Halfway through, he halted and whispered her way, “The rev’s plan be to wait fer the good Lord, God bless ’im fer it. But I’ve got a plan o’ me own.” He winked at her. “Don’t be worryin’ miss. By the powers, the cap’n will not hang come Friday, not if I kin help it!”
Charlisse smiled and planted a kiss on the sailor’s cheek. Blushing, he turned away and sauntered down the path.
Still apprehension flooded her. To break Merrick out of prison would be no small feat. People would get hurt, possibly killed, in the process. Even if Merrick survived, he would be a fugitive, always on the run, always looking over his shoulder for the British authorities. What kind of life was that? Yet the alternative was unthinkable.
There had to be another way.
After helping the reverend clean up supper, Charlisse excused herself to her room, where she planned to wait for him to fall asleep. Even if no one else was doing anything—especially God—she was not without some recourse. She was the daughter of Edward the Terror, after all. Perhaps she was the only one who could save Merrick. Perhaps God was simply waiting for her to do something.
After donning her most modest dress and a gray cloak, she waited until familiar snores filled the front room. Then sneaking past the reverend, she stole into the humid night air.
Close to midnight, darkness enveloped her like a shroud, frightening even the moon from showing its entire face. She glanced up at the glowing arc that frowned at her from the sky, but dark clouds absconded with any light it emitted. She wondered if it was an omen of bad things to come. She felt suddenly alone. A gust of wind whipped around her. The tangy scent of rain spiced the air. With each step she took, her resolve weakened. Shady-looking characters appeared all around her. The noise of revelry swelled—shouts and obscenities, hideous laughter, and the seductive calls of prostitutes cooing for their mates. An occasional musket shot sliced the thick night, while the clash of blades rang in the distance. Thunder rumbled.
Pulling her cloak tightly around her, Charlisse crept onward, turning the final corner toward the Dead Reckoning. She had seen the tavern in the daylight as it slept off the night’s inebriation. Even deep in slumber, it had appeared an unscrupulous, evil place. Thunder growled a warning across the sky. She took the final steps toward the entrance, unprepared for the vision of wickedness. With gaping black windows above and below, an open door from which foul breath poured, and the cracked lines of grayed wood that made up its walls, the wicked tavern looked like the skull of a giant mocking demon.
Male voices flung slurred, licentious comments in her direction. She walked by, head held high, unwilling to acknowledge them. But her insides crumbled with fear. God, please protect me.
The stairs splayed out from the open door like a tongue ready to receive its next meal. She hesitated. Scantily clad doxies draped over the porch examined her with interest. Laughter and vulgar language poured from the windows. A man lay unconscious on one of the steps. Another staggered from the door, spilling rum over the sides of his mug. He grabbed one of the women and pulled her inside as if she were a piece of meat to be plucked off a shelf.
Charlisse froze. Her chest panted furiously. She felt as though she would faint on the spot, but thoughts of Merrick gave her courage. She drew a breath, passed the remaining women, and entered the dark tavern.
The stench of sweat, rum, and vomit slapped her in the face. She lifted a handkerchief to her burning nose. Filthy, unkempt men of all ages littered the room, drinking and shouting vulgarities at one another. Some were passed out on tables or chairs—one man’s unconscious body lay in the middle of the room where he was continually stomped on by the unruly crowd.
A fight sounded from the back corner, and a mob gathered around to watch and cheer. Heated arguments abounded from every direction. Loud boastings and accusations were flung about like spurious flatteries at a courtly ball.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Charlisse could see men entangled with women in compromising positions. She averted her eyes. Her stomach flipped, and her dinner rose in her throat.
Sliding into the shadows behind the door, she stood, petrified, staring straight into the depths of hell.
Chapter 30: The Dead Reckoning
Paralyzed with fear, Charlisse searched the crowd for any sign of Kent.
Thunder roared. The building shook and lanterns swung from above. Light and dark oscillated over the scene, casting monstrous shadows onto walls and floor. Lightning flashed outside the windows, momentarily transforming the figures within into skeletons.
