A Pirate's Wife for Me (35 page)

Maccus considered the boys. "At night, he can chain them in the brig. Horrible fate if the ship is attacked and sinks, but it's no more than they deserve."

"It's settled, then." Blowfish kept an eye on the eastern sky. Morning light was growing. "We'll sell 'em to that scum o' the earth, Gerry Williams."

The one boy fainted again.

Blowfish did not care. "A pirate's life they will lead, and every night, they will weep for the memory of the good times they enjoyed aboard the Scottish Witch. Get 'em out of me sight. Take 'em below and shackle 'em beneath the water line."

Two sailors grabbed the boys and dragged them away, begging and crying.

Quicksilver, Maccus and Blowfish watched them go.

"Dumb whoresons," Maccus commented, and headed below to settle the inevitable fights.

"Aye." Blowfish walked to the port side railing. He pulled out his spyglass and looked to the southern horizon.

There it was, Gerry Williams's ship, waiting, as they were, off Cenorina's shore. Waiting for the beacon to light.

"Those lads are getting better than they deserve," Quicksilver said.

"After Cap'n's years at sea, he's soft on the new crew." Blowfish indicated his disapproval with another flip of the rope. "Makes me happy to know Gerry Williams will watch 'em close and make their lives miserable."

The two weathered sailors stared at that speck of a ship on the horizon.

Quicksilver sighed. "I wish the action would start."

"Aye. The waitin' is always the hardest part." Blowfish rubbed the spray of salt off the handrail. "What do ye plan on doing when the battle is won? Are ye taking the cash and sailin' with the ship, or are ye stayin' on Cenorina?"

"I'm taking the cash. You?"

"I've seen too many battles. I'm stayin' on Cenorina. I want a bit o' land and a ripe Cenorinian woman to fix me meals and tickle me cockstand."

Quicksilver nodded. "Sounds good."

"What bothers me now is — did Lilbit sabotage us before he left? And where did Lilbit row that longboat?"

The two men walked to starboard. They didn't need the spyglass to see Trueno Ridge where the beacon would be lit. "Cenorina."

"Lilbit's been playin' us fer fools," Blowfish said.

"He's a murderer and a mutineer, ripe for hanging."

"All I got to say is — Cap'n had better watch his own back, and the Caitlin's."

"Amen."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The night Taran returned
to the cathedral in Arianna both enlightened him and made him aware once more of the treacherous game he played.

The men of the town agreed to listen to his plan and, after heated discussion, voted to follow him.

Zelle refused to trust him, demanded to know where he hid, and when he refused to tell her, stormed out, leaving embarrassed and angry men in her wake. And Taran knew that was dangerous. Zelle was canny and determined; she had schemed to free Cenorina and she did not appreciate being swept aside for a prince who had abandoned them — so it seemed — so many years before. If she reminded enough people of his failures, and undermined his authority as a warrior, she could cause trouble … especially among the women.

Yet for the most part, the women observed him and listened, and Taran knew he must live up to their expectations lest they lead an insurrection against their husbands, brothers, fathers and friends. Cate had taught him that — women had power, and they knew how to use it.

Taran discussed what weapons they could gather and use, observed their fighting skills, appointed captains and discussed strategies. He asked for someone willing to run his errands; Leon, a healthy young blacksmith, eagerly volunteered.

An element of certainty began to temper Taran’s impatience. He was — they were — going to win this fight.

On previous nights, Taran had ranged far and wide over the island, finding allies — and enemies. Of the Cenorinian nobility who were left on the island, some welcomed him with relief, some with joy. One family, intent on starting its own fiefdom, first scorned him, then tried to lock him away. He had fought his way free from them and ridden through a hail of bullets toward Giraud. He was not hit, but he did sustain cuts and bruises and faced yet another moment where he realized this task he had undertaken would not be nearly as swashbuckling, adventurous or fun as leading a pirate ship.

Cate had used cold compresses and bandages to put him back together, and said, "At least I am now sure you're not leaving me for the arms of another woman. Or if you are — I'd suggest finding a different lover."

He laughed and tumbled her on the bed, and held her and kissed her, and thought that, even as he faced down rebel aristocrats and ungrateful citizens, he had never been so happy.

"Sir Davies, we're coming into Port Arianna."

Captain John Dunbar's voice brought Maddox out of the hammock and onto his feet, sword drawn, before he was fully awake.

Captain Dunbar thrust out his hands as if to ward off the point of the sword with a gesture. "Sir! You asked that I wake you before we docked!"

"Oh. Yes." Maddox shakily sheathed the sword. "Thank you. You startled me. I'll come on deck immediately."

Captain Dunbar looked at him oddly, murmured, "Quite so, sir," and with his characteristic limp, he disappeared out the narrow door.

Maddox stood in the ferry's dark cubbyhole that made up the captain's quarters, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat, to loosen the noose of panic that tightened around his neck.

He hadn't slept well since that awful moment when Mrs. Cabera had declared Throckmorton hunted him. All these years, Maddox had fooled the great Throckmorton, made a mockery of Throckmorton's secret spy network. Now … now Maddox had come back to Cenorina quickly, but in stealth. During the journey, he wore hats and turbans, cloaks and ill-fitting coats. He spoke in accents and used false names. He had shaken any tail Throckmorton might have put on him. He was sure of it. Yet still he looked over his shoulder, afraid to see someone skulking in the shadows.

Reaching under the hammock, he pulled out two bags. Each contained clothes, shoes, a few souvenirs to prove he had been vacationing in foreign lands, and secret compartments with all the signatures he had collected and all the bribes he had accepted. He carried the bags on deck and took a breath of fresh sea air.

