Blackhearts (10 page)

wouldn’t know what to do if somebody outside the family ever

said no to them.

The back stairs were dim, the rain hitting the windows with

an intensity that rattled the panes. The sky outside fit her mood perfectly.

Anne reached the door and tapped it with her foot.

There was no response.

Should I take the tea back down? Or simply leave it by his

bedside and hope that he wakes up before it’s too cold?

Pushing the knob, Anne stepped into the shadowy interior, the

room so dark that she could barely make out a form lying in the

bed. After setting the tea on the table, being careful not to wake him, she turned to leave, and tripped over something on the floor.

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It was a book, the pages weathered and worn. Crossing to the window, she held it up to the sliver of light falling between the heavy curtains, so as to read the title.
A New Voyage Round
the World
by someone by the name of William Dampier. This was most likely the same volume he’d gone searching for

yesterday after the picnic. Right before he’d vomited on his

bride-to-be.

This was not some silly book. A “voyage” meant “traveling

other than by a land route.” It meant the open sea.

It meant freedom.

Curious, she read a page, for it had been more than a year

since she’d last held something this dear in her hands.

I first set out of England on this voyage at the beginning of
the year 1679, in the Loyal Merchant of London, bound for

Jamaica, Captain Knapman Commander. I went a passen-

ger, designing when I came thither, to go from thence to the
Bay of Campeachy, in the Gulf of

Anne did not face the bed but suddenly knew he was awake.

The skin prickled on the back of her neck, and she turned

slowly, guilt causing her features to flush.

Teach watched her, no longer reclining but sitting up in

his bed, his features pallid. “Are they gone?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

It took her a moment to register his words, for she saw that

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his nightshirt gaped open at the collar, clinging to his chest, drenched with sweat.

He repeated his question. “The houseguests. My father. Are

they gone?”

“Ye . . . yes,” Anne stammered. “About a quarter of an hour

ago, sir.”

He nodded and closed his eyes.

Returning to the bedside, she placed the book next to the

tray and poured him a cup of tea. “Drink this, sir,” she said,

holding it out to him.

Opening his eyes, he glanced in her direction. He took the

cup but had trouble holding it, and she did not release her grip.

His hand clasped hers as he brought the cup to his parched lips.

Her skin fairly burned beneath his touch, but he continued to

drink like a person lost in the desert, seemingly unaware of any assistance.

Anne had trouble reconciling this image with the person

who’d confronted her about the price of shrimp, and was sur-

prised by an unexpected twinge of sympathy.

After replacing the cup in the saucer, she walked to the

other side of the bed and wetted a damp cloth in the washbasin.

His black hair was plastered to his brow, and she smoothed it

away, just like her mother had done for her when she’d been

sick with fever. She wiped the cloth across his forehead, and he turned in her direction, a relieved sigh escaping his lips as he watched her through heavy lids.

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Anne pretended not to notice and wet the cloth once more.

“You’re not going to run away again, are you?” he asked softly.

Every impulse told her she should, but for some reason she

could not. “I should call a doctor,” Anne said, still trying to cool his fevered skin.

He shook his head. “I don’t want a doctor.”

“But you need—”

“Read to me,” he said.

Her hands paused, for his words were unexpected. “Sir?”

Leaning to the other side of the bed, the blankets pulled

taut, he picked up the book. “Read to me. I know you know

how.” It was not a request.

Anne swallowed, the blood quickening in her veins. She

remembered the familiarity with which he and Miss Patience

had addressed each other. “It would not be right for me to read

to you. You are betrothed to another.”

His jaw clenched. “Which is exactly why there is no harm

in it. You can rest assured that your virtue is yours to keep. I merely asked you to read,” he said.

Anne bit her lip, returning the cloth to the basin. He was

mocking her. He knew she’d heard his exchange with Miss

Patience. It was clear his and Miss Patience’s relationship was

closer than either of their parents suspected.

Drying her hands on her apron, Anne searched her mind

for a logical excuse not to remain. There were many.

Despite Teach’s assurances, it would not be appropriate.

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There were chores to be done.

Margery would come looking for her.

If Miss Patience found out, she would be livid.

Unfortunately, Anne did not give a whit about Miss

Patience, and no matter if she read or not, there would always

be chores to be done.

What could be the harm if she stayed? He was much too

weak to get out of bed. He could be no threat in his present

state, and she had been given specific instructions to tend

to him.

If she left the door ajar as it was, there would be no cause

for censure. He was to wed another; they simply needed to

agree upon a date. There could be no harm in fulfilling his

demand.

Teach waited, as if aware of the inner battle waging within

her. In truth, Anne longed to find out more about Wil-

liam Dampier’s voyage round the world. She imagined it was

filled with glorious images and descriptions from destinations

unknown.

“You may sit there,” he said, pointing to the large armchair

situated parallel to him.

Her mind made up, Anne took the book from his hands,

walked back to the windows, and pulled the curtains aside. Set-

tling herself in the armchair, she opened the pages once more.

Clearing her throat, she cast one last look at Teach. He gave

her an almost imperceptible nod, and she began.

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“Before the reader proceed any further in the perusal of this
work I must bespeak a little of his patience here to take along
with him this short account of it. It is composed of a mixed
relation of places and actions in the same order of time in

which they occurred: for which end I kept a journal of every
day’s observations.”

