He swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you.”
He started to open the door, and Rina called out, “Jonathan?”
He paused.
“I think they would understand,” she said. “Your crew, I mean. I think you could tell them the truth.”
Jonathan said nothing for a long moment, then he murmured, “Perhaps.” He held the door open, extending a palm. “After you, Smith.”
The sun had barely peeked over the horizon when Charlotte made her way up the stairs to the room of their current houseguest. She paused briefly in the filtered sunlight by Max’s door, laying a hand on the warm wood with a faint smile on her face.
Perhaps she would be able to spend a little time with him today before he swept out of her life again for who knew how long.
She could but hope. Charlotte’s visions regarding Max were often hazy and uncertain. She could only assume it was because her own emotions were so strong in the matter.
Hope was a powerful thing. Sometimes it could overshadow fate and make it difficult for her to discern what would be from what could be . . . and what she wished to be.
With a sigh, she moved on. There was no use worrying about it. Over the years, Charlotte had learned patience above all things.
She neared Rina’s door with a smile. Now, Rina was a different story altogether. Charlotte had seen her—sharp and vivid—years before she knew anything about her or the connection she would have with her brother.
At the thought of Jonathan, Charlotte released a light chuckle. Seeing the two of them together had been both amusing and intriguing. It was obvious there was an attraction there—Charlotte had foreseen that there would be—but they both seemed to be either denying it or fighting it for some unknown reason.
After the two returned to the sitting room the evening before, they’d both been pensive and distracted. Jonathan had eaten little, pressing Charlotte for information. She’d denied him, not to be cruel, but because she knew in order to get the answers he sought, she would have to be fully prepared. There were things to be gathered, rituals to be performed.
It could not be rushed.
Jonathan finally relented when she promised a reading at midday. He’d relaxed after that, laughing and smiling, and for a while, it seemed almost like the old days, the days before . . .
Charlotte sighed again and knocked lightly at the door. At Sarina’s quiet invitation, she pushed it open, poking her head through.
“Good morning,” Charlotte said quietly. “I’m sorry it’s so early, but I thought you might like an early-morning walk.”
Rina sat up in bed, brushing her hair back from her face. “Actually, that would be nice,” she said. “I have so many questions racing around in my head. I can’t sleep anymore anyway.”
Charlotte laughed as she walked into the room. “I thought you might,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up with interest.
Charlotte sat down on the edge of the bed. “There are things you should know that my brother does not talk about easily. I thought it might be easier if I shared them with you.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Not here,” Charlotte said, standing up and crossing the room to a large chest of drawers. “Let’s get outside and enjoy this morning air, and I’ll tell you all about our family and what has led us to these rather unique circumstances.” She turned around, offering Rina fresh clothing. “These are my mother’s. I think you two are of a similar stature, so they should fit adequately. The servants will bring up some water for you, then I’ll meet you outside?”
“All right,” she said, taking the clothes. “Thank you, Charlotte.”
She smiled softly. “I haven’t done anything yet,” she said. “But given what I’ve seen of you and my brother, I have a feeling I should be thanking you.”
Charlotte winked and left the room, Rina staring after her in confusion.
Rina washed and dressed quickly, eager to learn what Charlotte had to tell her. The green gown fit her better than the one she’d been wearing, and as she pinned her hair up into a loose bun and slipped on her shoes, she wondered a bit about Charlotte’s mother, and Jonathan’s, and, well . . . just about everything about the Tremayne family.
She padded quietly down the stairs, the house still silent in the early morning hours, save for an occasional clink or clatter from the kitchen, where she assumed breakfast preparations were underway. Charlotte waited for her on the front porch, and once again linked their arms to lead her away from the house. Rina chewed on her lip, her heart racing as she eyed the woman out of the corner of her eye.
“Go ahead and ask,” Charlotte said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Rina flushed and looked away. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“Pry. I have nothing to hide.”
Rina swallowed, then asked tentatively, “Is it true. That you’re a seer?”
Charlotte tilted her head in acknowledgement, but said nothing.
“You know the future?”
She let out a quiet laugh. “Nothing quite so simple,” she said. “My grandmother used to say the sight is like standing at a crossroads of a dozen paths. You may see what’s down the way of one, perhaps, but someone might choose to take another.”
“Your grandmother? Was she—“
“Like me?” Charlotte nodded. “Yes, she had the sight. I never met her in person, but she wrote to me a few times. The gift skipped over my mother, so it helped to have someone who understood.”
The air was cool but comfortable, a slight dew sparkling on the grass as they made their way past a row of small, brick buildings. A dark-skinned woman emerged from one, shaking a rug furiously, before raising a hand in greeting as she spotted them. Charlotte waved back.
“Does your family own many slaves?” Rina asked. In the daylight, she could see the property was much larger than she’d thought—with acres of fields stretching out behind the house. She could only guess at how many people it would take to maintain such a place.
“Oh, no,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “Father is an abolitionist. The fields are farmed by hired hands, as well as a few sharecroppers.”
