The Ransom: Legacy of the King's Pirates

by Marylu Tyndall

  Oddly, Munthrope was quiet as he walked along beside her, hands clasped behind his back, the ends of his green coat flapping over white beribboned breeches. Making her way down a short outcropping, she clutched her skirts and leapt onto a flat boulder for a better view of the horizon, where remnants of the sun left brilliant trails of crimson, orange, and yellow in its wake.

  “Begad, Miss Juliana. A pretty ambition for a lady, leaping upon rocks like an overzealous frog. How refreshing!” Munthrope jumped up beside her.

  She smiled and drew in a deep breath of briny, tropical air and allowed the wind to swirl over her, fluttering her skirts and dancing through her hair. For a brief moment—if only a moment—she dreamed she was still a little girl, her mother was alive, her brother adored her, and her father loved her so much that she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Until Munthrope opened his mouth. “This calls for a rhyme, I’d say.” He raised his hand in the air. “There once was a lady who leapt like a frog, she dared to—”

  Juliana touched his arm, stopping him. “Pray, I beg you. No more rhymes today, milord.”

  He pouted like a little boy, though a glimmer of mischief appeared in his eyes.

  She faced the sky again, admiring how it changed with each passing second as if an artist with an invisible brush added a bit of color here, a swath there. “Thank you for indulging me, milord. This was not part of our bargain.”

  “On the contrary, it can only aid the impression we give should anyone happen by.”

  “’Tis beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Stunning. Simply stunning.” The seriousness of his tone brought her around to see he was staring at her. He coughed and quickly examined the sky, holding one hand in the air as if he were posing for the queen. “A glorious way to end the day.”

  “And usher in a new one,” Juliana added, glancing back at the horizon. “A new beginning. Perchance a better one.”

  “Why would an accomplished lady such as yourself have need of a better beginning? Surely with your father’s thriving business, all your needs are met, all your desires fulfilled.”

  “Do not presume to know me, milord,” she ground out. “Or anything about my life.”

  A rare glimmer of contrition waved at her from his blue eyes. “My apologies, milady. I meant no offense. You merely concern me with your words. Is there something I can be of assistance with, some problem which I can help solve? I do hate to see you vexed.”

  She studied him. Fie! Surely the man bore no interest in her romantically? “I am not vexed. Nor do I need your help,” she replied rather sternly. “I do not want your friendship either, milord. You’ll do good to remember ’tis but a business arrangement we have. Your attempts to woo me are doomed to fail.”

  An impish grin appeared on his lips. “Woo you? Begad, sweetums, were I to purpose such a thing, I fear there would be no hope for your heart.”

  She smiled. “Alas, your confidence is exceeded only by your vanity, milord. But not to fear, there are many ladies quite taken with your wit and charm.”

  “But not you.” He raised his brow, that ridiculous horse patch leaping with the movement.

  She lifted her chin. “It would take more than wit, charm, title, or wealth, milord, to win my heart.”

  He gave a hearty laugh. “Alas, what is left?”

  “Honor, honesty, goodness, kindness, and trustworthiness … to name but a few.”

  His eyes locked upon hers, and an admiration she had not foreseen appeared within them. But then it was gone. Stolen by the shadows slinking out to claim the night. The last vestiges of sunlight drifted over his jaw, where evening stubble broke through like crops in a field of snow.

  “It grows dark.” He leapt from the boulder and helped her down, then proffered his elbow to escort her back to the carriage. A cannon thundered from Fort Charles.

  Juliana’s heart leapt as she tightened her grip on Munthrope’s arm.

  “No worries, Miss Juliana. They are but signaling an incoming ship.”

  She knew that, but for some reason her nerves were atwist. Shadows seemed to leap at them from all around. How quickly it grew dark here in the Caribbean. A carriage ambled by. A group of sailors rushed past, laughing and shoving each other playfully.

