My Savage Heart (The MacQuaid Brothers) (44 page)

“Have you any idea what manner of sea captain I am?”

“You’re a pirate,” Anne responded without pausing to consider the consequences.

“Aye, ’tis the truth. A freebooting buccaneer who doesn’t go about doing good deeds for sweet young things such as yourself.” His expression changed. His eyelids lowered. “Unless, of course...” he said, then paused. “What manner of payment did ye have in mind?”

“I had thought you might be persuaded out of the goodness of your heart.”

This brought a spat of fresh laughter, which even the blackamoor joined.

“A pirate doesn’t have a heart, Mistress Cornwall. You best remember that.”

“I shall attempt to do so.” Anne flattened her palms on the scarred tabletop. This wasn’t going at all as she’d envisioned, but if she could only tell him. “If you would give me but a moment, sir, to explain what has happened.” She leaned forward, forging ahead before he could say otherwise. “Our island was raided, ravished really, by—”

“Penitence from God!”

Anne stood up in shock. It was the one-eyed man in black who spoke, yelled actually, and he now looked at her, his expression bright with righteous indignation.

“Now, Deacon.” The captain’s hand clasped his shoulder. “I doubt the lass has done anything to bring the wrath of God tumbling down upon her.” One brow, dark like the whiskers covering his lower face, lifted. “Have ye now?”

“No!” Anne turned her attention back toward the captain, though she was uneasily aware of the man he called Deacon. “And I doubt anyone would liken Willet d’Porteau with God.”

“The Frenchie,” the blackamoor said, then shared a look with his captain that Anne didn’t understand.

But the very mention of the name seemed to sober the captain. His chest, barely covered by a linen shirt open to the waist, expanded as he sucked in a breath. Then he leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Count yourself lucky that you can stand here before me if Frenchie d’Porteau attacked your island.”

Her voice was somber. “Some cannot.”

Anne thought she saw a flicker of sympathy cross those blue-green eyes before he reached for his tankard. After a long gulp he lowered it to the table with a slam.

“’Tis no business of mine what the Frenchman does.”

“I thought him your enemy.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where would you hear such as that?”

Anne shrugged. “It’s not difficult to know.” Actually it was Israel who told her. “The two men hate each other. A long-standing blood feud.” Israel said those words one afternoon as they sat on the beach. Anne, thinking as she always did of the destruction and pain caused by d’Porteau mused aloud that her uncle’s settlement needed a savior. Someone strong enough to go up against Willet d’Porteau and his crew.

Her first reaction was shock when Israel suggested a pirate might be that savior. “I can’t imagine what is in your head. Pirates are the bane of our existence.”

The old man only shrugged. “Some folk say takes an angel to fight the devil,” he said, taking his knife from the thong about his waist and tossing it blade first into the sand. “I say it takes a stronger devil.”

As it was Israel convinced Anne that Captain James MacQuaid was more fallen angel than devil, and she’d believed him... until now.

The captain leaned forward till she could smell his musky scent. “’Tis your time you’re wasting.”

“It’s mine to waste.”

“Aye, but mine is not.” He lifted his tankard in dismissal, seeming surprised to find her still standing on the opposite side of the table when he lowered it. “Be gone with ye now, wench. I’m sorry for your troubles but they’re not mine.”

“But if you’d only listen.” Hope gave way to despair. “He came to our island and stole and killed.” Anne swallowed, unable to say what else he’d done. “He took my cousin and he swore he’d be back. He swore it on my uncle’s blood.” Anne realized her voice had risen and several of the tavern’s disreputable patrons were watching her. She forced herself to calm down.

He stared at her a moment and again she thought, hoped, she saw a flicker of sympathy. When he spoke his voice was firm. “I suggest you leave your island.”

“We cannot. Our homes are there. And Libertia means everything to my uncle.”

“Then ’tis a matter of taking your chances with the Frenchman.”

Finding no satisfaction in the captain’s words, Anne turned to the blackamoor, then the man called Deacon. Neither met her eye. The captain was bolder, but his expression was one of annoyance. A more feeble-hearted female might have retreated, but Anne had been through too much, feared too much, for such tactics.

“If you would only listen to me—”

“I’ve heard enough.”

“You’ve heard nothing!” Anne’s nostrils flared in anger. “I’d thought you might care a bit because of what you named your ship,” she said in disgust.

