The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates)

by Marylu Tyndall

  The thought alarmed him, and he was glad for the drink in hand to drown the sensation. He felt for the sack flung about his neck, ensuring it was close and its contents safe. No one must know he had such a valuable map in his possession or mayhem would unleash in this place. He would have preferred to have left it on board the Reckoning, but the eccentricity of the mapmaker did not assure him the man would be willing to return to Rowan's ship.

  "Ye surprise me, Captain." Nick fingered the rim of his drink and winked at Rowan. "Ye bought the lass a gift." His gaze dropped to the sack.

  "Paints and brushes. 'Twill keep her busy and out of trouble until I can figure out what's to be done with her."

  "Weel, still ... 'twas uncharacteristically kind o' ye." He smiled that knowing smile that always annoyed Rowan to distraction. "She's good for ye, is she, no?"

  "Nay. She drives me mad." Rowan sipped his brandy, wincing at the bitter, cheap taste. Regardless, it was doing the job of numbing his senses--helping him forget the look of desperation on Morgan's face when he'd left her locked in her cabin.

  The chink of coin and slap of cards lured his gaze to games commencing around him. He licked his lips. How he'd love to join them, double the doubloons in his pouch, and show these pirates how Faro was meant to be played. But now was not the time. Still, if the mapmaker delayed much longer, Rowan doubted he could resist the temptation all night.

  A clamor arose in the corner--cursing, shouts, and the chime of blades being drawn. A mob formed as tables and chairs crashed to the floor and two men crossed swords.

  Nick sipped his drink and shifted his shoulders as if trying to shrug off some wicked spirit. But it all bored Rowan to death. He used to seek out fights, enjoyed displaying his skill with sword and fist, but it was such brutish business--so beneath his class--and he grew weary of the resulting aches and pains.

  Kerr appeared out of the horde like a ghoul from Hades. He shoved Abbot out of his chair and slid next to Rowan, excitement flickering in his eyes. Unless his news was about Morgan or the mapmaker, Rowan didn't have a care.

  "I've been talking to William Bloodmoon," Kerr said.

  Bloodmoon. Agitation sparked through Rowan, tightening his nerves. He had no idea the callow scamp was in town. Which made it all the more imperative that Rowan conduct his business and leave forthwith.

  "He says there's a Spanish fleet sailing from Nombre de Dios in two weeks, loaded with silver ingots and gold."

  Nick laughed. "Bloodmoon? And jist how does tha' bedeviled mongrel know sich a thing?"

  Ignoring him, Kerr grabbed Abbot's abandoned drink and took a swig. "He wants us to join him, Captain. Says he needs another ship." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Says the treasure will be more'n we've ever seen. Fifteen tons of silver and one hundred thousand pounds of gold coins. We'll be rich beyond our dreams!" He slammed his fist on the table. Abbot moaned from the floor. "What say you?"

  Rowan rubbed his chin, hating to slash the man's enthusiasm to pieces, knowing it would set him off. "I wouldn't sail with Bloodmoon if he were God himself come down for vengeance. He's a vicious, untrustworthy cur, and he'll sooner gut you and toss your carcass to the depths than give you a share of the booty."

  Kerr's frown was only heightened by the brewing anger in his eyes.

  "The Cap'n's right." Jorg halted his lewd ditty to add. "He 'as ice in 'is veins, that one. Why once 'e tied a man t' the bowsprit fer days an' stuck lit matches in 'is eyes, just fer darin' t' question an order."

  Though Kerr tried to hide it, Rowan spotted a shudder coursing down his back.

  "Is that the type of man you want to ally with?" Rowan asked. "Is that the type of man you trust to divvy up the plunder fairly?"

  Kerr's jaw stiffened. "If he fills my pockets, I don't care if he's the devil himself." He finished Abbot's drink and leaned back in the chair, feet spread apart, and arms banded across his chest. Defiant, arrogant, and greedy.

  For the second time in as many weeks, Rowan saw so much of himself in this volatile pirate, it sickened him. Five years hence, when he was Kerr's age, Rowan hoped to be a wealthy respected member of society, not a thieving freebooter. Yet, of late, he wondered if the path he trod led in but one direction alone.

