Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  Elisabeth gasped, covering her face with her hands as though she could somehow keep the awful reality at bay.

  “Who…who has done this?” she croaked. Though she knew the answer. They all knew who had done this thing.

  “My lady, the mayor…” Levant began.

  “Where is he?” Elisabeth hissed.

  “I believe he is in his study, my lady,” the butler replied. “He has not sent for his carriage today.”

  “When…when did he…?” Elisabeth could not bring herself to give a name to the crime.

  “At some time this morning, madame. I myself assisted Monsieur Chirac in dressing, and all was in order then. Thérèse discovered the…the…scene…when she came in to change the linens about half an hour ago. She came to find me immediately. I was in the kitchens, with Madame Fançeau. Of course, we came upstairs at once.”

  “Have you…have you summoned the authorities?”

  “Authorities, madame? The mayor is the authority here in New Orleans.”

  “What do you mean? He cannot…he cannot just… What about Captain dePrieu? He heads the garrison here in the city.”

  “Would you like me to send for him, my lady? It is just that I believe he and Monsieur Chirac are close personal friends.”

  Elisabeth believed so, too. She shook her head, then paused, straightened her spine. “Send for him. I shall speak to him myself. He must be made to do his duty. And, if you could find a sheet, please, to cover her…” She turned and began to march back along the hallway.

  “Madame, where are you going?” Levant had the temerity to raise his voice to call after her, such was the gravity of the situation.

  Elisabeth did not break her stride. “My husband’s study,” she yelled back over her shoulder.

  This time she did not knock and wait to be granted entry. Elisabeth threw open the study door and strode into her husband’s inner sanctum. Usually timid and self-effacing, concerned only to please or placate her husband, she was livid, and her rage knew no boundaries now. Her anger, blistering and white-hot, threatened to overwhelm her as she regarded the object of her fury.

  Giles Chirac slumped at her father’s desk, an almost empty decanter of brandy to his left and an empty tumbler in his hand. By the glazed and befuddled look he bestowed upon her as she glared down at him, he appeared to have consumed most of the cognac, and it was not yet noon.

  “You murdering bastard,” she spat, her voice laced with contempt and loathing. “That poor girl, she was little more than a child…”

  “Woman enough,” he slurred. “More woman than you, at any rate.”

  “You are loathsome, beneath contempt. You are not fit to sit in that chair or to call yourself mayor of this city. By the time I am finished, you will do neither. I mean to see you pay for what you have done.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” He lurched to his feet, unsteady, and brandished the decanter at her. “And how might you do that? Who is going to believe a melodramatic, hysterical woman or a snivelling wench? Whatever your opinion of me, I am mayor of this city, I am the law here. I will do as I like.”

  “I have already sent for Captain dePrieu…”

  “Yves will back me. He knows where his loyalties lie,” Giles sneered. “It is my word against hers, and who do you suppose will be believed?”

  “What do you mean? Marie Claire will not be in a position to testify, and you well know it. You killed her.”

  Now Giles did appear taken aback. “You are lying. I silenced her squalling, that is all. And in any case, you have only yourself to blame. You should have left well alone. That other one, the one with the decent tits and mane of dark hair, she and I got on just fine until you interfered.”

  “You mean Paulette.” Elisabeth was beyond disgusted. He did not even recall the name of the girl who’d lost her employment over him.

  Giles shrugged. “If you say so. But this one, the skinny one, she made a fuss.”

  “Marie Claire. She was barely eighteen years old. You raped her, and you strangled her, then left her there, dead, on your bedroom floor.”

  “She is not dead,” Giles insisted.

  “Oh, but she is. Quite, quite dead. And I mean to see you hang for it, Giles Chirac. I dealt with your indiscretions last time. As you say, I made certain that Paulette Vêrtine left this house and gave you a chance to redeem yourself. But instead, you do this.”

  “Redeem myself? I have no intention whatsoever of redeeming myself. And you, madame, when will you learn to hold your waspish tongue and keep your interfering nose out of my business?”

  Elisabeth continued as though he had not spoken. “You will not get the chance to humiliate me or sully my family’s name again. I am done with you. If you have any sense you will leave my house now, before Captain dePrieu arrives, and do not come back. I have no desire to set eyes on you ever again.”

  “I am going nowhere.”

  “Oh, but you are, and before you start spouting your rubbish about my possessions becoming yours when we were married, be advised that I have consulted my father’s man of letters who assures me that the mansion is entailed under the terms of my grandfather’s will and cannot pass from my family. It remains mine until such time as it passes to my heirs. You, Giles, will have to find some other bolthole from which to evade the law because you are not welcome here. And I should hurry if I were you, I can hear the captain of the garrison arriving to arrest you. Now, get out.”

  She had said what she had come to say. Her marriage was over, such as it had been. Elisabeth spun on her heel and strode for the door.

  She had taken two paces when pain exploded in the back of her skull and her world went dark.

  For several moments, Giles could only stare at the prone body of his wife. Blood poured from the wound on the back of her head to form a pool which spread slowly across the carpet. She lay still, lifeless, her limbs crumpled beneath her clothing. He peered from her to the near enough empty decanter which dangled in his grasp, the weapon with which he had struck her. He had forgotten it was even in his hand when he lashed out in his blind, drunken rage.

