath, trying to think of her next move.
Her eyes darted about the deck, looking for a place to hide.
But she knew there was no place to hide. Once the captain regained consciousness, his crew would tear the ship apart looking for her.
. . . a Crown ship approaches!
Baines’ words wormed their way into her mind. A Crown ship? She turned to survey the horizon, biting her lip at the sight of the ship bearing down on them, and the long expanse of swirling sea before it.
Could she make it? Sarina was a strong swimmer, but the thought filled her with apprehension. She glanced back at the doorway leading to the captain’s quarters.
It was her only hope.
With grim determination, she gripped the cutlass tightly, then drew the belt over her head and one arm and secured the buckle about her body. She climbed up onto the gunwale, relieved to find one of the boarding ropes dangling nearby.
She wouldn’t have to jump.
Sarina grabbed onto the rope, wincing at the scrape against her tender skin. Holding herself away from the hull with her legs, she slowly slid down the rope, hand over hand, all the while listening for the alert she knew was coming.
Afraid she was running out of time, Sarina took a deep breath and released the rope, plunging into the angry sea. She pulled against the water, and broke the surface with a sputter and gasp as the waves carried her away, helping her toward the English ship and away from the Black Arrow. After a while, she glanced back to find the Arrow at full sail, cutting through the water away from her . . . fleeing the Crown ship.
Sarina smiled and began to swim.
Captain Tremayne held the spyglass to his eye, his jaw clenched in anger and determination. Through it he saw young Smith—no . . . young Talbot, he corrected—on board the HMS Intrepid. His cutlass glinted in the sunlight, and she waved her arms as she spoke to the crewmen on board. After a moment, the commander of the vessel appeared.
Stanton. Commodore Lucius Stanton. Jonathan knew him well.
The Black Arrow had easily evaded the Intrepid, circling around the island before cutting into a hidden bay. It was a trick that Tremayne had used in the past, and one that had yet to fail him. Changing sails, they’d raised the English colors, but still stayed far enough away from the Intrepid as they followed it to avoid identification.
“Captain?” Max approached him, holding out a rag. “You’re still bleeding.”
“It will pass,” he growled, but took the rag anyway, pressing it to his temple. The wench had gotten the better of him, but her actions would not go unpunished.
The first mate followed his gaze to the Intrepid. “Are we going after her, then?” Tremayne had revealed Smith’s true identity to him.
“Aye.”
“Stanton won’t like it.”
“No, I don’t expect he will.”
“Perhaps it would be better to leave it alone.”
“No,” Jonathan snapped, glaring at his friend. “Miss Talbot will answer for her deeds. And I will have my cutlass returned.”
“It was her father’s,” he reminded the captain.
“Was,” he replied shortly, looking through the spyglass again. “Now, it is mine.”
Max decided against the obvious comment that it was actually Commodore Stanton’s at the moment. Instead, he asked, “What will you do with her when we get her?”
Jonathan smiled slightly at the thought.
“You wouldn’t . . .” Max cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t force the girl, would you?” Although she’d all but emasculated him, the first mate still would not wish such a fate on anyone.
“You know better than to ask that,” the captain replied distastefully. Still, there were ways for him to get his revenge, short of raping the girl. No, he was not one to harm a female—even one as infuriating as the Talbot chit—but she would pay.
“What will you do?” Max asked.
Jonathan smiled again, watching two of Stanton’s men take the girl by the arms to drag her away. He could almost hear her protests and he chuckled slightly. Evidently, the Intrepid was not the refuge she’d hoped for.
“Jonathan?” Max asked again. “What will you do?”
The Talbot girl kicked one of the guards in the shin, and this time Jonathan laughed out loud.
“Just have a bit o’ fun, Max,” he told his first mate. “Just have a good bit o’ fun.”
I overheard something today I believe too outlandish to be truth. Still, however, I feel I must investigate. I hesitate to record the conversation here, lest it be discovered without my knowledge and all my plans will be for naught.
Perhaps when I learn more. This situation demands I take utmost care.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 28 May, 1664
“No, you don’t understand!” Sarina struggled against the strong hands holding her. “Please, allow me to explain!”
