Once A Pirate

by Bold, Diana

  Once a Pirate

  By

  Diana Bold

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Once a Pirate

  First published by Cobblestone Press as Nobody’s Hero in 2006.

  Copyright© 2006 Diana Bold

  Cover Artist: Kim Killion

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Dedication

  For my beautiful husband, Chuck. Thank you for showing me that true love isn’t the stuff of fairy tales—its far sweeter and richer. Thank you for teaching me that an occasional argument is good for the soul. And thank you for proving that romance has nothing to do with candlelight and roses. I love you more than words can say.

  Acknowledgements

  The road to becoming a published author has been a very long and difficult one for me. I’d like to thank all the fellow writers who made it a little easier, or at least a little less lonely.

  Angel Smits, who has the dubious distinction of being the first to read my first pathetic attempts and saying those infamous words, “There’s this thing called point of view . . . “

  Mary Ann Gehling, Donita Nelson and Diane Littleton, who helped me take those first baby steps.

  Ruth Kerce and Chris DiStasio, whose midnight chats saved my sanity more than once.

  Pam McCutcheon, Carol Umberger, Karen Fox, Jodi Beyes, Jude Wilhoff, Lise Fuller, Kris Williams, Valen Cox, Patty LaDuca, and all my other friends from PPRW who have given me advice and support over the years.

  Sue Longsdorf, who tries really hard to bring logic and order to my chaotic world, with little success.

  Angela Bailey, for the Sasquatch, the psychic, and making me laugh until I cry.

  Tina, Gaelen, Stacy and Marissa for making me feel like Cinderella even after my Golden Heart turned into a pumpkin.

  Donnell Bell and Robin Searle, who are always there for both the celebrations and the tears.

  And last, but not least, Barbara Samuel, the most brilliantly gifted writer and incredible person I’ve ever had the privilege to know. Sorry you had to be there for the growing pains.

  What doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger.

  Chapter One

  London—1810

  “You’ve got a visitor, Montgomery.”

  Deep in the bowels of Newgate Prison, Talon Montgomery looked up from the corner of his dank, windowless cell. “A visitor?” His words were little more than a hoarse rasp. He hadn’t spoken in months, not since he’d realized nothing he said would entice the guards to release him.

  He shielded his eyes from the glare of the guard’s lantern with a grimy hand, blinking and uncertain. A visitor? He’d been trapped down here for what seemed an eternity, accused of treason and branded a pirate. They claimed he’d been spying for the Americans, looting English ships for military secrets and wealth.

  He accepted the charge of piracy, even though he was technically a privateer, but he hotly denied the treason. He was an American, by choice, if not by birth. Unfortunately, his letter of marque from the American government had been ignored, and he’d been thrown in this cell to rot. He’d been sentenced to death, and he couldn’t imagine why they were dragging it out.

  The hulking guard withdrew a key and unlocked his cell for the first time since his mockery of a trial. The grinding rasp of the key brought long dead reflexes to life.

  Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because freedom lay just beyond that open door. All he had to do was get rid of the guard…

  “You wouldn’t make it two feet,” the man warned, hauling Talon off the floor with one beefy arm.

  Talon fought a wave of nausea and humiliation. The good health he’d taken for granted all his life had deserted him. He battled to find the strength to remain standing instead of wilting at the man’s feet in an ignoble heap.

  The guard grinned. “Not so high and mighty now, are we, Lord Pirate?”

  Talon shook off the man’s hands, bracing his own against the iron bars for support. “Where are you taking me?”

  “There’s a fancy gentleman waitin’ to have a word with you in the warden’s office.” Still chuckling, the guard shoved Talon toward his cell door. “I don’t imagine the bloke wants to be kept twiddlin’ his thumbs by the likes o’ you.”

  Talon let the guard prod him down the narrow corridor, unable to accept the fact that he had a visitor. Who could it be? His valiant crew had been dead these many months, and he had no one else.

  He wondered if this was a ruse, some strange new form of torture to make him confess. If so, perhaps this time they’d succeed. He could bear anything but false hope.

  Halfway to the warden’s office, the cobwebs cleared and he realized there was someone in his life with the power to arrange such a visit. Sudden fury sparked within him, burning away months of apathy and despair.

  Sutcliffe! Had he come to gloat? To see Talon broken and humbled once and for all? His anger gave him the strength to climb the endless flight of stairs.

  At last the guard shoved him into a warm, brightly lit room. “Here he is, sir. Let us know when you’re done with him.”

  Talon stood in the doorway, blinking against the light, tension coursing through him as he struggled to get a clear look at the two men who waited inside. One was a giant of a man, dressed in silver and blue livery that bore the Sutcliffe crest. Hired muscle, Talon thought in disgust, dismissing him.

  The other man stood in front of the crackling fire, warming his gloved hands. He didn’t turn around when Talon entered the room, which wasn’t surprising.

  James Sinclair, the Sixth Earl of Sutcliffe, had first turned his back on his bastard son twenty‐nine years ago, the day he’d discovered Talon’s mother carried him in her womb.

