The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy.

by Catherine Lloyd

  “Humph.” The judge sat back and pressed his fingers to his lips as if wondering what to make of her story. “I’m inclined to believe you on that score, Miss Barlow. The story is too far-fetched to be anything but true. However, you have refused to answer questions about Captain Jon Stag and that gives me pause. For instance, where does he come from?”

  “I will not answer any questions about the man, my lord. If you want to know about him, you will have to ask him yourself.”

  “Was he in on the deception? That is the critical point. If Captain Stag was aware you were not Lady Gage and used you as a pawn to rob the Dauntless, I could be persuaded to be lenient with you, Miss Barlow.”

  “He was not aware, sir. I carried on the charade until my brother was killed and then it no longer mattered. I only pretended to keep him safe and in that, I failed. I do not seek clemency, only to have it entered into the record that Bronwyn Barlow asserted her innocence in the charge of treason.”

  “You plea has been entered into the record but that does not clear you of a far more serious charge. You persisted in the charade even after it was evident the blackguard meant to plunder the Dauntless. You failed to warn Captain Treacher of the plot and you brought aboard the weapon that was used to carry out an act of piracy.”

  “I felt I had no choice, my lord. Everything happened so quickly.”

  “It did indeed by all accounts. And the gold is gone, in the hands of a pirate. The charge of treason against you shall be dropped upon finding insufficient evidence for conviction. However, on the charge of aiding and abetting in an act of piracy, I find you guilty and sentence you to hang from the neck until you are dead.”

  §

  “SHE’S NOT one of ours, Jon, you know that.” Hezekial kept his voice low. “No one knows who she is. The governor had her transferred to a secret location after her trial. He’s worried her hanging will provoke a full-scale uprising and the redcoats won’t be motivated to stop it what with their pay gone missing.” Hezekial winked and gave a low chuckle.

  The press was being inked behind them. The latest edition of the underground newspaper was ready to go out. “Ben Franklin has contributed a rousing letter to the editor to embolden the undecided. By God, it is good to see you again, Jon! It has been far too long, old friend. Stay awhile and have a drink. We have much to talk over.”

  “Another time, Hezekial. I must find Bronwyn Barlow and return to the Black before she sets sail. This is a Cinderella mission, my friend. We all turn into mice at midnight.”

  “It is a suicide mission you mean, but then again, that’s what you’re famous for,” he said with a grin. “If you insist on going after her, try the magistrate in the town square. He’ll know where she’s being held and what time they mean to hang her. She’ll be under heavy guard. You won’t break her out through your usual means, Jon. There are too many of them to subdue. I hope you have a plan. God speed, my friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  JON LEFT the printing press and made for the town square where he was greeted by a scaffold stark against the brick red sky left by the setting sun. His nerves pulled taut and his stomach twisted. The thought of Bronwyn hanging from that was grotesque.

  The magistrate was just sitting down to dinner. Jon was ushered into his study through uttering the code word that the network of patriots used to identify one another. He laid out his business plainly and the magistrate said the same thing that Hezekial had said only he voiced his opposition in blunter language.

  “No bloody way. It is impossible. You’ll expose all of us if you try.”

  “When is the hanging?”

  “Tomorrow at dawn. Captain Stag, I cannot allow you to do anything to risk the inroads we’ve made thus far. If they catch you, we shall deny all knowledge of you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do.” The magistrate’s face grew hard. “If you go after her and fail—if you are captured, you will be killed by one of our own before you can be interrogated. You know too much to allow you to live. If they don’t kill you first, we will. Now, do you understand?”

  Jon’s jaw tightened. “I do and it won’t come to that. There is a third way out that I can’t tell you about for your own protection. I thank you for your help and bid you good night, sir.”

  He left without another word. He hated what he had to do. Hated it worse than poison but he could not be captured.

  §

  THE GUARD was half-asleep when Jon strode up to the door. He pounded for admittance with all the arrogance that had been bred into him. “Wake up, you bloody fool. I am here to interrogate the prisoner.”

