Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (25 page)

There was a shattering of glass and Isobel peeked from around the chair. 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 near to impossible.

A heavy barometer rolled across the floor. Isobel 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, a dagger pressed dangerously against his throat.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that mutiny can be very bad for your health?” Worthington growled.

Isobel shuddered as the captain pushed the blade home.

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 grabbed Isobel’s arm and lifted her to her feet.

He wiped the blade against his pant leg and said, “My, my—you are truly full of surprises, Lady Ravenwood. 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,” she explained. “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 very brave of you to attempt such a thing,” Captain Worthington said, seriously.

“Bravery had nothing to do with it, sir,” Isobel replied. “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, my fate would have been sealed.”

Worthington folded his arms across his chest, saying, “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,” Isobel answered. “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 grimly, saying, “McGregor—I should have known he would be involved.” He studied her for a moment, and asked, “Is that blood on your chin, my lady?”

“I bit Mr. Murray,” she said.

To her surprise, he laughed. “Good for you! Though I’m sure he tasted terrible.”

“He did, at that,” she agreed.

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

Worthington led her to the door, and they quickly entered the narrow passageway.

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,” he said. “I will lock you in so no harm will come to you.”

“But my husband,” Isobel said, “will he be safe in the brig?”

“He will be, for the time being,” he said, opening the door and pushing Isobel inside. “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 pounded at the door with her hand. “Oh!”

Frustration boiled inside her, though she knew the captain was right. This was probably the safest place for her at them moment.

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…will I ever see you again?

She heard shouts and bodies crashing on deck above her head and ducked instinctively, as if they might fall through on top of her. The clanging steel of 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.

Isobel.

He had failed her.

Not knowing what was happening to her was its own form of torture.

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.

During the war, he’d learned that timing was everything. He had to wait for the right time to strike. 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 Isobel, they’d both be as good as dead.

And he’d discovered something important while locked up in this cell.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Isobel.

It had never been any use denying the truth.

He loved her
.

There it was.

Earlier, when Isobel had come to his cell, he’d been so close to saying it then, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t known how.

Those three little words had held him prisoner far better than this cell ever would. But he had escaped them. He was no longer in their power. Now, they were in his power. The most important words in the English language were no longer a thing of fear, but of freedom.

And now, looking back, he wondered what he had been so afraid of. Losing himself? Believing in something that could not possibly be true? But the alternative had been closing his heart to the most powerful gift of all.

He thought of Cordelia then. Of how he’d thought himself in love with her. But that hadn’t been love. It had been a feeling that masqueraded as love, which had been quite convincing—like drinking cheap wine and being told it was champagne. You could only know the difference when you’d tasted the real thing.

And Beckett
had
tasted the real thing. Now that he knew the difference, he’d never go back to shoddy imitations. Like cheap wine, imitation love left one feeling quite sick and empty inside.

His thoughts went to Isobel, of their confrontation on the beach just before Sir Harry had snatched them. The things she’d said about her heart being full of him, about not being able to remove him from there—he understood, now.

She was inside his heart as surely as the blood that pumped there and gave him life.

He wanted to see Isobel, to tell her of his discovery. He grabbed the bars in the window and though he knew it was no use, he shook them, as if that would have any effect. He peered out and tried to see down the passageway. His guard was absent, and there was no one else about.

The ship seemed unusually quiet. He hoped that meant the mutiny hadn’t yet started. He stretched up again and tried to see if his guard was asleep on the floor, but no one was there.

Then Beckett heard the familiar sound of Williams’s heavy footsteps coming down the passageway. He heard the man whistling a jaunty tune as he approached.

Williams’s large round face appeared in the window.

“Brought ye some dinner, m’lord,” the man said.

Beckett heard the sound of the key in the lock and was about to thank the man, when Williams made a strange gasp. A look of surprise came over his face and he fell forward against the door, regarding Beckett in confusion. Then he slid down out of sight.

“There, take that, Williams, ye old bugger!” a voice hissed.

Another voice said, “Ye sure we was s’posed to kill him?”

“O’ course I’m sure, ye cork-brained git!” the first man said. “Come on, now, there’s more to be done before this day is out.”

Beckett flattened himself against the wall beside the door, waiting for it to open.

It didn’t.

He heard quick footsteps echo down the passageway until they were gone. Then came the sounds of scuffling on the deck above…the sounds of close combat, of men yelling, and metal blades clashing.

