The Ransom: Legacy of the King's Pirates

by Marylu Tyndall

  “It is well and not your concern.” She didn’t mean to sound curt, but the less the man knew, the better. Though, she could tell from the look in his eyes he understood the situation well enough. Thankfully, he intruded no further.

  “You have naught to fear from me, Miss Juliana. Mum’s the word.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, milord.”

  “Pshaw, ’tis nothing. I could use a little intrigue to spice up my life. Besides, we are friends, are we not?” He eased a finger down her jaw.

  Were they? Where once Juliana thought him a selfish peacock, now she wondered at the lengths he went to please her. To help her. When it benefited him naught. She’d witnessed his charity as well. And despite his ridiculous attire and flamboyant gestures, she found herself drawn to him, even enjoying his company. “Yes, we are friends, Lord Munthrope.”

  “Then you must call me Munny.” He smiled.

  “Very well, Munny.”

  His gaze took her in as if she were a vision from heaven.

  Warmth flooded her. Could she actually be falling for this ridiculous man? She felt herself drawn to him. Not physically of course, but to something deep within him… mayhap to the man himself. Nay. She shrugged it off. ’Twas merely gratitude for his help.

  “Midnight, then, my pet?” He lifted her hand for a kiss and gave her a devious wink so contrary to the man’s flippant attitude. Then swinging about, silk flapping in the breeze, he strode away, announcing he’d see his own way out.

  Sliding back onto the stone bench, Juliana released a heavy sigh as a feeling of foreboding claimed her. Had she done the right thing in trusting Munthrope? Or would he abandon her like everyone else?

  Chapter 27

  A wistful moon cried milky tears over the fresh mound of dirt in the Palisadoes graveyard just outside Port Royal. Alex stood beside Juliana, unsure what to say. Two men from his crew—their identity unbeknownst to the lady—had just finished burying Mr. Dutton and were carrying their shovels back to the wagon. Waves crashed ashore in the distance, joining the serenade of crickets and frogs, a not-too-unpleasant funeral dirge for the man gone now nearly a month. Even tar-sealed in a coffin, the stench was insufferable. It had been difficult enough for Juliana to bear on the way there as the poor lady, sitting upon the driver’s perch of the wagon, had oscillated between coughing, covering her nose, and sobbing uncontrollably.

  But now that the man was settled four feet under, she had calmed considerably, merely staring at the mound as if expecting her father to break forth any moment. Alex had heard there’d been no love lost between the two, yet here she stood mourning him as if he’d been a doting father. Alex sighed. He’d had a different sort of father. A restrictive one—a man of many rules. One who had loved him when he’d been home, but who had rarely been home. On the other hand, Juliana’s father had always been home, but uninvolved and unloving. Alex wondered which was worse.

  Standing beside the wooden cross Alex’s men had hammered into the soil, Juliana ran fingers over the name engraved upon it: Sam Mason. “I wish we could have buried him under his own name.”

  “Someday you will,” Alex offered. “When all this is over.”

  She looked at him, her expression lost in the shadows. “Will it ever be over?”

  The sorrow and desperation in her voice would be his undoing. How he longed to take her in his arms, to hold her while she spent her tears, to tell her that yes, life would get better. That if she allowed him, he’d care for her all her days.

  But instead, he stood there affecting a nonchalant pose so as not to arouse her suspicions. Suspicions that he’d already witnessed on the expressions of her face, the flickers in her eyes. Suspicions that if confirmed would send her careening far, far away from him forever.

  “At least he’s at rest now,” she said. “And buried as a loved one should be.”

  Which reminded Alex of Rowan. “Wherever is your brother? Did you not tell him of the burial?”

  “Out filling his belly with rum, I imagine.”

  Alex shook his head. This poor lady. Not only bearing the responsibility of a shipping business but also the burden of a wastrel brother. If possible, his admiration rose even higher for her while his disdain grew for Rowan.

  Mayhap Alex should simply disclose his true feelings—that he wished to make their betrothal real. Hadn’t he seen sparks of regard—dare he say affection—in her eyes? Mayhap under the circumstances, she’d be amenable to becoming the wife of such a strutting fool. Alex would gladly give up being the Pirate Earl if he had a chance at gaining the love of such a woman.