  She had accused him of killing that simpering halfwit girl. Had he? Giles genuinely did not know for certain, though he fancied the truth had been there, in his wife’s contemptuous gaze. How dare she look at him that way? Judge him that way? She was nothing, none of them mattered. He was the mayor. He was the power and authority here. How dare any of them question him?

  Still, there were always those that would, as he had learned to his cost in Atlanta when his previous wife had met her end in circumstances some had insisted upon describing as suspicious. Monique had fallen. That was Giles’ explanation for her tumble down the stairs, and in his capacity as a lieutenant in the militia, he did not consider himself answerable to anyone else on the matter. Even so, things had become awkward. Monique’s family would not shut up about it, and he had eventually decided to relocate to New Orleans where he was not known and would not be troubled by inconvenient questions and speculation. And now, here he was, at the very epitome of his career, the most powerful man in the city, and finding himself in the same situation all over again. It really was too much.

  It was all her fault, and to cap it all, she had bloody died on him.

  One wife lost in questionable circumstances was bad enough, two smacked of carelessness.

  Giles dropped to one knee and grasped her shoulder to roll her onto her back. Elisabeth let out a soft moan.

  Christ, she is alive!

  Giles bent down, put his ear against her chest. Yes, a heartbeat, slow but steady enough. He contemplated grabbing a cushion and pressing it over her face. That would put a stop to the little bitch’s whining and complaining. He might have done so had the door not burst open and Captain dePrieu come hurtling into his study.

  “Chirac, what is this I hear? How has—?” The captain of the New Orleans garrison came to a stop, his assessing gaze falling upon the prone woman and the man who knelt at her side. “Yo
u fool. What have you done?”

  “Don’t you start.” Giles shoved himself to his feet and deposited the decanter back on his desk. “Have I not had enough from her?”

  “That girl upstairs…?” dePrieu pointed at the ceiling.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Oh, yes. And we might have managed to make that little inconvenience go away, but your wife, now that is considerably more complicated.”

  “My wife is not dead. Not yet.”

  “No? Thank God for that.” DePrieu crouched beside Elisabeth and satisfied himself that she was, indeed, still breathing. “Quick. We need to get her out of here before she comes round and starts talking to anyone about what took place here today.”

  “What do you mean?” Giles’ brandy-soaked brain struggled to take in the enormity of his predicament, or the potential solutions.

  Mercifully, Captain dePrieu seemed to be made of sterner stuff and took charge. “The household staff are all upstairs. I shall send one of my men to inform them that you have been arrested and Madame Chirac has left the premises to stay with relatives. Which relatives might that be, Giles?”

  He had to think for a few moments. “Her aunt. Yes, her Aunt Juliette in Atlanta. Her mother’s sister…”

  “Excellent. Madame Chirac has summoned her carriage and departed for Atlanta. Meanwhile, if you can just assist me in rolling her up inside this rug…”

  Between them they concealed his wife within the large Turkish rug, and Captain dePrieu heaved the bundle up and over his shoulder. “Do you have a cart of some sort?”

  “I suppose we must. Out the back…”

  The captain led the way, and the pair slipped out of the kitchen door and into the alley which ran past the rear of the property. Just as Giles had thought, a rough buggy was hitched to the gatepost. The nag between the shafts looked as though it might not live out the day. This was the vehicle used to bring supplies from the markets and docks but would suit their purpose today well enough. DePrieu slung Elisabeth, still wrapped in the carpet, unceremoniously into the back.

  “Jump on,” he ordered.

  Giles sprang up onto the seat, while dePrieu took the reins and flicked them to get the horse in motion.

  “Where are we going?” Giles asked.

  “A man I know, down by the docks. He’ll get rid of her for us.”

  “Get rid of her?”

  “Yes. And we can make a coin or two on the deal as well.”

  “A coin or two?” Giles repeated. “You mean to sell her?”

  “I do. A white female will fetch a decent price at auction. We haven’t the time to put her on the block ourselves and maximise the profits, and in any case, she could regain consciousness at any moment and start screeching for help, but we can sell her privately to a slaver and get a bit back on the deal. Once she’s on a ship and safely out of New Orleans, she’s no longer our problem. She won’t be anybody’s problem, in fact. The novelty of owning a white slave will soon wear off, then whoever eventually buys her will find she’s too feeble to be of much use on a sugar plantation. She won’t last long. More to the point, she won’t be returning to New Orleans.”

  “But what about Levant? The other staff?”

  The captain of the garrison cast an exasperated glance his way. “You will soon be released for lack of evidence, and once a little dust has been allowed to settle on this unpleasant business, you can quietly dismiss them. For fuck’s sake, man, you are the mayor, are you not? Surely you can manage to deal with a few bothersome servants.”

  “Yes,” Giles agreed as the merits of their plan finally dropped into place in his muddled head. “Yes, of course I can. So, where is this slave dealer to be found, then?”

  Rocking. Shifting. Her head hurt.

  Elisabeth tried to prise her eyelids apart, but the effort was too great. She abandoned the attempt and drifted gratefully back into unconsciousness.

