The Marriage Bargain (26 page)

He wanted to spend his life loving her.

Beckett’s eyes opened slowly again. Though it was still dark as always, it seemed that in his heart the light of a thousand candles burned brightly and illuminated the room.

He said it again in his head: I want to spend my life loving her.

It was so simple. And so true.

Beckett felt the enormous weight he’d been carrying deep inside his heart push itself through, and out, and lift—flying away into nothingness.

It had been like a physical thing weighing him down—making him immobile, unable to go forward. It had been a part of him, like a useless, mangled limb. And now, it was gone.

Gone.

“Oh… oh.” He groaned and felt his head droop as tears dampened his face in the dark.

He’d fought against it for so long. It had been as fruitless as trying to fight against the tide, and just as exhausting.

But now, he had given up the fight. And he felt relief, and a joy so pure, so indescribable, that soon he found he was laughing even though tears still flowed from his eyes.

He loved her. He loved Isobel, his wife.

“I love her…,” he said, sounding somewhat stunned, even to his own ears. Then, he laughed, and bellowed, “I love her… do you hear? I love Isobel!”

He smiled as he stood there in the dark cell, thinking if anyone could see him, they’d be convinced he was a raving lunatic. It made him laugh anew. He had been a raving lunatic—now he was completely sane.

Earlier, when Isobel had come to his cell, he’d been so close to saying it then, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t known.

Those three little words had held him prisoner far better than this cell ever would. And he had escaped them. He was no longer in their power. Now, they were in his power. The most important words in the English language were no longer a thing of fear, but of beauty and freedom.

And now, looking back, he wondered what he had been so afraid of. Losing himself? Believing in something that could not possibly be true? But the alternative had been closing his heart to the most powerful gift of all.

He thought of Cordelia then. Of how he’d thought himself in love with her. But that hadn’t been love. It had been a feeling that masqueraded as love, and had been quite convincing… like drinking cheap wine and being told it was champagne. You could only know the difference when you’d tasted the real thing.

And Beckett had tasted the real thing. Now that he knew the difference, he’d never go back to shoddy imitations. Like cheap wine, imitation love left one feeling quite sick and empty inside.

His thoughts went to Isobel, of their confrontation on the beach just before Sir Harry had snatched them.

The things she’d said about her heart being full of him, about not being able to remove him from there…he understood, now.

Now that he’d opened his heart to her, fully, completely, he knew that it would be impossible to remove her. But that was fine. It felt good to have her in there.

He wanted to see Isobel, to tell her. He grabbed the bars in the little window and though he knew it was no use, tried to shake them, as if that would have any effect. He peered out and tried to see down the passageway. His guard was absent, and there was no one else about.

He frowned. The ship seemed quiet. He hoped that meant the mutiny hadn’t yet started. He stretched up again and tried to see if his guard was asleep on the floor, but no one was there.

Then Beckett heard the familiar sound of Williams’s heavy footsteps coming down the passageway. He heard the man whistling a jaunty tune as he approached, and unfortunately also smelled the pirate well before he came around the corner.

Williams’s large round face appeared in the window.

“Brought ye some dinner, m’lord.”

Beckett heard the sound of the key in the lock and was about to thank the man, when Williams made a strange gasp. A look of surprise came over his face and he fell forward against the door, looking at Beckett in confusion, then sliding down out of sight.

“There, take that, Williams, ye old bugger!” a voice hissed.

Another voice said, “Ye sure we was s’posed to kill him?”

“O’ course I’m sure, ye cork-brained git!” the first man said. “Come on, now, there’s more killin’ to be done.”

Beckett flattened himself against the wall beside the door, waiting for it to open.

It didn’t.

He heard quick footsteps echo down the passageway until they were gone. Then, there came the sounds of scuffling on the deck above… the sounds of close combat, of men screaming and yelling, of metal blades clashing.

Gads, the mutiny had begun. A chill of fear ran up his spine as he thought of Isobel. Had she been able to warn Worthington? Where was she in all of this?

In anger and frustration, he grabbed the bars of the little window as he had before and pushed and pulled against them. Surprisingly, the door opened.

