The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  "Wish we could do something 'bout that hair of yours." Edith shook her head as Morgan tied her damp hair behind her. "But I got no proper pins."

  Footsteps pounded above, along with shouts and commands, some of which were Rowan's. His deep tenor--as soothing as hot cocoa and as powerful as a cannon blast--was unmistakable. Yet now there was an urgent edge to it, and she wondered why they put on a show when she wasn't around to watch. She was about to ask Edith when the woman left, muttering to herself, and returned within moments with a plateful of fruit, salted beef, and a pot of cold tea.

  Edith bowed her head and offered a blessing for the food that, even for its brevity, sounded more genuine than any Morgan had ever heard. And she'd heard her share of blessings. When they both sat to enjoy their meal, a strange silence gripped the boat. Not a voice or footstep could be heard, just the gentle lap of waves against the side and the whistle of wind from above ...

  and a tiny meow.

  Morgan set down her cup and glanced in the direction of the sound. "Did you hear that?"

  "Sounds like a mouse to me." Edith bit into a banana.

  "Mrow, mrow," the squeal repeated, and Morgan followed it to the corner of the small room where an old chest stood, its lid broken and clothes spilling over the edge. Kneeling, she gently peeled aside pieces of clothing, being all the more careful as the squealing grew louder. Finally she lifted what looked to be one of Farley's shirts and there beneath it, was a black kitten shivering from fright. Morgan's heart sank as she lifted the tiny creature into her arms, feeling bones through its skin. "You poor little dear."

  "Ahh, that's what Smoky was doing in there!" Edith smiled. "I kep' tossing her out, not knowing she gots little ones."

  Morgan nestled the precious kitten against her cheek, and soon purring filled her ears. "Poor thing is starving. Wonder where her mother ran off to."

  Edith shook her head, frowning. "Come to think on it, I haven't seen her lately. Musta gotten herself killed somehows. An' me wit'out milk on board. Wait." Her eyes sparkled. "Coconut milk might work. I'll go git some." Edith popped a slice of fruit in her mouth and ran out the door, leaving it open, as Morgan sat down and cuddled the agitated kitten.

  "Now, now, it will be all right, little one." She stroked its fur, trying to stop its nervous shivering, understanding all too well what if felt like to be terrified and alone and at the mercy of others. But the kitten refused to settle, and finally letting out a loud squeal, it leapt off her lap and darted out the door.

  "Drat!" Morgan tore after him, fearing the poor thing would be trampled by all the actors. "Kitty, kitty, come back!" She tried to make her voice soft and calm, but the little thing took one glance at her before leaping onto the ladder that led to the deck above.

  Clutching her skirts, she burst onto the main deck and spotted the kitten pouncing on a pile of ropes as if they were a bundle of mice. It wasn't until she'd snuck up on him and grabbed him from behind that she noticed the absence of a single sound--not a whisper, word, footstep, or creak. Nothing but wind and waves.

  She turned. Dozens of eyes met hers. Why was everyone just standing around?

  The kitty leapt from her arms and skittered away. One of the men raised his boot to step on it.

  Morgan screamed, "Don't you dare!"

  The man held his foot in midair, glaring at her--first with anger, then horror--before slowly lowering his boot.

  The kitten thankfully dropped down one of the hatches, and Morgan started after him when a low growl sounded from the deck above where the tiller was housed. She glanced up to see rage knotting Rowan's face and turning his eyes into slits. What was his problem?

  "They's coming about, Cap'n!" a voice filtered down from the masts above.

  The men groaned. Rowan stormed across the deck, shouting, "Raise all sail! Weigh anchor!"

  Silence fled for cover as chaos took residence.

  A dozen men leapt into the ropes, scrambling above so fast it seemed they were flying. Palm fronds, ferns, and vines fell to the deck as if a hurricane struck, while other men gathered and tossed them overboard. Ten men circled a wheel-thingy, shoved thick rods into its side, and began spinning it round and round, grunting and heaving as they went. The rattle of a large chain sounded.

