For Charlotte was the only one who knew, apart from Max, that Jonathan’s single-minded goal to seek out the relics wasn’t about treasure, at least not entirely.
It was about beating him. It was about finding him.
For once Jonathan found the man responsible for his nightmares and his wounds, wounds that flowed much more deeply than a few scars, he would make him pay.
The name sizzled through his brain, burning behind his eyes.
Kane.
The man had taken everything from him, destroyed his family, destroyed his life. And Jonathan would not rest until he repaid the favor.
He absently noticed as Sarina turned from the water and walked back through the doorway toward his quarters.
She would have her vengeance, too.
But only after she helped him get his.
I see now why they call it the New World. It is a vast, uncharted land, full of mysteries and wonder. Perhaps, once my mission is complete I may explore it further.
Until then, I have secured transportation south. I am leery to set foot on a ship again, so will travel by land as far as I am able. Perhaps the warmer seas of the Caribbean will prove more hospitable than the violent Atlantic.
I can yet but hope.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 23 October, 1664
“Damn it, Smith!”
Rina smirked as she scrubbed the captain’s laundry, his voice echoing up the passageway to the deck. She rubbed a bit of soap into his breeches and dipped them into the water as she began to hum lightly.
In a moment, Tremayne appeared in the doorway, and Sarina had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. He had a shirt over his head, but one hand was caught in the sleeve where she’d sewn the cuff shut. The other sleeve was completely missing, the armhole sewn closed, so his right hand stuck out the hem of his shirt. His gaze swept the deck until he spotted her, then he stalked over, a murderous scowl on his face.
Rina wrung out the breeches and set them in her basket before drying her hands on her apron and looking up.
“Good morning, Captain,” she said cheerfully, getting to her feet.
“Good morning?” he bellowed. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
She gazed at him blankly. “I’m certain I have no idea what you mean.”
“Oh, well I’m certain you most certainly do!” He sneered, waving his sleeve at her. “Look what you’ve done to my shirt!”
She examined the sleeve carefully. “It would appear the sleeve has been sewn shut, sir.”
“Oh, really?” he said mockingly, shaking the sleeve at her face. “I hadn’t noticed!”
Rina fought to maintain her innocent expression. “That’s rather surprising. I would imagine it makes it difficult to wear.”
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. “You think this is funny? Do you? Well, we’ll see how funny it is when you’re chained to the mizzen!”
She frowned. “You can’t be serious.”
“Try me,” Tremayne snarled. “Baines!”
For the first time, Rina noticed the curious glances of the crew gathered nearby. Rafferty, his nose still swollen and bruised, glared at her—a usual occurrence of late—and turned to head belowdecks. The first mate hurried forward.
“Aye, Cap’n?”
“Put this woman in irons!” Tremayne pointed at Rina with his sewed-up sleeve. Baines bit his lip, and for a split-second Sarina thought he might have been amused, but just as quickly, his expression sobered.
“Aye, Cap’n,” he said gruffly, taking Rina by the arm and leading her to one of the masts. Another crewman stepped forward with shackles, and Baines pushed her back, stretching her arms behind her and part way around the mast before locking the shackles around her wrists.
“You can’t leave me like this!” she shouted.
Baines arched a brow. “’Tis not a good idea to anger the captain.”
“No, wait.” Tremayne stepped forward, tapping his chin with his free hand. Sarina tried not to notice the expanse of golden skin exposed by the motion. “Bind her to the mast, but free her hands. She still has work to do.”
Rina huffed. “As if I’d do anything for you, you barbarian!”
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Tremayne hissed. “Or you’ll spend the rest of this voyage tied to this post. Don’t test me, wench. You. Will. Lose.”
Baines and the other crewman approached with a length of rope. “You should probably sit down,” he suggested. Sarina considered refusing for a moment, but then he added, “You’re likely to be there for a while. It will be more comfortable.”
Rina lifted her chin but slid down the post to sit on the deck. They tied her firmly, the rope looped around her waist and just under her arms, before releasing the shackles.
Tremayne watched with satisfaction, pulling on the ropes to test their strength before nodding at Baines in approval. “Get one of the boys to retrieve my trunk so the wench can get to work.” He turned to her, pulling off his shirt and tossing it into her lap. “I expect all of my clothes to be mended properly before you’re released,” he snarled. “All of them. And do not toy with me, Smith, or you will pay dearly.”
She met his glare with one of her own, trying desperately to avoid looking at his bare chest. Her cheeks flamed with anger and embarrassment, but she knew she’d been bested, at least this time. Her gaze dropped, and she heard Tremayne’s victorious chuckle.
He turned on his heel and strode toward the wheel as a young boy dragged Tremayne’s trunk over to her and threw open the lid. He handed her a sewing kit and scurried off without a word. Rina picked up the shirt with a frown and began to pull out the stitches on the cuff.
She sighed heavily, annoyed at herself for letting this childish bit of retribution drive her further from her goal. She was supposed to get closer to Tremayne, not make him angry. He was just so blasted arrogant it was difficult for her to hold back. Her temper was proving to be her worst enemy.
