The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (12 page)

She let out an exasperated sigh. “I never asked for my brother to be set adrift or to be taken captive on board your ship,
Capitán
.”

“And yet here you are.” He smacked her rear. “You best enjoy the voyage while you can. You boarded this ship under your own willpower,
señorita
. You were given strict orders to stay out of trouble. You chose not to listen. You pry into matters beyond your own ken, and you’ve unmasked a leviathan. Now you must pay the price.”

“What do you mean pay the price? I was doing you and your men a service.”

“Is that what you call it?” What she’d done was put them in jeopardy. Once his crew discovered the
Priory
carried gold, he couldn’t guarantee her safe passage. Greed did strange things to men. And being pirates, his men certainly weren’t immune. “The fact remains I cannot have you exploring my ship, antagonizing my men, creating more havoc that I will have to address.”

“Oomph,” she exclaimed as she hit her head when he made his way through the passageway. “You cannot possibly expect me to stay at your side for the entirety of this voyage. Need I remind you, a voyage I didn’t sign on for?”

He gripped a good portion of her bottom as he crouched low to avoid a lantern in his path.

“
Diablo!
Unhand me! I am not one of your conscripts.”

Rage thrummed through him. “You have no idea what bondage is.”

He paused outside the bulkhead to shout an order then took the ladder as quickly as the rocking ship and his eyesight allowed. “If I had a lick of sense, I’d dock at Sainto Malo and hand you off to someone who had the time to tame your unruly disposition.”

“You wouldn’t dare! You need me. You told me so. Lord Danbury has entrusted you to bring me to London safe and unharmed.”

“I’ll simply tell him I failed.”

“You… you cannot. Lord Melville’s life is in your hands.”

Everything she said was true. The
señorita
had evidence that would prove Melville’s innocence, and he had Mercy. “Aye.”

“You are not the man I thought you were.”

“That is not up for debate.” He adjusted her over his shoulder to keep her from falling. She pinched his back, trying to hold on, the action forcing breath from his lungs. He closed his eyes and shook his head, pushing back the horror of being flogged. Too late. He slipped momentarily on a rung in the ladder. Mercy pitched backward. He fought to tighten his grip as her legs shot out, giving him a glimpse of silk-covered ankles.

“Oomph! You clumsy fool. You’ll rue the day you mishandled me! I promise you,
Capitán
Blade!”

He ignored her curses as he maneuvered the ladder then stepped onto the quarterdeck.

The furious stares of his men fell upon them, tangible and unsettling. “Choose your words carefully,
señorita
. Promises are made to be broken.”

Aye, and didn’t he know that. He’d made
Don
Vasquez a solemn vow that no harm would befall his daughter while under his charge. Without her or the information she carried, Melville could hang. That unspeakable event would equally endorse a charge against Simon in connection with Melville’s contrived misuse of treasury funds.

I know all too well that men’s lives and the future of England weigh heavy on my shoulders.

Wasn’t that enough motivation for her to obey his orders? Her refusal to listen to him could cost more than blood — victory — the end of a war that threatened their very existence.

“Put me down!”

Oh, he wanted to put her down. He wanted to put her in one of the
Priory’s
cutters and get her off his ship. But that was impossible. The only way they could be separated now was if the enemy stormed the
Priory
and tore her from his arms.

He’d be damned if he’d allow anyone on board his ship to end up in chains.

With limited choices at his disposal, he lowered Mercy from his shoulder to his chest and then to the deck. Her body rubbed against him all the way down, causing him to groan aloud from the discomfort of increasing arousal he’d been fighting since he’d first picked her up.

He swallowed thickly and stepped back, putting her at arm’s length.

The little spitfire drew back to slap his face. He grabbed her left hand and yanked it behind her back. He’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to attack him from his blind side, especially a woman who thought she could outwit him in front of his men.

Fury pulsed like a raging beast inside him. “I don’t know how you’ve survived as long as you have. But you had better learn to control that Latin temper of yours
Senorita
Vasquez before you get someone, including yourself, killed.”

She strained against him, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “You cannot possibly think that I would purposely endanger—”

“And yet you have.”

“I have done nothing of the kind.”

He leaned so close he could feel her breath caressing his skin. “That gold you found could spawn a mutiny. Where will you be if my men decide they don’t need me, eh?” He jerked her arm higher. “Is that what you want? To get me killed? Me, the only man on board this ship who would die for you?”

Shock then realization flickered in her eyes. “
Usted es una bestia!
”

“I’m a beast who happens to hold your life in his hands.”