  ♥♥♥

  The cards lying face up across the table rolled back and forth like a stormy sea in Rowan’s vision. He blinked, trying to bring them into focus.

  “Where are you placin’ your coin, Dutton?” the man next to him drawled out. A gray periwig circled skin leathered by the sun and a brow that protruded like a monkey’s. With the brains to match.

  Rowan would have no trouble outwitting the baboon yet again. He’d already won more than twenty pounds with only two shillings to begin with. Grabbing his glass, he downed the rest of his rum and eyed the dealer—a rotund man across from him who ran the mercantile. Beside him sat Rowan’s other competitor, a Mr. Camp, dressed in a Turkish garment of gold brocade, newly arrived from England with money to burn.

  “Hurry it up, Dutton. I ain’t got all night,” Baboon man slurred.

  A crowd formed around the table, all eyes locked on the high-stakes game. One doxy brought Rowan another glass of rum and sidled up beside him. A fiddle screeched in the background, joining the squawk of parrots that inhabited the rafters of the old tavern.

  Rowan studied the cards again. The queen of spades focused in his blurry vision. Wait. Had she winked at him? He could have sworn she … He smiled. Of course. ’Twas the sign he’d been seeking. He shoved all his ivory chips—twenty pounds worth—to sit before her. He knew he would win. He felt it in his bones. Mr. Camp divided his chips betwixt the two and eight of spades, while Mr. Baboon laid all of his fifty pounds worth on the jack. Fools. Within seconds, all their money would be Rowan’s—his and Juliana’s, that was, for he fully intended to use his winnings to help support the family. Mayhap, finally, his dear sister would understand that his skills, though different from hers, were just as useful.

  With a confident grin, he watched the dealer as he flipped over the first card. Whew. A two of hearts. Mr. Camp frowned at the loss. The second card would be a queen. It had to be. The doxy nibbled on Rowan’s ear as he stretched out his arms to gather his winnings. He shifted his gaze between the men, waiting to see their looks of despondency and horror. The card snapped. Mr. Camp spewed a colorful curse. Waiting for Mr. Baboon to do the same, Rowan studied him with eager expectation.

  But a grin slashed across the man’s face.

  What? Rowan stared at the jack of diamonds giving him a devilish wink from the top of the pile. The rum fired like hot lava through his mind. “Impossible!” he shouted.

  “I assure you, sir, ’tis quite possible.” Mr. Baboon gathered all of Rowan’s and Mr. Camp’s chips with an arrogant sneer as “ooohs” and “ahhhs” sounded from the crowd. The doxy shifted her attention from Rowan to the new winner, while Mr. Camp excused himself, scowling.

  Desperation sent Rowan’s heart racing. “One more game,” he said. “Double the entire fortune.”

  “But you have nothing left to bet, my friend.” The man’s condescending tone scraped down Rowan’s spine.

  “Yes I do.” Rowan attempted to sit up straight, though the room still wobbled. “I have a merchant brig. The Midnight Fortune. She’s anchored in the bay as we speak.”

  Mr. Baboon chuckled. “Tush, man, you would wager your brig?”

  “Is she even yours to offer?” The dealer cocked a brow.

  “Aye. I’m the heir to Dutton Shipping and run much of the business now that my father … is … spends his dotage in relaxation. ’Tis mine to pledge, o
f that you can be sure.”

  “Very well, then.” Greed took residence in the man’s eyes. “One more hand. And the Midnight Fortune is on the table, gentlemen!”

  ♥♥♥

  It had been two nights since Juliana had buried her father, and the sting of its finality had not given her a moment’s peace. In some twisted way, having him still in the house had made her feel as if she wasn’t completely alone. Now that he was in the ground, the truth of her situation hit her like a blast of hot Caribbean wind. She had no idea how much longer she would be able to keep curious friends and insistent business acquaintances at bay. Sooner or later, someone would become suspicious and alert the authorities, thinking some foul deed afoot. Until that time, she resolved to make as much money as she could for her and Rowan’s future. But with the business failing, she had about as much chance of that as she did of Rowan sobering up and coming to her aid.

