The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  No sooner had the men finished unloading the cargo from the ship, than a few of them, with ropes in hand, climbed into the sails and tied the ropes around the masts. She watched with interest as they tossed the other ends of the ropes to men in boats below, who rowed them to shore and tied them to trees.. Within minutes, they created a pulley system, which they used to pull the top of the boat toward shore, exposing half of its bottom.

  "Why are they tipping the boat?"

  "They needs to careen the bottom, you know, from barnacles an' rot and sich. An' then they'll mend the hole in the hull from the shot we took."

  Morgan had never heard of such a thing. But then again, she didn't know much about boats. "Wow. My father thought of everything. You guys are really great at this."

  Edith studied her with concern. "You don't look well, child. I'll go gets you some water."

  Morgan grabbed her hand, stopping her from rising and thanking God for the perfect opening. "I need to talk to you about something, Edith. I have an important doctor's appointment ... or I did." She paused and stared into the woman's kind eyes. "Listen, I'm sick." Morgan assumed--no, hoped--her father had an ounce of decency and had not told the actors about her condition. She hated when people knew. She'd learned that lesson early on when she'd made the mistake of telling a few friends at work. One had immediately backed away as if cancer was contagious. The next friend became overly emotional and started acting as if Morgan were already eight feet under. The third friend offered a curt sympathetic phrase like "How horrible" or "I'm so sorry" but then quickly changed the subject. And the last friend--her religious friend--had told her she mustn't worry, that God had a plan, that He would either heal her or help her through it.

  Exactly what her mother had said right before she became such a blubbering, sobbing mess that Morgan had to numb her with pills and platitudes ... when it had been Morgan who had needed comfort the most.

  "You's ill, child?" Edith's voice brought Morgan's thoughts to the present as the woman took her other hand. "I knows some healing. Using herbs an' sich. I learnt it from the apothecary who owned me. Jist tell me what ails you."

  "It's nothing you can help with." Morgan snapped hair from her face. "Listen. You seem like a decent person. I'm begging you. I'm not enjoying this adventure my father has staged. I just want to go home. I need to go home. Can you please have Rowan, or whoever he is, call my father?"

  "Your father?" Edith placed the back of her hand on Morgan's cheek. "You ain't feverish. That be good. I dunno who your papa is, child, but I sure the captain will take you home as soon as he can. Now, don't you be worrying none."

  Edith's warm smile made Morgan almost believe her.

  But Morgan didn't believe in happy endings.

  The chime of metal snapped her gaze down shore where two actors had drawn their swords. Bare-chested and barefooted, they shuffled through the sand, kicking up grains, and slashing their blades through the air.

  She breathed out a ragged sigh. "Well, I suppose a good sword fight was to be expected."

  Edith must have mistaken her comment for fear because she patted her arm. "They's jist playing, child."

  "I have cancer." Morgan blurted out. "My father hired you all to keep my mind off of it, but it's not working. I need to go home and get treatment."

  "Goodness be, child." Shock and sorrow poured from Edith's eyes, along with concern--true concern. "No wonder you's so pale and your tummy's bothering you," she continued. "I knows jist the thing." Her voice spiked with hope as she struggled to rise and ambled away before Morgan could stop her.

  No doubt to contact Morgan's father. Good.

  Laughter that seemed to mock her newfound hope rumbled down the beach where the fight had finished and several men now sat drinking from bottles. Rum, no doubt, for that would be the drink of choice for pirates. Beyond them, other men had rowed out to the ship and were doing something to the hull.

  If they were going to stay the night shouldn't someone be setting up tents and folding chairs, or maybe a grill or two? Morgan had always hated camping. Too much dirt, too many bugs, and not enough order and comfort. Instead, these actors sat around drinking and playing swords, while all the crates and barrels they brought ashore remained in a disorderly heap on the sand.

  While she sat here sweating like a pig.

  Boastful shouts, followed by laughter filled the air and the captain flung off his shirt and drew his sword. Another man did the same, and the two stepped to the center of the drinking mob and began to fight.

