The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  Dropping to the sand, Rowan began removing his boots. "'Tis a pleasant day and my crew can handle the careening while I'm gone. Why not rest, enjoy the scenery, have a little fun?" He looked up at her, the gleam in his eye matching the one on his earring. "You concern yourself overmuch with time and tasks and order."

  "And you seem to not concern yourself at all with them."

  He leapt to his feet and drew a deep breath. The wind frolicked among the strands of his hair. "Faith now, that is the fun of it, is it not? Not to restrict oneself with time or money or place, but to be free to live each moment, never knowing what the next will bring?"

  Just the thought of living like that made Morgan's insides coil. Her headache resurrected. She'd met far too many men like this one--careless, reckless, party animals who leapt from thrill to thrill, without a care who they hurt in the process, without a thought for work and paying bills and the responsibilities that most people had to deal with. These were the type of men her mother warned her to stay away from. They made bad boyfriends and even worse husbands. Sure they were good for a few laughs, but they rarely held down a job and were lazy, untrustworthy--and dangerous.

  Yet as Rowan made a dash for the water, a small part of Morgan wished she could be so carefree. If even for a day.

  "Come, dip your toes in, Lady Minx!" he yelled as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. Yup. She'd been right about his muscles. There they were in the bright sun, rolling across his back in a symphony of magnificence.

  She could stare at him all day. But wasn't that what got her into trouble with Jason? His good looks? Why was she so attracted to shallow men?

  Rowan dove head first into the foamy waves and disappeared, only to reappear a minute later several feet away. Grinning, he stood waist-deep in the turquoise water, raked back his wet hair, and gestured for her to join him.

  The entire scene could have been plucked from some silly romantic movie.

  Morgan wanted to remember it, implant it in her mind where she could conjure it up when she was hugging a toilet, throwing up from her chemo.

  Maybe she should do something crazy. Just this once. With this silly dress plastered to her skin, she'd much rather dip her entire body in the water, not just her toes. In fact, she'd love nothing more than to go frolicking among the waves with this way-too-handsome man and afterward bask in the sun on this private beach that was too close to paradise. But that was just it.

  There was no such thing as paradise.

  Still ... she bit her lip. If the annoying man insisted on staying here awhile, maybe a short swim couldn't hurt. She headed toward the waves, kicked off her shoes, sat to remove her garters, then rolled off her stockings. By the time she stood to remove her outer skirt, Rowan was wading toward her with the oddest expression on his face.

  "What, pray tell, are you doing, woman?"

  "Taking off this ridiculous outfit so I can swim."

  His astonishment transformed into a rather sexy grin. "Should you remove your attire, Lady Minx, I fear we will be here much longer than expected."

  She put hands on her hips. "And what does that mean?"

  "It means, that I am but a man, and a pirate by your own tongue. Ergo, I doubt I could resist so tempting a morsel."

  Tempting morsel? She'd never been called such a delightful term before. That and the look in his eye caused an odd sensation in her belly. "I'm not getting naked, you idiot. I'm just taking off a few of these layers."

  He rubbed his jaw. "You were terrified I'd stolen your purity last night, yet today, you all but beg me to do so."

  "I thought you asked me to join you?" She fumbled with the eyelets in back of her skirt but made no progress. "Here, can you get these?"

  "I asked your toes to join me," he returned and reached for the back of her skirt. She could almost feel his hand hesitating over her as if deciding whether to proceed. Finally, she heard him shuffle away.

  "You tempt me overmuch, Lady Minx, but alas, a gentleman does not steal favors from a woman whose senses are askew."

  "What?" She spun to give him a piece of her mind when something offshore caught her eye. It was a boat. A magnificent boat even larger than the one her father had hired. A flag fluttered in the breeze off one of the masts--a white cross on a blue background with a gold crest in the middle.

  Rowan followed her gaze, and without hesitation, darted to his shirt, shouting. "Get your shoes and stockings."

  "Why? Who is it?"

  "Now!" His tone was so urgent, she could do nothing but obey. Grabbing her things, she followed him back to the jungle where he scooped up his boots, sack, and weapons, then grabbed her hand and dove into the greenery.

