The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  He smiled at how foolish he felt sneaking into a lady's chamber merely to watch her sleep. The kitten was wrong. There was a threat present--one to his heart. For he'd not stopped thinking of Lady Minx for the three days she'd been locked away. He'd oscillated from feeling like a cad for treating her thus, to outrage at her continued insolence toward him in the presence of his crew. What was it about this pert little shrew that had him so captivated?

  Was it her courage, her strange speech, her innocence, wit, keen mind? Or mayhap 'twas the wounds she hid deep within her heart--so much like his own.

  In the past, he'd always been lured by beauty, full figures, and full purses--unattainable, attached women wherein he could enjoy all the pleasures of their intimate company with none of the responsibility.

  Alack, he could hardly remember most of their names! Save for the few whose husbands had called him out to swords. Even those faded into an oblivion of boredom.

  But this woman. This skinny cheeky-mouthed slip of a girl had him mesmerized.

  He'd instructed Nick to spend time with the minx today in order to discover her true identity--where she hailed from and to what end had she boarded his ship. 'Twas the reason Rowan had stayed below, out of sight so as not to distract her. If anyone could discern the woman's true purpose, it was Nicholas Doran. The man could see past any facade, uncover any lie, and even cause a person to speak of things they wouldn't dare tell anyone else. Nay, 'twas clear Nick had inherited his reverend father's penchant for confession, for with but one look from Nick, every sin Rowan had ever committed dribbled from his lips like foam over a mug of ale.

  The ship rolled over a wave, wood creaking and water dashing against its hull. Morgan stirred slightly, letting out a tiny groan before she settled down again.

  Rowan rubbed his eyes, exhausted from the day's work, but unable to find rest due to his pestering thoughts--stirred into a cauldron of confusion and angst due to Nick's report. He didn't believe the lady was lying. He believed her confusion was real and that all evidence pointed to the possibility that she hailed from a different place ... a place unknown to them.

  And mayhap even a different time.

  'Twas the last declaration that blasted a hole through Rowan's sanity.

  Yet ... somewhere deep inside, it made sense of her strange speech, her constant insistence that none of this was real. Her fearlessness in the midst of pirates who'd just as soon pleasure themselves with her and toss her overboard than cater to her feminine whims.

  Rowan had seen many strange things in his two years at sea. A glimpse of the giant octopus they called the Kraken, fish that flew through the air, a turtle as big as a ship, and even what he'd been sure was a mermaid. He'd also seen his home town of Port Royal sink to the bottom of the sea. Why, then, would traveling through time be so unbelievable?

  Still, 'twas too far-fetched for any rational man to believe. Parchment on the table caught his eye, and he grabbed a piece and brought it to the light. 'Twas a drawing of a ship. His ship, the Reckoning. He stared at it, blinking to clear his vision, shocked at the exquisite detail of each line, sail, railing, and deck, right down to the binnacle and capstan and even the belaying pins. Had the minx drawn this?

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and studied the odd lady. Her lips twitched and her breathing grew heavy as if she were dreaming. Dark lashes caressed her cheeks like stormy waves upon the shore, while strands of brown hair lay across her bosom--ribbons of auburn over cream. How he longed to touch her. Not in an improper way, but just to ... be near.

  What an alarming thought! If word got out, his rakish reputation would be thrown to the wind. Alack, a most daunting tragedy for all the ladies who had yet to enjoy his lovemaking.

  He shifted in his seat, an unintentional groan spilling from his lips. The pesky cat mistook it as an invitation, for it squeezed from its mistress' arms and leapt onto Rowan's lap. The movement woke the fair lady. Her eyes suddenly popped open, and she leapt backward in her bed, slamming against the bulkhead.

  "'Tis just me, Lady Minx." Rowan tossed the drawing back onto the table, while inadvertently stroking the cat with his other hand.

  Several seconds passed as wind whistled against the window and candlelight swayed over the edge of her cot.

  "Have you come to steal my cat or my virginity?" she finally asked in a curt tone.

  He laughed. "Neither, though the latter has some appeal." He realized he was petting the infernal cat and set it on the floor.

