Determined not to appear weak, Charlisse met his gaze and held back the tears that threatened to fill her eyes. He must have been a handsome man at one time, but years of salt air, sun, and bad living had taken their toll on him. His gray hair, which had hung loose the night before, was braided down his back, and his beard had been shaved, leaving only stubble on his chin and neck. He was intimidating. Not only in size. His mannerisms indicated a power and confidence not found in many men, except perhaps one other. But along with that power, Charlisse sensed a lack of restraint that terrified her beyond words.
He glared at her, as if trying to badger her into submission. Despite her fear, she stubbornly held his gaze, perceiving an intelligence behind those deep, crystal-blue eyes.
“Hmm.” He snorted as he turned and walked to the desk. Grabbing a bottle of rum, he took a swig, and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “What did ye want so badly wit’ me that ye came a lookin’ for me in such a scurrilous place as the Dead Reckonin’?”
Charlisse’s heart beat like war drums, alerting every nerve to action. This man was her father! She had to keep telling herself that, because deep down inside, he was only a stranger to her, and even worse than a stranger—an enemy. She had so many things she longed to say to him, but all she could do was gasp and stutter in fear.
A trickle of perspiration made its way down her back, and she fought a tremendous urge to run from the cabin and throw herself overboard—to end this encounter and her miserable life. God, where are you? What should I do?
“Speak up, girl!” Edward bellowed. “Answer me or I’ll get on wit’ what I brought ye here for.”
“I came to speak to you about Captain Merrick,” she stammered, feeling blood rush to her head. And I’m your daughter! Her insides screamed, but the declaration did not reach her voice. The image of a loving, kind father she had been carrying in her heart for so many years dissolved in the presence of the monster standing before her now.
Edward chuckled and took another swig of rum. “And what of that worthless traitor?” He slammed the bottle down and squinted at her.
“They’re to hang him on Friday.” Charlisse heard the quiver in her voice.
A slow grin overtook Edward’s lips. “Aye, I heard that bit o’ good news.”
“But you can’t let that happen!” Charlisse took a step forward. “You know he is innocent.”
He faced her, a malicious grin on his face. Charlisse stepped back and looked down, disobedient tears forming in her eyes. “Please. It isn’t right.” She felt her resolve weakening.
“Right or not, makes no difference to me. That ruthless mutineer will die, and he’ll be gettin’ what he deserves.” His expression darkened. “No man steals a ship from Edward the Terror and lives to tell the tale!”
Tears broke free and flowed down her cheeks. “But he could have killed you, and he didn’t. Can you not show the same mercy?”
In a flash, Edward plucked a knife from his belt and tossed it in her direction. She didn’t have time to react before it imbedded in the wall behind her with a hollow thud.
“I’ll not be hearin’ another word ’bout Captain Merrick!” Blue veins pulsed in his thick neck. “He’ll hang come Friday and they’ll tar him and string him up in a cage fer the birds to feast on! In fact, I heard tell they might be hangin’ him early. Today, if luck be on me side.”
The last speck of hope drained from her heart.
“My only regret be that I won’t be there to see it.” His gaze smoldered. A mocking grin played on his lips. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?”
When Charlisse didn’t respond, he continued, “All the ladies love Merrick. D’ye know why that is?” He approached her, unbuttoning his waistcoat.
Charlisse backed away, shaking her head.
“Because they’ve not had the privilege of havin’ Edward the Terror in their bed.” His grin turned wicked as he tossed his waistcoat aside and unbuckled his belt.
A surge of terror swept over Charlisse. All of a sudden she was a little girl again, alone in the dark rooms of her uncle’s estate, helpless and frightened. But this was far worse. This was her father, not her uncle. This was the man who was supposed to protect her and love her and take care of her. Now here he was, leering over her with intentions more evil by far.
“Kent says he had a go at ye, but Merrick stopped him.” He dropped his belt and cornered Charlisse near the bed, clouding her in his rum-laced breath. “He still wants ye, but I told him he’d have to wait his turn.”