  Wind whipping through canvas brought her gaze up to sails dropping like clouds falling from heaven. Kerr continued shouting orders to the men above while Nick commanded those below--both of them using words and phrases that might as well be Greek to her: "Loose the main! Man the tack and sheet! Haul taut! Sheet home! Hoist away royals and jib!"

  Men bumped into her from all sides, pushing her this way and that, until finally, she made her way to the railing. Thank God, because the ship jerked forward, and she would have fallen if she hadn't had anything to cling to.

  She found Rowan leaning over the front of the boat, shouting back directions to Nick at the tiller. Morgan dared a glance over the side. Sharp, craggy reefs rose from the deep, threatening to pierce the hull. Where would an actor learn how to navigate an ancient ship through such narrow shoals? She hadn't time to consider it when the boat burst from the bay into the open sea, rising over a wave before crashing down again. Foamy spray showered over her. Gripping the railing, she sought balance on the heaving deck and drew in a deep breath, relishing in the refreshing mist. How exhilarating! Heck, she might even take up sailing when she returned home.

  If not for the queasiness in her stomach.

  And the fact that she'd be dead in six months.

  To her left, the boat she'd seen offshore was making a turn toward them. The French, of course. So, her father had arranged a battle at sea. Great. Just great. She pressed a hand to her stomach, praying she didn't lose what little she'd just eaten and embarrass herself even more. She also prayed that this insane adventure would soon come to an end. She needed treatment. Needed her meds. Needed to stop pretending that she actually had an exciting life, that she was on a real adventure, and that this handsome pirate found her interesting ... perhaps even enticing.

  She needed to get back to reality.

  Stuffing the telescope into his belt, Rowan marched back to stand beside Nick, relaying orders as he went, which Nick then shouted to the crew. Above her, sailors lined the yards, adjusting sails, their bare feet clinging to nothing but thin ropes that offered little protection from falling to their deaths. Her head grew light at the thought.

  Soon, the boat slowed and turned to hug the coast of the island, and she wondered why they weren't high-tailing it out of there if the French were faster and better gunned ... or whatever Rowan had said.

  As if reading her thoughts, the handsome pirate Kerr approached Rowan, several grumbling men in tow. "Captain, shouldn't we raise all canvas to the wind and get as far away from them as we can? I thought you didn't want a fight."

  Rowan's piercing gaze assessed him. "Do you not trust me, Kerr? Have I ever let you down? Any of you?" He scanned the throng.

  "Ye know the Captain ha' all authority in battle, gentlemen," Nick said. "Ye signed the articles, did ye no'?"

  Some grumbled, others nodded, while the rest fixed their gaze on the French boat that had completed its turn and, with raised sails, headed toward them at full speed. A mustache of foam arched on its bow as it sped just yards off the island. Morgan didn't have to be a sailor to know that at this rate they'd catch up to them in minutes. Which probably meant her father was on board. And all this would soon come to an end.

  The impending battle disbanded the grumbling men. Even Kerr ran off to his duties, but not before Morgan saw him scowl at his captain.

  "Cudney!" Rowan's bark blared across the ship, bringing two men to his side. "Load the stern chasers. Fire on my order."

  One of the men made gestures to the other before they both dashed off.

  Fire the cannons? How exciting! She wondered if Rowan would let her shoot one. She started toward him to ask when his eyes met hers. The warrior-like intensity and determination in them halted her
in mid-step.

  Tearing his gaze from her, he marched across the boat like a man who knew who he was, knew exactly what he was doing, and answered to no one.

  A flash of bright yellow burst from the French ship.

  A thunderous boom echoed across the sky.

  "All hands down!" Rowan yelled.

  Chapter 10

  Morgan froze. Most of the men, except Rowan and his officers, had crouched to the deck. Had they actually been fired upon? Her answer came quickly when the sea exploded in a mighty splash just yards from the boat.

  "Yer goin' t' get us all killed!" one of the actors yelled. The fright in his voice almost sounded real.

  Ignoring him, Rowan studied the oncoming French ship then turned and nodded toward Nick, who sped off to the stern and leapt onto a rope ladder.

  A chill coiled around Morgan. Would a fake cannonball have made such a huge splash? Or maybe it was real and they'd simply missed on purpose? She felt the familiar pinch of her heart and tried to remind herself that none of this was real and she was perfectly safe.

