Chance the Winds of Fortune (36 page)

“What are you going to do?” she asked again, preferring to know what her fate was to be.

“Anxious, ain't ye?” He laughed, his hand tightening excruciatingly around her wrist. “Well, the way I see it, the captain brought ye in here to his private cabin to have his pleasure of ye, and bein' full of whiskey, he gets kind of mean. He's got a well-founded reputation for it too. He nearly destroyed a tavern single-handed one night. Aye, won't come as no surprise to anyone to hear about the tragedy,” Lewis predicted, grin turning sly. “Ye see, ye grabs this pistol to protect yeself, but he won't listen to reason, and ye have to shoot him dead. Reckon ye be so scared of the consequences of shootin' the captain, that ye jump overboard,” concluded Lewis.

“No!” Rhea said and tried to twist free from his grasp. With a vicious yank he pulled her closer to the table, where the captain still sat in his whiskey-induced stupor.

“I've been waitin' a long time to pull the trigger on you,” he said, his eyes narrowing in contemplation of his act as he lowered the barrel of the pistol closer to the captain's vulnerable temple. But it never reached its destination, for the captain's hand snaked out and wrapped itself around Lewis's wrist in a death grip. Lewis cried out in surprise, as did Rhea, who stared into the dark eyes of the captain; their look of entreaty scorched her and she took a step backward. At that moment she felt her wrist released.

“Run, little one. Run!” Benjamin Haskell yelled at her, his lips pulled into snarl as he staggered to his feet, lifting the astonished Lewis with him as he rose. The pistol dropped between them to the floor.

Rhea stood mesmerized by the struggle to the death being waged before her eyes. Had the captain not been drunk, the outcome would have been decided without delay, but he was slow on his feet, his wits still sluggish, and Lewis knew he was fighting for his very life with the big man, and one mistake could cost him that ultimate penalty.

Rhea finally found her senses and fled to the door, turning for one last glimpse of the captain. Then she saw the unbelievable happening as the captain stumbled, his large form unwieldy. As for Lewis, he was squirming around the larger man and managed to grasp hold of the pistol before Haskell could catch him in another bone-crushing bear hug. Knowing he had only seconds, Lewis rolled over and pulled the trigger, firing the pistol directly into the big man's chest.

Rhea desired to witness no more than this, and she rushed up the companionway, knocking the tray out of the doctor's hands as he stumbled down, his steps already none too steady. But Rhea stopped for no one, ignoring the curious gazes sent her way by some of the loitering sailors still on board. Some voices called out to her, their words lost in the laughter that accompanied them, but she paid little heed until she heard the one she feared calling after her. With the cries of murderess ringing in her ears, Rhea fled along the dock, hearing the pounding of feet behind her as Lewis's shrill voice inflamed his mates.

“Murderess! Murderess! She's shot our captain dead, mates! A hundred pounds to the man who brings her to me!”

Rhea tripped over a coil of rope and fell against several heavy casks. She was on her feet before she could feel the pain of her skinned knees. Then, without pausing to think of anything beyond where her next hiding place would be, she moved stealthily along a line of overturned boats. When she heard the sound of approaching feet, she crawled beneath the propped-up bow of one and huddled in the concealing darkness, her mind reeling with the murder of Captain Benjamin Haskell that had heralded her arrival in Charles Town.

* * *

Dante Leighton glanced across the crowded taproom of the White Horses Tavern, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as they lingered on the rotund figure in claret velvet. Bertie Mackay's rich belly laugh spread like ripples in a pond as he slapped his dinner companion across the back in appreciation of a joke.

It had been almost two months since they'd had their heart-to-heart talk in his study, and Mackay was a man of his word, for since then everywhere Dante had ventured, he had felt the presence of the jovial captain of the
Annie Jeanne
.

Sometimes there was an elongated shadow at his heels, sometimes a significantly shorter one, or a rounder one, or a thinner one, but there was always the shadow of someone. It seemed as if spies were as plentiful as rats along the waterfront, if indeed the rats were not outnumbered by them. Now Dante noticed (and not for the first time) the familiar figure of the man he had seen that very afternoon lurking outside his house. This man was now deep in conversation with a grinning Mackay.

