The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  Isobel felt her heart sinking even deeper, but tried not to let it show.

  He adjusted the cat in his arms and continued. “So if at any time, you are considering trying your luck with the sharks, be warned, no one from my ship will come to your rescue. Of course, if Sir Harry wants to play the hero, he is welcome to it.”

  “It would almost be worth it to have Sir Harry gobbled by sharks, too.” Isobel laughed bitterly. “Oh, what does it matter? The truth is, I would welcome such a fate, compared to the one that awaits me.”

  “With Lennox?”

  “He will murder my husband, sir, and force me to be his bride. I have already seen him commit murder.

  He is a madman.”

  “I am sorry for you.”

  “Are you? And you would allow him to do this? Have you no conscience?”

  He smiled in a cold, businesslike manner. “You ask a pirate if he has a conscience, madam? Then I truly am sorry for you. Sir Harry has promised me a substantial sum for your passage back to England. It is none of my business what he does with his goods.”

  “I’ll wager this isn’t the first time you’ve transported human cargo, is it, Captain?” she challenged.

  “No, it isn’t. And it won’t be the last.”

  “I’m sure. You likely did so under Captain Black.” She stepped closer to the white-haired pirate and reached out to stroke the cat in his arms. “Captain Mayfield told me much about you and your former captain—wild stories of obeah, and strange ceremonies of transfiguration. You know, Josephine, our housekeeper at Ravenwood Hall also told me many stories of her own. Of course, they must be whimsy.

  For we all know that such transformations are not possible. But if they were… Ah, well, I’m sure Josephine was just spinning stories. Don’t you think?”

  She saw something flicker in the man’s grey eyes, then quickly cloak itself. Worthington held the cat closer and regarded Isobel with a thoughtful expression. “I would like to hear these stories, Lady Ravenwood. Captain Black seems to be quite legendary in these islands. And he is just a silly cat, after all.”

  Captain Black meowed sharply and looked up at Worthington, batting a paw at the man’s chin.

  “Silly, indeed,” Isobel muttered, trying to hide her smile.

  Worthington looked unamused, and transfixed her with his stare. “We shall continue the conversation over dinner, then. And you must tell me more of these ‘folk-tales’ regarding Captain Black.”

  Could those stories really be true?

  “Ah, Sir Harry has returned.” Worthington made a bow. “I shall leave you under his ‘care.’ But I shall see you both tonight at my table for dinner. Until then, Lady Ravenwood.” He strode across the deck with Captain Black peeking at her over his shoulder.

  Isobel felt her heart sink as she watched the pirate exchange a few words with Sir Harry. They both glanced at her for a moment, and she looked away, staring out at the azure water as they headed out to sea.

  Surely, having Captain Black here was a good omen. She’d seen the look in Worthington’s eyes. Had it been one of fear? Of course, the man was a pirate and the captain of this ship. He was obviously adept at cloaking his reactions and maintaining a cool veneer at all times.

  But he’d given her a weapon, however small. And hadn’t David slain Goliath with a rock the size of an egg?

  It was obvious that Worthington thought she knew something rather important. She would find a way to use the stories about Captain Black to her advantage.

  And she would find a way to see Beckett. To save Beckett.

  Or she would die trying.

  Chapter Twenty

  Beckett moaned.

  Ugh. Why was the room rocking so? What was that smell? And why did his entire body hurt?

  He opened his eyes.

  Dear Lord, I’ve gone blind….

  He opened and closed them a few times, his eyes adjusting to the dark. And then he remembered.

  Isobel. He sat up and tried to get to his feet, but fell back down. He knew what the pain in his side meant. Broken ribs. Oh, bugger.

  Beckett lay on his good side and clenched his teeth in frustration. He ignored the pain and struggled at the bonds that held his hands behind his back. It was fruitless. He was trussed up like a Christmas turkey.

  Beckett felt a knot of fear and anger harden in his gut.

