Romancing the Rogue (48 page)

A growl of disgust rumbled up from his core. “Say what you mean.”

“The men expect you to claim your reward.”

“What about you, Jacko?”

“I know you, sir. You’ve sacrificed everything for this,” he said, pointing toward the crew scurrying along the deck. “Lady Constance is as fine as they come. I think you’ll have a hard time resisting her, especially if she shares your cabin.”

Jacko was right to warn him off. When Simon was in the navy, he tackled a young Frenchman named Robert Surcouf in the Indian Ocean and lived to tell the tale.

“What would you do if you were in my position?” Jacko winked. “I’m not you, sir,” he said. “But consider the ramifications. Lady Constance is not weak willed. If you seduce her, Simon will demand your life for it.”

Percy’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “Be a good man and fetch me some grub.”

“Will you not be taking your meal with her ladyship?”

“No,” he said, determined to keep as much distance between himself and Constance.

“Aye.” Jacko grinned. His quick-footed retreat left Percy unsettled.

Food was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, images of Constance’s naked body, strawberry blonde curls, cherubic face, and silken limbs teased his senses. “Damn your hide, Jacko,” he grated through clenched teeth. He was a cad, and being reminded of that fact didn’t sit well.

The sea crested and foamed, mimicking his riotous thoughts. He raised his eyes heavenward and then cast them back to the swells. A storm brewed on the sea and in his heart.