Rina grimaced, knowing what she had to do. She had to gain Tremayne’s trust. Which meant she had to be . . . nice. No matter how distasteful the thought, how irritating and frustrating and infuriating the man was, it was the only way. She rolled her shoulders, trying to relax her muscles.
She could do it. She could be nice. How hard could it be?
Rina snipped a thread, glancing up at Tremayne surreptitiously. He stood at the helm, talking with Crawley, his fingers loosely wrapped around the wheel.
She definitely did not notice the way his golden skin played over the muscles of his back, or the way his breeches hung on his hips, his sword belt cutting in slightly to the exposed flesh.
She did not notice the glint of his teeth as he laughed at something Crawley said.
She did not feel her stomach flip or her skin heat as he stretched his arms up and his belt slipped just a little lower.
And she most definitely did not burst out laughing at the sight of the sock she’d sewn into the back seam of Tremayne’s trousers, currently flapping about like the tail of a dog.
Instead she smiled and got back to work, thinking it was completely worth it. Even if she had ended up tied to the mizzen mast.
Jonathan kept a close eye on Sarina as she mended his clothing, or rather, re-mended it. He tried not to show his surprise at the rather impressive pile of garments around her. The wench had obviously been pretty determined in her efforts.
He couldn’t keep back a slight smile at the idea. For such a tiny thing, she was a worthy adversary, he had to admit.
As the sun peaked, he quietly ordered that she be brought some water and a bit of hardtack. Despite Sarina’s opinion, he was not, in fact, a barbarian. Eventually, he made his way over to her, picking up a shirt and examining it closely before pulling it over his head. He looked down at her, surprised when her eyes dropped and her cheeks flushed pink.
He opened his mouth to comment but for once found he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he turned to Max.
�
��Check her work, and if it’s done satisfactorily, cut her loose,” he said gruffly.
Max nodded, and—to Jonathan’s surprise—Sarina smiled up at him sweetly.
“Thank you,” she said.
Jonathan stared at her for a moment, unsure of how to respond. His eye narrowed. “Don’t be trying your feminine wiles on me, Smith.”
“Wiles?” Sarina said innocently. “I am just trying to make peace, Captain. You were right. I shouldn’t have done this to your clothes. It was childish, and I apologize.” The ropes loosened and she got to her feet, stretching with a wide smile. “It feels good to be free again. I suppose I should get all of this put away, yes?” Jonathan watched in shock, unable to look away as she gathered the folded clothes, put them in the trunk, and closed it with a satisfied sigh.
She turned to Max. “Mister Baines, do you suppose you could have someone take this back to the captain’s quarters for me? It is a bit heavy, and I really should see to the captain’s supper.”
“Um.” Max glanced nervously at Jonathan, who had yet to find his tongue. “Yes . . . yes, of course, Miss. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you,” she said, brushing her hands over her skirt and flashing Jonathan another bright smile before heading toward the galley. Jonathan and Max watched her go in stunned silence.
“What in the world was that all about?” Max murmured.
“I have no idea,” Jonathan replied. “But I don’t trust that wench for a second.”
“I don’t blame you,” Max replied. “Have you seen the seat of your trousers?”
Jonathan’s hand flew to his backside, and he growled in frustration when he felt the sock dangling behind him. “That woman is evil incarnate.”
Max smirked. “You just don’t like the fact that she’s not afraid of you.”
“Well, she should be,” he retorted. “I can’t decide if she’s incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”
“She’s not stupid.”
“No, I suppose not,” Jonathan admitted, turning to head to his quarters.
Max hefted the trunk and walked beside him. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? Keeping her on board?”
“You’re not going to give me that superstitious nonsense about a woman on a ship being bad luck.”
“I’m not the one with a sock sewn to my arse, am I?” At the captain’s glare, he forced a sober look. “Superstition or not, a woman on board is a bad idea. The men don’t like it.”
“What they like or don’t like is irrelevant in this case.”
“I understand you wish to make her pay—“
“It’s not about that.” Jonathan glanced about to ensure their privacy before replying, his voice barely a whisper. “She’s Danny Talbot’s daughter,” he said. “It’s possible she has information that could prove useful.”
“And you think she’ll be sharing that information with you?” Max snorted, shifting the weight of the trunk. “She doesn’t exactly seem to like you, let alone trust you.”
“Not yet, but she’ll come around.”
“Oh? What makes you so certain?”
Jonathan grinned, holding his arms wide. “How can she resist?”
Rina gritted her teeth as she approached the captain’s quarters, his booming laughter grating on her nerves. She took a deep breath before walking through the open doorway, painting on a smile and balancing his supper tray carefully in her hands. She hummed as she set the tray on the table, arranging the plate and silver and straightening the napkin before pouring a tankard of rum.
“I hope you’re hungry!” She looked up to find Tremayne and Baines staring at her suspiciously. Perhaps she’d overdone it. Was it possible to be too nice?
“Is something wrong?” she asked innocently.
The two men exchanged a look and Tremayne approached the table, sat down and took a tentative bite of his meat. Baines sat across from him and poured rum into another mug, drinking it down in two gulps, an amused smile on his face.