Rina felt a sense of relief at that. “Your father seems like a good man.”
“He is. He tries to do what is right.” Her face clouded slightly. “Unfortunately, that is not always clear.”
“What do you mean?”
They approached the river and Charlotte led her to a fallen log. “Let’s sit here for a bit,” she said. “And I’ll start at the beginning.”
Rina settled next to her, looking over the rushing water. The sunlight glinted off the ripples, sparkling like so many diamonds, as Charlotte began her story.
“Father grew up like many of his class, in a life of privilege. Summers at the country estate, the Season in London, that kind of thing,” she said. “Of course, there were certain expectations that came along with being heir to Viscount Coffey, one of which was a suitable marriage. As daughter of a marquess of considerable wealth, Elisabeth Jacobs was a logical choice.”
“The captain’s mother,” Rina mused.
Charlotte nodded and continued. “Theirs was not a love match, but one of respect and resignation, I suppose one could say. They got on well enough, and although there was no great passion, their life seemed happy. Jonathan was born, and for a short time they were content. Unfortunately, as is often the case with such a marriage of convenience, respect began to erode, turning instead to regret.
“Then, my mother came along.”
“Grace,” Rina said, remembering the name Jonathan had mentioned the night before.
“Yes. She became the Tremaynes’ housekeeper, and—to hear her tell it—the attraction was instantaneous. Father was away conducting business when Elisabeth hired her, but when he returned . . . well, my mother says it was something akin to being struck by lightning.
“They fought it for many months, but all the while, Father an
d Elisabeth grew further apart. At first, the arguments escalated, then eventually, they began to ignore each other instead. They say anger can kill a marriage, but believe me, Sarina, apathy is a far more dangerous weapon.
“Elisabeth took a lover, and eventually, my father turned to my mother.” She looked out over the water, her face soft. “Perhaps it was wrong, but who can lay blame, really? When both were so unhappy . . . so lonely? I don’t know. Perhaps I only try to make excuses because if not for their indiscretion, I would not exist.”
Rina didn’t know how to respond to that, so she said nothing.
“When my mother told Father she was expecting, he was thrilled.” She glanced at Rina. “I know it seems strange, but he really was. He loved her so, and for them to share a child . . . Well, it was the one thing he could give her, even though he couldn’t give her his name.
“The scandal was disastrous, of course. Lord Tremayne was furious that his son would throw his life away on a common strumpet—his words,” she added with a wince. “Elisabeth was humiliated. It wasn’t the fact that my father had an affair, you understand, or even that he’d fathered a bastard. It was that it all became so very public.
“Elisabeth demanded they leave London, and both her parents and Father’s agreed. In fact, Lord Tremayne threatened to disinherit him if he did not take care of the situation satisfactorily. They decided to come to the Colonies.
“My father insisted that my mother come along. She was heavy with child, and he refused to leave her behind. Elisabeth begged him to reconsider, threatened to leave him, but he would not be swayed. So they all boarded a ship and ended up here. I was born shortly after we arrived.
“Elisabeth, however, said she could not bear the humiliation of sharing a house with her husband’s mistress. So, my mother took a small house on the edge of the property. Father cared for her—continues to care for her—and claimed me for his own, giving me his name, although I still feel awkward using it, to be perfectly honest. It seems a betrayal to my mother, since she does not have the same privilege.
“Lord Tremayne died a few years ago, the title passing to Father. His mother wrote and tried to persuade him to return to London, but he has a life here now. And he won’t leave my mother.”
“What happened to Elisabeth?”
Charlotte’s face fell. “She was killed.”
“She was murdered,” a low voice corrected.
Rina turned to see Jonathan standing a few feet behind them, looking past them at the river. He’d changed his clothes as well, now dressed in a fine dark suit with a brocade waistcoat. His long hair was caught neatly back in a queue, his normally scruffy face clean-shaven and his trademark red scarf replaced with a simple black hat.
Charlotte patted her arm gently. “I think Jonathan can tell you the rest,” she said, standing and rounding the log to head back in the direction they’d come. She paused next to Jonathan and reached out to squeeze his hand before continuing on her way. After a moment, he walked toward Rina and braced his foot on the log, leaning his elbows on his knee. They remained in silence for a while; the only sounds the rushing river and the occasional call of a bird overhead.
“It was Kane,” he said finally, eyes dropping to the log as he worked the heel of his shoe against the bark. Bits broke off, falling to the sand below. “He came to the house searching for the journal. My father was away . . . with Grace. My mother knew nothing of the journal, not that it mattered. I’m not certain exactly what happened. She was alone in the house—“ His voice broke, and Rina reached out instinctively to touch his hand. He stiffened and stepped over the log to walk to the water’s edge.
“It was a blow to the head of some kind,” he continued, his back to Sarina and voice so low she had to strain to hear him. “Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps not. In any regard, it doesn’t matter. Kane killed my mother.
“My father was never the same. Theirs was a loveless marriage, but he had vowed to protect my mother. He could never forgive himself that he wasn’t there to fulfill that vow. He punishes himself for that failure every day. It is why he denies himself happiness with the woman he loves, even all these years later.
