The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  "An' for Rowan," he continued. "An' for all involved. Powerful stuff, tha' prayer, eh?" His eyes twinkled.

  "I guess ... I mean, yes, it is. Charlisse sensed evil spirits on me and commanded them away in Jesus' name. It was ... incredible."

  "Ah, demons, was it?" He squinted toward the sea, no shock found on his expression.

  "Why does everyone in this time know so much more about spiritual stuff than people in my day?"

  He shrugged. "No' everyone here. Jist those of' us who've ha' experiences, is my guess." He rubbed his bearded chin. "Ye tend t' encounter the enemy more when ye are encroaching on his territory, if ye know wha' I mean."

  She didn't. Until now. But that made sense. Like being on the front lines in a war. If you're pushing back the enemy, you're in the line of fire. Still, she couldn't imagine how she'd ever been a threat to Satan. Why had he attacked her?

  "I still get scared sometimes, like during the battle and when I knew Rowan was being tortured."

  "Aye, 'tis the natural fear God gives us t' keep from being foolish."

  She nodded. "And it doesn't feel controlling like it did before."

  He glanced up at the sails and then shouted over his shoulder to Scratch, "Braces ease, trim your sheets!" before he returned his attention to her. "Now if we can only convince Rowan tha' God loves him, so he'll give up this cutlass-slashing, ship-thieving, wife-stealing life he's chosen an' settle down."

  Morgan smiled, even as sorrow shrouded her. "I doubt a man like him will ever settle down."

  "Nay? Mayhap not. But the way he looks at ye, I think he'd be willing t' try, no?" He winked.

  She wanted to say that no, she doubted it, but his words warmed her anyway. Shielding her eyes, she scanned the horizon where sea and sky met in a marriage of gorgeous blues tainted with pink and gold.

  "Bloodmoon is still out there," she said, "and I doubt he's going to give up searching for Rowan and his treasure map."

  "I quite agree, lass. 'Tis wha' concerns me most of all."

  Farley popped on deck, the wind instantly flipping his stringy hair off his bald spot.

  "Miss, the cap'n's askin' fer ye."

  "How is he today, Farley?"

  "Well enough. Still sore o' course, but ornery as ever." He chuckled. "Which be a good sign, I s'pose."

  But Rowan wasn't ornery at all when she entered his cabin moments later. He sat on the window ledge, gazing upon the sea. Though still barechested and looking like he'd fought a horde of storm troopers, his color had returned, his skin was free of dirt, and he'd put on fresh pants. At the tap of her shoes on the deck, he turned and the delight that swept over his face nearly sank her to her knees.

  "Lady Minx, you came."

  "You're the captain, and you summoned me." She gave him a coy look, feeling suddenly nervous.

  "You've never listened to me before."

  She merely smiled and stepped further into the room. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  To this, his smile grew even bigger, spiced with desire.

  She arched a brow.

  "I wish your company, if you'll oblige me. Nick and Farley have conspired to keep me below until I'm recovered."

  "Ah, you poor thing. To have such friends who care about you."

  He winced as he rose from the ledge, pressing a hand to his chest.

  Morgan was at his side in a flash, wrapping an arm around his waist. The scent of lye and musk and Rowan filled her nose, and she fought back the heady sensation of him

  He drew her close, leaning slightly on her as she helped him to one of the chairs. "I feel better already." His voice was strong again.

  She backed away, narrowing her eyes. "You did that on purpose, so I'd come help you."

  "How else to bring you close?" Rays of sunlight combed the cabin, glimmering off his earring and brightening his playful grin.

  "If you think I'm going to kiss you all over your body again ..." The words left her mouth before she realized the impact they would have on the color of her face, which she now felt heating like a stove.

  Rowan only grinned wider. "I will offer no protest should the desire come upon you."

  She lowered into a chair, desperate to change the topic. "I met your sister."

  He shifted his gaze away, all playfulness draining from his expression. "Juliana." He spoke her name with such fondness, such reverence. "How is she?"

