The Ransom: Legacy of the King's Pirates

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  “I see, Captain! Get rid of the competition, and we shall take the spoil.” Larkin flashed delighted brows at Alex before he began spouting orders to the crew.

  Alex didn’t inform him that they’d take no spoil today.

  Within minutes a thunderous boom etched across the sky and quaked the ship from bow to stern. Gunpowder stung Alex’s nose as he peered through the gray smoke. Would the inbred captain heed the warning? Surely he’d spotted the Pirate Earl’s flag. Not many would dare cross a man whose reputation at sea battle was the talk of Port Royal. Besides, Alex wouldn’t mind a joust with one of his own. He’d been battling merchants far too long and could use a challenge.

  But true to form, Captain Snead withdrew like the coward he was. After staring at Alex through his glass for what seemed like an eternity, he turned and stomped across his deck like an obese duck, all the while barking orders to his crew that sent them flinging aloft. Soon, with all sails to the wind, he tacked aweather, flashing Alex his stern as he tucked tail and ran.

  Alex was about to bellow orders to put the helm over and leave the Esther’s Dowry behind, when another shout came from above. “A third sail!”

  White canvas gleaming in the afternoon sun, a Royal Navy frigate, blue-and-white flag flapping from the masthead, dipped and plunged toward them, a mustache of foam spread across her bow.

  Alex gripped the railing and shared a glance with Jonas.

  “Nichols,” they both said at once.

  “We can take the merchant before he arrives,” Larkin shouted up from the main deck.

  Alex eyed the frigate. Aye, he agreed. They’d have to be quick about it, but they could do it. And if it were any other merchantman, he’d welcome the thrill of trying. But not Miss Juliana’s brig. Before Alex could issue the command to turn to starboard, Larkin’s voice thundered from below. “Arm yourselves, men. We’ve another prize to take!”

  “Nay, belay that order!” Alex approached the railing, hands fisted on his hips, giving Larkin the full measure of an angry glare.

  His crew, an assortment of slovenly, foul-mouthed men, stood on the main deck with greedy grins that soon turned to frowns as their gazes shifted between him and Larkin.

  “We’ve enough spoils for now,” Alex shouted above the wind. “What say you we go home and spend our wealth?”

  This did not elicit the “ayes” and “huzzahs” he’d hoped for. Instead, a couple of the men spit on the deck. Others stared longingly at the merchant brig—which quickly raised sails in an effort to escape the remaining pirate—while a few glared at Alex as if they intended to hack him to pieces.

  “I says we take ’er, Cap’n!” one man shouted.

  “Aye! Aye! She’s easy pickin’s!”

  “I say we put it to a vote.” Larkin’s eyes turned narrow and cold. “As is the crew’s prerogative.”

  A grumbling of ascent waved through the crowd.

  Larkin was right, blast him. It wasn’t purely Alex’s decision—not according to the articles they’d signed. As he saw it, he had two choices. Steal from the woman he loved and thereby aid in ruining her forever. Or risk a mutiny in which he’d most likely end up dead.

  Chapter 26

  “It’s a trap, you flea-infested toads! Can’t you see that?” Jonas stepped forward and gripped the quarterdeck railing, gazing down upon the crew. “That ship”—he pointed to the sails growing larger on the horizon—“is a Royal Navy frigate. And she’s just waiting for us to capture the British merchantman so she can haul us in and string us up. Our captain here is attempting to save your worthless necks.”

  Some of the men rubbed their throats at the declaration while Alex gave Jonas a nod of thanks.

  “But ye ain’t never run from no Navy ship afore!”

  “Aye, an’ we’s got time!”

  “Are you as daft as you look?” Jonas bellowed. “The Navy will witness the crime and give chase. And when they catch us, you’ll forfeit every last piece-of-eight you earned from our last prize.”

  This seemed to get some of their miniscule brains thinking.

  “But ain’t no Navy ship fast enough to catch the Pirate Earl!” Cheers and fists thrust into the air, making Alex proud of his crew’s confidence in him. Though he wished they had less at the moment.