“My boots need polishing, Smith,” Tremayne said gruffly. “And the bed linens need to be changed and washed.”
She glanced mournfully at the pile of linens and blankets on the bed. Washing them would take forever.
“Of course,” she said, the words catching slightly.
“You’ll need to scrub the floor,” he added. “Be sure to move the furniture so you can get it all.”
Baines emitted a choked sound, quickly covering it with another swallow of rum.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you can see to my chamber pot.”
Rina stiffened. “Your chamber pot?”
Tremayne chewed on a piece of bread. “It needs to be emptied, then scrubbed thoroughly.”
“But . . .” She swallowed, trying to keep control of her temper.
Be nice, she thought. “But, I thought we agreed no chamber pots.”
The captain shrugged, washing down a mouthful of food with some rum. “My chamber pot needs cleaning, so I’m renegotiating our agreement.”
“You . . . you can’t do that!”
Be nice.
“No?” he asked. “I believe I just did.”
Rina inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Again. And again.
It wasn’t helping.
“Or,” Tremayne continued, his tone conversational as he swiveled in his seat, eyeing her intently. “You could tell me exactly what you’re up to, Smith.”
Rina swallowed, her anger quickly giving way to nervousness. “What do you mean?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I can tolerate many things. But if we are to adhere to this agreement between you and me, one thing I demand is honesty.”
“Honesty?” she huffed. “As if you know the meaning of the word!”
“I know it doesn’t mean pretending to be some dim-witted female in order to gain my trust.”
Rina flushed. Apparently her ruse was not as successful as she’d hoped.
“I may withhold certain information, but I have never lied to you,” he added.
“Oh?” she said, hands propped on her hips. “Then tell me what you know of my father.”
Tremayne became suddenly interested in his plate, pushing the food around with his fork. Baines swirled a finger around the rim of his tankard, eyes flickering from the captain to Sarina and back again with interest.
“Come now, Captain,” Rina wheedled. “Where is all of this newfound honesty? You knew his name. You knew he had a daughter. What I don’t understand is how a no-good—“ Her words cut off at his irritated glare. “How a pirate became acquainted with a law-abiding businessman like my father.”
Tremayne considered her challenge for a moment, then glanced at Baines and jerked his head slightly. The first mate rose and left the room without a word, closing the door behind him. The captain gestured toward the now empty chair across from him, and with an irritated huff, Rina sat down.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you know of your father,” he said. Rina rolled her eyes in annoyance, and he held up a hand. “Just bear with me, please,” he said. “It would be simpler for me to fill in the blanks than to tell you things you already know.”
She frowned, annoyed at the idea that Tremayne would know any of the blanks in her father’s life, but she nodded in acquiescence anyway.
“My father was a good man,” she said. “He served in the Royal Navy for most of my life. My mother died when I was born, and his sister, my aunt, cared for me while he was at sea. She died of the influenza when I was fourteen, and he resigned his commission so he could return home to be with me.
“He took up a position in trade and became quite successful. Then, one night a noise awakened me—a gunshot—and I found him in his study . . .” Her words trailed off as she swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I found him,” she said roughly, suddenly taken back to that moment, her memories playing out before her. “He lay bleeding on the carpet. There was blood everywhere . . .” She swiped at her cheeks, unsur
e when she’d begun to cry. “The room had been ransacked, papers everywhere, but all I could see was him. I dropped to my knees, and he looked up at me as I took his head in my lap.” She droned on, in a daze as the memories swept over her. “He tried to speak, but his mouth filled with blood.
“In the end, he said only one word,” she said, fixing him with a tear-filled stare.
“What did he say?” His jaw flexed, and she knew he already knew.
“Tremayne.”
He looked away, his voice a gruff whisper. “And that is why you think I killed him? Because he said my name?”
Rina took a deep breath, gathering herself. “Of course not. I didn’t even know who you were, after all. I hired an investigator, who looked into the matter. He was the one who pointed me in your direction.
“But why else, Captain? Why else would he say your name with his dying breath, other than to identify you as his murderer?”
Tremayne gazed unseeingly for a long moment, and Sarina began to wonder if he would reply. Then he turned and looked into her eyes, and she was shocked at the intensity there . . . the resolve.
“Because Danny Talbot never sailed for the Crown,” he said. “He was a pirate. And for a few short years, he was my friend.”
In the warm waters south of Jamaica, the pirate ship Abaddon’s Curse stood at full alert, her crew braced for battle with swords and pistols drawn. With a confident swagger, the ship’s captain strode across the deck, watching an approaching vessel with wary, yet confident, eyes.
It was not a Crown ship and was smaller than his own, so Captain Kane—known for many years as Kane the Merciless that his proper surname was long forgotten—felt no compulsion to flee. Instead, he readied his crew for the encounter with high hopes there might be some treasure to be had at the end of the day. Why the ship was headed toward them at full sail had him a bit curious, however, and with an unspoken order, he held out a hand to his first mate, Barton. The man placed a spyglass in his palm, and Kane raised it to his eye, the ship coming into focus.
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