  "Pregnant."

  His eyes lit up. "Indeed? How marvelous. So, she is happy?"

  "Very. Her husband is ... well, he's a good man. She will have the baby soon. A month is my guess." The ship creaked and groaned over a swell. "She loves you, Rowan. She wants to see you so badly."

  "Badly?"

  She huffed. "Desperately, I mean. Whatever happened between you ... whatever you think you owe her, she doesn't care. She just wants you."

  Pressing his chest again, Rowan leaned forward on his knees and stared at the floor. His hair hung around his face, so she couldn't make out his expression, but she sensed his sorrow.

  "Please, Rowan. Give up this crazy quest. Return to the family who loves you. Merrick and Charlisse are now your family, too. I'd give anything to have parents like that ... anything." Her thoughts drifted to her own parents and all the bickering and fighting, drugs, alcohol, and love of money she'd grown up with.

  He gave a snort of disgust. "They got to you. With all their pious pomposity and moral codes."

  "They showed me the truth, Rowan. About God. How loving He is. How forgiving. And they helped free me from the bondage of fear."

  He growled, rose before she could help him, and shuffled to his desk. "I don't wish to argue with you, Lady Minx." Opening a drawer, he pulled out a sack and brought it to her, smiling as if he held a great secret.

  "What's this?" She loosened the tie and peeked inside, her excitement rising. "Oh my." She blinked, not believing her eyes. Paint brushes, at least five of different sizes, and what looked like paint in a dozen tiny jars.

  She glanced up at Rowan, breathless. "How did you ...?"

  "I purchased them at Charles Town." He took his seat again. "Alas, in all the ensuing mayhem, I forgot about them."

  Stunned, she could only stare at him. "You remembered that I loved to paint?"

  He smiled. "You approve, Lady Minx?"

  Rising, she spilled the items from the sack across his desk. "Very much! Thank you, Rowan."

  "There is but one caveat," he said.

  Placing a hand on her hip, she waited for some salacious request.

  "Paint something for me. From this cabin so I can watch. The sea, the sky, the desk, anything."

  "How about you?" No sooner had the words left Morgan's mouth then the painting of Rowan she'd seen back in her time filled her vision until she could see nothing else. But no ... couldn't be. The signature had been LM, not MS. She glanced at him again, only now connecting the jagged cut on his cheek with the one in the painting. Her thoughts spun insensibly.

  "A grand idea, Lady Minx! What is the matter? You look as if you've seen the devil himself."

  She glanced back at the paints and brushes and attempted to steady her galloping heart. "But I don't have a canvas."

  "I'll have one of the crew cut and stretch a piece of sailcloth."

  "Very well, I agree. On one condition." She raised a brow. "Put on a shirt."

  As promised, Rowan ordered Hendrix, the purser, to stretch a piece of sailcloth over a wooden frame then prop it on a small tripod. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Besides, Morgan couldn't believe how wonderful it felt to hold brushes again, to mix paint on the makeshift wooden palette, to blend colors and apply them in various shades and textures to the canvas.

  But when she looked up to see Rowan in his white shirt, leather jerkin strapped with a silver-buckled baldric, his hair tied behind him, and the earring winking at her from his right ear, she felt an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. Like she'd been here before. In this place, at this time. Or maybe it was that, somehow,
this singular moment, this painting, was one of those defining events in history that had to happen in order for things to proceed as planned.

  What that plan was, she had no idea. But she was thrilled to have the perfect excuse to study every detail about Rowan in an attempt to transfer the essence of this fascinating man onto canvas. Besides, the hours they spent together gave her a chance to know him better. They talked about life and music and food, how he came to be a pirate, and what his childhood was like--his loving, generous mother taken too early from him and his cruel, abusive father who never believed Rowan was worth anything.

  "So, I poured myself into gambling, drinking, and wenching to prove him right." Rowan gave a cynical laugh. "Lost the entire family fortune during a time when my dear sister was desperately trying to run the business by herself."

