Savannah Heat (2 page)

Morgan had owned the 145-foot topsail schooner for the past six months, but he rarely captained her. He’d given up that wandering existence last year since the profits he’d long saved and invested had made him a wealthy man.

As he strode the dock, Morgan caught his reflection on the surface of the water, his tall, broad-shouldered image rippling with the incoming tide, his dark blond hair mussed by the wind. Over the years
he’d grown used to the jagged scar that marked his cheek, but he found the military uniform he now wore, with its garish gold bars and shiny brass buttons, far too pretentious. He much preferred the dark brown breeches he usually wore at sea, often without even a shirt.

But the Texians—as the newspapers sometimes called them and they often called themselves—had insisted on the formality of his rank. “It just wouldn’t do,” Stephen Pearson, President Lamar’s representative, had said during his most persuasive visit, “for a civilian—a man not even a citizen of the republic—to be involved in a weapons negotiation with the British.”

They’d decided on the temporary commission of major in the Texas Marines. A man with enough rank to command respect, but not so much that the British liaison might feel intimidated.

The offer the Texians made had intrigued him from the start. It was a chance to sail the seas again, a chance for a little more adventure. But the real motivation for Morgan’s acceptance of the Texians’ proposal was his worry for his brother.

Always brash and impetuous, Brendan Trask had been intrigued by the vast landscape and the limitless possibilities the young Republic of Texas had to offer. He had left Georgia two years ago and promptly enlisted in the Texas Marines. Now he was on assignment in Mexico, where his countrymen had gone to assist the Federalist rebels in an attempt to overthrow the Mexican government, a constant source of harassment for the fledgling Texas Republic. Brendan was bound to be in the thick of it. This trip would give Morgan a chance to check on him, assure himself that Brendan was safe.

Morgan climbed over the port taffrail onto the
deck of the
Savannah
, nearly empty of crew since most had gone ashore. He had bought the vessel on a whim—not that it wasn’t a damned good investment. Owning the schooner had been a way of keeping in touch with the sea that had so long been his home. Now he was glad he had.

Morgan strode the deck toward the wheelhouse, looking for Solomon Speight, the man who usually captained the ship on her trading voyages along the coast. Morgan spoke to Sol only briefly, while the lanky gray-haired man collected his gear and left to go ashore.

“It’ll be good to have a little time off,” Sol said with a smile. He shook Morgan’s hand and walked toward the rail with a rolling seaman’s stride. “A man needs some time to himself once in a while.”

Morgan didn’t believe a word of it. The sea was in Sol’s blood; he was the kind of man whose bones would wind up in Davy Jones’s locker. Morgan trusted him implicitly, but the Texians had insisted Morgan command the ship himself. Besides, it would be good to leave the comforts of his Abercorn Street mansion, leave the demanding schedule of his cotton business behind and take the helm of a ship again.

“Good evening, Major,” came a voice from the ladder leading down to the main salon, an elegantly appointed room where the captain and first mate and any passengers who might be aboard took their meals. Paneled in oak with carved built-in hutches in each corner, the room centered on a heavy oak table and chairs. Behind it lay the plush captain’s cabin and another small room that adjoined for the steward or cabin boy. “I’m Lieutenant Hamilton Riley. I’ll be your attaché for this leg of the journey.”

Riley climbed down the ladder, and Morgan shook
his hand, noticing the slim but confident grip. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Anything new I should know?”

“Nothing important. Trip appears to be pretty routine. We meet the Brits in Barbados, trade the cotton for sugar, the sugar for guns, then take the arms on down to the Yucatán. The Texas troops are holding their own, but these additional weapons will certainly be useful.”

Riley looked no more than twenty, though Morgan knew from his file that he was twenty-three. With his sandy hair and light blue eyes, Ham had the look of an innocent—which, even after his years at West Point, in many ways he was.

“We should be ready to leave in two more days,” Morgan told him.

“That’s fine. We’ve plenty of time before our scheduled rendezvous. In fact, we’ll probably arrive well before the Brits do.”

“Any other Texians coming aboard?” Morgan asked.

“There’ll be five of us in all, counting myself. I understand you’ll be sailing with a crew of fifteen.”

“That’s right. She’ll carry as many as fifty, but I don’t expect a difficult voyage, and the fewer people involved, the better.”

