My Bonny Heart (Pirate's Progeny Book 1)

by Synclair Stafford

  No one stirred within the entry, but Addison knew Anne would be in the nursery if she were anywhere.

  She was a good mother.

  His stomach dropped, something akin to wonder filled him. Anne could even now be carrying a child. Their child. The thought of it warmed his heart.

  Opening the nursery door, he frowned to find only the twins sleeping soundly in their cribs. He strode down to Anne’s bedchamber, throwing open the door. She was not within, nor was she found in her sitting room. Addison checked the formal and family entertaining areas of the house. Empty, all but for some of the servants.

  He’d questioned each servant, all giving him the answers he did not want to hear. They’d not seen her since the morning. Raphael’s presence in the stable at least told him she’d returned from town, but where had she gone?

  An icy hand gripped his heart. Eliza took Holt for a walk down the river, and when she returned, not even she had seen her mistress. Addison dispatched every one of his servants to find Anne. They combed the property. Even Raphael had a concerned frown marring his brow after a few hours of the same news.

  Anne, for all outward appearances, had disappeared.

  The only evidence she’d even been in the house was the dagger Eliza had spied stuck into nursery room floor. The look in Raphael’s eyes worried Addison, a sinking sensation deep in his belly. The dagger was the one she’d had at the tavern where he’d found her earlier in the week. When she’d tried to convince him she was no lady.

  Could she have returned there? To spite him? To begin her game anew to keep from marriage?

  Determined this to be the only answer—that she fumed in the Hound and the Hare, eating biscuits—Addison readied his boat. Raphael stood before him on the bank, and gave him a look that said he would be helping finding Anne, and that was that.

  Addison nodded grimly. “We might as well begin before it night hinders our momentum.”

  Raphael assisted rowing them to Charles Town, aiding them in making quick work of the chore. They were both alert down river, and on the streets of Charles Town for any sign of her. He prayed to God she had not drowned in the river behind Cranford Hall, but he told himself that made no sense. If anything, Anne would intentionally anger him by returning to the tavern.

  Yes, he’d find her there.

  At this time of the evening, the tavern’s occupancy swelled to near quadruple to the day he’d found Anne inside, the crowd loud and boisterous. Grateful for Raphael’s intimidating presence along beside him, they walked through the door.

  His eyes met that of the barkeep, who clearly remembered the lord who’d ravished a lady in his storeroom. The man nodded his head, not pausing to clean the mugs before him with a towel.

  “Do you recall the young, red-haired lady here with me?”

  “Aye, no one can forget that hair, milord.”

  “You haven’t seen her this evening, have you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, but he shook his head. “No, milord. Only the other day.”

  “I saw a fiery-headed lass.” A young man to his right slouched at the bar, a mug to his lips.

  Addison turned to the stranger, meeting his eyes over the mug.

  “Is that so? Can you describe her?”

  The young man swallowed, wiping the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He squinted his dark eyes, as if remembering the image of her in his mind. “Long, red-hair . . . floating about her head this way and that. Er, voluptuous, what me pa would call it. Wearing a dark blue dress.”

  Addison’s heart sped up, his hands trembling. “Where did you see her, mister . . .?”

  “Sullivan, Davey Sullivan, milord.” The man’s eyes darted from side to side.

  “Mr. Sullivan, and where did you see this woman?” Addison raised his voice over the loud chatter of the tavern patrons.

  Davey’s eyes sized up Raphael for a moment, widening, before he swallowed nervously. “It were about a few hours ago, maybe four. She was getting on a ship with Mr. Dobison.”

  Addison’s stomach clenched. Had she left him that quickly? “Mr. Dobison? What ship, and who is this man?”

  “He came on the Sparrow. I overheard him talking to his men here in the tavern. British gent.”

  “You say she walked on board his ship? Has it embarked?” Without realizing it, he’d grabbed the man by the shoulders, giving him a good shake. “Has she sailed?”