  Across the tavern, the fight ended with cheers and groans--one victorious, and one most likely greeting the devil.

  Rowan cleared his throat. "I'm working on a plan to stuff your pockets full, Kerr. And we'll do it without the help of a bellicose snok like Bloodmoon."

  "What plan? Your unreadable map?" Kerr snarled.

  Rowan flinched. He'd done his best to keep the map a secret for reasons of his own. "Let me see to it."

  Kerr let out an exasperated snort and shook his head. "You allowed our last prize to escape. The men are starting to complain."

  So Rowan had heard. He well knew these men would not blink before they stabbed him in the back and made fish bait out of him. "I've kept you swimming in gold, Kerr, along with the crew. Have I not?"

  Kerr's eyes narrowed before he glanced away.

  "Trust me. After tonight I'll know exactly where to find more treasure than two Spanish fleets can carry." Then Rowan would retire from this cutthroat business. And these cutthroat men.

  "Besides," Nick interjected. "We havena papers t' attack the Spanish."

  "Blast your papers!" Kerr stood, shoving the chair to the ground and drawing the gaze of more than one man. "And to the devil with your morals. In case you haven't noticed." He swept his hand over the mob. "We're amongst pirates. Which means we are pirates as well. And we should live as pirates, beholden to no man or country."

  "Aye, aye!" Abbot, waking up from his rum-induced nap, shouted as he struggled to rise.

  Light from the lantern sparked fury in Kerr's eyes. His hand slid precariously close to the hilt of his cutlass.

  Beneath the table, Rowan's did the same. The last thing he wanted was to draw swords with his first mate, but he'd have no choice if the man persisted.

  The impending altercation seemed to awaken the rest of his men from their stupor as their gazes shifted between Kerr and their captain.

  Rowan sighed. "If you're to challenge my authority, Kerr, do it now before I run you through out of sheer boredom."

  ♥♥♥

  Morgan knelt by her cot to pray. It was the only thing she could think to do. For the first hour after Rowan had locked her up again, she'd pounded on the walls, demanding to be released. All her outburst achieved were bruised hands, curses from the guard outside, and an hysterical Edith charging in to make sure she hadn't completely lost her mind. Still, no amount of begging and pleading or even tears convinced the lady to release her--so fearful was she of Rowan's retribution. Give Morgan a break. Enough of this insane pirate pageant!

  The next two hours she spent trying to decide who she hated more, her father or Rowan. Both men were so full of themselves they should be floating through the air like Goodyear blimps. Both wielded their power like the line of a fly fisherman, not caring who they hooked on the other end. Both men thought they knew what was best for everybody, while they hadn't a clue what was best for themselves.

  She finally decided she hated them both equally and sat down to calm her nerves by petting Blackbeard, who had scampered to the corner during her rant. Her chest was tight with anxiety, she was dizzy and tired, and her side hurt where the cancer still ravished her body. And it was so hot! No, not just hot, it was stifling in this cabin. The stupid window wouldn't even open.

  That's when she decided to pray. She was filled with nothing but hate and complaints, and if her mother were here, she'd certainly scold her for such sinful behavior. She'd no sooner bowed her head when the stomp of footsteps sounded outside her door, followed by loud voices, a scuffle, a thud, and a scraping noise.

  Grabbing Blackbeard, she waited in hopeful anticipation of the end of her trip into pirate la-la land. But it was the pirate, Kerr, who entered, smelling of rum and grinning at her as if she were the gol
d vault at Fort Knox.

  "What do you want?" she asked as he cocked his head and studied her. The man was good-looking, she'd give him that, with his short black hair and dark stubbled chin, his fit physique, covered in sexy pirate attire. But there was something unnerving about him--in his eyes--and Morgan was very good at being unnerved.

  His smile failed its climb to those eyes as he spoke. "I've come to fetch you to your father."

  At last! Words she'd longed to hear for so long! Yet ... coming from this man, they lost their impact. "My father?"

  He shifted his stance and gripped the pommel of his sword. "Aye, he's in town and asking for you."

  Morgan could only stare at him as a battle brewed within her. She wanted so much to end this mad charade, but she'd grown to mistrust most men, and this one made her feel particularly suspicious.