Mercy gasped for breath. She opened her lips to speak then clamped them shut. She glanced around for help, then finding none, looked back at his face. Straining against him, she fought to get her breathing under control.

“I know perfectly well where I am and who I’m with,
Capitán
Blade. I do not need to be reminded.”

“No?” He dropped her arm as if it burst into flames. “Your father was a fool to have included you in his schemes.”

“How dare you! My father is a good man,” she said, massaging life back into her discarded limb. “Your father—”

“Has dealt with the
Don
for nigh onto thirty years without a hint of trouble.”

She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to the lace fichu askew over her olive skin. As she sucked in ragged breaths, his gaze drifted to the ample flesh where a silver cross lay against her chest, lifting upward and down with her exertions.

“I am not a child,” she said, lowering her hands to her hips, standing before him defiantly.

“That much is obvious.” He leaned forward intent on putting the fear of God into her in order to keep her safe from the evils of mankind. “And my men are not blind.”

Her honey-brown eyes narrowed. “Then what is the problem?”

“They believe you’re bad luck.”

She harrumphed. “Bad luck?”

“I cannot banish their superstitions. Which is why you will go everywhere I go from this moment on.”

“But—”

“No more arguments.”

She glanced around the quarterdeck, the rails, to the
Priory’s
main mast then at the ratlines in the rigging overhead. His men were stationed everywhere. And they
were
watching. He felt more than saw their eyes burning into his back.

“Agreed?” He waited for her answer, hoping she had one ounce of logic left inside her beautiful head.

“I beg your forgiveness,” she said loud enough for all to hear. “I do not know what has come over me.”

Garrick arched his brow. “You don’t know?” He needed to put the fear of God into this woman who’d barely escaped San Sebastian with her life. “I do. You’re a haughty wench, a spoiled Spanish
señorita
prone to fits when you don’t get your way. You do not like being told what to do. Regrettably,” he said just as loudly, “you are not in Spain. You will listen to me and do as you’re told as long as you are on board my ship.”

“I never asked for help!” Hands on her hips, her rage mounted anew.

“And don’t I know it.” For a second, her haughty demeanor reminded him of his mother, Lady Pendrim, when she bucked against his father, the Earl of Pendrim’s thick-headed ideas. He drank her in, selfishly pleased they weren’t related. “You’re my bloody responsibility now as much as I despise it.”

“Then shed your burden.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I may have an insatiable curiosity, but I only wanted to discover what hold Admiral Roche held over my brother.”

“Your brother is no longer at Roche’s mercy. Now,” he said, determined to focus on their current situation. “There are more important matters requiring our attention.”

She smacked her lips in dismay. “What could be more important than Eddie?”

“Staying alive.”

“Do not walk
away from me,
Capitán
Blade.” Mercy followed the pirate up the ladder to the poop deck. “What exactly do you mean
‘staying alive’
?”

Seaton grabbed the rail. “Moore!” His deep commanding baritone spliced the air, effectively catching her off-guard.

Mercy’s shiver of dread dissipated as Seaton’s shirt laces whipped in the wind, opening his collar, revealing another odd-shaped scar that disappeared beneath the fabric.

What did Delgado do to him?

She placed her fist over her mouth to stifle a sob. Her mind sped at a frantic pace as she watched Seaton thread his fingers through his dark hair. If she wasn’t so frustrated with the man, she’d be forced to admit that he looked the part of a gallant savior.

What disturbed him? Surely her antics below deck weren’t to blame. Nothing had been lost. Much had been gained.

Moore hurried forward and handed his commander a slender brass spyglass.

Seaton didn’t flinch, surprising since Moore had approached from the captain’s left. In one fluid motion, the captain snapped the monocle open then braced the device with both hands. He raised it to his good eye and aimed the lens over the
Priory’s
stern.

More questions than answers riddled Mercy’s mind. What could be more important than discovering why gold had been hidden in the
Priory’s
hold? She bit back an ugly retort. It would do her no good to confront Seaton in front of his men. As he said, they were being watched.

She inhaled a calming breath, followed the arc of the apparatus and then nearly fainted dead away.
A French ship!

Dios mio!
Is this what had concerned Seaton below decks?

Where had the vessel come from? Had she been stupid enough to believe she could escape Admiral Roche? The danger they were in was terribly real. Admiral Roche’s control reached far beyond Calais, the Breton Coast, and San Sebastian, perhaps even as far south as Cadiz. His minion sprawled across land and sea, spawning fear into any human being who breathed.

