Footsteps sounded behind her.
Her chest tightened. She quickened her pace.
More shuffling. The crunch of gravel. A man coughed.
She glanced over her shoulder. Two bulky shadows followed her.
Air seized in her throat. She hurried her pace and nearly tripped on the uneven pavement. The footfalls grew louder. Grabbing her skirts, she started to run. Where were the night watchmen? Why, oh why, had she been foolish enough to bring all of her money with her? Lord, please … her prayer fell limp from her lips. God had never answered her petitions before. Why would He now?
She crossed Light Street. A cat meowed.
A man jumped out of an alleyway in front of her. Cassandra screamed and spun around. The two men approached her. Shadows swirled over their faces, masking their features. “What do you want?” Her voice came out as a squeak.
“We wants what’s in yer purse there, miss.”
Luke took another swig of rum and squinted into the shadows where Biron had disappeared. Across the street, a lady walked alone. Two, maybe three men crept behind her. Foolish girl. From her attire, he could tell she wasn’t one of the tavern wenches. What was she doing wandering about the docks so late? Luke flipped the hair from his face and slowly set his bottle down. The ship eased over a ripple and the bottle shifted, scraping over the oak planks. The men continued their pursuit. Luke shook his head. The last thing he needed was more trouble. He shouldn’t get involved. He should stay on his ship. But the rum soured in his stomach. Oh, lud. With that, Luke shot to his feet. Searching the deck for his sword, he sheathed it and leaped onto the dock. The woman started to run. Another man leapt out in front of her. They had her surrounded.
Cassandra’s pulse roared in her ears. Her legs wobbled. She would not allow these ruffians to steal all that kept her and her family from starvation. Her terror quickly turned to anger. She jutted out her chin. “Well, you cannot have it, sir!”
“If you give us the purse, there’ll be no trouble.”
“Oh, I assure you gentlemen, if you do not leave this instant, there’ll be more trouble than you can handle.”
The men exchanged mirthful glances then broke into fits of laughter.
Cassandra ground her teeth together. She grew tired of being laughed at. Tired of being told what she could and couldn’t do.
One of the men, a short, greasy-looking fellow, approached, hand extended. She recognized him as one of the men at the coffeehouse. “Give it up, miss.”
“You’ll have to pry it out of my dead hands.”
The slimy man grabbed her arm. Pain shot into her shoulder. “If ye insist.”
CHAPTER 2
Cassandra struggled against the man’s grip. “How dare you!” She pounded her reticule atop his head. Tossing up his other arm to fend off her blows, he ducked and spewed obscenities, while his companions held their stomachs in laughter.
Fury pinched every nerve into action. She would not lose this money. She could not lose this money. Her life and the lives of her family depended on it.
The man’s grip tightened. Pain spiked through her arm and into her fingers. They grew cold and numb. Raising her leg, she thrust her shoe into his groin. He released her and doubled over with a groan. The other men stopped laughing. Thick fingers grabbed her arms on both sides. She screeched in pain.
“That’s enough out o’ you, miss. Now hand over that purse!” The man to her right—who looked more like a toad than a man—shouted, sending a spray of spittle and foul breath over her. Strands of hair hung in his bloated face as his venomous eyes stabbed her with hatred. He reached for her reticule.
Cassandra thrashed her legs. Her thrusts met nothing but air. The men on either side of her tightened their grips. She cried out in pain. Her palms grew moist. Toad-man released her and yanked the purse from her hands.
Somewhere a bell rang, chiming her doom.
“Give that back to me at once!” Cassandra grasped for her reticule, but the man jumped out of her reach and gave her a yellowed grin in return.
All hope spilled from Cassandra, leaving her numb. This couldn’t be happening. “Please,” she begged. “It’s all I have.”
“Not anymore.” The bald man on her left lifted his beak-like nose and chortled.
She kicked him in the shin. He cursed and leaned over, pinching her arm even tighter and dragging her down with him.
The toad chuckled.
When Cassandra righted herself, she saw the tip of a cutlass slice through the darkness, cutting off toad-man’s laughter at his neck. The sharp point pierced his skin. A trickle of blood dripped onto his grimy shirt. He froze. His eyes widened. Cassandra’s gaze traced the length of the blade to a tall, dark-haired man at the hilt end, his face hidden in the shadows. “Return the lady’s reticule, if you please, sir,” a deep, yet oddly familiar voice demanded.