  Juliana startled at a quick movement to her right. A man leapt out from behind a large fern, his body a dark outline against the sand. He thrust a knife—a rather large knife—toward Munthrope. “Your purse, milord.”

  Juliana’s breath rasped in her throat. She squeezed Lord Munthrope’s arm. Why, she couldn’t say. The milksop could not protect her any more than one of her lady friends. In fact, he merely stood there, no doubt frozen in terror.

  “Give it to him, milord.” Juliana nudged him.

  “I’d do wat yer lady says, milord, or I’ll gut ye bof like a fish.” At Munthrope’s silence, the man stepped closer and waved his knife across their chests in a taunting display.

  Juliana’s heart nearly burst through her ribs. Was this to be her end? Gutted on the shores of Port Royal, left for the birds to eat, like those pirates hanging at the Point? What had she done to deserve this? God, please help us. I promise I’ll do better, but please save us.

  Munthrope remained silent beside her. He didn’t twitch, didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out for help. Juliana shook his arm, trying to jar him from his terror-stricken stupor, when slowly and methodically, he nudged her behind him.

  “Ah, ’ow chivalrous.” The man spat to the side. “But I’ll still be takin’ that purse o’ yers.” He lunged for Munthrope. In a move too fast to see, the pompous lord gripped the villain’s wrist, twisted him around, and shoved him to his knees. He then kicked him to the sand, while somehow ending up with the knife firm in his grip.

  Then, with a shoe upon the man’s neck, he made him eat sand, while he flung the blade into the now-dark sea.

  Chapter 17

  As the carriage hobbled through the streets on the way back to the Dutton home, Alex bit his lip, gazed out the window, and cursed himself for a fool. He had hoped to spend a pleasant afternoon becoming more acquainted with Miss Juliana. What he hadn’t planned on were his many horrific blunders. He’d played the part of supercilious Munthrope among society without incident for years now. But in the past few days he’d made one mistake after another: leaving paste on his face, using his real voice earlier in the carriage, describing his supposed peers as fluff-heads. And now, the worst bungle of all, proving capable of defending himself and his lady against an armed assailant—something Lord Munthrope should not possess the skill or bravery to accomplish.

  Of course afterward he’d made light of the incident, claimed his rage and stupidity had gotten the better of him. But now as the carriage jostled down the street, Miss Juliana studied him as a naturalist would a new species of insect. He even perfected a little whimper here, a shaking of the hands there, a sweating of the forehead and neck, all enacted amidst fearful groans and mutterings. But the lady was having none of it. She was no dim-brained female. Not a word spilled from her lips as she continued to watch him with narrowed gaze and suspicious looks.

  “I daresay, have you ever seen such inane absurdity?” He waved his arms about madly. “That poor villain was obviously new to his breeches, an amateur of the lowest ranks, no doubt sent out by Uncle Blackguard in an attempt to train the lad. Forsooth, I can hardly gainsay it! Either that or the man was cupshotten with the worst batch of Kill-Devil rum ever made on the island! His ineptitude made Your Lordship look like a hero, I make bold to say. I cannot wait to blazon the exciting tale among our friends!” He forced a loud chuckle.

  Miss Juliana’s delicate brows rose. “You are pleased to mock me, milord.” Her voice was curt and strong as she sat straight in her seat.

  “Mock you? Curse me for a rogue if I dare such a thing!”

  She gaped at him as if he was, indeed, a rogue. But what else could he have done? If he had continued his namby-pamby performance, allowing the thief to easily
acquire his money purse, the precocious scoundrel might have thought the lady would be easily acquired as well. And Alex could not have allowed that.

  Now, he had one last card to play. And it was not an easy one. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thought of the singular moment in his childhood when he had cried. That single moment in which he had vowed never to do so again. His fourteenth birthday, when instead of seeing his father and mother strolling toward the house from their long trip abroad—as they had promised—he saw a messenger with a post that said they’d been delayed several months. Months that turned into a year. There. The tears came, filling his eyes with burning. Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he fluffed it out and drew it to his moist face.