  "What are you doing?" Her question was immediately silenced by his hand on her mouth as he forced her to crouch behind a bush.

  "'Tis the French. A navy frigate."

  Yea, right. She huffed silently. What did her father have planned for her now? A run for their lives? A battle at sea?

  Rowan lowered his hand. The heat from his body filled the air between them, tainting it with his scent of sweat and salt. Water dripped from his hair onto her shoulders, and she felt moisture seep into her skirts from his wet pants. His hot breath sent a tingle down her neck--a heady feeling that annoyed her with its pleasure.

  After the ship sailed out of sight, he cursed and rose to his feet. "Heading east," he said as he sheathed his sword and knife and tugged on his boots. "Put on your shoes, we must get to the Reckoning before they do."

  She did as he requested, struggling a bit with the stockings and garters, but finally stood and faced him. "Listen actor-man. I'm done. Go battle the French, shoot your cannons, drink your rum, do whatever you want, but tell my father I'm staying right here until he comes to get me." Despite enjoying this man's attention, she couldn't take this charade another minute. For one thing, it wasn't real. For another, she was starting to want it to be real. Which only meant she'd be devastated when it ended. And lastly, without her meds, her heart felt encased in barbed wire. She was hungry, thirsty, riddled with bug bites, and if she didn't have a bath in the next few hours, she would scream.

  "I haven't time for this, woman. I must warn my crew. If the French come upon us, we will all be captured or worse, executed."

  He started for her, but she dashed down the trail, batting leaves and branches and vines, thinking of nothing except ending this cruel play. Ending it because it could never be her life. It was a romantic adventure found only in movies and books and the naive dreams of young girls.

  No footsteps followed her. Good. Perhaps Rowan finally got the hint. Halting, she caught her breath and leaned against a tree trunk, dabbing her face with her sleeve.

  Something heavy plunked onto her shoulder. Petrified, she tried to move, but her feet wouldn't cooperate. She attempted to swat whatever it was away, but her hands had gone numb as well. The creature slid down her chest. Pulse racing, she lowered her chin and dared a peek. A snake! A snake as wide as a man's arm. It must be an Anaconda or Python or one of those man-eating snakes she'd seen on Animal Planet--the ones that could crush a person to death. It was cold and slippery and continued slithering over her as if she were part of the tree. Maybe if she stayed really still, it would think she was and go away.

  Leaves fluttered and the pirate-actor burst onto the scene.

  But it was the real terror in his eyes when he saw the snake that caused Morgan to panic. "Rowan ... help!" she said as softly and slowly as she could, but the snake coiled around her neck and began to squeeze.

  Chapter 9

  So this was how Morgan would die. Not by cancer or chemo, but by having every bone in her body crushed by a gargantuan snake. Wait. Her father wouldn't want this. He wouldn't have placed her in danger. The snake must be fake--one of those mechanical things she'd seen at Disneyland. Then why did it feel so clammy and gross? And why was the pressure on her neck halting her breath like a dam does a river?

  "Stay still," Rowan said as if she had a ch
oice. Yet the confidence in his tone did much to calm her nerves. He drew his knife and raised his gaze to hers. Fear. For the second time in as many minutes, she saw fear in his blue eyes--real fear. And that frightened her most of all.

  The snake continued to tighten its grip until it felt like an elephant sat on her neck. Okay. A little too realistic, Dad. She could no longer breathe. Panic spun her mind into chaos. She clawed at the beast.

  In one fluid motion, Rowan raised the knife and tossed it at her. What was he thinking? She slammed her eyes shut.

  The thud of metal into wood ricocheted through her ear. The pressure on her neck lessened. She gasped for air as the snake relinquished its hold and began thrashing against her legs. She screamed. Which meant she could breathe, thank God! Rowan grabbed her arm and yanked her from beneath the beast.

  Raising a hand to her galloping heart, she looked up to see the blade expertly placed between the reptile's eyes, pinning his head to the tree. The rest of its--now that she could see the entire thing--seven-foot body flailed through the air like a deranged whip.

