Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  “Now listen. I have a plan and once you hear it you won’t think it’s so ridiculous. Besides, we haven’t much time. Mother will be out any minute. Maria, are you listening to me?”

  Maria sighed helplessly and looked up. “Yes.”

  “Good. Now pay attention, it’s really all quite simple. All you have to do is make Jonathan jealous. And who better to use for that end than the handsomest man in town, and that man is Sam Bellamy.”

  “Thankful, the last time you came up with one of your ‘plans’ I was the laughingstock of Eastham. Please, play your jokes on someone else as I’ve no wish to be the butt of them again.”

  “But you won’t be the laughingstock, you’ll be the envy.”

  Uneasiness stirred somewhere in the nether regions between Maria’s heart and stomach. But there was nothing to be lost by just listening to Thankful’s idea…was there? “And just how does this Sam Bellamy figure into anything?” she asked warily, not at all sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Why, he figures into all of it. All we have to do, Maria, is get him to fall in love with you. And that, given your looks, shouldn’t be very difficult.” She hurried on as Maria’s mouth fell open in horror. “I know, ’tis Jonathan you want, not Sam Bellamy. But think about it, Maria! Once Jonathan learns you’ve caught another man’s eye, he’ll come around—I promise you!”

  Maria stared at her numbly, heedless of the rain soaking her cloak and trickling down her cheeks. What could Thankful be thinking of? Had she gone positively daft? She shook her head and held up a hand. “No, Thankful. I’ve heard too much about this Sam Bellamy. I told you, I don’t even want to meet him, let alone get him to fall in love with me.”

  Thankful shrugged, tied the hood of her cloak, and turned away, “All right then. Be that way. But don’t come crying to me when Jonathan marries someone else. Someone like Sarah Freeman, or plain little Amanda Nickerson….”

  Sarah Freeman? Amanda Nickerson?

  Thankful was walking away.

  “Wait.”

  Hiding her triumph, Thankful turned. Maria had taken the bait. Oh, what a grand joke this would be! Why, she could even get Prudence down at the tavern to help out—and maybe afterward all the young men wouldn’t be quite so taken by Maria’s beauty and innocence, an innocence that surely wouldn’t be intact after this idea bore fruit!

  “Yes?”

  “What do I have to do, then…to make this man fall in love with me?”

  Thankful grinned. “Kiss him.”

  “What?”

  “Really, Maria, you make it sound like a fate worse than death! But oh, maybe it is….” Dreamy-eyed, she gazed up at the clouds scudding toward the sea. “If Sam Bellamy were to kiss me, I’d think I’d died and gone to Heaven.”

  Maria swallowed the lump of apprehension that clogged her throat. Sam Bellamy! They said he carried the look of Satan himself in his coal-black eyes, that he’d been a privateer in England’s long-standing war with France over the Spanish succession. They said he’d been places they’d never even heard of, drank more than old Peter Cotter, and could swear vehemently enough to make your hair curl.

  And he hadn’t been to church this morning.

  “Think of Jonathan, Maria,” Thankful advised. “Catching the eye of another man? This will net him for you.”

  “You make it sound simple,” Maria said nervously. “And when do you plan on putting this…plan…into effect?”

  The girl’s smile was sly, secretive. “Tonight.”

  * * *

  Samuel Charles Bellamy was a godless rogue, and he knew it.

  He was also a freethinking recalcitrant, and he knew that too.

  And the good Reverend Treat knew it, which was why he expounded upon the sins—and just rewards—of those who didn’t go to church.

  And the womenfolk also knew it, which was why the young maidens (and some who weren’t so young) went to bed each night with very unmaidenly dreams of the swarthy Englishman beckoning them to sleep.

  And the people of Eastham must have known it too, which was why Sam, whose gift of gab could charm the sin out of the devil himself, was having such a damnable time convincing them to back his latest, most brilliant scheme, a scheme which could only increase their investment tenfold.

  “Goddamned Puritans,” he muttered into his ale.

