The Pirate Bride

by Shannon Drake

  “No?” he inquired curtly. “There are more than a dozen men willing to give their lives for you. I would consider that everything.”

  She lowered her head. He had touched a nerve.

  “We weren’t talking about me.”

  “I was.”

  “Well, we’re not going to talk about me,” she said, looking up. “Your life is the far sweeter story, a way to pass the time until my men find us and you are given your freedom.”

  “I already have my freedom.” he said, and when she didn’t object, he went on.

  “It is possible,” he suggested, “that another ship will come upon us. Possibly a legitimate ship. In which case, I, of course, will do the right thing and introduce you as a poor maiden, lost in the storm. I’ll not mention that you’re Red Robert, since I would prefer not to see you charged with piracy and hanged until dead.”

  “You’re too kind,” she said dryly. “So what would happen to me, pray tell?”

  “Well, then the legend of Red Robert would end in mystery, and you could begin to live a proper life.”

  “A proper life,” she repeated.

  “Aye,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. “It would be kind enough for you to help me to arrive at some congenial port. But I am not seeking a proper life. You are Laird Haggerty. You have Cassandra, your land, your title.”

  “So. Poor little Red. She has nothing, so she must remain a pirate.”

  She stared at him fiercely. “I have something to live for. It is just not to be found in Savannah or Williamsburg or elsewhere in ‘society.’”

  “Aye, you’re living for vengeance. Against Blair Colm.”

  She shrugged and rose. “I’m weary of conversation,” she told him.

  “There is more to life than death.”

  “Not always,” she assured him. And then she turned and headed back down the beach.

  THERE WERE BOOKS.

  Books!

  There were so many containers still to be opened, but when Red came upon the books, she was simply delighted. They were beautiful, leather-bound, the pages gilded. But it wasn’t the craftsmanship that so thrilled her, it was the fact that now she would be able to read. There were books on astrology and astronomy, sailing, ships, the exploration of the Caribbean, flora and fauna, and there were fictional works, as well. Chaucer and Shakespeare, and even a translation of Cervantes. She was on her knees in the sand, hugging one to her chest, when Logan made an appearance at her side.

  “So, you do have love in your soul,” he said lightly.

  She flushed. “Look! Books!”

  “So you read.”

  “Of course I read.”

  He hunkered down beside her, a small smile playing at his lips. “Many a pirate captain does not,” he reminded her.

  She waved a hand in the air. “Teach reads. Many of the brotherhood do.”

  True enough. While the majority of seamen did not read, those pirates who had chosen the life after making a living at privateering were educated in some fashion and could read well enough.

  But he’d never seen a pirate look so rapturous at the mere sight of a book, no matter how beautifully bound.

  “Cervantes. In English,” he noted, smiling.

  “You’ve read it?” she asked him.

  “Indeed,” he assured her gravely. “The travails of Don Quixote de la Mancha. The story of a man whose fancy touched the lives of those around him.”

  “I know.”

  She stood abruptly. “Cervantes was captured by Barbary pirates.”

  Logan’s smile deepened. “His dreams and idealism kept him alive, perhaps.”

  SHE HELD THE BOOK to her chest and walked away, heading toward their shelter. She looked back once, quickly, and saw that he was following her. But he was hauling the broken trunk of books.

  She sat in the shade of a palm and started to read, then realized unhappily that she was more aware of his movements, as he worked with hammer, nails and timber, constructing low bases for their beds, than she was of the words on the page. Only when the hammering stopped and he walked away was she able to become engrossed in her book.

  A little while later she realized that he was back, had been back for a while, because there was a delightful scent coming from the pan he had set on the fire. She put the book down and went to stand by him.

  He had just finished preparing their plates. Wedges of lime sat next to the biscuit, which had sliced mango atop it. Steaming snapper steaks continued to tantalize her nose. He added the last wedge of lime to a plate, then rose to hand it to her.

  “Captain,” he said politely.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Grog seemed fitting for the evening libation,” he said, handing her a cup.

  “Again, thank you.”

  She sat, taking a place in front of the fire.

  “Are you enjoying your book?” he inquired.

  She lowered her head, not at all certain whether to laugh or cry. They might have been a married couple sitting down to dinner, she the cherished and coddled wife, he the husband who worked as a man of business and looked forward to some educated conversation at the end of the day.

  “I’m enjoying my book, yes, thank you. And you? What have you been doing?”

  She was surprised when he hesitated before saying, “I found a cave near the spring. I spent some time exploring it and camouflaging it.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “If and when a ship comes…well, we’ll need to see the flag to decide if we wish to be found or not.”

  She shook her head. “But…if we are discovered by pirates, the worst they will do is rob the island of the salvage and leave us marooned. Most likely, though, they would take us aboard, perhaps even return us to New Providence.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “But—”

  “Red, many men think a woman upon a pirate ship is bad luck. And many pirates may live by a code, but there are those who would rather just kill us and be done with any argument over salvage. And…”

  He fell silent.