  The next time she stirred it was to the sound of raised voices. Male voices, in guttural accents, yelling words she did not recognise. Elisabeth moaned, the throbbing in her head still agonising. This time she did manage to crack her eyelids apart but saw only darkness. The effort seemed not worth it, somehow, so she gave up again.

  She surfaced into consciousness for a third time, and knew she was not alone in the darkness. Low voices, female this time, muttering, murmuring, the occasional sob or whimper. Elisabeth opened her eyes, tried to lift her head from the rough, heaving planks beneath her.

  Why does the earth shift so?

  She rolled onto her side, and nausea swirled within her stomach. She retched.

  Gentle fingers smoothed her hair from her face, and she emptied the contents of her stomach into a bucket which someone thrust in her direction. Close by, a woman uttered words of comfort, but in a thick accent she could not quite decipher.

  Where am I? What happened? Why does my head ache so?

  She tried to sit up and would have failed in that endeavour but for the willing hands behind her shoulders, helping her. Once upright, Elisabeth bitterly regretted the effort expended. Her head felt as though it might burst, and had she had anything left inside her, she would have been sick again.

  “You hit head, lady,” came the response to the question she was not even aware she had asked out loud. “No more bleeding, but sore, yes?”

  Elisabeth blinked. Sore? Hell, yes! She lifted her hand to touch the spot which seemed to throb the most, on the back of her head. Her fingers came away sticky.

  Blood. I am bleeding…

  Shock and nausea warred inside her. Confused, she looked about her, tried to pick out what she might in the near pitch darkness. She could discern only shapes, human shapes, and now, as her senses returned, she could smell them, too. She was in the company of a great many others, she determined, and her companions were none too clean.

  “Where am I?” she repeated. “What happened to me?”

  “Ship, lady. Big ship,” came the reply.

  “What ship? Where are we going? Who…who are you?”

  “Not know what ship. Go to Virginny, p’raps. Maybe not.”

  “Virginia? Did you say we are going to Virginia?” Utterly mystified, Elisabeth grabbed at the hand of her companion. “Why? Why would we go there?”

  “We go where we are took, we work where we are told. The masters, they—”

  Masters?

  The reality of her situation was suddenly terrifyingly clear.

  “I am a slave?” Her confusion deepened. Panic gripped her. It was not true, could not possibly be true. “No, I… I am…” Elisabeth halted, not sure what the next words might be. Her head pounded cruelly as she fought to remember.

  The rocking of the vessel became more pronounced, and Elisabeth found herself tossed from one side to the other, along with several of her companions. Terrified screams filled the putrid air as women were hurled bodily about the hold crashing into each other and the hull. Elisabeth landed heavily on her right shoulder, then on her left hip. She succeeded in stopping herself from being hurled from side to side when she managed to grasp one of the cross planks nailed to the inside of the ship’s hull and hung on to that to gain a modicum of balance. Most of her companions eventually managed to do the same, though the pitiful moans and whimpers were evidence that several were injured.

  “H-how long before we reach Virginia?” Elisabeth whispered into the darkness.

  “Not know, lady,” a different voice replied. Her previous companion, the woman who had held her hair back while she’d spewed up her guts was nowhere to be seen in the near blackness. “Days. Weeks. P’raps months.”

  “God help us,” she moaned. Elisabeth was desperately afraid.

  She lost track of time as she clung to that plank and searched her unresponsive memory for some clue as to how she found herself in this predicament. This was wrong, all wrong, but she could not quite call to mind what ‘right’ would look like. The poor, desperate souls who shared the ships hold with her could offer no
explanation, and in any case, she could barely understand what they said to her. She could pick out a curious mix of French, English, and more besides, languages she did not recognise.

  Elisabeth was gazing into the forlorn darkness when a sudden shaft of light pierced her vision. She let go of the plank to shield her eyes from the dazzling beam and found herself hurtling across the hold again. She landed in a heap, flailed in vain for something to steady herself, and was flung back in the direction she had come. This time she landed close to a pair of booted feet. She would have continued to tumble from one side of the hold to the other had not rough hands seized her and dragged her to her feet.

  “Ah, ’ere she is. Let’s be ’aving a look at ye, then.”

  Instinctively, Elisabeth started to struggle. “Let me go. You have no right—”

  “No right? I shall ’ave ye know I paid good money fer ye an’ I ’ave ev’ry right. Ev’ry right, aye.” He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her head back so he could look at her face.

  Elisabeth screamed, the pain in her abused, already injured scalp excruciating. Her reward was a savage slap across her face. She was stunned now, and barely conscious. His words seemed to come from far away.

  “A bit on the skinny side, but I suppose ye’ll ’ave to do. Ye can keep me amused till I get bored o’ shaggin’ a bag o’ bones an’ decide to swap ye fer one o’ these wi’ a bit more meat on ’er.”

  Elisabeth offered no further protest when she was bundled up the rough stairs and out onto the deck. Heat hit her, and she judged the time to be perhaps midday. She had no idea how long she might have been down there in the dark. With mounting panic, she realised she could not recall a time she had not been in darkness.