  She ran to a nearby bush and threw up what remained of her mango.

  Thankfully, Rowan gave her privacy. Once she regained her dignity and wiped her mouth, she turned to find him retrieving his knife and kicking the odious snake aside.

  She wanted to thank him. She wanted to run into his arms and find safety there. But then she remembered this had all been staged. And the snake wasn't real. "You could have killed me!"

  At first he appeared hurt from her accusation, but then his smile returned. "Nigh impossible, Lady Minx. I'm quite an expert at knives."

  "But it was a possibility. You're not perfect, you know."

  He seemed to ponder this revelation as he wiped the knife on his pants. Wait. Was that blood on the blade? She crept toward the now-still snake to investigate when Rowan took her arm and dragged her back down the trail. "We haven't a moment to waste."

  She hadn't any strength left within her to fight, so she followed him, trying to match his heightened pace. Roots and rocks--and her skirts--tripped her. Fronds and ferns slapped her. But he only tightened his grip and all but hefted her off the ground. They didn't talk. Mainly because Morgan's mind was so numb, it couldn't form a coherent thought. Everything that had happened the past few days paraded through her vision like scenes from an adventure movie, each one mocking her sanity. It was as if she'd really been transported back in time. But that couldn't be.

  Time travel was impossible.

  ♥♥♥

  Back at camp, Rowan left the woman with Edith and immediately sent two of his men with a spyglass to the top of a nearby cliff. Thankfully, the Reckoning sat upright in the water, the lines latching it to the trees gone.

  "How is she?" he asked Nick who approached and stood beside him.

  "Careened an' the hole patched, Captain," he said, glancing over his shoulder at Morgan. "An' jist what mischeef have ye been about?"

  Rowan followed his gaze. "Not what you think. Unfortunately." He huffed. "But we have bigger problems. A French frigate."

  Nick's face crinkled as he scanned the horizon. "Where?"

  "Heading our way. Order half the men to load everything back onto the ship and the other half to collect as many palm fronds at they can." His gaze took in the jungle behind them. "Vines, leaves, anything green."

  "What are ye thinking?"

  "To hide if we can't run." Rowan gave him a look of alarm.

  "Och, now, she's that close?"

  One of the pirates Rowan had sent as a lookout came barreling toward him. Halting, the man leaned over to catch his breath.

  "Report man!" Rowan snapped.

  "We spotted 'er, Cap'n. A Frenchie she be. Looks t' be a thirty-two gun frigate."

  "Where stands she?"

  Tearing off his bandanna, the pirate wiped sweat from his neck. "Driftin' off the coast 'bout two miles to the west."

  "Drifting?" Nick asked.

  "Aye, she don't seem in a hurry."

  Rowan drew a deep breath. "Report again if she moves."

  The pirate darted off as Kerr joined them. "That doesn't give us enough time. If we stay here, she'll trap us. We must raise sail, Captain, and be off at once."

  Rowan snorted. "And make ourselves bait?"

  "He's right, Kerr." Nick frowned. "D'ye want her t' spot us an' give chase? They'll have the weather edge approaching from the east."

  "We're pirates, not yellow-livered sissies. I'd rather fight than be trapped like a fish in a net."

  Rowan shifted his boots in the sand and gazed at the sun high in the sky. "As would I. But a fair fight. Not one where we are outmatched and outgunned." He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. "Nay, we'll let them pass, and if the fates are with us, they'll go on their merry way without ever knowing we were here."

  Kerr gripped the pommel of his sword, one eye twitching. "You've grown soft, Captain, or perhaps 'tis the woman who makes you so."

  Insides churning, Rowan glared at the man. "Faith, you make too free with your opinions, Kerr. Mayhap when we are done here, I will show you just how soft I am."

  Fisting hands at his side, Kerr shifted his gaze away. Though Rowan knew the pirate longed for his own command, he also knew he didn't wish to die before he acquired it.

  "Load up these supplies and get everyone on board," Rowan ordered before turning to Nick. "Get to those leaves and vines. Lots of them. Make haste, we don't know how long we have."

  Both men took off, spouting orders.

