The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy.

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Any sign of the Black Adder?”

  “No, sir.” His first lieutenant frowned with concern.

  “You needn’t look so worried, Mr. McEwen. Captain Stag has our gold and one way or another I mean to get it back. Provided the Adder isn’t half-way around the world by now. I was hoping Stag would give chase, but either the girl did not mean much to him or his lack of interest proves she’s the traitor Bill Hawkins claimed her to be.”

  “It will take weeks to make the necessary repairs to the Dauntless before we can give chase, Captain. It is a big ocean. Where do you reckon he’s gone?”

  “The damage inflicted was not all on one side. The Black Adder was battered almost as badly. Captain Stag will have to repair his ship if he means to sail around the Horn to reach the South Pacific. I wager the Black is holed up in Newfoundland undergoing repairs. If the blackguard is as reckless as they say he is, he’ll sail right past our noses to Bermuda. And there, my friend, he will find us waiting for him. I mean to get the gold back and hang the bastard from the yard arm in Spanish Rock.”

  McEwen appeared to be unimpressed by Treacher’s bold plan. “I hope it will be that easy. My understanding of the man is that he is daring past the limits of most men. He’s the sort to weigh anchor in Boston Harbor, take what he fancies and be gone before we’ve loaded our cannons.”

  “Then either way, we win, Mr. McEwen. Jon Stag’s arrogance will be his downfall. We’ll catch him coming or going. I will stake my life on it.”

  §

  WHEN THE boy was strong enough to talk, Jon heard the whole of their story.

  “Tell me first: is what Mr. Hawkins said true? Is Bronwyn Barlow a spy for the British Army? She was armed with a British service pistol. Do not lie to me, Roddy. I know you are her brother, not her servant.”

  The boy’s face was wan but he was steadily improving. “She is not a traitor, sir. Nor is she a spy. Winnie is a housemaid mostly. She’s not very good at it though. She was an assistant to a dressmaker once and there was one time she was hired as a governess but had to resign when I became too ill to remain in the house. The pistol belonged to our father; Winnie took it when we ran away.”

  Jon touched the boy’s shoulder. “Why were you running? Where are your parents?”

  “They died two years ago. Winnie takes care of us. Our father was curate at a parish in Somerset. When he died, we had to move away. They were going to separate us, so Winnie and me ran off, sir.” The boy pressed his fingers to his eyes to staunch a fresh flow of tears.

  “No crying. We don’t have time for tears. If you want to help your sister, you’d better tell me everything from the beginning.”

  The daughter of a curate, of all the blasted creatures, Jon thought, but he did not doubt Roddy’s story. He was brought up short remembering Bronwyn’s imperious manner when they first met. How could she have been anything but a lady of the first order?

  “She is a fine actress, your sister,” Jon observed drily.

  “Winnie is afraid of nothing. Will I ever see her again, Captain Stag?”

  Jon cleared his throat. “Of course you will, boy. I’ll bring you to her myself.”

  “They think she is a traitor. Will she be hanged?’

  “No. I promise you. I’ll not let her hang. She’s done nothing wrong. All right. That’s enough talk for now. You’d better get some sleep; we have a big day tomorrow. Your sister will not be pleased with me if she sees you unwell. So you must be strong, Roddy, for her sake.”

  “I will, sir. Aye, aye, Captain.”

  The boy closed his eyes and was asleep within moments.

  Jon rubbed his hands over his face, feeling very tired and old. Only twenty-six and he felt as old as the sea. The wound in his side was throbbing. The surgeon declared he needed medicine procured from an apothecary. After he had seen Roddy safely delivered to shore, he’d locate one. They could not stay long. The Black would be a shooting target in the harbor.

  Bronwyn Barlow. That name and identity would take some getting used to. Jon resented the way she had deceived him and how thoroughly. The memory of his father’s betrayal had cut deep. It festered and poisoned his blood just as certainly as the wound in his side was festering.

  He couldn’t trust her. If she had told him—she would have her reasons why she did not—as his father had his reasons, but it amounted to deceit just the same.