  But Sam, as the youngest child in a motherless family of one brother, three sisters, and a father—all of whom had resented him from the moment he’d bawled his way into this miserable world and his mother had bled her way out of it—had grown quite adept over his twenty-seven years at manipulating people to do his bidding, and he was confident that he could bring these stingy villagers to do just that. And while he most certainly did not consider himself a God-fearing man, he was damned good at portraying one, and if he allowed a flicker of his true self—one that was not quite so good, so tame—to show through from time to time, well then, that only fanned people’s interest in him all the more.

  But these damned Cape Codders, they were a different story.

  He’d thought to play them like a prize fish, but he’d underestimated their grit, their shrewdness, and their lack of a sense of adventure. They sure as hell weren’t risk takers. To them, with so many shipwrecks off their own coast that even the elders had lost count of them, putting up the money to salvage a Spanish treasure fleet claimed by a hurricane a year past and a thousand miles distant was not an idea that was even worth considering, especially if the salvor happened to be an adventurer, and a foreigner at that. Never mind that the wrecks were just offshore, where the waters were so shallow one could practically wade out and pick the treasure up. To them and their Puritanical ways, what they didn’t know about him—and it wasn’t much, mind you—was not cause for intrigue, but suspicion.

  Nevertheless, Sam Bellamy liked attention, and he was getting more than his fair share of it tonight as he sat in Eastham’s Higgins Tavern nursing an ale from a pewter tankard.

  “Another mug, Captain?” purred the tavern wench, a brazen little tart named Prudence who, like many of these sweets-loving Colonials, had a mouthful of bad teeth and a figure that ran toward plump.

  He tossed down his ale and smacked the foam from his lips. “Aye, and another round for the lads here,” he said amiably, handing her his empty mug and digging into his pocket for coin.

  A group of fishermen and farmers had gathered around his table. Others leaned against the rough-hewn walls or sat in creaking old chairs and fixed him with canny eyes. Above their heads, pipe smoke hung suspended from the rafters, and every eye in the room was on him.

  Not interested in his treasure hunting scheme but intrigued by, or maybe just suspicious of him all the same. And as soon as this cursed storm turned tail and headed back out to sea, he’d be following in its wake, for getting financial backing in Eastham was like pulling hairs off a bald man.

  But what the hell. Tonight, he had nothing better to do than sit here in this tavern that reeked of grease, ale, sweat, and pipe smoke; talk about treasure ’til their eyes lit up; and drink away the hours until closing time. Maybe by then he might work up some interest for Prudence, who’d brazenly invited him to meet her at midnight in some silly place called the Apple Tree Hollow. Not that Prudence was anything to look forward to, mind you, but he enjoyed rolling a wench on her beam ends as much as the next normal, red-blooded seaman did. Besides, she’d be far better company than this stingy pack of tight-fists.

  “Tell us again about those ships, Captain,” said one of them, taking a seat on the bench across from him.

  Sam thumbed the side of his tankard, smudging the condensation there. “I’ve told you all there is to tell. What more would ye have me say? Spanish treasure ships, they were. Eleven of them, caught in the hurricane last summer and driven onto the reefs just off Florida, so close to shore that their gold and silver are just lying on the bottom waiting to be picked up by anyone willing to expend the effort”—he lifted the tankard to his lips
, savoring the cool, slightly bitter taste of the ale—“and the money.”

  “But I have no money to invest in such a venture,” the farmer lamented. He gazed down at his hands, where the honest soil that was his lifeblood stained his fingers and lined the undersides of his nails. He looked up hopefully. “But I’m a hard worker, and I learn quickly. Perhaps you could use an extra hand aboard your Lilith?”

  “Aye, perhaps,” Sam said vaguely, but his attention had gone to the door, which had opened to admit a gust of wind laced with rain and the scent of wet pine—and yet another patron. The man was tall and fashionably dressed, his green velvet coat, silk hose, and embroidered gold waistcoat setting him apart from the Cape men in their plain homespuns and broadcloths like a peacock in a barnyard. Sam’s eyes narrowed. Here might be the financial backing he so desperately needed.

  He watched as the newcomer removed his hat, stamped the sand from his silver-buckled shoes and let the door creak shut behind him. His raised his hand to the little group in greeting. It was obvious he was a frequent patron.