“He seems well pleased with himself,” Alastair Marlowe remarked as he watched Mackay out of the corner of his eye. The rhythmic motion of his jaws never faltered on the tough piece of beef he'd been trying to swallow for the past few minutes.

“I imagine he has been just as impatient to get to sea as we have,” Dante commented. “Most likely, his man there has just told him the heartening news that the
Sea Dragon
is taking on fresh water and supplies and will be sailing by the end of the week. Kirby was on board most of the day pottering about. You know how particular he is about his personal supplies.”

Alastair lifted his eyes heavenward. “Lord help the fool who tampers with anything in the captain's cabin or dares to mention that he put too much seasoning in the stew.”

Dante grinned. “Jamaica never complains, nor has he ever turned up his nose at any of Kirby's leftovers, which secretly pleases him, I suspect. I'm afraid Kirby won't be pleased with me, however, for when I left him on board this afternoon, he was expecting me back to dine.” Dante glanced down at his half-cleared plate of beef and overcooked vegetables drowning in a grease-laden sauce. “I would have done better to have complied,” he admitted, pushing the unappetizing platter away.

“Captain Leighton?” The polite inquiry sounded beside Dante's chair.

Dante hardly needed to glance up to know what name to call the speaker. “Captain Lloyd,” Dante murmured, even before he met the other man's eyes. With a slight smile on his lips, he indicated the third chair standing empty at their table. “Will you join us in a drink?”

“Thank you, Captain,” Sir Morgan Lloyd responded easily. “I had begun to despair of finding an unoccupied chair in here,” he commented, placing his cocked hat on the table and taking his place. “Strange 'tis, how every chair seems to be taken when an officer of the Crown makes a move toward it. One sees fewer and fewer solitary redcoats about town anymore. They seem to think it safer to carouse in groups,” he said with a curious smile as he accepted a mug of rum punch.

Lifting it in salute to his host, he said, “Here's to a successful voyage, Captain Leighton.”

Dante raised his mug and drank to the toast. “I trust it will be, what with most of the town showing an interest in my affairs.”

“Ah, well, Captain,” Sir Morgan said with a lopsided grin, “secrets, as you well know, are impossible to keep along the docks. Of course,” he added with a glint in his blue eyes, “'tis my business to know the whereabouts of the captains and ships of Charles Town.”

“I had not forgotten that, Captain,” Dante reminded him.

“Heard that Bertie Mackay nearly ran aground in the straits,” Sir Morgan said casually, a smile tugging at the corner of his well-shaped lips.

“Did he?” Dante asked. “That surprises me, for I had thought him a far better master than that. Of course, we all become misdirected at times,” Dante added, his eyes meeting Alastair's for a brief moment.

Sir Morgan Lloyd hadn't missed the exchange between the two men, and Dante knew that he hadn't. To Alastair, this sparring between the two men was nerve-racking, and he lived in fear of saying the wrong thing. Alastair eyed the British officer, thinking, as always, that he was no fool. He was certainly a likable enough fellow, but not one who could be trusted. He was, after all, the enemy. It was his sworn duty, no matter how friendly he was while he drank with them now, to try and apprehend them, sink them if necessary, should he catch the
Sea Dragon
smuggling.

“And you, Sir Morgan?” Dante inquired politely. “You will be sailing now that the worst of the storm has cleared?”

“With the tide on the morrow,” Sir Morgan informed him. “I imagine there will be quite a few ships weighing anchor.”

“You will be busy, Sir Morgan,” Dante remarked casually as he glanced around the taproom at the cluttered tables. The captains and crews were all gathered round, swilling down mugs and goblets of ale and rum, French wines and Madeira. Overhead, hanging from the low, smoke-blackened beams, were several ship's lanterns, their golden light spilling onto the gleaming pewter below. A cheering fire added its warmth to the room, helping to fight the chill seeping in from outside along with the frequent traffic entering and leaving. A black pot bubbled with something savory, which blended with fragrant odors wafting in from the kitchen. The tavern keeper was kept busy at the bar, filling mug after mug to brimming from a large oaken cask. The sounds of laughter and voices raised in song filled the room, drowning out the private conversations between certain closely grouped individuals, whose angry glares and hushed words showed they were most likely discussing politics.

“Another one, gents?” asked the well-endowed serving wench, winking saucily at Alastair as she caught his eyes lingering on her full breasts. Their voluptuous contours were barely covered by her lacy-edged bodice.

