“Where away, Cap’n?” Pye shouted.
“Leave the wreckage for the preventative men. Walsingham must be our chief concern now.” With every fiber of his being he wanted to sail to the cove and storm the Roost with his men, but he had to be patient.
As the Fury closed the gap between the Windraker and the Viper, two boats appeared.
“Deck there!” He lifted his gaze to the main top. “Two jolly boats steering toward shore.”
“If you want to get even with Carnage, now’s your chance, sir.” Quinn’s body was tense, prepared for a fight. “Pay him back in kind. Blow his ship out of the water and make him watch.”
“Sly devil.” Markwick appreciated Quinn’s strategy. “Hell’s fury, they truly are headed to the Roost.” His skin crawled and his blood boiled as a fiery caldron of hate consumed him. “If he—”
“A bold stroke, but we cannot be sure they’re going to the Roost, Cap’n. This coast is riddled with caves. He could be going to any one of them. Walsingham needs us.”
Torn by his responsibilities, Markwick ripped the mask off his face. Why did fate cut him down before he ever had a chance at happiness? First Pru, then his father, and now Chloe. As he saw it, he only had two options left: help Walsingham or rescue Chloe. But either way he lost. Walsingham and his men would drown if he didn’t act fast.
“She’s got five of our men to protect her, Cap’n. Walsingham stands to lose more right now.”
“Aye.” He didn’t need to be reminded. “Make way for the Windraker.” He motioned to his gun crew, pointing at the Viper. “Send her to hell!”
Within minutes, sparking fuses rent the air and red flashes ignited.
Ftoom! Ftoom!
The Fury recoiled, her ribs shaking underfoot as a heavily charged broadside erupted, the Fury’s quarterdeck and gun deck teeming with smoke and sulphur.
As the smoke cleared, the Viper splintered into hundreds of pieces, vaulting into the air then raining down on the water in a pitter-patter of hissing sound.
Markwick moved into action. “Tack for the Windraker! Prepare a launch! We don’t have any time to waste.”
Pye broke away from the helm and wove through the chaos to reach Markwick’s side. “We’ll pay a steep price for this, Cap’n.”
“It cannot be helped.” There would be no living with himself if he allowed Walsingham to die.
“His Lordship knows there be no place for two cap’ns aboard ship. That’s why you are here and he isn’t.”
Pye’s judgment was sound but erroneous. Though he’d served with Blackmoor, the duke’s days of piracy were done. He had a child on the way, leaving Pye under Markwick’s command.
“I’m here because Blackmoor is needed elsewhere,” Markwick corrected. “No more, no less.”
“He’ll ’ave murder in his eyes, he will. You’re playin’ with fire.”
“My hand is already at a disadvantage, Pye. Chloe knows who I am.”
“That one? She’d die keeping your secret. I’d stake my life on it.”
It was obvious Chloe had bewitched Pye.
“Would you, now?” Aye, Markwick knew she’d keep his secret. How many of her own had she kept, after all? And now, he was the one gutted by thoughts of never seeing her again, never being given the chance to love her as she should be loved.
“That one sees more in ye than ye see in yourself, Cap’n. I ask ye, is that so wrong?” He barely paused before continuing. “I don’t think so. You’ve proved yourself capable of captaining this ship a hundred times over.”
Markwick grimaced. But could he stake all their lives on it? “You’d make a good politician.”
Pye knitted his brows and yanked up his trousers. “And be forced to accommodate a guise for the ton? I’d rather wear a corset and parade about in me nethers.”
Markwick threw his head backward and laughed, releasing pent-up anxiety and easing the tension that rifled through his body. “That would be a sight I’d pay to see.”
He slapped Pye on the back. The very image of peg-legged Pye parading around in a corset—and nothing else—in front of Lady O and his aunt, Lady Barrow, the Duke and Duchess of Blackmoor, and notable landed gentry, including powerful members of the church in Exeter, would offer a ridiculous exhibition.
