by Susan Ward
“Oh, Merry, I don’t think this is at all wise,” Kate rushed anxiously.
“Don’t fret, Kate. Philip is inside. He would never allow harm to come to me.”
“Can Philip protect you from smugglers and thieves? Do you have any idea what will happen if they realize that you are a woman?”
Merry didn’t even want to consider it, or that Philip would not be inside. The ugly possibility of finding herself alone, in Grave’s End was too terrible to contemplate.
Hesitantly, Merry approached the weather worn structure. Lightly placing her hands on the scarred door, it pushed forward the tiniest bit. The raucous buzz of conversation and laughter floated out to her.
If I let them see my fear, I won’t last a minute, she chided herself, trying to steady her nerves.
Taking in a deep breath, she leaned her weight against the door, almost falling when it instantly gave way. It was designed to swing, and once through, it fell quickly back from her, leaving her trapped on the inside.
Merry eased back against the far wall, trying to blend into the background, as she quickly tried to orient herself to her surroundings.
The scene was not at all what she had been expecting. It was worse. In front of the door, a group of truculent Irish seamen had staked out their territory. Their heavily accented voices made the candle’s flame beside her head gut, as they alternately toasted and threatened each other. The only light, in the narrow, high-ceilinged room, came from the smelly tallow candles set in brass sconces widely spaced along the smoke-discolored walls. The only heat against the chill sea air, from a single log burning in the hearth. A sudden pop and crackle of wood made her jump. The shower of sparks sent an uneasy glow over the group of rough-looking men, huddled over tankards of ale at the crude assortment of tables and chairs.
The tavern was much larger than it looked from outside, with the dim light she could see but a few feet. A quick inspection of the tables near her confirmed that Philip and Rensdale were not nearby. She would have to move from the door if she hoped to find them, but the thought of stepping even a foot forward on the gritty, sand-laden floor...
The door was pulled quickly back. She skittered out of the way, to allow a nasty looking brute with a crude heavy face and red rimmed eyes to move past her.
The fresh night air, which had been trapped deeply in her lungs since entering, pushed out of her throat and Merry raised her hand to cover her trembling lips. The room held the stale, sour odor of sweat and unwashed bodies, the pungent aroma of Grave’s End gin and cheap perfume that nearly suffocated her. A bottle crashed from a nearby table. Merry whirled toward the sound to find the nasty looking newcomer harshly glaring her.
“Get yer arse frem behind me chair, ya young wretch,” he growled. “It’s bad luck ta stare at a mon’s back, less’n you mean ta put a knife in it.”
Merry mumbled what she hoped was an appropriate response, and made a hurried flight to the bar. As she settled against the roughly made counter, her shaking hands knocked over a flagon of gin.
Frightened, she pulled a coin from her belt and tossed it carelessly onto the counter. It rolled about and finally made a soft clank that drew the barkeep’s attention.
“Little young ta be out on a night like this, eh lad,” he said, his deep-set eyes giving her a sharp appraisal beneath thick bushy brows. “Gin or ale?”
“Neither,” Merry muttered, keeping her face averted. “I am looking for someone.”
The bartender laughed. “Are ye, now? Yer too small a fish ta be thinking about a hop with me ladies, so it’s a drink ye’ll be getting and nothing else if yer meaning ta stay.” The bartender slid a flagon of gin at her. “Blue Ruin. Drink.”
Merry flinched from the barked order. “I said...”
“And I said drink, laddie. We don’t like troublemakers here.”
With a defiant tilt of her chin, Merry raised the glass and took a deep pull on the vile brew. It burned from her throat to her stomach and it took every ounce of self-control not to spit the hideous concoction out
Merciful Heavens, I am going to be sick, she thought with welling panic, trying to hold both her stomach and the hard gaze of the coarse-featured laughing man before her.
“It’s a wonder they don’t kill you for serving swill like this,” Merry muttered under her breath.