“Not for me, thank you, Cap'n,” declined Sir Morgan Lloyd when Dante glanced at him. “But allow me to buy you and Mr. Marlowe another one,” he offered in return. “I have to see that my ship is properly fitted out. Perhaps we shall be able to lift a glass or two together when you return to Charles Town, for I would be most interested in hearing about the outcome of your voyage, Captain. Scuttlebutt has it,” he said lightly as he stared down at an indolent Dante Leighton, “that you are going to have quite a dogfight on your hands.”

Dante smiled, then laughed. “I only have a ship's cat, Captain.”

“That's why I'd wager you and your
Sea Dragon
come out on top,” Sir Morgan returned, a speculative gleam hardening his blue eyes. “Cats always seem to squirm out of tight spots with a couple of lives to spare. Besides, I like a good adventure yarn, and this one promises to be quite interesting, so don't let me down,” he warned, picking up his cocked hat and taking his leave of them. But he'd only taken a step or two when he turned and added challengingly, “I'd hate to have the
Sea Dragon
go to the bottom without ever having crossed bows with her.”

Dante smiled mockingly. “You needn't worry that I shall disappoint you, Captain. I have every intention of returning from the Indies. However, my concern is more for HMS
Portcullis
should we indeed cross bows. I hate costing the Crown good money.”

“I look forward to the contest, Captain.” Sir Morgan Lloyd grinned and walked away, his tall figure in its blue coat cutting a widening path through the congested room. His expression remained unreadable even though he must have overheard the rude remarks being muttered about his person. However, the sword swinging at his side was warning enough against anything more than defamatory utterances.

“Not much he misses,” Alastair grumbled, watching the cocked hat disappearing out the door.

“That's why he's still alive today to challenge me,” Dante replied. “However, I am not sure whether or not I'd enjoy crossing bows with HMS
Portcullis
.”

“You admire him, don't you?” Alastair asked, gazing at the captain, the man he himself admired.

“Yes, I do. He does his job to the best of his ability. He's a good captain and an honest one. But it is not my suspicion that we would sink him that has me concerned,” Dante added with a strange glint in his eye. “'Tis the thought that we
both
might end up on the bottom. We think too much alike for it to be anything but a draw, unless one of us has incredible good luck, or bad luck.

“Now let's have that brandy Captain Lloyd so generously bought for us,” Dante said, his smile sending the tavern wench's heart plummeting into her clogs.

“Here's to our Spanish foretopman,” said Dante, toasting their late benefactor. A devilish grin settled on his face as he lifted his glass to Bertie Mackay sitting at the table across the room. “And to what the future may hold.”

* * *

Rhea Claire Dominick peered cautiously along the dock; her head and shoulders were revealed from her hiding place while she eyed the warehouses and wharves. Crates and barrels were stacked high, offering safety for anyone who might like to remain unseen.

She glanced up at the tall masts, bare of sail, that lined the waterfront. Countless ships were docked along its rambling length, some being loaded with supplies and cargo, others having their holds emptied. Rhea glanced around nervously, but no one had noticed her crawling beneath the boat. Nor did anyone seem overly interested in the group of men searching the docks for the runaway indentured servant who had shot down their captain. They were too busy hurrying to finish their jobs and get inside before a warm fire to concern themselves with other people's troubles.

Rhea tucked her hands into her cape, warming them against the fur as the cold sea air began filling her hiding place. When she heard footsteps approaching she quickly ducked back inside. The boat trembled slightly as someone kicked it in frustration.

“Damn! She's got to be around here somewhere! She couldn't just vanish into thin air,” swore a voice she recognized as Daniel Lewis's.

“Maybe she slipped and fell into the river. Would make it easier fer us,” offered another voice.

“That wouldn't help unless I knew fer sure she had,” Lewis complained. “Until she's breathed her last breath, I'll be feeling a tightness around me neck. She saw me shoot Captain Haskell, and if she is really who she says she is, then she'll be able to get plenty of powerful folk to listen to her little story,” he predicted. “I don't intend to have her talkin' her head off to no one. If it's the last thing I do, I'll strangle the life out of her,” he promised, and Rhea could almost see the look of hatred on his fox-like face.