Kiss From a Rogue (25 page)

Tony grimaced. This trip couldn’t possibly be any worse than the last time he’d been on board a ship. “What else can I do?”

Alistair rested his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Does she know you love her?”

Tony blinked at him.

“Oh, dear Lord, even you didn’t know you’re in love with her. You poor sod.” Alistair shook his head. “That poor girl.” He turned back to Nick, and they discussed Tony’s apparent mental deficiencies.

Tony sat down with a thump on the nearest bollard, untangled his feet from the mooring rope, and tried to sort things out.

Love?

Must be. Why else would he want to spend the rest of his life with her? Why else had it felt like a knife had been plunged between his ribs when she told him good-bye?

He thought back on the tempestuous ten days he had spent in Sylvia’s company. Thought of all the bruises and blisters he’d developed, the blood he’d shed. The hard manual labor he’d performed, the adventures he’d had, the risks he’d taken.

The most wonderful night and morning of his life he’d spent, with Sylvia in his arms. The hours and minutes spent in her company.

He’d do it all over again, in a heartbeat, for the chance to spend more time with her.

He didn’t want to be a rake. He wanted to be a husband. A
real
husband, this time.

Sylvia’s husband.

Tony jumped to his feet. “How soon can we cast off?”

S
ylvia paced on the tiny beach of Arish Mel in the center of Worbarrow Bay, and peered through her spyglass. Still no sign of Ruford.

Mrs. Spencer’s sister, a serving maid at Ruford’s favorite inn in Swanage, had sent word that he planned to meet with Teague today. Based on the tide tables and wind, he should arrive any time now.

They would have to execute their plan perfectly. Subdue Ruford’s men, take over the ship, and sail out of the bay before Teague arrived for their meeting. Every second would count.

This idea had a much better chance of succeeding than taking over while Ruford delivered a load to Teague. Had they overlooked any detail? For the hundredth time, she wondered if their preparations were adequate. This had come together much too fast. They should have taken days, perhaps even weeks, to plan such an attack.

But if they had more time to contemplate their actions, they would never go through with it.

She glanced at the rocks on the beach and cliffs that lined the bay. Even knowing where they had concealed themselves, she could barely make out her men, all barefoot and ready to swim out to the
Polly Anne
. Jimmy wore a scarf to hide his shock of red hair. He crouched beside Trent, who was practically chortling with glee at the prospect of boarding Ruford’s ship.

Since they were the youngest and the oldest in the gang, respectively, she had tried to discourage them both from participating. But Jimmy would not be denied, and Trent reminded her that he swam the width of Lulworth Cove every morning before breakfast, and had done so for the past sixty years. It was Trent who taught Jimmy how to swim like a seal beneath the water’s surface.

They saw her staring, and each flashed a reassuring grin. In return she lifted the corners of her mouth and bared her teeth, the closest she could come to a smile.

Doyle and Sawyer stood nearby, their bulk and coiled strength offering some comfort and hope for success. As soon as the
Polly Anne
was sighted, they’d row Sylvia out in the skiff. It was the only seaworthy vessel left in Lulworth Cove, saved from the bonfires because it had been in the inn’s workshed to be re-caulked. Spencer had assured her it was now seaworthy.

With what they had planned for today, a leaky rowboat was the least of their concerns.

How she wished Tony were here. He would have a quip at the ready for the men, would whisper something outrageous in her ear guaranteed to make her blush. His strength and leadership would assure their success.

But Tony was gone.

She’d sent him away before he had the chance to leave her.

She lifted her chin and swallowed down the lump in her throat. She would not cry over him anymore.

She’d wanted to think beyond the boundaries of her upbringing, act more like a smuggler in order to solve her own problems. Stealing a smuggler’s ship certainly fit the bill. She could do this without Tony’s help.

“There she is, my lady.” Sawyer pointed at the cutter trimming sail and making for the bay.

Sylvia took a deep breath. This plan was insane, and surely she belonged in Bedlam for having suggested it. But she had been tossed about by the whims of men and fate all her life, and given little or no say in the events that shaped her future. Until now she’d been resigned, if not actually content, to make the best of whatever situation befell her.

Now it was time she took the helm. With their own ship, they would not be at the mercy of a spineless sea captain or a cutthroat smuggler.

Sawyer and Doyle checked their weapons—knives tucked into their boots, pistols and a cutlass tucked in the sashes at their waist, hidden under their coats. Time for her to do the same. She checked the dagger in her half-boot, and hoped the folds of her cloak would conceal Montgomery’s ancient dueling pistol tucked into her own sash. Its twin was nestled beneath the folds of cloth in her basket.