He seized her and tossed her onto the bed. Charlisse screamed and scrambled off the other side, but he grabbed her and pinned her arms to the mattress. He smelled of sweat, smoke, and salty air. The weight of him nearly squeezed the breath from her.
Hopelessness covered her like a death shroud. She was on a pirate ship in the middle of the Caribbean, and unlike her time aboard the Redemption, there was no friend to be found on the Hades’ Revenge. There would be no Merrick to dash in to her rescue, no one to hear her screams or to care if they did. Searching for her voice amidst the fright that strangled her throat, she parted her lips to speak.
His mouth came down on hers. She tossed her head, avoiding his kiss, trying to spit out the truth of who she was.
He lifted his head. “I haven’t had a woman as lovely as ye in a long, long time.” He paused, devouring her with his gaze.
“Not since Helena,” Charlisse blurted out, breathless.
A deathly pallor swept away the desire from Edward’s face. “Ye best be tellin’ me where ye’ve heard that name!” He shook her.
“She was my mother.”
A flicker of fear crossed Edward’s wide blood-shot eyes. He shot back from Charlisse and stood by the bed, gaping at her.
“I came here from London to find you.” She sat up and slowly backed away from him. “I’m Charlisse. Your daughter.” With trembling hands, she wiped the tears from her face.
Edward turned, retrieved his belt and coat, and threw them on a chair. He grabbed a bottle of rum and took a long drink. “What was your mother’s full name?”
“Helena Charlotte Bristol.” Charlisse’s voice cracked.
Edward plopped in a chair and took another swig, spilling some on his shirt. He stared at the dirty floor. One of his eyes began to twitch. “What do ye know of her?”
Charlisse hugged herself and drew a deep breath.
“Speak up, girl!” he bellowed.
“She was born in London to Richard James and Emma Louise Hemming,” she stammered. “Her brother is Bishop Henry Hemming.” Saying her uncle’s name left a sour taste in her mouth.
Edward looked away.
Charlisse continued to spill random facts about her mother’s childhood and upbringing, watching her father’s reactions carefully. He never flinched, but soon a haze of sorrow overshadowed the hate in his eyes. She stopped, wondering if he was even listening.
He turned to her, the wicked glint in his gaze returning. “And what makes you think I’m your father?”
“My mother told me you were.” Desperate to get off the bed, Charlisse stood, nervously pressing the folds in her skirt. Her legs wobbled, but she forced herself to remain upright.
Downing another swig of rum, Edward stood and swaggered toward her.
Charlisse backed against the bed frame. “In sixteen forty-five, my mother went on a voyage from London to the colony of Carolina to accompany her father on a business venture. Investing in tobacco, I believe. She met a handsome merchant sailor by the name of Edward Bristol.” Her father stopped moving. His gaze darkened.
She continued, “Two months later, against the wishes of her father, they got married in secret …”
Edward held up his hand. “Enough!” His harsh voice boomed through the room. The ship heaved and he nearly fell. “How is it you came upon this information?”
“I told you. She was my mother.” Charlisse noticed her father’s command of English had drastically improved.
&
nbsp; “But you are not my daughter,” he seethed. His tone was defiant, his eyes hard. “The child died before it was born.”
A chill struck Charlisse. “What makes you say that?”
“Her brother sent me word of it.” He slammed down the bottle, grabbed his belt and coat, and put them on. “The baby died in her womb.” He turned his face away. She thought she saw a shudder run down his back.
“My uncle?”
“He also told me that Helena wanted nothing more to do with me.” He grunted. “That she had made a mistake in marrying someone so far beneath her.” He strapped on his weapons and grabbed the bottle of rum again, swaying slightly. His eyes glistened with moisture.
“He lied to you! My uncle lied to you!”
Edward threw the bottle against the cabin wall. It exploded in a thousand shards, showering rum over the bulkhead. Charlisse shrieked and jumped back. He marched toward her. “You, miss, are the liar and an impostor! Your intentions with this charade are lost on me, but mark my words, I will not succumb to your trickery!”