Gads, the mutiny had begun.

A chill of fear ran up his spine as he thought of Isobel. Had she been able to warn Worthington? Where was she in all of this?

In anger and frustration, he grabbed the bars of the little window as he had before and pushed and pulled against them. Surprisingly, the door opened.

He jumped back, waiting to see who had opened it. But no one appeared. The door just creaked open slowly, gently inviting him into the passageway, and freedom.

Beckett peeked around the door and saw the key sticking out of the lock. There was no one else about, and he hopped over Williams who lay crumpled on the floor. Beckett crouched down and turned the pirate over. He was dead.

“My condolences, Mr. Williams,” Beckett said, removing a long dagger from the man’s boot. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore. But I most certainly will.”

With that, Beckett turned and trotted down the hall. There seemed to be no one at all below-deck—at least on this end of the ship. But he would be ready if he encountered any resistance.

He turned another corner, hoping to find Isobel’s quarters, and instead looked straight into the black eyes of Sir Harry Lennox.

Chapter 24

“Ravenwood,” Sir Harry hissed, stepping back. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here. I was just coming to see you. To see you
die,
that is. Thank you for saving me the walk.”

Sir Harry slashed out with his dagger as Beckett quickly side-stepped the move.

“You bastard!” Beckett growled, his anger blazing. He hated this man with absolute clarity.

Sir Harry snarled and slashed at him, but Beckett nicked him on the wrist with a return cut.

Good. He wanted Lennox to bleed a bit before he died.

Beckett had fought men like this before—men without much training, but dangerous as a wounded beast. Such men could be goaded into making a mistake.

Sir Harry smiled as he prepared to strike again, saying, “When Isobel is my wife, Ravenwood, she’ll pay for every drop of blood you make me spill.”

“Isobel will never be your wife, Lennox,” Beckett said, flatly.

Sir Harry’s expression darkened as he lashed out again with his dagger, nicking Beckett’s elbow.

Beckett ignored the minimal pain, though Lennox seemed overly pleased by the blow. Beckett would let the man tire himself out a bit before he attacked in earnest.

Sir Harry’s eyes glittered maliciously, as he said, “You stole my bride, Ravenwood. I swore I’d make you pay for defiling what was mine.”

“I beg to differ with you there, on both counts,” Beckett replied, slashing his opponent’s thigh, who gave a groan. “Isobel was never yours, Lennox. But she is mine. We love each other, you see. That’s something you’ll never understand.”

Beckett heard a muffled voice shouting from down the passageway, and pounding on a door. He thought he heard his name.

“Isobel?” he shouted, deflecting Sir Harry’s dagger once more.

“Beckett!” Isobel answered.

“Yes, it’s your beloved husband, Isobel,” Sir Harry shouted over his shoulder. “Say your good-byes, my dear, and listen to him die!”

“No!” she cried.

Sir Harry attacked like a mad bull. Beckett moved quickly, landing a hard kick in his opponent’s groin. This was a dagger fight, and he doubted Lennox would observe any gentlemanly rules of conduct.

Sir Harry doubled over in pain, but managed to keep his weapon out in front of him. Beckett kicked again, and knocked the dagger from his enemy’s grip. In a moment, he was pulling Lennox up by the scruff of his neck and placing the tip of his own knife to the base of the man’s throat.

“I can’t say that I’m sorry to do this,” Beckett said, preparing to deliver the killing stroke.

“But I can,” a voice said from behind him.

Beckett recognized the sound of a pistol being cocked near his head. He felt the cold tip of the barrel against his skull, and cursed.

“Worthington!” Lennox croaked, “It’s about time.”

“My apologies, Sir Harry,” the captain said, stepping around Beckett and taking the dagger from his hand. “Had a bit of a mutiny to take care of, which Lady Ravenwood was good enough to warn me about. It is because of her that I didn’t shoot you dead just now, Ravenwood.”

“Let me see her,” Beckett said, staring down the barrel of Worthington’s pistol.

The man was flanked by a crew of loyal pirates.

“I’m afraid that would be unwise,” Worthington answered. “Your wife is safe in her quarters, and that is where she will stay.”

“Not for long,” Sir Harry said, smiling.

Beckett made a lunge for him but was stopped by Worthington’s men. “If you touch even a hair on her head, Lennox, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are!” he growled.