Romancing the Pirate

by Michelle Beattie

  There’s a plantation on the other side of the island and the owner, Oliver Grant, had taken in three strangers about the same time we’d found you. It was when they all escaped a year later, stealing his ship in the process, that I suspected the truth. There was a young woman among them named Samantha. I can only assume it was the same Samantha your mother had spoken of.

  I’m terribly sorry, Alicia, and I hope you can forgive us for our selfishness. You see, we’d already lost Eric and Daniel, and by the time word got round of the other survivors, you were as much ours as you could ever be.

  Should you want to seek out Samantha, then take the other letter to Blake Merritt. He’s a good man, and you can trust him. He doesn’t come to Port Royal, but you should be able to find him, or get word of him, in Tortuga.

  You’ve often asked me why there’s a white cross at the top of the rise behind the house and who it belonged to. It was cowardly to lie, but that is where your mother rests.

  I pray you can forgive us for our deceit.

  Lovingly,

  Your father.

  Alicia stared at the parchment, numb and shocked. For years she’d had bits of pictures or sounds flash through her head. She’d never made sense of them, couldn’t as they were so fleeting and jumbled. Was it her memories that had been trying to resurface? She’d assumed it was dreams.

  She jumped to her feet, the letter clutched in her hand. Her head spun. Samantha. The name resonated but she couldn’t say it was because she remembered her; it simply sounded familiar. Was it possible she had a cousin? Could she even have a sister?

  And her mother’s grave was behind the house? Her mother’s? Which meant she wasn’t Alicia Davidson. Her knees gave a violent shake. Who was she? She tried desperately to remember anything of what her father spoke of, but she couldn’t remember a sister, cousin, or a mother who wasn’t the one she’d buried five months ago.

  She placed an icy hand to her forehead, her breath shaking. What kind of person couldn’t remember her own mother? I’m not who I’ve always thought I was. And the certainty of that cut deeply. She dropped to the bed. Why hadn’t they told her before, when they could have been there to hold her, to explain? When they could have gone with her to look. When she didn’t have quite so much responsibility.

  She had a shop to run now. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, walk away from it. She’d meant what she’d said to Charles—the shop was her world. It was where she’d played, where she’d worked, where she’d stood next to her father and listened with patience and an equal part of awe as he’d shown her about blade smithing.

  She didn’t imagine it would be a simple matter to locate Samantha; there must be hundreds of women with that name scattered around the Caribbean. How did one even begin a search such as that? It wasn’t as though she had a well of money she could dip into. The shop made a living but didn’t allow for much else. Besides, she’d never—that she remembered, she thought bitterly—been to sea. She knew nothing of ships and sailing. In fact, she’d never really liked sailing. Was it because she’d hated being at sea or because, deep down, she knew what it had cost her?

  Her heart began to hammer, bringing with it a fierce desire to know everything she’d lost. She’d found a piece of that now; how could she not look for the rest? Her tumbling thoughts shifted to the shop and what she’d do with it, followed closely by her aunt and what she’d have to say about all of this.

  Margaret wouldn’t approve of Alicia running about the Caribbean by herself, but her aunt wasn’t her concern. Regarding the shop—her heart missed a beat—she could talk to Charles; she’d make him understand. And it would only be temporary.

  Alicia sighed. She had to know. She had to find out about her history. Not knowing would be far worse. With a slight tremble in her hand, Alicia grabbed the other letter.

  Blake Merritt.

  “Well, Mr. Merritt, I hope you’re easy to find.”

  Three

  Alicia awoke the next morning, after precious little sleep, with a very clear plan in her head. It was ridiculous to go out looking for Samantha until she had as much information as possible. And the only person who could provide it was Oliver Grant. Because it was Sunday and the shop was closed, Alicia had the day to herself and she packed a small lunch into her satchel, threw in a dagger for good measure, and not wanting to alert Charles of her intentions just yet, proceeded to walk to the home of her father’s attorney.