  Davey’s eyes were wide with fear, but not near the fear Addison felt down in his bones. The young man nodded. “Aye, milord, shortly after the red-haired woman and Dobison boarded her. I believe I heard Dobison mention something about Port Royal, milord.”

  Anger and something akin to despair flowed through him. He’d lost her.

  Nodding, he released young Sullivan. “I do apologize. Thank you for the information, Mr. Sullivan.”

  In a daze, and no longer hearing the voices and clatter around him, Addison stumbled from the tavern, as if in a fog, and back out into the street. He looked out at Cooper River, the sun setting on the horizon.

  Anne was out there, somewhere, with a British man named Dobison. He’d no idea if she’d gone of her own accord or against her will. But, if young Davey said she’d walked onto the ship, she’d certainly not been forced. He’d have mentioned that, surely.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned to see Raphael’s turquoise eyes, a sad light in them.

  Growling, he threw his fists into the air. “Damn you! There was no chance to tell her the truth.”

  The door to the tavern opened behind them, shutting with a thwack. Addison cared not who emerged, but began to pace the street, like a caged animal trapped on the shore. All of his ships were hopelessly out to see, of no assistance. He had no easy recourse or way to go after her in such a short amount of time. What was worse, he had no idea where he would find her. He paced the street in frustration.

  “My Lord? Might I be of assistance?” A deep, raspy male voice called to him. A Welshman, judging by the heavy accent. The man leaned against a horse post across from the tavern, just near the river’s edge.

  Addison frowned at the stranger for he was odd, indeed. The dark-eyed Welshman stood taller than even himself. Dressed finely in high black boots, dark trousers, and a flowing black shirt, several gold chains looped about his neck. His long, black hair was clubbed behind his neck with a bright red ribbon, his face and hands deeply tanned. If Addison could guess, he’d say the man was a gentleman who had a distinct pirate past. Or, a pirate with a gentleman’s education. An arrogant but intelligent gaze gave him the impression the man was successful at whatever endeavors he entertained.

  “With what might you be able to assist, sir?” The man exited the tavern, he was sure, but if he’d heard Addison’s conversation with Davey, he was unsure.

  “You seek to follow the Sparrow.”

  He frowned. “Aye.”

  “You’ve no ship of your own to sail, then?” The man rested casually against the post.

  “No. My ships sailed earlier this afternoon.” He was damn curious of the stranger. “How might you help me, sir?”

  The man moved away from the post, his bracelets jingling with the movement, and the waning sunlight glinted off the small golden hoops dangling from the man’s ears.

  “I’ve a ship. I am headed, coincidentally, in the same direction as Mr. Dobison. As it turns out, Mr. Dobison and I have some business to discuss.”

  “Why would you aide me?”

  “I have my reasons, My Lord, but know I could have us close to them well before they reach Jamaica.”

  The decision was made in an instant. Pirate or gentleman, this man was willing to sail after the woman he loved. He’d have her back, or die trying.

  “Noted, and appreciated. How soon can we set sail?”
>
  “My ship is being readied as we speak.”

  “Excellent.” He turned to Raphael, who nodded, but eyed the stranger with a narrowed glance. Addison turned back to the man, deciding not to question exactly why the gentleman had offered his help, and bowed. “After you, then, sir. I would be forever grateful for the assistance.”

  The Welshman grinned, his white teeth flashing. “Fabulous. This way, gentleman.”

  Addison followed the man onto his ship, the Royal Fortune, without a backward glance. He’d left strict instructions with Eliza should he not return forthwith and to contact Cormac, and asked the barkeep to send word to Cranford Hall of his departure. Once onboard, the stranger, who turned out to be the esteemed captain, began barking orders. A pirate perhaps, but Addison shook off the possibility because he cared not at the moment about the man’s profession.

  Anne was out there somewhere, with Mr. Dobison, and he was damned sure going to find her and bring her back.