  Forgiveness and understanding were not in his nature.

  Why then was he so hell-bent on getting her back?

  §

  ONE OF THEM—she couldn’t see who—wrenched her head back by her hair. She had been pushed to her knees and another soldier struck her on her bare shoulders with the flat of his sword. Bronwyn didn’t flinch or cry out and this is what enraged the soldier and the other two with him. They had gained access to the cell. The jailor must be napping or occupied to the point of insensibility to take no notice what the men were about.

  She waited for the next blow that would inevitably come and the next, until one of them grew bold enough to rape her. She didn’t care. Let them. She had already lost the prize of her virginity to a pirate; her body had no value to her anymore.

  Her hair was matted and gummed with pitch from the raw wooden floor. The shirt she was given long ago aboard the Black was foul with dirt and odors. She had not bathed in weeks. Her trial was less than a day away. Bronwyn had been promised a basin of hot water in order to wash herself. Clothes were another matter. She would stand up in what she had or in nothing at all. She wondered what became of the blue velvet dress.

  She was struck again, this time across the face as one of the soldiers pulled her up by one arm only to strike her down again.

  They were not regular British soldiers but a class of hired mercenaries who wore the red but had no love or loyalty to the mad King George. They seemed to hold Bronwyn responsible for the loss of the gold. Someone must have told them they would not be paid as a result and the news gave fresh fire to their rage.

  “Murderous whore. Tell where the thieving bastard has taken our gold or we’ll take our payment out of your hide.”

  “Aye, you’ll be made to work off the price of a brothel whore. Service a regiment you will. Cut off her shirt, mates. Let’s have a look at her. See if she’s worth the price.”

  Bronwyn was not insensible to humiliation and she lifted her fists to fight back. “Take what you want and be done with it—I’ll even strip out of my trousers to make it easier on you. But if you so much as snag the clothes I have on, I’ll cut your throat. I won’t be dragged up in court half-naked like an animal. Rape should be enough evil to inflict on a woman—even for the likes of you.” Her heart was pounding; proof that she was yet alive.

  One of the men laughed. “Some fun at last. I’ll rip your shirt from stem to stern and you’ll not make a peep—or it is your throat that it’ll be cut,” he hissed.

  She waited until he had caught the hem under the tip of his blade. His attention was on the blade, the shirt and the thrill he was no doubt experiencing in his balls. The other two men were watching with the stupid glee of lackeys.

  Bronwyn acted. She thrust the heel of her palm up into the man’s nose, crushing the cartilage and bone into his skull. She remembered everything—when you hit, hit to kill.

  The man screamed, dropped the knife and reeled back, his hand pressed to his bloody nose. Bronwyn dove for the knife and brought her boot up hard between his legs at the same time, landing a vicious kick in her attacker’s groin.

  He was felled by both blows and dropped like a stone. Bronwyn knelt beside him, holding the knife to his throat. With the blade at his neck, she glared at his confederates through the tangle of hair that concealed her eyes.

  “If you value this man’s life as well as your own, you will get him out of my sight before I slice his throat from ear to ear. I am going to hang in any case. I will cheerfully take him with me. I feel like shedding blood tonight,” Bronwyn said in a low growl.

  Sh
e looked and sounded like the madwoman they believed her to be and she made no effort to correct the misconception. A bead of blood formed at the man’s neck. Bronwyn gazed at it, thinking of Roddy’s blood soaking Jon Stag’s shirt.

  There was no barrier to killing anymore. A life for a life. She pressed the knife harder into the man’s wizened skin, which had the effect of galvanizing his confederates into action. One grabbed his ankles and the other his wrists. They hauled him from the cell like a sack of flour. Bronwyn slammed the door behind them.

  “Lock it,” she ordered though the barred window. “If I escape, I’ll not stay my hand.”

  They did not need telling twice. The padlock was snapped into place.

  Bronwyn staggered to the tiny window cut into the hull, a porthole to allow the barest measure of air and light into the brig.