The two guards ignored her pleas, pausing only to strip her father’s cutlass
from her body before forcing her through a low doorway. She cast one last frantic look over her shoulder, but Commodore Stanton had turned away to address a member of his crew.
Sarina fought a surge of panic and tears. Her wet clothes dripped on the wooden floors as she stumbled down the narrow passageway, and she shivered, her muscles still aching after her long swim. Only desperation had kept her arms reaching, her legs kicking, as she fought against the crashing waves, the Crown ship disappearing then reappearing as she topped every white-tipped crest. She’d thought the Intrepid would be her salvation. Instead, she’d been treated like a common criminal.
The commodore had looked down his nose at her distastefully as she heaved and panted, trying to catch her breath.
“Please . . . please . . .” she’d managed to gasp out, before unceremoniously falling to her knees and vomiting on the deck. Wiping the cuff of her shirt across her mouth, Sarina had stood on shaky legs only to face Stanton’s icy blue eyes, no longer curious, but hard and cold. It only took a moment for Sarina to determine the reason why. Behind him stood the passengers of the Enchanted Lady, including the woman who’d pled to keep her mother’s necklace. She pointed a shaking finger at Sarina in accusation, her head held high.
“He’s a thief,” she said in a firm voice, “one of the pirates who besieged us, the murderous monsters!”
Stanton had spared not a moment ordering that Sarina be thrown in chains.
“The Crown does not tolerate piracy,” he’d snarled at her.
“No . . I’m not . . .” Sarina’s heart raced, but the words in her defense would not form on her lips. She still could not catch her breath.
“Fear not. You will be treated fairly and will stand trial,” Stanton had assured her blandly. “But if found guilty, be assured you will hang.”
Sarina’s blood froze. “No!”
“Take him,” he’d ordered, not sparing her a second thought once he’d turned away.
How had it come to this? She’d been overconfident, Sarina had to admit, racing forward when she should have trod carefully. But when she’d learned the identity of her father’s killer, a single focus had taken over her mind—to find and kill Jonathan Tremayne. And when she had the opportunity to take a position on his ship—to get close enough to accomplish her vengeful goal—she hadn’t thought twice.
She should have.
One of the guards released her, stepping forward to unlock a wooden door. It swung open with a creak, and Sarina squinted into its dark interior. A stack of casks and crates stood along the walls of a storeroom of some sort. The guard stepped in and around the corner, only to re-emerge with a pair of shackles dangling from his hands.
“No, please. I must speak to the commodore,” Sarina pleaded, desperate to avoid those chains. “I’m not what he thinks I am. Please!”
The guards said nothing as they shackled her hands and shoved her into the room. After locking the shackles to a chain bolted to the floor, the men left, locking the door behind them.
“Please!” she shouted at the door as the darkness enveloped her. “I’m not a criminal! I need to speak to the commodore!” Sarina shuffled toward the door, fear setting in as the weight of the chain pulled at her arms. A small barred window near the top of the door revealed the profile of one of her captors.
“Listen!” she exclaimed, an idea forming. “I can help the commodore. Tell him . . . tell him I have information about One-Eyed Jack Tremayne!” She held her breath, waiting for a response. Surely, Commodore Stanton could not resist such temptation. Tremayne was an enemy to the Crown, a murderer and thief. Capturing such a man would ensure the commodore’s advancement, perhaps gaining him a title and lands in acknowledgement of his service.
The guard said nothing, but after a moment she heard him speaking with the other man in a low voice. Sarina sighed, her eyes scanning the small room for a means of escape or a weapon of some sort. Shuffling slowly along the chilled walls, she circled the tiny room as far as her chains would allow, but there was no other opening save a small porthole high upon the wall. She was considering the possibility of opening one of the crates with no tools when a quiet voice called out to her.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
She jumped, despite the low tenor of the man’s voice.
“Hello?” he said again, slightly louder.
Sarina turned in the direction of the voice, but could only make out dim shapes and shadows of the cargo before her. She stumbled awkwardly across the small room.
“Where are you?” she asked, her voice a near-whisper to avoid the guards overhearing.
“Here,” the voice replied. “In the corner.”
