The voices grew louder.
“You really think so, then, do you? I don’t know... Wouldn’t the cap’n have said so if he were?”
“Why would he, ye fool? Right before we hoist anchor? Captain’s the last cove as would curse a ship about ter set sail.”
Curse. There was that word again.
“Bothwick’s brother hasn’t been about either, in case you haven’t noticed. Supposin’ it’s not true, then. Supposin’ the two of them ran off together.”
“Whereabouts, Gretna Green? You’re a right cork-brain tonight, Jimmy.”
“Look here, both of you—Bothwick’s at the foremast, and you know his brother’s never more’n eight feet from him. Sure as pudding, he knows what’s what.”
“Bothwick,” one of the hands called. But Evan was already on his way over. “Is it true Red ain’t coming back?”
“We heard he was steering the big ship in the sky,” said another.
“Dead, rather,” put in a third. “As a doornail.”
Evan stared at the gaggle of water dogs, suddenly conscious of how a man could be driven to bang his head against the forecastle until he passed out. He hadn’t required clarification for “big ship in the sky.” What he required, right about now, was a quiet place to go and think. And perhaps a tall glass of whiskey.
He leaned against the mainmast and resigned himself to finishing this conversation sober.
“Red’s dead?” he asked. “Says who?”
“His sister.”
“She got it from that other girl. Samson, or something.”
“Stanford, you numbskull.”
Evan snapped up straight. “Stanton?”
A chorus of nods. This was making less sense by the second.
“Miss Stanton told Miss Grey that Red wouldn’t be coming home, on account of being dead?” he demanded, trying to put the pieces together in a coherent fashion.
“That’s right,” the jack called Jimmy agreed. “Told her to go forth and carry on without him, she did.”
Evan stared at them. “But how would Miss Stanton know he was dead? How would she know Red in the first place?”
“That’s what we’re asking you, mate.”
“She even called him by both his names, she did. Looked ’arriet dead in the eye and said, ‘Now, yer brother Joshua—well, there’s them that call him Red, now, ain’t there. Any case, he’s a right cold one, he is. Reckon he won’t be coming home.’ Clear as that.”
Evan blinked. He’d forgotten Red’s name wasn’t really Red—if Evan had ever known the man’s given name to begin with. While he doubted he’d just been treated to a precise accounting of the dialogue, if Miss Stanton had been in possession of such an intimate detail as the pirate’s Christian name, that would make her... well, suspicious. At best.
What if that simpleton Forrester wasn’t the one Evan should be worrying about? What if someone far more pernicious—someone actually clever—was keeping him under her watchful eye for reasons he couldn’t begin to guess?
The captain strode aboard, giving Evan no chance to reason it through.
Time to work.
Up went the anchor and the sails. Out went the booms and the bowsprit. Around spun the tiller. And they were at sea. At last. Waves crashed against the hull. The ship groaned and wheezed as the keel tilted drunkenly with the raging currents. Water splashed aboard. Men cheered.
Eventually the ocean calmed, and the crew relaxed. A few went below deck in search of whiskey. Evan chose to stay where he was, portside, staring toward the invisible horizon. A dozen stars braved the blackness of the night. Cold wind tugged at his hair, chapped his lips. The familiar scent of saltwater rose and fell with the waves lapping at the side of the ship.
He did believe in the gods of the sea. How could he not?
Purposeful footsteps indicated the captain’s approach. Evan turned.
“Captain.”
“Bothwick.”
A strange silence stretched between them. The captain regarded Evan with his cool blue gaze, drew in on a fat cigar, and seemed well inclined to just let the silence continue.
He wasn’t going to mention the missing shipmates, Evan suddenly realized. The crew was right. The captain had to know Timothy was dead—it had happened right on this ship, and somebody removed his brother’s body. The captain knew, was looking Evan straight in the eye, and wasn’t going to say a word.
Which meant Red wasn’t “missing,” either. He could only be dead.