One hairy, muscular arm snaked out and pulled Merry up against the counter. “Ye’ve had yer drink, lad, and I suggest ye leave. Yer not a big enough tub ta stand on yer own bottom with this lot. Someone is gunna want ta have a little fun with ye. They use squirts like ye fer target practice, and that’s only if yer lucky enough not ta be used for something else. Be on yer way. A little maggot like ye means only one thing. Trouble. I don’t mean to have me establishment ruined over the likes of ye. Damn messy business when they get a mind ta have a little live sport.”
The iron fingers tightened fiercely on Merry’s arm.
“Let go of me. I am not leaving before I find who I am looking for,” Merry countered firmly.
His yellow eyes rounded with surprise. “Hell’s bells, ye ain’t no lad. If ye came here fer a job, why didn’t ye say so, lass? Ye’ll do. We don’t get young lassies like yerself here, too often. I bet ye got something sweet and juicy hidden under yer britches.”
Understanding came to her in rapid shock waves. Did this horrid man actually think she wished to become a doxie? The terror of being found out didn’t match the flood tide of fury cursing through her veins.
“Let go of my arm,” Merry spoke in a soft, yet commanding voice. Better to die game than cowering. “Or you’ll live to regret it.”
“Uppity, ain’t ye. A little spirit will do ye good, a man likes a few bumps with the ride, but ye best mind yer tongue.”
“If I were you, I would listen to what I have to say or rue the day you didn’t. You are grievously mistaken if you think I have come here to be in your employ. If you place your hands upon me again, you’ll see my dagger in your heart. Understood?"
Swiftly, she pulled the knife from her belt. Light flashed off of the blade that was clutched fiercely in Merry’s tiny fingers, but her carefully enunciated words, which told Jack Shelby that she was a lady, were what had just rescued her.
“By God, what kind of craziness is this, m’lady,” Jack swore, anxiously looking past the girl to see if any of the men had taken note of the exchange.
A gently bred female, unprotected in this group, was like putting a match to a powder keg. And gently bred she was. A closer look at that delicate face was all Jack needed to know that she was a blue blood. What she was doing here? He couldn’t fathom for the life of him, but one thing for sure, he had better get her out before all hell broke loose. If anything should happen, he’d have the authorities swarming over him and a one-way trip to Newgate.
“If they catch wind of this, there won’t be nothing left of yer bonnie hide or me tavern when they’re through.”
“I am looking for a gentleman. My brother. I was to meet him here. He was with another gentleman, but I don’t see them. Perhaps you can tell me where they’ve gone.”
The ways of nobility were strange to Jack, but this was the damnedest coil he’d ever stumbled across. A gentleman. He didn’t have to search his brain to know whom the lass was talking about. So the whelp who’d accompanied Rensdale was her brother, Jack Shelby thought in dismay. Damn Rensdale fer bringing this trouble ta him. What craziness had possessed them ta have the lass come here?
“Aye, they were here. Got flush up on me ale and set ta brawling. They could see that they were court’n more trouble than they could handle. They had the good sense ta leave afore nightfall. Grave’s End is not a safe place for the respectable after dark.”
“Do you know where they have gone?”
“I don’t ask questions, and they don’t be offering answers. Now if ye don’t want ta see both of us dead, m’lady, ye’ll get yer arse out of here, afore someone takes note of ye.”
Gone. What am
I going to do? Merry wondered desperately. Finding Rensdale had been her only hope. Until this moment, she had not believed that her father would have his way or that she would fail. Now, Rensdale and Philip were off God knows where and she realized that finding them was an impossibility.
A lifetime as Rensdale’s wife, it would have been better to be plunged into Hades than to accept that fate, she thought.
“If ye start ta bawl’n, yer done fer,” the barkeep said solemnly, seeing the despair on the tiny lass’s face. “There’s no needing ta be afraid. Ye got yerself in here on yer own and ye can get yerself out, as well. Jack Shelby won’t be let’n any harm come ta ye, so long as you high tail it out of me tavern. Just get yerself gone from here quickly.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” she said, tucking the knife back into her belt.
Jack breathed a sigh of relief as the tiny lass turned from the counter. It would be all right. She’d be gone, with none the wiser and, to his surprise, he was grateful that no harm would come to the girl.