  She was suddenly dizzy and shaking. The night sky was filled with stars and the air was sultry with the coming summer. The stench of the harbor reached her nose. They were no longer at sea. The crisp clean salt air was gone, replaced by sewage and putrefaction.

  But the sky was as clean and pure as ever, as it was aboard the Black the last night she shared with Jon. He would be far away by now. Her mind was pulled to the image of him holding Roddy and the look he had given her. Compassion and grief—such terrible, terrible grief! As if her brother had meant something to him.

  Her head spun and ached. It made no difference what Stag knew or felt. She was trying to justify still loving him and it wouldn’t work. Roddy was dead and a large part of her soul had died when he did. The one tiny flutter of life she had left was in loving Jon Stag.

  That love would not be enough to sustain her. The trial would be over soon. She would not mount a defense. She’d rather hang and be at peace.

  Bronwyn curled up into a ball and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE BLACK Adder dropped anchor at Pigeon Cove, a quiet harbor north of Boston. Jon dressed in his finest coat, breeches and black boots but he refused to go so far as to powder his hair or wear a wig. Leave that to his father’s class of men, he thought. There were vestiges of the pirate in his unshaven face and work-toughened hands but he would pass muster well enough to convince a British soldier.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in.”

  James entered out of breath. Jon had sent him on a reconnaissance mission to learn what he could about the Dauntless and the fate of Miss Barlow.

  “She arrived in Boston two nights ago, sir. They say a woman was in custody and placed under arrest as soon as they set foot on land. The leaflets naming the charge against her went up the next day. She’s been accused of treason and trial is set for tomorrow. The townspeople expect a hanging in the public square in seven days time. They mean to make an example of her, sir.”

  Jon nodded grimly. “Thank you, James. You may return to your duties. Another ration of rum at dinner for this man, Mr. Frame.” He turned to Blakely. “How is the boy progressing?”

  “Weak as a kitten, but he’ll live. Not ready to travel any great distance if that’s what you have in mind. He’d recover quicker if he were in a proper hospital.”

  “There’s one in Pigeon Cove run by a doctor by the name of Spalding. Bring Roddy Barlow to him with this payment.” He tossed a small sack of gold coins that the surgeon caught in one hand. “It is from my share. Instruct Spalding to care for the boy until his sister comes to claim him.”

  Jon turned to Mr. Frame. “Lower the second launch. I’m going ashore. If I do not return by midnight, you will assume command of the ship.”

  “You are not planning to go after her!” Frame protested. “You are the one they want, Jon. There’ll be a price on your head. With no disrespect to the lady, it is possible they are using her as bait to get to you.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “And yet you still mean to go,” Frame said with disbelief. “This country is at war. You’ll be in danger from both sides. Ask the wrong question of the wrong man and it’ll be your neck in a noose. Spies are everywhere.”

  “All the more reason for me to go and not another. You forget what a cunning devil I am. I know how to play one side against another. If there is a way to liberate Miss Barlow without being caught myself, I’ll take it. If not, at least she’ll be restored to her brother.”

  “It is a great risk for a lady you know nothing about.”

  “I know she’s a curate’s daughter and not a spy. I cannot have her death on my conscience. If I do not return by nightfall, pull up anchor and set sail for the Bermuda islands. Any man who wants to give up his post can be put ashore at Nantucket. After that, get well away before the Royal Navy gets wind of the Black in the vicinity. If I get out alive, I’ll meet you at Wreck Hill in a fortnight. If not, it was an honor sailing with you, Harry Frame.”

  “And you too, Jon Stag.” Frame shook his hand emotionally. “This is not farewell. I’ll see you at Wreck Hill in two weeks time.”

  §

  JON ROWED on the incoming tide to Pigeon Cove. The sun was sinking into the horizon but the day was not yet gone. He kept his head well down and fixed his mind on his plan. Hezekial Garnett would be waiting to receive word from Captain Stag about the gold shipment—he would not expect to see the man himself.

  A lantern waved on the sandy beach head. “What ho there! Who might you be, friend or foe?”

