by Lia Davis
Behind him, men cursed, and pistols fired blindly. He headed for a huge oak tree veiled in Spanish moss. He slid off the horse then slapped its hind quarters. The horse neighed and disappeared within the trees. Horses galloped past him, their riders unaware that he was pressed against the trunk.
Using vampire speed, he raced through the cemetery and onto the paved streets. He practically flew to his lodging that was near the dock. ’Twas not much. Just a room over a warehouse, a cot, a cook stove, and a chair, but ’twas clean and bigger than he’d been used to at sea. The only thing of worth was the chest that he had, which was only a quarter filled with the treasure that he’d pilfered. Hardly enough to bribe even one sailor. However, his place was not a place for a lady.
Rosalind needed a surgeon, but he didn’t have time to hunt for one–not with the Pious Twelve on his arse. His only choice was to bring her to his room and care for her himself.
He whipped open the door, and hurried over to his cot, and carefully laid Rosalind down. Blood had soaked her shirt and mask. He tore off his cloak and hat. He grabbed a cloth then pumped water out of the spigot. Water spilled onto the cloth. Being on a pirate ship, he learned to keep needle and thread in case of injuries. Deciding to be a highwayman was no different, so he’d obtained his own surgeon’s kit of needles, thread, scissors, and alcohol. He planned to use it on himself, not ever thinking he’d have to care for Rosalind.
He put wood in the stove and lit it. He filled a pan with water and dropped the needles inside. He went over to Rosalind and knelt next to her.
“Rosalind, Rosalind, can ye hear me? I need to remove yer mask to care for yer wound.”
She answered him with a shallow breath.
“Dona be angry with me,” he murmured as he gently lifted her head and untied the strings to her mask. ’Twas soaked with blood, and he put it on the floor. Damn, his hand was bloody. He dabbed her temple to examine her wound. Even with his vampire sight, ’twas hard to see how bad the wound was.
He quickly lit the lanterns then returned to her side. He gasped at the deep scars on her porcelain face. Light, raised-pink skin framed her right eye and reached the bridge of her nose and to her temple. He’d seen men on board ship badly burned who’d lost the will to live, but not Rosalind. She had a spirit he admired.
The shot had grazed her temple, but ’twas the wound on the back of her head that worried him. He carefully wiped away the dried blood from her thick hair to reveal a deep cut. He rolled her onto her side, then dipped a spoon into the water to take out the needles. He rinsed them under cold water, then grabbed a spool of thread. Taking a deep breath, he threaded the needle. He was prepared to do this to himself, but not to this charming woman. But she needed him.
He pinched her skin then threaded the needle through it. His heart clenched each time he pulled the needle out, and sweat blurred his eyes. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept going. He cut the thread with a pair of scissors. All he had was rum to stop any infection. His facility was crude, but clean. He dampened the cloth with some rum then patted the wound.
Rosalind jerked and gasped.
He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. Rosalind, are ye awake?”
But she didn’t answer.
He went over to his chest and took out a shirt then ripped it into strips. He returned to her side and cleaned away the blood at her temple. He retrieved another needle and stitched shut the scratch. ’Twas not as long or deep as the one on the back of her head. He used the rum-soaked cloth to prevent any infection. Rosalind hissed and moaned, but didn’t wake.
He carefully wrapped his shirt around her head. “Sleep well, Rosalind.” He bent over and kissed her on her warm forehead. He removed the bloody cloths and wrung them out in the sink. Weariness overwhelmed him. He grabbed the rum and took a big swig. The warm liquid eased the tension inside him. He glanced over at her and noticed the bulged in his discarded cloak.
Not wanting anything to happen to the ruby and watch, he placed them in his chest. He’d give them to her tomorrow.
He sat in a chair next to the cot to keep vigil.
Her chest slowly raised up and down. He’d take her to a surgeon tomorrow.
Anger burned inside him at her pale face. The fools should have known better. They shot wildly, not caring who they hurt. The Pious Twelve needed to be stopped. They cared nothing for the innocent, beginning with Esmond Doyle.