  Where was Isobel? If Sir Harry had hurt her, had even touched a hair on her head… just the thought of the bastard’s hands on her made Beckett growl in fury.

  He had to do something or he would go mad.

  Beckett heard scuttling across the floor, and knew it was a rat. Well, who had he expected to meet in the hold of a pirate ship? Prinny? He felt like laughing. This would be the first time he’d gladly trade present company for that of the prince regent.

  Trying to ignore the pain in his side, Beckett thought back to the Battle of Salamanca during the war. He and his men had been cut off from the main force by a legion of French dragoons. His colonel had panicked and led half the battalion to their deaths.

  Beckett had taken command then, and though the situation had seemed utterly hopeless, he’d led the remaining men to safety by keeping a cool head and not letting his fear get the best of him.

  He would do the same now.

  The first thing to do was escape from this cell.

  The second was to find a way for himself and Isobel to escape.

  And the third was to kill Sir Harry Lennox. Of course, the second and third items might change order, depending on circumstances.

  This obviously proved the validity of his wife’s previous claims.

  Beckett stared at the dingy floor in the murky darkness. He decided not to contemplate the origins of the sticky substance that covered it and smelled like the back end of an ox. This would be his home for a little while. Still, he’d lived through worse things in the war.

  He heard the scurrying again. It seemed the rat had brought its friends to meet their new cell-mate. Well, it wasn’t polite to complain about one’s neighbors.

  The sound of keys rattled outside the door, and Beckett sat up, wincing from the pain in his side. Warm yellow light streamed into the cell and momentarily blinded him. He squinted, trying to focus on the looming shadow in the doorway.

  “Lord Ravenwood,” said Sir Harry Lennox, stepping into the cell. “So glad you’re awake.”

  Sir Harry stepped into the brig, followed by a large red-haired pirate who stood and blocked the entire door with his towering form.

  “Your accommodations are comfortable, Ravenwood?” Sir Harry asked, looking about the cell.

  “Quite.” Beckett fought the urge to attack the weasel-gutted peacock strutting before him. It would be no use while he was injured and with “Redbeard” standing just feet away. He’d learned during the war to pick his battles; this wasn’t one of them.

  It was apparent Sir Harry had something in mind. And it was not killing him—not just yet. Lennox would have simply thrown him over the side by now if he wasn’t saving Beckett for something else.

  “Your wife’s accommodations are very different, you’ll be pleased to know. Not like this dung-hole. But what else could I provide for a thief like yourself?”

  “Thief?” Beckett spat. “I suppose I’m somehow responsible for stealingmywife and myself, then?”

  “I have only recovered what is mine, Ravenwood. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “Isobel is not yours. She never was yours. She will never be yours.”

  “Oh?” Sir Harry smiled easily. “How do you know that I haven’t made her mine already?”

  Beckett refused to take the bait. “Because there are not enough marks on your face, and you can still walk. If you had tried to possess my wife, I daresay you’d be much the worse for wear. Though I applaud her for the gash she gave your cheek back on the island.”

  Sir Harry self-consciously raised his hand to the fresh wound on his face and stared down at Beckett darkly. �
�Don’t worry, Ravenwood. I do plan to tame the little cat, and take much enjoyment from it.”

  “Do you? It’s obvious that you do not know my wife, sir. She is tenacious as a terrier. I don’t doubt she will have you for luncheon.” Beckett laughed even though it hurt his ribs to do so.

  “Brave words from a man who is destined to spend his last days in a dung-hole. We’ll see how brave you are on the day of your execution, Lord Ravenwood.”

  “Oh, have you a date in mind, then? Do be good enough to let me know so I can have my clothes in order. I wouldn’t want to swing in anything other than the latest fashion. Perhaps you might lend me something of yours, Sir Harry, as we look to be the same size?”

  The man looked smug. “Who says I’m going to hang you?”

  “Well, a hanging may be unimaginative, yet it does hold a certain amount of drama, as well as being easy.

