“There, take that, Williams, ye old bugger!” a voice hissed.
Another voice said, “Ye sure we was s’posed to kill him?”
“O’ course I’m sure, ye cork-brained git!” the first man said. “Come on, now, there’s more to be done before this day is out.”
Beckett flattened himself against the wall beside the door, waiting for it to open.
It didn’t.
He heard quick footsteps echo down the passageway until they were gone. Then came the sounds of scuffling on the deck above…the sounds of close combat, of men yelling, and metal blades clashing.
Gads, the mutiny had begun.
A chill of fear ran up his spine as he thought of Isobel. Had she been able to warn Worthington? Where was she in all of this?
In anger and frustration, he grabbed the bars of the little window as he had before and pushed and pulled against them. Surprisingly, the door opened.
He jumped back, waiting to see who had opened it. But no one appeared. The door just creaked open slowly, gently inviting him into the passageway, and freedom.
Beckett peeked around the door and saw the key sticking out of the lock. There was no one else about, and he hopped over Williams who lay crumpled on the floor. Beckett crouched down and turned the pirate over. He was dead.
“My condolences, Mr. Williams,” Beckett said, removing a long dagger from the man’s boot. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore. But I most certainly will.”
With that, Beckett turned and trotted down the hall. There seemed to be no one at all below-deck—at least on this end of the ship. But he would be ready if he encountered any resistance.
He turned another corner, hoping to find Isobel’s quarters, and instead looked straight into the black eyes of Sir Harry Lennox.
Chapter 24
“Ravenwood,” Sir Harry hissed, stepping back. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you here. I was just coming to see you. To see you die, that is. Thank you for saving me the walk.”
Sir Harry slashed out with his dagger as Beckett quickly side-stepped the move.
“You bastard!” Beckett growled, his anger blazing. He hated this man with absolute clarity.
Sir Harry snarled and slashed at him, but Beckett nicked him on the wrist with a return cut.
Good. He wanted Lennox to bleed a bit before he died.
Beckett had fought men like this before—men without much training, but dangerous as a wounded beast. Such men could be goaded into making a mistake.
Sir Harry smiled as he prepared to strike again, saying, “When Isobel is my wife, Ravenwood, she’ll pay for every drop of blood you make me spill.”
“Isobel will never be your wife, Lennox,” Beckett said, flatly.
Sir Harry’s expression darkened as he lashed out again with his dagger, nicking Beckett’s elbow.
Beckett ignored the minimal pain, though Lennox seemed overly pleased by the blow. Beckett would let the man tire himself out a bit before he attacked in earnest.
Sir Harry’s eyes glittered maliciously, as he said, “You stole my bride, Ravenwood. I swore I’d make you pay for defiling what was mine.”
“I beg to differ with you there, on both counts,” Beckett replied, slashing his opponent’s thigh, who gave a groan. “Isobel was never yours, Lennox. But she is mine. We love each other, you see. That’s something you’ll never understand.”
Beckett heard a muffled voice shouting from down the passageway, and pounding on a door. He thought he heard his name.
“Isobel?” he shouted, deflecting Sir Harry’s dagger once more.
“Beckett!” Isobel answered.
“Yes, it’s your beloved husband, Isobel,” Sir Harry shouted over his shoulder. “Say your good-byes, my dear, and listen to him die!”
“No!” she cried.
Sir Harry attacked like a mad bull. Beckett moved quickly, landing a hard kick in his opponent’s groin. This was a dagger fight, and he doubted Lennox would observe any gentlemanly rules of conduct.
Sir Harry doubled over in pain, but managed to keep his weapon out in front of him. Beckett kicked again, and knocked the dagger from his enemy’s grip. In a moment, he was pulling Lennox up by the scruff of his neck and placing the tip of his own knife to the base of the man’s throat.
“I can’t say that I’m sorry to do this,” Beckett said, preparing to deliver the killing stroke.
“But I can,” a voice said from behind him.