But Exeter and his old life were not important right now. He’d worked hard to make amends with Blackmoor, Barrett, Standeford, and Landon. Though, no matter what his father had done or whether or not his friends would overlook who’d sired him, he wouldn’t be alone as long as Chloe was there. The impish girl had always been part of his life, her effervescent character never far beyond reach. While he’d ignored her purposefully, to this day, she still knew him better than he did himself. She’d believed in him, sought him out, and sailed to her own destruction to find him. No, inimitable Chloe wouldn’t give him away. But if he didn’t save Walsingham, Chloe would never look at Markwick the same again.
He glanced away from Pye, his previous smile sinking as he trained his attention on Walsingham’s ship. “You’ve made your point. Take over. I’m going to get Walsingham.”
Quinn muscled his way through the hangers-on. “No, Cap’n. He’d just as soon drown you as let you help him. I’ll go.”
Pye attempted to protest, but Markwick held up his hands. “I insist that we do this together, Quinn,” he said, tying his mask back in place. “It’s my duty. He’s my friend. I also promised Lady Chloe I’d rescue her brother and I shall.”
Several loud cheers erupted from the men gathering ’round. There was no use pretending that Chloe hadn’t earned his crew’s support during the short time she’d been on board.
He smiled, struck dumb by the irony. They’d been won over in a matter of hours; he’d fought his attraction for years. As he glanced at Pye’s peg leg, he made a vow to remedy that.
“You”—he pointed his finger at Pye—“work better with a firmer foundation underfoot, and you know it. You’re the heart of this crew. If anything happens to me, take command, send a party to retrieve Lady Chloe and Jane from the Marauder’s Roost, and deliver her directly to His Lordship.”
“Aye, sir,” Pye agreed, shaking Markwick’s hand. “You can count on me.”
Markwick turned his attention to Quinn. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed Quinn’s massive forearm when the man started to leave the quarterdeck. “Let the men know to insist that Captain Walsingham accept our hospitality. Chain him up. Cosh him over the head, if you have to. Teague went down with his ship. I will not allow Walsingham to do the same. He will be returning with us, one way or another.”
“Aye, sir.” Quinn frowned disapprovingly, then pivoted his boots toward the entry port rail. He hailed several men to accompany him down the battens.
The men followed like a trail of ants foraging for food.
Markwick rallied a second group of men under crew members Evans and York. Barefooted and well-armed with pistols and cutlasses, both men followed, scaling down the battens to the launch and pinnace tied to the Fury’s hull. Once there, the clunk and grind of oars began as the boats shoved off, then dipped and splashed in the cresting swells.
On the open water ahead, the Windraker, which was now a former shell of her master’s pride, creaked and moaned, her timbers protesting under the strain as pressure built up in her hull and she took on water. Sail and tackle fell onto the deck, clattering like writhing snakes. Jagged oak and teak beams jutted out at dangerous angles.
On her quarterdeck, Captain Pierce Walsingham rallied his men, gesturing toward the approaching boats, guiding his men to their one surviving jolly boat to escape the sinking vessel before they were swept under with her.
Cries for help reached their ears at different intervals, and one by one, Markwick’s crews hauled the injured aboard on their way to the foundering ship. Upon their arrival at the ship’s damaged hull, they stationed their boats and shouted to those who could hear them.
Walsingham stood on the Windraker’s sha
ttered deck. When he caught sight of Markwick, he hailed him. “Have you come to finish us off, Regent?”
“Murder isn’t my style,” he said.
Walsingham stiffened and turned white as a sailmaker’s canvas. His frown turned menacing. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night, pirate?” He fingered the hilt of his sword and began to unsheathe it.
“No. It is who I am.” Markwick raised his arms to the back of his head, grinning as Walsingham’s irritation grew. He untied his mask and slowly lowered it.
“Markwick?” Walsingham staggered back, nearly losing his footing. “It can’t be! No.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. If you are . . . That makes us—”
“Friends,” Markwick finished for him.
“I am no pirate’s accomplice.” The revenue man shifted his front leg forward, his cold-blooded stare blazing something akin to hatred. “It has been you all this time.” He hesitated, frowning, brow furrowed, a look of utter confusion and betrayal marring his features. “How you must have laughed at my expense!”
“There’s no time to explain.” Walsingham needed to be prodded back to clarity and fast. “I have something you want.”
