Ransome's Quest (25 page)

The eyes of the crew speared him with their distaste for his kind and their displeasure at his presence on their ship. Although a few…he followed their gazes upward to the poop deck.

Charlotte raised her hand in greeting with a tentative smile.

He mustered a smile in return but gave no other outward sign he’d noticed her. Until he knew his own destiny, no need to give the crew any further reason to distrust having a woman aboard.

The officers of the watch in the wheelhouse saluted the Irish lieutenant as they passed by. Only once before had Salvador spent any time on a vessel larger than a frigate with a poop deck that shielded the sailing master and his mates at the wheel from the elements and a big cabin that opened onto the quarterdeck instead of being squirreled-away below it like an afterthought.

He had to give credit to the British shipbuilders. They knew how to design a craft that would create a sense of intimidation.

At the lieutenant’s knock, a burly sailor with pockmarked skin opened the door to the dining cabin and motioned him to enter.

The lieutenant stepped aside, and Salvador took that as his cue to go in alone. A long, highly polished mahogany table stretched the width of the room, ten chairs surrounding it. Ned Cochrane stood behind the chair in the center of the table directly opposite the door. Though concerned about his own future, Salvador wondered how the conversation about Charlotte between Ned and Commodore Ransome had gone.

Girding up his courage, Salvador turned to his left, removing his hat.

The man who stood at the head of the table exemplified everything a Royal Navy captain—or in this case, commodore—should be: of good height, but not overly tall, trim of build, and with piercing eyes that announced he would brook no opposition.

Ned made the introduction. “Commodore William Ransome, this is El Salvador de los Esclavos, captain of the frigate
Vengeance.”

“Please have a seat, Captain Salvador.”

As soon as all three were seated, Commodore Ransome leaned forward and clasped his hands atop the table. “Captain Cochrane informs me that he has come to an agreement with you. That in exchange for leniency in the charge of abducting Miss”—William closed his eyes a moment and then seemed to regain his composure—“Mrs. Cochrane, you have agreed to assist in hunting down the pirate Shaw to rescue Mrs. Ransome.”

“Aye, Commodore. As surety, I sent my first mate aboard
Audacious
.”

“Yes, Mr. Cochrane informed me of this as well. And while the explanation that Mr. Declan is your future brother-in-law might be enough to make Captain Cochrane trust you, that is not good enough for me.” Commodore Ransome touched the pile of papers near the corner of the table. “I have report here of your misdeeds going back about ten years. So why should I believe you would turn your back on your unscrupulous ways once this alliance ends?”

The time had come. Salvador straightened his coat and rolled his neck. “Commodore Ransome, perhaps I should tell you about myself. At twelve years old, I entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman. My father had great expectations for me and constantly compared my actions, my feats, my successes to someone else, a young man who had become like a son to him. My father seemed to delight in pointing out my failures and explaining how this other young man had done better. So I worked harder. I finally gained promotion to a larger vessel under the command of a captain with a legendary reputation. Once I arrived on his ship, I discovered him to be a cruel taskmaster who played favorites and set his officers against each other.”

Salvador shuddered, remembering the beatings and the ridicule he’d received for not being strong enough or fast enough or smart enough. “The captain sent spurious reports of me to my father, who believed him over his own son. My father wrote to me, berating me, and told me to study longer and work harder. He also shared the successes of the young man I know he wished had been born to him rather than me.”

He locked his eyes on Commodore Ransome’s to judge his reaction to the story. So far, he showed none. “The autumn after I turned fifteen, my ship was tasked with hunting down a notorious pirate. We scoured the coast of Jamaica, Antigua, and Barbuda. In Montserrat, we were told where we could find the pirate, so we set off to find him. I suggested to the first lieutenant that the informant had misrepresented himself and was sending us into a trap. But because the captain did not like me, none of the officers heeded me. A day out from Montserrat, we were set upon by the pirate. Most of the officers were killed in the attack. The sailors were left on the hulled ship as it sank. The rest of us were taken aboard the pirate ship and told our families would be contacted for ransom. If the family could not or would not pay, we would have a choice put before us: death or joining the crew.”

William Ransome’s expression grew stony. Salvador did not have to guess which choice he would have made. “In the meantime, they put us to work. The captain took a liking to me. For the first time in my life, a man in a position of authority over me encouraged me and showed pride in my accomplishments. When six months had passed and no ransom came from my family, the captain put the choice to me. I do not believe I have to tell you what choice I made.”

“That is all very well, but I fail to see how this tale is supposed to convince me to trust you now.”

“Though I appreciated the captain’s belief in me, I did not agree with his methods. I had to stay with that crew until I had enough money of my own and could gather a crew of like-minded men. I showed the captain how he could ply his trade without all of the killing and mayhem. He took some of my suggestions. But still, I wanted to follow my own path. One day, when I was twenty, we came upon a ship coming out of port. It had just delivered its cargo—hundreds of slaves. I had no problem taking the ship, setting the crew adrift. When my captain began to divide the spoils and talked of burning the ship, I asked him if I could have the ship rather than payment.”

Salvador closed his eyes, remembering the dark hulk of a vessel. “It wasn’t much to look at, but it had good lines and was sound. A few men went with me and I recruited more. Men who would agree to abide by a strict code of conduct. Who were not after violence and notoriety, but who wanted to be at sea, who wanted to make a little gold, and who wanted to see justice done.”

He rolled his head from side to side again, the tension of reliving the past knotting his shoulders. “In the past ten years, we have liberated more than two hundred slave ships—saving thousands of souls from the degradation of human bondage. The slave ships we cannot get to before they deliver their cargo, we take as they come out of port. After all, my crew must be paid and my ship must be kept in repair.” And he occasionally liked to buy a new ship when one came on the market, as the current
Vengeance
had two years ago.