“What are you going to do with me?” She burst into sobs.
“Well, ye’ve ruined me mood for t’night, miss.” An icy wall glazed over his eyes. “But I’ll come back, ye can count on that, and when I do, daughter or not, I’ll have ye as me own.” He flung open the door, turned around and added, “And when I’m tired o’ ye, I’ll pass ye ’round at the pleasure o’ me crew.” He cast a wicked grin at her before he left, slamming the door.
Charlisse heard the harsh grate of a latch being dropped in place.
Chapter 32: I Will Never Leave You
Charlisse paced across her father’s cabin. The barrage of curses streaming from the pirates on deck only added to her dismay. Perspiration slid down her back with the rising of the afternoon heat. Grabbing the edge of a sheet from the bed, she dabbed her forehead and neck then slumped onto the hard mattress. She feared she was slipping into a despair so deep and dark she would never come out of it.
But what did it matter? According to Edward, Merrick was most likely already dead. The thought sent agony coursing through her. Her eyes filled with tears. He was the only man she’d ever loved. And now the father she’d been hoping for her entire life had turned out to be a vicious monster who would probably toss her to the sharks at his first opportunity—either the ones in the sea or the ones on board his ship. Does he believe I am his daughter? Does it even matter to him? Yet hadn’t she seen a flicker of emotion, a spark of recognition in his eyes when he looked at her, if only for a moment?
As she surrendered to the despondency dragging her down like quicksand, she wondered at the irony of how much worse things had become since her encounter with God and her commitment to His Christ. Perhaps this was his way of telling her she wasn’t good enough for his kingdom, that she could never live up to his standards. Wasn’t that what her uncle had been telling her all along? Perhaps she should accept the truth and quit wasting God’s time.
How foolish she had been to believe the Creator of the universe could love someone like her—that he had died just for her. What did she have to offer him anyway? She was just a scared little girl with no special talents or value; a seductress, her uncle had called her, a woman who lured good men away from the path of righteousness.
Lying back on the bed, she covered her face with a pillow and sobbed. Without God, without Merrick, and without a father, what was there to live for?
Why prolong it? a sleek voice suggested. Darting up, she glanced over the room only to realize the question had come from within her. Was it her conscience demanding retribution for her transgressions? Or perhaps it was God, finally grown tired of her shortcomings and failings.
Yet the question begged an answer. Why prolong her life, indeed? Nothing but loneliness and misery loomed in her future. Even hope had forsaken her. Scanning the cabin, her gaze landed on the cabinet of weapons. Surely her father would have locked it. But with one touch, the glass door swung open with ease. Grabbing a pistol and some powder, she prepared the weapon as she had seen the pirates do on board the Redemption. She could use it to shoot her father when he returned, but what good would that do? She would then be at the mercy of his crew.
No, it would be much more gratifying to have her father return to find her lying in a pool of blood and realize she preferred death to spending time in his company. Her only regret was not being around to see his face.
Sitting back on the bed, Charlisse fanned her skirts out before her, then laid the hideous pistol on her lap. It would be easy to do. A quick shot to the head and she would exit this miserable life forever. Yet, was it right to take her own life? What if God had not abandoned her after all?
The loud snap of a sail made her jump. She dabbed the perspiration on her neck and tugged at the clinging fabric of her gown. Would she feel the shot penetrate her brain? Would God still welcome her into heaven? Or was she doomed to spend eternity in a far worse place than she could imagine, regretting her impending actions after all? As she mused over these things, a voice blared in her head. Get on with it. End your wretched existence. There’s nothing left for you here.
She picked up the pistol. Heavy and cold in her hands. The thumping of her heart grew louder with each passing second. The ship creaked in its gentle heave through the sea, calling forth memories of Merrick and the Redemption. Tears rolled down her cheeks at the thought she would never see him again.
A loud “Caw” jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see a crow sitting outside the oval window. In her daze, it took her a few minutes to realize it would be impossible for the bird to be this far out at sea.