She made the sign of the cross.
God help these poor wretched souls who have risked their lives to deliver me safely to London. If not for them, I’d already be dead.
Grant us safe passage.

But how long could their luck hold out? How much longer before she was blamed for the fates of every man aboard the
Priory
?

She shook her head to dispel her gloom. She wasn’t prepared for any of this. What kind of help could she be to Lord Seaton and his men? How would they escape?

She moved closer to Seaton’s side and inspected the advancing French ship with fascination and awe. The well-armed vessel labored through the
Priory’s
wake with ethereal speed. A French flag flapped wildly from its bowsprit as it plowed through the swells and Frenchmen shook out then braided back the courses. Men positioned aloft pointed down, shouting to the deck crew and officers stationed below.

Was the
Priory
only minutes away from being ensnared by the enemy like a prized fish? How close would the ship get to them?

Mercy pinched the bridge of her nose. She, who’d taken pleasure in escaping any trap concocted by man, had no talents or tactics to combat something like
this
!

She grasped the silver cross hanging about her neck. What happened if the French captured the
Priory
and discovered she was an English spy? Roche would make sure she and her family would be examples to everyone in San Sebastian. Worse, she thought, reaching out a trembling hand. Seaton’s true identity would ensure he and his courageous men would be paraded about the streets for all to see… dead or alive.

Seaton turned to Moore stationed behind him. “Hands to quarters!”

Mercy’s fears were realized. Her heart beat madly against her chest. They would be forced to fight.

“Clear for action!”

The order was repeated man to man.

Just as quickly, men began to strike unnecessary gear and furniture, hauling it below decks.

Blood drained from her face as this grueling madness — preparations for battle — unfolded before her.

Men carried buckets, wetted down the deck then proceeded to sand the damp surface. Wind whirred. Canvas whipped above her head. Blocks squealed as men rigged nets to protect those below from damaged rigging. Tackle protested as gun trucks were heaved back and carronades readied.

Someone mentioned not slipping in blood.

The deck heaved beneath Mercy’s feet. She covered her mouth and rushed to the side of the ship, desperately trying not to lose her last meal.

“I know you’re frightened.” She jumped as
Capitán
Blade suddenly appeared beside her.

She’d been so caught up in her own turmoil, she hadn’t heard him approach.

“Do
not
give in to fear. No matter how bad it gets.”

Was this the strategy that had helped Seaton survive Delgado’s endless torture? She nodded. “Is it pointless to hope the
Capitán
of that ship thinks we’re a commerce vessel?”

“Facts don’t change reality.” He shook his head. “Napoleon has waged a trade war against England. And his
Marine nationale
lies in wait to board suspicious ships and discover their true purpose. Cutting Napoleon off at the knees is the only way to end this war.”

“The world has been at war ever since I was born.” She suppressed a shiver. “I cannot imagine a day without it.”

The stubborn tilt of his jaw gave evidence that even Seaton doubted that day would come. What was he willing to do to keep the gold from getting into Napoleon’s hands? Sacrifice them all?

“What will become of us?” She leaned toward him, lured closer by his nearness, his warmth, his strength. Tears welled in her eyes. “Can you outrun them?”

“We’ll die trying.”

Aunt Olivia had gone to a watery grave after being captured by pirates. Her aunt’s daughter, Constance, had been spared only to be abducted by the same pirates years later and then rescued by a member of Nelson’s Tea, Percival Avery, a man disguised as a pirate. What was to be Mercy’s fate? She was already on a pirate ship. Was she doomed to become a prisoner of the
Marine nationale
?

He reached out and touched her arm. “I wish there was another way.”

“The French give themselves undue credit.” She turned her head into his chest, thankful for his kind gesture. “I cannot think of what they will do to us.”

He stroked her hair. “Revolution purged the
Marine nationale
of its extraordinary might. The French now fight with scratch crews after everyone with wartime experience ran off or were put to death. Being second best means losing,
señorita
. I am English. I don’t intend to lose.”

She felt abandoned the moment he turned and strode away from her across the deck.

He braced his hands on the poop rail and looked down on his crew. “Prepare the guns.”

Was this how the gallant Admiral Nelson had appeared when he commanded at the battle of Trafalgar, standing on the most exposed region of the
Victory
— the quarterdeck?

“Aye, sir.” Moore shouted. “Prepare the guns!”

The order was repeated by the
Priory’s
gunner to the gun deck.

Mercy held her breath as each brass carronade pivoted into place topside. Silently, she prayed the
Priory
could outrun the other ship, preventing the need for violence. Hostility brought nothing but bloodshed. She wasn’t prepared for the aftermath.

