The Marriage Bargain

by Michelle McMaster

  “You should have the surgeon look at it.” Isobel spit out some of the blood in her mouth. “While I was on Barbados I contracted a rare disease—Caribbean parrot fever!”

  It was a bold-faced lie. There was no such disease as far as she knew. Nonetheless, it had the desired effect.

  Murray’s face turned white and he looked at Dobbin accusingly. “Why didn’t you grab ‘er? Now I’ve got ‘Caribbean parrot fever’!”

  In truth, Isobel thought she probably had more chance of having contracted a disease from Murray.

  “Gag ‘er, and put ‘er in the galley,” Dobbin ordered. “That should keep the baggage out o’ trouble for a time.”

  “You gag ‘er, Dobbin! I’ve had me fill o’ bein’ her dinner, thank you very much. The little bitch can take a bite out o’ you.”

  “Hold ‘er hands then, and I’ll gag ‘er.”

  The men roughly turned Isobel around, and Murray pulled her arms back painfully as Dobbin approached.

  Isobel glared at the man. “Fever symptoms can be hideous. It won’t be long now.”

  She saw a flicker of fear in the pirate’s eyes and felt a small thrill of victory.

  Dobbin bent down and ripped off a piece of her skirt, then stood, twisting it into a coil. Slowly, he brought the gag to her face.

  Isobel shook her head like a terrier, but he managed to get it between her teeth and tied it tightly around her head in a secure knot.

  She heard another tear of her skirt and soon her hands were bound behind her back, as well. At least Dobbin hadn’t seen the porcelain knife in her boot when he’d ripped her dress. Thank goodness for underskirts!

  Roughly, the men dragged Isobel down the narrow passageway and into what was obviously the galley.

  She had never seen it before and was surprised at how small and cluttered it was. Everywhere, pots and pans hung from the low ceiling, along with various ladles and other cooking utensils, which all clanged together as the ship rocked.

  A galley with no cook? So, the mutiny had begun.

  The pirates dragged her over to the table, pushed her down into a sitting position on the floor, then bound her hands to the table leg. Isobel kept her boot hidden under her skirt, but wondered if her makeshift knife would do her any good. With her hands tied behind her, she couldn’t reach it.

  Isobel glared up at the pirates, truly wishing that looks could kill. Strangely, the overwhelming emotion she felt was anger, not fear. But that would most likely change when the reality and hopelessness of the situation set in. When she heard the mutiny going on around her, then she would feel fear.

  What would happen to her—to Beckett? She hoped that Sir Harry Lennox would be consigned to eternal torment for this!

  “She should stay out of harm’s way in ‘ere,” Dobbin pronounced. “If a pot doesn’t fall on ‘er head!”

  “Per’aps we should take a pot to ‘er noggin and knock ‘er out now.” Murray nursed his wounded hand. “I don’t trust ‘er.”

  Isobel tried to calm her fears as she pictured Murray taking a skillet to her head.

  “Don’t think so—might make her go daft, see? T’would lower ‘er price in Kingston.”

  “Oh, and she’s not daft already?” Murray asked looking unconvinced. “Said she ‘ad parrot fever after all.

  Her an’ me both, now.”

  “Ah, quit yer cryin’, Murray. I say our job’s done ‘ere. McGregor will be wantin’ us, now. Come on.”

  Dobbin motioned toward the door.

  The two men took a last look at Isobel and closed the door behind them.

  Isobel struggled against her bonds but it was of no use. She tried lifting her boot up to her mouth to retrieve her knife, but could not stretch that far. Even if she could get the little weapon, she realized she would not be able to use it with her hands tied so. Frustration made her want to scream. But the sound she made came out like a muffled mewling and that made her fume in aggravation even more.

  Hearing an odd squeaking noise, she twisted her head but could not see anything.

  Then she saw it.

  A little gray mouse scuttled straight toward her across the rough plank floor.

  After fighting bloodthirsty pirates, Isobel wouldn’t have thought she could still be frightened by a mouse.