Reluctantly, she removed her fichu and dropped it into the basket. Her gown’s neckline was everything that was proper, yet still exposed more décolletage than she was comfortable with for a meeting with Ruford. With any luck, the flesh on display would distract him from her true purpose until it was too late.

The
Polly Anne
grew close enough to see the men on deck without the aid of her spyglass. Both of her men were working near the railing on the main deck, as planned, within reach of the rope ladders. They had hired on while the ship was docked in Swanage yesterday.

“All right, gentlemen. Let’s go.” Waiting any longer would only make her more jittery, and she didn’t want to lose her nerve in front of her men.

Doyle assisted her into the skiff, and Sawyer pushed off. They quickly settled into the smooth swing-and-pull motion, rowing with powerful strokes.

She set her basket at her feet. Staring down at the planks, she couldn’t help thinking of the last time she’d been out on the water. Was that only two days ago? It seemed a lifetime.

She could still see Tipton’s lifeless body, his sightless eyes staring up at the sky. Remembered her overwhelming sense of relief when she saw Tony pop up in the water, alive and vibrant, how she had wept tears of joy. How she had curled up against his side on the sofa, in full view of the villagers congregated in the salon, her need to hold him and feel his heartbeat overriding all else.

Tony had made her feel like the most beautiful, most cherished woman in the world. Had helped her reach heights of pleasure she’d never before attained, had never even known were possible. Made her feel powerful and skilled as a lover, as though she gave him as much pleasure and joy as he gave her.

But that was all part and parcel of being a rake, wasn’t it? Part of what made a man a rake was his ability to make each woman feel like she was the most important woman in the world to him. Until he moved on to the next woman, his next conquest.

She was sure he’d moved on to his next conquest by now.

They pulled close enough to the port side to hear the men on deck. Ruford gave the order to heave to, and Crowther and McCutcheon passed along more commands.

Sylvia took a deep breath to steel her nerves. “Ahoy, Captain!”

Several men leaned over the bulwarks. A moment later Ruford joined them, his familiar lecherous leer in place. “My, my, my, what a welcome surprise.”

“The ladies from the village have sent a gift of smoked mackerel. May I come aboard?” Sylvia held her basket aloft.

Ruford gestured for his men to let down the rope ladder. “Yes, of course, my dear.” His expression of delight clouded briefly when Doyle climbed the ladder first, but returned when Sylvia slung the basket handle over her arm and headed up. Sawyer secured the skiff and hurried after her before the ladder could be retracted.

Sylvia took a moment to get her bearings. It had been a long time since she’d been aboard this large a ship. There was half a forest of wood making up the decking and railings and masts, and a mile of ropes in the rigging and neatly coiled on the deck. Several men were balanced on the ratlines high above, furling the sails, while others tended to chores on the deck.

The ship was big, clean, had lots of cargo space below, and was very fast, according to Ruford’s claims. Perfect for their needs.

Corwin and Monroe were among those hurrying to and fro on the deck. She hoped they had already dropped another rope ladder over the starboard side.

Knowing Ruford would follow, Sylvia casually strolled toward the stern of the ship. Doyle followed close behind, though Sawyer stayed near Crowther. The first mate hardly spared him a glance, so busy was he reprimanding two mates who had not belayed ropes properly.

Doyle had his hand on the butt of his pistol. Sylvia gave a slight shake of her head. She wanted to give Ruford one more chance. She held out a package of mackerel to the captain. “The ladies of the village feel that we can offer you an arrangement that would be much more beneficial to you than that offered by Mr. Teague.”

Ruford paused in unwrapping the fish. “The ladies?”

“Because of the shipwreck that claimed Montgomery and so many other men last year, there are several widows in the village. Lonely women.” She allowed Ruford a moment to ponder the implications. “If you were to reprovision your ship’s stores in Lulworth Cove, Spencer can provide you goods at a cost comparable to what you pay in Swanage. And while you are at anchor, your men could have the advantage of home-cooked meals.”

Ruford rubbed his chin. “Home-cooked meals, eh?” He caressed her shoulder. “And would there be…other advantages…of being in the home?” He sidled a little closer to her.

Sylvia swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat. “That would be open for negotiation on an individual basis.” She took a few steps back, until her backside pressed up against the stern railing. “In exchange, we would expect, of course, to be the recipients of all of your cargo loads each month.”