Beckett recognized the sound of a pistol being cocked near his head. He felt the cold tip of the barrel against his skull, and cursed.
“Worthington!” Lennox croaked, “It’s about time.”
“My apologies, Sir Harry,” the captain said, stepping around Beckett and taking the dagger from his hand. “Had a bit of a mutiny to take care of, which Lady Ravenwood was good enough to warn me about. It is because of her that I didn’t shoot you dead just now, Ravenwood.”
“Let me see her,” Beckett said, staring down the barrel of Worthington’s pistol.
The man was flanked by a crew of loyal pirates.
“I’m afraid that would be unwise,” Worthington answered. “Your wife is safe in her quarters, and that is where she will stay.”
“Not for long,” Sir Harry said, smiling.
Beckett made a lunge for him but was stopped by Worthington’s men. “If you touch even a hair on her head, Lennox, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are!” he growled.
“Too late,” Sir Harry said with a satisfied grin.
Beckett struggled anew, but Worthington stepped between them, sheathing his pistol in his belt. “Be assured, Ravenwood, your wife will remain unharmed while she is on my ship. I owe her that, at least.” He nodded to his henchmen, and said, “Take Lord Ravenwood back to his cell.”
One of the pirates pointed a pistol at Beckett’s head, then yanked him back down the passageway.
Beckett struggled against them as they headed back to his cell, but he knew it was useless. He would not be able to escape now, that was certain. At least Worthington had promised to keep Isobel safe for the duration of the voyage. That would give him more time.
Soon, they were at the door to his cell, and the pirates pushed him in. The door creaked loudly behind him and he was back in the familiar darkness. How long had he been out of this mean little room—twenty, thirty minutes? Surely, it had been the world’s shortest escape.
Beckett heard the key turn in the lock and the muffled sound of men dragging Williams’s body down the passageway. He turned around and slammed his fists against the wall.
“Isobel!” he yelled into the darkness, though he knew it was useless.
Sir Harry had won this round.
But Beckett was not about to give up—not by a long shot.
* * *
The wind whipped Isobel’s hair mercilessly around her face. She pushed it behind her ears for the hundredth time, and wondered why she attempted to put it up each day.
She pulled her shawl close around her. The wind had gotten colder the closer they got to England. And now they were almost there.
Isobel looked out across the horizon, seeing land loom in the distance. She tried desperately to fight the despair that had been growing in her heart steadily since yesterday. Their voyage was almost over, and Sir Harry had promised to make her a widow before they reached shore.
She had been unable to see Beckett after the attempted mutiny. Worthington had come to her quarters with Sir Harry in tow, to thank her for warning him.
She had begged to be able to see her husband, then, but the pirate captain refused. All he would say was that Beckett was in good health. Her only consolation was that he’d assured Isobel of her personal safety while on board his ship. Judging by his purposeful glance at Sir Harry, she knew that meant safety from him.
Isobel turned, and when she saw Sir Harry approaching across the deck, turned back toward the water. There was no use in trying to get away from him. He would merely follow
her. At least up here, she would be under the protection of Captain Worthington.
“You should not spend so much time in the sun, my dear,” Sir Harry said. “It will darken your freckles.”
Isobel refused to look at him, replying, “Then I shall stay out in it all day, if only to displease you.”
He chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Still bent on defying me at every turn, I see. That’s alright. You’ll learn soon enough. And I shall relish teaching you.”
Sir Harry lifted his hand to her face and tried to stroke her cheek, but Isobel jerked her head away as if his hand were a burning iron. She glared at him, wishing the power of her hatred could kill.
“The fire in your eyes excites me, Isobel,” he said dangerously. “It will make taming you even more enjoyable.”
Isobel turned and faced him squarely. “You shall not extinguish the fire in me, Sir Harry. If you try, you’ll be burned.”
Sir Harry’s eyes darkened and he came closer to her, bending his face down near hers, as he said, “You are so like your mother, Isobel, in countenance, as well as in spirit.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small. Smiling tenderly, Sir Harry held it up in front of Isobel’s face.