  "You may take your appeal, along with yourself, elsewhere."

  "It would serve you well to remember upon whose ship you sail."

  "It would serve you well to remember who is paying your salary."

  "Ah, the illusive father, of course." He chuckled.

  The kitten leapt onto the cot and disappeared into the shadows with its mistress.

  "What is it you want, Rowan?" she asked. "You lock me in this stifling room for three days for no reason. And now, I've missed my onco--doctor's appointment. I hope you're happy with yourself."

  "I find myself nearly always so, Lady Minx."

  She huffed. "So I've noticed."

  Despite her insult, he found himself wishing he could see the sarcastic quirk of her lips.

  Leaning back in the chair, he crossed arms over his chest. "In truth, I have come to make amends for my recent treatment, though you rightly deserved it and more."

  She laughed, then uttered one word emphatically. "Fail."

  Rowan searched his mind for any possible meaning. "I beg your pardon?"

  "When an apology is followed by an insult, it loses its meaning."

  He rubbed his temples, seeking to stay the frustration churning there. "Do you wish to be free or not, Lady Minx?"

  "Stop calling me that, and of course I do. But that will happen soon enough. Apologize properly or get out."

  The ship bucked and Rowan grabbed the candle holder before it slid to the deck. It gave him time to collect his temper, lest he say something he would regret. Still, anger seethed from his tone when he said, "For what offense? Saving you from ravishment, from being crushed to death by snake, or from a French prison?"

  "For being rude and trying to bully me into interpreting your silly map."

  He growled. "A spoiled little chit, aren't you?"

  "You could use some lessons on how to apologize."

  "A million pardons, Lady Minx, if I have offended you." That was as good an apology as she was going to get. He'd come here merely to watch her sleep, to ponder what Nick had told him, but the woman had a knack for pricking his ire.

  She finally moved to the edge of the cot and swung her feet over the side. Candlelight flickered over features tainted with both fear and fatigue. She looked so thin, so frightfully thin, that his anger fled him.

  "Edith informs me you haven't been eating."

  "I told you I'm sick."

  "Hmm. Very well, I shall gladly take you home if you would but tell me where home is."

  She huffed. "San Diego, as you well know."

  Rowan had searched his maps and found only one reference to a San Diego Bay, but that could hardly be the place to which she referred. "This San Diego borders the Mal del Sur?"

  "The what?"

  "The South Sea."

  She merely stared at him.

  "Nevertheless," he continued, "'tis Spanish territory and you are clearly no papist."

  She seemed to sink into the mattress. "I am so tired of all this pretense, Rowan. Can we please stop?"

  "I am trying to stop this madness," he ground out. "If you would but cooperate."

  "There's that temper again." Her voice taunted him.

  He jumped to his feet, took the single step toward the porthole, and glanced out, trying to cool said temper.

  "Where are we going?" she finally asked.

  "New Providence, Charles Town."

  "Good. At least a place I recognize. That's an island in the Bahamas, right?

  Rowan had neve
r heard of this Bahamas.

  At his silence, she continued, "I assume my father is waiting there with a plane."

  A plane? He spun to face her, his mind jumbling with her words.

  "Ah, yes, you wouldn't know what a plane is, would you?" She smirked. "It flies people to different places."

  Rowan pondered her statement as he sought her eyes--what he could see of them in the candlelight--for any deception. He found none. Only annoyance and sorrow before she lowered her gaze to the cat perched in her lap and stroked its fur.

  "You sketched my ship," he said, hoping to douse the tension rising between them.

  Her gaze snapped to the parchment on the table. "I was bored. It helps me relax."

  "'Tis quite good."

  He finally got a smile out of her. "Thanks. It's sort of a hobby of mine. Actually, oil paints, not charcoal. I wish I was good enough to make a living at it."

  Rowan glanced at the drawing. "Odd fancy for a thief," he joked. "But I do believe people would pay highly for such beautiful work."

  She smiled again and lowered her lashes. The folds of her pretty blue skirt spread about her legs like waves at sea, and he suddenly wanted more than anything to kiss her--to kiss away her sorrow, her frustration, to kiss away her crazy notions. And his frustration.

