Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) (22 page)

Isobel.

He sat up and tried to get to his feet, but fell back down. He knew what the pain in his side meant.

Broken ribs.

Oh, bugger.

Beckett lay on his good side and clenched his teeth in frustration. He ignored the pain and struggled at the bonds that held his hands behind his back. It was fruitless. He was trussed up like a Christmas goose. Beckett felt a knot of white-hotanger harden in his gut.

Where was Isobel? If Sir Harry had hurt her, had even touched a hair on her head…just the thought of it made Beckett growl in fury.

He had to do something or he would go mad.

Beckett heard scuttling across the floor, and knew it was a rat. Well, who had he expected to meet in the hold of a pirate ship, the Prince of Wales? He would have laughed at the idea if the situation wasn’t so serious.

Trying to ignore the pain in his side, Beckett thought back to the Battle of Salamanca during the war. He and his men had been cut off from the main force by a legion of French dragoons. His colonel had panicked and led half the battalion to their deaths.

Beckett had taken command then, leading the remaining men to safety by keeping a cool head and refusing to give in to the enemy.

He would do the same now.

The first thing he had to do was escape from this cell.

The second was to find a way for himself and Isobel to off this ship.

And the third was to kill Sir Harry Lennox. Of course, the second and third items might change order, depending on the circumstances.

This situation obviously proved the validity of Isobel’s previous claims regarding Sir Harry. Everything she’d said was true.

Beckett stared at the dingy floor in the murky darkness. He decided not to contemplate the origins of the sticky substance that covered it, for it smelled worse than the back end of an ox. This cell would be his home for a little while. He’d lived through worse things in the war.

The sound of keys rattled outside the door, and Beckett sat up, wincing from the pain in his side. Warm yellow light streamed into the cell and momentarily blinded him. He squinted, trying to focus on the looming shadow in the doorway.

“Lord Ravenwood,” said Sir Harry Lennox, stepping into the cell. “So glad you’re awake.”

A large red-haired pirate blocked the entire door with his towering form.

“Your accommodations are comfortable, Ravenwood?” Sir Harry asked, glancing about the brig.

“Quite,” Beckett answered, fighting the urge to attack the weasel before him. It would be no use while he was injured and with “Redbeard” standing just feet away. He’d learned during the war to pick his battles carefully.

It was apparent Sir Harry had some despicable plan in mind, and it was not killing him—not just yet. Lennox would have simply thrown Beckett over the side by now if he wasn’t saving him for something else.

“Your wife’s accommodations are very different, you’ll be pleased to know,” Lennox said. “Not like this dung-hole. But what else could I provide for a thief like yourself?”

“Thief?” Beckett asked. “I suppose I’m somehow responsible for stealing my wife and myself, then?”

“I have only recovered what is mine, Ravenwood. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Isobel is not yours,” Beckett answered. “She will never be yours.”

“Oh?” Sir Harry smiled easily. “How do you know that I haven’t made her mine already?”

Beckett refused to take the bait, replying, “Because there are not enough marks on your face, and you can still walk. If you had tried to possess my wife, I daresay you’d be much the worse for wear. Though I applaud her for the gash she gave your cheek back on the island.”

Sir Harry self-consciously raised his hand to the fresh wound on his face and stared down at Beckett darkly. “Don’t worry, Ravenwood. I do plan to tame the little cat, and take much enjoyment from it.”

“Do you?” Beckett said. “It’s obvious that you do not know my wife, sir. She is tenacious as a terrier. I don’t doubt she will have you for luncheon.”

“Brave words from a man who is destined to spend his last days in a the belly of a ship,” Sir Harry pronounced. “We’ll see how brave you are on the day of your execution, Lord Ravenwood.”

“Have you a date in mind,” Beckett asked. “Do be good enough to let me know so I can have my clothes in order. I wouldn’t want to swing in anything other than the latest fashion.”

Sir Harry said smugly, “Who says I’m going to hang you?”

“Well, a hanging may be unimaginative,” Beckett began, “yet it does hold a certain amount of drama, as well as being easy. I thought it would suit a coward like you perfectly. Just think of it. The yard-arm extended over the water, my hair blowing in the wind, all your pirate cronies assembled on deck waiting to watch me gasp my last. Sounds like nothing more than a boring play at Drury Lane.”

“I can assure you, Ravenwood, your execution will be anything but boring,” Sir Harry threatened.

“You have your work cut out for you, Lennox,” Beckett replied flatly. “I’m afraid fighting against Napoleon has made me ever so hard to impress.”

Sir Harry adjusted his cuffs, saying, “Then I shall do my best to entertain you, my lord. And Isobel, of course, as she will be present to watch your long, painful death. You may spend the rest of the voyage in this miserable cell, with nothing else but that prospect to occupy your thoughts. That, and wondering which part of Isobel’s body I have my hands on at any given moment. Good day, Ravenwood.”

Beckett clenched his teeth and fought the urge to hurl himself at Sir Harry. But with his hands tied behind his back, the gesture would be useless. Instead, he watched the slimy coward take his leave, followed by Redbeard. The cell was again plunged into darkness and Beckett heard the key turn in the lock.

He sat back and leaned his head against the wall, fighting the awful knot of dread that had balled itself in his stomach.

Isobel
.

The sight of her face swirled in his mind. His heart tightened painfully at the memory, and of the awful things he’d said to her on the beach.

What a wretched excuse for a husband he was.

He had sworn to protect Isobel, had given her his word. And he had been unable to keep it. Now she was in danger and he was locked in the brig, wounded and unable to help her.

God only knew what Sir Harry planned.

The very thought of him touching Isobel made Beckett want to rip the heavy oak door from its hinges.