  It had the intended effect.

  “There, there, milord.” Juliana touched his arm. “No need for tears.” Her voice had softened once again.

  “My apologies, Miss Juliana.” He sniffed, held the cloth to his nose, and looked away. “I suppose the terror of the event has just struck me. How very frightening to think we could have both died there on the beach.”

  “We are safe now, Your Lordship. God protected us.”

  God again! Could the lady not see ’twas he who constantly kept her safe?

  When they reached her house, she thanked him for the interesting afternoon, denied his escort to the door, and quickly slipped inside as if he had the plague.

  He ordered the carriage brought to a stop farther down the street. It had been weeks since he’d heard her play the violin, and he hoped it would sooth his agitated mind. But after an hour, only the distant crash of waves and screech of a night heron sounded, and he headed home.

  He knew he was playing a dangerous game with this wise lady—a dangerous game indeed. Yet he could not bring himself to stop.

  ♥♥♥

  Rowan slid onto the bench in the back of The Three Crownes and nodded toward Captain Nichols sitting across from him. Why the man wanted to meet here, Rowan could only guess. ’Twas probably because card games continued unhindered from dusk to dawn and were now at full force around them, offering incentive for Rowan to continue his alliance with the Royal Navy officer. Not that he needed any. Rowan would do just about anything to continue gambling. Despite Juliana’s opinion to the contrary, he found he possessed a skill at certain games that far exceeded that of most men. One day soon, luck would sail into port, and he’d make enough money to not only help run his father’s business but keep the family in luxury.

  Then he’d finally win the respect of his sister and all those who thought him nothing but a wastrel, a lazy drunk who was doomed to fail. Mayhap he didn’t have the aptitude for numbers like Juliana, but God had given him another equally important skill. And with Nichols’s allowance, Rowan would hone that skill until he could provide for his family and relieve Juliana of the pressures she placed upon herself. Then perchance the poor girl could relax and enjoy life. Faith, life was far too short to waste fretting over such inconsequential things. Both his parents had proven that. His mother, always in a fluster over the poor in the city, had caught one of their diseases and died. And now his father, who’d spent a lifetime building up his shipping business, lay dying before he could reap the benefits.

  Rowan would not end up like that. He would help his sister, yes. But after that, he intended to spend what time he had on this earth pursuing the pleasures life offered. Then at least when he died, he’d have no regrets.

  Nichols grinned, poured rum from a bottle into a cup, and slid it to Rowan.

  “What is the meaning of life, Captain?” Rowan took a sip, curious as to the coxcomb’s response.

  Nichols snorted as if the question were ridiculous. “To win, of course.”

  Rowan nodded. “As you intend to do with my sister? And this Pirate Earl you seek?”

  “Precisely.”

  A barmaid sashayed past the table, carrying two mugs of ale and eyeing Rowan with approval. He winked at her, eliciting a smile before she continued on her way. The snap of cards, whisper of bets, and feminine coos and giggles permeated the dimly-lit room in which velvet-upholstered chairs perched across a somewhat-clean wooden floor. Sea breezes whisked through open windows, stirring lanterns on tables and chandeliers hanging from rafters, creating waves of light and shadow over the scene. Just as the lantern on Rowan’s table was doing to the captain—making him look sinister one minute and harmless the next.

  But Rowan knew the man was anything but harmless.

  “You know what to do?” Nichols asked, sipping his drink.

  Rowan nodded. “The ship is due to sail into port on the morrow. I’ve already given the customs agent the money.”

  “And he won’t allow it to be unloaded until the next day?”

  “That’s what he said.” Rowan sat back, impatient.

  Nichols gave a malicious grin. “Good. Then spread the word by the docks, and I’ll do the same.”

  Rowan nodded. An easy enough task. Pirates loved hearing about free booty, especially a fortune in pearls. Unusual guilt caused him to shift in his seat. “I have your word the pearls will not be stolen.”