  Larkin leapt onto the quarterdeck ladder and glanced over the men. “We chased off that toad, Snead, and I say we claim our prize!”

  Roars of agreement followed.

  “Unless you’ve gone yellow-bellied, Captain?” Larkin sneered at Alex.

  And just like a fickle female, the crew spit and cursed their agreement.

  Alex gave Larkin a smoldering look. How could his friend defy him so vehemently in front of the crew? And why was he gripping the hilt of his sword as if he would draw on Alex any moment?

  Alex glanced down upon his men, most of whom were scowling his way. He roared above wind and wave, “This yellow-bellied captain has kept you all alive and swimming in gold. And you dare defy me now? I make no doubt Mr. Larkin is a great orator, but so is the Devil, and both will send you straight to hell.”

  The pirates’ faces twisted as they pondered this new revelation.

  Gaining Alex’s attention, Jonas nodded toward the frigate—clearly Nichols’s ship, HMS Viper—which was nigh upon the merchant brig.

  And far too close to them now.

  “Then let’s have that vote, shall we?” Bracing his boots on the rocking deck, Alex fisted hands at his waist and waited for the pirates to realize they had lost their chance to take the merchantman and escape. One by one, their gazes drifted aloft and one by one their eyes widened until finally they sprang into the shrouds. Larkin—after casting a seething look toward Alex—began braying orders to hoist all sail.

  ♥♥♥

  Something sharp pounded through Rowan’s head, like the galloping of a dozen horses. Horses with spikes on their shoes, apparently. He moaned and attempted to push himself up from the settee onto which he’d fallen late last night. Or had it been morning?

  “I asked you a question, sir.”

  Rowan held up a hand at the hazy form of Captain Nichols, who had suddenly appeared before him—disturbing a rather pleasant dream of a tryst with two doxies. “Please lower your voice, Captain. No need to shout.”

  “I’m not shouting, you fool.” The captain frowned. “You’re drunk.”

  Nay, if Rowan was drunk, his head wouldn’t be splitting and his stomach wouldn’t feel like he’d consumed a keg of sour milk. He belched, the smell confirming his suspicion about his stomach. “To my utter dismay, I fear I am not drunk, Captain, but do give me a minute.” Shoving to his feet, he ignored the spinning room and stumbled to the cupboard, where a decanter of rum sat sparkling in a ray of afternoon sun angling through the windows.

  He tossed a glassful to the back of his mouth. “Ah …” The pungent liquid spiraled through him, untying knots where knots ought not be and numbing places that were too painful to consider. For the past two weeks—or had it been three?—Rowan had dwelt in a murky world of cards, rum, and women: the only alternative to facing the death of his father along with the mounting responsibilities left him for the welfare of his sister and Dutton Shipping.

  “What has you in such a pother, Nichols?”

  “What has me in a pother? I’ll tell you. It’s that infernal Pirate Earl. Do you recall the trap we set for him with one of your ships?”

  Rowan searched his memory, dull as it was. “Ah yes. The rumors we spread about the dowry on board.”

  “Yes, that one. Does your curiosity not demand to know what happened?”

  Rowan opened his mouth to inform the man that his curiosity had been sated with rum, but Nichols proceeded with his tirade as he took up a pace before the window. “He protected your ship.”

  Rowan poured another drink and lumbered back to his seat, unsure he heard the man correctly. “Protected?”

  “Can you believe it? I ce
rtainly wouldn’t have, unless I’d seen it with my own eyes.” Sunlight gleamed off Nichols’s white periwig as, with hands clenched behind his back, he made good work of the rug before the window. “He protected your brig from another pirate intent on taking her. And then proceeded to sail away, leaving her be.”

  “Astonishing.” Rowan’s chuckle faltered on his lips beneath Nichols’s glare. He sipped his drink, relishing in the sudden apathy that swept through his brain, dulling his pain with it. “Seems your Pirate Earl has outwitted you once again.”

  “Don’t be absurd. He has no more wits than morals.” Nichols’s face reddened. “Nay, there is something else afoot.” Halting, he tapped his chin. “Why would a pirate not capture prey?”

  “Mayhap he was tired.”