“And attacking ships from Tierra Dulce, a plantation that does not hold slaves? How do you justify that?” William Ransome raised a dark brow and pierced Salvador with his icy blue eyes.

“We prefer liberating slave ships before their cargo is delivered. We turn the ship over to the men and women aboard to sail back to Africa or to South America or wherever they wish to go. But they need money for food and to hire a crew if necessary. I give them the money and help them with what they need. This takes a more regular source of gold than raiding ships after they have completed their delivery.”

Salvador pulled a small journal—one that he did not keep hidden at the bottom of the trunk he’d bought for Serena—out of his pocket and handed it to the commodore.

William opened the book and slowly turned the pages. After several long minutes, he looked up. “This is a record of Tierra Dulce’s annual profits for each year since Sir Edward purchased the plantation, with an estimated net worth figured as well. Who gave you this?”

Salvador would go to his grave before admitting Jeremiah Goodland knew everything and had been passing him information for years. “That is not important. What is important is that I have kept an accounting of every farthing I have taken from the plantation. It equates to the annual income a son might expect from such a legacy.”

William snapped the book closed and slid it back down the table toward Salvador. “And why do you believe you are entitled to that? Simply because Sir Edward does not have a son does not mean that money is available for whoever wants to take it.”

Salvador rose and, pressing his fists against the tabletop, leaned over it. “Even though you tried to steal his affections away, Commodore Ransome, to ingratiate yourself to such a point he would turn his back on his own offspring, I regret to inform you that Admiral Sir Edward Witherington
does
have a son.”

He straightened and pushed his chair out of the way. “I am Michael Witherington.”

W
ith each thunderous boom and recoil, Julia prayed harder that the vessel attacking—or under attack from—
Sister Elizabeth
was not
Alexandra
or
Audacious
. Because Shaw had not come down to retrieve her from her closetlike prison, she hoped that meant it was not William. But she prayed for his safety anyway.

Her side and head ached. The vision in her right eye—when she was not locked in absolute darkness—was blurry. Her stomach churned with each movement of the ship. And, after days—weeks?—of captivity with no water for washing and no change of clothing, she probably smelled like the bilge.

When the battle ended, Julia’s ears rang in the silence. She pushed herself up to her feet and pressed her ear to the door of the tiny dungeon, trying to hear anything, but all she could make out were muffled voices and footsteps.

Wait. Those footsteps were coming closer. She backed up until pressed against the opposite wall of the small chamber.

The door swung open, and she shielded her eyes against the light from the lantern. “Commodore wants to see you.” The man reached in and grabbed her arm, pulling her along with him, laughing when she stumbled. Smoke filled the gun deck, but from the sounds of the voices this ship had been victorious.

At Shaw’s cabin the man pushed Julia inside. She tripped over the torn, soiled hem of her skirt, holding her bound hands out, reaching for anything to help steady her. But then she tripped over something. She twisted so her shoulder took the brunt of the fall instead of her face. She sat up to search for the obstacle and discovered she’d tripped over a man’s legs. Not just any man. A man in a Royal Navy captain’s uniform.

Not Ned. The man sprawled face down on Shaw’s floor had dark hair like William’s, not Ned’s light brown.

Apparently her tripping over him was the jolt necessary to bring him back to life. He groaned and rolled over.

Julia gasped. “Wi—” But no. Even though he greatly resembled her husband, there were enough differences to tell he wasn’t William. She looked up at Shaw. “What is going on here?”

“You don’t recognize him?” The dimples danced in Shaw’s cheeks. She was coming to loathe them.

“He resembles my husband.”

Shaw let out a laugh that filled the cabin. “How poetic. Well, then, let me introduce you. Julia Ransome, meet Captain James Ransome. Your husband’s brother.”

Shaw moved over James, grabbed his hair, and pulled his head back so that James had to sit up to keep the pirate from wrenching or even breaking his neck. “Be polite and greet your sister-in-law, Captain Ransome.”

“Release me, or I will—”

Shaw went down on one knee, whipped a dagger from his belt, and pressed it across James’s cheek, drawing blood. “I told you once already that you do not make demands of me.”

Julia grabbed her skirt in her hands and stood. After however long she’d been on this ship, she was becoming quite adept at maneuvering without the benefit of having her hands free. Questions rolled through her mind, but she kept them to herself, not wanting to put James or herself closer to Shaw’s rage.

She executed a shallow curtsey. “Captain Ransome, I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance. William, Charlotte, and your mother speak of you often.”

James seemed fearful of responding.

Shaw pushed him forward so he was almost doubled over. “You bow and say nice things to your husband’s wife. Like how sorry you are that you won’t get to spend much more time together.”

“M-Mrs. Ransome, I am honored to finally meet you. And may I wish you joy on your marriage to William.”

“Thank you.”

Shaw stood, pulling James up with him. When both regained their feet, Shaw shoved James toward Julia. She reached her hands out to steady him and keep him from knocking her over. His elbow hit her right side, and she gasped against the pain that shot through her chest.

“I do apologize, ma’am.” James wobbled a moment until catching the rhythm of the ship.

“James tells me he attacked my ship because he is looking for his sister. And since the two of you have never met, I have to assume it isn’t you he’s looking for.” Shaw waved the knife in Julia’s direction before using it to cut a slice from the apple he’d been eating when she entered. “Now, where can Miss Charlotte Ransome be, if not here?”

“Taken by someone else, apparently.” Julia kept her tone mild, observational.

This seemed to amuse Shaw. “Apparently. So James here has lost his ship and his men attacking me for something I don’t have.” He pulled one of the chairs out from the table and put his foot up on the seat and then leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. “His commanding officer is not going to be happy.”