But this mission, it was the only way to keep Oakely Park—and Anna—free from the threat of Horace Braithwaite, and her safety had moved to the top of his list of priorities.
How had he allowed this to happen? He grimaced. He had promised himself that his heart would not be hurt again. And now he was in precisely the positon he had vowed never to allow himself to fall into. He was in love with Anna.
The thought took him by surprise, and he released a branch with a snap, earning a backward look from Mr. Blackbird. Why did Philip insist on setting himself along paths that ultimately ended in pain?
He glanced at the road through a gap in the trees, wondering how close they were to the ambush point. It couldn’t be much farther. They’d been walking for well over an hour. He strained his ears, but the sound of the wagons was all he heard.
They continued on, and Philip thought for sure the wagons must have passed the spot where the road turned. What if the highwaymen didn’t take the bait? Would he be able to persuade Captain Courtney to make another attempt? He thought it would take quite a bit of rum and Anna’s sweet talking to convince them again. What if the bandits had filled up their ship and were preparing, even now, to sail away from the island? Philip did not think the pirates would be very understanding if that was the case.
He strained his ears. His gut told him that Horace was after more than merely sugar and rum. Horace was a man blinded by revenge, and Philip didn’t think he would be satisfied until Oakely Park was ruined and his former employer destroyed.
He was so intent on his thoughts he didn’t notice that Mr. Blackbird had halted until he nearly collided with him.
The pirate held a finger in front of his lips and pulled a dagger from his belt. His head was cocked, and he motioned with his eyes toward the road ahead of them. Philip didn’t notice anything different, but Mr. Blackbird lifted his dagger and dipped his head once.
Philip’s muscles clenched, and energy shot through his veins, making his pulse race. He wondered if his companion could hear Philip’s heart banging on his ribs and in his eardrums.
A shot sounded, and Mr. Blackbird burst from the trees and ran up the road toward the wagons.
Philip drew his sword and followed. More shots. Shouts. Clangs of swords. Mr. Blackbird plunged into the fray.
The scene before him was chaos. Philip squinted through the smoke and dust, trying to make sense of what was happening. A man with a sword rushed toward him. Philip barely had time to raise his blade in defense before the other crashed against it with such force that it threw him off balance. His hours of training took over, and he shifted his weight, twisting to throw his attacker backward, responding with a blow of his own that knocked the man off his feet.
The man rolled, grabbed a handful of sand from the road, and threw it into Philip’s face.
Philip’s eyes burned, and he rubbed at them frantically, trying to see through the tears.
His opponent’s foot swept around, striking Philip’s knees, causing them to buckle. He fell forward and rolled out of the way as the man lunged at him. The sword sliced into his arm. Philip jumped to his feet, his eyes streaming. His arm felt like it was on fire.
The man dove toward him, taking the offensive, and Philip twisted out of the path of his blade, looking for an advantage as he favored his wounded arm. Luckily, the cut was not deep. He had never faced an opponent who did not honor the rules of swordsmanship, and he realized that if he were to gain the upper hand, he would have to fight underhanded as well.
He blocked another swing then stepped forward quickly, planting his fist in the man’s jaw. While the man blinked and shook his head, Philip shoved him backward and thrust with his sword. The man blocked weakly, and his weapon flew from his hand.
When the man was disarmed, a member of the pirate band grabbed him, tying the highwayman’s hands with rope.
Philip stepped back, breathing heavily. He lowered his sword to the ground, staring at the man. It was unnerving to look into the eyes of a person who had, a moment earlier, tried to kill him, and the calm way the man watched him sent a chill over his skin. He turned away and saw that the confusion of a few moments ago had settled. The highwaymen were outnumbered and overpowered. He let out a relieved breath. From the corner of his eye, Philip saw a man spring from behind the cart next to him, weapon raised.
Philip’s heart froze. There was no time to think or lift his weapon in defense. He could only watch, knowing that in an instant the blade would cleave into him.
