Sea of Treason (Pirate's Bluff Book 1)

by Stacey Trombley

  Sea Of Treason

  Pirate's Bluff, Volume 1

  Stacey Trombley

  Published by Stacey Trombley, 2019.

  Sea of Treason © 2019 Stacey Trombley. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Visit the author’s website at www.StaceyTrombley.com.

  First Edition

  Cover Design by Kelley York of Sleepy Fox Studio

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Whitley

  Bluff

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  Author Note

  Acknowledgements

  For Sean, my real life adventure.

  Loving you is worth every plot twist.

  Whitley

  The first thing I notice about the south is the water. It’s bright blue, like crystal. Excruciatingly beautiful.

  I wiggle my toes in my tight boots and bury the desire to rip them off and feel the water. The tingle of cold on my sore feet would feel glorious, I’m sure of it. But my father would kill me. The wind ruffles my skirt as I watch sailors heaving boxes and trunks and bags as they unload the ship—our escape vessel. Sweat pours from their faces, red under the high noon sun.

  Though it’s only a few hundred miles away from the city we fled, this place, with its sticky heat and beautiful water, is nothing like New York.

  A man limps past me, grunting with each step. I resist the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust. The smell is like New York, at least.

  Working men smell. That's a universal truth.

  My father marches up the dock, buttoned up in his most dapper suit, freshly shaven and beaming with pride. He doesn't look at all like he's just completed a three-day journey. Not to mention the rushed nature of our departure—chased from our home in the middle of the night. While my father seems to have let that terror slip off of him like dust from his shoulders, it’s not a moment I’ll soon forget.

  Then again, he’s always been a good actor.

  I put a pleasantly fake smile on my face as he approaches. "Father," I say in greeting.

  "Beautiful place, this."

  I nod. "Very."

  "Infinitely better than New York, I think."

  "Perhaps."

  This is polite conversation. It's about as transparent as New York City water—murky brown. Thick with what I wish I could say aloud.

  What I'm not saying is: sure, it's pretty, but that doesn't make up for you tearing me away from my life and forcing me to follow you on your stupid quest for wealth, prestige, and power. He probably thinks I'm mad about Jeb.

  Jeb has been my best friend since childhood and was planning to propose.

  He was my way out. My escape plan from whatever ridiculous marriage my father would have set for me. Now, not only have I lost my only friend, I have no excuse not to marry whichever cruel rich suitor my father will inevitably choose.

  I’m stuck, more so now than I have ever been before.

  My life would have been just fine in New York. My father's, however, had been heading in the direction of the gutter. He owed a lot of debts he couldn't pay.

  Here, my father can play the part of a wealthy businessman. In reality, it's stolen money that bought him his stone castle atop the hill, looking out at the beautiful water.

  Here, in some little town on the North Carolina coast, he is far away from the men he owes.

  I, of course, must play the part of the doting daughter, never having a choice in anything.

  "Come, child," he says, turning from the ship that brought us here. He walks up a small hill paved in newly laid cobblestone. It's rather steep, and I struggle to remain graceful in my heeled boots. My ankle wobbles and twists. Though I manage to stifle a cry of pain, my expression must expose me. My father notices.

  "Walk slowly if you must," he says under his breath.

  I sigh. I don't understand why it matters, why he cares so much. We were humble farmers in Wales before we came to America. I barely remember it, but once my mother died and the drought took all the crops, my father came up with a new scheme. He “borrowed” enough money from his brother to take us to the shiny new United States of America, where he was convinced we'd live like royalty. Anyone can be someone, he says. This is the land of freedom.

  Yet all I’ve found are chains. Like this breath stealing corset, my laced boots, and all of society’s ridiculous expectations. Marriage will be another, more permanent, prison.

  The problem with my father’s obsessive notion is you can't make yourself wealthy just by believing it.

  Stealing money, then pretending to be an up-and-coming businessman... well, it's a clever scheme, but it doesn't make us part of high society. You can't hide awkward feet no matter how expensive the boots you wear.

  BY THE TIME WE MAKE it to the top of the hill, my brow is slick with sweat. Not exactly ladylike. There is a stone building with beautiful flowers all around. Colors of purple and orange and pink and scarlet scattered everywhere. The shapes and sizes are unfamiliar to me. Flowers do not grow so diversely in New York. There's something wild about it—what the world should be.

  I look off into the distance and wonder what lies beyond those hills. Farms and open land, most likely. There are several newly established towns speckled across this part of the new nation.

  Perhaps, here, I could learn from my father. I could run off to some new place and pretend to be someone else. Anyone else.