Cassandra released her breath. Her thrashing heart slowed its pace. Dare she hope for rescue?
“And you.” The dark man nodded toward the beak-nosed ruffian still clutching her left arm. “Release her and back away, or your friend will forfeit his head.”
A salty breeze swirled around them like a tempest, as if some unknown force were examining the proceedings. Despite the chill of the evening, a trickle of sweat slid down the toad’s forehead. Beak-nose released her arm. Cassandra rubbed it, feeling her blood return.
The third man, whom Cassandra had kicked, slowly rose from the ground and slid a hand inside his coat.
Cassandra opened her mouth to warn her rescuer, but with lightning speed, he plucked a pistol from his coat, cocked it, and pointed it at the villain. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The third man raised his hands in the air.
Her rescuer turned back to Toad-man. “I said return the lady’s reticule.” He pressed the tip further into the man’s skin. He yelped. More blood spilled.
“Whatever you say. Whatever you say.” With a trembling arm, he held Cassandra’s purse out to her. Snatching it, she pressed it against her bosom and took a step back, her heart slowing its pace.
“What are you doin’, George?” Beak-nose whined. “There’s three o’ us and only one o’ him.”
“Ye aren’t the one wit’ a sword in yer neck, are ye, now?”
Her rescuer faced Beak-nose. A sheen of moonlight drifted over his face, over his firm stubbled jaw, strong nose, high forehead, and raven hair. Cassandra’s mouth fell open. Luke Heaton. Her friend Noah Brenin’s roguish first mate—the man he had tossed from his privateer for drunkenness and cheating at cards.
“I told you to unhand her,” he demanded.
Beak-nose gave a cynical laugh that sent a tremble of fear through Cassandra. “As you wish.” In one fluid motion, he released her arm and drew a sword from his belt, leveling it upon Mr. Heaton.
“What … ye goin’ to do … now, hero?” Toad-man’s voice came out broken beneath the tip of Luke’s sword.
Beak-nose thrust his sword at Mr. Heaton. Leaping back, Luke blocked the slash with his blade. The chime of steel on steel vibrated a chill down Cassandra’s back. The toad rubbed his neck and gazed at the blood on his hand as if he could not conceive from whence it had come.
With his gun still cocked and pointed at the third man, Luke met each thrust of Beak-nose’s sword blow for blow. The chime of their blades rang through the night like the warning bells of Christ’s Church. Cassandra gripped her throat. She should take her money and run. No man could fight such odds and win.
But how could she leave? Rogue or not, Mr. Heaton risked his life for her. She must do something to help. Frantic, Cassandra scanned the surroundings. A stack of bricks lay on the side of the building, no doubt for repairs. She grabbed one. The rough stone snagged her silk gloves as she crept toward Toad-man.
Beak-nose brought his blade down once again on Mr. Heaton. Moonlight glinted off the metal as grunts filled the air. Leaping out of its path, Heaton swung about and drove the man back with a rapid par
ry. The whoosh whoosh whoosh of his blade filled the air. His last swipe sent Beak-nose’s sword clanging to the ground. He quickly snatched it up. But before he could recover, Mr. Heaton lunged toward him with a ferocious assault that sent the man reeling.
Taking advantage of the moment, the toad drew his sword. Cassandra gasped. She raised her hands to strike him with the brick. He swung around, growling, and shoved her aside. Arms failing, she dropped the brick and tumbled to the dirt. Pain shot up her back.
With blade extended, Toad-man advanced toward Luke. Still holding his pistol in one hand, Mr. Heaton fired at him. He missed. The crack pierced the night air as the smell of gunpowder bit Cassandra’s nose. The toad emitted a vile chuckle. Tossing the weapon down, Mr. Heaton swung his cutlass in his direction. He ducked beneath Toad-man’s clumsy slash then met his advance with such force, it spun the man around. Sweeping his sword back to the left, Mr. Heaton countered Beak-nose’s next attack.