Something landed on her back. Chattering, it climbed onto her shoulder. Charlisse screamed and turned to see a pair of beady eyes. The little monkey scolded her before scampering down her arm, across a table, and onto the shoulder of a burly pirate, who looked up to see the cause of his pet’s agitation. A sinister leer upturned his lips. He stood. Several men around him approached Charlisse. I’m going to die. Squeezing her cloak tightly around her neck, she prayed to become invisible.
“What ’ave we got here?” one of the men said. “Come for a bit ’o fun, miss?”
Hands tugged at her, dragging her to the center of the room. An eerie hush fell over the tavern. A million thoughts of her impending doom flashed through her mind. Why had she been so foolish? Where are you, Lord?
Her cloak was torn from her, sending her into a spin and loosening her blond curls to cascade down her back. The licentious gazes of a dozen men scanned every inch of her body. She hugged herself and backed away.
Silence exploded into whoops and howls and lewd suggestions. Trembling, she closed her eyes and prayed. But no miraculous intervention came. Fear clenched her heart so tight, she thought it would crush in her chest. She wished it would.
The pirate with the monkey on his shoulder came forward. “This might be me lucky night, after all, eh mates?” He chuckled, exposing teeth the color of mud. Matching hair hung in filthy strands to his shoulders. A rust-colored scar ran from his forehead between his eyes and down his cheek, giving him a mangled, frightening expression. He fingered Charlisse’s hair, drew close to take a whiff, and grinned. His foul breath wafted over her.
“I believe we ’ave a real live lady on our hands, gents.” He circled her, examining every inch with his shameless gaze. “Grown tired of your man at home, perhaps? Lookin’ fer a real man?”
The monkey chattered, mimicking its owner. The men howled.
Charlisse turned to run. The pirate clutched her arm. “Oh no, miss. Ye’ll not be leavin’ yet.” He tightened his grip. She winced in pain.
“Now, where would our manners be, boys,” he said, glancing at the other pirates, “if we was to let our guest go wit’out bein’ properly attended to?”
Again, sinister laughter filled the room and someone yelled, “I say we all take a turn showin’ ’er our ’ospitality.”
Grunts and hollers of agreement followed. Charlisse searched for any sign of a friend among the eyes that continually raked over her. She found none. Not even the women were on her side. Several of them tugged on the pirates, trying to draw their attention back to themselves.
Charlisse found her voice, albeit a bit shaky, and raised her chin and said, “I’m here to see Edward the Terror.”
“Edward the Terror? Now what would ye want with ’im when ye kin ’ave a man like me?”
The horde of men snickered.
Charlisse remained steadfast, determined not to allow panic to show on her face. She had spent enough time in the company of pirates to know they fed on the powerless and the fainthearted.
Yet a glimmer of hope remained. If her father was here among these ruffians, and she could reveal her identity to him, perhaps he would protect her. She knew he had conspired to put Merrick in prison. She knew he was a vicious beast. But what she didn’t know—what nobody could know—was how he would react to the sight of his own daughter. The hope that a shred of decency still remained in him had brought her here in the first place to plead for the ma
n she loved. She would not give up on that hope now.
She boldly returned the pirate’s stare. Behind the haze of rum, no mercy appeared. He turned and yanked her toward the back of the tavern where Charlisse could see stairs leading upward. “Enough talk, let’s give ye a try. I’ll be a mite disappointed if ye aren’t as good as ye be lookin’.”
Charlisse struggled against his grip. She pounded him with her other hand, but he dragged her along as if she were a paper doll. “Edward Terrance Bristol! Edward Bristol!” she shrieked. The pirates laughed and began chanting the chorus of an obscene song. Desperate, she sought a weapon from one of the tables. She clawed at the hilt of a wickedly curved knife, but its owner slapped her hand away and hooked his finger in the bodice of her dress. “Edward!” she screamed. A familiar face appeared in the crowd to her left—not a friendly face, but one that brought her a twinge of hope.
Kent made his way through the crowd, followed by a large, gray-haired man who wore a cocked hat sporting boldly colored feathers.