He’d kept his head during Sir Harry’s visit, but at what cost? Should he have tried to escape just now, no matter how unlikely the odds?

Yet, even if Beckett had somehow succeeded in killing Sir Harry and Redbeard, what would happen to Isobel if he himself were killed? He doubted that the pirate captain, whoever he was, would return Isobel safely to England.

No, he had to stay alive until he was better able to fight. Then he would get both himself and Isobel to safety. Or at the very least, Isobel.

All of a sudden there was a lump in his throat. He breathed deeply to try to get rid of it, but it didn’t work.

His mind filled itself with images of her laughing merrily at a shared joke; covered in dirt, but radiant and indomitable as they’d fought the fire together; panting and helpless in his arms as he’d made love to her for the first time.

Like a slap in the face, the realization of such feelings stung him. How ironic that he’d denied having any feelings for her at all, only hours before on the beach.

Was all this to be torn away from him?

Could he allow his true bride to be taken from him forever because of the wickedness of a madman?

No
.

Not as long as there was breath in his body. Because there was something he had to tell Isobel.

Something very important.

Chapter 21

In the week that passed on the pirate ship
Revenge
, Isobel had not been able to see Beckett even once.

She had tried on two occasions. Once, she’d feigned sickness and headed back to her cabin alone, but the man with the red beard had found her in another part of the ship. He hadn’t said anything; he’d merely taken her arm, gently but firmly, and returned her to the deck.

The second time, she had attempted to convince a burly pirate that he would guarantee himself a place in heaven if he assisted the cause of true love. That hadn’t worked either.

She was allowed a semblance of freedom, however, after proving on the first day she wasn’t going to throw herself overboard. And since a sudden seasickness kept Sir Harry cabin-bound, she’d been put in Captain Worthington’s charge. He was usually too busy running the ship to take much notice of her.

At least she had a companion in Captain Black. Though he spent a fair amount of time sitting on Worthington’s shoulder, her old feline friend would seek her out as well, always appearing when her heart was darkest with worry.

He would purr and nuzzle his face against her neck, and gaze at her with knowing green eyes. Once, when a teardrop escaped and trickled down her cheek, the cat had reached up and gently touched her face with his paw.

Who had ever heard of a cat who wiped away your tears? she’d thought.

To keep her mind occupied and her sanity intact, Isobel had taken to sitting up on deck, drawing. Captain Worthington had generously provided paper for her. But today she was finding it especially hard to concentrate.

As Captain Black lounged beside her, Isobel tried not to think about Beckett, or if she would ever see him alive again. She would stay calm, and not think about what might be happening to him in the hold of the ship.

Perhaps nothing was happening to him.

Perhaps he was already dead.

As for Sir Harry, from Captain Worthington’s account the man was green to the gills—just as he’d been on the trip across.

Good. She hoped it was fatal.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t encountered much trouble from the pirate crew. Though she had noticed some leering glances and muttered comments, Isobel always noticed that a glance from Captain Worthington or his first mate stopped the sailors cold. The men were too busy working most of the time to take much notice of her, anyway, and she thanked God for it.

Isobel began sketching without really knowing what she was doing, but soon a face emerged before her. It was no surprise to see Beckett staring back out at her. Something shone from the eyes on the page. Hope? Love? Was it hers or his?

Her hand faltered and she inadvertently slashed a mark across the image she had just sketched. Immediately, her heart throbbed with pain as she regarded the ruined picture in her lap.

A terrible fear struck her. Would she ever touch Beckett’s face again? Would she ever feel the heat of his blue eyes as they looked at her as only he did? Would she feel his mouth on hers or his strong hands caressing her body once more?

She looked out at the ocean surrounding her—the same color as Beckett’s unforgettable eyes. She had drowned in their depths long ago, and would not be sorry now.

If the price of loving Beckett left her with a broken heart, she would accept it. And if being Sir Harry’s whore would save Beckett’s life, she would do it gladly.

There must be a way to convince Sir Harry to spare her husband’s life. She would sign over the deed to Hampton Park. She would tell Sir Harry there was more money hidden away somewhere, anything to buy Beckett some time.

But perhaps he would try to play the hero and refuse to leave without her, even if she won him the chance. Yes, she could see that happening. Beckett might not love her, but he would never leave her to a fate with Sir Harry in order to save himself.

She stared at the skyline and shook her head. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t run away that night. Beckett would never have found her, or taken her in, or made her his wife. Now, she was back where she’d started—doomed to a life as Sir Harry’s plaything.

But the man she loved would be killed because of her.

Isobel turned her head toward approaching voices from the lower deck. It seemed to be a good time to return to her cabin. She picked up her pencils and started to leave, but stopped as she heard whispering.

“I tell ye, we must move tonight, McGregor!” the whispered voice said forcefully.

Something told her to hide then, and she crouched behind the crate on which she’d been sitting.

As if sensing the tension in the air, Captain Black made himself scarce. Isobel listened to the pirates’ hushed conversation and held her breath.

“I ’aven’t got enough men yet,” a gruff voice replied. “I needs a few more days, still.”

“In a few more days it’ll be past the turn,” the man replied. “I told Brinkman we’d be in Jamaica to pick up the cargo next week, see? If we don’t move now we’ll not make it in time!”

“Styles, ’ave ye gone daft, man?” McGregor hissed. “If we move without enough men, neither of us will make it to Jamaica. Now, d’ye want control of the ship, or don’t ye?”

“Of course I do, ye dung-head!”

“Then ye’ll have to trust me,” MacGregor said. “Just a few more days, and we’ll ’ave most o’ the men on our side then. It’ll be much easier to slit the cap’n’s throat if ’is lackeys are with us.”