The wee lass had such bonnie eyes. The bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and pluck, too. Damn, Rensdale for this. There weren’t many women, lady or common strumpet, who’d be brave enough to come into Grave’s End alone.
Then, the scrapping of chairs and low rumble of voices caused Jack to look up. The blood quickly drained from his face. His front door had been opened without a sound. Inside his establishment stood the most frightening figure ever to set foot on the dry earth.
Jack Shelby recognized him instantly. Bloody hell, he thought. The little lass’s luck had just run out, and she didn’t even know it.
CHAPTER THREE
“If ye have a care ta live, ye’ll be silent,” Jack warned in a low voice from behind.
“What is wrong?” Merry demanded anxiously.
The only answer she got was a painful squeeze on her shoulder and her body jerked roughly back to the counter.
Then, she saw that the door to Grave’s End was opened wide, and two men had stepped in with a chill of fresh night air. It was too dark to make out their faces clearly, but it was obvious that the inhabitants of Grave’s End did not need to. Whoever these men were, they were recognized by all, their effect on the crowd unmistakable.
Merry stood, transfixed, staring at the door. A moment ago the gathering had been laughing, drinking, and brawling. Now, they were frozen. The silence around her was unearthly. These men, who feared nothing, were terrified. But why? What on earth could this lot fear?
The deathly silence did not break until something forced the rough Irishmen by the door to pull apart in a rush. And then through the center cut a boy, his strides brisk and menacing.
Merry could tell that the figure, beneath the poor light of the tallow candles, was not like any boy she’d ever seen. A mass of jet black hair cascaded in loose waves down his back, and his body, clad in faded denims and a battered leather jerkin, was lithe and finely boned. He stood only a handful of inches taller than her, and carried himself with an arrogance that inspired fear despite his size.
He brushed past Merry as if he knew, very well, that no one would block his path. She caught a quick glimpse of his face. It was startlingly young, the features so perfectly formed that the word ‘angelic’ came to Merry’s mind, but he was most decidedly male. She watched in amazement as the brawny, towering men withdrew in a flurry to let him pass.
The boy did not stop until he was at the table nearest the hearth. The men sat huddled over their tankards, not daring to lift their faces.
The boy raised his booted foot, kicking the table over with a sure and graceful blow. The bottles shattered against the grimy floor. With a subtle command, from the boy’s scarred hands, the two men who had been seated there jumped from their chairs setting the table aright before hurrying away.
The boy turned back toward the doorway.
Merry estimated him to be about her own age, maybe a year younger. For all his youth, there was nothing that could be considered boyish about his face. His eyes were dark, cold, soulless, and fixed keenly on the room.
Staring at the boy in unwilling fascination, Merry had to fight back a gasp when she noticed that the ugly scars on his hands extended up his arms and across the corded chest. Ridges of healed flesh stood white against that darkly sun-bronzed skin. Even his face had not been spared. Across his cheek, a wide scar etched its way from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth, adding a sinister cast to what would have been arresting features.
What manner of man could have done such a thing? Merry wondered, horrified, and then, she knew. When the sound of boots against the sand sprayed floor pulled her attention back to the door.
The man who stood in the darkened doorway stepped in, the dim glow of the candles falling across his face. All at once, Merry could see him clearly. The blood roared in her ears. Nothing could have prepared her for the magnificence of this man’s face.
This man was more than handsome, he was perfect, in a ruthlessly masculine way that was more than a little frightening. His features were intense and strongly chiseled, as though carved in smooth stone. The firm line of his jaw was arrogant, with a hint of superiority and mockery in the sensually twisting lips. His hair was sable, thick across a high, noble forehead and the glowing eyes, above the aristocratic nose, were darker than any she had ever seen. They were black, without a hint of hue to soften them.
His stealthy footsteps were an eerie sound in the otherwise silent room. His eyes surveyed the crowd in a lazy float, his keen gaze missing nothing and settling nowhere. He was moving through the crowd with the ease of supremacy, his powerfully built body relaxed, and latently dangerous at once.
