The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  Shaking his head, he made his way to the bow to navigate the Reckoning through the shoals. He'd never met a woman--except his sister, mayhap--who didn't know precisely how to attract a man's attention and who, once she had him begging for her every favor, didn't revel in the power she had over him. But this woman ... this Morgan Shaw was different.

  Leaning over the bow, Rowan scanned the water on both sides as the Reckoning slipped through the sea, arrows of foam rising up her hull. Shaking off thoughts of the woman, he focused beneath the waves for reefs and shoals that weren't marked on the charts. One mistake and he'd ground his precious ship. But he'd yet to make such an error. Unlike everything else in his life, Rowan had found purpose and a home on the sea. He was good at it--being a captain and a pirate. He only wished it was something his sister could be proud of as well.

  Sails were lowered and the ship veered to larboard as Rowan shouted orders to the helmsman to make small adjustments to port or starboard. Once safely within the bay, the ship slowed to a near crawl, and Rowan returned to stand beside Nick.

  "When we're at ten fathoms, drop anchor and ready the boats," he ordered as his gaze once again landed on the woman. "I'm taking the lady below to gather some things."

  "Aye, Captain." Nick winked. "Behave yerself, now."

  "Don't I always?" He grinned as he made his way down the quarterdeck ladder and approached the woman. "I would speak with you in my cabin." Without waiting for one of her caustic replies, he took her arm and dragged her alongside him.

  Wincing, she slugged him. Chuckles rose from the crew, prompting him to hoist her over his shoulder to show them who was in charge. Even with all her attire, she was lighter than the wind. The lace from her petticoats tickled his face, and he blew it aside and bunched the fabric against her legs, holding tight against her kicks.

  Not that she didn't try. She also pounded his back with both fists, but the action felt good and helped loosen his muscles. Mayhap he should hold her like this a little longer. Besides, he was enjoying her scent. A sweet scent he couldn't place, one that reminded him of flowers, though none he'd ever smelled.

  He carried her down the ladder and through the companionway, then kicked open the door and set her down in his cabin. Her face had turned the most charming shade of red.

  She blustered, trying to catch her breath. "You could have just asked me to come with you instead of carrying me down here like a sack of potatoes."

  "What fun in that, Lady Minx?"

  She narrowed those green eyes of hers. "What do you want, Captain? This is no way to win my heart. Isn't that your next play?"

  He chuckled. "In good sooth, if I wished to win your heart, it would already be mine."

  "Is that so?" Her tone mocked. "In good sooth, I see your ego exceeds your brains."

  "Faith now! Such wit!" He'd never been thus insulted by a common wench. He should be angry. He should lock her up below again or, better yet, stuff a handkerchief in her mouth. But instead, he found himself utterly amused. "Alas, though this lovely gown has formed a lady on the outside, I regret to discover it has had no effect on her tongue."

  With a dismissive huff, she walked to the bookcases and began pulling out books and then putting them back. "That's right. How could I forget? Women don't have a mind of their own in your time."

  "Most have a mind, I'll grant you, but a sane one."

  "Very funny." She stepped back to admire her work, and only then did Rowan notice she was lining up his books in a perfect row from shortest to tallest.

  The grating of the anchor chain rumbled, followed by a splash, and the ship came to a halt. She stumbled and gripped the back of a chair. "What is it you wanted to tell me, anyway?"

  "We are to go ashore for a few days." He moved to his cabinet and began gathering his weapons--two pistols, a long knife, shot and powder, and an extra cutlass. He would need them to not only defend this woman's purity, but her life as well should she use her biting tongue on one of his crew. "'Twill not be the most comfortable situation for you, but there's naught to be done about it." When he turned around she was moving his backstaff back and forth on his desk, lining it up with his journal. A little shove here, a little shift there, before she stepped back to assess her progress.

  "You really are a slob, you know." Her gaze landed on the weapons in his hands, and her brows jerked upward. "Has my father staged a battle?" She started for the windows, but tripped on her skirts. With an unladylike growl, she clutched them and continued, climbing onto the window seat and peering at the island bobbing in and out of view. "Tell me we are at the end of this ridiculous act and there is a boat waiting to take me home."