  Raphael stood at his shoulder as the ship moved away from the dock. The captain grinned widely while barking orders at his men. The crew bellowed in return, but worked steadily as they were used to the sound of their captain’s booming voice.

  He would not be surprised to see the man climbing the rigging and swinging from sail to sail with a cutlass in his mouth.

  Frowning, Addison never acquired the stranger’s name, almost walking blindly onto the vessel. His only thoughts were of reaching Anne and explaining how he needed her. He peered over the railing, curious. He counted eight cannon holes upon the aft side, all neatly closed of course. Brass clanged against wood, calling his attention to the main mast. Midway down the wooden structure, a flag billowed from the wind coming off the river; a flag ready to be hoisted at a moment’s notice.

  The black flag contained the white silhouette of a man standing with its boots on two white, glaring skulls.

  Bloody hell.

  He sailed into the open waters of the Atlantic on a pirate vessel named Royal Fortune.

  Chapter 24

  Anne’s muscles ached, her face was swollen, and she had scrapes and bruises along her thighs and forearms. She bit down on her raw and bloodied lip, sure it still bled from the constant pressure she placed on it with her teeth while trying not to cry out. Her captor had slapped her hard a number of times.

  From the moment, he’d returned on that first evening, Jericho Dobison had advanced on her, towered over her, and attempted to frighten her. The first time, he’d merely kicked her in the side while she sat upon the chair in the small cabin.

  While she refused to be cowered by his tactics, his kick, and the following slap to the side of her cheek had hurt nonetheless. The lack of emotion on her face, and no display of fear angered him. She spat on the floor at his feet and called him every foul name she had in her colorful arsenal.

  Jericho chewed on a large wad of tobacco, spat in a cylindrical copper pot near the table, and smiled in such a way Anne’s stomach roiled and sickened. He turned to a chest near the far wall, retrieved a hammock from inside, and threw it at her, growling at her to figure out where it went if she wanted to sleep.

  He’d shucked his boots, breeches, and shirt right before her eyes, and then plopped onto the mattress upon the floor. Knowing he eyed her from the bed, she’d ignored the hammock and sat awake in the chair until she could hear his even breathing while he slept.

  Only then did she allow herself to sleep fitfully, her head resting upon the table before her. When next she woke, Jericho had already left the cabin. She took the time to hang the hammock by the nails that had been placed in one corner of the cabin just for that purpose. Perhaps the bos’n used the contraption.

  A lad entered the cabin twice a day to provide her sustenance. Although typical bland fodder for a sailing vessel, she’d wolfed down the stale bread and some type of meat stew each time. She’d not missed the meals on a ship. But, she knew her body would need all the strength she could provide to survive until arriving in Port Royal. Jericho’s greasy smile warned her the voyage would be long and not to her liking.

  His second attack on the next evening nearly used up all the energy she’d accumulated during the day. He’d talked of her ‘whelps’ and how they’d never survive because they had the blood of Jack Rackham, and they were weak like the mother.

  She’d spat every despicable name in his direction. But, this time, instead of smiling, he’d come forward and yanked her from the chair. Anne kicked at him with her boots, but he’d merely laughed at her attempts and pulled her roughly against him. He’d pressed his cold lips against hers. She’d been able to keep her mouth pinned firmly closed as he licked at her lips, the wetness of his tongue and the bitter smell of the tobacco making her gag. Jericho had fondled her breasts through her gown until she’d scratched the tops of his hands, drawing blood.

  Growling, he’d backhanded her, landing her on the floor. Jericho threatened her, then stripped down and fell into bed. She’d sat in the chair awake all night, thinking of her children, Addison, and even Raphael and the slaves she’d met to keep her spirits high. By the time he rose in the morning and left the cabin, she was dead on her feet. Then, she’d dragged herself into the hammock and allowed herself sleep.