  Not so. And now she would spend her last moments being terrorized by one. How fitting.

  She squealed a little as the tiny rodent scurried in front of her. It began to sniff around the edge of her skirt, which had been soiled with spilled food and drink from the floor of the galley.

  Then, with an other-worldly growl, a cat sprang from the shadows.

  Captain Black! He truly was her knight in furry armour.

  The mouse squeaked and scuttled across the floor in a blur of grey fur. Captain Black darted after the poor creature, and though it had surely been about to nibble her to death, Isobel feared for the rodent’s life.

  Just as Captain Black was about to pounce, the mouse disappeared through an opening in the planked flooring. The cat meowed and batted at the mouse-hole with his paws, unwilling to give up the chase.

  Though gagged, Isobel attempted to get the cat’s attention by making sounds that came out as a series of unladylike grunts.

  Reluctantly, it seemed, Captain Black abandoned his hunt and returned to her side. Oh, I wish you could help me… I wish you could set me free, she thought, looking at the cat in desperation.

  Since she knew no other way to convey her message to the feline, she kept grunting and wriggling, hoping that would do the trick.

  Captain Black regarded her with his jewel-green eyes, meowed a few times, then moved behind her.

  Holding her breath, Isobel waited. And hoped.

  She felt his whiskers brush against her hand. Then she felt a tug on the fabric that tied her wrists. Her heart leapt with hope—Captain Black was chewing on the bonds!

  Could the cat really set her free?

  Captain Black continued with his task and Isobel felt the bonds begin to give way. She pulled gently.

  Using a bit more force, she felt the cloth rip and in a moment was free. She reached back to untie her gag, and turned to thank her valiant friend.

  Pulling the cat into her arms, she placed a kiss right on his nose. He purred loudly and nuzzled her chin.

  “Thank you, Captain Black. I shall have to give you a very large fish for this.”

  Standing, Isobel smiled at her four-footed friend. “Captain Mayfield was right. You are watching out for me, aren’t you?”

  The cat meowed, and she shook her head, chuckling.

  Grabbing a skillet as she scrambled to the door, Isobel wondered what she could possibly have to smile about.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The ship held an eerie silence as Isobel walked quietly towards the captain’s quarters. Captain Black bolted down the companionway and disappeared from sight. Isobel had no idea where Sir Harry would be in all this, but with any luck he would be mortally wounded during the melee. She only hoped Beckett would be safe in his cell.

  As Isobel approached the door to Captain Worthington’s cabin, she heard snarling voices from within.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she crouched down in front of the door and peeped through the keyhole.

  What she saw made her gasp.

  Captain Worthington sat tied to a chair. The pirate she knew as Styles held the tip of his saber dangerously close to Worthington’s throat.

  Oh, he couldn’t be killed now. Worthington’s death would mean much worse for herself and Beckett.

  She had to do something… anything! It was their only hope.

  Isobel knocked on the door, then wondered what exactly she was going to do when it opened.

  She heard footsteps approaching and stood back.

  “Who is it?” a raspy voice asked.

  Isobel used the gruffest voice that she could muster. “Message for Styles,” she croaked.

  She heard a grunt from behind the
door. Resheathing her knife, she crouched a little and held her skillet ready.

  The door opened and a large, ugly head popped out.

  With all her strength, Isobel swung the skillet, smashing it into the pirate’s face.

  Perhaps she should have used the knife, but the truth of the matter was that she hadn’t felt quite up to stabbing someone. The skillet produced the desired effect, however, as the large pirate crumpled in a limp heap across the door’s threshold.

  Isobel peeked around the door and saw Styles pause for a split-second.

  It gave Worthington a chance. His boot flew up and connected with Styles’s crotch. The man let out a bellow and dropped his saber, his hands covering his injured privates. Worthington kicked the saber into a corner as Isobel dashed in. There was no one else in the room.

  “Hurry up!” Worthington commanded.

  Isobel dropped the skillet and ran over to cut the captain’s bonds with her little knife.