  In the meantime, she must keep up appearances, and part of that meant she must attend ridiculous parties on the arm of Lord Munthrope. As she was doing tonight. Only this night, due to the close proximity of Mr. and Mrs. Rosemere’s home to Juliana’s, Munthrope had sent his carriage ahead and insisted they walk. In truth, she was glad for it. ’Twas a pleasant evening with a cool breeze that swirled the scent of orange jasmine and hibiscus beneath her nose. The sky was ablaze with myriad stars while street lanterns lit their way like golden breadcrumbs on a dark path.

  “How fare you, milady?” Munthrope asked after several minutes of silence. “How goes the business?”

  Both the question and the concern in his tone caught her off guard, and she realized she oddly trusted this man to keep her secret. “It goes well enough, milord, though I fear my father was far more skilled at making a profit than I.”

  Light from a lamp shimmered over Munthrope’s white periwig and pink satin doublet as they passed beneath. “Indeed. I heard he was a shrewd business man.”

  “And I am not?” She raised a brow, teasingly.

  “You are not a man.” He grinned. “Nor would I call you shrewd, sweetums. Though I have no doubt should you ever have the opportunity to deal with merchants face-to-face, they may find you so.”

  “Find me shrewd? I marvel you would say so.” She laughed. “While most women would be insulted, I am flattered by the adjective, milord.”

  “Yet another reason I find you so enchanting, sweetums.”

  Heat blossomed up her neck. Enchanting. What a lovely compliment! She had no idea how to respond to such an endearing term. “Have a care, milord, or a lady might assume something beyond a feigned betrothal.”

  Though her tone was taunting, Munthrope didn’t laugh. Instead he halted, hooked his cane over one arm, and took her hands in his. “The lady may assume as she wishes.” There was no lift of his lips, no mockery in his voice—just an intensity in his deep-blue eyes that made her toes tingle. She tore her gaze from his, her heart a thrashing drum in her chest. What was the man suggesting? Did his interest go beyond their agreement? Yet even as the thought of possessing such security began to chip away at the uncertainty and fear that had hardened within her like a rock, she remembered how she’d sworn never to depend on anyone again—especially not a man. ’Twas a man, a cruel man, who had abandoned the children at the orphanage. And both the men in her life had left her, one initially in his heart followed by his body, and the other in heart and mind since they were both children.

  Tugging from his grip, she gathered her velvet cape about her and continued forward, desperate to change the topic. “In truth, milord, I am still plagued with nightmares that one day I shall awake working in a brothel alongside Abilene.”

  He seemed about to say something but then flattened his lips. “Begad, milady! It pleases me that you mentioned your friend, for I believe I have a solution to her problem.”

  Juliana stared at the man aghast. Stunned he would even give a moment’s thought to a strumpet he’d never met.

  He halted once again, tapping his cane in the dirt. “I will hire her as my house maid.” His red lips quirked, raising the mole he wore at the right corner.

  “But milord, your reputation.”

  “Beshrew my reputation, sweetums!” He lifted a finger in the air as if making an announcement to the world. “The woman needs honest employment, and I can provide it. I care not what these society fiddleheads say, nor how many turn their backs on me because I hire a woman of ill repute. Besides”—his eyes twinkled in the lantern light—“the scandal may do well for my reputation.”

  She studied him curiously. The last thing the man needed was more tongues mocking him behind his back. “You are a most unusual man, milord.”

  “I am honored you find me so.” He dipped his head. “I’ll have my man Whipple attend to it first thing.”

  Excitement buzzed through her. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Abilene’s face. At last her friend would be in a decent home with good food and respectable employment. “I don’t know how to thank you, milord.”

  “By calling me Munny, sweetums.” He tucked her gloved hand within his elbow and gave her a grin that if it hadn’t come from a man dressed like a trussed goose, would have stirred her body to distraction. It did stir something within her, something that went beyond thankfulness, beyond admiration.

  He must have seen it in her eyes, for his smile widened and he placed a gentle kiss on her other hand.

  “We’ll take the lady from ’ere.” A rough voice bellowed, jerking Juliana’s gaze upward.

  Three men emerged from the shadows dressed in the shabby attire of common sailors, two sporting blades that flashed in the lamp light and one pointing a flintlock at Munthrope.