Chapter 10
Rosalind woke to a splitting headache. Her stomach swirled, and she gritted her teeth to force back nausea. She lay still and took deep breaths. She slowly realized that ’twas not just her breath echoing in the room, but loud snores made her peek open one eye. Rather than a yellow-painted room with a white dresser and oval mirror, she stared at a sparse wooden one with two chests in the corner.
Confusion gripped her as she tried to remember what happened last night, but sharp pain instantly stopped her prodding. She released a groan.
The snoring ceased. “Rosalind?”
She opened her eyes and couldn’t speak. Phearson sat in a chair next to her with concern in his eyes. “I know it hurts. Can I do somethin’ for ye, lass?”
“Phearson? Where am I? How did I get here?” She lifted onto her elbow, and more agony pierced through her. She collapsed onto her back as waves of misery pulsed through her head.
“Rosalind, dona move. Ye were shot last night, then ye slammed into the carriage.”
She sucked in air and forced her eyes to open. “Who shot me? Captain Fear?”
“No, the Pious Twelve did.”
Bitterness stained his usual jovial voice. His lips turned back into a sneer, and hate flashed in his eyes. Mr. Doyle was a member of the Pious Twelve and had his cronies come to the house to meet, but both she and her mother were shunned from their plotting.
She frowned as fear settled into her gut. Had her stepfather ordered them to kill her? “Why would they shoot me?”
“Ye know of them?”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle is a member. He’s had them over to the house many times.”
He leaned back in his chair. “So, ye know what they do?”
“A little. I know they hunt the undead. Mr. Doyle is very superstitious and believes we have vampires lurking in Savannah.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ye dona believe this tale?”
“No. Unfortunately, I think the Pious Twelve prey on who they claim are the undesirables.” She put her forearm over her forehead. “I am sure the poor souls have something that Mr. Doyle wants and what better way to get it than to accuse them of being vampires, kill them, and then take what they want.”
"So, you dona approve. How can ye live with such a man?"
She bristled. "I do not have much of a choice. If I could leave I would, but I have nowhere else to go, especially after the ruby was stolen. The ruby was my ticket to a new life." Tears swelled in her eyes, and then she took a long quivering breath.
“Who was the man who gave ye the ruby?"
She shrugged. "To be truthful, I don't know. He said he knew my father and that my father would have wanted me to have it."
“Do ye believe him?"
“That he knew my father?"
He nodded. “Aye.”
"I don't know." She clenched her fists. “The ruby was mine, and Captain Fear had no had no right to take it from me. I hope the Pious Twelve finds him and hangs him.” Her voice shook with anger.
Phearson flinched.
Heat floated over her cheeks. “I am sorry. I usually don't lose my temper like that. What happened to Captain Fear?"
Phearson stared at her for a long minute. He opened his mouth, but then quickly closed it.
“Phearson, did you fight him?”
"No, I didna. Yer here and yer safe. That’s all that matters. Are ye hungry, lass?"
She shook her head. “No. Food is the last thing I want.” She looked around the room. “Is this where you live?”
“Aye. ’Tis sparse, but clean.” He focused o
n her again. “If you got the ruby back, would Doyle take it from ye again like he did earlier?”
"Probably. But he doesn’t have it–Captain Fear does.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I think so.” She frowned. “The robbery all happened so fast. But I guess it’s possible my stepfather has it. If it's at the house, I have a good chance of finding it. Mr. Doyle keeps everything of value in a safe." She smiled. "But I know the combination. The pompous ass uses his own birthday."
“That's interesting. What does he keep in his safe?"
“Important papers and the family jewels.”
“What kind of jewels?”
“Diamonds, pearls, and emeralds.”
Greed flashed in his eyes, then vanished. He tapped the side of his face with his finger. “Ye need some ice to put on yer cheek where Doyle hit ye.”