  Styles was recovering. Like a bull, the pain seemed to have fueled his anger.

  Isobel cut as fast as she could, but the ropes were thick and her silly piece of porcelain was not very sharp.

  Styles approached slowly, his eyes blazing like a madman’s as he pulled out a long thin dagger from his boot. He fingered it idly.

  “Per’aps I won’t sell ye, little whore! I shall carve ye up and feed ye to the sharks… after I’ve done with him.”

  Isobel worked frantically on the last rope, and as Styles neared, she finally cut through it.

  Worthington sprang up like a panther. He easily dodged Styles’s lunge and landed a few well-placed punches in his opponent’s ribs.

  Then the captain’s leg shot up and he kicked the dagger out of Styles’s hand. Worthington swung his boot around to land in the mutineer’s stomach. But Styles was far from beaten, and in their hand-to-hand combat, he did some damage to Worthington, as well. Both men panted as they stared at each other, waiting for their opponent’s next move.

  Isobel glanced down and saw Styles’s dagger by the wall. She scurried to retrieve it. As the men locked in a deadly embrace, Isobel jumped out of the way and dashed behind an armoire. The men crashed backwards onto a table, sending books and papers flying in all directions. The two rolled over it and onto the floor.

  There was a shattering of glass and Isobel peeked around the armoire. Worthington lay pinned to the floor, and Styles hovered over him with a broken bottle, poised above the captain’s face.

  Isobel sent the dagger sliding towards the captain, and prayed that Worthington would be able to reach it in time. It bounced off the captain’s thigh and he struggled mightily to make a grab for it, but with Styles above him it was impossible.

  Isobel looked around quickly and spied a heavy barometer rolling around on the floor. She picked it up, took aim, and launched it at the back of Styles’s head.

  It was just the advantage Worthington needed. In an instant, Styles was not only stunned by the hastily thrown projectile, he was on his back with Worthington hovering over him, his own dagger now pressed against his throat.

  “Mutiny can be very bad for your health, Styles. As you’ll soon see.” Worthington growled.

  Isobel shuddered as the captain drew the blade across his opponent’s throat.

  She turned around, shutting her eyes and covering her ears. Death was not something she wanted to witness again, even that of an enemy. She heard muffled groans and gurgles, and in a moment Worthington was grabbing Isobel’s arm and lifting her to her feet. He wiped the blade against his pant leg and regarded Isobel with eyes like ice.

  “My, my. You are truly full of surprises, Lady Ravenwood.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And how did you know to come here, may I ask?”

  Isobel gulped, feeling a new uneasiness spreading through her gut. Would Worthington think she’d a hand in this?

  “I heard some men plotting against you, and when I tried to warn you, they tied me up and left me in the galley. I escaped and came here… just in time, it seems.”

  “It was fortunate for me that you came to my rescue. Very brave of you to attempt such a thing.”

  “Bravery had nothing to do with it, sir. I heard them saying they were going to sell me in the Kingston market—after getting to know my acquaintance better, of course. If you were killed, Captain, I would most probably face a fate worse than death.”

  Worthington folded his arms across his chest. “Quite so. What else did you hear? Did Styles have any accomplices you could name?”

  “Yes—a man named McGregor was recruiting the men against you. He wanted to wait. He said he needed time to get more men on their side, but Styles insisted they move now. And the men who tied me up in the galley were named Dobbin and Murray. That’s all I know for certain.”

  Worthington nodded. “McGregor… I should have known that malingering skulker would be involved.”

  He looked at her with newfound interest. “Is that blood on your chin, my lady?”

  “I bit Mr. Murray.”

  He laughed. “Good. Though I’m sure he tasted terrible.”

  Isobel smiled in spite of herself.

  “Now, we must leave. I must gather my men and stop this mutiny before it starts.”

  Taking Isobel’s hand, Worthington led her to the door. Stepping over the other unconscious pirate, only pausing briefly to bind him, they quickly made their way into the narrow passage.

  They stopped in front of Isobel’s cabin, and Worthington opened the door.