“You?” Walsingham quirked a superior brow. “Besides a working ship, what could you possibly have that I’d want?”
“Your sister.”
Chapter 12
EXCISEMEN, pressured by HIS MAJESTY, have stepped up PURSUITS of CARNAGE often to DISADVANTAGE on the sharp slate ROCKS of the MANACLES.
~ Sherborne Mercury, 6 August 1809
Stopped at the edge of a clearing, and within view of the inn, Chloe’s annoyance at Owens increased as he conferred with his men. What were they waiting for?
“We’ll enter the inn at different intervals so we don’t look suspicious.” Owens motioned to Madden and Jenkins. “I’ve instructed Madden and Jenkins to signal us if it’s safe. They’ll go first.”
“Aye, sir,” they replied, immediately moving toward the inn.
Chloe felt an immediate sense of loss, even though the two men had tied her up and taken her from Markwick’s ship against her will. They were crude, loyal pirates, and Pierce had warned her to listen to her instincts. At this moment, they were screaming for a return to the cove, and she knew her chances of survival were better with those two men.
“Why must we go in separately?” she asked. “What’s wrong with us traveling together?”
“The Cornish are an insular people, my lady. They don’t trust strangers. We haven’t got horses to water and a post-chaise hasn’t delivered us here. It’s best if we go in groups of twos and threes, especially with the fracas happening below.” He inhaled a deep sigh. “Don’t fret.”
His desire for her not to worry only increased her discomfort. She wasn’t a simpleton. In fact, he’d take offense if he knew what she thought about his plan.
The two burly, unkempt men stepped away from the tall-hedged ridge, glanced around, and then shiftily moved across a grassy heath leading to a cobbled courtyard. Beyond the enclosure stood several stone buildings connected by a gate and well-worn paths. A sign hung above the main entry, squeaking an eerie rhythm as it rode the breeze, its inscribed message announcing the thatch-roofed building was indeed the Marauder’s Roost.
Iron lanterns, tarnished by time and the elements, swung from the building’s beams. Candlelight streaming through uneven slats in the shuttered windows promised Chloe and Jane sanctuary from the cold, bitter wind, and a place to lay their weary heads.
Chloe bit her lip and shivered, longing to warm her fingers and toes beside a roaring fire. And she couldn’t hold back her impatience when she saw that Jane was suffering more than she was, if that was possible. “If you insist on us seeking sanctuary here, how long must we wait? Jane is catching her death.”
Owens didn’t acknowledge her until Markwick’s men entered the building. “Until I know it’s safe, my lady.”
Chloe released a pent-up breath. She grabbed Jane’s hands and rubbed warmth back into them. “Won’t it be good to sit by the fire, Jane?”
“Oh yes, m’lady.” Jane, her shoulders stiff and unyielding, was clearly trying to control her quaking body. “I never thought I’d be so ’appy to see a stone cottage before. And I don’t think I’ll complain about ever being ’ungry again in my life.”
Chloe hugged Jane to her side. “In this we are of one accord!”
Madden emerged from the doorway under the guise of stomping the mud from his boots. He hailed Owens with a salute.
The boatswain turned to face Chloe and Jane. “Stay with me. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about the reason for your presence here. Understood?”
She understood very well. This is a dangerous place!
“Danger has many faces, Chloe,” Pierce had once told her. “Listen to your instincts.”
“What are you asking us to do?” she said now, her senses humming. “Lie about our circumstances if we are asked?”
“No, my lady. But we have no way of knowing how the battle at sea has affected them. They are bound to have heard the cannons and will likely be leery of those who happen upon their door.” Owens touched his chin thoughtfully. “Just keep to yourselves. That’s all I ask. I’ll do the rest.”
Fiske grumbled. “Move along, then. I’ve worked hard for a tankard of rum, and I’m eager to get it.”
Owens stiffened. “You’ll get your rum. But I’ll take the ladies first. Wait several moments before following us inside the Roost.”
“Aye.” Fiske’s eyes gleamed, giving Chloe the impression that the seaman wasn’t listening. Would he make trouble for them?
