Oriana laughed, a jolly sound devoid of mirth. “This fine lady is but one woman, not a hoard of vile creatures fleeing a sinking ship. There’s only one redhead ye need worry your head about in this inn, Jonas.”
Jonas took the bait, merriment twinkling in his eyes. “And just who would that be, eh?”
Oriana produced a breathtaking smile. “The one who can poison ye without ye knowin’ it.”
Boisterous laughter vaulted off the thick-beamed rafters overhead. Coals in the fireplace hissed and popped, sparks floating in the air only to instantly burn out. For a moment, Chloe imagined herself passing time in a castle keep, absorbed in the comforting comradery exploding around her. Perhaps Oriana felt it, too, and this sentiment was what kept her deeply rooted to this desolate place.
A door slammed, and then a heavy bolt shoved home, followed by thumping footfalls that stomped loudly from somewhere in the back of the inn.
Oriana paled. She spun into motion, brushing past Jonas as Clyde quickly pulled the burly, unkempt Jonas aside.
Shaken by their behavior and keenly aware that the noise disturbed them for reasons she couldn’t imagine, Chloe’s attention fastened on Jonas and Clyde as they conferred silently, then resumed their places at their table. Absorbed in perusing them over her mug of tea, Chloe didn’t notice Oriana draw near until it was too late.
She stopped suddenly before them, her mouth set in a grim line. She pitched her voice low, meeting Chloe’s eyes. “While I don’t know why ye are here, I assume it does have something to do with the ships down there. Keep to yourselves. Whatever ye do, do not anger my brother this night.”
“Clyde?” she asked hesitantly.
“Him?” Oriana’s laughter caught her off guard. “Clyde isn’t anything like my brother.”
Chloe hesitated to swallow the tea she’d just sipped. Oriana had seen easily through them. Would her brother do the same?
Chloe nodded slightly, quivering with dread as she regarded Oriana over the pewter rim of her mug. The barkeeper had been incredibly kind. In fact, she’d saved their lives—or at the very least, averted a brawl that might have led to bloodshed.
Oriana squeezed Chloe’s hand before returning to the bar. “Don’t be afraid.”
Except she was. Every nerve ending in her body clamored for her to run. She was convinced now more than ever that coming to the Roost was the worst possible decision Markwick could have made, however noble it had been. If she had learned anything reading her gothic romance books, it was that submissive females did not live long. Thankfully, her father had allowed her indulgent reading habits only if Pierce taught her the protective arts.
Desperation, mixed with a desire to see Markwick again, took hold. A bottle sat before her, its base coiled with rope, housing a candlestick that dripped steadily. Underneath it was a steel base where several spoons were laid out for future use. Beside her, near the huge hearth, were iron rods to stoke the flames.
She took another sip of tea, luxuriating in its warmth once more, contemplating exactly how she would protect Jane should the need arise.
Drip. Drip.
Ticktock. Ticktock.
She glanced at the longcase clock near the bar. Nine o’clock. It had been hours since she’d last seen Markwick. She steeled herself. She would see him again. And if anyone tried to stop her, there would be a rude awakening this night.
Chapter 13
REPORTS have surfaced that murdered REVENUE officers have washed up in RIVERS, their throats cut, as the motto “NO WITNESSES” continues to hold sway. CUSTOMS OFFICERS have stepped up patrols from CAWSAND to MEVAGISSEY to COVERACK in an effort to STAUNCH these unsolicited ATTACKS.
~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 13 August 1809
“What have you done with my sister?” Walsingham stepped forward, brandishing his sword with every intention of cutting Markwick down if he didn’t answer. “Where. Is. She?”
“Easy.” Markwick raised his hands calmly. He knew firsthand Walsingham’s skill with a sword. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you to her.”
The Windraker rocked, shifting unsteadily as the sea battered her hull.
Someone moaned, and Walsingham turned, immediately sheathing his sword. “She had better be safe or I’ll kill you.” He ambled across the slanted deck, struggling to clear a beam that was trapping one of his men.
“Give me a hand if you still have a decent bone in your body,” the revenue man shouted.