  “You must stay here while my men and I sort out this business, my lady. I will lock you in so no harm will come to you.”

  “But—my husband… will he be safe in the brig?”

  “He will be, for the time being.” He opened the door and pushed Isobel in. “Until we meet again, madam.”

  “Wait—” Isobel protested, but the door slammed in her face. She heard the key turn in the lock and she slapped at the door with her hand. “Oh!”

  Fear and frustration boiled inside her.

  She sat on her bunk and in a futile gesture, covered her heart with her hands, trying to keep it from bursting with pain. Oh, Beckett… Beckett!

  Isobel felt him inside her heart. Saw his face floating before her eyes. Why was the cost of loving someone so terribly high? She wanted so much to feel his arms around her, and his mouth kissing hers at least one last time. If they were to die in this mutiny, she hoped Beckett would know how much she had wanted to be a true wife to him.

  She heard shouts and bodies crashing on deck above her head. Isobel ducked instinctively, as if they might fall through on top of her. The clanging steel of their sabers rang through the ceiling planks, along with the sounds of death.

  Fear clutched at her heart with its cold, icy fingers. She curled her knees up to her chest and prayed.

  Beckett paced around in his cell. He was finding it more and more difficult to keep his mind occupied.

  And more and more difficult to keep his hopes up.

  His heart ached painfully in his chest.

  Isobel.

  He had failed her. His stomach contracted in wretched frustration and fear—at being unable to rescue Isobel, not knowing what was happening to her even at this moment, and wondering if he’d ever get them off this damned ship alive.

  His ribs had healed sufficiently to attempt an escape, but so far he’d been unable to swipe the key from his guard’s belt. And there had been more than one guard, lately. That meant trying to overtake one or both of them would be virtually impossible. He wanted to avoid physical combat—not only would his chances of victory be slim without a weapon, the noise of a fight would undoubtedly bring reinforcements.

  He’d felt it important to wait for the right time to strike, as he had learned to do in the war. But each day that passed meant one more that Isobel might be suffering at the hands of Sir Harry Lennox.

  Still, bad odds usually guaranteed failure. If he made a premature attempt and got himself killed before he could rescue Is
obel….

  Beckett closed his eyes in despair, wondering why he’d even bothered to open them in this awful cell. His heart felt just as dark and hopeless as this mean little room, and he hated it. He tried to think of other things, to take his mind away from the problem at hand.

  He saw her face then, floating in front of his eyes, her golden curls lifted on the wind. He remembered the softness of her skin underneath him as he covered her body with his own and loved her. He heard her cries of pleasure as she shuddered in his arms.

  Oh, why was he torturing himself like this? When one or both of them might be killed? The thought made his heart twist like a wet cloth being wrung out.

  He missed her. He missed Isobel’s friendship, their talks, the way she laughed when he teased her. He missed her hand crooked in his arm when they walked… the smell of her skin… even the way she chewed her toast at breakfast. And he missed her passion, her innocence, her warm little body curled up beside him after a night of loving.

  It was almost too much for him to bear, to think that he might never be able to know Isobel like that again.

  He wanted to spend his life loving her.

  Beckett’s eyes opened slowly again. Though it was still dark as always, it seemed that in his heart the light of a thousand candles burned brightly and illuminated the room.

  He said it again in his head: I want to spend my life loving her.

  It was so simple. And so true.

  Beckett felt the enormous weight he’d been carrying deep inside his heart push itself through, and out, and lift—flying away into nothingness.

  It had been like a physical thing weighing him down—making him immobile, unable to go forward. It had been a part of him, like a useless, mangled limb. And now, it was gone.

  Gone.

  “Oh… oh.” He groaned and felt his head droop as tears dampened his face in the dark.

  He’d fought against it for so long. It had been as fruitless as trying to fight against the tide, and just as exhausting.

  But now, he had given up the fight. And he felt relief, and a joy so pure, so indescribable, that soon he found he was laughing even though tears still flowed from his eyes.