She tried to ignore the prickly sensations snaking over her body as she glanced around the barren landscape. “I wonder how many people stray into an inn like this . . .”
“Stranger things have happened, believe me.” Owens gave her a reassuring nod. “Now remember what I said about keeping your mouths shut.”
As they left their hiding place, a gust of unforgiving wind caught Chloe and Jane off guard. Jane lost her footing, and Chloe reached out an arm to right her. Each woman pulled her pelisse collar higher over her neck as their staccato footsteps echoed throughout the courtyard, the sounds unnatural in this wild, abandoned place.
What a brutal living the people must’ve led here. And what a boon it must be to weary travelers, like themselves, who find it. Not only that but being situated on a cliff face, there was nothing to brace the stones and thatched roof from the elements. How did anyone even survive here? She’d heard how cruel these climes could be, how fierce the wind howled, how desolate and alone one often felt perched on these high cliffs with nothing but the sea for company.
Chloe was struck then by the similarities of the Marauder’s Roost and the lonely, dark, eccentric abodes in gothic novels where villainy, secrets, and impassioned affairs of the heart held sway. Would she find such things within the inn as captivating or as frightening as the characters in her books? She prayed fiction and reality didn’t meet here with a vengeance.
Suppressing a shiver, she approached the Roost’s entrance, inspecting three upstairs windows rising high above the doorway. The mere thought of acquiring a bed within caused fatigue to wash over her. Her knees nearly gave way. As tired as she was, however, she didn’t think she could possibly lay her head down on a pillow—if only for a few hours—without closing her eyes and reliving the sounds of death and destruction on the Mohegan and imagining that Markwick and her brother were experiencing more of the same. She needed—no, craved—time to pray, hope, imagine, and dream that Markwick and her brother were alive. That her true love would come for her, just as he promised, lavishing her with romantic gestures and speaking soothing words to vanquish the darkness. Until he did, sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
But it was not so for Jane, and it would be inconsiderate of Chloe to ignore Jane’s needs.
Owens exhibited a moment of gentlemanly behavior as he opened the door—a
protesting, squealing thing—alerting whoever lurked within that someone was entering his or her domain. The rowdy laughter coming from inside the inn instantly quieted her thoughts before the joyous noise inside abruptly stopped. A number of penetrating, suspicious stares turned toward the entrance to observe the latest additions to the toasty lodgings.
Chloe braced herself against the leather-faced men devouring her person like cannibals salivating over a ritualistic feast. Dressed in coats, sea breeches, untidy scarves, and soiled linen or calico shirts in various states of damage, several of the men merely sat there smoking their clay pipes, watching the intruders. The quiet lasted only a couple of minutes before each man returned to his previous interests, ignoring them as if Chloe and the others did not exist.
A smoky haze filled the main room, and chairs squealed on the worn oak floor. Pewter chinked against tableware and blackjacks—watertight leather tankards covered in pitch—were raised before riotous laughter erupted again.
At the back of the main room, apparently serving as a tavern to locals and travelers alike, a large stone hearth, built out of what looked like a collection of Druid stones, beckoned to Chloe, its coals blazing with spectral flames that were sparking and hissing to life. Owens easily ignored Madden and Jenkins, who were sitting by the bar, as he led Chloe and Jane to a group of tall mahogany benches near the great hearth.
Drawn to its warmth, Chloe stopped before the hearthside stones, selfishly absorbing the heat they provided. Monolithic in size, with two smaller stones bracing the interior, the immense fireplace jutted out from the wall, a monstrous heating source radiating from its throne along an oak-paneled wall.
Jane joined her there, lifting the hem of her pelisse to let her frozen wet toes warm up, then stretched her hands toward the blazing embers with a satisfied sigh.
“Ye’ll both be warm soon enough,” a kindhearted voice chimed nearby.
Chloe skimmed the immense wooden counter to her left, catching sight of a red-haired woman swabbing down the surface. Tall and lean, the arresting beauty had wavy hair loose and flowing over her shoulders and down her back, the crown braided away from her oval face. She appeared almost dwarfed by the massive beams and wooden planks of the bar, which resembled a ship’s stern.
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