  Rowan stuffed pistols in his baldric and sheaved the blades, not bothering to make sense of the lady's words. "This is the only ship available, and it will take you where I say it will. I am the captain, you are a thief. Ergo, you will do as I say."

  "Ergo?" She giggled and glanced over her shoulder, then plopped down on the seat like a little girl, her skirts puffing in a cloud around her.

  A rather adorable thief at the moment. Rowan swallowed.

  "Very well. Let's get on with it--whatever my father has paid you to do. What day is it anyway? If I was out cold for a day, it's probably Monday, right? Maybe Tuesday." Her face paled. "Father!" she shouted into the air. "You do know that I have a doctor's appointment on Tuesday!"

  Nick appeared in the doorway, a chart in hand. "Captain, a minute."

  Rowan thanked the fates for the interruption, for he was beginning to question his own sanity. Assuring himself he'd left no weapons lying around, he approached his friend and attempted to pay attention as his quartermaster informed him of their exact location. Movement behind him--shuffling, banging, sighing--caused his frustration to rise, and he spun to find the minx pilfering through his desk drawers. Pilfering and yet straightening his belongings at the same time.

  "Are you now to steal my possessions right in front of me?" He charged toward her and stayed her hand.

  "Says the pirate." She arched a brow at him.

  Nick chuckled. "The lass does ha' a point."

  Giving them both a superior look, she shoved hands on her hips. "I'm looking for your phone. Where is it?"

  "I know not this word phone. Is it some kind of weapon?"

  At this she raised her hands and squeezed her temples, uttering a growl that would lift the hairs on a seasoned hunter.

  Even Nick shrank from it.

  But Rowan stared at her because he could do naught else. He'd like to label her mad and be done with her, but in truth, there was no lunacy in her eyes. Only clarity, wisdom, and a hint of desperation. Shadows hung beneath those same eyes, and her skin was sallow and dry as if she'd been ill for a time. Her hair was uncurled, uncoiffed, and a common brown. And though her attire gave the appearance of curves, he knew better. There was naught to recommend her. At least not to his liking. But still ... she fascinated him. Her strange words, her ludicrous demands, her astounding courage. And an underlying sorrow and fear that reached out to him from deep within her.

  Her tantrum over, she hung her head, her gaze brushing over his desk and fixing on something. Before he could stop her, she spread out the corners and exclaimed, "A treasure map! Of course there would have to be a treasure map. Dad thinks of everything."

  Rowan snagged the chart from her grasp and rolled it up. "'Tis none of your concern."

  "Oooh, touched a chord, did I?" She smiled. "Where is this great treasure? Does my father want us to go on a hunt?"

  "Why don't ye ask him, lass, eh?" Nick remained at the open door. "Since ye seem t' think he's here somewhere."

  Rowan backed away from her. "You aren't a witch are you?"

  Her lips slanted. "If I were, I would have already turned you into a toad."

  Nick chuckled and Rowan couldn't help but smile.

  Ignoring them, she picked up one of his discarded shirts from the deck and began folding it. "So, is the treasure here on the island?"

&
nbsp; Though her tone bore delight, Rowan could tell she mocked him. Why, he had no idea. He grabbed the shirt from her hands, reassessing his decision about her sanity. "What ails you, woman. Leave my things be."

  "Och, Rowan," Nick interjected, "let her clean up a wee bit. Lord knows ye could use some help."

  A huge grin appeared on the wench's lips that made her look almost pretty. Rowan had never seen such perfect white teeth. "You don't know where the treasure is, do you? You can't decipher the code on the map. Of course." She tapped her chin. "My father wants to keep me entertained, so he left a code for me to figure out, a treasure hunt, and a handsome pirate." She pointed at him before her gaze found Nick. "And his lively Scottish sidekick. Well done, gentlemen."

  Ignoring her nonsensical babbling, Rowan honed in on one word--code. Mayhap she was a spy after all. "How do you know this code?"