  Morgan dipped her brush into the paint. "I'm sorry, Rowan. Having a loving father is so important. Mine wasn't cruel like yours, but he was absent, making his fortune and having little time for me and Mom."

  He frowned. "Seems parents haven't improved much over the years."

  "It's humanity that hasn't improved much." She finished the last of the under-shading then looked up at him. "I've discovered God is a far better father than any earthly one. He always loves you no matter what. He never disapproves of you, or leaves you, or is too busy for you."

  Rowan looked away. "Tell me what it is like in your time."

  "Look back my way, Rowan." He did and she commenced her painting, disappointed that he never wanted to talk about God--the answer to all Rowan's heartache and needs.

  Blackbeard raced into the room and leapt on top of Rowan's desk, scattering papers. They both laughed as the ship bounced over a wave. Morgan waited for it to settle before she applied the paint, gaining a new appreciation for how easy it was to paint on solid land.

  As she worked, she attempted to explain the twenty-first century to a man from the seventeenth. No easy task, mind you. More than once, his face twisted so much in confusion or maybe disgust--the former mainly at the technology--that she had to order him back to his normal expression.

  "I can hardly credit such fanciful tales, Lady Minx. These devilish ... what did you call them, computers and tables?"

  "Tablets."

  "And phones? Objects that speak to you and show moving pictures. 'Tis the devil's work, I tell you."

  She laughed. "Some would agree with you."

  "However, I find the lack of female attire quite to my liking." He grinned.

  She wanted to throw a pillow at him but couldn't find one handy. Instead, she peeked at him over the canvas. "You're the type of guy women in my day call dogs."

  "I've been called worse."

  "I bet."

  "Pray, are there no pirates in your time?"

  Morgan mixed a new color on her palette, having trouble with these odd paints. "Some, but far away near Africa."

  "Hmm. Methinks I prefer to stay in my time." Blackbeard leapt into his lap, and Rowan stroked his fur. Morgan couldn't help but smile at the sight.

  "You'd definitely be a duck out of water in my time. Though the ladies would love you."

  "I may be a dog, but I am no duck, Lady Minx. And the ladies love me here."

  "True. Thanks for the reminder." She needed to remember just what type of man he was and not get caught up in the way he was looking at her, the way he continually looked at her. Like he could look at no other woman. It was doing funny things to her insides ...

  And she didn't like it one bit.

  In fact, as the afternoon passed and she learned more about him, that tingling sensation grew only stronger. She discovered his favorite food was lamb pie and something called Applecream--boiled apples in wine and cream sauce--but when he asked about hers, she had difficulty describing a cheeseburger and fast food and finally gave up. As a child, his favorite thing to do was play a form of hide and go seek with his sister. He chuckled as he relayed the story of how Juliana got stuck hiding in one of their father's trunks, and the entire house went up in arms when she could not be found for hours. In the end, they discovered her sound asleep, drooling on their father's best silk shirt.

  He gazed out the window, a smile on his face at the memory. At that moment, she imagined he looked just as he had back then--a mischievous little boy. She smiled and continued to ask him questions as she applied the paint. She discovered he enjoyed a good orchestra, the music compositions of Giovanni Coprario, whoever that was, and he liked to dance. That last thing surprised her the most. She could not picture the muscular pirate waltzing across a ballroom floor, or whatever dances they did in this time. In fact, she was surprised at the depth of his education and culture. For a pirate.

  The next morning they shared a small breakfast of coffee, hard biscuits, and overripe bananas before she took up her brushes again. Thankfully, the whale oil she'd left them soaking in had kept them supple. The day passed once again in pleasant conversation, and she found herself enjoying more and more their longs hours together devoid of any pretense or sexual innuendos. The painting was coming along nicely, and she hoped to finish it by the next day. Which was perfect timing since they'd be arriving at the treasure island by then.

  She had longed for an opening in the conversation where she could convince Rowan once again to give up his quest for treasure and return to his family, but it never came, or perhaps she didn't want to rile him and disturb their developing friendship.