“Yes, that’s her,” Kent said, and the older man halted directly in the first pirate’s path.
Head down, the beast slammed right into him then slowly looked up, annoyance written on his face. “Why, if it don’t be Edward the Terror.”
The two pirates glared at each other.
Charlisse’s heart leapt into her throat. Father?
“Ye have to wait yer turn, mate. I saw ’er first.” The first pirate grunted as he tried to push Edward aside.
“Sorry to disappoint ye, Flint.” Edward smirked. “But I believe the lady was asking for me.”
Kent stepped forward beside his uncle. A leer grew beneath his thin mustache, sending a shiver of disgust through Charlisse. Would she be rescued from the hands of one revolting pirate, only to find herself at the mercy of another?
The room fell into silence as all three men stood defiantly, fingers twitching near the hilts of their swords.
Charlisse could not take her eyes from her father. Tall and burly, he carried himself with a haughty, commanding air. His clothes were of fine linen and silk, encompassed by a rich crimson damask waistcoat, and though covered with a layer of dust, they indicated a taste for style and unruffled urbanity. His weathered face was cracked and worn, but his crystal-blue eyes were sparkling and alert. A bicorn sporting exotic feathers covered a mass of long gray hair that hung down his back. A matching beard, that moved when he spoke, framed his face. He did not once look in her direction.
Scowling, Flint shook the monkey from his shoulder. The animal cackled as it scampered into the rafters. Releasing Charlisse into the hands of another pirate, he approached Edward. “I’ll not be givin’ this delicate flower up to the likes of ye, Edward,” he said, spitting, “or yer little dog here, waggin’ his tail beside ye.”
Kent took a step forward, but Edward held him back. “Well then, ye’ll be meetin’ yer grave a bit earlier than ye expected, ye thievin’ barracuda, for the girl belongs to me.”
Edward drew his cutlass, the blade reflecting light from a lantern hanging above him. “And I’ll kill every last one of ye that stands in me way!” He scanned the surrounding men with a gaze so ferocious, Charlisse had no doubt he could do exactly that.
A flicker of alarm flashed across Flint’s eyes. He drew his sword in one swift move.
The room exploded into yells and curses as the two men clashed blades, sending the discordant clank of metal on metal echoing across the room. Rum was poured and bets were made, and in the chaos, Charlisse seemed to have been forgotten.
The pirate who held her turned to place a bet. Seizing the opportunity, Charlisse yanked her arm from his drunken grasp and slipped away through the crowd. She crept unnoticed through the throng of sweaty men, squeezing her way toward the front door, feeling their stench soak into her dress. Oh, make me invisible, Lord, she silently prayed. With each unhindered step, hope surged within her. She could see the door! Almost there.
“Leaving so soon?” an all-too-familiar voice shattered her dream and halted her in her tracks.
She swerved. Kent grabbed her waist and lifted her off her feet. Smiling, he hoisted her back toward the center of the room. More in a fit of rage than in any hope to overpower him, she kicked and clawed, leaving red marks across his finely chiseled features.
He dropped her, raised a hand as if to slap her, but grabbed hold of her hair instead. He yanked it until she winced in pain. “We are going to behave now, aren’t we?”
She looked up into his eyes—cold, lifeless stones, devoid of any trace of goodness—and nodded.
He let go of her hair and grabbed her arm just in time to pull her out of the way of tumbling Flint. The pirate reeled backward, landing so hard on a table it broke in two.
He shook his head, jumped to his feet, and flew back at Edward, plunging and slashing in a frenzied rush.
Charlisse glanced at her father, who parried each attack with fearless assurance. He returned the blows with much less effort than they were delivered, laughing as he fought. At one point, he stopped to take a drink from a bystander’s mug. The crowd howled.
Clearly outmatched, Flint’s frenzied gaze scanned the crowd, perhaps looking for an ally. Sweat poured from his face. Charlisse almost felt sorry for him. But she had her own problems. She continued her struggle against Kent. But it only angered him more. Shoving her in front of him, he clamped her hands behind her. Pain radiated across her shoulders as his heavy breath slithered down her neck like a snake.