Ruford’s hand dropped to his side. He darted his gaze to the cliffs that rimmed the bay, as though he expected to see someone. Sylvia half expected to see Teague there, too. She could almost hear Ruford weighing the consequences of his decision, his lust for her and fear of Teague fighting for dominance. At length he shook his head. “I’m very sorry, my dear. Tempting as your offer is, I must decline.”

Sylvia hadn’t really expected him to give in, but it still twisted something inside her to have to actually go through with their plan. She was crossing a line, one that she’d never thought she’d get anywhere near. There would be no going back after this.

She took a last glance around the ship, hoping everyone was ready and in place. She reached under her cloak. “Then I’m very sorry, too.” She pulled out her pistol and pointed it at Ruford’s heart. “You’ve left us no choice. Please ask your men to stand aside, Captain. We’re taking over the ship.”

Ruford laughed. “Very amusing, my sweet little vixen.” He reached for the pistol. “Give me the gun.”

Sylvia cocked the pistol.

Ruford lunged for the weapon. Doyle wrapped his arm around Ruford’s neck. At the same time, Sawyer hit the first mate on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. As Crowther crumpled to the deck, Corwin and Monroe each pushed two crew members over the side. Jimmy and Trent scrambled aboard, sopping wet, and shoved a few more sailors over the side. As the rest of her men climbed up, more of Ruford’s men were shoved over the railing or pushed down below the hatches.

Doyle wrestled Ruford down to the deck. Sylvia pointed her pistol at the men up in the rigging who had started to climb down. “Stay right where you are!” she shouted. She brought her other hand up to help steady the weapon.

They looked uncertain, but to her great relief stayed where they were, at least for now. Sawyer and the others had their hands full with the remaining sailors on deck.

Jimmy took a blow to the belly and doubled over, but then rammed his shoulder into his opponent’s stomach and shoved the much larger man backward over the railing. Trent grabbed one man by the arm and swung him around until he knocked heads with his crewmate. Both sailors fell to the deck, unconscious. So far, everyone had used only their fists. There were a lot of bloody noses, but no one had been stabbed or shot. Yet.

She spared a glance for the beach and the paths down to it. Oh, blast. At least a dozen men were filing into boats and heading toward the
Polly Anne
. Sylvia pulled out her spyglass.

Teague was in the lead boat with four other men.

Doyle had pinned Ruford to the deck, arms behind his back. Sylvia plucked Ruford’s tricorne from the deck, straightened the feather, and put the hat on her head, symbolizing the change in authority.

The brawling continued on the deck, though the number of men still conscious had dwindled.

Teague drew closer.

Sylvia tried to make a two-fingered whistle, but got nothing but a huff of air for her efforts. “Listen to me!” The fighting continued unabated.

She rang the ship’s bell, clanging it until her ears rang with the echoes. The men gradually stopped fighting and stared at her. “Listen to me!” Satisfied she had everyone’s attention, Sylvia held her pistol shoulder-high, the other hand resting possessively on the ship’s wheel. “We’re taking over the
Polly Anne
. You can either sail with us willingly, or go overboard now.”

“But I can’t swim,” whined one of Ruford’s men.

“There is a skiff tied to the port side. Help yourself.” Sylvia waved the pistol in the general direction of the port bow. “The rest of us are going to head for Cherbourg.”

“You’ve gone daft in the head,” Crowther said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his skull.

Sylvia shook her head. “Toss him over.”

Sawyer and Monroe helped Crowther to his feet. When he realized they were serious, he shook them off and climbed down the rope ladder to the skiff, muttering curses as he went.

“Anyone else?” Sylvia scanned the faces of the men turned toward her. Everyone stayed where they were, including McCutcheon, the second mate.

Ruford sputtered. “You’re actually stealing my ship?”

“Borrowing. Just for the season.” She adjusted her hat. “Now give the commands that will get us moving out into the Channel, please.”

Doyle allowed Ruford to sit up. “You can’t be serious.” Ruford glared at Sylvia, or rather at his hat on her head.

“You can either be my first mate, or fish bait. I leave the choice entirely up to you.”

Ruford folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t have a chance without me. You’ll run aground before you can even get out of the bay. If by some miracle you do make it out to the Channel, you’ll be dismasted the first time the wind changes direction.”

She shook her head. “Trent knows these shores even better than you do. He is happy to come out of retirement to pilot us across the Channel and back. And between the two of them, Trent and Doyle have forgotten more than you’ve ever learned about sailing a ship.” She leaned a little closer, making sure to still stay upwind of him. “So again, I offer you the choice,
Mister
Ruford. Give the commands to get us moving, or go for a swim.”