  "Where is Rowan?"

  "With your father. Now come along." He turned and gestured for her to follow. "Do you not want your freedom?"

  Blackbeard leapt from her arms, hissed at Kerr, and darted beneath the cot.

  "Oh, drat! Come here, Blackbeard." She knelt, but Kerr took her hand and tugged her along.

  "Leave the cat. Farley's wife will see to it."

  But she didn't want to leave Blackbeard, her only true friend on this crazy adventure. When she resisted, Kerr added with a sigh of annoyance, "You'll see the cat again. If you bring him, he'll get lost in town."

  She knew he was right, but she still hated herself when she followed Kerr out the door, up the ladder, and onto the deck.

  Darkness coated everything in black paint, and she was forced to take his hand as he assisted her from the railing to the wobbly dock. A breeze spun around her, cooling her skin. She drew in a deep breath, happy to be free from the stifling cabin at last. The scent of salt and fish and the spice of rain filled her nose as the lap of waves and distant music and laughter filled her ears.

  Kerr grabbed her hand again. "Make all haste, your father awaits."

  Tugging from his grip, she followed him. Old barrels and crates and a bucket of fish lined the wharf as the sound of Kerr's boots echoed down the rickety wood. Boats were docked alongside other wharves, while several were anchored offshore. All were old-looking boats like Rowan's. Odd.

  "If this pretense is over, why are you still speaking like you came from the seventeenth century?"

  He turned to stare at her quizzically, but Morgan no longer cared about the handsome actor, or his speech, or about much of anything when her eyes took in the sight beyond him.

  Lanterns flickered from posts, illuminating a street paved in sand and passersby dressed in ... well, dressed much like the pirates on board Rowan's boat--embroidered vests that fell to their knees, lace dancing about the cuffs of their shirts, bounteous scarves tied around their necks, three-cornered hats on their heads, and weapons strapped to hips and chests. The few women who strolled about wore long skirts and colorful bodices, much like Morgan's, though theirs were much tighter and pushed up their breasts until there was nothing left to the imagination.

  Horses and wagons and a few carriages cluttered the street, beyond which stood a row of buildings, most one to three stories high, some dark and quiet, while music and laughter spilled from others. At the end of the dock, a stone wall rose on either side with two small cannons poking through holes.

  Amazing! What had her father done? It was like a scene out of an historic movie, down to the smallest details of lanterns and dress and horses and cannons ... even the music sounded archaic. Perhaps it was a movie set for an upcoming film, and her father had rented it for the night. But why the charade if he was ending it and bringing her home? One last adventure maybe?

  Kerr entered the set as if nothing were amiss, gesturing her to follow. Gun shots cracked the air. Heart pounding, Morgan nearly leapt out of her shoes. A scream brought her gaze to a man chasing a poor lady across the street. A horse reared up, nearly running the woman down, while the rider let out a string of expletives, most of which Morgan had never heard before.

  Two men, arms flung over one another and mugs in their hands, staggered down the street singing--if one could call it that. One rather large man leaned against the brick wall, his hat tipped low over his face, smoking a cigar. She felt, rather than saw, his eyes bore into her, and she hurried along, suddenly feeling unsafe.

  Lightning lit the sky. One flash then another, like a light bulb on a camera igniting the scene for a millisecond then dousing it in darkness again. She hugged herself when a pig the size of a German shepherd darted across her path, squealing. A pig!

  Still staring at the crazed animal, she stepped in something warm and squishy. A stench pricked her nose and caused her stomach to vault. Kerr's laughter brought her gaze up to him as he retraced his steps to stand beside her.

  "Not used to walking about town, Miss?"

  "Not used to horse poop being on the street." She pried her shoe from the pile.

  Another shot fired. Two men barreled down the stairs of one of the buildings, shoving and pushing each other as a mob formed around them.

  Kerr grabbed her arm and dragged her along. "Come, 'tis not safe here."