  The lad snapped to attention, buttoning his jacket and squashing his tricorner on his head. “Sir! I was not informed, sir, that there would be another questioning tonight. It is her last night on this earth and her request was to be left alone in prayer.”

  Jon grimaced. “We are at war, soldier. We cannot indulge the prisoner’s request. She has valuable information and I mean to get it out of her before this night is over. Show me to her.”

  The young soldier nervously jangled a thick skeleton key in the lock and opened a door dividing the cells from the main jail. Further down a narrow corridor, they stopped at a set of iron bars. Again, the young man fumbled another key in the heavy lock and opened the door. He stepped aside to allow Stag to pass.

  “That’s her, sir. She’s like that day and night. Gone out of her mind, sir. The other fellow on day watch says sometimes she cries, but other than that, there’s not a peep out of her. She’ll show her fangs if you touch her, so take care.”

  “Who has touched her?” he snarled. He would snap the man’s neck.

  “Not me, sir—I know my duty. But two fellows at the other jail got a sound thrashing for laying a hand on her. Aye, she’s a fighter, though you’d never know it to look at her now.

  “Leave us,” Jon said curtly.

  He turned to the bundle on the cot. Her face was buried in the pillow and the blanket drawn up to her ears. All that was visible was her black hair.

  “Bronwyn,” he said softly. “Bronwyn, get up. It’s Jon Stag.”

  The shape moved, shifting under the blanket and then her head emerged. Her beautiful eyes had dimmed. She blinked as though she could not believe what she was seeing. And then her face crumpled into silent tears. “No. Go away. I don’t want you,” she moaned softly.

  The condition of her spirit nearly broke his as well. The girl who was such a fighter—who had faced him down and drove him mad—was gone.

  Jon dragged her up in his arms and crushed her to his chest. “Oh God, do not give up now! He is alive, Bronwyn. Roddy is alive. You must listen to me—your brother is alive.”

  She shook her head at first and then pushed back to stare into his face. Her cheeks were stained black from tears mingling with grime. Her body was emaciated as though she hadn’t eaten in days. Most wrenching of all was the look she gave him. Jon Stag was a stranger to her.

  “You wouldn’t be so cruel. You would not. I didn’t tell them anything. I kept your secret. I did not betray you. You have no reason to hurt me with this lie.” Her voice broke. “I saw him die in your arms. There was blood … so much blood....”

  “The shot glanced off his rib. It was serious and the surgeon did not hold out much hope but he survived surgery and he is recuperating now in the hospital in Pigeon Cove. The doctor there is an old acquaintance of mine. Roddy is receiving the best of care. Come on now, you must get up. We have to leave here. The Black is waiting for us in the harbor.”

  Bronwyn burst into silent joyful tears and Jon swung her thin legs to the floor. She was so weak she had to use Jon’s shoulder as a crutch to stand up. She was too weak to walk—he would have to carry her. Jon lifted her in his arms and then kicked open the door. To the left there was the main door and the young soldier. He could bluff his way past but they’d only get as far as the end of the square before the fellow
sounded the alarm. He could outrun them from here to the launch but not with Bronwyn in his arms.

  Jon turned right and found another cell, a dead end with no window or door to the outside.

  “You will take care of Roddy if anything happens to me, won’t you, Jon?”

  “I will,” he said solemnly. “But nothing is going to happen to you. Hush.”

  “Then leave me here. Put me down and go before they catch you!”

  She weighed next to nothing. “Roddy needs you,” Jon said, scowling. “We did not save the brother only to lose the sister. Now, be quiet and let me think.”

  “There is nothing to think about. It is my decision. One of us has to live to take care of Roddy. It must be you. You have the best chance—but not on a pirate ship. You will have to take up a profession.”

  “A profession!” Jon’s laugh was hollow though he was glad to hear her sounding more like the Bronwyn he knew. “I have a profession, thank you, my lady. I am a pirate.”

  “Don’t make fun. You are a privateer and I am not a lady, as you well know.”