  At this Nichols laughed. “Stolen? Forsooth! I assure you, the only thing that will be stolen is the Pirate Earl’s freedom.”

  Rowan hoped he was right. But what choice did he have? He extended his open palm to receive his due, longing for his conversation with the annoying Navy captain to be at an end.

  Nichols eyed it with disdain. “What of the other matter?”

  “Never fear. I’m questioning all of Lord Munthrope’s friends.” Rowan held up his same hand as Nichols began to protest. “I’m doing it discreetly. And I’m following him when I can. Nothing yet, but I’ll inform you of my findings.”

  Card games called to him from all around like wanton lovers. “Now, if you please?” He held out his hand once again.

  Scowling, Nichols pulled a leather pouch from inside his coat and tossed it onto the table. It landed with a heavy chink, the musical sound causing Rowan’s heart to leap. Downing the remainder of his drink, he grabbed the money and stood. The sooner he found a game of cards, the sooner his luck would turn.

  What did he care whether the Pirate Earl would be hanging from Execution Dock by the end of the week?

  ♥♥♥

  Juliana hadn’t been able to sleep in a week. Not since she’d last seen Lord Munthrope. Visions of the dandified lord invaded her mind: images of his rapid reflexes, the way he grabbed the thief’s wrist and flipped him around with minimal effort, then subdued him and took his knife within seconds. It had all happened so fast, Juliana could recall only flashes. Where would a man of his breeding and lavish, lethargic lifestyle acquire such reflexes, such courage, such ability? She could make no sense of it, and her mind refused to put it to rest.

  Tossing aside her coverlet, she rose and stood by the window. A breeze burdened with humidity, barely fluttered the cotton curtains as she gazed out over the sleeping city. Mayhap there was more to Lord Munthrope than he presented. His father had once been a pirate, after all. A very feared and successful pirate until he met God one day in the crumbling church that sat behind the orphanage. Reverend Buchan, the man who ran the church at the time and who later started the orphanage, became good friends with the wayward pirate, teaching him the things of God until he gave up his vile ways and became a missionary. She had wanted to ask Lord Munthrope more about his father, but for once, the bold question had remained behind propriety’s doors. Especially after the mention of him had caused Munthrope to frown so deeply. Though he seemed not to have acquired his father’s religious fervor, could a bit of that tainted pirate blood be flowing through Munthrope’s veins?

  A vision of him gliding through the Milson home in a dainty whirl of lace and silk, his high-pitched laugh cackling over her ears, and then of him sobbing in the carriage on the way home, invaded her nonsensical thoughts. Nay. No pirate blood at all. She chuckled and shook her head. Seems the son was nothing like his father.

>   Gathering flint and steel, she lit a candle. The light flickered over the dark wood of her violin, causing her fingers to itch to pick it up and play a soothing tune. The sweet tones of Jean-Baptiste Lully or Heinrich Schütz would do much to calm her restless nerves, regardless of the fact that it was considered uncouth for a lady to play the instrument. But it was well past midnight, and she didn’t wish to rob anyone of the sleep that seemed to evade her.

  After donning her robe, she took the candle and slipped from her chamber. She’d not had time to see her father all day, having spent hours doing paperwork and going over the business with Mr. Abbot. They had another shipment due tomorrow, and in the meantime, they needed to fill up the Esther’s Dowry with enough goods to make it worth the trip to the American colonies and then back across the pond. Since they had recently lost two customers, Mr. Abbot was having some difficulty signing on new merchants.

  But Juliana didn’t want to think of that now. Instead, as she made her way down the dark hall, she silently prayed she would find her father much improved.

  Yet when she entered his chamber, her prayers fell like so much dust to the floor. Miss Ellie, ever vigilant, sat slumped in a chair by his bed, snoring lightly. Her father, sweat beading on his face, seemed to have sunk deeper into the mattress, as if he had a rent in his hold and was slowly sinking into the sea. His face was dull and listless, his arms naught but bones and withered skin. A drop of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.