  Morgan sighed and allowed him to pull her forward. Besides, this would all be over in a minute. As soon as she saw her father and gave him a piece of her mind, he'd put a stop to this ridiculousness. A tinge of unavoidable sorrow pierced her heart at the thought. Despite the discomfort and frustration, it had been a mildly fun adventure. She would miss Rowan most of all, and she wondered what sort of man he really was behind the pirate character he played. Probably not her type, anyway.

  Turning a corner, Kerr strode down another street away from the main drag. Following him, she tripped on her skirts, groaned, and clutched the blasted things higher. Now, she would see what the set looked like behind the scenes.

  But there was only more of the same--sand covered the road, lanterns lit the way, and crude buildings made of brick and wood lined both sides. Signs hung above doorways, squeaking in the rising wind: Ye old Swagfish Tavern, Miller's Punch House, Miss Fable's Pleasure Palace--which, from the looks of the women hanging out the windows, was a whorehouse. They passed a dark building that looked like a shoemaker, and another with a sign depicting a candle and the word Chandler.

  Men and a few women roamed the streets, laughing and singing as if it were Mardi Gras. Thunder rumbled, sending a flock of chickens squawking in front of her. Morgan could only stare in awe. She must really be dying because, obviously, her father had spared no expense.

  Soon, the lights grew brighter and the music and shouts louder as they entered a section of town humming with activity. And not the reputable kind either. With half-dressed women and nefarious-looking men loitering about, it reminded Morgan of the red light district in San Diego--at least what it would have looked like a hundred years ago.

  A man stumbled down the stairs of a bar onto the street and peered at her through glassy eyes. "Hey, sweetheart, hows 'bout sharin' a drink wit' ole Briggs?"

  "Tempting"--she gave a wry smile--"but I'd rather boil in oil."

  The man's look of shock transformed into fury, and he drew a knife and started for her. "Why, ye ill-bred fishwife!"

  Drawing his pistol, Kerr leapt in front of her. "Never mind her. This one's mad." He spun a finger around the side of his head to indicate her state of mind.

  The man pondered this for a moment as he teetered in place, his gaze shifting from Kerr to the weapon in his hand. Finally he withdrew his knife. "I'd put a muzzle on 'er if I was ye."

  "Splendid idea." Kerr replied as he took her arm once again. When they were out of earshot, he leaned toward her. "You'd do well to keep your shrewish mouth shut."

  "You'd do well to remember your place."

  "The captain's right. You are a madcap," he grumbled, weaving around horse droppings and more chickens and pigs than she'd seen on a farm.

  What was this place? Hiring a boat filled with pirates was one thing, but hiring a
n entire town? And all these actors! How had her father afforded it?

  Unless ... panic took root in her gut and began to spin faster and faster. Drawing a deep breath, she attempted to slow it back down. No. Ridiculous. There was no other explanation, and soon everything would make sense.

  But things only grew more hazy. Particularly when Kerr hauled her up the stairs of what appeared to be a bar, shoving aside drunken slobs and giggling women, and dragged her to the back corner.

  "You're hurting me!" She yanked from his grasp and rubbed her arm, all the while taking in the band of grimy, leering pirates surrounding the table before her. "Where is my father!"

  Her answer came in the form of Kerr shoving her into a chair, stuffing a sweaty handkerchief into her mouth, and binding her hands and feet.

  That's when the real panic set in.

  Chapter 13

  "So what did yer yellow-livered captain say?" William Bloodmoon snarled as he sat in the King George Tavern, muscled toadies guarding his flanks, a buxom wench on his lap, and a mug of rum in his hand. His gaze took in Miss Morgan, groaning and struggling, tied to the chair in the corner.

  Kerr accepted a drink from the barmaid and frowned. "He refused, of course, being the fatwitted priss he is." He took a gulp of ale and wiped his mouth. "He and his Scottish priest make quite the pair."

  Bloodmoon smiled and his men laughed, while the trollop nuzzled the pirate leader's neck--thick and leathery from the sun, a perfect match for the skin on his face. Stubbles of gray sprouted on his shaved head and lined his jaw and chin, surrounding a surly mouth and dark, wicked eyes. The black leather jerkin, breeches and boots--buckled and strapped with more weapons than Kerr thought a man could carry--confirmed the rumors of his violent, cruel nature, and Kerr suddenly regretted returning to deal with the man.