  "Fire as you bear, Mr. Cudney!" Rowan shouted across the deck to men hovering over two small cannons mounted on swivels at the back of the boat.

  Heart thumping in excitement, Morgan clung to the railing and crept closer as the men swung the cannons toward the advancing French.

  The explosions trembled the ship like a California earthquake. Smoke slapped Morgan in the face, stinging her eyes and blinding her. She swatted it away, coughing, trying to see if the balls actually struck the boat or if they were only pretend as she suspected.

  Yup. The clearing smoke revealed no damage to the oncoming French. None of this was real. Rowan's crew, however, growled and spit like a pack of rabid dogs, their anger making her almost believe otherwise. A mob approached the captain to complain, fingering the hilts of their swords.

  "Their next shot will sink us fer sure, Cap'n!" one man yelled.

  Shouts of ascent and cursing followed. "We're nothin' but a soused goose waitin' t' be plucked," another man yelled.

  Was there to be a mutiny too? A battle and a mutiny. Her father had thought of everything. What a grand finale!

  Rowan appeared unmoved by their threats. Instead he stood, arms crossed over his chest, hair waving in the breeze, staring at the mast where Nick had raised a purple flag and was heading back down.

  Two powerful blasts shook the afternoon sky. Startled, Morgan scanned the scene, seeking their source. Rowan hadn't fired them, and they hadn't come from the French boat or there'd be smoke curling from her cannons.

  The sound of a tree splitting pummeled the air--the creak and crack of death as it toppled to the ground, followed by piercing screams and frantic shouts. But there was no tree. It was a mast aboard the French ship--the top half anyway. It teetered back and forth for a few seconds, then in one final snap, crashed to the deck, dragging its sails and ropes down into a web of confusion. The boat nearly tipped over beneath the weight.

  "Huzzah! Huzzah!" Cheers rose from the actors. Some leapt into rope ladders and thrust their swords toward their enemy as if they had been the ones who'd defeated them.

  Still, she no idea where the cannon shots had come from. Not until she spotted smoke drifting above the trees of the island. So, that's what Rowan had been doing with the cannons and the pulleys. Very clever. He had used the Reckoning as bait to lure the French close to the island within reach of the cannons he hid in the jungle.

  He seemed quite pleased with himself, too, as he grinned and faced his crew, braying orders to raise all canvas to the wind. His men were only too happy to comply. Releasing the railing, Morgan hoisted her skirts and started toward him, but Farley blocked her way.

  "Come now, Miss. The cap'n orders ye below t' his cabin."

  "Oh, he does, does he? You may tell him I don't want to go below. I wish to see my father."

  "Beggin' yer pardon, Miss, but he says ye would say that, an' that I'm t' shoot ye if ye don't comply."

  Morgan ground her teeth together and glanced up at Rowan standing at the helm, but he refused to meet her gaze.

  "Oh, never mind, Farley, I'll go." Besides, she was exhausted and her stomach hurt and she was sure Rowan was taking her to her father now anyway.

  "I'll ask the cap'n if Edith can bring ye some food, Miss," Farley said as he headed out the door of Rowan's cabin. "An' I'll check on those stitches soon." He gestured toward her head.

  The kitty raced through the door just before he shut it and circled Morgan's feet.

  "There you are, you little troublemaker." She scooped him in her arms and took up a pace across Rowan's messy cabin--resisting the urge to straighten it--for what seemed like an hour. During that time the boat sped, slowed, and even stopped for a while. Night dropped a curtain on the windows as if it were the intermission of a play. And she began to wonder if it was only the intermission of what her father had planned for her. After all, she'd spent a week at the Western Town, and from what she could tell, she'd only been here three days.

  The thought only increased her annoyance. Which increased her OCD and anxiety. Which forced her to set down the kitty and start cleaning and organizing papers and trinkets on Rowan's desk once again. She set the documents in a neat stack, rolled up the charts, lined up the quill pens beside them, set the two lanterns at the right and left corners in an artistic display, and lined up the weird nautical instruments in two rows. All in the light of the moon sifting through the windows. Then she corked the open bottles of rum and set them on a shelf.