The crowd of pirates continued to yowl, gulping rum from mugs, and spilling most of it down the fronts of their shirts.
Nausea gurgled in Charlisse’s belly at the sight, especially watching her father continue his merciless assault against Flint. Yet perhaps her plan was not yet foiled, for he had no idea she was his daughter. Despite what she was witnessing, surely he possessed some kindness beneath that crusty exterior. Surely he was still the man her mother had loved.
Edward, a bored look on his face, landed a crushing blow against Flint’s shaky cutlass, sending it spinning to the floor. Flint dropped to his knees, panting.
A hush fell over the men, broken only by the monkey’s chattering from the rafters. Charlisse’s father planted his sword in the floor and leaned on the hilt, a smug grin on his face. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
Flint’s eyes became pools of pleading as he stared at his adversary. “Mercy?” he asked in a voice that said he knew there wouldn’t be any.
The crowd began to chant. “Death. Death. Death. Death!” Kent joined in, thrusting his fist in the air.
Charlisse watched in horror as her father lifted his sword. Certainly, he was bluffing. He would not kill an unarmed man begging for his life.
Edward the Terror plunged his sword into Flint’s chest. Flint’s last gaze was one of horror as he gasped, blood trickling from his lips.
Charlisse screamed.
The men cheered. Edward wrenched his bloody sword free, leaving Flint’s lifeless body to drop to the sticky floor, eyes gaping at the ceiling. Her father knelt and wiped his blade on Flint’s jacket before returning it to its scabbard. The crowd cheered and the winners collected their bets. Edward looked up and his gaze locked upon Charlisse. Every bone in her body froze. He squinted, examining her. Confusion furrowed his brow. Lifting one hand, he beckoned her forward.
Charlisse took a step back, her eyes never leaving his. That was the last thing she remembered.
Chapter 31: The Hades’ Revenge
The shriek of gulls and rustle of waves against the hull of a ship woke Charlisse. A warm breeze caressed her face, carrying with it the smell of salt and fish. For a fleeting moment, she thought she was still aboard the Redemption, safe with Merrick, and the past week had been nothing but a nightmare.
She peeked from beneath heavy lashes, and the smile on her lips faded as unfamiliar surroundings came into view. She was in a ship’s cabin, but it was not Merrick’s. The bed was round and twice as large as his. Gone wer
e the leather chairs, the big oak desk, the bookshelves, and the Persian rug. In their stead were a few rickety benches, a large table covered haphazardly with maps, and a glass-fronted cabinet filled with muskets, pistols, and knives. Scattered throughout the room were empty rum bottles and food-encrusted plates swarming with flies.
Charlisse’s heart sank. Scrambling to the oval window, she peered out and saw the harbor of Port Royal fading from view.
Dread seized her as memories from the night before played in her mind—the hideous tavern, the sweaty, dirty pirates, their hands groping her, Kent and her father, the sword fight, and the cold-blooded murder of Flint. She could still picture the horrified look in his eyes as her father mercilessly ran him through and then the disrespect Edward had shown by wiping his cutlass on the dead pirate’s waistcoat.
She must have fainted, because she had no memory of how she came to be aboard her father’s ship—for Edward the Terror’s ship it must be. A week ago, she would have been elated at that prospect. But the man she had encountered last night—if indeed he was her father—sent terror coursing through every nerve.
The scuffing of boots and the muttering of voices filtered in from the hall. The wide door to the cabin burst open and in stomped Edward the Terror, reflecting every bit of his nickname.
He slammed the door and faced her with his hands on his hips and a menacing look in his cold eyes. “Welcome to the Hades’ Revenge, miss,” he said in a gruff voice.
Charlisse opened her mouth to respond, but fear squeezed the breath from her throat. Instead, a shiver overtook her.
“So ye’re the little doll ole Merrick was playing wit’ on that rotten piece of driftwood he calls a ship.” He sauntered over to her.
Charlisse’s insides clenched.
“I dare say that mutinous jackal has better taste than I would’ve expected.” He perused her from head to toe as if he were a buyer examining wares.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 22