  My fingers curl into my palm as I work to hide my frustration and fear. I want anything other than this. And yet I know I’m too much of a coward to reach out and take the freedom I crave. This world is not kind to young women when they are alone. My father has ensured I know this fact well and good.

  We finally reach level ground as we enter what I assume is the town square. Fresh brick paves the street as far as I can see. Lanterns and potted flowers stand outside every building. It’s small compared to what I'm used to, but the entire town has a charming air to it. It’s very obviously newly established, with a
t least the attempt at being posh. A horse-pulled coach awaits a fancily clad couple exiting a small shop. Several servants pile bags and boxes into the back of the coach. The girl wears a gold and white embroidered dress. Her skirt is bigger than any I've ever seen actually worn. She holds a dainty white umbrella used to keep the sun off of her. I can't help but think she’s like a child playing dress up.

  The man who holds her arm turns in our direction just before climbing into his carriage. A smile bright and large spreads across his face. "Mr. Klein! How wonderful to see you've finally arrived."

  Klein? I've never heard that name in my life. We've always kept our original family name from Wales: Davies. But it doesn't seem to bother my father. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that we'd need a new name. A new disguise.

  "Yes, a long journey to be sure."

  The woman with the umbrella turns towards us, her cheeks still full of adolescent pudginess. She's hardly a woman, I realize—younger than me, I think. Maybe fifteen? Her nose is turned up, as if my father and I carry a bad odor.

  "My daughter. Whitley." My father motions to me and I force a smile.

  "Whit-leigh, did you say?" the girl says in mock surprise. "What a unique name."

  This is polite speak for: You poor thing, what was your father thinking?

  I smile. "Indeed."

  "Well, it's very nice to meet you, Whitley," the man says. "I am Mr. Collin Washerby, and my new wife Mrs. Collin Washerby."

  I hold back a chuckle. Can she really comment on my name with a name like that?

  Despite his kind and warm expression, Mr. Washerby is old, with gray speckles in his hair and lines across his forehead and under his eyes. This poor girl will be a widow before her children are grown. This will be my fate, too, I realize. The most I can hope is that it’s a kind man my father forces me to marry. I find that unlikely, based on the company he most chooses to keep.

  My stomach twists thinking of Jeb. We hardly had what any would call a sweeping romance. In fact, he seemed to avoid intimacy at all costs. But he was kind. He was a friend. He would have allowed me to be who I am, or at least some subtle version of it.

  "You can call me Mary."

  I raise my eyebrows, focusing back on the young woman in front of me. Talk about a unique name. I knew about two dozen Marys in New York.

  She holds out her lace-gloved hand, which my father takes gently with a nod, then releases. She gives me a subtle curtsy. Dainty. All the while shooting her eyes all the way down my body as if sizing me up. "You are not married, are you, Miss Whitley?"

  "No. No, I am not." I send a glare at my father, who smiles awkwardly.

  "Perhaps I can help with that. There are several eligible bachelors in town, and I'm sure they'd all love some fresh blood. We're having a small gathering tomorrow evening. You simply must come."

  I force a smile. I'd rather kill myself. "I would be delighted."

  "Of course, you're welcome as well, Mr. Klein," Mr. Washerby says with a bow. “We’ll send up a card immediately.” Then the odd couple turns and enters their awaiting coach. Dust billows behind as they retreat.

  Without another word, my father turns on his heels and marches down a worn stone path which leads back towards the water, though on high ground.

  "Where are we going, Father?"

  "The fort."

  "The fort? What business would you have there?"

  I struggle to keep up with him as he flies down the path.

  "Many men around here have business at the fort. It's in all our best interest to keep this place pirate free."

  "Pirates? Here? Now?”

  "Unfortunately, they are still bothersome in this area. We are not far from some of the most legendary pirate ports in this part of the world. And away from the largest cities we have little protection.”

  “I thought there were no more pirates after the war?”

  “The war is precisely the reason for the pirates, my dear. Nations are eager to use them for their violence, then discard them when their use is no longer necessary. The smart ones took what they could, under the guise of privateer, then hid with their new wealth. Others lost everything or didn’t know when to stop. We must snuff it out now, before it grows like the plague as it has in the past.”

  "I still don't understand what that has to do with you."

  "Don't worry about that, dear."

  A brush off. He doesn't want me to know or expects I wouldn’t understand if I did.

  Past a few market stands, with merchants selling fresh fish, tackle, or trinkets, we continue down a flat path toward the open sea. We finally make it to a stone building right beside the edge of the cliff.

  “This is the fort?” I ask and Father nods.

  Though most of the fortress isn’t visible from this perspective, it was impossible to miss as we docked in Tar. It hangs over the water, surrounded by a wall of stone with cannons sticking out on all sides—a massive fortress.

