Baret was under no delusion as to his intention—Levasseur heartily disliked Erik. Baret displayed no resentment at the accusation, however.
“If you wish—just as long as you understand there is to be no trouble. We talk. Nothing more.”
Levasseur eyed him with a faint sneer but offered no objection. Within ten minutes the pinnace was lowered, the rowers chosen from men loyal to Baret and Levasseur by lot, and the oars were slicing through the soft glimmering sea toward the Warspite, its lanterns lit and waiting for their arrival.
31
ABOARD THE WARSPITE
Seated in a plush red velvet chair with white and gold design, Captain Erik Farrow lounged on the deck of his ship beneath the full golden moon, showing no outward sign of hurry as his fellow Brethren arrived. He watched the viscount board, looking every inch a pirate, followed by the lean swarthy Frenchman Captain Levasseur and a score of men loyal to each, wearing their deadly rapiers and pistols.
Erik waited for Baret to cross the freshly sluiced deck to join him at a table spread with refreshments.
The table and chairs, the wine from Madrid, along with the rest of the ship’s elaborate furniture had all been taken at one time or another by Erik, who enjoyed a taste for splendor.
Farrow’s legs, in black woolen hose and boots with shiny silver buckles (buckles taken eight years ago from the boots of a Spaniard), were stretched out and crossed at his ankles. He waited, feeling no pleasure at the upcoming confrontation with his lordship. Nor, for that matter, with Levasseur. But it was chiefly Baret who disturbed him.
The night was tropical with the sigh of the Caribbean wind, and he felt a stirring in his blood for the old ways, ways that he had told himself would never again rise like baying hounds to entice him to lead his ship and crew. And yet …
Several matters had changed since he had last confronted the viscount in the chamber of Lord Felix on Foxemoore.
He laid aside his embroidered burgundy satin jacket, revealing a frilled white silk shirt. Out of habit, he kept one hand on his jeweled sword belt, hearing the siren song of the wind and feeling her fingers in his fair hair.
Baret Buckington walked up to the table, Levasseur behind him.
Erik stood then, arms folded, the breeze whipping his hair. He said nothing, giving the viscount a measured look. He noticed the dangerous energy visible in the forceful line of his jaw and the raw restless strength that stirred in the dark, compelling eyes.
Baret retained an almost relentless calm even as a hint of a smile touched his mouth. His voice was wry. “Somehow your being knighted by my uncle does not lend itself to the same mystique as the days of King Arthur. You might at least have waited until I became earl. I would have performed the service before His Majesty.”
Erik lifted a fair brow at the gibe. “It is your uncle who expects to win the title of viscount from the earl, your lordship. And you must admit, you look more the offspring of Henry Morgan than an English nobleman of the blood.”
Levasseur chuckled. “Perhaps he is, Captain Farrow. And, monsieur, do you dare seek the Brethren after walking out on us at Gran Granada?”
Baret glanced over his shoulder at Levasseur. “I am in command, Rafael. You will be silent.”
Levasseur smirked, pulled out a chair, and turned it around to rest his arms against its back as he sat down. With his hat still in place, he reached for the ornate bottle of wine, sniffing it with pleasure. “One thing about you, Captain Farrow, you have always shared the exquisite manner and tastes of France.”
Erik felt Baret’s keen gaze. Baret was measuring him, perhaps wondering why he had come. He remembered having been locked into Lord Felix’s wardrobe. Seeing Baret’s suspicion, Erik gestured for him to sit. “What reason would I have for coming except your invitation? Did you not bid me to join with you on Morgan’s expedition?”
As Baret continued to weigh his words, Erik added, “I believe, your lordship, it was the last challenge you offered before leaving me in the … dark. ‘Come,’ was your invitation.” And Erik stretched out in the chair and reached for his glass.
Baret scanned him thoughtfully.
“We want no more partners,” stated Levasseur, watching Erik evenly.
Baret sat down. “What did Felix offer you to find and try to stop me? I cannot believe you’d set aside your new favor to take to sea again, even though a few hours left to contemplate fate in the dark has done wonders to change your loyalties,” came Baret’s dry voice. “I know how much a title means to you.”