  Morgan's traitorous eyes landed on Rowan's bare chest, and the air suddenly grew warmer. Oh my. Muscular wasn't the right word. Brawny? No. Powerful. Yes, that fit. It wasn't the type of chest she'd seen a thousand times at the beach--the gym-made chest where muscles bulged in weird, awkward places and looked more like balloons inflated beneath skin. No, Rowan's chest was firm and round in all the right spots, as if he actually used his muscles for a living instead of created them with machines. Which affirmed her guess that he was a stunt man.

  What also affirmed her assumption was the graceful way he moved--a quick leap here, a dive there, a sudden spin--and the skill he had with his sword, beating back his opponent one minute and swerving to meet his attacker the next. Morgan had only seen sword fights in the movies where camera angles and editing made it look almost real. This sword fight wouldn't need any special tricks to make it appear authentic.

  Rowan leapt to the side to avoid the other man's thrust. Laughing, he slashed his opponent's sword away, then ducked to prick his thigh with the tip of his blade. Growling, the man swung madly at his captain, but Rowan met each slash expertly with his blade, muscles rolling across his back as he went. Skillfully and quickly, he struck the man's hand with the hilt of his sword, sending his opponent's blade to the ground.

  Grimacing, the man wiped sweat from his brow and picked up his sword. The mob cheered and continued their drinking as Edith returned with a mug half-filled with what looked like sludge.

  "Anamu tea." Edith handed her the drink. "I didn't have hot water so's you's gonna have to drink it cold. Go on now," she added when Morgan hesitated at the smell. "Anamu s'pose to cure cancer."

  And, apparently, from the smell, it could cure an appetite too. Morgan took a gulp anyway, sure her expression was twisting into a dozen knots. "Thank you, Edith. Did you find a phone to call my father?"

  Edith's expression knotted, but her attention was quickly diverted down shore. "The captain comes. You can ask him 'bout your father yourself, child."

  Morgan faced the jungle, not wanting to stare at the man and feed his overblown vanity.

  His footsteps sounded behind her, and she slowly rose, tea in hand, and took a sip as if she didn't notice his presence.

  He cleared his throat. She turned to face him, shocked when his powerful chest filled her vision. She spewed the Anamu tea all over his pants.

  "Seems ye have the same effect on all the lasses, eh?" Nick said as he strolled up beside his captain.

  Rowan--or whatever his name was--stared at the spray on his pants and the drops glistening over the--oh, my--six-pack rippling over his belly.

  "Wow, ah ... I'm really sorry. I didn't expect to see ..." Such a magnificent chest up close. "... you ... here." Okay, she was mumbling, and she had no idea why. He should be the one apologizing to her for putting her through all of this.

  Edith shook her head. "Where be your manners, Captain. Put on a shirt in front of a lady." Taking the mug from Morgan, she sped away. "I'll make some more."

  "Beware your tongue, woman," Rowan called after her with a playful tone.

  Gathering herself, Morgan backed away and raised her gaze to his. "If you came to ask me to play swords with you, I must say no."

  Nick laughed.

  Sunlight winked at her from the earring in Rowan's ear as if taunting her. "Alack, the idea is not without merit." He grinned. "However, I've come to tell you my men will build a shelter for you and Edith." He jerked his thumb
over his shoulder at a group of men who resembled Hell's Angels heading her way with hammers, saws, and ropes.

  "I don't want some crude shelter, and I refuse to sleep in the sand. I am sick, and I demand you stop this insanity and take me home."

  They both looked at her as if she'd sprouted horns.

  "All right. I'm outta here." Clutching her ridiculous skirts, she turned and started down the beach away from the camp.

  "Faith now, and where do you think you're going?" Rowan shouted after her.

  "I'm sure there's a resort or hotel or at least a small town on this island, and I intend to find it and call my father." Despite her confident tone, she tripped yet again over her skirts and uttered a curse under her breath.

  She heard only groans for replies as she slogged forward and rounded a small bend which led to more beach and more jungle. After a few moments, she glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but white sand and trees. Good. They hadn't followed her.

  She started forward again. How big could this island be anyway?

  ♥♥♥

  "Let her be." Rowan raised an arm to block Nick's advance.