  I thought it would suit a coward like you perfectly. Just think of it. The yard-arm extended over the water, my hair blowing in the wind, all your pirate cronies assembled on deck waiting to watch me gasp my last. You know, it sounds just like Mr. Norton’s new play I saw at Drury Lane but a month ago. I must say, it was a boring affair.”

  “I can assure you, Ravenwood, your execution will be anything but.”

  “You have your work cut out for you, then. I’m afraid fighting in the war against Napoleon has made me ever so hard to impress.”

  “Then I shall do my best to entertain you, my lord. And Isobel, of course, as she will be present to watch your long, painful death. You may spend the rest of the voyage in this miserable cell, with nothing else but that prospect to occupy your thoughts. Oh.” Sir Harry stopped as he turned to go. “That, and wondering which part of Isobel’s body I have my hands on at any given moment. Good day, Ravenwood.”

  Beckett clenched his teeth and fought against leaping to his feet and hurling himself at Sir Harry. But with his hands tied behind his back, the gesture would be useless. Instead, he watched the slimy coward take his leave, followed by Redbeard. The cell was again plunged into darkness and Beckett heard the key in the lock.

  He sat back and leaned his head against the wall, fighting the awful knot of dread that had balled itself in his stomach.

  Isobel.

  The sight of her face as they’d stood on the beach swirled in his mind. His heart tightened painfully at the memory, and of the things he’d said to her.

  What a wretched excuse for a husband he was. He had sworn to protect her, had given her his word.

  And he had been unable to keep it. Now she was in danger and he was in the brig, wounded and unable to help her. And God only knew what Sir Harry planned.

  Beckett had only been fishing when he’d said the lack of marks on Sir Harry’s face proved the man hadn’t forced himself on Isobel. Yet. Oh, God, the very thought of it made Beckett want to rip the heavy oak door from its hinges.

  He’d kept his head, but at what cost? Should he have tried to escape just now, and thrown caution to the wind? Maybe he could have succeeded.

  But they were on a pirate ship. Even if Beckett had somehow succeeded in killing Sir Harry and Redbeard, if he himself were killed, what would happen to Isobel? He doubted that the pirate captain, whoever he was, would return Isobel to England unharmed.

  No, he had to stay alive until his ribs were a little better and he was able to fight. Then he would get both himself and Isobel to safety. Or at the very least, Isobel.

  His eyes were adjusting to the little bit of light that crept in under the door from the companionway, but he closed his eyes. All of a sudden there was a lump in his throat. He breathed deeply to try to get rid of it, but it didn’t work.

  His mind filled itself with images of her, laughing merrily at a shared joke. Covered in dirt, but radiant and indomitable as they’d fought the fire together. Panting and helpless in his arms as he’d made love to her for the first time.

  Like a slap in the face, the realization of such feelings stung him. And how ironic that he’d denied having any feelings for her at all, only hours before on the beach.

  Was all this to be torn away from him?

  Could he allow his bride, his friend to be taken from him forever because of the wickedness of a madman?

  He would rather cut off his own arm.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  In the week that passed—at times unbearably slowly, and at others so fast it made her head spin—Isobel had not been able to see Beckett even once.

  She had tried twice. Once, she’d feigned sickness and headed back to her cabin alone, but the man with the red beard had found her. He hadn’t said anything; he’d merely taken her arm, gently but firmly, and returned her to the deck. And the other time, she had attempted to convince a burly pirate that he would guarantee himself a place in heaven if he assisted the cause of true love. That hadn’t worked either.

  She was allowed a semblance of freedom, however, after proving on the first day she wasn’t going to throw herself overboard. And since a sudden seasickness kept Sir Harry cabin-bound, she’d been put in Captain Worthington’s charge, and he usually was too busy with the running of the ship to notice her.

  At least she had a companion in Captain Black. Though he spent a fair amount of time sitting on Worthington’s shoulder, her old feline friend would seek her out as well, always appearing when her heart was darkest with worry.