  My father flies through the door like he belongs here and immediately greets a man with an unkempt beard and rough clothing, clearly not from the same part of society as Mr. Washerby. They exchange a whispered conversation with occasional sidelong glances towards me. As the unmarried daughter, I am not trusted with anything important. A child. I spin away, hoping to distract myself with a little exploration. Something I don't get away with often, especially in as interesting a place as this.

  Grey stone lines every wall, cold and dark, with weapons and parchment the only decoration.

  There are several wooden doors, which I consider examining, but then I come to a stairwell that catches my attention. The stone is a similar color as the rest of the room, but the edges much more crude, giving it a cave-like appearance. The sign above the entrance reads: Enter at your own risk.

  Excitement fills my limbs as I peer down the passageway.

  Bluff

  Every prisoner is on alert the second the door to the prison hall squeals. I rise from my uncomfortable spot on the cold concrete floor and press my cheek against the rusty bars in hopes of spying something interesting. There are very few reasons we get visitors. Guards don't come down here for anything other than bringing or taking prisoners. It's not near time for grub. That accounts for most our options.

  I see naught but vague movement in the shadowed hall, but I can hear. The footsteps are light and slow. Only one person, not in any hurry.

  I examine the men around me. Who will be taken today? No one is scheduled for a date with the gallows.

  "Hey there, lovely," a gravelly voice calls, echoing through the chamber.

  I blink at that. Is a prisoner calling a guard lovely? It could happen, but it would certainly require a bold soul and I’m unsure this lot has it in them.

  A small gasp, the kind that could only come from a dainty thing, is the only sound in response.

  That is not a guard.

  I catch just the flash of a blue skirt from my vantage point at the end of the cell block. I stand on my tippy toes, eager for the chance to see this princess that has decided to grace us with her presence, but it's very hard to see much of anything.

  The light footsteps continue, my heart pounds in anticipation. She's coming closer.

  As she nears, a head of prissily pinned blonde hair comes into view first, until finally, I get a full view. Her neck is bare of jewelry, which could mean she's of low status, but every other sign says otherwise: primly pressed dress with bright color, immaculate hair, clean nails, and hearty leather boots. She's recently been traveling, I suspect.

  A pretty young lady, new to town, has come to visit the prisoners at The Fort? I raise my eyebrows as I watch her silently.

  She stops right in front of my cell, eyes the stone wall dead end ahead of her. She has no choice but to turn back, and in order to do that... she turns to face my cell, crystal blue eyes staring straight at me. My heart beats faster.

  She looks me in the eye and confusion crosses her face. "How—how old are you?" she stutters,
then immediately blushes like she hadn't meant to utter a word.

  I can't help but give her a smirk. Is she impressed to find a pirate as young as her? Or disgusted?

  "Seventeen," I tell her.

  Her head tilts slightly.

  My eyebrows rise in amusement. What a strange creature.

  "What— what are you doing here? Who are you?" she asks.

  I listen closely to her words—the slight accent hidden behind years of practice— wondering what is going through her mind.

  She jumps suddenly, as the stone door slams shut in the distance. Panic crosses her face, and the guard has his hand around her arm in a matter of moments. He doesn't speak a word, just pulls her away from my sight.

  Another man must meet her at the entrance because it's not the guard who scolds her. "What in heavens name are you doing, Whitley?"

  Whitley. The name echoes through my mind like a whisper. I swallow as a strange shift pushing through my gut.

  "Wait," she calls. "There was a boy back there. A young man who shouldn't be there."

  Again, my heart flutters uncomfortably. She's concerned for me? How adorable. I study my fingers gripping the bars, covered in dirt and scattered with scars. I'm not exactly on her level of society. The thought makes me chuckle.

  "There is no boy here," a commanding voice tells her. "They're all men. All of them."

  "No, he's... he’s too young. He can't have done anything so bad that he would be here. Please, go see for yourself, in the last cell."

  There is a pause of complete silence for a moment, followed by an annoyed huff and pounding footsteps. I adjust quickly, shifting to a less noticeable form. The guard stops in front of my cell, gives me a good once-over then turns back. I put my hands in my pockets and wait.

  "Who are all those men?" Whitley's hushed voice is just loud enough to hear through the quiet chamber. "Why are they being kept like dogs? Worse than dogs."

  "They're vermin. Thieves, betrayers, and pirates,” the guard says, spitting on the ground for good measure. “That's what happens to men who pillage, act against the laws of God and man, on sea or on land, makes no difference to us. They will all hang for their crimes.” He pauses. “After a fair trial, of course."