Cassandra’s head grew light. She glanced down the street for anyone who could help. No one was in sight. Yet Mr. Heaton seemed more than capable of handling these two men. But not capable of keeping his eye on the third man, who finally managed to extract his pistol from his coat and aim it at Mr. Heaton.
Grabbing her skirts, she jumped to her feet and retrieved the brick. Raising it above her head, she closed her eyes and brought it down on the man’s head. A sharp crack made her wince. Followed by a moan. She peered through her lashes to see him topple to the ground in a heap. Her gaze locked upon Mr. Heaton’s. A slight grin crossed his lips before he turned to meet Toad-man’s next charge.
In fact, Mr. Heaton continued to fight both men off with more skill and finesse than Cassandra had ever witnessed. Where the ruffians groaned and heaved and dripped in sweat, Mr. Heaton carried himself with a calm, urbane confidence. Finally his blade met the toad’s left shoulder, eliciting a scream from the man that quite resembled a woman’s. Clutching his arm, the villain sped into the night, leaving his partner gaping at Luke, his chest heaving. He backed away, dropped his blade, and uttered, “It’s not worth this,” before bolting down the street.
Sheathing his sword, Mr. Heaton collected his pistol from the ground, slid it inside his coat, and slapped his hands together as if this sort of thing happened every day. He started toward Cassandra. Her heart vaulted into her throat. Perhaps she was no safer with him than she had been with the scoundrels who’d assaulted her. He was the town rogue, after all. A drunkard and a ruffian. He halted, towering over her by at least a foot, and she resisted the urge to take a step back. He smelled of wood and rum. Recognition flickered in his eyes and something else—pleasant surprise? “Are you harmed, Miss Channing?”
“No, Mr. Heaton.” She gripped her reticule. “I thank you, sir, for coming to my aid.”
He glanced at the man lying in a heap in the dirt. “I’ve never seen a woman defend herself with a brick.” His lopsided grin sent an odd jolt through her heart.
“It does not always require a man’s strength to defeat a foe.”
“Indeed.” He chuckled. “Then perhaps I should have left you to your own devices. No doubt you could have pummeled them all unconscious.”
Cassandra narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps I could have.”
“Nevertheless, miss, you shouldn’t walk about town at night without benefit of an escort.”
“Lately, there are many things I’m told I should not do.”
He swayed slightly on his feet and the smell of rum once again stung her nose. “Indeed. I suffer from the same malady.”
“I doubt our situations are comparable.” She glanced at the dark frame of a schooner tied at the dock. “How did you come to my rescue so suddenly? I did not see anyone else about.”
“I was working on my ship when I spotted you across the street.”
His ship. But she’d heard no one would hire him as a captain. “A privateer?”
Mr. Heaton gazed at the vessel bobbing in the harbor and sighed. “Alas, she could be one day.” He gestured toward her reticule. “What is it you have in your reticule that would lure such rats from their holes?”
She eyed him suspiciously, wishing she could see the details of his face more clearly. “Nothing of import.” She gripped it tighter. “I had business at the Merchants Coffee House.” A chill prickled her skin. Surely this man wouldn’t attempt to rob her after he’d defended her so admirably. She took a step back. “I thank you again, Mr. Heaton, but I really must be on my way.”
“Allow me to escort you home.” Closing the distance between them once again, he proffered his elbow. His massive chest spanned her vision even as his body heat cloaked her in warmth. Her breath quickened.
“There is no need.” Turning, she waved him off. “I’m sure there are no more ruffians afoot.” Except you, perhaps.
Mr. Heaton fell in step beside her. “Nevertheless, I would never forgive myself should any harm come to you, especially carrying such a fortune.”
Shock halted her. “What did you say?”
One dark brow rose. “They wouldn’t accept your money, would they?”
Cassandra flattened her lips.
Mr. Heaton scratched the stubble on his chin. “I was aware of the proceedings at the coffee shop tonight, miss. I would have been there myself looking for investors if I’d thought anyone in town would take a chance on me as captain.” Sorrow weighed his voice.
Cassandra took in this news and allowed it to stir excitement within her. If only for a moment. But no. Even if he would take her money, Mr. Heaton was not a man to be trusted. She clutched her reticule closer and started on her way.