Percy strapped himself to the helm and prepared for the worst.

~~~~

Lord Montgomery Burton
opened the missive and held it beneath tempered candlelight, fuming with rage as he read the hastily scribbled note, which had been blotched by drizzling rain.

No one has seen your intended for nigh on a week. After some extensive research into the matter, I’ve concluded that the lady in question has run.

Never fear, I will continue the search.

Your dutiful servant,

Josiah Cane

Embroiled with rage, Burton threw the note into the fireplace. He watched the edges ignite, inwardly laughing at the irony. Months of wooing the Duke of Throckmorton into giving him permission to marry his only child appeared to have been for naught. In horrible financial straits, the duke had been too willing to merge their families in order to release his creditors. He’d also had the untimely misfortune of not being able to keep his daughter under control.

Providence had given Burton a fortune to wield at his whim. His shrewd business sense had grown an empire. What he needed to continue his pretense was a woman to complete the façade, a woman of gentile breeding
—
one above reproach.

Burton didn’t delude himself. He was an older man, not the kind a young woman craves, fit and eager to flatter, though his cravings lent themselves to women of the very young persuasion. That left him with little choice. He was going to have to marry a woman above reproach, a young, impressionable one, which would satisfy both needs. To do so quickly meant finding one from the meager stock of families in want or need of financial gain. Yet, that stock had to be of noble blood, of that requirement he would not waver. And, due to a questionable business venture, he had a short amount of time to conceal his deceit by drawing attention away from his trade dealings and onto his personal life.

He made it clear he cared not if Simon Danbury, the Duke of Throckmorton’s brother, was blamed for placing the family fortune in jeopardy, which had been his best selling point. His primary concern was getting what he wanted. If that meant helping Throckmorton’s finances plummet in order to get it, so be it.

Lady Constance was a rarity. He’d recognized that fact the moment he’d set eyes upon her. She was chaste, pure, and thoughts of teaching her ways to satiate his carnal lusts filled him with unquenchable fire. It had been no small feat to keep his hands off of her these past few months. The fact that he’d frightened her off with his violent vow of affection fueled his desire to attain her betrothal.

He hadn’t taken Lady Constance’s rejection at his home a week earlier lightly. Nor did he take the news with stride that the frightened twit had run from their impending engagement. Pulling the bell, he beckoned for one of his maids, a tasty young morsel he’d recently acquired. Until he found Lady Constance and led her to the chapel altar, the young maid would slake his needs well enough. If she didn’t, he had ways of ensuring he got his way.

Constance stood at
the far end of the captain’s cabin, staring out the grand windows to the agitated water in the Striker’s wake. Powerless to champion her family, to plead for her aunt’s intervention, she had nothing to look forward to now but misery. No supporters rallied to her cause aboard ship, save Mrs. Mortimer, and London, their final destination, provided no relief. In a stroke of rotten luck, the heartbreak she’d given her father led her straight back to Throckmorton Manor in disgrace, to Lord Burton, his marriage proposal, and repugnant touch.

Her last image of Burton resurged. His unreadable eyes and bulbous lips had twisted cruelly when she’d made her rejection plain. Portly, a watchful fixity in his gaze, he wasn’t a tall man or a kind one. It was plain she’d underestimated him. Though outwardly he’d exuded a gentlemanly demeanor in all their previous meetings, he was no gentleman. Her refusal to accept his fumbling advances had ignited his anger. In response, he’d treated her no better than a scullery maid or a street urchin kicked out from under his muddy boots.

Hugging her arms about her, Constance was assailed by a terrible sense of loss. Beyond the glowing horizon laid Spain and Aunt Lydia, her last hope. Behind her stood a mysterious man who’d saved her from a sinking ship, plied her with brandy, divested her of her clothes, and coerced her into his bed, stealing the one thing that was hers to give. Her presence on a pirate ship, alone, was enough to ruin her good name. Who would marry her now?

Remember what a real man feels like, Constance. Hard where you are soft, strong where you are weak.

Her body tensed at the mere recollection. Burton was nothing compared to the rogue who all but ravished her with a look, a touch, and made an unwilling subject desire things no refined woman dared to admit. But even ill-bred, the blackguard had not raised a hand against her. In fact, he’d done the complete opposite.

“Remember the heat between us when you’re cold and aching with want.”

Constance had no trouble remembering. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest as her body thrummed in response to the memory of the rogue’s hands on her body. What sinful place had the demon unlocked within her to make her long for his touch?