Nobody’d had the slightest clue... except, apparently, Miss Stanton. Come to think of it, all of this—whatever this was—started happening the same night she appeared at Ollie’s house. Coincidence? Perhaps Timothy was right not to believe in such things.
Who was Miss Stanton? She was definitely not the featherbrained socialite she’d first seemed. Was she truly Lady Emeline’s cousin, as Ollie had claimed? It’s not as if Evan could ask Ollie’s wife to confirm or deny the familial connection. He’d never even met the woman. According to Ollie, his wife was too infirm to leave her sickroom or entertain guests.
Come to think of it, every detail Evan had thought he “knew” about Miss Stanton had all been according to Ollie. Who was looking less and less like a reliable source of information.
What if Miss Stanton wasn’t working her wiles on Evan on the magistrate’s behalf, after all? What if she were doing so on Ollie’s bequest? Perhaps the goal had never been to spy on him. After all, Ollie knew just about every detail of Evan’s life, seeing as the overgrown brute tended to be present for most of the law-breaking moments. What if the goal wasn’t to watch him, but to distract him? To set him off course enough that he got himself killed?
Evan belatedly realized the captain was talking to him—and that he should’ve been paying close attention.
The captain was discussing the last mission. The last known mission. The one Timothy and Red went on before striking out on their own and probably getting killed for their insolence. The one whose spoils had appeared and disappeared from Timothy’s entryway in a matter of days.
“—an equally fine collection this time,” the captain was saying around a curl of cigar smoke. “My contact was quite pleased with the assortment recovered from the last trip. The painted tea sets were particular favorites with his buyers. When we dock, try to load as many of those on board as you can.”
Evan nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the captain. The booty hadn’t been stolen from Timothy’s receiving room, then. It had been recovered from its temporary location and sent on its way. All on schedule and according to plan. Nothing amiss here, Bothwick. Fetch us some tea sets, there’s a good lad.
Would he be the next to turn up “missing”? Was this his final night aboard ship?
“This may be your last trip,” said the captain, by all appearances reading Evan’s thoughts.
His fingers twitched in response.
“There have been... difficulties... with the crew as of late.” The captain paused to blow a series of smoke rings, as if giving Evan an opportunity to digest those words however he chose.
“Difficulties?” he echoed, attempting an expression of polite interest.
“Among other unfortunate developments, a few important volumes have gone missing from the wardroom bookshelf. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Bothwick?”
“No,” Evan was able to choke out in all honesty. But more than ever, he wished he did know what was happening.
“So be it.” The captain’s blue gaze turned calculating. “In any case, I have decided to make a few changes.”
“What kinds of changes?” Evan asked, hoping he sounded more intrigued than suspicious.
“I’m dismantling this crew. For good. We’ll dock in the other cave when we return to Bournemouth.”
Evan frowned doubtfully. “We will?”
The captain tapped the ash from his cigar. “And then we won’t be docking anywhere. I’ve decided not to trust my fortune in the h
ands of landlocked merchants. When the war ends, there won’t be much use for those who smuggle goods out of France. The rich will buy their baubles directly.”
True enough. Evan had been enjoying the adventure too much to consider how quickly it could all be over.
“So we just say our good-byes and go home?” he asked, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. The biweekly adventures had been a high point in his life the past several months. Until Miss Stanton came into his life. And Timothy left it.
“Not exactly.” The captain puffed on his cigar and regarded Evan thoughtfully. “This here was a pirate ship, you know, before she became a simple smuggling boat.”
Evan gave a short nod. The war had changed everything, made sneaking in boxes of nonsense more profitable and less risky than pillaging on the open sea.
Less gunfire involved.
“Well,” the captain said, “it’s time she returns to her original state. We’ll lay low for a fortnight, to give my contact a chance to sell this last shipment and pay me my coin, and then those who’ll come with me will sail out of here for good. What do you say, lad? Want to join us?”
Pirates. Real pirates. The captain was offering him an opportunity to live on the high seas. Permanently. No more paying fair prices to transport illegal goods. From here on out, they’d steal whatever they fancied. Most likely from other ships. Leave no survivors.