  Nichols’s look of disgust could melt iron.

  Rowan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He must have spotted you.”

  “He had plenty of time, I tell you. Plenty of time! Nay, there is something going on here, and I intend to discover what it is.” Nichols stormed toward Rowan and took a seat in a chair, leaning toward him. “In the meantime, what have you learned about Lord Munthrope? Or have you found time to pull away from your affair d’coeur with rum and gambling to earn your pay?”

  Rowan frowned. He was going to need another drink if the man didn’t leave soon. “I’ve done as you asked, but there’s naught to learn. The man is simply who he appears to be: the wealthy son of an earl squandering his father’s fortune on high living. Besides, he hasn’t appeared in society for nigh three weeks. Every time I called upon him, he was not home. Nor has anyone in society seen him. He was neither at the Chilling’s Tea nor the Bedford Soiree, nor the play at Chaucers. His butler merely says His Lordship is busy with business.”

  “Business? What business?”

  “How should I know? Mayhap something of his father’s.”

  “His father was a”—Nichols froze, a tiny smile forming on his impervious lips—“pirate.” He grabbed his tricorne from the table and started for the foyer. Halting at the door, he glanced up the grand staircase. “I don’t suppose your sister is home?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Your butler said she wasn’t, but I haven’t seen her in quite some time.” Nichols gazed at him suspiciously. “Nor your father, for that matter. Odd.”

  His headache worsening, Rowan took another sip of rum and struggled to rise. “The whereabouts of my family is none of your business, Captain. And though I marvel at your concern, I assure you they are both well.”

  “Humph.” Nichols assessed him for a moment, then slapped his hat atop his head. “Then I bid you good day.”

  “What of my pay?” Rowan held out a hand. “You promised me ten shillings a week.”

  Nichols snorted. “For what? You’ve produced nothing of value. We’ve not caught the Pirate Earl nor have you dug up any skullduggery on Lord Munthrope. Our deal is off, sir. And might I make a suggestion?”

  Rowan would rather he not, especially after hearing he was completely and utterly destitute once again.

  “Clean yourself up, man. Do away with this roistering and assist your father with the family business. Or better yet, join His Majesty’s Navy. Make something of yourself. This idle dissipation is no way to live.”

  Rowan’s glare followed Nichols out the door. His idle dissipation was a far better way to live than slaving one’s life away at hard labor only to die young and leave it all behind. As both his parents had done.

  Or perchance Rowan was simply what his father had always claimed—a useless sot.

  ♥♥♥

  Juliana gestured toward the stone bench in her mother’s garden. “Won’t you have a seat, Lord Munthrope?”

  “I wish you’d call me Munny, sweetums, like all my friends.” Sunlight dappled glitter over his beribboned sleeves as he twirled, arms lifted, and promptly took a seat.

  “And I wish you’d call me Miss Juliana, as is proper.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Not for my betrothed.”

  Turning her back to him, Juliana dipped her nose to her mother’s heliotrope and breathed in the sweet vanilla scent. If only for the courage to ask what she must of this foppish man. “But ours is not a true engagement, milord, now, is it?” She spun to face him, her skirts brushing against a nearby shrub. “Otherwise you would have answered my many urgent requests to see you these past three weeks.”

  His dark brows rose, lifting the silly horse patch atop his right eye. “I came as soon as I could, mil—Miss Juliana.” His frown held regret as he suddenly stood, flipped the long curls of his periwig over his shoulder, and took her hand in his. “I am here now.” He leaned to gaze into her eyes, surprising her with how blue his were—deep blue like the sea, yet with specks of gray that glimmered with concern.

  He pulled her down to the bench and sat beside her, still gripping her hand, running his thumb over the tops of her fingers. Odd, but his skin felt rough and scratchy. So unlike the hands of a man who lazed about town.

  “Something has happened.” He peered at her again. “Pray, what has you so vexed?”

  Juliana swallowed, absorbing the strength of his touch—the strength that oddly surrounded the capricious man—and desperately longed for someone to lean on, someone to trust. But he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him. Just like everyone else. “I had hoped to acquire your help, milord, with a personal matter.” She looked down.