  It wasn’t far, but the road offered no relief from the blazing sun and soon her gown was sticking to her back. Her cheeks were hot and no doubt she’d have a sunburn to show for her efforts. Another thing for her aunt to criticize, Alicia thought, kicking aside a stone, which rolled across the dirt into the thick underbrush that lined the route. Although uncertainty trotted through her head about the idea of seeking out Samantha, there was one thing she knew for certain. A reprieve from her aunt was more than in order.

  Finally arriving at the tidy home of the attorney, Alicia knocked on the heavy door. He answered promptly and, despite the surprise on his face, invited her in. She gratefully stepped into the coolness of his home.

  “I thought our appointment to read the will was tomorrow.”

  She held up a hand. “Yes, Mr. Fritz, it is. Or it was. I was hoping we could postpone it, for a little while,” she added.

  He frowned. “Whatever for? Your father’s made some provisions, and it’s best if we sort them all out as quickly as possible. There are issues about the blacksmith shop that you need to know.”

  Her hand flew to her throat. “I haven’t lost it, have I? I assumed it was mine and—”

  “Dear girl, it is yours. But there’s also someone else that—”

  Alicia expelled her breath in a rush. Well, if it had to do with Charles, he wouldn’t mind if they waited a few more weeks.

  “Thank goodness. You scared me for a moment. Well, then, I think it can wait. What I’m actually here for is to ask if you know where the plantation of Oliver Grant is.”

  Mr. Fritz’s forehead creased in puzzlement. “Yes, but it’s rather far. Why do you need to go there?”

  “It’s something my father suggested. I can’t explain it any further than that at the moment.”

  “You’re alone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “Dear girl, you can’t go there all by yourself. It isn’t right. Does your aunt know you’re here?”

  “No. And I’d prefer it remain that way.”

  A hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “Well, can’t say that I blame you.” He paused, studied Alicia. “You say your father wanted you to go see Oliver Grant?”

  “Yes,” she lied without question. If she was to find Samantha, and in turn, her past, then she’d do what it took to get it.

  He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll get someone who can take you.”

  It was a stately home, tall and commanding with a carved front door. An assortment of baskets overflowing with vibrant blossoms spread along its porch. The grounds were impressive with their carpet of emerald-colored grass that not a single weed dared to mar. The silence was equally awe-inspiring. Other than the slight breeze ruffling the palm fronds, or the occasional cry of a bird, the stillness was a presence in itself.

  Surely it was inhabited to be so well kept, and yet from where Alicia stood at the base of the porch steps, not a single soul was to be seen.

  She threw a glance to the end of the road, where she’d asked the driver to wait. The horse stood patiently, swishing its tail lazily; its driver must have been waiting inside the carriage, where it was cooler. Looking once more at the door, Alicia exhaled a breath, placed her hand onto her knotted stomach, then climbed the three steps.

  Alicia’s knock was answered by a large black woman with a frown that creased her wide forehead.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. I—well, that is …” Alicia shook her head. She’d never anticipated it would be easy to explain what she was looking for, but neither had she
expected that the words would lodge in her throat. But if Samantha had indeed been there and had stolen a ship to escape, Alicia wasn’t sure of the reception she herself would receive by asking about her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile and wiping her damp hands onto her skirt. The maid’s face remained stoic. “I was hoping I might speak to Oliver Grant.”

  Her large brown eyes didn’t so much as blink. “Ya can’t. He’s dead.”

  The bottom of Alicia’s stomach fell in disappointment. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The woman shrugged, almost as though she didn’t care.

  “Would it be possible to speak with Mrs. Grant?” Alicia asked, hoping her trip hadn’t been for naught.

  “The missus don’t take callers no more.”

  Alicia sighed. This wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. But who was left that she could talk to, that could tell her about Samantha? She wrung her hands together, not sure who to ask for next. This had been her only hope of possibly finding a link to her past, to her family.