  "I've seen others like it." She crossed arms over her chest and leaned back against his desk. "I took cryptology in college and was hired to write a decryption program for the NSA if you must know. But I'd have to kill you if I told you any more." Her eyes sparkled playfully.

  "Kill me? You?" Rowan snorted. "Should you try, you would find yourself in the hold once again. Or worse."

  "Geez. It was a joke." She rolled her eyes. "Lighten up."

  He exchanged a glance with Nick, who looked as puzzled as he was.

  "You will interpret this code." He lifted the rolled map, still in his hands.

  "We don't live in the Stone Ages, Captain, and I'm not part of this charade of a crew. Ergo, I don't take orders from you."

  Rowan's blood began to boil. He took a step toward her. "That is where you are wrong, Lady Minx. You live or die by my command alone."

  Where most men would have lowered their eyes beneath his glare, apologized for their affront, or at the very least exhibited a flicker of fear, she only smiled, feigned a look of fright and said, "Oooh, I'm scared."

  Nick's jaw dropped, while shock held Rowan's tongue, along with his reason.

  "Tell you what, Captain." The minx continued in her fearless, supercilious tone. "I'll be happy to do as you ask on one condition. As soon as you fix this old boat of yours, you promise to take me back to San Diego."

  Rowan growled. "'Tis a ship, not a boat!"

  Chapter 5

  Morgan sat in the wobbly boat, holding a hand to her nose at the stench of unwashed men. With the actor-captain's help, she'd navigated a rope ladder flung over the side of the bigger ship down to this one below. Easily accomplished had she been wearing her jeans, but after getting tangled up in her skirts--twice--and nearly falling into the water, she accepted the hand he offered. Now as she settled in the small craft, her dress ballooning around her and sweat starting to form beneath all the layers, she gained an overwhelming appreciation for what women endured in the past.

  With more dexterity than Morgan would have thought she possessed, Edith climbed down the ladder, slapping away pirates' hands reaching to help her, and sat on the seat beside Morgan, offering her a wide smile and a reassuring nod. "A proper lady needs an escort...'specially with sich rakish pirates 'bout."

  Morgan smiled at the woman's calm motherly concern, so unlike her own mother who would have been in a nervous twit by now.

  The captain, a.k.a rakish pirate, leapt into the boat, sending it jostling, then settled on Morgan's other side, eyeing her with suspicion--and something else. Something playful that made her heart skip. Sun-streaked hair waved about him in abandon, slapping his strong jaw peppered with dark stubble. Man, but he was handsome. Not in Jason's polished metro-sexual way, but in a devil-may-care wild kind of way. Her father had chosen well. Kerr, the other handsome pirate, sat beside his captain and gave her a wink before ordering the crew to start rowing.

  Pressing their oars against the hull, the men shoved off from the larger boat and plunged them into water the most beautiful shade of turquoise Morgan had ever seen. She'd never been much for traveling. Too claustrophobic in planes, too sick on boats, and an inability to sleep in strange motels kept her close to home. Regardless, she had gone to Mexico on Spring break once, but she never remembered water this gorgeous.

  Reaching over the railing, she allowed the liquid--warm as a bath--to caress her hand as movement beneath the surface drew her gaze to brightly-colored fish darting this way and that just below the surface. Beautiful fish, the likes of which she'd only seen at the San Diego Aquarium. Tropical fish, if she remembered. Which meant she was not anywhere near California. Which also meant she must have been unconscious for quite some time.

  Familiar fear began to claw its way through her belly and into her heart, pinching and cinching as it went until her entire body felt coiled tight like one of her mother's balls of yarn.

  "What day is it?" she asked Edith.

  Wind blew the woman's black curls into her eyes, and she brushed them aside, looking confused.

  "You know, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ..."

  Edith waved a hand through the air. "We don't needs to keep track of sich things, child."

  "Well, I need to. I have an important appointment I cannot miss on Tuesday."

  When Edith offered no response, Morgan turned to the captain, but he was in deep conversation with Kerr.

  Perhaps once Morgan got Edith alone, she could tell her about the cancer, appeal to her motherly instincts to stop this ridiculous charade.