Shaking off her physical response, she stepped away from the window and began to pace. In the minutes and hours since the sinking of the Octavia, she’d secretly plotted her escape, learning as much as she could about the ship by searching through maps and charts on the captain’s desk. She’d learned little in the way of how to get to shore, but she’d seen enough to understand a greater network of pirates existed near Cornwall. It was during one of those investigations the captain had returned and caught her. She’d never seen an angrier man than the blackguard who held her captive. He’d quickly gathered up his maps and documents and left the cabin, slamming the door off the hinge in his wake.

A peg-legged man named Mr. Banks had been assigned to restore her privacy by manning the broken cabin door until it could be repaired. Since the regretful exchange over the maps, Banks had not moved or eaten, though he’d grumbled and complained about falling so low and being forced to keep watch over a
woman
.

Constance listened to the rugged man’s tirade until thoughts of her own hunger helped her develop a new devious plan. She cast a glance at the liquor cabinet and then rose from the floor to unbolt the beveled glass, selecting a bottle of brandy from its post. She swirled the contents before her.
Yes, this will do nicely.

“Mr. Banks,” she purred, striding to the door. “You’ve done a wonderful job keeping watch. I think it’s only fitting you’re rewarded, don’t you?”

The old curmudgeon’s eyes gleamed.

“With a drink,” she quickly added, when his eyes scanned her body appreciatively. “It’s the least I can do after your harrowing sacrifice,” she said, playing coquette.

“Sacrifice?” Banks repeated. “Don’t coddle me, woman. ‘Tis a big one by far. Besides, I’m the laughin’ stock of the ship. It’s bad enough women are aboard, but no tar alive wants to be stuck guarding a woman when the action is above deck.”

“Action?” she asked, suddenly nervous. “What action?”

His eyes locked onto hers. “We’re bracing for a storm, miss.”

A storm! Confound it. Oh, that didn’t fit in with her plans at all. Shock yielded quickly to desperation. She had no time to lose. She leaned forward until her nose breached the opening in the door. “Did the captain mention there would be a reward for keeping me safe, Mr. Banks?”

The man’s beady eyes narrowed on her. His expression took on a hopeful optimism. He surveyed the hallway before redirecting his attention to her. “Reward?” he repeated. He licked his lips and smiled.

“Behold,” she said, holding up a brandy bottle and swishing the contents around with a flick of her wrist. “The captain’s last words to me were, ‘Make sure Banks gets a good swig of this brandy. He’ll be doing you a service standing guard over your door and will need something to ease the ache in his gullet and his wounded pride.’”

Banks’ eyes twinkled, and she smiled at how easy it had been to trick him. His eyes watered and his mouth puckered. He gazed left then right, as if uncertain her offer was legitimate.

“Have you had brandy before, Mr. Banks?”

The man’s eyes opened wide. “Once. At a dinner for a fine gent me parents knew. Burned all the way down my throat, it did.”

A sound echoed down the companionway. Banks drew away but then returned when all grew silent again. “Never took a liking to it,” he added with a frown.

“Ah, but surely you are cold,” Constance said, noticing the worse for wear clothing he wore. “After the Octavia sank, the captain gave me some brandy and it warmed me, inside and out. I cannot speak highly enough of its medicinal value.”

“Medicinal value?” Banks repeated. “Perhaps I
should
try a taste. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dollop of rum. Couldn’t hurt, eh?”

“No, indeed,” she insisted.

Her heart raced as she passed the bottle through the partially opened door, past the broken hinge, to the little man. The man hissed and coughed at his first drink, making a fuss as if he’d been poisoned, then hummed as the fiery liquid began its work. While he drank, she asked him fairly innocent questions about the ship. He answered, downing one swig after another. When the bottle was nearly empty, Constance grew fearful Banks would never pass out.

Beads of perspiration formed on her brow. She had no idea when the captain would be returning and had little time to waste. Thankfully, Banks finally hunched over. Snapping her fingers near his ear and confident he’d succumbed to the liquor’s bite, she opened the door slowly, careful not to make a sound. The drunken sailor slithered to the floorboards and began to snore.

In the hallway, Constance took a deep breath. The trickiest part of her plan, getting out of the cabin, was done. She gazed down the companionway and peered up the hatch then, certain she was alone, directed her attention to doors lining the hallway. Before her a door stood ajar. A quick glance proved the room was empty. That left one other door. This room, according to the Striker’s blueprints, housed the lieutenant’s quarters.

Footsteps tap, tapped along the ceiling. Constance rushed to the door and quietly tried the latch. Locked! Voices grew louder and the ship leaned unexpectedly. Desperate now, she raced back to Banks and rummaged through his pockets. She wrinkled her nose at the man’s horrible stench, pressed her lips together, and focused on her task, lifting the folds of his shirt to find a belt and a ring of long, iron keys attached. Dislodging them, she returned to the lieutenant’s cabin and began trying them, one by one.

By now, Mrs. Mortimer could be heard whimpering from the other side of the door. “Shhh,” she hissed. “It’s Constance. I’ve come to free you.”

Silence, then the woman shouted, “No, child. What are you thinking? Return to your cabin.”

“I’ve got a plan, Morty. We shall be free of these men soon.”