He was not confined in prison. He was not facing an English court. He was still Sir Maddox Davies, coming home to the islands he ruled.

The town was a silhouette against the pre-dawn sky, but he could see the bowl that cupped the town of Arianna, lights in the fortress where his mercenaries held reign, and here and there a lantern moving through the streets. He wondered what people were doing out at this hour; prostitutes looking for business, he supposed, although who had the money to pay them, he did not know. The Cenorinians had nothing, because
he
had taken care to clear out their pocketbooks and reduce them to destitution.

Why not? When at first he had gained power, he had been prepared to be magnanimous, a king they could adore. But they had worshipped their dead king and blamed him for their pissant little prince's dissipations, and after a year of wiping their spittle off his shoes, he had resolved to strip them of dignity, of wealth, of pride, of the most basic human requirements.

Now they were ragged and starving. Now they didn't have enough energy or spirit to spit on his shoes. It served the proud beggars right, and he hoped they all died miserable deaths under the reign of … of whoever won the bidding to control the islands.

During his flight back to Cenorina, he had taken the time to do one thing — send letters to the top five bidders calling for their final offers. As soon as he had the results, and a guarantee the money had been deposited in his account, he would be gone from here, and he would never again fear poverty or cold or … Throckmorton.

Maddox Davies, bastard grandson of an English lord, would live in luxury, surrounded by furs and warmth and women, until the end of his days.

Dawn was breaking.
For the second night in a row, Taran was in consultation with the men and women in Arianna, explaining in detail how the beacons would light, his sailors would land (he thought it best not to call them pirates too often) and their arrival would draw out and overwhelm the mercenaries. He drew pictures in the dirt, then when he heard the bell that signified the arrival of the ferry, he erased the images with a sweep of his hand, tipped his hat, and again promised them a better life. Riding to the overlook opposite the fortress, he observed the ferry pull in and tie up.

The gangplank lowered.

Leon met the captain and spoke to him.

The captain looked around, as if seeking something or someone, then handed over a letter.

Taran knew what that meant; correspondence from Throckmorton.

Then he forgot Throckmorton, forgot everything except the sight of a single well-dressed gentleman who strode onto the dock carrying a bag in each hand.

Taran recognized him; his old tutor, Maddox Davies.

Taran had been expecting him, watching for him, yet still ice spilled through his veins.

From this distance, Davies's appearance was unchanged. He was tall, thin, long-armed, graceful, the kind of man able to wield a sword with enough finesse to defeat a defiant young prince — and he had. Taran would never forget the battle in his father's study. When he returned from his exile in Scotland, he had thought to teach Davies a lesson for daring to depose the Cenorinian royal family. Instead, the lesson had been taught to him by a master swordsman. When his own sword had been sliced in half, then removed from his grip with a single, skillful flip of the wrist, he had refused to beg Davies's pardon. He had refused to admit defeat.

His punishment had been brutal. Four mercenaries had held him down while Davies heated the king's seal over the candle flame and used it to brand the skin over Taran’s heart.

Taran touched the place where the scar puckered his skin. The humiliation still burned.

This time, when they fought the results would be different.

Taran went to meet Leon and accept the letter from his hand. Then, turning Hanna toward Giraud, he galloped ahead of the oncoming confrontation.

Cate woke to the press of a hand
to her shoulder. She flipped over and faced a grim-faced Taran.

"Davies is on his way here. You had best prepare. He'll want to meet you." Taran took his hand away. "And you will want to introduce him to me, your crippled, blinded husband."

She sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. "Do you think it necessary that you meet him immediately? Or at all?"

For the first time since they had made love on the stairway, Taran seemed not to notice the thrust of her breasts against the thin material of her nightgown and the glow of her hair in the morning light.

"Davies returns because Throckmorton made him realize the dangerous game he is playing." Taran showed her a letter. "Throckmorton has written to say Davies will receive correspondence from the men who wish to buy Cenorina. Throckmorton wishes to know who the final players are, for he believes they will leave their homes to make their way here, and he intends to dissuade them from their purpose."

"Dissuade them?"

"Capture them. Imprison them." Taran smiled coldly. "It is to our advantage to wait for those letters to arrive before we make our move, since those letters will contain information about —"

"Payments to Sir Davies," she said.

"Exactly."

"More money with which to restore Cenorina."

Now he smiled in truth.

For the first time, she understood his intention. "You're
not
doing this to make a fortune. You intend to assume the role of governor of Cenorina!"

"Not quite that. Not the governor. When we have more time, I will explain … exactly …" He fumbled as he tried to find the words.

"What?"

Far below in the courtyard, she heard the clatter of hooves.

Taran went to the window. "Hail, the conquering hero … and his mercenary guard."

She joined him, and studied the gentleman who rode up in the back of the carriage that had brought Taran and Cate to Giraud. "He is handsome, for an older man. His clothing is elegant and his boots are polished."

"He is a tyrant," Taran said.

"Yes, he moves in a manner that clearly bespeaks his ownership and his contempt for those who serve him." She craned her head to see which mercenary drove the carriage. She didn't recognize him; he was not Volker or Stein. Good. That, at least, would make this day easier. "Sir Davies wears a long sword at his side. Can he use that weapon?"

"Very effectively." Taran spoke without inflection. "He is also skilled with pistols. He never takes any chances — to ensure his safety, he keeps a mercenary in the house with him at all times."

Taran always seemed to have information far beyond her expectations. "How do you know that?"