  Talon slumped against the wall, glaring. He’d swallowed his pride and sent his father an impassioned plea for help after his arrest, only to be completely ignored. If there’d been anything left in him of the boy who’d once yearned for his father’s love, Sutcliffe had killed it then.

  “Damn you,” Talon muttered. “Damn you to hell.”

  Sutcliffe laughed and turned to look at the son he’d never wanted.

  Talon drew in a sharp breath, startled. He hadn’t been face to face with the man who’d sired him since he was a lad of twelve. He’d forgotten how much he resembled the man.

  They shared the same unusual coloring — inky black hair and icy blue eyes. Sutcliffe’s harsh, uncompromising features were more deeply lined and his ebony hair had turned gray at the temples, but there was no denying they were father and son.

  The earl assessed him with a critical gaze. “I’m glad to see five months in prison hasn’t broken your spirit.”

  Five months. Five months since he’d taken a breath of air that wasn’t fouled by the odors of death and decay. Five months since he’d felt the sun and wind on his skin or eaten a decent meal.

  It had seemed far longer.

  Talon’s fury burst through the dam that had held it, a torrent of all the injustices he’d suffered since his arrest. He pushed off the wall, hell bent on murder.

  Sutcliffe’s footman stepped forward, but Sutcliffe stayed him with an arrogant wave of his gloved hand. “Leave us, Lionel. He’s far too weak to do me any harm.”

  Lionel pinned Talon with an intimidating glance then shrugged and left the room.

  Talon burned with mortification. He hated his obvious weakness,
hated that his father was right. He was in no shape to strike fear into anyone. “What are you doing here?”

  Sutcliffe gave him an arrogant smile. “Arranging your pardon, of course. You’re a free man, Montgomery. All you need to do is walk out that door.”

  Despite his hatred, Talon couldn’t contain the dizzying sense of hope his father’s words provoked. He wanted out of this place. He wanted to lift his face to the sun just one more time...

  It would be worth any price he had to pay. And the watchful look on Sutcliffe’s haughty face assured him there would be a price.

  The truth of it hit him like a fist in the gut. Sutcliffe had left him to rot for a reason. He’d wanted to make certain Talon was desperate enough to agree to whatever he was about to demand.

  “What do you want from me? You wouldn’t help me when I needed it. Why bother now?”

  Sutcliffe smiled again, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been busy. I attended to this as soon as I was able.”

  With those few careless words, Sutcliffe managed to express how utterly unimportant he found the life of his bastard son.

  “I didn’t ask you to help with my release. I needed you to use your influence to intervene on behalf of my crew. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you, and now seventy good men are dead.”

  “Don’t work yourself into a state,” Sutcliffe said. “Your disreputable crew is safe and sound, sailing one of my ships to Barbados as we speak.”

  Relief washed over Talon with the force of a hurricane. He’d been haunted with guilt, knowing his men had died while he still lived. Now he swayed dizzily with the knowledge that Sutcliffe had saved his crew from the gallows.

  Sutcliffe frowned and shoved a chair in Talon’s direction. “Here, boy. Sit down before you fall.”

  The last ounce of Talon’s strength deserted him. He had no choice but to take the offered chair. Sutcliffe ensured his capitulation by handing him a tray loaded with fresh bread, cheese, and wine.

  Talon’s stomach growled, brought to life by the sharp, wonderful scents. He lifted a piece of crumbling bread to his lips with a trembling hand, eyeing Sutcliffe warily lest he try to snatch it away.

  “You’re far too thin and filthy as hell, but that can be remedied,” Sutcliffe mused while Talon devoured the food he’d provided.

  Talon paused long enough to raise a sarcastic brow. “If you needed me fat and clean, you should have arranged for my release months ago.”

  Sutcliffe threw back his head and laughed. “By God, boy. There’s more of me in you than I’d imagined, but I’m glad to see it. You’re perfect for what I have in mind. Absolutely perfect.”

  Sutcliffe’s words should have alarmed him, but the warmth of the room, coupled with the solid feel of good food in his stomach, stole over him, filling him with lethargy. Sutcliffe had spared his men. He was willing to listen.

  “What am I perfect for?” He was curious despite himself. Why would a man like Sutcliffe go to so much trouble to ensure the cooperation of an American privateer? It made no sense.

  “I need an heir.”

  Talon straightened, unamused. “You have an heir.”

  Sutcliffe waved his hand dismissively. “Lansdowne is an embarrassment to me. I procured him the loveliest bride in the land, hoping to dissuade him from his perverted ways, but I don’t think he’s so much as touched her hand in passing during the two years they’ve been married.”

  Nausea twisted in Talon’s gut. He had an inkling of where this was leading, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. He knew of Viscount Lansdowne’s preference for men. He’d once stalked his half‐brother, Daniel, through the streets of London, curious to see what his life might have been like if his mother had been the earl’s wife instead of his mistress. He’d seen far more than he’d wanted to. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I want you to escort Lansdowne and his young wife to my plantation in the Carolinas. He’s become a liability. I don’t want him to return until Lady Kathryn manages to conceive a child.”