~~~~

The time to
act had come.

Lieutenant Henry Guffald grimaced as he reached for the door sealing the hold. Wind pelted his face and the wounds he’d sustained during the Octavia’s attack burned with salty brine. He was drenched to the core, exhausted, but no longer paralyzed by orders of the crown.

A storm had overrun them. Every capable sailor manned the lines. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He couldn’t have planned or predicted an outcome so fine. Sexton, whom he’d recently learned was in fact the Marquess of Stanton in disguise, focused his attention on the Striker, his newly acquired crew, and the squall. No one would be missed. And if he was going to get off the ship with Lady Constance before anyone was the wiser, he needed a diversion — Frink. Setting Frink free provided the perfect cover.

While he revered Stanton like a brother, Henry knew the man’s moral compass. He would take Lady Constance back to London and return her to her misguided father. But London had nothing to offer. Once there, she would be forced to wed Lord Montgomery Burton, the man she’d fled when she’d boarded the Octavia bound for Spain. Henry had been privy to the information thanks to Simon Danbury, and before setting sail, he’d sworn to protect her. The best way to do that, he reasoned, was to become her champion. Rescuing her from the Striker’s men would surely raise his credibility, especially since he had no other opportunity to prove himself worthy of marrying a duke’s daughter. He wanted Constance, had wanted the beautiful lady ever since he’d seen her visiting her uncle on the docks. His lowly status as a naval officer prevented interaction with a woman of her rank. This was his chance to prove himself.

Certain he hadn’t been noticed, Henry lowered himself into the hold. He expected no difficulty. Most of the men present knew him in more ways than one.

The ship swayed left and then pitched right. Henry braced himself against a rail. “Captain wants all able-bodied men topside,” he shouted to two tars guarding the Striker’s crew.

“We’ve been given strict orders not to let these men out of our sight,” one of the guards shouted.

“No doubt you have,” Henry agreed. “But there’s a wicked whip to this wind and the braces aren’t secure. Unload the lot so we can get the ship under control. We’ll round them up soon after.”

The men looked at each other, uncertain. “To keep them below would be a waste of muscle,” Henry reasoned. “These men know every splinter on this ship. If we lose sail now, we
lose
this ship.”

The other sailor spoke. “What if they try to escape?”

“Where are they going to go, man?” he asked. “Worst case, they’ll get blown overboard by gale force winds. Best scenario, we stay afloat.”

The second man nodded to the first guard. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

Henry grinned. He had them. They couldn’t quarrel about facts.

“Tell the captain we’ll be bringing the men as soon as we get them loose,” the smaller tar said.

“Captain’s at the helm. Deliver the message yourself. I’ll make sure these men are released and impressed into service. This will have to be a group effort. I fear we’ve lost one sail already,” he added for effect.

The two men bolted for the hatch. When they disappeared, men inside the hold began to rattle their chains.

“Stand back,” he ordered the Striker’s crew, as he approached the iron monstrosity the men had been impounded in. “Captain Frink, step forward.”

The group parted and the weathered looking captain closed the distance between the back of the cell and the gate.

“Thought you was dead.”

“Not quite,” Henry replied, opening the gate, his instincts honed to Frink’s every move. “Do you fancy avenging the mutiny of your ship?”

Frink’s bony nose wrinkled and his beady eyes narrowed. “Aye, and then some.”

“We’ve a gale raining down on us. This might be your only chance.”

“I don’t like being indebted to you. Why so obliging?” Frink asked. “Or do you plan to stab me in the back?”

“I’m not like you, Captain.”

“Aren’t you, now?”

His voice simmered with barely controlled anger. How did one deal with one’s would-be murderer? “I’ll make it worth your while,” he promised.

The cell door creaked as Frink moved into the open. Henry didn’t trust the fiend with an inch of his life, but he
needed
him. Frink slid past him, and Henry pushed the cage closed.

Several men jeered, “Make it worth our while, Captain.”

“Why take such a chance?” Frink asked. “Let me guess. The lady.”

Henry nodded. “She’s all I want. You can have everything else.”