Never come home.
Much as Evan couldn’t imagine himself living in Bournemouth indefinitely, the thought of never living anywhere—save below the deck of a ship—wasn’t as appealing as it first sounded. If it ever had. The thought of killing innocents in order to ensure no witnesses remained to tell tales... Evan hadn’t signed up for that, either. The very thought turned his stomach.
Smuggling was an adventure, a fine joke, a lark. He was never gone more than a weekend, and only twice a month at that. Just enough to keep life interesting. Out-and-out pirating, however... Despite the romantic allure of being a wenching, ale-swilling, swashbuckling fortune hunter, pirating was for life. And forever was a very long time.
Evan hesitated. Perhaps now was not the moment to voice these concerns.
“You don’t have to make your choice now,” the captain continued, once again eerily close to reading Evan’s mind. “I only want those aboard my ship who intend to stay there. I need a crew I can trust. Most of these water rats will join us”—he motioned behind him with a wave of his cigar—“but water rats is all they are and all they’ll ever be. You and Ollie, now... You’re a different breed.”
Evan’s gaze snapped back to the captain’s. Ollie.
“I want one of you for my first mate.” The captain flicked ash from his cigar. “Poseidon’s got that pleasure at the moment... but you boys can work that out yourselves.”
Meaning “joining for life” would be synonymous with “joining for one night” if he didn’t survive hand-to-hand, anything-goes combat with Poseidon, a seasoned pirate, thereby proving his mettle as a single-minded, take-no-prisoners first mate.
Not joining, on the other hand, would mean giving up his chance of ever discovering Timothy’s killer. Evan couldn’t stand the thought of his brother’s murder going forever unavenged. Timothy deserved a proper burial. And justice.
Evan rubbed at his taut neck muscles. “What did Ollie say?”
“Figured you’d ask that next.” The captain blew out another round of smoke rings. “Ollie hasn’t made his choice known. He’s a family man, so he’d have a few loose ends to tie up first. Nonetheless, he’s got the same timeframe as you.” The smoke cleared. The captain’s cold blue gaze hadn’t left Evan’s face. “Be on board in a fortnight, or miss the boat entirely. We won’t be heard from again.”
Chapter 31
Sunday night fell as fast and as hard as the rain accompanying the twilight.
Evan had never been so happy to reach dry land. Well, if you could call the briny puddles splattered throughout the cave “dry land.” Not to mention the icy water pouring from the black clouds for miles.
He headed straight home to bathe, devilishly glad to be able to do so. This time, he hadn’t been certain he’d make it back alive.
The skies had turned stormy within moments of the captain’s announcement, and the torrents had continued throughout the weekend. Rough. Cold. Shot through with lightning. Yet it was the atmosphere below deck that had kept him uneasy. The men were skittish. Worried. With two dead, they had had every reason to be. The change from occasional smuggling to out-and-out piracy—well, such a turn wouldn’t lengthen anyone’s life expectancy.
After bathing, Evan dressed for warmth. It didn’t work. The thought of never avenging Timothy’s death coated his veins with ice. Evan needed answers. Timothy needed justice.
The loss of his brother left an ache in Evan’s heart he was beginning to suspect would never subside. He wished for the hundredth time that he could wear a black armband without being asked questions he couldn’t answer. Like whom he was mourning. Nobody knew about Timothy’s death yet. Would perhaps never know, if Evan couldn’t find his brother’s body. But funeral or no, he would find and dispatch the killer or die trying.
He made his way back downstairs. Forced himself to eat a hot supper. Pushed away his empty plate more slowly than usual. He glanced around his house at all the things he enjoyed taking for granted. No home cooking while the crew was at sea. Not that he’d have much of an appetite if he saw the crew killing innocents in the name of piracy. The thought once again turned his stomach.