Isobel’s stomach twisted into a hideous knot when she saw that it was a miniature portrait of her mother. “What are you doing with that?” she demanded.
“I first set my sights on her, you know,” Sir Harry explained. “Since your father inherited the family fortune that should have been mine, I planned to reclaim control of it through his wife…or shall I say, his widow.”
“What are you saying?” Isobel asked, as cold fear coiled in the pit of her stomach.
Sir Harry gave a reptilian smile. “You remember the highwaymen who attacked your parents’ carriage that night? I sent them,” he said simply.
His voice was like a dull blade cutting open Isobel’s heart with excruciating slowness. She shook her head. No, this couldn’t be true!
“Shall I tell you more?” Sir Harry inquired, his voice mocking. “The plan was for the highwaymen to stop the carriage, rob it, and in the process shoot that inconvenient husband of hers—your father. Which they did. But your mother attacked one of them. During the struggle, the pistol went off. Everything would have gone according to plan if it hadn’t been for your mother’s stupid actions. I would have married her and we all would have lived happily ever after at Hampton Park.”
“You monster!” Isobel cried. She clawed at his face, but she was no match for the man’s strength. He easily grabbed her wrists and crushed them together with one hand.
“Unlike your mother, you are not going to foil my plans,” he said.
“I hate you!” Isobel struggled against him. “You have taken everything that I have ever loved away from me! My parents, my guardian, and now my husband—a man that I love more than life itself.”
Isobel raised her chin and stared defiantly into his coal-black eyes, seeing the displeasure there.
“But there is one thing you can never take away from me, Sir Harry,” she said, “and that is love. The love that my parents gave me and I gave them, the love I feel for Beckett, and the love we’ve shared as man and wife. Those are moments you will never know. And they are mine—forever.”
Sir Harry released her and sneered, “Cherish them, Isobel. Cherish your precious moments of love. You’re right—they are yours, forever. Just as you are mine.”
He turned to go, but Isobel grabbed at his sleeve. “Please, let Beckett go. If it’s me that you want, then no one else need suffer. I will go with you willingly, but please, please set my husband free. I beg you to do him no harm. He is innocent in all of this.”
“Innocent, you say?” Sir Harry spat. “Ravenwood has taken your purity, Isobel. He has defiled my bride, and for that he will pay very dearly.” He pointed up at the masts. “Tomorrow, he shall swing from the yardarm.”
“No! No, please!” Isobel cried, shaking her head.
“Oh yes, and you shall watch it!” he answered, darkly. “Tomorrow at dawn, Isobel, your dear husband will be executed.”
Dear Lord, Sir Harry truly was a madman.
He meant to make her a widow, and witness her husband’s murder.
And Isobel had no idea how to stop it.
Chapter 25
Beckett squinted at the bright light that came into the brig from the doorway. He shielded his eyes and made out a tall figure standing in the doorway. It was Redbeard.
“Up an’ at ’em, m’lord. Cap’n wants to see ye on deck, now,” the pirate said.
“What’s the occasion?” Beckett asked groggily.
“Oh, there’s to be a hangin’,” Redbeard replied. “Some say it’s to be yours.”
Beckett rose to his feet. “Mine, eh? Too bad. I always thought a hanging to be a damned inconvenient way to start the day.”
Redbeard laughed, saying good naturedly, “To be sure, m’lord, to be sure. Now, don’t you be givin’ me no trouble, an’ I’ll make sure yer face stays pretty ’til ye put it through the noose, alright?”
Beckett said, “Very kind of you—ah, what is your name, if I may ask?”
“Josiah Cox, sir. First mate.”
“Well, Mister Cox, it has been nice knowing you,” Beckett replied.
“Been lovely knowin’ ye, too, sir,” Cox said. “Now, if ye don’t mind, they’re waitin’ for ye.”
Beckett stepped through the door, squinting at the light. As he walked down the passageway, his mind raced, and his heart—damn the bloody thing—pounded in his chest.
