by Lia Davis
But he wasn’t now.
“You must have been dreaming,” her stepfather said, his voice sharp. “What an inconsiderate girl you are–waking me from a sound sleep and playing these foolish games. You’ll go back to your room and stay there. You’ll not have any breakfast this morning. That ought to teach you some respectability.”
Rosalind didn’t answer. She looked over her shoulder, wondering what had happened to Phearson. He’d been so pale, and she’d seen him passed out cold. What if someone was hurting him? She shouldn’t have left him and called for help. This was all her fault. Someone must have taken him. She just hoped they’d taken him to a doctor and not to finish him off.
Rosalind’s stomach growled as she rode in the carriage with her stepfather. He gave her a knowing smile. It hadn’t been just the morning meal he’d denied her. She missed out on afternoon tea as well, but she refused to beg for one more morsel.
Neither he nor her mother believed that Phearson had been shot. Yet she knew what she saw and wanted some answers.
Captain Foster must have had something to do with his disappearance, and when she saw him, she’d demand he’d tell her the truth. He owed her this much after throwing her at a monstrous bat.
The carriage stopped, and the footman opened the door. He took her hand, and unlike her custom, she didn’t wait for Mr. Doyle.
“Rosalind, wait for me.”
Ignoring his harsh tone, she walked into the tavern, looking for Captain Foster. He sat at a table sipping a tankard of mead. She hoped his head hurt. Rather than going to the bar, she hurried over to the table.
“Evenin’ to ye, Rosalind.”
She jerked her head around to see Phearson wiping the bar down–handsome as ever. She lost all interest in Captain Foster, and headed over to the bar.
“How are you feeling?” she blurted.
He raised his eyebrow. “That is an odd question.”
“Were you hurt earlier?”
He avoided her gaze and filled a man’s tankard. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Rosalind.” Her stepfather came up behind her. “We have customers.”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle.” She rolled her eyes, but grabbed the tray and went to a table where men were demanding drink orders.
She wasn’t satisfied with Phearson’s answer. But why would he lie?
She was wiping down a table when an elderly man approached. His face was weathered, and his hair a brilliant white, but ’twas his kind blue eyes that made her smile.
“Good evening, Miss. May I sit here?”
“Why of course. What can I get for you?”
“A bottle of whiskey and something hot.”
“The stew is piping hot, and I can bring you some fresh baked bread.”
“That would be lovely, dear.”
Rosalind hadn’t had a customer who’d spoken to her with such kindness. Usually, men yelled or slapped her bottom to get her attention.
She retrieved a bottle and a shot glass for him, then went to the kitchen to dish up the stew. She inhaled the warm scent of baking bread and the smell of bubbling stew. For being such a bawdy establishment, Darin Wheeler, the cook, made some of the other eateries jealous. His meat was always tender, and he always insisted on the freshest vegetables, but ’twas his bread that always had customers asking for more.
“Greetings to you, Rosalind,” he said.
Darin had come down from New York and had a thick accent. He had a big mustache that matched his girth.
“Evening, Darin. How’s your wife?”
He smiled. “Pretty as ever. Busy with the little ones.” He crossed his arms over his apron and studied her. “Mr. Doyle treating you fair?”
“Mr. Doyle is Mr. Doyle. I need a bowl of your famous stew and a loaf of bread.”
He dished a bowl up and placed it on a plate along with bread and butter.
“Here you go, girl. Mr. Doyle ought to treat you better. ’Tis a shame how he treats you.”
“I’ll survive.” At least she hoped she would.
Before she left, her curiosity got the better of her. “Darin, have you ever talked to Phearson?”
“Only in passing. Why?”
“What do you know of him?”
He shrugged. “He keeps to himself and hasn’t said much.”
“Did you see him when he came in here?”
He frowned. “We got here at the same time.”
“Um, did he seem hurt to you?”
He frowned. “No, why?”