Markwick left the security of the launch. “I came to your rescue, didn’t I? And at the expense of our friendship . . .” He scrambled up the battered hull, bypassing upended decking and cannons, broken yardarms, networks of hazardous rope, and several of the dead on his way to join Walsingham. “Where away?”
The Windraker groaned an unnatural rejoinder.
Walsingham, a large, broad-shouldered man with an overbearing presence, pointed to a pair of motionless feet. “It’s my helmsman. He’s trapped.”
“Make it quick.” Markwick’s heart pounded against his ribs, making him wonder if his bones would break from the relentless force. If he didn’t assist Walsingham, he wouldn’t be able to convince the captain to abandon his ship.
“The beam there . . .” Walsingham’s face reddened, swathed in frustration. “It’s too heavy for one man. Can you lift it?”
“Aye.” Splinters gouged Markwick’s hands as he gripped the jagged wood, but he paid no heed to the pain as he hefted the beam high enough that Walsingham could manipulate the other end.
A man produced an audible moan as consciousness toyed with him underneath the fragmented wreckage.
Stirred by the repositioning of the debris, an overturned cannon truck strained against its breeching lines.
Hair rose on the back of Markwick’s neck. Hadn’t he just been through this on board the Mohegan? If the cannon broke free, the threat to their lives was terrifyingly clear. “Hurry. We haven’t much time!”
“You there!” Walsingham motioned to several men. “Grab Harper’s feet and pull him out!”
The Windraker shook, her quivering timber sending several men scrambling for safety within the launch. The cannon truck, wedged precariously against a cutter damaged by a lateen yard, ground out an ominous sound, broke free, and then pitched backward, barreling toward Markwick.
Markwick quickly sidestepped disaster, wedging himself against a masthead as the heavy iron gun rumbled past.
Walsingham appeared, reaching out to catch Markwick’s hand. The quick save kept Markwick from getting his foot caught in the carronade’s trailing rope and being dragged behind the cannon through a fracture that breached the deck into the hold below.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he said to Markwick.
And Walsingham would get a medal for it.
“Careful. Your men will think you’ve gone soft,” Markwick said matter-of-factly.
“Is that what you call it?” Walsingham’s piercing blue eyes fixed on Markwick’s hand. “Who is rescuing whom, eh?”
Markwick reluctantly smiled. “It appears I am indebted to you. Now if we don’t get off this ship, there will be the devil to pay.”
Walsingham hauled Markwick to his feet. “The devil always gets his due, Ma—”
“Let’s go.” Markwick sucked in a breath and dusted himself off, trying to keep Walsingham from saying his name aloud. He motioned for Walsingham to follow him. “Tell your ship good-bye. Your sister needs you.”
“For Christ’s sake, tell me what you have done with her!”
“She’s safe,” he said, trying to assure himself as much as he had Walsingham. “I sent her to the Marauder’s Roost.”
“You did what?” Walsingham stopped in his tracks. His face contorted. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Damn it, man! You sent her straight to the hornet’s nest!”
“In order to rescue you.” The admission cut Markwi
ck to the marrow of his bones.
“You chose me over Chloe?” Walsingham’s mouth pinched. His voice hardened perceptibly. “I’m going to kill you . . .”
Sickening shouts carried up from injured men trapped belowdecks. “Help! Captain!”
Walsingham scrambled to the fractured hull and peered inside. Several men waved frantically one deck below, unable to escape the rising water. It was a miracle the cannon truck hadn’t crushed them. “Hold on! I’m coming!”
Markwick gathered several lengths of rope, throwing one end to Walsingham. “I’ll tie this end to the rail. Send that one down.”
“Grab on,” Walsingham shouted to his men as he lowered the rope.
The ship shook, forcing Markwick to grapple for a foothold. When the rumbling stopped, Walsingham edged back toward the break in the deck.
He flicked the rope that was dangling into the depths. “Grab hold of the rope, men! We’ll pull you up!”
Markwick climbed back over various obstacles on deck, returning to the jagged hole. “Where are they?”