  “What?”

  “Many would consider you to be fair game.”

  She hadn’t thought she could blush so easily.

  “It’s wise to have a hiding place,” he told her. “And wise to hide some of what we’ll need to survive. Though I truly mourn the loss of lives upon that ship, its demise provided us with the wherewithal to make survival here far easier than it might have been.”

  She looked away, wondering why everything in life seemed to come with a touch of anguish. Suddenly feeling as if she were dangerously close to tears, she rose.

  “Thank you for the excellent meal, Laird Haggerty,” she said.

  She left her plate on the sand and headed for their shelter, hoping he would not insist she wash her own dishes.

  He did not.

  She lay down, feeling hollow. And when night came, sleep followed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LOGAN HAD ROUSED the minute she made a sound, but at first he kept his distance.

  She talked in her sleep. She fought in her sleep. She muttered the same words over and over.

  He moved to her side and sat. He wanted to touch her, to awaken her. Beneath their lids, her eyes moved erratically. A slim trickle of tears seeped out and ran down her cheeks.

  And then she screamed, and he could bear it no more.

  He drew her gently into his arms and held her tight, whispering to her. “It’s all right, it’s all right. It’s over. You’re safe.”

  It took him long moments to soothe her, time in which she struggled to awake, then finally did so with a start. And then she was cradled against him, looking up at him. For a moment there was something so naked and pained in her eyes that he longed to throw away the world, and promise her that everything would be right and safe for her in the future, vowing it on his life and soul. But then the ever-present shield dropped into place over her eyes, changing the very color of them.
She stiffened, as if she had been slapped, but she didn’t pull free of his arms.

  “I woke you,” she said. “I apologize.”

  He shook his head, his arms still strong as he stared at her. Something about her drifted into him like the cool ocean air they breathed. He kept his hold gentle but firm.

  “What horror do you chase in your dreams?” he asked. “Or does it chase you?”

  She set a hand on his. She was still trembling, but her body heat seemed to light a fire inside him.

  “I apologize,” she said again with dignity, avoiding his question.

  He didn’t move.

  “I’m all right now,” she insisted. “The dreams don’t come all the time. I hope not to wake you again.”

  She was still trembling, seemingly unable to stop, her voice tremulous.

  He eased her back down on her pillow, but he didn’t leave her. Instead, he stretched out at her side, leaning on an elbow, making it clear he wasn’t going away.

  “What demons do you fight in your sleep?” he asked.

  She only stared at him. They were so alone. The sky was star-studded velvet above them, and the breeze was as gentle as her dream had been violent. Palms rustled quietly, and the waves rolled ashore in a lulling whisper.

  “What do you want of me?” she groaned.

  “The truth. The past.”

  “Why the past, when there is no future?” she asked dully.

  Her words, spoken in a tone of such misery, surprised him.

  “There is a future.”

  He watched her. She wasn’t going to speak, so he went on. “I can try to put together your past,” he said. “Blair Colm was one of William the Third’s key men in Ireland. He murdered your family. He killed women and children indiscriminately, but he took you and Brendan and maybe others, because he could sell you into indentured servitude in the colonies.”

  She rolled onto her back. “You’ve been speaking to Brendan.”

  “If I have or haven’t, it doesn’t matter. I know the story.”

  “How can you?”

  “Blair Colm was in the business of selling children for years,” he told her.

  She stared at him. “He…destroyed your family, as well?”

  Logan sat up, watching her, his arms locked around his knees. “My father went into battle. Hopeless battle. He thought he’d left an escape route open for myself and my mother, but Blair had killed his man and taken his place. I don’t know if he would have killed my mother or not, but she tried to fight him, so she died. And I was taken to America.”

  She got up on her knees and inched away from him, staring at him as if he had suddenly become the enemy.

  “He killed your mother—in front of you—and you haven’t spent your life, prestige and resources to hunt him down?” she asked and accused, all in one.

  “I grew up in the house of a good man. I didn’t see or hear of Blair Colm for years. I spent several years in the militia, and learned only recently that he was welcomed in drawing rooms in Savannah and Charleston, that he made port as far north as Boston, then set out to sea again. He was never in any port while I was there.”

  “I would have taken a dagger to him in the streets!” she charged.

  “You’re not listening. I never came upon the man.”

  “You should have made sure you did so.”

  “Frankly, I would prefer to see him shown to the world as the monster he is, stripped of his knighthood, proven guilty of his crimes and hanged by legal authority.”

  “Did he kill with legal authority?” she asked, then answered herself. “Aye, in a way. He was told to subdue the Irish, no matter how. So his brutal murder of children was condoned, and in his wake, children are now sentenced to death for stealing bread. To survive. Because their land was stolen, their families murdered—by Blair Colm. So what justice would it take to execute him, when he acts at the will of the king?”

  He let out a sigh. “Why do you think I made friends with pirates and did business in such places as New Providence?”

  “You hoped to find him?” she asked skeptically.