  He carried her to the heavy door that barred their exit from the jail. “You are a lady to me and always will be, Miss Barlow. Now, please stop talking. Of all the times I need you to be quiet; suddenly you will not shut up.”

  He pounded on the door. “You there! The prisoner has taken a turn—she needs a doctor! Did you hear me? Open this door!”

  The soldier flung wide the door and before he could speak, Jon marched past him and out into the square. “Where are you going, sir! Leave the prisoner here and I will run for the doctor!”

  “There is no time for that. She is gravely ill, I tell you.”

  Jon carried Bronwyn past the scaffold to the edge of the square and was approaching the town gates when a shout rang out. “Halt!”

  Bronwyn whimpered and her head lolled back. Jon stopped on command and waited as the footsteps behind him drew nearer.

  “Identify yourself, sir,” barked a new, older voice.

  Jon slowly turned; his mind racing. Bronwyn was too weak to walk, never mind run. Escape was impossible and his capture was imminent just as Hezekial had prophesied. He could fool a wet-behind-the ears soldier but not one of rank. If it was a simple matter of turning himself in, Jon would do it, but Bronwyn could not be hanged. He had sworn an oath to Roddy and a pirate’s oath was more binding than any made on land.

  There was only one way out left to him. The last card in his deck. If he played it, there would be no going back. Captain Jon Stag would not be joining Frame in Bermuda. His days of sailing the high seas would be over.

  But he could save her. Bronwyn could live.

  The decision was painless when seen in that light. When the girl he held in his arms was thin and clinging to him for her very life, the sacrifice was nothing at all.

  “My name is Lord Jonathon Stagholt and this woman is gravely ill. I am removing her to the hospital in Pigeon Cove.”

  “On whose authority, your lordship?”

  Jon’s jaw muscles twitched. “On the authority of Governor General Thomas Gage. Tell him his godson requests an audience to make his case for the lady.”

  He didn’t wait for a response from the sergeant at arms but turned and walked out of the square. They would be stunned into obedience for a minute or two, and then someone would have the wit to send word to Gage in Boston. When the General saw Jonathon’s name, his godfather would grant him an audience.

  And Bronwyn would be safe and cared for in the hospital with Roddy.

  He’d played his card. Jon could not regret it.

  §

  BRONWYN CLUNG to his neck. She did not allow herself to cry for fear that she would never stop once she had started.

  She’d heard everything. She knew what Jon had sacrificed to save her. He had taken a sharp turn in the opposite direction of his heart and soul, and into a life in which he would be forced to assume the mantle of lordship in England—and in America if the patriots lost the war.

  The price was the hope of their marrying one day. There was no place for a curate’s daughter in the world of the aristocracy. Jon would marry a lady from his own class.

  He carried her through the cobbled streets to the hospital and insisted on carrying her all the way to her brother’s ward. Surrounded by boys and girls, as well as women in labor, Bronwyn saw Roddy lying on a cot, fast asleep. His color was terrible, a shade of pearl gray, but he was breathing and the gown he was wearing was snow white. Not blood red.

  “This is a dream,” she wept into Jon’s neck. “I’m in the hold of the Dauntless and I’ll wake up soon and he’ll be gone and so will you.”

  “This is not a dream and you are getting heavy.”

  Jon lay her down on the cot beside Roddy and turned to speak to the matron on the floor. “Her name is Bronwyn Barlow. She needs a bath and a clean gown. You will care for her out of the money paid by the doctor who brought in the boy. She is his sister. If there is any difficulty, you’ll answer to me. My name is Lord Jonathon Stagholt.”

  “Yes, your lordship.” The matron dropped an awkward curtsy. “There will be no difficulty. I’ve spoken to Dr. Spalding. The boy is not progressing as well as we hoped. I am not certain he will survive the night. It is a sad case, and now his sister.” The matron made a clucking sound with her tongue. “What is the young lady’s trouble?”

  “Hunger, I should think,” Jon said shortly. “She stopped eating three days ago.”