  He would purr and nuzzle his face against her neck, and gaze at her with knowing green eyes. Once, when a teardrop escaped and trickled down her cheek, the cat had reached up and touched it gently with his paw.

  A cat who could wipe away your tears, she’d thought.

  Perhaps the stress of her bleak situation was fooling with her senses.

  To keep her mind occupied and her sanity intact, Isobel had taken to sitting up on deck, drawing. But today she was finding it especially hard to concentrate.

  As Captain Black lounged beside her, Isobel looked out at the empty sea that surrounded the ship and tried to summon her eyes back to the sketching paper that Captain Worthington had provided her. But she felt lifeless as a rag doll.

  She forced her hand to the paper. She would sketch and try not to think about Beckett, or if she would ever see him alive again. She would stay calm, and not think about what might be happening to him in the hold of the ship.

  Perhaps nothing was happening to him. Perhaps he was already dead.

  As for Sir Harry, from Captain Worthington’s account the man was green to the gills—just as he’d been on the trip across.

  Good. She hoped it was fatal.

  Surprisingly, she hadn’t encountered much trouble from the pirate crew. Though she had noticed some leering glances and muttered comments, Isobel always noticed that a glance from the captain or first mate stopped the ragged sailors cold. The sailors were too busy working most of the time to take much notice of her, anyway, and she thanked God for it.

  Isobel began sketching without really knowing what she was doing, but soon a face emerged before her.

  It was no surprise to see Beckett staring back out at her. Something shone from the eyes on the page.

  Hope? Love? Was it hers or his?

  Her hand faltered and she inadvertently slashed a mark across the beautiful face she had just sketched.

  Immediately, her heart throbbed with pain as she regarded the ruined picture in her lap.

  A terrible fear struck her. Would she ever touch Beckett’s face again? Would she ever feel the heat of his blue eyes as they looked at her as only he could? Would she ever feel his mouth on hers or his strong hands caressing her body?

  She shut her eyes tight, valiantly trying to stifle the growing panic that rose in her chest like the waves of the sea that surrounded her.

  Her thoughts went back to the loss she’d felt when her parents had died. She’d loved them so much. If she hadn’t loved them, the pain would have been negligible.

  It seemed the world was built on opposites—land and sea, sun
and moon, man and woman, pleasure and pain. Each was a part of the other, and to accept one was to accept its opposite as well. One could not enjoy the sun all day and tell the moon to stay away at night. That thought comforted her.

  Isobel looked out at the sea and remembered the hot intensity of Beckett’s eyes. She had drowned in their depths long ago, and would not be sorry now. If the price of loving Beckett included a life of misery, she would pay it. And if being Sir Harry’s whore would save Beckett’s life, she would do it gladly.

  There must be a way to convince Sir Harry to spare her husband’s life. She would sign over the deed to Hampton Park. She would tell Sir Harry there was more money hidden away somewhere, anything to buy Beckett some time.

  But perhaps he would try to play the hero and refuse to leave without her, even if she won him the chance. Yes, she could see that happening. Beckett might not love her, but he would never leave her to a fate with Sir Harry in order to save himself.

  She stared at the skyline and shook her head. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t run away that night. Beckett would never have found her, or taken her in, or made her his wife. Now, she was back where she’d started—doomed to a life as Sir Harry’s plaything. But the man she loved would be killed because of her.

  Isobel turned her head toward approaching voices from the lower deck. It seemed to be a good time to return to her cabin. She picked up her pencils and started to leave, but stopped as she heard whispering.

  “I tell ye, we must move tonight, McGregor!” the whispered voice said forcefully.

  Something told her to hide then, and she crouched down by the crate on which she’d been sitting. The only place remotely plausible was behind a huge coil of hemp near the railing.

  Isobel scooted behind it just in time and crouched as low as she could. As if sensing the tension in the air, Captain Black made himself scarce. Holding her breath, she listened to the pirates’ hushed conversation.