  On the third day, Morgan found Rowan on the quarterdeck talking with Nick. She took a minute while balancing on the heaving deck to watch him as he scanned the horizon with his telescope and then shouted orders to the crew, his jaw strong, his wild hair blowing in the wind, his boots firmly planted on the deck. Only a slight hesitation in his step and his grip of the railing here and there when the ship bucked gave any indication of his injuries.

  A shiver coursed down Morgan's back, and she swung to find a dozen pirates gaping at her, malicious intent dripping from their eyes. Would they attempt something now that their captain was injured? No. She glanced back at Rowan. They would have done so already. Still, it reminded her that natural fear was a gift from God and something she should pay attention to.

  Nick pointed her out to Rowan, and he eased down the ladder onto the main deck, only a slight wince indicating his pain.

  "You should be below resting," she said, shoving hair from her face.

  "Are you my mother now?" He smiled.

  "No, not that you don't need one."

  He placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and together they strolled around the ship, enjoying the morning breeze, the sparkling sea, and even the hot sun on their faces. Morgan got the feeling Rowan had an ulterior motive for the morning walk--one of reinforcing his health and vigor to the crew, along with his possession of her--for he seemed to make special effort to show no weakness, no stumbling, no evidence of pain on his expression, as well as staring down those men who dared to glance her way. None of Morgan's boyfriends had ever protected her. In fact, one of them had left her all alone in a bar in a seedy part of town after they'd had an argument. She realized now that it was by the grace of God she hadn't been attacked as she walked home in the dark.

  How odd that it was a pirate who made her feel cherished and protected. Curling her fingers around his bicep, she relished in his strength. He smiled down at her, and she tripped on her skirts, causing them both to laugh, even as her heart soared. She was living a dream--every woman's romantic fantasy--like some cheesy romance novel. But unless she could convince Rowan to turn from piracy, this particular story wouldn't have a happy ending.

  Maybe this was why God had sent her back, not only to heal her, but to save Rowan from an untimely death.

  After several trips around the ship, she finally begged him to go below so she could finish the painting. Once he settled back in his chair, she found him staring at her oddly.

  "What?"

  "You look different. Fresher. You let down your hair inst
ead of tying it behind your head. Your eyes carry a new sparkle, your face glows from the sun, and something else." He glanced over the room. "Lud, you haven't tried to put my cabin in order! Even after that infernal cat caused havoc on my desk. You aren't ill, are you?"

  "Quite the contrary." Morgan smiled. "I am healed ... delivered. I was bound up in fear and anxiety, but God set me free."

  He groaned. "Sorry I asked."

  "It's true, whether you choose to believe it or not." Morgan wiped paint from one of her brushes, then dipped it in a new color. "It will never be enough, you know."

  "Of what do you speak?"

  "The treasure. All the gold in the world will not dull the ache in your soul."

  He frowned. But Morgan finally saw her opening and couldn't quit now.

  "Sure, you can steal this treasure, repay your sister, buy a fancy house and expensive clothes, and gain the fickle respect of other rich, important people, but you'll still be empty inside. You'll always be that little boy whose father rejected him."

  Rowan rose and stormed toward the stern windows. "Is that what you think of me?"

  Morgan's heart plummeted. "Of course not. But I believe that's what you think of yourself." She stared at the painting. Just a few more touches here and there, and it would be done. Did that mean her time with Rowan was coming to an end? She set down her brush and stood as sorrow overwhelmed her. "Please, Rowan. Turn from this thieving life, get a respectable occupation, and trust God. Then you'll have self-respect as well as the respect of others. If you continue, you'll die before your time."

  "Everyone dies. 'Tis how one lives that matters." He crossed arms over his chest and continued staring out the window.

  "Exactly."

  Silence, except for the rush of water and creak of wood, strung tight through the cabin. Finally, Rowan waved a hand over his shoulder toward her as if she were an annoying insect. "Enough of this religious prattle. I grow weary of it. Begone!"