  Rowan kicked ashes into the fire and scattered the logs, his gaze landing on Edith and Morgan sitting on a crate. Wind flapped his shirt, showering him with the lady's scent from where she'd laid her head during the night. He smiled. 'Twas the first night he'd ever spent with a woman fully clothed. Odd, but where he should feel naught but frustration, he felt only satisfaction. The lady had given him a peek at her heart last night, and he'd found in her a kindred spirit. 'Twould seem they were both wounded orphans, lost and alone. Yet there was so much more to this little minx, so much she kept hidden. She baffled him--so full of spitfire and pluck, it brought a smile to his lips even now. Lud, she'd been about to disrobe at the beach! One minute she behaved the chaste maiden, the next the wanton wench.

  Mayhap her presence had affected his decision to hide from the French Frigate. He rarely ran from a good fight. But he also rarely harbored such precious cargo.

  He stopped one of his topmen and ordered him to take the women back to the ship. Then he went in search of Cudney. He had a very important task for the master gunner. One upon which--if things didn't go as planned--would mean the difference between life and death for them all.

  ♥♥♥

  Her kingdom for a pair of jeans. Morgan would love to see any of these men try to climb a rope ladder in three petticoats and a ballooning skirt. And with the wind blowing all of the above into her face. Which is probably why they were not only gawking at her from below in the boat but laughing at her as well.

  "Come now, child, you pay them no mind." Edith helped her over the railing and led her toward a hatch. "Lemme git you a clean gown. Mabbe I can start the stove an' heat water for a bath."

  "That sounds heavenly, Edith." Morgan had never perspired so much in her life. With the aid of the sea breeze on the beach, her sweat-soaked underthings had finally dried, but as she and Edith wove around men darting across the deck, the material now rubbed against her legs like sandpaper. What was everyone so freaked out about? And why did the men form an assembly line hoisting all sorts of leaves and branches from the boats below up into the masts?

  The sound of hammering brought her gaze up to other men nailing the shrubbery to those same masts and also to the yards that crossed them.

  "What's going on?" she asked Edith.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, the woman glanced above. "Jist one of the Captain's ploys, I 'spect. Hiding us from the French."

  Incredible, the lengths these actors went to in order to make all this
seem real. "What happens if they spot us?"

  "Don't you worry, none, child. I sure the captain's got a plan for that too."

  To her left, several men erected a pulley system over the yards above, while others flung ropes around two cannons. It would all be very interesting. If it wasn't staged. "I suppose my father has an exciting sea battle planned."

  Edith's eyes widened. "Lord have mercy, I pray not. Nothing exciting 'bout gitting blown to bits."

  Morgan let out a long sigh as Edith led her below. Yet one thought gave her hope. Maybe this battle would be the grand finale, and her father was on that French ship waiting to take her home, or--knowing him--whisk her away to France or Switzerland where he'd procured the best cancer specialists money could buy.

  Against all logic and reason, the thought brought an unexpected sorrow. She shook her head, hoping to knock some sense into her flighty mind. Had she gone as crazy as these pirates claimed she was? She couldn't live in a fantasy forever. If her anxiety didn't kill her, without treatment, the cancer certainly would.

  Edith erected a curtain across her cabin in case Farley came in unannounced. Though she couldn't manage warm water, she did fetch several basins of fresh water, which Morgan used to wash the salt and grime from her body and hair. She could honestly say that she'd never enjoyed a bath more, nor felt more refreshed afterward. And though she begged Edith for her jeans and t-shirt, the woman brought her fresh petticoats and a clean gown instead, spouting some nonsense about her man-clothes being gone for good.

  The gown was a printed blue calico with gold embroidered flowers threaded throughout, bordered by a lacy ruffle at the hem and cuffs and finished off by a maroon bodice laced about her waist. She surprised herself at how pretty she felt, only confirmed by Edith who, upon standing back to examine her work, declared Morgan to be beautiful.

  Rarely had anyone called Morgan beautiful. Well, except her mother and the occasional guy trying to flatter his way into her bed. She twirled around as she'd seen women do in movies and delighted in the way the fabric swooshed and bounced.