  Each night the attacks became more forceful and violent. Her breasts, upper arms, and thighs were purple with bruises. She knew her face must look as terrible as the rest of her body, swollen and bruised.

  Anne did not know if she could fight for another week. Being at sea for so long, she knew the routes and how long the voyages generally lasted. She’d been on the Swallow going on fifteen days if she’d counted correctly. They would be at sea at least another seven or eight days until they reached Jamaica.

  Jericho had weakened her enough the previous evening, and had been able to hold her down while he pushed down her gown and slobbered upon her breast. He’d held her hands in one fist, and sat upon her legs. He’d then released the part of him she’d vowed would never touch her. Dobison had then forced one of his legs between hers, threw up her skirts, and tried to force his way into her. Panicking, and with some otherworldly bout of strength she’d gathered in that moment, she was able to twist her hips, dislodge his lower body before his flesh touched her, then kneed him in the groin.

  Despair rose high in her chest and hope dwindled. At times she wondered why she fought so hard to keep him from her, other than the obvious; that he was vile, he was the last creature on earth she’d allow to touch her willingly. She’d resigned herself to a life behind bars once she’d set foot on the vessel, but she would keep her dignity as long as her tired body would hold out.

  She sat now, eating stale bread and stew from the lad with the sorrowful eyes. He’d even brought her fresh cloths and water to dab at her open wounds. Just when she was about to clean up, Jericho burst into the cabin. He scanned the room until his glittering, sapphire eyes found her.

  She continued to chew on her bread, determined to keep the fear from showing on her face. She stared down at the wooden bowl instead of lifting her eyes to where he stood at the door. She was bone-tired and she’d be damned if she’d give him the attention he craved. The cabin door slammed, and she sensed his arrogant stroll into the room. He sucked air through the gaps in his teeth, a now-familiar noise, as if to clear food from between them.

  “No excitement to see me, wench? I fear you’re becoming bored.”

  Ignoring him, she took another bite of the bread.

  “You’re much too feisty, even after our little . . . play matches.” His boots clopped across the wooden floor as he moved closer. “I find it quite stimulating, the fight. You’re quite strong for a woman. Quite unwilling, however, which I find surprising. I know you’re not a virtuous woman. I’ve heard all the stories.”

  His long, tanned fingers caressed her bare shoulder, the dress having been torn on
one of his many attacks on her. Bile rose in her throat.

  She shook his hand off.

  A biting grip squeezed the back of her neck.

  “You’ll accept me, wench.”

  “Unhand me, coward.” Pain seared into her skin and she grit her teeth to keep from crying out.

  He squeezed harder, his fingers biting into her flesh.

  “Come on, Anne, we both know you have serviced every sailor you’ve ever sailed with. What has changed?”

  Bits of black dots danced before her eyes the tighter his grip became.

  “No matter, you will feel my rod buried deep inside you. I hear there’s treasure in that red bush.” He chuckled as he shoved her forward, releasing her neck.

  Blinking back tears, she clenched her teeth. “Never. You’ll never touch me again.” She meant it. She’d rather throw herself from the ship than suffer any more of his treatment. “If you were a true man—which we know you are not—you’d give me a cutlass and fight me like a man.”

  She lifted her chin, glaring at him and allowing all the hatred she felt pour out through her eyes.

  The smile that pulled his lips apart bore his contempt for her as a female, the strings of tobacco and tobacco juice stained his teeth, reminding her of a vulture just about to enjoy the spoils of the kill.

  “A cutlass? A duel is what you’re after, then?” A long finger tapped his chin where it dripped with tobacco spittle. “Aye. What a grand idea. You’ve given me hope, Anne. Real hope.”

  Her gaze followed his hand as it rubbed the protrusion in his breeches. Acid churned in her belly, but she wouldn’t let him see the sudden fear building in her.

  “Don’t tell me you think that thing is adequate for a duel?” She forced a laugh. “If that is your determinant for a true man, you are surely lacking.”