But before the man’s sword made contact, it was deflected with a loud clang by another. Captain Courtney had leaped between them, blocking the strike. But in doing so, he left his side open, and the man swung around, plunging his sword into the captain’s torso.
Philip whirled around to help the captain.
Captain Courtney swung an elbow into the man’s face and kicked forward, but his strength failed and he sank to his knees.
Philip felt a swell of rage course through him. He dove at the attacker, driving him away from the pirate captain with renewed energy. His strikes were not well planned, but they were forceful, one after another until the man weakened from blocking them and was disarmed and taken to join his friends.
Philip hurried toward Captain Courtney. He sat on the ground, his back against a wagon wheel. Mr. Blackbird and another man had lifted his shirt and were examining his wound.
The captain ground his teeth. “’Tis no worse than any blows I’ve taken before. Tend to the others.” His voice didn’t carry its usual note of command, and his face was chalk white.
Philip knelt next to him. “Captain Courtney, sir, I—”
“Don’t thank me, yer lordship. I’ll not have it. I came to fight and managed some blasted good blows if I do say so myself. Besides, what would that young lady say should I bring ya home in a sack?” He winced as Mr. Blackbird pressed a cloth against his side. “I acted for her alone, and don’t ya be forgettin’ it.”
“I understand, Captain.”
Captain Courtney closed his eyes, leaning his head back.
Philip stood. He dusted off his trousers as he looked around. A few skirmishes continued, but they were quickly ended and the highwaymen subdued. At least three men lay in the road, unmoving, and others moaned and held their wounds.
He resheathed his sword, and the sting of the gash on his arm burned fresh. His shirt was torn, and blood was spreading down his sleeve.
Dizziness overtook him as the energy left his system and the terror of what had just occurred hit him. He leaned a hand against the wagon, breathing hard.
He looked toward the group of prisoners, fiercely relieved to see Horace Braithwaite sitting among them with his hands tied. The former overseer’s eyes were merely slits, and his lip curled, exposing his teeth in a snarl. The glare he fixed on Philip was so full of hatred that Philip could have sworn the man’s eyes glowed red.
Philip could not wait to see Braithwaite behind bars.
He turned away and saw that, with their captain injured, the other pirates now looked to Mr. Blackbird for leadership. It was determined that even though they were closer to Oakely Park than Port Antonio, all able-bodied men were needed to both transport the injured and keep the prisoners under guard. Each side had suffered one casualty.
The empty barrels were left on the side of the road to retrieve later. The injured pirates rode in one wagon, and the prisoners sat next to the bodies in another.
“We should ’ave known they wasn’t Negroes when we saw their boots,” one of the highwaymen grumbled.
Philip walked ahead with Mr. Blackbird. He wanted to explain to the constable what had happened before the remainder of the group arrived. The constable would more readily take a nobleman’s word over a band of pirates who had fought with a band of highwaymen.
Philip also needed to find a doctor for his friends. As the thought crossed his mind, he could not help the wry smile that pulled at his mouth. Who would have thought when he left London me
rely a few months ago he would come to consider a band of buccaneers to be as loyal friends as any he’d known? His life was so different than he would have ever imagined, and he found he liked it. He was proud of the man he had become in Jamaica. He realized that if he’d stayed in England and married Jacqueline, he would have remained a spoiled, arrogant fool, all his goals in life revolving around status and diversion.
When he reached the town, he hurried directly to the constabulary.
The constable raised his brows when he saw Philip’s clothing, but the lawman said nothing.
Philip spoke quickly, explaining as thoroughly as possible so as to leave no doubt as to the identity of the true villains when the two bands arrived.
The constable listened, astonished, to Philip’s story. He had received various complaints about the highwaymen, and he was relieved that the menace was eradicated—and with very little effort on his part. “Well done, my lord,” he said, shaking Philip’s hand.
They stepped out into the main square to await the caravan, and Philip sent a boy for a doctor.