  "But, Captain, the wee lass may get hurt."

  "She can't go far, Nick. 'Tis but a small island without much to harm her, save birds and spiders. She can walk around the length of it in three hours." Rowan gazed up at the sun, nearly above them now. "The lass needs to be taught a lesson--several, in fact. The first is to respect those in whose hands her safety and purity lie. Forsooth, but she irks me with her sharp tongue!"

  Nick chuckled. "I'll grant ye, I've never seen ye so vexed by a lass."

  "And you won't again. Not after I leave her at Charles Town. Faith, does the woman not realize that in the hands of any other pirate captain, she'd be chained to the bed? On her back?"

  Nick gave a half smile and adjusted his plaid cravat. "Then the good Lord put her on the right ship."

  "The good Lord has naught to do with that thieving minx," Rowan spat, then waved off the men coming to erect a shelter. If she didn't want privacy and protection, then she would get neither. With a growl, he strode back to camp, suddenly needing a drink.

  Nick fell in beside him. "What of the code she claims t' know? Don't ye wish yer precious map deciphered?"

  The sun's rays lashed Rowan's back, and he grabbed his shirt from the sand and threw it over his head. "No doubt she'll be in a more cooperative mood when she returns. At which time I will order her to tell me what the code means or pay the price."

  "An' if she truly doesna know?"

  "Then I know someone in Charles Town who might. Either way, I will have my map deciphered and the treasure to which it leads." He smiled. Enough treasure to make up for all his past sins and establish him and his sister in luxury. "And then I shall quit this roistering, Nick, as you've begged me repeatedly to do, and settle down. Mayhap get a wife and breed a bevy of little pirates."

  "Och, now, laying aside yer stealing and pilfering, that would indeed make me verra happy. But ye settle down? Now that I'll hav't' see."

  "Quit pirating?" Kerr's incredulous voice sounded behind Rowan before he appeared beside him. "Not you, Captain. Never. Once you taste this freebooter's life, how can you ever go back?"

  Nick gave a disdainful chuckle. "So ye'll be stealing an' raping when ye are old an' gray, eh Kerr?"

  The pirate shrugged. "I've made it to seven and twenty when most pirates are long since rotting in Davy Jones' locker. When I meet my fate, 'twill be in a blaze of glory with my cutlass in one hand and a buxom wench in the other."

  "At the rate ye're drinking and whoring, I wouldna expect you to see thirty."

  Kerr snorted in response and glanced toward the ship being careened.

  Rowan followed his gaze, noting how hard his men were working in the hot sun. "In an hour, call in those men and replace them with another ten. Then another group two hours after that. Continue until sundown. I want to leave this island as soon as possible." He glanced out to sea, a band of glittering sapphire rolling toward the horizon. Though the Reckoning was well hidden behind the arm of the cove, they made easy prey for enemies sailing past.

  And Rowan had many enemies.

  With a nod, Kerr sauntered away, already shouting orders before he reached the surf.

  Nick went off to read one of his many books, leaving Rowan with his thoughts. They unavoidably leapt to the lady who called herself Morgan. The only Morgan that Rowan had known was the aging once-famous pirate Henry Morgan. And this lady was just as fickle, crazy, and fearless as he.

  Rowan took to drink. It seemed the logical thing to do instead of traipsing after her like some cowering toady. With bottle in hand, he strolled the beach, kicking up sand, shouting orders to anyone in earshot to unload supplies, build a fire, scavenge for fruit, and catch some fish. Anything to keep his mind off the blasted woman.

  But it didn't work. He plunked to the sand, bottle half empty, and gazed at the rainbow of colors swirling on the horizon. It was nearly dark and the lady had not returned.

  Mayhap he should not have allowed her to leave. He took another swig and squeezed his eyes shut to stop the world from spinning. Kerr had called in the last shift from the ship, and the men assembled around the fire, roasting the fish they'd caught and passing around jugs of rum. In an hour they'd be fighting, singing, or unconscious.