Frink’s laughter was soft but alarming as it filled the void. “I’ll be damned if that wench hasn’t bewitched us all.”

~~~~

Percy stood at
the helm and gazed down at the swells beginning to crash over the rails. So far, the damage inflicted on the Striker had been slight, but Percy feared the center of the storm would weaken the rudder and throw them perilously off course. Perhaps even crash them into the rocks of
lle d’ Quessant
along France’s shoreline, if he couldn’t steer them away in time.

Situation dangerous, he’d kept the steering mechanism steady for nearly an hour, fighting the powerful pull of the sea, disregarding the tension in his arms, and the straining tendons in his neck. Seawater bathed him and occasionally his stomach heaved against the distasteful brine. The more he steered the ship ahead of the storm to prevent a shredded sail, the more his braces caught the crosswinds, threatening to rip the ship apart. Fearful the storm would get the best of them, his spirits lifted when more men came pouring out of the hold. One by one, the able-bodied tars moved onto the deck to shore up the lines. But as much as the sight brought relief, his teeth ground together. A terrible foreboding replaced the joy he’d first felt at the sight. These men could have only come from one place — the stockade.

“Haul down the stay-sails!”

His weathered gaze inspected the deck, monitoring each man’s activities. Rain drove down in sheets. Men clustered, fought the wind, shouted to each other, and tied down everything they could get their hands on. Movement along the lanyard rail garnered his attention. Two dark forms emerged, their activities strangely suspicious as they slipped along the deck, making for the gig that banged against the side of the ship in protest.

“Stay clear of the buoys,” he hollered, a briny spray spewing from his mouth. “She’s riding heavy.”

Someone stretched to maneuver the straps. Was there a problem with the knots? In any case, the cloaked figures were at a disadvantage. At any moment the ship could be slammed by another errant wave.

“You there!” he shouted, pointing to a tar lurking on deck. “Get those fools away from the gig!”

The figure, rotund and slow to obey, peered upward, shielding his face with a hand. He then glanced at the Striker’s lanyard side to discover the source of Percy’s concern. When the man didn’t move in the direction of the endangered duo, Percy’s fury intensified.

“Blast your eyes! I gave you an order.” As captain, it fell to him to ensure that everyone on board was safe. He’d be damned if he lost another man.

Percy hollered to Ollie above the increasing roar of wind and sea, “Take my place.”

“Aye, sir!” Ollie responded immediately, strapping himself to the helm.

Percy couldn’t abide fools. A captain must be obeyed at all times; else the entire crew was at risk. What had gotten into his men? Propelled by the danger, he rushed down the steps to the lower deck. But before he landed on the last rung, something hard pelted his back, forcing him to fall flat on his face, gasping for air.

“What the—” He choked and inhaled a lung-filling breath. A quick glance upward revealed why he’d been caught off-guard.

Captain Frink stood above him. “I want my ship back, boy!”

Frink’s boot thrust forward, but Percy whirled away from the kick that would’ve keeled his head and rendered him unconscious — or worse, killed him. He dipped and spun then grabbed the captain’s foot and twisted the limb sideways, flipping Frink on his back. Percy gave a swift turn and a downward thrust, ramming his elbow into Frink’s ribcage. The captain wheezed but recovered to push Percy aside.

“You underestimated me, Sexton.”

“How did you get loose?” Percy demanded, holding his dominant fist close to Frink’s. Elbow bent, he blocked an incoming punch to his face.

Frink grinned wickedly. “I’ve my share of friends, same as you.”

The captain leaped in for another left hand strike to Percy’s chest. The shock against his ribs sent Percy reeling backward. He gathered what strength he had left and lunged sideways, thrusting an upper cut, his fist landed on Frink’s open mouth, cracking the man’s teeth and jaw. The captain sank to his knees, clutching his face, spitting blood.

Jacko and two others surrounded Frink. Within minutes, the captain was bound and manacled to the rail.

“What was he babbling about?” Jacko asked.

“We have a traitor on board.” Someone had cut Frink loose. But who? Who benefited by the chaos?

Frink eyed Percy strangely. “You… slow-witted...” he wheezed.

“Shut it, Frink!” Percy shouted, becoming increasingly uneasy as wind whipped the sails and his men struggled to right the ship against a deluge of sea spray. Where was Constance? Was she still locked in the captain’s cabin under Mr. Banks’ keen eye? Or had Frink done something horrible to her?