  “What did ya need?”

  “I was hoping that I could speak to someone who could tell me about a woman that worked here. Her name was Samantha and I understand she escaped—”

  “What do ya want with her?” she asked.

  Taken aback by the rudeness, Alicia paused. “It’s a long story. But I think she’s part of my family, or at least that she may be.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to know about her.”

  In a sudden transformation that captivated Alicia’s attention, the woman’s eyes filled with warmth and her smile reached out and wrapped around Alicia as surely as her strong arms.

  “Child, come with me. I’ll fix ya a cool drink, and we’ll have ourselves a nice long talk outside in the garden.” She yanked Alicia by the hand, giving her no choice but to follow. She drew her into the marble foyer and down a corridor to the large and speckless kitchen at the back of the house.

  Before she knew it, Alicia was sitting in the middle of the garden, a glass of sweet tea in her hand and the smell of flowers surrounding her. Fanny, as she’d introduced herself while she’d made the tea, sat across from her, eyes dancing with delight.

  “Tell me how ya know Samantha,” she said.

  Because her manner had warmed considerably, Alicia told Fanny everything that she knew, ending with her decision to come there today in hopes of learning a little more. When she was done, Fanny had tears running down her dark cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?” Alicia asked quickly. Surely not any more bad news.

  Fanny blew her nose into a handkerchief she drew from her apron pocket. “She’ll be so happy yer alive.”

  Alicia’s stomach flipped and she leaned forward in her chair. Behind the bodice of her gown, her heart was beating a frantic drum.

  “She remembered me?”

  “Of course she did, child. She’s ya sister, ain’t she?”

  “I have a sister?” An impression flashed through her head. It didn’t stay long enough to grasp it all, but she was able to make out a few things. “She has light brown hair?”

  Fanny nodded and soon they both had tears falling freely.

  “Yes, child. And she’s lovely.” Fanny sniffled. “She spoke of ya often. She loves ya very much. Ate a hole in her soul, thinkin’ ya’d died and she was helpless to prevent it.”

  “But it was pirates. What could she have done?”

  Fanny slapped her thick thigh. “That’s what I’s told her every chance I got. Didn’t matter none. She felt she should have.”

  Alicia accepted the handkerchief Fanny pulled out of another pocket while trying to calm her emotions. Though the tears continued, she managed to steady her racing heart.

  “Will you tell me everything?”

  Fanny nodded, and before long, her happy tears ebbed.

  “He found ’em on the beach, promised ’em work and shelta.” She grunted. “It’s not what they got, that’s for sure.”

  “There were more with her?”

  “Two men from ya father’s ship. Joe and Willy.” Her chin lifted. “Good men, both of ’em. They escaped togetha.”

  Alicia searched her memory, but nothing shifted. “The five of us were the only ones that made it off the ship?”

  “Far as she knew, there was only three. She said she never saw ya that night, it ate at her somethin’ terrible.”

  Alicia shook her head, it was all so unbelievable. She had a vague recollection of being cold, and very afraid, but nothing past that. She listened as Fanny told her, in more detail, about the pirate attack and that it was Joe who’d thrown Samantha overboard in order to save her. They were found by Oliver Grant and taken back to the plantation.

  “It was a great day,” Fanny said, smiling, “when they escaped. Gave us all somethin’ to smile ’bout, knowin’ they was free on his own ship.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  Fanny’s eyes narrowed. “He was evil. The devil hisself couldn’t have been any more vicious. We’s all glad he’s dead.”

  “And you never heard from Samantha again?”

  “No. But wherever she is, child, can’t be any worse than livin’ here was.”

  “Thank you, Fanny, for telling me. I’m glad she had a friend while she was here.”

  “Samantha had many friends here, child. Everyone who knew her liked her.”

  “Did anyone ever call her Sam?” The words came out as fast as the thought occurred to Alicia and she was taken aback by the sureness that she’d called her Sam.