  He approached and held out his hand. "Truce, Lady Minx?"

  At first she stared at him, her eyes questioning. But she finally put her hand in his and allowed him to lift her to her feet. The cat sprang onto the bed.

  The deck tilted and he grabbed her waist to steady her. "If I could conjure up your father and a flying machine for you, I would." He brushed his knuckles over her cheek.

  Her stunned expression transformed into one of wonder as the air seem to charge between them.

  Placing a finger beneath her chin, he lifted her head and placed his lips on hers.

  Ah, sweet and madness and thrill! Lips as soft as clouds, her taste of spices--sweet and tangy, her response one of passion as she pressed against him, moaning.

  He deepened the kiss, and she pushed from him. He expected a slap, but she merely stood there, chest pumping, her eyes filled with horror, and something else ... mayhap a spark of desire?

  He smiled. "I shall leave you to your rest." Then dipping his head, he left before he proceeded to do what every cell in his body screamed to do.

  Shutting the door, Rowan leaned back against it and listened to make sure he hadn't frightened her overmuch. Or worse, that she wept in disgust at his touch. But no sound emanated from within.

  Whether or not the lady was insane or she actually did travel through time, he would not--no could not--set her free in Charles Town. Not in that nest of pirates.

  ♥♥♥

  Morgan didn't sleep a wink after Rowan left. She tried pacing, drawing, snuggling with Blackbeard beneath the covers. But nothing stopped the warm excitement buzzing through her at his gentle touch ... his kiss.

  Why had he done it? When all they ever seemed to do was argue. Even worse, why had she allowed him when the fool couldn't even apologize properly? She was so done with arrogant, vain, alpha males!

  Shouts filtered from above, and footsteps pounded the deck as the ship made a sharp turn. Morgan laid a hand on the wall to keep from falling and then moved to the window for a peek. Rays from a mid-morning sun spread a net of jewels over the sea while in the distance, land rose out of the deep. New Providence, the Bahamas. Civilization at last! Soon she'd be home getting the treatment she needed.

  And this romantic adventure would come to an end.

  She forced down sorrow at the thought. Fairy tales were not for plain, nerdy women with cancer.

  Except--she touched her lips--that kiss was like none she'd ever experienced.

  Blackbeard circled her feet, and she stooped to pick him up, her anger once again rising at the way her body had responded to Rowan. Yet ... something in the way he'd kissed her ... tender passion, a whispered promise ... almost like he actually cared. But that couldn't be. It wasn't even real. Her father had probably included a kiss in the man's salary.

  And she was a complete fool to think otherwise.

  During the next few minutes, the boat pitched and tilted, sails flapped and thundered, and commands continually echoed from above. But finally the roar of water against the hull lessened to a soft swish, and details of a city began to form outside Morgan's window.

  Weird. Where were the hotels and resorts one would expect to find along the port's shoreline to service the hundreds of tourists on incoming cruise ships? All she could make out before the boat made a sharp turn were clusters of small wooden and brick buildings, sandy streets, and horses and wagons.

  Horses and wagons?

  She blinked and rubbed her eyes, then flattened her face against the glass again, trying to gain a better view, but the boat must be facing the shore, and all she saw was another dock extending to her right where a smaller boat and a larger one were tied. Both appeared to be ancient sailing ships. Probably here to take tourists out for rides just like they did at the San Diego Tall Ship Festival.

  Which would make sense of the quick view she'd had of the city. Maybe they were hosting one of the Renaissance fairs they had back home where everyone dressed up in costumes and pretended to live back in the day. Ridiculous waste of time and money if you asked her.

  Cuddling Blackbeard to her chest, she sat on her cot and waited for either her father or Rowan to walk through the door. She'd already made her bed, placed her drawings in a neat pile, set the chair in the right position beside the table, and used a piece from her torn pantaloons to sweep dust into a corner. It was the most she could do to keep order in what had been her world for three days--anything to help keep her anxiety down, though it hadn't helped all that much.

  Even now she felt it rising to squeeze her breath at the thought she had nothing to look forward to but surgery and chemo.