  Movement came from that direction. A barrel emerged from the flames and waddled his way. But it wasn't a barrel. It was Rowan's bosun, Abbot. Shorter than Rowan and built like a cannon, the man always made Rowan nervous. Mayhap 'twas his glass eye that always seemed to be staring at Rowan. Mayhap 'twas that his bulging arms were bigger than his thighs, making him look as though he'd tip over at any minute. Regardless, whatever dire news the man had to tell Rowan, he was not in the mood. Abbot stopped before him, shifting his feet in the sand, his one glass eye pointed out to sea while his other eye stared at Rowan.

  "What is it, Abbot?"

  "I thought ye should know, Cap'n, Adney and Pax took off after the lady."

  "What?" Rowan struggled to his feet, then waited for the ground to stop moving. "When?"

  "An hour, mabbe two. They snuck off that way sayin' they was goin' to find her and have some fun."

  Chapter 6

  Morgan needed her meds. Ever since she was fourteen and diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and acute anxiety, she'd never been without them for more than a day. Now it had been at least that and more. Chaos ran rampant around her, ratcheting up her heartrate and playing havoc with her breathing. She tripped over a root and stumbled down the dirt path. Leaves the size of elephant ears flapped at her as she passed. Bugs as big as coffee mugs--man, could she use one of those iced coffees now, the ones with the whipped cream on top--dove for her. Massive spider webs hung like fish nets between trees, trying to trap her. She shivered, imagining the size of the spiders that must have made them. Trees and vines entwined to form a terrifying labyrinth. Even the path was chaotic, narrow one minute, wide the next, and crisscrossed with dangerous, spindly roots. She took to numbering the rocks along the way--anything to add a pinch of structure and keep her from curling up in the fetal position under a bush.

  Didn't her father remember that she needed her meds? Probably not. He didn't seem to remember much of anything about Morgan, not even her birthday.

  A bird squawked overhead, flapping its wings and strutting back and forth across a branch, where a ray of sunlight illuminated its gorgeous purple and yellow feathers. It stared down at Morgan with one eye as if she were an alien from another planet. Maybe she was, for this island didn't feel like any place on earth she'd ever been. Where the heck was she? She had combed the beach for hours and found no glimpse of civilization--not a restaurant, fishing village, hotel, nothing. Not even a boat dock. Quite odd since it seemed a lovely spot for a secluded spa--maybe a Sandals or even a private resort for rich people.

  She knew she was in trouble when she'd come upon the pirate camp again. Realizing s
he'd circled the entire island, she'd done an about-face and decided to head inland. Maybe some rich guy owned the island and built a vacation home on top of one of the hills that rose from the shore. But now her feet ached, her side hurt, her mouth felt like it was stuffed with sand, and her nerves were wound so tight she feared she might faint at any moment.

  To make matters worse, it was growing dark. Something she had not thought of in her desperation to find a way home. Shadows slunk from behind trees and shrubs rose from the dirt like ghouls in a horror film. She hugged herself and continued onward as a chorus of katydids rose to grate on her already frayed nerves.

  Wait. Was that the sound of water? Turning toward the bubbling chorus, she plowed through leaves and vines, not caring about anything but cooling her burning tongue. She tripped over a rock, and before she could grab onto anything, lost her balance and fell down an incline. Tree trunks, roots, and rocks rose up to strike her as she tumbled down ... down ... down... and landed face first in the mud.

  Wet slime oozed over her cheeks and crept into her nose with each breath. Every inch of her body ached. Especially her right side where the cancer continued to devour her. Could things get any worse?

  Two pairs of footsteps slurped through the mud to stand beside her. "There ye be, sweet flower. We 'ad a 'ard time findin' ye."

  Apparently, yes. Shoving her palms into the muck, she pried her cheek from the ooze and sat. The shadowy figures of two of the pirate actors leered at her as if she were their last meal.

  "You've got to be kidding me." Growling, she rose and batted mud from her dress. "What do you want?"

  The short one spit and then ran a sleeve over his mouth. "We want ye, ye steamy wench. How's about a little love fer yer fellow man?"

  "Or men." The other brute of man chuckled. "Aye, she be a rare blossom ready t' be plucked, says I."