“The
Lost Cause
?” His brow arched. “’Tis a name meant to remind me of that basest of all human frailties. ’Tis not that I champion lost causes. I loathe them, and the fools who perpetuate them.”

There was nothing to do but leave. Anne turned on her heel, but his voice stopped her before she could take a step.

“Mistress Cornwall.” His grin was sly when she faced him. “Perhaps we shall meet again, and I can show you there is more than one way for a captain to be good.”

His laughter followed her as she made her way through the loud throng of drunken sailors. Even smelling as foul as it did, the outside air was a relief after the smoke-filled inside. Anne took a deep breath, gasping when someone grabbed at her.

“Israel, my heavens, you gave me a fright.” Anne clasped her fingers to the base of her throat, annoyed to see that her hand shook.

“No more than you gave me. Do ye know how long you were in there?”

“Not exactly.” Anne took Israel’s arm, and pulled him away from the tavern door.”

“I was just about to come in after ye.”

“It would have done no good.”

“Ye found him then.”

“I did.”

“And, will he go after d’Porteau?”

“Not at the present, no.” Anne brushed aside a wisp of brown hair the trade winds blew into her face. “He wasn’t very willing to listen.”

Israel settled onto an overturned barrel. “Well, I suppose that be it then.”

“What? Oh, I’m not ready to give up on him yet.”

“But ye said.” Israel paused and shook his head. “Ye don’t know Captain MacQuaid. He’s a stubborn one. If he won’t listen—”

“Then he’ll simply have to see for himself.” Anne rushed on before her friend could argue. “He’ll like my uncle, I’m sure of it. And once he sees Libertia himself, understands what Uncle Richard is trying to do... Don’t you see, it’s the only way.”

“I ain’t sayin’ he wouldn’t be impressed. But if he don’t want to go, there ain’t no way we can force him. It ain’t as if ye can kidnap him.”

Anne slowly lifted her head. “But, Israel, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

* * *

“He’s the devil’s curse.”

“That he is, Deacon. That he is.” Jamie called out to the barmaid to refill his tankard.

“The girl doesn’t stand a chance against him.”

Jamie scowled at his chief gunner. The black man didn’t appear intimidated. “She is not our problem, Keena.” He leaned back against the wall. “Besides, she’s a comely enough lass. The Frenchman likes beautiful women.”

“She will lose her beauty quickly.”

“Hell and damnation, Keena, what ’twould you have me do? If her island is in danger, she damn well better get off the island.” Jamie folded his arms across an impressive chest. “What was the likes of her doing here anyway?”

“Appeared to me she was asking for help,” Keena said and earned himself another dark scowl from his captain.

“Let her set sail for England or somewhere. She’s too much the lady for these parts.” A smile played around his mouth. “Though she has a sharp enough tongue, I wouldn’t be surprised if it cut the Frenchman to ribbons if they ever cross paths again.”

Keena didn’t seem to appreciate his joke and Deacon sat sober as you please, so Jamie was forced to laugh at the witticism alone. That is until Polly appeared with a tray full of ale and bodice that barely contained her straining breasts. She deposited the tankards on the table, making certain to give each man his just view, then settled with a squirm onto Jamie’s lap.

“Now, Polly, ’tisn’t nice to be tempting the Deacon so,” Jamie said with a laugh.

“I only give him a peek at what he’s missin’,” she cooed into his ear. “But ye know, don’t ye, Jamie?” Her work-rough hand slipped between their bodies and busily stroked the front of the captain’s breeches.

“Aye.” Jamie sucked in his breath. “Now, Polly, all I was wanting was a bit of brew.”

“Don’t be foolin’ with me, Jamie MacQuaid. Ye think I can’t feel you all swollen up and stiff as a mainmast?”

“And whose wouldn’t be, with the most experienced hands on the island working their wonders.” Jamie wrapped his fingers about her wrist, bringing those wonders to a stop.

“I can do better with my mouth, Jamie,” she breathed, rubbing her breasts against his hair-roughened chest. The billowy bodice lost its hold on her flesh and one large, brown nipple popped out. Polly glanced down, then wet her narrow lips with her equally narrow tongue. “As you well know.”

“That I do, Polly. That I do.” He gave her rump a squeeze as he lifted her off his lap. “Be a good lass, though, and run along for now.”