  The small craft leapt in the air, and Morgan gripped the sides, her stomach vaulting. Groans sounded from the men as they heaved the oars through the incoming waves.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, she glanced back over her shoulder and was surprised at the enormity of the boat that had brought them here. The side rose a good twenty-five feet above them, and the length was over twice that long. Three masts as tall as telephone poles stretched into the morning sky. Where had her father found such an authentic ship? It must have cost him a fortune.

  When she turned back around, she found the captain staring at her again, a grin curving one side of his lips. "You approve of the Reckoning, Lady Minx?"

  "I guess it's okay as far as boats go."

  His mouth grew tight. "Ship." He gestured toward the craft they rode in. "This is a boat."

  "Whatever." Morgan looked away as a wave struck them. The boat rocked violently, and she tightened her grip on the edge as seawater splashed over the side, soaking her shoes. Although the ginger tea had helped calm her stomach, queasiness clambered up her throat once again, and she was thankful they'd be on land soon. If her father possessed an ounce of mercy, he would have his people waiting on the island to take her home. Enough was enough.

  Pain jabbed her right side just below her ribs--a pain the doctor said would worsen until they could operate to remove the tumor, a pain reminding her that no matter what grand romantic adventure her father had staged for her, she was still going to die.

  Especially if she didn't start treatment soon.

  Incoming waves punched the small boat, splashing over them and sending the craft speeding toward shore. Morgan nearly fell from her perch twice, but the captain's strong hand came to her rescue. When the boat struck sand, he leapt into the shallow water and swept her up in his arms before she had a chance to protest. With a grin that would melt the staunchest feminist, he waded toward shore, his boots sloshing through the water, causing the strangest sensation to come over her. She'd never been the type of girl to need a man for much of anything. A women's libber all the way, she prided herself on her independence, on her ability to take care of herself. But decked out in this frilly gown, being carried ashore as if she were too precious to get her feet wet by this strong, handsome man, well, it made her feel like a princess from one of those fairy tales she used to read when she was a little girl.

  The fairy tales that life had taught her never came true.

  And part of her--a small part--wished that all of this were real.

  For such a brute of a man, the actor set her down with the gentlest of care b
efore he turned and assisted his men with the supplies. Farley had a bit more trouble carrying Edith. For one thing, the woman made it quite clear she didn't want to be carried. For another, the aged surgeon nearly dropped his wife twice, dragged the bottom of her dress through the waves, and then endured her playful swats as she chided him for his clumsiness. He finally put her down on the sand beside Morgan.

  Morgan backed away, expecting them to start yelling and accusing each other, but instead Edith reached up on tiptoes and kissed her husband's cheek. The loving gaze he returned made Morgan swallow a burst of emotion. If that had been her parents, they'd have started World War III by now.

  A chorus of birdsong and the buzz of insects added to the gentle lap of waves and shouts of the men as they moved crates, barrels, and sacks from the boat and stacked them on shore. Farley went to help, leaving Morgan and Edith standing in the hot sun.

  Morgan swept a gaze over the beach and the jungle beyond, seeking any sign of her father's people--a camera, a flash of modern clothing, anything to let her know this stupid act was at an end. Yet nothing but pearly sand, emerald waters, and lush greenery filled her vision.

  Sweat pasted Morgan's underthings to her skin. "How did women stand wearing all these clothes in the old days?" she asked Edith.

  "Come, child." Edith led her down the beach. "Let's find some shade while the men settle things."

  A breeze wafted over Morgan, cooling her neck and dousing her with the freshest air she'd ever breathed as they lowered to sit beneath a palm tree. She took off her shoes, dumped out the sand, and rubbed her stockinged feet, longing to rip off the confining hose and wade in the surf. But then she'd just get wet and sandy, and with no shower to wash off the saltwater, she'd end up more miserable than she was now.

  The captain's deep voice echoed from down shore where he stood, wind tossing his hair, hands on his hips, directing men who obeyed him swiftly and without question. He made a good pirate captain. Perhaps a famous producer was watching, and Rowan--or whatever his real name was--was auditioning for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie. If so, Morgan would definitely cast her vote for him to fill the role--of the villain, of course. She smiled.