Sarina held out her chained hands, fumbling her way through a small opening in the stack of crates. Squinting in the dim light, she could just make out a large black shape in the corner, a man huddled inside a small cell.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Are you all right?” She started toward him, stopped short by the chain. “Who are you?” she asked hesitantly. The man was obviously a criminal of some sort, and she dared not venture too near to him.
The man chuckled, almost as if reading her mind. “I will not harm you,” he assured her. “Tell me, why would the commodore take a wench into custody? Did you steal the silver whilst your patron slept?”
Sarina stiffened at the intimation that she was a lady of ill repute. “Patron? I’ll have you know—“ She stopped mid-sentence. “Wait. How did you know I am a lady?”
“I do not believe I called you a lady,” he replied with a laugh.
“Do not insult me, sir.”
“James.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“My name is James. James Ceron.”
Sarina sniffed. “Well, Mister Ceron. I am a lady and not of the sort you imply. But since I am attired in the garb of a man, I am curious how you realized this fact.”
“I cannot see you.”
“What?”
“It is dark. I cannot see you, so I know nothing of your attire,” he said, a tinge of annoyance in his tone. “But your voice is obviously that of a female, which leads me back to my original question. Why are you here?”
Sarina sat heavily on a nearby crate and reached up absently to rub at the necklace she always wore under her clothes. It had been a risk to keep it on, but the necklace was a gift from her father and it always brought her comfort.
“It is all a misunderstanding,” she said finally.
“It usually is.” He laughed. Sarina noticed a slight lilt to the man’s voice, a musical accent she’d heard often in the islands.
“The commodore believes me to be a pirate,” she said.
“But you are not.”
“Of course not!”
“Why does he believe you to be?”
Sarina paused, unsure of how much to tell this stranger. “I was in disguise . . . on a secret mission aboard a pirate’s vessel. I needed to act the part, lest I be discovered by the crew.”
“A mission for whom?”
“For myself.”
“What type of mission?”
“That . . . is private,” she replied after a moment. “What of you? What lands you in the commodore’s clutches?”
“A similar charge.” He adjusted his position and gasped slightly in pain.
“You’re injured,” she observed, unable to mask her concern.
James laughed humorlessly. “The commodore’s methods of persuasion are a bit primitive.”
“He beat you?”
“Not him,” he corrected. “His men. It matters not, though. Worse awaits me when we make port.”
“You’ll get a fair trial, certainly?”
James shifted again. “Well, Miss . . .”
“Talbot.” Uncertain why, she hurried to add, “Sarina Talbot. But you may . . . my friends call me Rina.”
“Are we friends?” She could hear the laughter in his voice.
“I would think our current situation obviates the need for
social convention.”
“Obviates? Perhaps you are a lady, after all.” He choked on a laugh, then groaned in pain.
“Are you all right?”
She could see the shadow of him waving a hand in dismissal. “What were we discussing? Ah, yes, my fair trial.” He gripped the bars to lower himself to the floor. He sat, his back against the wall, but the cell was not large enough for him to stretch his legs.
“I’d thought you’d know, Miss—Rina—fair trials are not for men like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You cannot see me.”
Rina blinked, unsure of what that had to do with anything. “I see you. Well, a little at least.”
“I am of these islands, Rina,” he explained, his voice hard. “I am not English, nor my skin pale enough to warrant a fair trial. I will be fortunate if I am able to enjoy a last meal before I’m sent to the gallows.”
Rina was silent, absorbing his words for a moment. Then, she asked, “Are you . . . are you guilty?”
“I stole food for a starving family. If that is indeed a crime, I am guilty.”
Rina shivered and pulled her knees up onto the crate, wrapping her shackled arms around them. “That doesn’t seem wrong. How can they accuse you?”
“I would think you, of all people, would know not every person accused of a crime is guilty of it.”
She started, then felt a small smile lift her lips. “How are you so certain that I’m not guilty?”
She saw a flash of white and imagined the man was smiling widely.
“I am an excellent judge of character,” he replied.
It was under the cover of darkness that Captain Jonathan Tremayne and his crew made their advancement upon the HMS Intrepid, stealing along silently, not a word spoken lest their approach be overheard.
Tremayne nodded at Baines, who in turn whispered a command to a mate at his left. Jonathan winced at the sound of the anchor chain grating against the hull and prayed that the crash of the surf would muffle it.
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