  “Of course I hoped to find him. You, with your quest and your passion…you would have taken a dagger to him in the streets,” he admonished. “You wouldn’t have gotten near him. He takes great care when he enters into society. He has a guard around him that is carefully chosen from those who helped him commit his atrocious crimes. You would have been apprehended and hanged, with nothing accomplished.”

  She sat back, studying him, perplexed. “Then I have been right all along,” she said. “Being Red Robert is my only hope.”

  “You’re not right. It isn’t your only hope.”

  “Oh, but it is. I’m not wrong.”

  “You’re Irish and stubborn, and you apparently like the idea of being a martyr.”

  “I am not determined on being a martyr.”

  He leveled a finger at her. “Then believe in a future.”

  He went to her, gripping her by the shoulders. “Lady Fotherington is dead, as is the man she sold you to. I admit, you can’t go home—I would never suggest you return to Ireland. It would bring you nothing but pain and bitterness. But you can make a life for yourself.”

  “Where would home be, then?” she demanded. “A house where I can once again be a scullery maid?”

  “Life offers more than that,” he told her. “Far more.”

  “For you,” she said bleakly.

  “For anyone. This is a new world we live in,” he told her.

  “A new world with all the old masters,” she said.

  He shook his head firmly. “A new world where the king’s edicts come across the sea slowly. A king who is a foreigner, feeling his way through English law.”

  “I cannot forget. I will not forget.”

  “Do you think I have ever forgotten?” he demanded. “I have learned to bide my time. As you must,” he added dryly. “All your anger and hatred, no matter how righteous, cannot be avenged as we sit upon this isle and await…fate.” He almost said “destiny,” but he thought of the lost ship and refrained.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “You do realize you are allowing him to steal from you every day of your life, not just for the slaughter of your family?”

  She frowned at him. Fiercely.

  “He has taken your life, as well,” he said, his vehemence soft.

  She shrugged. “I died on that field that day. I have been in purgatory ever since.”

  “What if I were to swear to you that I would hunt him down and kill him?”

  She stared at him with disdain. “When I came upon you,” she reminded him, “you were busy transporting treasure—quite stupidly—for the gain it would bring you.”

  “Aye, that I was,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t on the lookout for Blair Colm, as well. I don’t only want him to die. I want him to die while I survive and flourish. I see that as the greater vengeance.”

  “We are different people,” she said very softly.

  “Yes—you wish to be a martyr.”

  “But I don’t!”

  “Think about what you’re doing, then,” he told her.

  She stood, slipped an arm around their palm tree support beam and looked out at the moonlit darkness. “All else dims when I think about him,” she said.

  “Then your nightmares will continue until you die for your charade, and vengeance will be left to someone else,” he warned. “Tell me, is Brendan as obsessed with revenge as you are?”

  She turned to him angrily. “Of course.”

  “Does he not desire to taste a life of freedom?”

  “He was sold into servitude with me. He is equally bent on vengeance.”

  “I think he would prefer vengeance with a chance of survival.”

  She glared at him. “Laird Haggerty, I am ever so sorry for having disturbed your sleep. You have been of tremendous…”

  “Help?”

  “And aggravation. Please
, leave me in peace, and I will do the same for you.”

  “How on earth can I leave you in peace when you are forever fighting?”

  “Then let me wage my own battles in my own life and my own mind,” she said sharply. “Please, go dream of your riches and your Cassandra.”

  “Why do you continually bring her up?” he inquired, steadfast in his intent not to grow angry, to remain rational.

  “Because you…have made it clear that you value a…a proper life above all else.”

  “God in heaven, help me against fools and women!” So much for maintaining his temper.

  “Oh! There we have it! If you were the one bent on vengeance, it would be a man’s just fury. But when I see what must be done, I’m a fool and a woman!”

  “You are a woman who is acting like a fool, that is all. You are Don Quixote, battling windmills, playing at being a pirate while you seek out Blair Colm. Why is it nobler for you to sail the seas attacking innocent ships while you hunt for the man than it is for me to seek a respectable life while doing the same?”

  “Because you have a choice!” she cried angrily.

  He inhaled, and in the shadows, with the world shrunk down to just the two of them, he knew she was right.

  “Forgive me,” he said simply, then walked over to her and took her hands. “You did what needed to be done when it needed to be done. But I can change what will come, don’t you understand?”

  “No,” she said bluntly.

  “You…have taken a good haul from the sea. And I will be, if not rich, comfortable, with a title and holdings, and I can start you on a good life.”

  “A path to righteousness?” she mocked.

  “Bobbie,” he began, the name a caress, “there are many ways to live.”

  She smiled. “No. There are but two in our world. The earth and the sea. I live a life free of pretenses. Your world is full of charades.”

  “That—coming from you?”

  “My charade is no worse than those played out daily in your world.”

  He shook his head. “You are the most stubborn, mulish woman I have ever met.”

  “A far cry from sweet Cassandra,” she agreed.

  His temper soared suddenly. “Will you cease with that?” he demanded.