  Sam leaned back and reached for his ale once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the newcomer’s gaze go directly to him. The man had the look of one who’d aspired to and achieved much but whose ale had grown flat; a man who probably wouldn’t be afraid to spit in the wind, to toss a coin and hope his side came up. Bored with life, perhaps, and ready to try something new.

  But forty-year-old Paul Williams, just in from Rhode Island where his father had once been attorney general, could not know he was the subject of such scrutiny and speculation. He reached out and grasped Prudence’s arm as she bustled past in a swoosh of skirts. “Who’s the stranger?” he asked, inclining his head toward Sam.

  “Why, Paul! ’Tis good to see you again, you old scoundrel!” She lowered her voice. “He’s from Devon. Sam Bellamy’s his name.” Her smile grew sly. “Handsome rascal ain’t he?”

  Grinning, Paul relieved her of one of the mugs in her hand. “Always the roving eye, eh, Pru?”

  “Roving! Hah! Speaking of roving, you’re the one who has a wife and brats waiting for you back in Rhode Island. You and your adventuring! Why don’t you go home to them and settle down?”

  He gave her a lopsided grin that made no promises whatsoever. “I will, Pru, I will. All in good time, of course.” His curious stare went again to the stranger. “So, what’s he doing in town, anyway? Starting trouble?”

  “Oh, you might say that,” Prudence said, wishing for the hundredth time she hadn’t let those stupid Knowles sisters talk her into this foolish plan. She’d give anything to be the real person meeting Sam Bellamy in the Apple Tree Hollow tonight—but as Thankful had pointed out, young Maria Hallett was arousing too much interest these days. And as long as that shrewish aunt of hers forbade her to see any of those suitors and kept dangling her just out of their reach, that interest would continue. “At least, that’s what Reverend Treat thinks. But you know him. Suspicious of anyone he doesn’t know, and not afraid to say so. Of course, the people believe whatever he says. Lord, if he told them pigs grew wings at night they’d probably believe that, too.” She rolled her eyes and bent to wipe a puddle of ale from a nearby table.

  “So what’s he doing here?” Paul persisted.

  “Going after sunken treasure galleons off of Florida, and trying to stir up the interest and money to back him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t tell me this wild idea has caught your fancy, too!”

  But Paul was already elbowing his way through the crowd.

  The stranger looked up at his approach, his dark eyes taking in Paul’s tasteful clothes, his expensive, full-bottomed wig, the silk of his hose and the cut of his coat. It was a casual, almost dismissive glance and it fanned Paul’s curiosity all the more.

  “What’s this about treasure?” he asked and this time, when Bellamy’s astute gaze settled on him once more, it remained.

  “Pull up a chair, lad, and I shall tell you.”

  Paul sat.

  “Prudence, dear, be a good girl and get my friend here something to drink,” the stranger said expansively. “In fact, make that two. My cup’s gone dry again.” He stuck a hand toward Paul. “Sam Bellamy. And you?”

  Paul shook the offered hand. “Palsgrave Williams. But my friends call me Paul.”

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, Paul.” The Devonian’s grip was sure, firm, and strong. Confident. “So let me tell ye why I’m in town….”

  And now it was the Cape Codders’ turn to be dismissed, for the stranger had finally found someone who was interested in his plan. Someone who could afford to be interested in it. And as they downed ale after ale, Sam Bellamy told Paul about the sunken Spanish treasure galleons, the silver, the gold, the jewels just waiting to be taken from those warm Florida waters. He told him about his ship, Lilith. Long before the last patron left and Sam remembered his meeting with Prudence, they were both laughing, speculating, and drinking toasts to their futures—their very affluent futures.

  “Sounds like a grand idea to me,” Paul said, digging a last coin from his pocket for a final round. “And the sooner we leave for southern seas, the better. And what do you think, my new friend?”

  The stranger touched his tankard to Paul’s and drank, eyeing him from over the rim. “I think,” he said, grinning, “that their Reverend Treat would deem us a most formidable pair.”

  Chapter 2

  Fate is a sea without shore.