She shrugged. “Just wondering.”
Still not satisfied, she hurried out of the kitchen with the food and maneuvered her way through the crowd, not spilling a drop or having the bread pilfered.
She flashed her polite customer a smile and served him. “Here you go, sir. If you need anything else, please let me know.”
“Thank you. You’ve been most kind.”
She returned to her less than polite customers but always made sure the gentleman had what he needed.
An unsteady man shoved his chair out just as Rosalind was carrying a tray with empty dishes. She tripped over the chair’s leg and landed on her knee, hard. The tray and dishes crashed onto the floor.
“Clumsy girl,” the man muttered, as he weaved toward the door.
Someone mumbled under his breath.
She immediately grabbed the tray and started to pick up the dishes.
Mr. Doyle stood in front of her. “Rosalind, you stupid girl. This will come out of your pay.”
She looked up at his beet red face and narrowed eyes, then shrank. She blinked back tears, and she shook as she picked up the large pieces.
Suddenly, someone was beside her.
Phearson lifted up her trembling chin. “Are ye hurt, lass?”
“No,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “No, I am fine.”
“Dona worry about this. I’ll clean it up.” He tilted his head. “Go splash some water on yer face.”
The concern in his voice touched her. When she dropped a glass or a plate, no one ever helped her, and stepfather always took great pains to humiliate her.
Tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t speak and nodded. She went to the wash tub and removed her mask. She splashed water onto her face and then patted her face dry with her apron. She refused to cry and quickly tied the mask back on. Ignoring her throbbing knee, she returned to the crowded tavern.
“There’s my girl.” Phearson was waiting for her.
No one was in the corridor. He took her hand, and with his thumbs, wiped the tears from her face. He bent his dark head then delicately kissed her cheeks. He pushed his tongue to pry open her tight lips, and she couldn’t deny him. He was so thorough, stealing her breath and filling her with desire. She fell under his spell.
This kiss was longer, deeper, and sultrier. She held on tight to his shoulders, wanting someone to protect her just once. She was tired of fighting all of her own battles. She indulged in his salty and sexy taste, not caring if anyone saw them. Let them.
He broke off the kiss. “Such a fiery lass.”
She squirmed. “I am sorry. Have I shocked you?” She should have resisted him more.
“No, not at all. I’d enjoy kissing you all day.”
“And so would I,” she murmured.
“Perhaps, I’ll arrange that soon.”
She broke out in hot perspiration at his promise. “We should get back.”
He flashed her a smile, then wrapped his arm protectively around her back and escorted her to the tavern. “Yes, we wouldn’t want anyone coming to look for us.”
She should tell him not to touch her so intimately, but his protectiveness erased some of her fear. “Who’s watching the bar?”
He brushed his lips close to her ear. “Why, your caring fiancé.”
His warm breath sent chills down her spine.
She burst out laughing as Captain Foster tried to fill the customers drinks.
Phearson relieved the flustered man, and Ro
salind lowered her head. Captain Foster deserved to be forced into hard labor after what he and her stepfather did to the poor souls they sold into slavery. Her kind customer waved to her, and she hurried over, hoping he wouldn’t give her a tongue lashing.
“My dear,” he said. “I saw what happened. Did you hurt yourself?”
She exhaled. “No, I am fine. Phearson helped me.”
He leaned closer. “A most agreeable young man.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sparkling red stone. “I am a very rich man, and I want you to have this.”
Her eyes widened. “Is this real?”
He laughed. “It is. A ruby. I know Esmond Doyle, and he does not impress me. Your mother never should have married him. Your father would have disapproved.”
Her face paled. “What? You knew my father?”
“Miss, I need another drink.”
She ignored the customer and flicked her hand.
“Hey, I said–”
Something pounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see that Phearson had slammed a tankard down on the table. The man slunk down in his chair. Phearson winked at her, then returned to his station.
Once again, he’d come to her rescue.