Images of two bedraggled figures flashed before his eyes. The gig! He spun on his heels and headed for the small boat. The two figures he’d seen had disappeared, but thankfully, the gig was reasonably secure. A warning voice whispered in his head as he noticed one of the straps had been cut. At that very moment, a rogue wave took him by surprise. The wash pounded him against the ship, wedging him between the gig and the side of the bridge as a result. When the water cleared, he was trapped.

“Don’t move, Captain!” Guffald rushed in and cut several lines to free him. The tiny vessel slipped over the side of the ship and hit the water. Waves proceeded to break it into pieces.

Annoyed, Percy accepted Guffald’s hand and offered his thanks. “Did you see them?”

“See who?” Guffald asked.

“Two figures skulking nearby,” he said, concerned two members of his crew had fallen overboard. “I could have sworn—”

Guffald held onto the side of the ship as a wave drenched him. “Not two figures. Two women.”

“Women? The hell you say!” He surveyed the rough swells, apprehension engulfing him like a massive wave. Had Lady Constance and Mrs. Mortimer escaped their cabins? God help him, had they been swept overboard?

Guffald pointed to a dark alcove beneath the juncture where the gig had been secured. “I caught them trying to drop the gig.”

Percy followed the length of the man’s finger. He squinted until he made out two figures huddled together, whimpering, soaked through.

“Constance?” he asked, staring baffled.

The two women screamed as a wave washed over them. Taken by surprise, Percy and Guffald were knocked into the side of the Striker and then slipped on the receding water. Just before Guffald disappeared over the side of the ship, Percy outstretched his hand and caught the lieutenant by the forearm. He gritted his teeth as he struggled to lift the man safely back on board. Then he turned to face the two women and none-too-gently grabbed Constance by the arm.

Yanking her up, he said, “You’ve had enough adventure for one night.” He lifted Constance into his arms and carried her to the hatchway, expecting Guffald to usher Mrs. Mortimer behind him.

As they descended the stairs to the lower decks, Percy found the companionway in disrepair. Conditions below had worsened since he’d left Constance alone in her cabin. His cabin door dangled off the hinge and banged against the wall, while Banks lay in front of the portal, snoring, oblivious. Angry and shouting an expletive to the lazy cur, he kicked open the swinging door and entered the room.

His foot grazed an empty bottle that rolled to the bunk with a clankety clank.
Bloody hell!
She’d gotten that cantankerous fool drunk and escaped on her own. Furious, Percy dropped Constance on the bunk and bent closely to ensure she heard him. “I warned you about this ship.”

Guffald ushered Mrs. Mortimer into the room. Percy caught sight of the woman out of the corner of his eye and snapped. “Not here. Put the old hen back in her cabin.”

“Please, sir, let me stay,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed, trying to break away from Guffald. “I’ll not be a bother. Only allow me to tend my mistress.”

“I’ll tend to your mistress, madam,” he snapped with icy disdain. “Guffald will tend to you. And Guffald,” he added without sparing the man a glance, “explain to Mrs. Mortimer what will happen the next time Lady Constance tries to escape.”

“Aye,” Guffald responded gruffly. The room echoed with Guffald’s and Mrs. Mortimer’s retreating footsteps. The door closed roughly, though not all the way, and they were once again alone.

Constance shot him a defiant stare. Some of his anger evaporated as she crossed her arms and pointedly looked away in bold defiance. He was conscious of her scent — salt and rosewood — and the state of her sodden clothes. Even bedraggled, the damn woman was a beautiful menace, a thorn in his side. She’d put her life at risk rather than trust him. What the bloody hell had she been thinking? Or worse, what was so horrible in England that she’d chance boarding a tiny boat during a storm to escape it? His heart beat fiercely against his ribs at the thought of her being tossed about in the waves — of her drowning. He wanted to hold her close, to assure himself that she was alive, unharmed.

“Damn fool. You could have been killed,” he shouted with hoarse frustration.

“I wasn’t,” she said, meeting his stare, abandoning pretense. Fear, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes, weakening his fury.

Only one man could be trusted. Simon Danbury. Without Simon, he’d be unable to continue to finance his mission to locate Celeste’s killers. He needed Simon’s connections to Nelson, the Admiralty Board, dispatches between smugglers, just as much as he needed Constance Danbury alive. How the devil was he going to be able to keep her that way if the chit wouldn’t stay put?

“It’s clear you cannot be left alone.”