“Caw, Caw,” the crow screeched, glaring at her with malevolent red eyes. It pecked at the window, trying to gain entrance. The longer Charlisse stared at it, the harder it pecked and the louder its cries became. The terrible sense of evil that had swept through her room at the reverend’s cottage now saturated the tiny cabin until her skin bristled with dread.
She released the weapon. It dropped to the bed. The crow shrieked and flew at the window, hitting the glass with a thud and a crack. One more thrust and he might break through. Charlisse bowed her head. “God, help me.”
The shrieking and pounding ceased. She lifted her gaze. The crow was gone. A cool breeze wafted over her—though the window remained shut. Closing her eyes, she allowed it to flow over her face and neck until it faded away, leaving an overwhelming sense of love and peace in its wake.
She spotted the pistol and shook her head, wondering how she could have ever considered taking her own life. Was it possible God had rescued her again? Was it possible he had not abandoned her after all? “Oh, God, if you’re still with me, what do I do now?”
She heard snickering coming from the hall, and the door crashed open. In stomped two brutish-looking pirates. Charlisse jumped, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at them.
“Don’t come any closer!” The gun wavered in her hands.
The men glanced at each other and burst into laughter.
“Naw miss, we won’t be hurtin’ ye none, not a pretty thing like you,” one of them said. “We only come by on orders o’ the cap’n to bring ye down to the hold an’ lock ye up.” They approached, but Charlisse stood firm, gun teetering, heart pounding.
“O’ course, cap’n didn’t say nothin’ about not havin’ a bit o’ fun in the process,” the other man added, smirking at her. They chuckled.
Charlisse didn’t know if she could actually shoot a man, but she was beginning to think it was time to find out. Of course, with only one shot and a shipload of pirates, the action would be futile. God, help me. Pointing the weapon at the larger of the two men, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The gun discharged, throwing her against the headboard. A crash sounded, followed by a dripping sound. She dropped the smoking gun. It landed on the floor with a loud clunk.
The two pirates stood aghast, their faces ashen. Behind them, shattered glass littered a shelf. Rum dripped from it o
nto the floor. Charlisse’s ears rang from the crack of the pistol. A plume of smoke wafted upward, and the smell of gunpowder and rum burned her nose.
“The wench shot at us!” the large man cried. “By thunder, you coulda killed us!” The pirate’s face reddened as he spat onto the floor.
Charlisse backed up, incredulous that these men who thought nothing of taking an innocent life were clearly mortified when she tried to preserve her own.
“And the cap’n’s not goin’ to be ’appy ’bout his rum, neither,” the other one complained.
Rushing her, they each grabbed an arm and yanked her toward the door. Charlisse screamed and kicked, but her struggle was as a futile as a mouse’s efforts to free itself from the talons of a hawk. One of them lit a lantern and they forced her downstairs to a cluttered deck where pirates slept in hammocks that swung with the movement of the ship. Framing the pirates on either side, rows of cannons perched atop wheeled gun carriages strapped with ropes. Like sleeping giants, they sat readied to be awakened to unleash their iron missiles on Edward’s next victim.
The pirates shoved her down another ladder. With each step down, the temperature climbed, the darkness grew thicker, and Charlisse’s nose burned with the stench of mold and human waste. Rats scampered over the stairs, darting for hidden corners, running from the light. Horror pierced her heart.
She knew her only hope was in God—that he had not abandoned her. That he was still with her even though her faith had wavered. She prayed silently.
Finally, the pirates reached the hold of the ship. They ambled toward two iron-barred cells, both empty, one across from the other. A lantern swayed on a hook between them, casting gruesome shadows over the bulkhead. The Hades’ Revenge veered. The deck canted as moans and creaks filled the dark hold. One of the pirates tossed her effortlessly into a cell and slammed and locked the iron gate. Then, after sneering at her, they both turned and left, the thud of their steps fading up the stairs.
The Redemption (Legacy of the King's Pirates Book 1) Page 23