For the next two hours Dampier’s story wrapped the two of

them in a foreign world. While other travelers at the time robbed and raided, Dampier wrote vibrant and detailed notes, describing the vegetation and bringing to life the inhabitants of the places he visited. Anne was transported in a merchant ship, similar to

her father’s, to the distant shores of the West Indies. She marched with the buccaneers through the jungles ahead of Spanish soldiers, raiding and pillaging small villages and large forts.

Anne felt Teach’s gaze on her face. Eventually he closed his

eyes, drifting in and out of sleep.

She was fascinated by Dampier’s report of the Miskito Indi-

ans, a most remarkable race, and she was grateful he devoted

several pages of his journal to their description. They were tall and strong, with copper-colored faces, long black hair, and stern expressions. Two Indians alone could supply an entire ship of

buccaneers with food because of their fishing and hunting skills.

Anne paused, trying to picture such men. Her mother

had told her stories about their ancestors, who’d come from

the Spanish Main and settled on the island of Curazon. Map-

makers had later changed the name to Curaçao, but the early

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Spaniards had referred to it as the
Isla de los Gigantes
, because of the Arawak tribesmen’s formidable build.

There had not been enough gold or water to make staking a

claim on the island worthwhile. The Dutch West India Company

had eventually settled there in 1634, after the Spanish had left.

Because the land had been considered too dry to support

large-scale plantations of sugar, coffee, or tobacco, hundreds

of natives, including Anne’s mother and her family, had been

forced to raise food to feed the thousands of slaves awaiting

shipment elsewhere.

Anne couldn’t help wanting to know more about her

mother’s past, especially now that she was gone.

Teach opened his eyes. “Why have you stopped?” he asked.

She was unsure how to respond, afraid to reveal her true

feelings.

He had an uncanny way of seeing through her, discerning

her thoughts when she least expected or wanted him to. “You

favor them, you know. The Miskito Indians.”

“You’ve seen them?” she asked, incapable of hiding her

enthusiasm.

He nodded weakly, a faint smile appearing on his face. “Oh

yes. And if I were to ever command a ship myself, I’d want

a whole crew of them. They’re bold in a fight and excellent

marksmen if supplied with proper guns and ammunition. They

have extraordinary sight and can spot a sail at sea farther and

better than anyone else I’ve met.”

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“I should so like to meet one,” she said.

At that moment Margery appeared in the door, a disap-

proving frown on her face. “Excuse me, sir, but I need Anne

downstairs in the kitchen to help with the cooking.”

Teach’s jaw tightened, but he merely nodded.

Disappointed, Anne closed the book and laid it on the bed

beside him. “In case you want to continue reading,” she said.

Teach shook his head. “No. When you bring me my dinner

at noon, then we may continue the story,” he said, loud enough

for his words to reach Margery.

Nodding, Anne took the tea tray in her hands, attempt-

ing to hide her smile, but he caught her eye and winked. As

Anne left his room, Margery closed the door behind her, but

not before they heard a pleased sigh coming from the interior.

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C H A P T E R 9

Teach

Teach was asleep in his bed the next afternoon when he heard a

commotion outside his room. He awoke, confused from a strange

dream. In his dream he was the captain of a great ship and a large crew, but a sharp-tongued maid with copper-colored skin and

thick black hair questioned his every command.

It was a surprise to wake to the sound of her voice. For a

moment he thought he was still dreaming, until he recognized

the sound of the other voice. It was Mary’s, the blond maid in

the house.

He waited, hoping their discussion would find an end, but

it seemed to go on forever.

Too weak to move, he called out, “Anne? Anne!” It was no

use. Groaning, he pulled the blankets up to his chin, willing

the two girls to go away. Well, he hoped
one
of the girls would go away.

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He wouldn’t mind if Anne came to read to him again.

When she’d helped him out in the garden, he’d been rather

surprised. Up until then their interactions had been anything

but civil, yet she’d assisted him when he’d needed it most.

Even if he hadn’t vomited on Patience, he wasn’t convinced

she
would have come to his aid.

It was not the first time he’d been sick like this. The fever

had a nasty habit of striking whenever Teach switched climates.

Although it wouldn’t last long, fever and chills would rack

his body.

Rest was the only cure.

Outside his room the voices stopped. He heard footsteps

marching down the hall.

Silence.

Teach tried to ignore the twinge of disappointment he felt.

Anne should be coming within the hour with his food. He was

looking forward to seeing her more than he cared to admit.

He was engaged, he reminded himself.

To Patience.

He had known Patience for several years now, and he was

quite comfortable with her. She was like a well-worn shoe.

Teach cringed, imagining Patience’s reaction to that descrip-

tion.

Anne was different. She intrigued him, for not only was

she familiar with John Milton, but she claimed to know how to

ride a horse. Patience had already proven she’d never heard of

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the poet, and the closest she ever got to a horse was when she stepped in and out of a carriage.

What could be the harm in getting to know Anne a little

better? An acquaintance with her could prove useful if he hoped

to help his father catch the thief in the house.

Closing his eyes, he began to doze off again, his thoughts

turning once more to the sea and the mysterious maid under

his father’s roof.

There was a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he said, his heartbeat accelerating.

The door opened a moment later. Rolling over, Teach saw

Mary coming toward him, a bowl of steaming broth on a tray.

He frowned. “Where’s Anne?”

Mary gave him a strained smile. “She’s cleaning out the fire-

places in the guest rooms, sir,” she said. “I brought you a little something for your sickness.”

“Why can’t you clean out the fireplaces?”

Mary’s smile faltered. “I just thought that since Anne brought

you breakfast, I’d give her a hand and bring you your dinner.”