When the wagons arrived, the constable took the bound men into the gaol, and Philip accompanied the buccaneers to the hospital, ensuring that they were properly treated and that the expense for their care was paid in full.
The doctor stopped him as he was leaving, reminding Philip of his own injury. The doctor stitched the gash closed before he attended to the buccaneers.
Philip accompanied the remainder of the pirates to the small tavern, purchasing enough rum to keep them occupied until their crewmembers were ready to travel. Then he walked back to the constabulary to deliver his statement against Horace Braithwaite and his men.
The colonel from the fort had joined the constable, and Philip told them the entire story of their adventure the previous day, including the murder of two slaves at Landon Grove, and the slaughter of his own workers prior to that. He recounted each detail to the best of his memory, his account lasting well over an hour.
When he was finished, the constable asked him to sign a statement. “With your testimony, my lord, we’ve enough evidence for Horace Braithwaite to hang.”
Philip nodded. He thought that the news would have made him cheer, but the idea of a man losing his life—even a vile man such as Horace—left him feeling somber. He signed the document and accompanied the constable to the cells in order to identify Horace.
The gaol was a stone building with iron bars. The cells were small and damp and hardly large enough for seven men.
The constable lifted his lantern, illuminating the scowling faces of the men in one cell.
Philip shook his head.
They moved to the next, and by the flickering light, Philip studied each man’s face. Horace was not among them. He looked at the constable. “Sir, he is not among these men. Where are the remainder of the prisoners?”
“There are no other prisoners, my lord.”
“Ye’ll not find ’im ’ere,” a man said. He glowered at his captors.
Philip felt the beginnings of panic. “Speak up, man. Where is your leader?”
“Gone and left us, ’e ’as. Escaped ’isself and left us to hang.”
Full-blown terror exploded in Philip’s chest. He ran through the door of the gaol, knowing exactly where Horace had gone. Anna!
Chapter 22
Anna sat in the small parlour, listening as Betty answered the front door and admitted the visitor. She and Betty had both agreed that Ezekiel was not to appear at all while the woman was in the house. Clarissa’s voice rang through the hall as she complained about the absence of a proper butler or footman to taker her hat and gloves.
Betty opened the parlour door, and Clarissa pushed past her into the room. “Miss Clarissa Stapleton,” Betty announced the visitor, catching Anna’s gaze and raising her brows behind Clarissa before dipping in a curtsy and exiting the room.
“Miss Stapleton.” Anna rose and attempted what she hoped was a pleasant smile even though the last time she had seen the woman, she had hoped never to have the misfortune of encountering her again. “I am afraid Lord Philip is not home today.”
“Obviously, as I am a lady, I did not come to call on the gentleman,” Clarissa said, sniffing and glancing around the room. She located the softest seat and sat with a flounce that set her ringlets springing.
Please have a seat, Anna thought as she sat on the chair across from her. “So have you come to call on me then?”
“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said, glancing toward the doorway and then out the window. “When will Lord Philip return?” She opened a fan and began to wave it in front of her face.
“I do not know. His lordship naturally does not explain his schedule to me.” Anna was deliberately vague about Philip’s whereabouts. She didn’t know how much he wanted to share with the other plantation owners concerning his deal with the buccaneers, especially since their stolen goods were part of the promised reward. Besides, she didn’t want to speak with Clarissa any longer than necessary.
“Of course he does not. And how is the trouble with your . . .” Clarissa made a swirling motion with her finger and pointed to her forehead.
“I appreciate your very kind concern, but I am afraid my memory is still missing.”
“I have sent inquiries myself to everyone I can think of. We must get this mess sorted out,” Clarissa said. “Obviously we cannot have you living at Oakely Park forever. His lordship has expressed an interest in marriage, and I am certain having an indefinite houseguest is the only thing that could be detaining his offer to me.” She fixed Anna with a look that expressed exactly how much she loathed Anna’s presence. “I, of course, will not tolerate the imposition when I am mistress. There must be a church man or someone who will take you.”