  The utter ruthlessness in Sutcliffe’s eyes when he spoke of banishing his only legitimate son sent a shiver up Talon’s spine. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.

  “I doubt he’s capable of siring a child,” Talon muttered, disgusted with the entire subject.

  “I’m counting on you.” Sutcliffe leaned forward with sudden intensity. “You’re my son, more like me than Daniel could ever hope to be. If you father Lady Kathryn’s child, I’ll have a grandson worthy of my title.”

  The earl’s outrageous suggestion hung heavy in the air. “You want me to seduce Daniel’s wife?” Talon shook his head in stunned disbelief. “What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

  Sutcliffe sat down behind the warden’s desk and steepled his fingertips. “I’ve asked myself the same question time and again. What would it take to bend a man like you to my will?”

  In answer to his own question, Sutcliffe lifted one broad shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’d thought a few months of deprivation would make you more open to suggestion. But then I had a chance to visit with some of your men, and I think I discovered what it is you’d sell your soul for.”

  “Go to hell,” Talon snarled. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “You want land. Land in that heathen country you call home.” Sutcliffe smiled benignly. “I can give it to you. In fact, I’m prepared to deed you the title to my newly acquired holdings in Carolina. It’s a lovely place, I’ve been told. Two thousand acres west of Charleston. A plantation called Holyoke. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “You know I have.” Talon felt stripped, his most secret dream laid bare beneath his father’s steady gaze. He’d meant to buy Holyoke one day, leave the sea and settle down in a place where titles meant nothing.

  “It’s yours. I’ll have you on a ship to the Carolinas as soon as I can arrange it. All you have to do is seduce a lovely young woman. Then you can walk away and never look back.”

  “I’m not like you.” Talon stared down at his empty plate, the food he’d eaten churning in his stomach. “I won’t do it.”

  Sutcliffe sighed and got to his feet. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m very sorry indeed.”

  He strode to the door and rapped twice. The burly guard appeared immediately. “I’m finished with him. He refuses to listen to reason. You may escort him back to his cell.”

  Talon knew the earl expected him to change his mind. He watched the guard approach, his heart pounding in his chest. He tried to work up the courage to defy Sutcliffe, to go back to his cell and die rather than give his father the satisfaction of breaking him.

  But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t go back down into that cold, dark hell. He wanted to live, damn it. He wanted the chance to make the son of a bitch pay for asking this of him.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Two

  Talon’s release was arranged with breathtaking speed and efficiency. Sutcliffe and the warden engaged in a brief conversation, there was an exchange of funds, and then Talon found himself outside the prison walls for the first time since his arrest.

  The moon hung heavy and full in the starry sky. For a long moment, Talon just stood there, staring upward, inhaling the crisp night air. He’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

  “Come along, lad.” Lionel, the footman, laid a broad hand on Talon’s shoulder and steered him toward the fine carriage waiting just beyond the gates. “You’re free now. There will be plenty of time for stargazing later. Right now, we need to get you home.”

  Home. Talon swallowed back a bitter retort and climbed into the luxurious compartment beside the earl. As the carriage rumbled through the deserted streets, he let his mind drift back to his twelfth year, to his mother’s last, painful words…

  “I’ve never been able to give you the life you deserve,” she told him as she lay dying of fever. “You’re a Lord’s son, Talon. Your father is the Earl of
Sutcliffe. You were meant for better things.”

  The Earl of Sutcliffe. He stilled, shocked to the core. Even in his wildest dreams, he’d never dared reach that high.

  “Are you sure, Mama?” He was afraid to believe in her, even now. How many times had she promised him a better life? How many times had those promises turned out to be nothing but lies?

  “Go to him. Don’t let him turn you away.” She gave him one last, tremulous smile, and then she slipped away.

  “No.” Tears streamed down his cheeks as he held her lifeless body and stroked her limp, dark hair. He tried to imagine a time when it had not been dirty and tangled, tried to imagine her as a rich man’s mistress instead of a poor man’s whore.

  What was he to do, traipse over to St. James Square, pound on the earl’s front door and demand his rightful place as a son of the house?

  Not bloody likely. They’d take one look at his dirty face, ragged clothes and skinny body and laugh their arses off. He had no proof, nothing but his mother’s name. Even if her claim was true, it was unlikely the Earl of Sutcliffe would remember a woman like Maggie Montgomery.

  But through the terrible days that followed, long after his mother had been buried in a pauper’s grave and the landlord had stolen what few belongings she’d left behind, it was all he could think about.

  What if it was true and he did nothing? What if he was meant for something better than the dirty, violent streets he called home?

  What could it hurt to try?

  He finally gathered his courage and asked around until someone directed him to the earl’s enormous Palladian mansion. Once there, however, he knew he could never actually knock on the imposing front door.

  He turned to go, but then the door opened and a young boy emerged. The lad was a little younger than Talon, small‐boned and pale, dressed like a little lord. There was an expression of utter boredom on the boy’s face as he sat down on the wide marble steps and stared at the traffic on the busy street.