She turned to the man. “What is your name?”
“Name’s Bailey. Sean Bailey. Your father worked for me many years ago.” He took her hand and placed the stone in the middle of her palm. “He would have wanted you to have this.” He cast her stepfather, who was watching him intently, a sour look. “Don’t let that devil take this from you. If you need me, I’m staying at the Captain’s Inn.”
The Captain’s Inn was in a posh area of Savannah occupied by the wealthy.
“If you’ll excuse me, Rosalind, I will take my leave.” He put his large hand over her shaking one. “If you’d like to hear more stories about your father, come see me.” He stood and bowed slightly. “Remember, if you need my assistance…”
Rosalind felt like she’d fallen into a dream and any minute she would wake up. She wanted to rush after Mr. Bailey, but instead, slipped the stone into her pocket beneath her apron. She turned to see several men, including her stepfather and Captain Foster, had witnessed the exchange. She whisked past the prying eyes and was glad the night was almost over.
Mr. Bailey had known her father. She had so many questions. Her mother rarely spoke of him, and Rosalind only possessed a few items from him and had to hide them from her stepfather. She had his broken gold watch and a book of Romeo and Juliet, which reminded Rosalind of her parents’ love story. Her mother was from a higher class in Ireland and her parents wanted her to marry someone of her status, but her mother had already fallen in love with her father. So, they’d had fled Ireland and had come to America. Unlike the star-crossed lovers, her parents had survived. But Rosalind thought there were enough similarities and had memorized the story word for word.
She had nothing of real value.
Until now.
But she knew her stepfather well. He’d demand the stone.
She lifted her chin up high and glared, waiting for the coming battle.
Chapter 9
Phearson had watched the old man give Rosalind an egg-size ruby. Why the hell had he done so in this den of pirates and thieves? The ruby had glittered and sparkled, drawing the attention of several men around the table–including him. With that ruby, he’d be one step closer to bribing a crew and becoming a captain. Normally, he would have easily robbed the lass. But for the first time, he hesitated. That wasn’t true for the rest of the men watching Rosalind like a pack of coyotes waiting to attack an unsuspecting doe. The generous but foolish old man had just put the lass at risk.
Luckily, the night was coming to a close. Phearson wouldn’t let anything happen to the lass, but his vow was put to the test.
Doyle and Foster came along either side of her and forcibly escorted her away. He cursed under his breath. He wanted to help her, but then he’d reveal he was a vampire, and he wasn’t ready to do that.
Not yet.
A loud scream turned his blood cold. He immediately regretted his decision when Rosalind ran out of the back room. She had a cut lip, and her eye was swollen shut. Faster than any human, he clasped her arm.
She wiggled. “Let go of me.”
“Rosalind, ’tis me. What happened?”
Tears streaked down her face and stained her mask. “He took it from me.”
“The ruby?”
She wiped her eyes. “You saw?”
“Everyone saw, lass.” He rubbed her arm. “I am sorry.”
“’Tis not just the ruby,” she choked. “He took my father’s watch. ’Tis not worth anything. He was wearing it when he tried…” Her voice trailed off.
He held her close, glaring at Doyle. The bastard had a smug look on his face and patted his now pocket which had a slight bulge. As usual, Foster trailed him like a beaten cur.
Doyle snapped his fingers. “The two of you get back to work.”
Phearson stood in front of her. “Do not hurt her again.”
“I’ll do––”
Phearson edged toward him. He was at least a foot taller, more muscular, and younger than the fool. Doyle was smart enough not to challenge him.
“She brought it on herself. ’Twas for her protection. You saw the ruby. She would have been the target of foul play.”
Phearson narrowed his eyes and didn’t challenge him here and now. But he’d only possess the jewel and the watch temporarily. Captain Fear would see to that.
After the bar had closed, Phearson left before Doyle and Rosalind. He quickly changed into his disguise of a large cloak, a gold mask, and a purple feathered hat. He rode a horse he’d stolen earlier that day and hid in the darkness of the cemetery as he waited for Doyle’s carriage.