  Her heart took up a wild beat.

  But no cry of alarm, no shriek burst from His Lordship’s lips. Instead, with arms raised in his usual flourish, he moved to stand in front of her. “I cry pardon! What did you say, gentlemen? I fear I did not hear you correctly.”

  “Ye heard us, ye foppish nod.” The man on the end spat into the sand. “We’re takin’ the lady an’ ye have no say in it.”

  Cupping his ear, Munthrope took a step toward them. “Taking the baby, did you say?” He snorted. “There’s no baby here, gentlemen. Begone with you.” He flicked his jeweled hand at them. “Back to your cups, little pups.”

  The men stared at Munthrope, dumbfounded. One of them scratched his head. The other shared a glance with the third, and both started to laugh.

  “Are ye daft, ye witless toad?” The leader lunged forward and pointed at Juliana with his sword. “The woman, the wench.”

  Her breath escaped her. Her mind raced. What did these men want with her?

  “The French? Where?” Munthrope lifted his chin and spun on his purple-ribboned heels, searching the darkness and waving his cane, inadvertently knocking the man’s blade aside. “Are they attacking?”

  Gripping the hilt of his sword tighter, the leader let out a foul curse while chuckles bounced between his friends.

  “Gentleman, if you’ll allow—tsk, tsk. Such language in front of the lady.”

  Munthrope feigned indignance. Or was he serious? Juliana couldn’t decide. Either way he was a fool! Did he think he could but put on a show as he did in society and beguile the crowd? For this crowd would take no thought to silence his buffoonery.

  “Give us the lady!” They started forward, weapons drawn, but Munthrope stood his ground.

  Juliana moved behind him. “Nay, milord.” Her voice sounded as though it came through syrup. Her legs trembled. But she could not allow him to be hurt—or worse, killed—on her account. “I will go with them. If not, they will kill you.” Yet memories of the way His Lordship had dispatched the thief on the beach resurged. Surely that had been pure luck, had it not? Even so, the pampered man was no match for three ruffians. Ruffians who, for all their demand to possess her, ironically seemed not the least bit interested in her at all.

  Even so, the thought of going with them had her blood rushing so
madly, she thought she might faint. She was about to touch Munthrope’s arm to stay any further bravado, when he turned to face her. A calm assurance passed across his eyes. No fear or alarm. He nodded as if to say “obey me.” Then he winked. Winked! As if this were but an act in a play. Gripping her shoulders, he nudged her back.

  “I’ve ’ad enuf o’ this,” one of the men said as they swarmed toward Munthrope.

  Juliana let out a shriek.

  Munthrope twirled and flung his cane across the path. It struck the man’s pistol, sending it into the air. Munthrope caught it. A shot exploded. Glass shattered and all went dark. Blood pounded through Juliana so fast, it buzzed in her ear. She stumbled, tripping over her voluminous mantua, and started forward with one thought in mind: help poor Munny before he gets himself killed! Shadows passed before her in a mad demonic dance.

  A grunt, a groan, a shriek! Another pistol shot thundered the air. The ring of blades. The eerie squish of metal slicing flesh. A thud and moan. Curses. Footsteps skittering away. Then all went silent.

  “Munthrope!” Juliana groped forward, her eyes still adjusting to the shadows. “Munthrope!” There. A pink lump on the ground. She dashed to his side and touched his arm. Moaning, he rose to sit while adjusting his periwig, his breath coming hard.

  “Are you injured, milord?”

  “Nay, nay, sweetums. Are the fiends gone? Oh, do say they are gone!” He allowed her to assist him up, then furiously brushed sand from his doublet and breeches.

  “I believe so.” She scanned the surrounding darkness. “But you … how did you?”

  “Me?” He flung a hand to his ruffled cravat. “You think I … ?” He chuckled. “Nay, milady. In good sooth, I feared for my life. Those swag-bellied devils were nigh upon me when I dove to the ground in fear. If not for that other man …”

  She felt a tremble wrack through him. “What other man?”

  “A rescuer, milady. A champion,” he breathed out. Plucking a handkerchief from within his doublet, he dabbed his forehead. “A man who appeared nigh as rough as the men who attacked us.”