Seaton raised his gaze to a barefooted man stationed aloft. “Mind your eyes, topman.”

The topman, more boy than man, a red-headed fellow not much older than Mercy, peeked over the yardarm. “Aye, sir!”

Shocked, Mercy raised her hand to shield her eyes from the blinding sun. The mizzenmast creaked as the sails whipped in the wind. She bit her upper lip. If the French ship splintered the mast, the boy, and several men stationed there like him, would topple to their deaths.

Topmen shouted to one another in the rigging. Able seamen, older men by their appearance and demeanor, shuffled past Mercy to their war stations.

“Where are you going?” Seaton shouted when she moved toward the ladder.

She froze, her legs weakening. “I don’t belong here.”
Isn’t that obvious? I will only be a distraction that will possibly get you or your men killed.
“I should go below.”

Seaton grumbled. “
You
were not given permission to leave.” He stomped toward her then cleared his throat loudly to cover up his annoyance.

Panic clawed at her insides. “I-I am in the way.”

“
You
are where I
need
you to be.”

She clutched her throat and took another step back, fighting the murky guilt weighting her legs. It was her fault these men were in danger. Seaton would be safe in England, if not for her. He would have never returned to Spain, if not for her.

“I am the reason you are in danger and I’m a burden to you and your men.” Her voice cracked with emotion and she prayed in the commotion around them, he didn’t notice. “Let me go below.”

“Hark, and be still.” Seaton gritted his teeth, the tell evident in the way his jaw worked. He peered sideways at his men then back at her. “It’s more dangerous for you below. If we take a broadside, you’ll have no way to escape.”

She understood this and nodded affirmatively. “Then tell me what I can do. If I stay, I will not just stand here like a useless lamb.”

He grabbed her arm. “Come.”

Feeling an acute sense of purpose, she moved with him, taking in the methodic chaos unfolding across the quarterdeck.

Men scrambled to work halyard pins at the starboard rail. Canvas snapped overhead. Orders filtered down man to man. The
Priory
, swiftly skimming the swells, veered off its previous course to catch a broader gust of wind. Mercy’s head spun at the mechanized motions of the crew.

She glanced over her shoulder. The French ship had increased speed. “Do you think they’ll catch us?”

Seaton did something she least expected. He laughed. The guttural sound stirred a flutter in her belly. “I’d wager the gold pieces stashed in your corset that will be an unlikely event.”

“This is war,
Capitán
. Surely—”

“Land ho!” Another young man shouted from the main mast top. “Off the Starboard bow!”

The Breton Coast! The threat of more ships should gunfire erupt!
Mercy cringed and held her breath. The
Marine nationale
, the Bay of Biscay, and its wild currents dogged their backs.

Were they being forced into a trap? Lorient and Brest were fortified ports.

Disgust flashed across Seaton’s face. “Roddy. Douglas.” He stood as if he was one with the deck as the
Priory
labored to gain speed. “Let the wind dictate this chase.”

Roddy shuffled to the quarterdeck and bellowed, “Let the wind take her!” He then directed One-eyed Douglas to do the same.

Douglas slid down the ladder and began coiling rope. “British sailors have a knack…”

“Haul away! Yeo ho, boys!” The
Priory’s
crew responded to the halyard shanty.

Douglas checked the rope for frayed ends. “Of pulling down a Frenchman's Jack.”

“’Gainst any odds you know, boys,” the crew chanted ramming home their bulky cartridges and wads.

Gooseflesh rose on Mercy’s arms.
Wind took her fill of the mizzen and topgallant sheets, the action producing more speed as the
Priory
thundered through the swells.

Douglas began another verse. “Come three to one, right sure am I.”

“If we can't beat ’em, still we'll try,” the crew responded.

“To make old England's Colors fly.”
Roddy provided this verse with barefooted nimbleness.

Seaton’s extraordinary deep baritone joined in. “Haul away! Yeo ho, boys!”

In his element now, the captain’s brow cocked playfully, his lips curled upward in a smile as he observed his men. He lifted his face, studying the flag flying from the mizzen top. For a brief moment — ever so brief — Mercy caught a spark of excitement radiating through him.

Seaton was a man who thrived on danger!

Heart-stoppingly handsome, he looked down at her then and reality struck her like a defiant wave. “Be prepared to move at a moment’s notice. If we get swept up by the bay’s currents and grounded off of Quiberon, there will be no turning back.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

She gave him a distracted nod.