Rosalind immediately clapped hands on her cheeks. Oh lord, the mask was gone! She couldn’t breathe, and her stomach clenched. Phearson had seen her terrible scars. “Where is my mask?” Panic made her voice shrill.
“Calm down. ’Twas soaked in blood. I had to wash it out."
She quickly rolled away from him and curled up in a ball. "Don't look at me. Please just give me my mask. I don't want you to see me like this. I am a monster." Her voice choked.
He gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Rosalind, yer not a monster. Yer a beautiful, wounded woman.”
“Yes, I am. Please bring me my mask. Please.” She hated begging, but she hated pity even more, especially Phearson’s. She bit her lips as tears drizzled down her face, staining the pillow. She grabbed her hair to cover her face. She wanted people to look at her as being mysterious not as a freak.
He left her. His quiet footsteps shuffled on the wooden floor.
“Here. ’Tis still wet.” He dangled it in front of her face.
She reached for it, but blinding pain shot through her skull, and she hissed.
“Yer in pain. Let me put it on for you.”
She tried to sit up, but agony exploded in her skull. She cried out and passed out.
Rosalind woke to the tantalizing smell of chicken. Sunlight shone on two chests tucked in a corner. Memory flashed over her–the ruby, the robbery, the tenderness.
Phearson had cared for her better than even her mother had.
She wasn’t home.
She was at Phearson’s–without a chaperon.
Her mother and Mr. Doyle would never forgive her. She shuddered at what awaited for her at home.
She slowly moved around. Phearson was at the stove, cooking something that made her mouth water and her stomach growl. He wore a pistol on his hip and a sword on the other.
“Phearson, who are you?”
He turned around and flashed her a heart-warming smile. “So, yer awake? Are ye hungry?”
“Actually, I am. But first tell me, who are you?”
“That’s an odd question. Ye’ve known me for me almost a week now.”
“But I don’t really know anything about you except that you despise Mr. Doyle almost much as I do.”
He dished a bowl for her and came over to the cot. “I thought ’twas obvious.”
She bristled. “No, it’s not.”
“Dona be angry.” He handed her the bowl. “’Twas only a jest. I’m a pirate.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Nothing. Dona believe everything ye’ve heard about pirates. I would never hurt ye, Rosalind.”
She stared at the steamy bowl that had bits of chicken, carrots, and celery, which smelled incredible. But what if he’d laced it with something? “How do I know this?”
“Have I ever hurt ye?” he asked softly.
“No,” she said slowly. “You haven’t, but pirates are not trustworthy.”
“Most of what you said is true.” He filled a bowl for himself. “I sailed with the deadliest crew, and we brought terror to any ship that sailed in the Caribbean.”
“What was the name of your ship?”
“The Fiery Damsel.”
Her heart stilled. “But that legendary ship is at least one hundred years old.” She’d heard rumors in the Inn about the ship that was supposed to be manned by vicious vampires. She’d never believed in the tales.
Until now.
“Ye’ve heard of it?”
She nodded wordlessly. That would make him––no, she was letting her imagination get away from her. It had to be the bump on her head.
“I was like one of those poor souls that yer devil stepfather is selling into slavery.”
“You were?”
“Aye. My captain was the devil himself. If I didna follow his orders, I’d feel the lash on my back.” He fell quiet, and his eyes grew distant. “Or worse.”
“At the Inn, men have spoken about the Damsel–spun wild stories.”
He looked at her underneath lowered lashes. “What stories?”
“I’m sure they’re not true. Sailors are very superstitious.” She avoided looking at him, wishing she’d never brought up the nightmarish stories.
“I’m not proud of what I’ve done, Rosalind, but I had to do it to survive.”
Not wanting to continue this conversation, she took the coward’s way out. “This soup is actually very good.”
He smiled. “Ye like it? My mother used to make it before she died.”
“’Tis very good.”
“What about you? I dona know much about ye except that ye want to stop yer stepfather and fiancé from selling men at the Inn.”