  “Friend I hope. I am looking for Mr. Garnett. He runs the printing press in the village proper.”

  “I know the man. What do you want with him?”

  “I’ve come with a message for his ears only from a friend of the colonial resistance.”

  Jon beached the launch and jumped out, brandishing his pistol. “Will you let me pass or do you mean to make trouble?” There was no time for diplomacy; Jon had to get back to the Black by midnight.

  The older man held up his hands. He was dressed in the drab garb of the militia but he could be a Loyalist. “No trouble, sir. I’ve been tasked with keeping watch over these shores and I am proud to be of service in this great enterprise. Mr. Garnett is at his work tonight. There is a plan underway to oust the bloody redcoats from Boston and Mr. Garnett is in the thick of it.”

  “Aye, that sounds like Hezekial. He’s never backed away from a fight. Have you heard any news out of Boston of late?”

  “There’s a great bloody ship arrived, packed to the gills with soldiers to relieve the ones under siege in Boston. They hold the city, sir, and not likely to break. Oh—and they’ve got a lass in custody. Claim she is a spy for our side, but this is the first we’ve heard of it.”

  Jon had hauled the launch out of the water during this speech. “It sounds like another cock-up on the part of General Gage. We’ll win this blasted revolution on their mistakes alone. If anyone stumbles across the launch—”

  “I know what to do.” He brandished a musket that looked as old as its owner.

  “Thank you,” said Jon with a nod and ran along the beach to the path that led to the town.

  §

  BRONWYN WAS dragged in leg irons before an older man wearing a long wig that was as white as snow. He wore the most elaborate coat adorned with gold epaulets, brass buttons and richly embroidered trim. His stockings were white and his shoes were made of shiny black leather with brass buckles. After so long on board a ship, and before that, rarely in the presence of such opulent dress, Bronwyn was enormously fascinated by what she saw. Her adjudicator was a dazzling carnival seated in great estate behind a small ornate desk.

  “What is the charge?”

  “Treason, my lord.”

  “And how does accused plead?”

  “Not guilty, my lord.”

  His lordship peered severely at Bronwyn. “Not guilty of what precisely? You impersonated a ranking officer’s daughter to gain access to military secrets. The Dauntless was robbed of its gold thanks to your charade and yet you claim you are not guilty. What do you have to say in your defense?
”

  Bronwyn had little she cared to say. Roddy was dead and it was doubtful she could persuade these men she was speaking the truth, but for the sake of her family name, she decided to try. “I am Thomas Barlow’s daughter, the curate of Muchelney Parish in Somerset. Our parents passed away two years ago. I was in Penzance looking for work when my brother Roddy was stolen off the street to join the crew of the Black Adder.”

  “Jon Stag’s ship—the privateer—the same man who approached the Dauntless and asked to be allowed to board under the guise of transferring General Gage’s daughter? I understand a pistol was held to your head during this act of piracy—a pistol that belonged to you. A sea service firearm.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And did you inform Captain Treacher that you were not, in fact, Lady Gage but a curate’s daughter posing as her ladyship?”

  “No, my lord, I did not.”

  “And why not?”

  “To prevent a battle, sir. I hoped Captain Treacher would not risk the life of General Gage’s daughter by firing on the Black.”

  “You were poorly rewarded for your loyalty, Miss Barlow. They called you a spy and left you behind. In light of your testimony, I’m inclined to agree with the accusation against you. At the very least, you did nothing to prevent the piracy from taking place when you might have stopped it by speaking the truth.”

  “My error was not calculated. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

  “It was the certainly the right thing for Jon Stag,” the judge observed drily. “I have here a report from Captain Treacher that you possess unusual skills for a woman. You can defend yourself against attack and quite ably. Is this true?”

  “Yes sir. My father taught me how to use a firearm and fight when the need arose.”

  “Your father, the curate, taught you this,” the judge said flatly.

  “Yes, my lord. He was not a pacifist. He believed in fighting for one’s survival as well as for the Faith.”