He stood well above the rest of the men, his wide shoulders straining against his black muslin shirt, the firmly sculptured chest covered by a dark mat of curling hair. His muscular torso tapered down to lean hips, snugly encased in black breeches that were tucked into wine colored boots, cut high to the knee. From the top of his head to the tip of his toes, this mountain of a man was dressed in black.
The boy inspired raw terror with his presence, but there were no words to describe this man’s effect. His name formed in her mind in fast, furious shock waves. She did not need anyone to tell her that the man, who had just brought Grave’s End to a terrified halt, was the infamous Captain Morgan. The most vicious pirate ever to plunder the seas. No other man would have dared to make such a brazen entry among this savage order of men.
Any belief that Morgan’s reputation was the result of myth or exaggeration died the instant Merry looked at the boy, standing obediently behind his chair.
Her heart hammering in her chest, she made a panicked check of the door.
“Stay still, lass, if ye a care ta live,” Jack whispered fiercely. “One step ta the door and those devils of Morgan’s will snap yer neck like a twig.”
Merry nodded, realizing the futility of trying to make an escape. The men Jack was referring to were almost as tall as Morgan, but twice as wide. Around their thick middles large leather belts rested, boasting a variety of sinister looking weapons.
“No one comes. No one goes. Not while Morgan is here, not ever. Ye’ve got nothing ta fear unless ye stir Morgan’s notice.” He shoved a filthy cloth across the counter toward her trembling hands. “Take the rag. Set yerself ta cleaning the bar. Ye don’t want ta be caught watch’n them.”
Slowly activity resumed around her. Merry carefully slipped around to the back of the bar, feeling foolishly more relieved to have the rickety plank of wood as an added barrier between her and the pirates.
Carefully focusing her attention on the impossible task of cleaning the counter, she was unaware that her movement had caught Morgan’s notice, until she looked up to find his black eyes focused on her face. The heat of his stare made her burn, a sensation she found bewildering. She knew that the longer she met the contact, the more the danger, yet she couldn’t seem to find the will to lower her gaze. She felt as though she were drownin
g in those dark depths, like a sailor beguiled by the sea, drawn too far out and left helpless.
Bound by a pounding urge of fascination, Morgan held her gaze as effortlessly as he silenced the crowd. Merry had the sickening feeling that Morgan knew perfectly well she was not a lad. He ran her form once in a thorough, efficient stare. When his sharp appraisal returned to her face, he sent her a grin. To her horror, Merry felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks.
“Fer God sake, lass, don’t be let’n that devil get ta close of look. Ye don’t wanna know what Morgan does ta his women.”
“Please, you must help me. The militia....”
Jack stopped her words cold. “There’s no way out, lass. Ye best hope he has other matters ta occupy his mind than what he thinks ye got beneath yer breeches.”
Time slowed to a crawl for Merry, though the men of Grave’s End attempted to carry on in a normal manner, despite Captain Morgan’s ominous presence. Jack raced about the bar, refilling tankards with frantic speed, as the noise grew to a deafening pitch. For Merry’s part, she did as Jack ordered, cleaning the bar and refilling the heavy tankards.
She prayed that Kate had seen the pirates and ridden hell for leather to Bramble Hill. She tried to divert herself, from her terror bent thoughts by making a list of the mistakes that had brought her to this point, vowing that if she lived never to repeat them again...
The hair on the back of Merry’s neck stood up. Silence.
“Oh lass, we’ve got trouble,” Jack muttered fearfully.
“What is it?”
She looked across the room to find Morgan sitting at his table as he had for the past hour. For a man about to cause mayhem, he was amazingly indifferent about the whole thing.
“Not him. HIM.” Jack said, inclining his head toward the long-haired boy with the nasty scars. The terrifying boy-pirate had moved from behind his captain’s chair to the ugly brute that had barked at her for staring at his back. “The little blackguard, what does Morgan’s dirty work, has made his move. It’s Blackburn they’ve come for.”