Clearing his throat, he walked beside her. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Channing. I am no thief. A gambler, perhaps, even a libertine, but no thief.” He stumbled but quickly leveled his steps.
Cassandra shook her head. How on earth had he managed to wield his sword so skillfully in his condition? She stopped and faced him. “You are drunk, sir.”
“Ah, yes.” He gave her a rakish grin. “How could I forget? Apparently, I’m also a sot.”
Cassandra searched for a glimpse of his eyes in the darkness, but the shadows denied her. How could he joke about such a disgusting habit?
“Wondering how I managed to fend off three men?”
“Two.” She lifted her chin. “I took care of one of them.”
He chuckled and reached up as if to touch the loose strands of her hair.
She began walking again. “Please leave me be, Mr. Heaton. I thank you for your assistance. Good night.”
“You should see my swordplay when I’m sober, miss,” he shouted after her.
“I’d rather not see you at all, Mr. Heaton.”
She heard his footsteps behind her. Turning right onto Howard Street, she quickened her pace. Without the street lights—kept in darkness due to the war—she could barely make out the gravel road. The crunch of her shoes on the pebbles echoed against the brick warehouses on her right. One glance over her shoulder told her that Mr. Heaton still followed her, though he remained at a distance. If his reputation wasn’t so besmirched, she might find his actions quite chivalrous. Instead, suspicion rankled her mind.
Down Eutaw Street, Cassandra halted before her small yard—the shadow of a two-story brick house loomed behind a garden of red roses and goldenrods. She swung about to say good night and nearly bumped into Mr. Heaton.
“Oh, forgive me, Miss Channing.” Yet he didn’t step back as propriety demanded. Turning, she headed up the stone path to the door.
“If you’re seeking a ship to invest in, Miss Channing, mine is quite available.” His boot steps followed her.
She faced him. “I am seeking a reputable ship, Mr. Heaton. With a reputable captain.” She feigned a smile. The lantern light perched outside her door reflected a devilish gleam in his eyes—blue eyes. She could see them now, mere inches from her own face. Her heart took up a traitorous thump. “Preferably a sober one.”
“I’ve b
een at sea my whole life. Sober or not, I’ll make a good captain and bring you a fortune in prizes. Ask your friend, Noah.”
“I have,” she said, lifting a brow. “He warned me to stay away from you.”
Mr. Heaton chuckled and tugged on his right earlobe. “He did, did he?” His eyes scoured over her as if assessing her for some nefarious purpose. “Good advice, I’d say.” A sad smile tugged on his lips. “Well then, I bid you good night, Miss Channing.” He bowed slightly and turned to leave.
Slipping inside her door, Cassandra closed and bolted it, then she leaned back against the sturdy wood. No matter if his was the last privateer in the city, she would never align herself with Mr. Luke Heaton.
CHAPTER 3
The sound of Mr. Heaton’s boots crunching over the gravel as he departed drifted in through the window to Cassandra’s right, while her mind whirled with the events of the evening. A muddle of emotions knotted in her gut: from anger to terror back to anger again and finally settling on an odd feeling that heated her face and tightened her belly—a feeling she could not name.
A jumble of wheat-colored curls flew from the library door, followed by a screech that burned Cassandra’s ears. Darlene barreled down the hallway with Mr. Dayle fast on her heels. Or as fast as the young footman could be with four-year-old Hannah clinging to his leg like a barnacle to the hull of a ship. Dexter, their sheepdog, flopped in after them, barking.
A groan sounded from within the closed parlor to Cassandra’s left.
“Cassie, you’re home!” Darlene shouted, but before Cassandra could wrap her arms around her sister, the child slipped behind her, hiding in the folds of her gown.
Shuffling over the wooden floor like a sailor with a peg leg, Mr. Dayle halted before Cassandra. Dexter sat by his side and stared up at them—though Cassandra couldn’t be entirely sure the dog could see anything through the curtain of fur covering his eyes. His tongue hung from his mouth. Giggles drifted up Cassandra’s back and over her shoulders to bounce off Mr. Dayle’s rather bedraggled, yet comely face. Light from the chandelier spilled on his blond hair, thick mustache, and fair eyebrows, making him appear to glow. “My apologies for not meeting you at the door, miss, but there appears to be something wrong with my leg.”
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