“I can’t see them anymore,” Walsingham shouted over the roaring ocean.
The moon broke free, illuminating what the fires on board couldn’t. A head bobbed, a mop of yellow hair waving back and forth. Then two more heads floated to the surface as the sea claimed more of the Windraker’s lower deck.
“Damn my blood!” Walsingham cursed. The ropes fell out of his hands. He collapsed to his knees. “We were too late.” His voice cracked.
Markwick swallowed sickly. He fisted his hands, understanding. It was one thing to lose a ship, but the men who’d brought her to life, too? “They’re gone, Wall.” He put his hand on Walsingham’s shoulder when the captain didn’t move. “We can’t help them now.”
“I was too late.” Walsingham searched the deck, taking in the damage, his face eerily drawn as he wiped seawater off his brow. “This is my fault. I did this.”
“No. You were doing your job. It’s Carnage’s fault,” Markwick spat, his anger growing. “And if we don’t act now, Chloe might face the same fate at the Roost.”
Walsingham’s jaw clenched visibly. “I know my duties.” The revenue man’s pride didn’t allow for failure, and Markwick knew it. “Never presume to tell me what to do, pirate!”
“Then get up! Your sister is worth more than beams of oak . . . to both of us!”
“Bloody hell, you know she is!” Walsingham’s eyes widened, blazing to life with savage intensity as he glanced into the flooded ship, then back to shore. “You sent her there, damn you. I don’t know which is worse, wanting to avenge my men and my ship or fighting the urge to kill you. Certainly you can understand the pull on my soul.”
The Windraker listed severely, nearly knocking Walsingham and Markwick off their feet. A rogue wave pummeled the hull, covering the deck in a frothy wash.
“I do. Curse me, I do!” Markwick shouted over the angry water. “Now help me save her.”
Markwick made his way to the launch, trusting Walsingham would follow. He’d done all he could do, though, and now Chloe needed them.
“Damn it, man!” Walsingham scrambled across yardarms, damaged canvas, and rigging, struggling for a foothold as waves, given more access to the deck, plumed over the wreckage. “I’ll kill you if anyone has harmed a hair on my sister’s head!”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He didn’t deserve to live if he’d sent Chloe into the lion’s den and she lost her life because of it. The thought of living out the rest of his days without her sickened him.
He pounded on the hull of the launch. “Go, Quinn!”
“Loose oars!” Quinn shouted, pointing his arm to the men in the launch.
Timber clunked against the gunwale. Oars sloshed in and out of the sea. The launch cut through the debris, arrowing a path to the Fury. Flames hissed, incinerating sails, igniting the stern, burning anything above the water. Waves responding to the tide pummeled the Windraker’s starboard hull.
Shadows distorted the angled planes of Walsingham’s face. His jaw was tense, his mouth twisted painfully, his fixed eyes—all of him absorbed every facet of the hell that Carnage had spawned. Markwick had never seen his friend look so crazed as he navigated among the huddled men—some wounded, others seeming not to know where they were—his hulking form within easy reach.
“My ship may be gone, but I’ll do anything to save my sister. I’ve been searching for her for months. Where did you find her?”
“She found me.” He purposefully omitted exactly how. Discovering she’d been nearly killed by Carnage, the very same man who’d just tried to kill Walsingham, would only enrage the man more.
“If you’ve done anything to her, if you’ve taken advantage, I shall run you through, Mar—”
“Heave!” Quinn shouted again, cutting off the revenue man. “Row, men! Row!”
Markwick stood by helplessly as Walsingham, defeated and dethroned, watched what was left of the Windraker as she listed toward her head.
“Pull, men! Pull us away, or we’ll get dragged down with her.”
“What is the pinnace doing, sir?” one of his crewmen asked.
Several men in the launch pointed aloft where a number of other crewmen, their feet caught in the ratlines, dangled from the Windraker’s splintered mainmast. Fed by the increasing southwestern wind, the flames danced, licking any dry wood that remained and spitting across the ship’s pierced and charring canvas, inching toward the hapless victims.