  More shouts ricocheted from above, and finally the heavy sound of boots thudded outside her door. The latch clanked and Rowan entered, two of his men behind him. He'd changed his normally messy clothes into a cream-colored embroidered shirt with wide sleeves and ruffles that fluttered from the cuffs of his leather coat. Brass buttons lined the lapel and also the belt buckled around his waist, while another one crisscrossed his chest and provided a sheave for the sword hanging at his hip. Brown pants were stuffed in knee-high boots that were also buckled in brass. His hair was combed--for once--and lay neatly at his shoulders, his goatee trimmed, and the earring shone from his right ear.

  And the desire--or was it affection--sparking from his blue eyes sent her heart careening in her chest. But then a harsh shield dropped over his expression as he said, "You are to remain on board."

  "What?" She jumped to her feet, the motion making her dizzy. "I will not! Where is my father?"

  "'Tis for your own protection. Charles Town is no place for a lady."

  "Oh, now I'm a lady. I thought I was a wench and a thief."

  "A thief, I'll grant you, but the wench is yet to be determined." He dropped his gaze to her lips and grinned.

  Drat! Was she blushing? She turned away and placed Blackbeard on the cot, then faced Rowan once again. "Whatever I am, I insist on seeing my father at once!"

  "When are you to learn that I allow no one to insist anything on board my ship?"

  "Then let me get off and I'll gladly stop."

  "Alas, in another lifetime, Lady Minx, but not today." With that, he tipped his hat and strode from the room, one of his lackeys locking the door after him.

  The Awakening

  Chapter 12

  Rowan slammed the rest of his brandy to the back of his throat and gestured to the barmaid for another.

  "Best go easy on the spirits, Captain, or ye wilna make sense of wha' the mapmaker says." Nick sat beside him, looking none too pleased at loitering about in such a nefarious den.

  "If the peevish old cur ever makes an appearance." Rowan leaned back in his chair a
nd surveyed the gloomy punch house--so like all the others he'd visited over the years. Men taking to their cups, trollops selling their fleshly wares, barmaids tolerating salacious invitations and wandering hands for an extra coin tossed their way. Foamy ale sloshed over mugs on trays while smaller pewter cups held rum or brandy. Smoke from cigars and pipes joined the smell of unwashed bodies, whale oil, and tallow in a haze that hovered over the boisterous mob like the fog over London.

  "He'll come," Nick said, always the optimist, sipping his drink which was naught but water tainted with whiskey.

  Following an afternoon of scouring the villainous port, Rowan and Nick had finally found a man who knew the aged mapmaker and swore--by the powers that be--that the man frequented the Stuffed Goat most nights, where he sat alone in a corner and drank himself into a stupor before wandering off in the wee hours of the morning to who knew where. No one knew, apparently, for the gray-bearded man appeared and disappeared at will. No one even knew his real name, only that he made the best maps in the West Indies.

  Cursing bit the air as an altercation ensued in the far corner--a common occurrence as liquor flowed with the night. Nick cast uneasy eyes that way.

  "Have a real drink, Nick," Rowan urged. "It'll make all these luxurious surroundings bearable." He chuckled.

  "An' end up a slobbering fool like ye? No thanks."

  Elbow on the table, Abbot leaned toward them. "Better a slobberin' fool thans a tea-tottlin' nimbycock." His slurred words preceded drool spilling from his lips.

  "Och, aye, I believe I've made my point." Nick smiled at Rowan.

  Rowan examined the four of his crew who had accompanied them: Abbot, his bosun, who had now dropped his forehead onto the table; Cudney, his deaf master gunner, who stared blankly into the air; Scratch whose long mustache dangled in his ale like a fishing line, and Jorg singing an off-key ballad. And he was forced to agree with Nick's assessment. Did he appear as doltish as they did when he drank? Nay. He waved off the ludicrous thought as the barmaid brought another round of drinks. Setting his mug on the table, she gave him a suggestive wink, which he would normally find, at the very least, flattering, at the most, inviting. But tonight he had no taste for women. Or at least not for any woman but one.