Anna’s vision clouded, and heat rose from her chest to her head. She actually thought her skull might burst from the pressure of her rage. She did not believe it would be possible for her to completely abhor another human being as much as she detested Clarissa Stapleton. She couldn’t even think of a reply and knew that anything she could say would spurt from her mouth in a torrent of fury. The idea of that woman in her beloved Oakely Park, abusing the servants, changing the furnishings, demanding to be treated as a spoiled princess. And married to Philip. The thought sickened her stomach and left her light-headed.
Anna breathed in and out to calm herself and stood, balling her fists. “I am sorry that Lord Philip is not here. And what a pity that you must be leaving after so short a visit.” She walked to the door and opened it.
“Do not presume to send me away, miss. It is I who should dismiss you. I do not believe for one moment that you are an innocent victim. I am not so easily taken in. You are a charlatan, and I intend to inform his lordship of your deception. Loss of memory, indeed.”
Anna called to Betty. “Please fetch Miss Stapleton’s things.” Her hands trembled, and she clasped them behind her back.
Clarissa stood slowly and sauntered toward her. “I will depart when I am wholly ready.”
“Very well, Miss Stapleton. If you will excuse me then.” Anna left the room and marched into the hallway.
Clarissa followed. “How jealous the ladies at the Governor’s Ball will be when I am Lady Philip, a member of the nobility and wife to the son of a marquess. I shall have my own title and shall outrank nearly every other woman on this island aside from Lady Lockwood, of course.”
Lady Lockwood. The name repeated in her mind, and Anna froze with her hand on the stair railing. “What did you say?”
Clarissa snatched her gloves from Betty and pulled them on. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Amelia Becket of Spanish Town, a woman of no consequence, sailed away three years ago and married an earl. Society has talked of little else, but before long . . .”
Anna did not hear the rest of her words. She hardly noticed when Betty led her to a chair. Lady Lockwood, Amelia . . . Anna’s mind churned as images assailed her. Captain Fletcher held the book to her; Ni
co’s sword was lost on deck. The bits of recollection spread, forming complete sections in her mind and then connecting with others. The ship. The storm. It was all there. Every bit. She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead. She remembered her parents, her childhood. Laughter, riding her pony, country dances . . . the dark day her father learned his business partners had cheated him, moving to a cold, damp house in London, her parents growing ill and dying . . . the vicar finding Anna a situation as a chamber maid.
She had sailed on a ship and fallen into the sea. Gasping for breath as the waves buried her . . . She remembered it all. She even remembered her name. Anna Wheeler.
No blank spots remained, and Anna gasped at the intensity of the emotions associated with memories she had forgotten. They returned with such force that she felt as though she relived each of them. Anna Wheeler—she was not married, not engaged. Her chest was light as she realized she was free from any other attachments. But the reality crashed in, dashing her hopes to bits. She was also not wealthy. Not even a small bit. She had nothing. She was a maid, a servant, and should not have feelings for a nobleman in the first place. Philip . . . they could never . . .
Anna breathed heavily and noticed she had broken out in a sweat. She lifted her eyes to find Betty’s face in front of her. Her friend’s expression was pulled with worry. “Betty, I remem—”
The crack of a gunshot stopped her words. Anna jumped to her feet as the front door flew open and hit the wall with a crash.
Horace Braithwaite stood in the opening.
Clarissa screamed, and Horace struck her with the back of his hand, sending her into the wall. She crumpled to the ground.
Fear flowed cold through Anna’s stomach as her own situation paled in regard to the fact that if Horace Braithwaite was here and Philip was not . . . Philip! What had happened? “Run, Betty!”
Betty ran from the hall, and Anna followed but was pulled back when Horace grabbed her. His large hand squeezed around her arm painfully, and she jerked, trying to pull it from his grasp. A primal scream forced its way from her throat.
Simply Anna Page 20