The young lieutenant grinned, exposing a dimple in his cheek that made him look even younger. “Quite right, sir.”

“If you need me for anything else, you can find me in my cabin.”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said with a smart salute.

“And you can cut all that military cock and bull right now. A simple ‘yes, sir’ from you and your men will do just fine.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated, snapping another salute. Then his ears turned red with embarrassment.

“That’s all, Lieutenant.” Morgan fought a smile of amusement as Hamilton Riley turned and hurried up the ladder.

After crossing the salon to his quarters, Morgan sat down at his desk and began going over his orders and any last-minute details he might need to know before their departure. As soon as the rum in the hold had been off-loaded and replaced with cotton, they’d be on their way. Morgan almost smiled. After the hectic pace he’d been leading, he looked forward to a few restful weeks at sea. He could almost hear the sound of canvas snapping in the cool dawn breeze, see the clear blue waters of the Caribbean rushing beneath the hull. Morgan could hardly wait.

“Better wrap that blanket around ya,” the red-haired sailor warned. “It’s startin’ to rain pretty hard.”

Though the scratchy wool itched something fierce, Silver did as she was told. Maybe they would leave her hands free to hold on to it, and she could find the opening she’d been seeking, catch them off guard, and make her escape.

“Not a chance, girlie,” the one named Julian said, yanking her arms out in front of her and lashing her wrists together. He stuffed his dirty handkerchief into her mouth and tied another around her head, securing the first one in place.

They tossed the blanket over her shoulders but left her head exposed to the wind and rain as they tugged her out the door. Dodging the rapidly growing puddles on the muddy, water-soaked street, they made their way to the carriage some distance away. By the time the men had Silver settled across from a
dry Ferdinand Pinkard, her blanket had fallen in the mud and been left behind, and her clothes and hair were plastered wetly to her body.

Though the other men’s eyes homed in on the soft mounds of her breasts, the way her skirts clung to her hips and thighs, Pinkard just smiled.

“You’re looking a bit bedraggled, my dear. Let’s hope the good major can provide a change of clothing.”

Damn you to hell!
Silver silently raged. If there were ever a man on this earth who deserved the wrath of the Lord, it was this one. Dark-complected beneath his pencil-thin mustache, the Spaniard was as heartless a pursuer as ever she could have encountered. Back home she’d heard his name often. He was a man who hired himself out for a price, and no job was too demeaning, no task too distasteful.

The carriage pulled up at the docks, the door swung open, and the three men who rode outside lifted her onto the street. Pinkard pulled his narrow-brimmed hat down low, his long black cloak more firmly around him, and followed along behind.

“Watch your step,” Julian warned, jerking her roughly over the rail of the ship and onto the deck.

“We’ve something to discuss with the major,” Pinkard told a sandy-haired man in a dark blue uniform.

“He’s in his cabin,” the young man said. “Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Ferdinand Pinkard. Tell him I’ve a treasure of some worth that belongs to a friend of his.”

The soldier eyed her curiously, taking in her wet clothes, bound hands, and the gag in her mouth. With a sympathetic glance, he went below, only to return a few minutes later. “He says you can go on down.”

“Thank you.” Pinkard turned to the others—“You two wait here”—then to Julian, who gripped her arm in a deathlock. “Let’s go.”

Down the ladder, across the salon, a quick knock on the low wooden door, and a deep voice told them to come in. Julian thrust her through the opening, making her stumble; Pinkard stepped in behind her; then Julian walked back outside.

“What the hell’s going on?”

Silver’s brown eyes swung to the tall dark blond man with the scar on his cheek who surged to his feet at their dramatic entrance.

“Salena,” Pinkard said to her, using her given name, “this is Major Morgan Trask, recently of the Texas Marines.” He arched a thin black brow in amusement and looked at her as if expecting her to give a formal greeting in return. “I’m afraid Salena can’t answer,” he said to the major, “but I’m sure she’s pleased to meet a man who was once her father’s friend.”

Silver cursed behind her gag and tried to kick the Spaniard in the shins. She got a ringing slap across the face for her effort. The tall major’s brutal grip on Pinkard’s arm and his hard warning glance stilled the blow that would have followed.

“I asked you what’s going on,” the major said. “Now either you tell me, or I untie the girl and she tells me.”