“As for me, I chose to go after the man who killed my mother. It’s the reason I left home and boarded the Arrow.”
He turned his head to look at her, his expression fierce. “Now you know it all, Sarina. This is not just about my eye, or any treasure. It is not some kind of game. Not to me,” he said. “You are not the only one seeking vengeance. It appears we have more in common than you imagined.
“Kane destroyed my family,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will not stop until he is destroyed.”
Rina held his gaze, then stood and walked toward him. He watched her steadily as she looked up at him, then lifted a tentative hand to touch his cheek. He flinched but did not protest as she traced the scar beneath his eye patch, her hand finally coming to rest over his heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“I don’t seek your pity.”
“It is not pity,” she countered, willing him to believe her. “I understand.”
He looked away. “My father doesn’t.”
“He knows what you’re doing then?”
Jonathan sighed. “He suspects, but after so many arguments, he’s decided it’s best that we not discuss it. In any regard, he thinks I should give this all up and come home.”
“That’s not his choice.”
Jonathan turned back to her. “No, it’s not.”
“It all makes sense now,” she said. “When I told you why I wanted to find the man who killed my father, you never tried to discourage me. You never told me it was a foolish notion, or that I was doomed to fail. Many people did, you know.”
His lips quirked. “Well, I may not have said it . . .”
She smirked. “Now, don’t ruin the moment.”
He laughed.
“The point is,” she said, leaning forward slightly, determined he hear her. “I understand better than anyone your motives, the depth of your need to bring Kane to justice. For that is what it is, Jonathan. Justice. For you. For your family. And for me and mine.
“You say you want Kane destroyed. Well, so do I. I will help you in any way I can. I hope you believe that.”
Jonathan held her gaze for a long moment, then swallowed thickly, his hand moving to clasp hers where it still lay over his heart.
“Thank you,” he said, his thumb stroking her skin gently. Rina’s face heated and she stepped back, hand falling to her side.
“We should probably get back,” she said.
Jonathan nodded, clearing his throat. “Yes . . . yes, of course.” They started down the path toward the house. “Charlotte has promised a reading at midday, so after breakfast, I thought perhaps a bit of sword training.”
“Training? For who?”
“For you, of course.”
“Me?” Sarina came to a halt. “You’re joking.”
Jonathan grinned. “You’re a pirate now, Smith. You need to know how to use a sword.”
Rina chewed her lip, oddly intrigued by the idea. “You really think you could teach me?”
“Well, enough to keep you alive, at least,” he replied. “But it won’t be a gentlemanly type of swordplay. I hope that doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”
She snorted. “I don’t have delicate sensibilities.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
They turned to continue toward the house. “What do you mean? About gentlemanly swordplay?” she asked. “Are you saying you’re going to teach me to fight dirty?”
Jonathan laughed, the sound ringing clear through the air.
“We’re pirates, Smith,” he said with a wide smile. “Of course we fight dirty.”
The New Year brings with it unwelcome news. I have received word that the expedition has left port and is sailing for the mainland.
Time is running out, I fear. I can no longer wait for the
ice to melt. I journey south before week’s end.
I can only pray that God will see me safely delivered to warmer climes.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 2 January, 1665
“It’s these skirts! How am I supposed to be able to lunge or parry or move in these ridiculous skirts?” Sarina threw her sword to the ground in frustration. Jonathan fought to keep a straight face, but he feared he was failing miserably.
“For heaven’s sake, Jonathan, don’t you dare laugh at me!”
“I don’t know why you insist on complaining about things you can do nothing about, Smith,” he said instead, holding his own cutlass aloft and waving her forward with his other hand. “Now, let’s try again.”
She fisted her hands on her hips, glaring at him for a moment in the dim light filtering through the windows of the barn behind his father’s home. She bit her lip, then bent over at the waist to pick up the hem of her dress. Jonathan watched in surprise as she gathered the skirts between her legs and tucked them into her waistband. He tried not to stare at the lower half of her legs exposed by the action, but he could hardly be blamed for his inability to do so.
“What . . . what are you doing?” he asked in a choked voice.
“I’m up here,” she replied dryly, waiting patiently for him to raise his gaze to her eyes. “I need more freedom of movement,” she explained. “I trust this isn’t too much for your delicate sensibilities?” She smirked, mimicking his earlier words, and picked up her sword.
“Now, let’s try again,” she said.
“Very well.” Jonathan straightened, focusing on the goal at hand. “Remember, you must try to deflect the blow so you don’t receive the full impact. Your size and agility are your strengths.”
“I know.” She nodded impatiently. “Slip. Slide. Spin. Smack.”
“Precisely. Ready?”
Sarina held her sword with both hands in front of her, eyes focused in grim determination. “Ready.”
Jonathan moved in—slower than usual, but not so slow it wouldn’t be a challenge for her. He swung the cutlass in a wide arc from right to left, pleased when Sarina stepped back and to the side to evade the worst of the assault.
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