Polly turned back toward Jamie, not bothering to cover herself. “I’ll be ’round later, Jamie.” She brushed her breast against Deacon as she strutted away.

“Spawn of the devil,” Deacon said, his good eye staring straight ahead.

“She’s not so bad,” Jamie said, though at the moment he shared his quartermaster’s distaste for the barmaid. There was no denying the woman, despite her expertise in the French way of making love was coarse and dirty. But then he’d never thought too much about it till now. Till he compared her with the woman who’d come into the Shark’s Tooth looking for him.

And he wasn’t about to tell Polly or anyone else that the ache in his breeches was ignited not by the experienced barmaid, but by thoughts of that slim, sharp-tongued wench.

He was drinking too much. Familiar as he was with the gradual blurring of his senses—and the dull ache in his head—Jamie couldn’t think of a good reason to stop. Keena was matching him tankard for tankard, but the damn African seemed as sober as when they entered the tavern.

“I’ve the blood of kings running through my veins,” he said once when Jamie questioned him about his capacity for drink. As if that somehow accounted for his sobriety. Jamie snorted now, remembering the conversation. Keena certainly didn’t resemble a king when the
Lost Cause
picked him up off the coast of Trinidad. He looked starved and bloody and nearly drowned.

“It’s time we leave this den of iniquity.”

Jamie peered at Deacon through red-rimmed eyes. “What’s the hurry? The problem is you need something to drink.” Jamie slid his own tankard across the table, spilling much of the contents in the process. Not surprisingly Deacon pushed the pewter mug back.

“Deacon is right, Captain. We should return to the ship.”

“Who in the hell was in charge here?” Jamie stared from one to the other. In the part of his mind that still functioned, he knew his companions were right. But he didn’t feel like leaving. Something had sabotaged the high mood he was in when he entered the harbor at New Providence, his vessel’s hold full to overflowing with riches. “More like someone,” he mumbled, only to shake his head when Keena questioned what he said.

“You two go on with ye. I’ll be staying a bit longer.”

“Captain, I don’t think—”

“And ye don’t have to now, do ye?” Jamie spotted Polly across the crowded room. “I’ve a certain lady I can’t go disappointing.” Jamie slapped his palms onto the tabletop. “But you both be off. I don’t think even Mistress Polly will be wanting to service all three of us tonight.”

He’d argued for them to leave, but as soon as his men were gone, Jamie wished he hadn’t. Contrary to what he told them he had no interest in visiting Polly’s smelly room upstairs.

He had no interest in doing much of anything.

“’Tis the drink,” he murmured, then glanced up, thankful no one was near enough to hear him talking to himself. Not that anyone would say anything. He evoked enough fear, even among the scurvy lot inside the Shark’s Tooth to ensure his privacy.

Damn his blood, he didn’t want privacy. Jamie stumbled to his feet. He didn’t want to think, and he didn’t want to wrestle Polly between the sheets. Pushing aside anyone who crossed his path, Jamie made his way to the door.

The night air was soft, a caress after the hours of languishing inside. Jamie took a deep breath, and pushed his fingers back through his tangle of hair. He wasn’t sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as he’d earlier thought, either. Certainly not drunk enough to block out memories.

“Hell and damnation.” Jamie took an unsteady step toward the pier, then another. Something had stirred a flood of recollections in him... and he knew exactly what, or who it was.

Mistress Anne Cornwall.

With her delicate features and brassy tongue.

There was a time he would have leaped at the opportunity to assist a gentlewoman. But that was before, when
he
was a gentleman. When his conscience burned with the passion of righteousness.

When he was a fool.

That was what his father called him. His last words to him. “Lost causes are for fools.”

Jamie had thought of those prophetic words often while he sat in the squalor of his cell, awaiting the hangman’s noose. Knowing his father would lift not a finger to help him.

God, he could shut his eyes and be back there again. The stench. The damp cold. The fear.

Jamie took a deep breath, leaning his back against a palm tree. He needed to remember who he was. Where he was. This was New Providence and he was free. And if the hangman ever caught him it would be to pay for sins well earned.

“Where are your friends?”

Jamie jerked his head around at the sound of the voice, as soft and gentle as the breeze off the bay. “Well now, if it isn’t Mistress Cornwall.” He peered into the shadows to see if she was alone. “What are you about this night? Hoping to solicit help for your cause?”