  Fanny smiled, leaned back in her chair. “Joe called her Sam. I always thought it suited her.”

  Alicia’s heart shook. She had a sister. Sam. She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips.

  “I have some stories, if ya have the time to hear ’em.”

  “Please,” Alicia replied.

  Upstairs, directly above the garden, Lewis Grant sat in his father’s study—a study he hadn’t been allowed in when his father was alive—and started to pay attention to the conversation drifting through the open window.

  It grated on already raw nerves that as Oliver’s only son he’d been denied the title of overseer. Though he was considered the heir, it was in name only. Lewis had gained nothing from the death of his father nearly a year ago other than a larger allowance. The respect, the damn acknowledgment that he was worthy and capable, had died in Barbados with the man who’d never looked at him with anything but disappointment.

  It had never mattered to Oliver that his son had a head for figures or a deep desire to learn the operations of the plantation. All Oliver had seen was a son that hadn’t grown into the physical image his father had wanted. It wasn’t Lewis’s fault that his height had never surpassed his mother’s. Or that his bone structure was slight and far more suited to a woman than a man.

  But since Oliver himself had rarely dirtied his own hands with the disciplinary areas of the plantation workers, Lewis had never understood why his size was an issue to his father. Couldn’t Nathaniel continue to discipline the workers the way he always had? And couldn’t Lewis then do the rest? Unfortunately Oliver had refused to listen to logic.

  The rebuff, however, had only stopped Lewis for so long. On days like today, when Nathaniel—the bequeathed overseer—was busy in the fields, Lewis came to the office, studied the ledgers, and devoured everything he could find about his late father and the business he’d been denied. At twenty, he was more than capable of running the plantation. But the will had been ironclad.

  Still, these visits had offered more than a knowledge of the plantation. It was on one such visit, the night he’d learned of his father’s death, that he’d found the journals about Samantha. Every day since Oliver had found her on the beach had been precisely recorded. Her beauty, her spirit, her refusal of Oliver’s advances that had led to his father raping her. The fury he’d felt when he’d tried a second time, only to have her attack him, help his slaves escape, and take his ship had all but leapt off
the pages. He’d dedicated nearly two journals to the quest to find her and his ship, only to fail in the end. The ship and Samantha were still missing.

  His father’s failure gave Lewis extreme pleasure. Oliver had never acknowledged his own son’s worth. He’d trusted hired men to act as his advisors and step into his shoes when he’d set off to search for Samantha, and he’d named those same men in the will.

  But Oliver had been wrong about his son. Lewis was smart and worthy. And he’d just heard something that would finally allow him the chance to prove it. He’d just heard that fat Fanny say something that had sharpened his attention.

  Sam.

  Samantha had escaped five years ago. Not long after, word began to spread. There was a new force in the Caribbean waters, a pirate so cunning nobody knew what he looked like. Sam Steele. Nobody had mentioned Sam in nearly a year, and Lewis couldn’t help but wonder if it was possible that Samantha and Sam were the same person. After all, she had managed to attack his father, free a dozen or more slaves, and steal his ship all in one night. Surely if she could manage that, it was conceivable she could be a pirate. And, he thought, Sam Steele was known to use a sloop as his flagship. The fact that the ship she’d stolen from his father was also a sloop seemed too tidy to Lewis.

  This was his chance. His opportunity to get the ship back, to show everyone that Lewis had accomplished the one thing Oliver had failed to do.

  But his aspirations didn’t end there. Surely the treasure and riches she had accumulated were extensive. A little jaunt through the Caribbean was worth the blackmail he could profit from if Samantha was indeed Steele. He’d not only come back with his father’s ship, but return with the respect he deserved.

  And judging from what that worthless Fanny was discussing, all he had to do was follow this Alicia girl.

  Charles dropped the sword he was working on. It clanged to the floor.