“I don’t want to marry Captain Foster. He’s a leach and a coward. When the creature flew around in the bar, he used me as a human shield.”
“Why is Doyle forcing your marriage?”
“He wants me to marry the captain so he can inherit his half of their little scheme. I don’t want any part of it.”
He rubbed his chin. “There might be a way out of this for ye.”
“What?”
“We would rob yer stepfather’s safe and steal your mother’s jewels.”
“And then what?” Fear crawled up her spine. “He would know ’twas me.”
“I promise ye, I wona let him hurt ye. Come away with me.”
She frowned and put her hand on her cheek. “Why would you want that?”
He gently removed her hand from her cheek. “Because yer a lovely lass.”
She didn’t believe him and pulled on her hand, but he held it firm. “Phearson, let go of my hand.”
He sighed. “What must I do to prove to ye that ye are a comely lass?”
“Stop saying this. We both know the truth. What are your plans for me?”
“Plans?”
“Am I prisoner here?”
“No, of course not. Ye can leave when ye choose.” He drew his brows together. “Do ye want to return?”
She hesitated. “I should. Hopefully, the fools won’t try and shoot me again.” She handed him back the empty bowl, and the little movement sent a stabbing pain in the back of her head. She grimaced, then slowly lowered herself to the cot.
He put a warm cloth across her forehead. “Ye need to rest. The Pious Twelve were not aiming at ye. They were aiming at me.”
“I’ll just close my eyes for awhile.”
But she soon discovered that a while turned into much, much longer.
Chapter 11
Rosalind woke up to a teapot singing on the stove. Phearson was gone. He’d left something cooking and had draped a blanket over her. She gingerly lifted off the bed, careful not to trigger another stabbing pain and only experienced a throbbing pain. She gasped when she realized she only wore her shift. She immediately lifted a hand to her cheek and sighed with relief as she felt her leather mask. Across from the cot, her dress was neatly folded on the chest.
She slowly walked over to the stove, grabbed a cloth, then picked up the jostling teapot. Phearson had left out an infuser filled with loose tea and a mug. She put the infuser in the mug, then poure
d the hot water. She returned the teapot on a towel while she waited for the tea to brew. She picked up the lid and found meat stew. Phearson had been busy and so quiet she hadn’t even heard him.
But where was he? Was she a prisoner like she’d been with her stepfather? She hurried over to the door and put her hand on the doorknob. She turned it, and it clicked. She could leave any time.
And go where?
She walked over to the window, leaned her forehead against the pane. The street was deserted except for the fluttering trees. The glowing moon and starlight did little to ease her heart.
She sighed and decided to get dressed. She put on the dress just as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
The door creaked open, and Phearson stepped inside. His face was flushed, and for a moment, she’d thought his eyes were red, but she shook her head. His eyes were the same sea blue. He smiled and flashed his gaze over her.
“Yer finally awake. Ye slept like the dead, and I tried to be quiet, so as not to disturb ye.”
She motioned with her hand toward the stove. “Teapot woke me. Where were you?”
“Workin’ at the tavern. Where else?”
“What did Mr. Doyle say?”
“The place was abuzz with yer disappearance, blaming it on Captain Fear. Doyle bragged how the Pious Twelve tried to save ye.”
“Save me?” She snorted. “He would.”
“Would ye like to eat? Sit, and I’ll dish it up.”
Rosalind wanted to trust Phearson, but he said he was a hundred years old. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it and couldn’t still her pattering heart that threatened to run away. How could he be human? If he wasn’t human what was he?
She forced herself to stay calm like she did whenever her stepfather threatened her. She took long deep breaths, filling her lungs. She inhaled the spicy stew that smelled tasty, but her knotted insides were a mess. Eating was the last thing she wanted to do, but she didn’t have a choice.
She sat in the chair next to her bed, her insides quaking, while Phearson dished up a plate of steaming hot stew, then brought her the cup of tea.
“Looks good. Where did you learn to cook?” Surprisingly, her voice sounded normal.