  — Swinburne

  Sam Bellamy prided himself on his ability to hold his liquor. By midnight, however, he was cursing himself for doing just that, for his head ached and his pockets were all but empty.

  He had to hand it to the Rhode Islander. Paul Williams had tried to match him ale for ale. Now, he snored drunkenly in a chair beside the dying fire, the light from the glowing embers reflecting against his fancy shoe-buckles. Paul wasn’t the first person to think he could out-drink him, and certainly wasn’t the first to find out otherwise. Yawning, Sam stood up, stretched the stiffness from his cramped limbs, and made his way toward the door.

  Prudence.

  She was already gone, no doubt waiting for him at this godforsaken meeting spot called the Apple Tree Hollow. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Her directions to get there had been simple enough.

  The wind was brisk off the sea as he stepped outside, refreshing him, invigorating him, and whetting his appetite for that which Prudence had offered. He was impatient to be back at sea, eager to leave the docile land behind. Not that Sam found such threats as Indians and wild animals docile, but as one who’d spent his childhood watching the ships going in and out of Plymouth in all their majestic splendor, the sea was in his blood. And long ago, on that cold February day when he’d turned nine years of age, and neither his father nor his siblings remembered—or cared—that it was his birthday, he’d left his family behind and shipped aboard the Royal Navy frigate Brittania.

  So long ago….

  He chased the memories from his mind. They weren’t worth remembering. Aye, the sea had been there waiting for him then, just as it was now. He could hear its call in the thunder of distant surf, could smell its nearness in the fresh, gusty wind: the tang of salt, the headiness of storm-stirred brine. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and drew the scent deeply into his lungs. The sea loved him and he loved it, and though it was a hard master, it had taught him well. And now its call was so strong that he considered leaving Prudence to her damned apple tree, walking the couple of miles to where the sand cliffs stood sentinel over the midnight ocean, and sitting there watching it, worshipping it even, as he’d done so many times as a lonesome little boy.

  He sighed heavily. The sea would be there tomorrow. At morning light he’d walk out to those cliffs and watch the sun rise up out of the Atlantic in a burst of brilliant color. Unless, of course, it was raining again….

  For now, there was Prudence. And it had been a while since he’d had a woman.

  The ta
vern was far behind him now, the flickering candlelight in its windows lost to the forest as he wandered into the night. He passed a stand of scrub oak and looking up through their interwoven branches saw that the sky was clearing. A chain of stars peered down at him. He smiled. There’d be a sunrise on the morrow after all. He continued on, leaving the oaks behind, making his way through a grove of pitch pine. The scent of pine, lilac, and apple blossoms lay heavily in the night air.

  Apple blossoms. Where the devil had Prudence said that blasted tree was? She’d told him to pass the burying ground—he’d done that—enter a small hollow, and it would be right there. He paused, trying to get his bearings, then continued on. The sea was distant now, a faint, steady roar he had to strain his ears to catch. From somewhere near, the hoot of an owl, and the scuttle of tiny feet through the carpet of last year’s leaves as some night creature, a rabbit probably, bounded suddenly away. The trees thinned, then parted, and Sam found himself at the edge of a moonlit clearing.

  It was the hollow, all right. And there, he suddenly stopped.

  Singing? Could it possibly be? Yet there it was again. From somewhere nearby came the clear notes of a beautiful, haunting voice, as lovely and soul-stirring as the pealing of a thousand bells. A faultless voice; a woman’s voice, singing a tune he’d never heard before. Enchanted, Sam stood where he was, unwilling to step into the clearing for fear that the vision that met his astonished eyes would disintegrate and float away like some fragment of a fleeting dream.

  In the meadow’s center a gnarled apple tree spread a perfumed canopy to the night, and beneath it, the moonlight silvering her long hair, her body tall and nymph-like, stood a girl. She was young—very young. Sam frowned. He must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. If he had any sense at all he’d get the hell out of here and go back to the tavern. If he had any sense at all he wouldn’t have drunk so much ale that his besotted mind started conjuring up visions of angels singing in moonlit meadows. If he had any sense at all….