  The kitty leapt onto the stack of papers and started cleaning himself.

  Grabbing him, she stood back and surveyed her progress. Much better. Now, to arrange the chairs in front of the desk.

  Without warning, the door crashed open and Rowan marched in, a gust of salty air in his wake and a lantern in his hand. He ran one hand through his windswept hair and hooked the lantern on the ceiling as his gaze latched upon her--blue icy eyes that sent an unexpected shiver through her. His presence filled the room, and she couldn't help the tiny leap of her heart.

  "Forsooth, here stands the little minx who nearly got us killed."

  Morgan refused to allow this actor the reward of his grand performance. She settled into a chair, the kitten in her lap, and pretended nonchalance. "Killed? How could one little woman do that?"

  He huffed. "By alerting our enemy to our hiding place. And for what?"--His gaze dropped to the kitten--"that hairy beast!?"

  She lifted up the precious cat and stared into his slit-like eyes. Blue like Rowan's. "You mean Blackbeard?"

  Rowan only stared at her.

  "Blackbeard. You know, the famous pirate? Smoking hair, tortures his crew ... that guy?" She sighed. "Must be after your time."

  Rowan rubbed his eyes, his lips drawn into a stiff line. "I will not have you risking my life and the life of my crew, Lady Minx." Turning, he slammed the door shut.

  Morgan jumped, every nerve tensing. "There's no need to shout. Even if all this is real, you set a trap for the French anyway."

  "Aye, contingent on too many factors to be assured of its success. The main one of which was whether the French would come about close enough to the land for a strike."

  "Well, your plan worked, pirate-actor, so what's the big deal?"

  "The big deal?" He scrubbed his temples with his thumbs. "You twist my mind into knots with your words!" He dropped his hands. "I would not have lost two perfectly good cannons!"

  She stroked beneath the kitten's chin. "Can't you go pick them up?"

  He waved his arm toward the window. "Aye, and get blasted from the water by the French frigate still anchored there?"

  "I thought you were a pirate. Why aren't you plundering them, anyway?"

  He closed his eyes as if he had a headache. "Because they are a navy frigate filled with marines and weapons and nothing of value a pirate would want."

  He withdrew his sword, the grinding sound etching down her spine. For a moment she thought he
intended to stab her, but he approached his desk and set it down. "What's this?" His tone raged. "Alack, what curse has come upon my things?"

  "The curse is called tidiness and organization, and you'll find they will make your life much easier," Morgan replied with smugness. "Why don't you ever make your bed and pick up your clothes? Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

  He roared so loud, Morgan felt his hot breath on her face. In one swoop of his muscular arm, he brushed everything on his desk to the floor. "Where is my rum?"

  Despite the fact Morgan knew it was an act, she leapt in her seat. So did Blackbeard, who scrambled from her lap and disappeared under the bed.

  "Now, look what you've done." She got up then dropped to her hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. "You really should watch that temper of yours. I know a good anger management counselor back in San Diego I could recommend. Here, kitty, kitty."

  Before she could retrieve the cat, she was lifted from the floor as if she weighed no more than the kitten. Strong arms forced her back against the wall and set her down on her feet, while a face twisting with rage filled her vision.

  "Why are you not frightened of me? Men cower before my anger yet you do naught but mock me."

  His eyes shifted between hers, sparking in anger. His hot breath, smelling of smoke and salt, saturated the air. And her heart felt as though a Taser had zapped it. Settling her breath, she replied simply, "Because you aren't real."

  "Truly, you must be mad." Pushing from the wall, he retreated as if she had a disease. The look in his eyes wounded her more than it should.

  Blackbeard crept out from beneath the bed and began pouncing on Rowan's things on the floor, swatting the feathers of the quill pen and leaping on the papers.

  Minutes passed while Rowan searched for something. Finally he grabbed the bottle of rum from his shelf, uncorked it, and took a swig. "Where did this infernal cat come from?" He pointed the bottle at Blackbeard.

  His stern tone sent the kitty leaping into her arms. "Takes a big man to frighten a little kitten. You must be so proud." She stroked Blackbeard's fur, trying to settle him.