This was undoubtedly his last chance to save Isobel and himself. He would have to keep his head, find an opportunity, and grab it. It would be bloody difficult surrounded by armed pirates, but there was no choice. He had to succeed.
So many memories of Isobel whirled before him. Some he could see, and some he could only feel. They all seemed to flow together and blend into one, like the ever-changing colors of a sunset.
The silkiness of her skin, her warm cocoa-brown eyes, kissing her neck that night in the Whitcomb garden, the sound of her gasping beneath him as they made love for the first time…. The images all swirled together in his head and his heart.
Would Isobel be up on deck to watch him hang? If Sir Harry had his way, she would most certainly be there.
Beckett steeled himself as he ascended the stairs. He would find out soon enough.
* * *
“Ah, I see the guest of honor has arrived,” Sir Harry said, with a thin smile.
“Beckett!” Isobel cried. Instinctively she tried to move toward him, but Sir Harry’s strong hand clamped down on her shoulder and held her firm.
“Now, now, my dear,” Sir Harry said. “You must stand back in order to appreciate the view.”
Isobel stared helplessly at Beckett, feeling her heart ache in her chest at the sight of him. He met her gaze with his own, and though his face was pale, unshaven and thin, the intensity in his eyes touched her soul.
Dear God, help us!
Isobel turned toward Worthington, who stood nearby, and wrenched herself free from Sir Harrys grip. She ran to the captain’s side, sank down onto her knees and grabbed his hand, pressing her lips to it. Tears dampened her face as she looked up into the wolf-gray eyes of the pirate lord.
“Please, I beg of you, don’t let him do this!,” Isobel pleaded. “Don’t let him kill my husband. I would do anything to save his life. This is your ship. You can stop this.”
Worthington looked down at her and pulled her to her feet. For a moment, she thought she’d seen something flicker in his eyes—compassion, or sympathy perhaps. But it only lasted a moment before it was gone.
“I am sorry, Madam,” he replied coldly. “I can do nothing to help you.”
“You mean you won’t do anything!” Isobel spat. “You are a coward, sir—of the first order. I’m sure you are the only pirate in the world who is afraid to stand up to the likes of Sir Harry Lennox.”
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“I am not afraid of anything, madam,” Worthington replied, raising an eyebrow in warning. “Except of course, ruining my reputation—which I have no intention of doing by interfering with a paying customer. Not for you, not for your husband.”
“Then I will pray for your soul, Captain, for it is surely destined for hell,” she replied.
“You do that,” Worthington said, unfazed. He gave the order to the men holding Beckett. “String him up.”
Isobel looked about in desperation. Could no one help her?
Captain Black crouched on the nearby railing. His green eyes watched her, calmly.
“Wait,” Sir Harry said.
As he walked toward her, Isobel thought he reminded her of a snake…so smooth, so dark and menacing.
“Perhaps my future bride has a point,” he said. “I am, after all, not without some feeling. I see no reason why you shouldn’t be allowed to say goodbye to your first husband, Isobel. I know I would enjoy seeing it. The tears, the final kiss…oh, I do love romance.”
Isobel stared at him, horrified, but unable to resist the promise of kissing Beckett for one last time. She nodded mutely.
“Shall we, then?” Sir Harry grabbed her arm and yanked her toward where Beckett stood, surrounded by pirates.
Sir Harry pulled her up in front of Beckett, so she stood just out of reach. Her eyes devoured the sight of him, trying to memorize every line, every curve of Beckett’s face. She tried to get closer to him, but Sir Harry jerked her back.
“But you said we could have one last kiss,” Isobel pleaded.
“I lied,” Sir Harry said.
“Get your hands off her, you bastard,” Beckett growled.
“You mean these hands, Ravenwood?” Sir Harry asked, sliding his palms over Isobel’s shoulders as he pulled her back against him. “You mean, the ones that are going to be undressing your little wife on our wedding night, while you rot in hell?”
Seducing The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 1) Page 19