“I wouldn’t advise that if I were you. Salena has a terrible temper.”

“So it would seem.”

“The friend I’m speaking of is the earl of Kent.”

The major seemed annoyed by Pinkard’s game. He was a tall man, well built, without an ounce of excess flesh. The scar on his cheek gave him a hard look but
didn’t detract from the strong line of his jaw or his straight patrician nose.

“What’s she got to do with William?” he asked.

Pinkard chuckled softly, and his thin mustache tilted up in a crooked half-smile. “That dark-eyed, vile-tempered bundle you see before you is none other than his daughter.” He untied the gag and pulled it from her mouth. Silver cursed him roundly and tried to kick him again. “Major Morgan Trask meet Lady Salena Hardwick-Jones.”

Morgan’s practiced eye moved over her. She stood no taller than the average female, but the way she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders made her seem so. Her stringy gray-blond hair clung to a pair of smooth pale breasts that rose and fell above the low-cut bodice of her blouse.

“My name is Silver Jones,” she said. “I work at the White Horse Inn on Bay Street. This man is out of his mind.”

Morgan’s mouth twitched in what, under different circumstances, might have had the makings of a smile. Even with her dirty face and soggy garments, he couldn’t miss William’s defiant stance with its healthy dose of arrogance or Mary’s big brown eyes and thick-fringed lashes. The slim, straight nose and delicate cheekbones were all Silver Jones.

“Silver, is it? Not Lady Salena?” The last time he’d seen William, Morgan had been a youth of fifteen. The earl of Kent had been a friend of his late father’s, friend and mentor to him. Salena had been a toddler, smiling and climbing up on her father’s knee.

Then William had broken with family tradition and set off on his own. He bought a tiny island in the West Indies named Katonga that he had never seen and sailed away to run a plantation. Time and again
Morgan had wondered about him but had never taken the time to visit.

It was beginning to look as though he’d finally get the chance.

“I told you my name is Silver. I work at the White Horse Inn. These
gentlemen
are mistaken.”

Morgan ignored her, turning his attention instead to Pinkard. “What exactly is it you want me to do with her?”

“Take her home,” the Spaniard said simply, “which, you may rest assured, will be no easy task.”

Morgan fastened his eyes on Salena. Wet clear through, the bodice of her blouse revealed a pair of pert pink nipples that had hardened against the cold and a waist so narrow he could span it with his hands.

“Why did you run away?” He forced his eyes back up to her face and noticed the dirt that smudged her chin, covering a dainty cleft in the center. A tinge of pink crept into her cheeks, as if she knew where his eyes had been.

“She’s bent on marrying a man her father deems unfit,” Pinkard answered for her. “Some ruffian who passed through on his way to the States. Her father forbade the marriage, so she’s run after the scurvy fellow.”

“You’re a liar, Pinkard,” she spat.

“And you’re not Lady Salena,” Morgan said mockingly. “You’re just Silver Jones, a hardworking tavern wench who’s here only by mistake.”

Silver didn’t answer. If Morgan Trask was a friend of her father’s, there was nothing left to say.

“Why come to me?” the major asked Pinkard.

“Believe it or not, beneath all that mud, Silver is a beautiful young woman. There are few men I’d trust to see her safely returned.”

“You mean there are few men you’d trust to get her there unharmed so you can get paid.”

“Precisely.”

Morgan had known Pinkard and his sell-his-soul-for-a-dollar business dealings for years. He wasn’t surprised to find him returning a runaway girl to her grieving parents for money—but he was surprised to find the wayward young lady was Salena Hardwick-Jones.

“My sources tell me you’re headed for Barbados,” Pinkard added. “Katonga isn’t far out of the way. You can return the girl and pick up my money. And William will see you’re taken care of as well—unless, of course, you want me to go along.”

“Not a chance, Pinkard. An hour with you is just about all I can stand.”

Pinkard let the words pass. “Then you’ll take the girl home?”

“I seem to have no other choice. I’m not about to leave her with you and your thugs. She may not whet your appetite”—he glanced once more in the girl’s direction, at her nipped-in waist and the alluring curves of her breasts and thighs—“but I don’t doubt the others would find her a tasty morsel. I’m surprised you’ve been able to keep them in line this long—assuming you have.”