  “Well, that is easy enough to remedy.” The woman took Bronwyn’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. She looked at Jon with a sharp eye. “A lord and young miss from a different class…. Forgive my impertinence but I’ve seen her sort of trouble before. I imagine her loss of appetite is the symptom of a broken heart.”

  “It was.” Jon’s eyes flicked to the sleeping boy. “But that trouble is cured now. She’ll be all right in a few days now that she is reunited with her brother.”

  “I suppose I shall have to take your word for it, sir.”

  Jon could not suppress a grin. The woman was thinking him the vilest sort of devil; a man who would defile a girl and dump her in a hospital when she became troublesome. He strode to the door. “Do not be fooled, Matron. She’s got more power in her little finger than I have in my whole body. I would lock up your scalpels if I were you.”

  It was near midnight but his business was not yet over. The Black would be sailing without him. It was as if he had walked the plank when Hawkins did, Jon thought. This was the end.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DEEP IN the middle of the night, Bronwyn regained consciousness and not knowing where she was, she began to cry softly, wishing she could return to the dream in which Roddy was alive.

  “Winnie?”

  Her eyes flew open. The dream was talking to her. A small boy was in the bed beside her and his face bore an uncanny resemblance to her own.

  “Winnie? Is that you? He said he would fetch you. He promised.”

  Her heart was doing mad twists and flips and she didn’t dare to breathe. Roddy was alive! Roddy was alive!

  “Oh Roddy!” She wept unabashedly. “Is this heaven?”

  “No, it is a hospital in Pigeon Cove. Captain Stag brought me here. Don’t cry, Winnie. I’ll be well enough to rejoin the crew soon. It was only a nick. See? Here is where Dr. Blakely took out my appendix. He says I shall have a bold scar just like a real buccaneer. Captain Stag has one too. The bearing went through his side when he caught me. Dr. Blakely said he might have been killed.”

  And then she remembered everything. Jon had broken her out of prison and carried her to this place. He had arrived out of nowhere to tell her Roddy was not dead. The boy’s color improved before her very eyes and she realized how close her brother had been to dying—how very near to death they both had been and that they owed their lives to a pirate.

  The pirate was gone now, Bronwyn recalled with a wrench of grief. In his place was Lord Stagholt, third Viscount and to the mano
r born. He was as far away from her now as if he had set sail to the other end of the world.

  But she had her brother back and now that she was with him, Roddy would recover. Could she say in good conscience that the price was too high? She would never see Jon Stag again—but Roddy was alive—it was a miracle!

  She’d fallen asleep in a nightmare and Jon Stag had awakened her to a dream.

  §

  GAGE WASTED no time in getting word to Lord Stagholt that his son was in Boston. Jon stood with feet planted wide apart on the balcony of the Governor’s mansion at midnight and watched the Black Adder sail out of sight. Frame was a good man. He would get the crew to safety and wait for his captain’s return at Wrecker’s Hill.

  “Your father has arrived, my lord. He is waiting for you in the library.”

  Jon turned to the butler. “So soon? He made good time from Virginia.”

  “His lordship was in New York for the season when he was informed of your return.”

  “The season … oh yes, I’d forgotten about those.” Jon rolled his eyes. “I may as well get this over with. Show the way, my good man.”

  He followed the butler to the library and it was like stepping back in time. Nine years and nothing had changed. His father was standing at the fire, holding a snifter of brandy and presented Jon with the same imperious yet grieved look he had given when Jon fired on his merchant ship.

  “My boy. My dear, dear boy.” His father set his glass down and held out his arms.

  Jon forced his unwilling legs to move toward his father, but he would not embrace him. Jon took his hand instead to shake it.

  “Father. You are looking well.”

  “Am I? I can’t think why. I’ve lost my only son. Your brother Nathaniel is dead.”

  “He was not your only son but he was my only brother. I learned of his death some time ago.”

  “You knew and you did not come home?”

  “I did come home but you were gone. There was little point in reconciliation without Nate.”