In the Arms of a Pirate (A Sam Steele Romance Book 2) (4 page)

“Forgive him for what, Aidan? For not finding you or not knowing it was you all these years?”

His eyes hardened.

“Both.”

T
he anchor cut
smoothly through the rippling surface of the river. The moon glistened off the dripping water droplets as the steel rose higher and higher into the night. Even before it was locked into position, Aidan gave the command to hoist the sails.

Behind the wheel, Aidan relished the whoosh and snap of the sails as they filled. Beneath his hands, he felt the power of the
Freedom
as it sped down the Ozama River toward the Caribbean Sea.

He threw a parting look over his shoulder. Behind its defensive walls, the town of Santo Domingo remained mostly dark. Not a surprise as he’d paced his room for what felt like hours before slipping out of the orphanage well past midnight. He’d crept, pausing at every creak in the floor, but nobody had awoken to follow him. By then, only a few drunkards and rats wandered the quiet streets and the guards at the gate had given him no trouble when he’d pointed to his ship and told of his intentions to leave. It wasn’t those leaving that gave the guards pause but rather the ones coming in. With a sleepy nod, they’d allowed him through.

Now, finally, he could breathe. He didn’t have to suffer Cale’s brooding stares or worry about being pushed into a conversation he wasn’t ready to have, at least not until he reconciled the fact that his captain for the past four years was his father. His own bloody father.

He shook his head even as he rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart. He didn’t want to think on it, couldn’t as there was no way to think of his father without his thoughts turning to his mother. His hand pressed harder against his chest. He simply couldn’t bear to think of her yet. He’d rather be keelhauled. Surely being tied and tossed overboard only to be dragged back and forth against the keel would hurt less than remembering the pain his mother had endured. The pain he’d been forced to witness.

“That’s enough.” He admonished himself.

Nothing was to be gained from those memories. He was best to keep a clear head and concentrate on his goal, to steal Roche’s daughter and barter her life for her father’s. If Grace spoke the truth—and he believed she did—the way to Roche was through his daughter.

He felt no guilt over using the girl. Unlike what Roche had done to him and his mother, he had no intention of physically harming the girl. In that, he and Sam thought alike. He wouldn’t punish the child for the sins of the father.

As someone who’d had to endure the hells of torture he’d been careful not to inflict it upon others. He’d learned from Sam, when she’d sailed as Sam Steele, a pirate could be feared by being cunning and relentless. Aye, she’d killed, but she’d never tortured. She never gained pleasure by inflicting pain in another. Even when she’d had her own chance at revenge against the pirate who’d murdered her family, she hadn’t been able to kill the cur. She’d turned her back. Luckily, Luke hadn’t and he’d shot the scoundrel before the pirate could kill Samantha.

Aidan wouldn’t turn his back on Roche. Unlike Sam, Roche
was
ruthless. He’d proven time and again he had no soul, let alone a heart. And while Aidan had never inflicted torture, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it on Roche. If there was a miscreant sailing these waters who deserved to be treated so barbarically, it was Roche.

First, however, he had to get the girl and ensure Roche followed. Aidan intended to take what he’d learned from Sam, Luke, and, God help him, Cale, in his quest to seek revenge on Roche. He would be unrelenting and savvy. He would treat the innocent as fairly as the circumstances allowed, but he’d cut down his adversary and those who stood in his path. He might not be aboard the
Revenge
, another fact he intended to rectify, but, as of now, Aidan Bradley was Sam Steele.

And Sam Steele had yet to lose a battle.

*

Sarah Santiago lived
in paradise. At her bedroom window, she could watch the ships sail by, lazily if the breeze was light or slicing through the churning waves if the wind’s temper changed. Sloops, schooners, man of wars, frigates, and ships of the line. Galleons and carracks, they all passed by, their flags waving cheerily.

Behind her window, her rooms were large and decorated in the latest colors and fabrics. Her father ensured he always brought her the best. On her dresser, lay a matching silver comb and brush set. Next to them, ornate bottles of the gentlest perfumes. Both armoires were bursting with silk dresses, linen dresses, embroidered gowns, gowns with lace. She had more pairs of shoes than all her maids owned combined.

The yard consisted of acres of perfectly trimmed, lush grass and colorful gardens to wander through. Rose bushes, in blood-dripping red, flanked the stately home. Hibiscus trees bowed under the weight of their purple flowers, adding yet another layer to the perfumed air.

There were birdbaths and statues, ponds with water lilies skimming the surface, benches where she could stop and read, enjoy a glass of sweet tea, or some fresh-squeezed lemonade made with the lemons that grew in the orchard at the back of the gardens.

Sarah wanted for nothing but, if ever she did, she had only to lift a hand or ask for there was always someone within sight to see to her every need and desire. Wherever she strolled through the gardens there would be Gus or Henry ruthlessly pulling weeds or gently tending the fragile blooms. In the orchard, she could wave to George or William, who harvested the fruit that Mary or Isabelle made into the preserves her father would take back with him on his ship.

In the house, at least three maids were in residence at one time, tending to her, cleaning the immaculate house, or cooking. There was someone to teach her to sew, to embroider, and to cook. Her father ensured she was taught to read and to write, to play both the harpsichord and the violin. She was taught, fed, kept in the prettiest clothes and the tidiest house.

By all appearances, she was well tended but like the most charming of faces could hide a black heart, it was no more than a guise. She did not live in a grand home where her every need was but a flick of her hand away.

She lived in a prison.

Certainly, she could admire the sea through the window in her bedchamber and she could smell the salt of it riding on the air when she strolled outside but she had yet, in her near eighteen years, to touch it. Or get any closer to it than the edge of the gardens. If she tried, if she asked, a guard stepped before the thick perimeter of towering hedge and reminded her it wasn’t safe to leave the yard. Of course, even if she got past the hedge, she’d have to scale the rock wall behind it.