He jumped back, waiting to see who had opened it. But no one appeared. The door just creaked open slowly, gently inviting him into the passageway… and freedom.

Beckett peeked around the door and saw the key sticking out of the lock. There was no one else about, and he hopped over Williams who lay crumpled on the floor. Beckett crouched down and turned the pirate over. He was dead.

“My condolences, Mr. Williams.” Beckett removed a long dagger from the man’s boot. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore. But I most certainly will.”

With that, Beckett turned and trotted down the hall to where he thought Isobel’s quarters were. There seemed to be no one at all below-deck—at least on this end of the ship. But he would be ready if he encountered any resistance.

He turned another corner, hoping to find Isobel’s quarters, and instead looked straight into the black eyes of Sir Harry Lennox.

“Ravenwood,” Sir Harry hissed, stepping back and bringing his own dagger up to flash in front of his face. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here. I was just coming to see you. To see you die, that is.

Thank you for saving me the walk.”

Sir Harry slashed out with his dagger as Beckett quickly side-stepped.

“You bastard!” Beckett growled, feeling his anger blaze. This was the blackguard who meant to take away his beloved. He hated this man with absolute clarity.

His enemy snarled and slashed at his stomach, but Beckett nicked him on the wrist with a return cut.

Good. He wanted Lennox to bleed a bit before he died.

Beckett had fought men like this before. Men without much training, but who were mad enough to be as dangerous as a loose cannon. Such men could be goaded into making amistake.

Sir Harry smiled as he prepared to strike again. “When Isobel is my wife, Ravenwood, I’m going to make her pay for every drop of blood you make me spill today.”

“Isobel will never be your wife, Lennox. Never.”

Sir Harry’s expression darkened like a forboding sky as he lashed out again with his dagger. He nicked Beckett’s elbow. Beckett ignored the minimal pain, though Lennox seemed overly pleased by the blow.

Beckett would let the man tire himself out a bit before he attacked in earnest.

Sir Harry’s eyes glittered unnaturally. “You stole my bride, Ravenwood! I swore I’d make you pay for touching what was mine, for defiling her. And I shall.”

“Oh, I beg to differ with you there, on both counts.” Beckett slashed and caught his opponent’s thigh, who gave a groan. “Isobel was never yours, Lennox. But she is mine. We love each other, you see.

That’s something you’ll never understand.”

Beckett heard a muffled voice shouting from down the passageway. And pounding on a door. He thought he heard his name.

“Isobel?” he shouted, deflecting Sir Harry’s thrust once more.

“Beckett!” Isobel’s voice sounded far away.

“Yes, it’s your beloved husband, Isobel,” Sir Harry shouted over his shoulder. “Say your goodbyes, my dear. And listen to him die!”

“No!” Her muffled shout echoed through the ship.

Sir Harry attacked like a mad bull. Beckett moved quickly, landing a hard kick in his opponent’s groin.

This was a dagger fight, and he doubted Lennox would hold to any gentlemanly rules of conduct. Better the first surprise should be his.

Sir Harry was doubled over in pain, still keeping his weapon out in front of him. Beckett kicked again, and knocked the dagger from his enemy’s grip. In a moment, he was on him, pulling Lennox up by the scruff of his neck and placing the tip of his own knife to the base of the man’s throat.

“I can’t say that I’m sorry to do this.” Beckett prepared to deliver the killing stroke.

“But I can,” a voice said from behind him.

Beckett heard the sound of a pistol being cocked near his head. He felt the cold tip of the barrel against his skull, and knew victory was being snatched from him like a toy from a child’s hand.

“Worthington! It’s about time,” Lennox croaked.

“My apologies, Sir Harry.” The captain stepped around Beckett and took the dagger from his hand.

“Had a bit of a mutiny to take care of, which Lady Ravenwood was good enough to warn me about. It is because of her that I didn’t shoot you dead just now, Ravenwood.”

“Let me see her. Please,” Beckett asked, looking down the barrel of Worthington’s pistol. The man was flanked by other pirates.

“I’m afraid that would be unwise. Your wife is safe in her quarters, and that is where she will stay,”

Worthington answered.