He did know. Erik was an illegitimate son, and a sense of inferiority had long plagued him. He knew not who had fathered him nor yet the woman who had given him birth. He grew up on the sooty streets of Bristol as an errand boy for bloodthirsty pirates. He had sailed as a lad with a number of cutthroats who had met their end on Execution Dock. He now knew Morgan and a host of other pirates, some evil to the core and others—perhaps like himself—who had been swept along with the relentless tide until so far out to sea there seemed no hope of recovery.
Yes, a title meant a good deal to him, even if it had come by the hand of Felix as a bribe.
Baret pushed the glass away and opted instead for a ripe papaya. Erik watched him carve it with his dagger.
“My decision is made,” said Erik. “I am no longer under the employ of Lord Felix.”
A moment of silence dragged on, in which Levasseur watched him with barely concealed malevolence. Baret said nothing and contemplated the slice of fruit as if having never seen such before.
“You expect me to believe that, Erik?”
“It is the truth.”
“He jests,” mocked Levasseur. “Do not trust him, man ami.”
Erik watched Baret, wondering if he believed him or not.
“What did he offer you this time to betray me?”
Erik’s gray eyes turned brittle. His hand tightened on his scabbard.
Levasseur, too, tensed, his black eyes darting from one man to the other. Only Baret showed no difference in his manner. He took a bite of papaya.
“I have not informed Lord Felix of your plans to search for Lucca in Porto Bello.”
At the mention of Porto Bello, both Baret and Levasseur looked at him sharply.
Erik masked a smile. “Of course I knew. Charlie Maynerd’s brother came to me with the information before he went to you, Levasseur.”
Levasseur tensed. “Do you lie to me, monsieur? Do I not know that you and Foxworth may well work together to my disadvantage?” He stood indignantly. “You’ll sign no articles with me, Farrow!”
“Then I’ll sign them with Captain Foxworth, considering it is I who know the true whereabouts of Lucca, not you or Sloane.”
If Levasseur was stunned, Baret only watched Erik with something like irony. “Sit down, Levasseur,” he ordered. “We’ll hear what Erik has to say.”
“You dare cross me, Foxworth? You dare order me about like crew?”
“When your tantrums put to risk our getting the treasure of the Prince Philip, I shall do so and more, my captain. If your crew learns you have spoiled their opportunity for sweet Spanish gold, what will you tell them?”
Erik, outwardly unperturbed, smiled to himself over Baret’s disarming the Frenchman.
Levasseur stood peering down at the viscount, who sat calmly considering him from across the table. Slowly Levasseur’s expression changed and he sat, but he was not happy.
Erik took the advantage that Baret had provided him and reached beneath the sleeve of his billowing shirt to draw out a letter. “If you would know where Lucca is being held a prisoner, it is in this letter taken from Charles Maynerd before he was hanged by the wishes of Lord Felix.”
Baret stared at the letter.
Levasseur was angry and suspicious. “Do not trust him, my captain,” he said to Baret. “How do you know he speaks truth? It is a trick, one agreed upon by him and your uncle.”
“It is no lie,” said Erik. “And if you were as clever as
you think yourself, Rafael, you would not have so easily believed everything Jamie Maynerd fed you like fish bait. The letter speaks for itself.” He handed it to Baret.
Baret opened it and by the light of the lantern, with Levasseur at close attendance, read the words.
Erik watched. The letter was from Charlie Maynerd to his brother, confiscated by Lord Felix when he arrested him at Barbados and brought him to Port Royal. The letter stated that Lucca was being held not in Porto Bello but in Maracaibo.
Moments later, Levasseur cursed Jamie. “Dangling from the yardarm was not good enough for him. The lying, thieving swine! He knew all along that Porto Bello would lead us to a trap!”
While Baret was pondering the letter, Erik disagreed.
“He did not know. It was I who convinced him of Porto Bello. The ruse was mine alone.”
Both Baret and Levasseur looked at him. Levasseur stood and reached for his rapier. “I shall have your innards for this, monsieur!”