And go where? She’d often asked herself. She had no family she knew of, no friends to turn to. In a house surrounded by people, she was completely and utterly alone. And, she realized, had been the whole of her life.

She’d asked her father, begged and pleaded with him to take her out of the yard, onto his ship, or to bring her into the village she knew was nearby. As a child, she’d yearned to be allowed to go play in the sand with the other children she watched enviously from her window. She’d cried bitterly when he’d simply refused, told her she had everything she needed here, and ordered her to wipe her tears.

She’d made the mistake, only once, of opening her window and screaming for help. Her father had raged in, face red in anger, breath heaving like a wild bull. It was the only time he’d struck her but as her jaw had hurt for days after the blow, it had also been enough to keep her from doing so again. As had the threat his guards would do the same if she ever dared such disobedience in his absence.

And so she stayed, obedient and meek as the days melted into weeks, the weeks drifted into months, and the months bled into years.

But it hadn’t stopped her from staring out her window and dreaming of life outside her prison walls. Reality struck her hard when she had her seventeenth birthday. Was this her lot in life? Was she to waste her years staring out a window and wandering the yard as a prisoner? Was she truly willing to sit back and let her father, and all who worked for him, dictate the rest of her life? Was she willing to let them all get away with it, with no more than one token attempt to change her circumstances?

The answer came clearer than the bells which tolled from town every Sunday morning.

She would, absolutely not, accept that her life was to be spent confined and sheltered without having loved and been loved in return, without having lived. And so the dreaming at the window turned to planning. She spent countless hours and days memorizing the staff’s routines, the guards’ schedules. She napped during some afternoons in order to remain awake through the night to study the guards. Did they doze at night or were they vigilant? What time did the gardeners leave? How many servants and guards worked throughout the day as compared to throughout the night?

She took her time assembling her answers and wrote every detail down lest she forget a vital piece. There was only going to be one chance at escape and she wasn’t going to ruin it by rushing. She took long walks in the gardens where she asked Henry about the flowers that grew. Such pretty flowers, she praised. So pretty and sweet smelling, why they smelled better than some of the food she’d eaten. She grinned when he told her that some likely were.

She put her hand to her throat. “You mean you can eat them?”

“Some, yes, of course.”

“Oh, but only in these gardens. Surely not anywhere else.”

“Of course, anywhere. Come, child, I’ll show you.” And he proceeded to tell her, in great lengths, just which were good to eat and which weren’t.

“I’ve read in books some flowers can be brewed into teas?”

“Yes, most certainly. And this one”—he’d pointed to a flowery pink bloom—“makes the best.”

“And it’s found elsewhere?” she asked.

“Aye, I’ve picked some meself near my home of an evening.”

She considered, followed him along some more until they approached the hedge and the vines weaving through them, clawing their way up the stone wall.

“Surely, you must have a magic potion or some wizardry in you.”

The look he gave her said he wasn’t sure if she’d praised or insulted him.

“Do vines always grow so thick? Or do you bewitch them to get such sturdy growth?” She gave it a hard tug to emphasize her point, and while doing so, weighed possibilities.

“They do their own growing, miss, but you would be right in that they are sturdy. I’ve some of the same growing at me home and me sons have been known to use them as a ladder to get into places they shouldn’t be going.”

She laughed along with him and gave them a considering look before she bid Henry good day.

And so it went, between her lessons on sewing, cooking, and needlework, Sarah gathered information. By the time her eighteenth birthday was within sight, she had her plan as ready as it was going to get. She had the pieces to make it work, but before her lay the hardest part, ensuring those pieces fell into their proper places at the precise moments. It was a daunting task, to be sure. And failure, she knew, would only result in making things worse than they already were. Yet the thought of doing nothing, of continuing on day by day and year by year as she’d been doing was far more daunting than failing.

So, with the vision of spending the rest of her days in the house propelling her, and knowing the timing was perfect, Sarah made her way to her bedroom just as her maid, Sophia, was snapping fresh sheets onto her bed. Smiling brightly, she strolled into her sun-washed bedchamber, where the salty sea air blew in through the open window. She grasped an end of the sheet, pulled it to the corner of the mattress.

“Miss Sarah!” Sophia gasped. She yanked the sheet from Sarah’s hands. “What would Mrs. Bingham say if she were to come in and see you making your own bed? And me allowing you? She’d box my ears!” Then as if she were afraid of just that happening, she cast a hurried glance over her shoulder. The doorway was empty. Sophia clutched the sheet to her chest and uttered a quiet prayer she hadn’t been caught.

“Mrs. Bingham is in the kitchen, helping Mary and Isabelle with the preserves, you need not worry about her.” And neither, thank the Lord, did Sarah. At least for the moment.

“I always worry about her,” Sophia muttered.

Then stepping between the bed and Sarah, leaving Sarah no choice but to step back, Sophia flicked the sheet over the mattress once more. “It’s a lovely day out; you should be outside enjoying the afternoon. It isn’t proper for you to be here while I’m cleaning.”

Sarah bit her lip.
And so it begins
. “It could also be said that a proper lady should turn away from the window when she sees two people locked in a passionate embrace under the glow of the moon.” She grinned when Sophia spun, horrified, to gape at her. “But she didn’t.”

“Oh!” Horror turned to shame. Sophia began wringing her hands together. “Oh, miss, a thousand apologies. I know I shouldn’t—We shouldn’t—” Her eyes filled with fear. “Please don’t tell Mrs. Bingham!” she begged. “I’ll lose my position as she’s sure to tell your father and if he found out…”