The clomping of horses pricked up his ears. He pressed his heels into the horse’s side and stepped out of the shadows, his pistol drawn. The driver pulled on the horses’ harness.
“Whoa,” the frightened old driver said, as he reached under his jacket, his hand shaking.
Phearson cocked the pistol and revealed his pointed fangs. “Ye’ll be dead before ye reach it.”
The man put his hand on his throat. “You’re a vampire.”
“What the devil is going on out there?” Doyle called from inside. “Why did we stop?”
Phearson looked at the driver. “My quarrel is not with ye. Leave while why ye have the chance.”
The driver nodded and climbed down from the carriage, then fled into the darkness.
Phearson maneuvered his horse to stand just outside the carriage. “Come out. Both of ye.”
The door opened. Rosalind stepped out. Her lower lip and right eye had swollen. She gazed at him in fear, which was the last thing Phearson wanted, but this was the only way he could think of to get her ruby and watch back. She looked around for an escape, but between Phearson’s horse, the carriage, and Doyle, she was trapped.
“Captain Fear!” His eyes wide, Doyle stepped around her, then fired a pistol. The shot lit up the dark street and hit Phearson in the shoulder.
He jerked, but stayed on the horse. “That was foolish.”
He swooped off the horse faster than a man, and grabbed Doyle by the throat, and lifted him off the ground.
Doyle clawed at his hands. “Release me this instant.”
“Yer not in charge.” Phearson pulled back his lips to reveal sharp fangs. Satisfaction warmed his heart as fear settled in Doyle’s eyes.
“You are the undead.”
“I thought we already established that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Empty yer pockets.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Aye, I know who ye are.” Phearson released him. “Now, do as I say, or I’ll rip yer throat out.”
Doyle reached into his pockets, his hand shaking, and tossed out his wallet, thick with bills. “That’s all I have.”
“Liar.”
Phearson grabbed him by the throa
t again and lifted until he was on his tip toes. He roughly searched his person. Doyle sputtered, and his cheeks turned bright red. Phearson didn’t care. He easily found both the ruby and the watch hidden in his vest. He released him, and Doyle collapsed onto the ground, landing on all fours. He gasped for breath and spit onto the ground.
Rosalind hadn’t moved. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have nothing.”
Phearson tipped his hat. “I will not harm ye, lass.”
But just as he uttered the words, shots rang out. Rosalind screamed. She slammed her head into the carriage. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed. Blood trickled from her forehead. His heart stopped. He caught her before she hit the ground and turned to see hooded men on horse back–the Pious Twelve.
The weasel driver must have alerted them.
Doyle looked up at him. “You’re going to die, Fear.”
Not wanting to risk Rosalind getting hurt again or being shot with holy salt water, he jumped onto his horse and jabbed his ankles into the horse’s flank.
“Give me back my daughter!”
Daughter? The same beautiful woman he’d beaten and humiliated. Now, she was his daughter?
More shots whizzed over his head. He looked over his shoulder to see four men on horseback chasing them. Doyle hadn’t joined them.
“Captain Fear has Rosalind!” Doyle cried out. “Seize him!” His voice boomed like a cannon.
Phearson held Rosalind close and grimaced as blood dripped onto his hand. If he’d thought he could trust them, he would have abandoned her in hopes that they would take her to a doctor. But men who tortured vampires and sold men into bondage would gallop over anyone in their way. No, he had to lose them.
He rode the horse hard, careful not to lose Rosalind. Her warm breath spurred him on. He’d been on a pirate ship for the last two years and learned how to tend gunshot wounds, but he wasn’t an expert. He didn’t know Savannah, and the men behind him did, but he had some tricks of his own. He raced the horse into the cemetery where there was little light. He could see, but his pursuers could not. ’Twas an advantage.