Oh, Evan knew why he and Ollie had been “given” a choice. They were the only ones with choices. The other water dogs had nowhere else to go. Like it or not, they’d been enlisted the moment the captain had reevaluated his plan of operations. For them, free will was an illusion. For Evan... He shoved back his chair and strode out the door. There was nothing he valued more than free will.
Even if he seemed not to exercise much of it lately. He told himself he was headed to Moonseed Manor out of ennui. Not because of a magnetic pull he was powerless to deny. He told himself he was headed to Moonseed Manor solely to confront a certain debutante about her alleged associations with dead smugglers. Not because he missed her company. He’d never missed any particular female over any other a day in his life. So he obviously hadn’t missed sparring—and trading kisses—with Miss Stanton.
Well... not much. More like: terribly.
Once at the door, he shouldered past the jaundiced butler and went on the hunt. What had she been doing while Evan was at sea? Had that irritatingly persistent magistrate resumed his pathetic attempts to woo her? Was it possible Forrester had actually succeeded? The little toad was everything Evan was not: polite, respected, boring, pious, interested in escorting marriage-minded young ladies to insipid assemblies. In short, a true gentleman. Whereas Evan...
Evan smelled jasmine. Wafting down from the spiral staircase nearby. He was past the first landing before the thought occurred to him that the only rooms upstairs were bedchambers, which were precisely the sort of illicit location in which a true gentleman would never dream to hunt down a lady.
Thank God he wasn’t a gentleman.
He climbed the last stair and headed into the hall. There she was, peering down one narrow corridor after another, trying the occasional door handle and appearing generally lost.
She heard or saw or somehow sensed it was he who closed in on her, because when she whirled around to face him, her eyes were filled not with fear but pleasure. Which she quickly tried to mask. He did not bother to try and hide his own satisfaction at being alone with her once again. Just seeing her made him want to smile. And devour her in kisses.
“You came back,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t stay away,” was all he said in reply. This was not the time to launch into long explanations of cannon fire and high treason.
She stepped forward, then checked her progress. But her gaze was darkening and her breathing rapid, and Evan could no
longer withstand this distance between him.
His lips covered hers, and there was no more talking.
He expected resistance but there was none. Her mouth opened beneath his, kissing, biting, tasting. She seemed as desperate for him as he was for her, so he gave her what she wanted. Took what he wanted. And still he burned for more.
“We can’t be caught kissing,” she breathed against his cheek.
“I know.”
But he didn’t pull away. Neither did she.
“I meant every word. I can’t afford to make another spectacle of myself. I—”
He silenced her with more kisses. Her arms twined around his neck, tightened. Judging by the way she arched into him, Miss Stanton felt about as inclined to stop as he did. He kissed her more deeply, pulling her into his embrace.
His shoulders thumped against something hollow. A door. Vaguely, he realized that they were still in the corridor. Servants might chance upon them. They would be Ollie’s servants and therefore well used to keeping their mouths sewn shut, but Miss Stanton was right. They could take no more chances.
So Evan slid his hand from her hair and twisted the doorknob behind him. He caught her soft body to him as they tumbled inside. A bedchamber. Not hers, by the still air and general emptiness, but the room contained a bed, which would serve their purposes just fine.
He swung her into his arms, drowning her protests in more kisses. Well, possibly. She seemed to have forgotten to protest. Or perhaps the click of the door closing behind them gave her the same sense of relief and security, and there were no more protests to be made.
He certainly had no complaints. She was perfect. Warm and soft and sweet and eager and matching him kiss for kiss. He carried her to the bed. There was no elegant way to lay her in the center while still kissing—so he didn’t try.
Besides, no one had ever begged him for elegance. Passion, yes. And that, he was eager to provide. He backed up to the bed, determined not to remove his mouth from hers a single second longer than necessary. He eased down onto the edge of the mattress with her body in his arms, her fingers gripping his hair. He leaned backward until she was sprawled crisscross atop him. Before she could move, he rolled above her, pinning her to the bed with his gaze and mouth and body.
Too Sinful to Deny: Gothic Love Stories #2 Page 21