“Bear away, you fools!” Markwick yelled to the men in the pinnace. There was no way to save the others. He would remember their terrified screams for all his days. But the men in the pinnace didn’t obey his orders. They rowed toward the danger, not away from it, lifting their arms, prepared to catch the men who struggled to free their limbs.
“No, it’s too dangerous!” He propped his foot on the gunwale, yelling as loudly as his lungs afforded him at the stomach-turning sight. If his men didn’t bear off, they’d be putting their lives in jeopardy. He waved his arms. “Bear away!”
Flames swept over the remains of Windraker’s gun battery as her stern rose above the surface. “Shove off, men! Row! Ro—”
Kaboom!
A deafening explosion rocked the Windraker, engulfing her entirety in flames, severing her in half. The blast knocked Markwick back. Struck dumb, he tumbled over the gunwale and into the choppy sea as the screams of dying men faded. Icy cold washed water over him, instantly numbing his limbs, prickling his face and hands. He blinked, salt stinging his eyes, and shook his head to clear it. His limbs wouldn’t obey his commands as the illuminated surface above his head dimmed and he sank deeper into the depths.
He could hear nothing but Chloe’s voice in his head: I love you!
Desperate for air, his lungs rebelled. His body twitched, every nerve screaming to life.
Fight, old boy. Fight for your life. Chloe loves you!
With a will and strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he clawed his way toward the keel that was floating above, shards of wood and other refuse pattering ’round.
He broke the surface, and with a lung-piercing gasp, he emerged through a foamy swell, almost too stunned to swim.
“Mind your lee!” The command echoed somewhere in the flickering fire glow. It was Walsingham. “Haul him aboard!”
“Cap’n! Cap’n!” Hands reached out, talon-like fingers snagging for prey.
Before they latched on, a wave whipped over him. He broke free again, inhaling a ragged breath.
I can’t die now . . .
Again, his love’s words filled his ears: I believe in you, Markwick.
After all the scandal and betrayal, he suddenly wanted to live! His mind and body thundered to life.
Damn me for a lily-livered cad. I love her! And she needs me. I promised I’d come back for her, and go back I will, even if I have to kill Carnage in cold blood.
No doubt, she deserved better, but he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else taking h
is place.
An extended oar shortened the distance between him and the launch. “Grab on, sir! We’ll reel you in!”
Markwick reached for the oar wildly. His cold, slippery hand lost contact. He went under, then breeched the surface again, refusing to die. He kicked his feet, reaching out with his right arm, latching on to the lifesaving device.
He wanted to feel Chloe’s warm body against his, to look deeply into her violet eyes and promise her the world. She had unlocked his heart and soul, had given him a reason to live. He wanted to tell her once and for all that he’d been drawn to her dangerously seductive mouth like a moth to a flame from the very first time she’d smiled at him.
“Steady now,” Walsingham ordered. “Pull him aboard slowly. Take care not to injure him. I want the pleasure of that myself if any harm has come to my sister.”
Within moments, Markwick was hauled out of the sea and found himself sitting in the launch, drenched but alive. He swiped his eyes, squinting to see. Before him, the Windraker’s burning timber lit up the night.
“Any survivors?” His heart sank like a rock to his stomach as the Dane sitting beside him provided the answer.
“None, sir. The pinnace is gone.”
Walsingham found a seat beside Quinn at the stern. There, he silently watched the remnants of his beloved ship fight its inescapable end, his shoulders weighted down by responsibility and loss.
Save for the fiery crackle and pop and the thunderous rumblings of the ship being swallowed below the frothy surface—effervescent foam curdling about it—silence besieged the launch.
“Back to the Fury,” Markwick hoarsely ordered, despising the finality in his voice. “We’ll return when it’s safe.”
Oars clinked against their bits. Men, cloaked in silence, arched their burdened backs, bending in rhythm to Quinn’s melodic, “Heave! Heave!”
It was strenuous work in tight quarters, but soon the launch clunked against the Fury’s massive black side. Once more, the men stirred into action, storing oars, mounting the battens one by one, until only Markwick, Quinn, and Walsingham were left.
When a Rogue Falls Page 45