Baret stood and turned on him. “Put that away, you French dog! Can you not see he is on our side?”
“On our side? On our side, he says! How so! It is the foulest of treacheries! We might have fallen into your uncle’s trap!”
“Yes,” said Baret wryly. “And would have, had Erik not come to reveal the truth to us in time. Does that not say anything of his trustworthiness?”
Levasseur hesitated. His dark mood, however, was unwilling to admit the obvious. “May it be wise, monsieur, to ask Captain Farrow what he may wish for this act of generosity?”
“A share in the treasure of the Prince Philip. What else?” He turned to Erik.
Erik saw through the simplicity of his suggestion. He and Baret both knew that he had come for more reasons than that, yet neither wished Levasseur to know.
“What else would I come for, Levasseur? A portion of the Prince Philip’s great treasure. And only Lucca can tell us where it is. Would I wish my fair viscount to be taken in Lord Felix’s trap, thus killing the one man whom Lucca will trust enough to share his coveted secret? I had to warn you both. And have done so.”
“And done well, my honorable colleague,” Baret told him. “You shall indeed sign articles with me and Levasseur.”
There was something in Baret’s smile that put Erik on alert. Why did he wish him to sign articles with Levasseur?
“And I have taken the liberty to have the Articles brought here to the Warspite,” said Baret.
“You brought them here? To his ship?” demanded Levasseur.
Baret lifted the paper from beneath his jacket. “We share and share alike. What is the Brotherhood for?”
Levasseur grudgingly relented, watching as Erik, minutes later, dipped pen to ink and prepared to sign his name below the others.
Erik hesitated, seeing the reason Baret had insisted he sign. Baret had signed as Viscount Baret Buckington, not Foxworth. It could mean his arrest on piracy charges. And Baret was forcing him into the same fire.
Erik’s gray eyes narrowed frostily as Baret smiled, lifting a brow. “If all you speak is true, Captain Farrow, and, of course, I have no doubt but that it is—you may sign as ‘Sir’ Erik Farrow.”
Erik’s jaw turned rigid. Then he scratched his new title across the bottom of the paper.
“Ah,” was all Levasseur said.
“To the Brotherhood,” said Baret, lifting a glass.
“To Maracaibo,” said Erik.
Levasseur smiled coolly. “And the Spanish gold.”
Baret did not go back to the Regale until the moon was setting and stars dotted the velvet sky. Levasseur, convinced at last that there was no more to be said of the matter, had departed with members of his crew and Sloane for his own ship, the Venture.
Baret, alone with Erik in the Great Cabin of the Warspite, faced him across the captain’s table.
He was satisfied that Erik’s friendship had won out in the end, yet he wondered at the trigger that had set him on a different course from what he had charted that night in his uncle’s chamber.
“Then if Felix knows where Lucca is being held, he will have already sent spies to see to his death. We have no time to lose. We must set sail for Maracaibo at once,” Baret said.
He watched Erik, comfortable with his loyalty yet a little uneasy now that they were alone and Erik sat frowning to himself. “Why did you choose the risk of aiding me to find Lucca? Friendship is one thing, but you made it clear you were content with the wage and promise of Felix. He gave you the title—was that not enough, or did he hold back?”
He saw the remoteness return to Erik’s gray eyes. Emotion had fled his somber features, but Baret knew him too well to believe he was at peace. “Whatever he failed to give you, I shall see you have it.”
Erik sighed, as though distressed to speak his next words.
“Nay, my lord … you cannot offer me what he has failed to deliver, for you wish it as well as I. It was a certain woman.”
Baret felt the blow, surprised at this confession. He remained unreadable, yet something in Erik’s voice set him on edge. A certain woman …
Erik stood and walked over to the desk, his back toward him.
The reality of what Erik was about to say dawned on Baret, and his eyes hardened.
“Your uncle offered me the hand of Lavender in marriage. Not all the treasure of the Prince Philip nor His Majesty’s blessing could have meant more to me. I confess, your lordship, that I was at times hard pressed into a willingness to betray you for her hand.” He turned his head and looked calmly at him. “I never meant to fall in love with the same woman as you—it simply happened. When your uncle vowed her to me for my services to betray you, I was on the edge of doing so.”