  “Anything. I will do anything you ask of me.” His voice caught, momentarily plunging into baritone. She raised her gaze to his, squinting at the sun reflected off the white paste on his face, off the glitter in his periwig and the satin cravat bounding beneath his chin.

  But his eyes … his eyes held a strength, a conviction, an intensity he rarely revealed. They reminded her of someone … Nay. She nearly laughed. A foolish notion.

  A bird landed on a branch above his head and began a cheerful tune, drawing both their gazes and a smile to his lips. “You see, sweetums, even the bird wishes to bring you good cheer.” His voice raised an octave once again.

  “I fear there’s nothing to be done.” Juliana drew back her hand, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She prided herself on being strong, being capable. In her world, there was no time for self-pity. Not when she had a business to run and a family to provide for. Regardless, sitting in the garden with her mother’s love surrounding her and this man’s genuine concern, a single rebellious tear slipped its lashy perch and slid down her cheek.

  Raising his hand, Munthrope wiped it away with a calloused thumb as a rare seriousness came over him. She did not wish to be pitied. She rose and strolled to a gardenia bush, turning her back to him, collecting her wayward emotions.

  “This was my mother’s garden. She spent many hours here.”

  “La. I can see why. ’Tis lovely. And peaceful.” She heard him move behind her. “You miss her.”

  Juliana fingered a leaf, still fighting back tears. “More than you know.” The air felt as thick and heavy as her heart. Perspiration slid down her back. She had brought this man here to ask his help, but now she feared ’twas not wise. For all appearances he seemed capricious and whimsical, not someone worthy of her trust. Yet … something in his eyes, in his presence, set her at ease. Oh, fie! What to do?

  She spun on her heels. “Lord Munthrope. Do you have access to a grave?”

  The man, who had inched behind her, leapt back in surprise. “A grave?” He gave a humorless laugh. “For whom, my pet?”

  “Someone who has died, of course.” She stared at him, hesitating. “Someone who needs to be laid to rest.”

  He ran a finger and thumb down the sides of his mouth and looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “A grave is no difficulty. The family has but to go to the city council and purchase a plot at the Palisadoes. Not someone close to you I hope?”

  “I can’t go to the council.” She batted away a bug. “I must bury this person in secret.”

  “Indeed.” One brow
cocked. “Now you have me worried, sweetums. You didn’t murder someone, did you?”

  Juliana wove around him, in no mood for jokes. “Don’t be absurd!”

  “Then, who is it?”

  “Milord, can I trust you?” She turned to face him, wringing her hands. “I mean, can I truly trust you?”

  He studied her a moment, his brow darkening, his eyes searching hers. “If you would do me the honor of that trust, milady.”

  The sincerity in his tone sank her to the bench. “’Tis my father.” Saying it out loud brought the tears back, this time shamelessly streaming down her face.

  He moved toward her, and a handkerchief fluttered in her vision. Grabbing it, she wiped her cheeks.

  “My utmost condolences, Miss Juliana. ’Tis a tragedy not to be borne alone.”

  “If word gets out …” she sobbed. “I will lose everything and be tossed onto the streets.”

  “There, there, now.” He sat beside her. “That will never happen.” Circling an arm around her shoulder, he drew her close. She buried her nose in his silk doublet, drawing in the scent of rose and cinnamon that always accompanied him. Her tears flowed freely as he rubbed her back. Beneath the preened layers of fluff, his chest felt firm, not fleshy, his arm as thick and sturdy as a pole.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt safe. And cared for.

  “Where is your fa—where is he?” he finally said.

  “In a sealed coffin in his bedchamber.” She hiccupped.

  “I’ll make the arrangements this afternoon.” He nudged her back, gripped her shoulders, and gave her a look of assurance. And, oddly, authority. “Be ready at midnight.”

  She sniffed and drew the handkerchief to her nose. “You won’t tell anyone?”

  “Lud, my pet. You do use me poorly.” He tsked, then grew serious. “Nay, no one will ever know.” He took her hand in his. “What about your father’s shipping business?”