“Not for long,” Sir Harry said, smiling.

Beckett made a lunge for him but was stopped by Worthington’s men. “If you touch even a hair on her head, Lennox, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are!”

“Too late.” Sir Harry gave a sickening grin.

Beckett struggled anew, but Worthington stepped between them, resheathing his pistol in his belt. “Be assured, Ravenwood, your wife will remain unharmed while she is on my ship. I owe her that, at least.”

He nodded to his henchmen. “Take Lord Ravenwood back to his cell.”

One of the pirates put a pistol to Beckett’s head, and then yanked him back down the passageway. Out of frustration, he struggled against them as they headed back to his cell, but he knew it was useless. He would not be able to escape now, that was certain. At least Worthington had promised that Isobel would be safe for the duration of the voyage. That would give him more time.

Soon, they were at the door to his cell, and the pirates pushed him in. The door creaked loudly behind him and he was back in the familiar darkness. How long had he been out of this mean little room… fifteen, twenty minutes? Surely, that had been the world’s shortest escape.

Beckett heard the key turn in the lock and the muffled sound of men dragging Williams’s body down the passageway. He turned around and slammed his fists against the wall. It hurt, but the pain felt good, so he did it again. And again. And again.

“Isobel!” he yelled into the darkness, and unable to do anything more, hung his head in despair.

The wind whipped Isobel’s hair mercilessly around her face. She pushed it behind her ears for the hundredth time, and wondered why she attempted to put it up each day.

She pulled her shawl close around her. The wind had gotten colder the closer they got to England. And now they were almost there. Isobel looked out across the horizon, seeing land loom in the distance. She tried desperately to fight the despair that had been growing in her heart steadily since yesterday. Their voyage was almost over. And Sir Harry had promised to make her a widow before they reached shore.

A widow!

She had been unable to see Beckett after the attempted mutiny. Worthington had come to her quarters with Sir Harry in tow, to thank her for warning him.

She had begged to be able to see her husband, then, but the pirate captain had refused. All he would say was that Beckett was in good health. Her only consolation was that he’d assured her of her safety while she was on board his ship, and by his purposeful glance at Sir Harry, she knew that meant safety from him.

Since then, she had been able to move about only with a guard, and not anywhere below-decks except her quarters. So she had gone up on deck to try to clear her thoughts. It wasn’t working.

Isobel turned, and when she saw Sir Harry approaching, turned back again toward the water. There was no use in trying to get away from him. He would merely follow her. At least up here, she would be under the protection of Captain Worthington.

“You should not spend so much time in the sun, my dear,” Sir Harry drawled. “It will darken your freckles.”

Isobel refused to look at him. “Then I shall stay out in it all day, if only to displease you.”

He chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Still bent on defying me at every turn, I see. That’s alright.

You’ll learn soon enough. And I shall relish teaching you.”

Sir Harry lifted his hand to her face and tried to stroke her cheek. Isobel jerked her head away as if his hand were a burning iron. She glared at him, wishing the power of her hatred could kill.

“Oh, the fire in your eyes excites me, Isobel.” His own glittered dangerously. “I shall so enjoy putting it out.”

Isobel turned and faced him squarely. “You shall not extinguish the fire in me, Sir Harry. If you try, you’ll be burned.”

Sir Harry’s eyes darkened and he came closer to her, bending his face down near hers. “You are so like your mother, Isobel… in countenance, as well as in spirit.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small. Smiling tenderly, Sir Harry held it up in front of Isobel’s face.

She looked at it cautiously. Her stomach twisted into a hideous knot when she saw that it was a miniature portrait of her mother. “What are you doing with that?” Fear whispered up Isobel’s spine.

“Your mother never told you about us, did she?” Sir Harry’s voice purred as soft as a cat’s, and he tilted his head slightly as he looked down at her.

Isobel remained silent, not wanting to give Sir Harry the satisfaction of a reply. But her heart grew icy with fear as he continued.

“No, I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted you to know that your father was not her first love. It was I, Isobel. Oh, yes. At one time, your mother and I were engaged to be married.”