Erik turned and leaned against the desk, his golden brows furrowed and his gray eyes narrowing upon Baret. “But alas, I could not. But do not think your friendship means more than hers—I am no saint. For her I would have done nearly anything. It was the earl who sealed my doom. I confess it so.”
Baret stared at him across the cabin. The news stunned him, yet he made no comment. His anger began to boil.
Erik sighed and threw up his hands.
Baret stood, looking deadly cold. But if Erik expected trouble, his hand refused to move to his scabbard. For a disquieting moment they stared at each other.
“A duel would be folly, my lord. Is it not enough that neither of us shall have her? Shall we add to the mockery we find ourselves in by also killing each other?” Erik’s expression turned sympathetic.
It was the first time that Baret had seen emotional display.
“You yet have Lucca—you yet have the possibility of finding your father alive. I vow to work with you in any way I can to find and free them both!”
Baret was moved, yet his mind had picked up on something unusual that Erik had said.
“Speak plainly. What do you mean—‘neither of us shall have her’?”
Erik said nothing for a moment. “She will marry your cousin Lord Grayford Thaxton tomorrow at Foxemoore.”
Baret did not move. He would not accept this. He knew Lavender cared for him more than for any man. She would never marry his cousin.
“Tomorrow?” His voice was calm to the point of being studious.
Erik nodded. “I have spoken to her for myself … and for you. She has given me a message to give you.”
He picked up a letter from his desk. He brought it to Baret, then walked out of the cabin, his boots ringing.
Alone, Baret tore open the letter, and his eyes fell on the terse, cruel lines written in Lavender’s hand:
You have scorned and belittled me before family and friends by running off with that despicable little wench of Karlton’s. I never wish to lay eyes on you again. And to prove it, I have agreed with your grandfather the Earl of Buckington to marry Lord Grayford. Should an unfortunate occurrence take place in London by which I am forced to look upon you, you shall see Countess Lavender Thaxton, the wife of Lord Grayford Thaxton.”
Know that I shall forever heartily despise you for your betrayal.
Lavender
Baret’s lip twitched with subdued anger. He left Erik’s cabin and came onto the quarterdeck. He gripped the rail and looked into the dark Caribbean waters. It seemed Lavender’s fair face and golden hair gazed up at him with mockery. He crumpled the letter and threw it over the rail, then turned and, with a brisk command, called his men to board the pinnace.
As the boat slid across the swells toward his ship, looking ghostly against the starlight, he thought of Lavender. Tomorrow at this time she would be in the arms of his cousin Grayford.
Aboard the Warspite, Sir Erik Farrow stood at the rail and watched the pinnace make for the Regale. And so, he thought wryly, we have both lost the woman we wanted.
He turned slowly at the hesitant sound of footsteps.
The girl Minette stood there, looking like a sea urchin with tousled amber curls and eyes as luminous as the Caribbean moon.
He frowned. She had come aboard his ship in Port Royal as he was ready to set sail, a girl wild with terror, telling him that Emerald had been abducted by smugglers and that she could not locate Sir Karlton to warn him. But through one of his own spies who worked the wharf and taverns, Erik had already learned what had transpired between Baret and Levasseur over Emerald.
Baret had sent a message to Karlton informing him that he had his daughter aboard the Regale. Karlton was to rendezvous with Baret at the appropriate time by secretly following Levasseur’s ship.
Erik, who had made his own plans to follow, reluctantly agreed to let the girl sail aboard his ship to join Emerald at the point of rendezvous.
“Sir Farrow, when will I be brought to my cousin Emerald?”
He was anxious to be rid of her. The half-caste girl had some silly notion of thinking herself a lady.
“She is likely to be aboard her father’s ship by now. Sam!” he called his serving man, and the big Carib approached, bare from the waist up and wearing a blue scarf about his head.
“Bring the girl to Harwick’s ship.”
“Aren’t you going to bring me?” came Minette’s disappointed voice.
Buccaneers Series Page 38
