The Iron Corsair

by Barbara Devlin

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  BARBARA DEVLIN

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 Barbara C. Noyes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Barbara Devlin

  The Pirates of the Coast Badge is a registered trademark ® of Barbara Devlin.

  Cover art by Lewellen Designs

  Interior art by Dar Albert

  ISBN: 978-1-945576-95-9

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to lost ones. I’ve been there. I’ve stood before a mirror, stared at my reflection, and wondered about the stranger facing me.

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  PROLOGUE

  Caribbean Sea

  November, 1816

  Fate possessed a wicked, or perhaps sick, sense of humor when it came to life’s intricacies. Indeed, for a fugitive evading the noose for a heinous offense he did not perpetrate, it seemed the height of irony that a full pardon from the same government that wanted him imprisoned now offered absolution for his innocence.

  On a grey and unusually cold fall day, which did not bode well, the Iron Corsair leaned against the larboard rail and tensed as the Lady Madalene anchored alongside the Demetrius, a ship well known in the pirate circles, given its captain, a cunning warrior and defender of England.

  “Oh, I am so excited, my love.” The woman for whom the ship was named gazed at her husband, Jean Marc Cavalier, a heretofore-ruthless buccaneer who had softened in his married state, much to the Iron Corsair’s surprise. “And I am so proud of you.”

  “I never could have succeeded without you, Mon Chou.” The couple shared a much envied, tender kiss. The Iron Corsair had someone like that waiting for him. At least, he hoped she waited. “And no snide comments from the gallery.”

  The Iron Corsair laughed, if only to dispel the tension investing his shoulders. “I have to do something, as I cannot believe I am about to embark upon the same lunacy you completed.”

  “You want to go home.” With a characteristic smug expression, to which the Iron Corsair might have taken exception under different circumstances, Jean Marc shrugged. “It is understandable and necessary, but you never told me how you came to be a pirate.”

  “I was blamed for a crime I did not commit.” The Iron Corsair shifted his weight and stretched his neck, as the crew prepared the mainsail hull. Even then, he had second thoughts. “Are you sure I am doing the right thing?”

  “Do you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?” As a polished gentleman, Jean Marc descended the companion ladder and, with care and concern of which the Iron Corsair thought the former captain of the Black Morass incapable, lifted Maddie to the boards. “Or do you want something more?”

  In that instant, the Iron Corsair jolted to the past. To London. To another age. And to the woman he loved.

  Lady Florence Beatrice Wilfred.

  There was a moment in his history when he existed as something different, and he wanted something more. Something altogether traditional, a wife, a family, and a simple existence rooted in the usual pursuits of a well-born English aristocrat, but those days were gone, torn from his grasp by an inauspicious deed that would forever mark his reputation and follow him to the grave.

  “Welcome, Jean Marc and Lady Madalene.” A petite young blond extended her arms, and in her wake followed a lethal-looking fellow. “And I see you renamed the ship Lady Madalene. How fitting.”

  “It is wonderful to meet you, at last.” Madalene, or Maddie, as Jean Marc often referred to her, returned the embrace.

  “It is good to see you again, Logan.” Jean Marc rolled his eyes. “Never thought I would ever say that.”

  “That goes for both of us.” Logan cast a side-glance at the Iron Corsair. “And who is this?”

  “A friend who would like to avail himself of a pardon.” Jean Marc rocked on his heels and folded his arms. “He is known as—”

  “—Barrington Nicholas Peregrine Howe.” A painfully familiar face loomed in the background, and Captain Lance Prescott, the Marquess of Raynesford, conveyed a countenance of shock, as he uttered a name Barrington had not permitted himself to speak, in years. “Or as he was called when we attended Eton together, the Marquess of Ravenwood.”

  “Raynesford.” Barrington dipped his chin in deference to the estimable naval veteran and extended a hand in friendship, yet his knees trembled at the sight of his old ally. “It has been a long time.”

  The marquess shook his head. “I have not seen you since—”

  “—I was charged with a murder I did not commit.” A series of gut-wrenching vignettes flashed before Barrington, as he relived the frustration, fear, and anger at the injustice he endured, running through the back alley, hiding in the mews, and then fleeing for his ship. And somewhere amid the elegant ballrooms of the ton lurked a treacherous villain. “Will the King’s concordat grant immunity from a crime for which I was never tried or convicted?”

  “It is a full pardon.” The man introduced as Sir Ross Logan shrugged. “I presume so.”

  “I have no interest in reclaiming the title.” In truth, there was only one thing Barrington desired, above all else, because he was nothing without her. The money. The estate. Nothing mattered except Florence, and heaven help him if she rejected him. “I just want to be free of the past.”

  “Then sign the document, and your year commences from this date.” Ross signaled a sailor, who brought forth a tray with a pen, an inkwell, and rolled parchments, one of which Barrington examined. “Jean Marc, may I present you a full and unconditional pardon, commissioned and sworn by His Majesty.”

  “But, of course.” With the usual flourish, Jean Marc scribbled his name on the pact.

  “The years have not been kind to you, my friend.” Narrowing his stare, Lance inclined his head. “Yet life in London goes on without you, as I hear Lady Florence is, at last, to wed your brother.”

  “What?” Barrington’s blood ran cold. “When, and how do you know this?”

  “They posted the banns before I departed Deptford.” Lance frowned. “Forgive me. Did you not know?”

  “How could I, when I am exiled?” A chill traipsed his spine, and Barrington gritted his teeth. “But how can that be, when she is betrothed to me?”

  “Correction.” Lance pointed for emphasis. “She is bound to the marquessate. In your absence, your brother petitioned the court to declare you legally dead, that he might inherit.”

  “How is that possible?” As he struggled to comprehend the significance of the unfortunate revelations, Barry’s thoughts raced in all directions. “Not that I give a damn about the rank or the money, which he can keep with my blessing.”

  “It has been interesting to watch Ernest and his solicitor navigate the courts, but I anticipate he will succeed in his endeavor.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Lance averted his gaze. “I am so sorry.”

  “Spare me your pity, as I have no need of it.” Barrington checked his tone, as he could ill afford additional enemies. “My apologies, but you bear startling news.”

  “It is all right, as it cannot be easy to learn the lady who holds your heart is obligated to another.” Leaning forward, Lance propped his elbows on the larboard rail. “I cannot imagine how I would react, had someone conveyed such regards, in relation to my bride.”

  “You are married?” B
arrington adopted the same pose. “Who is the lucky lady?”

  “Cara Douglas, as was.” To Barrington’s amazement, the usually stoic Lance grinned, and his countenance softened. “We have two sons and endeavor to produce another babe. Even now, she is locked in my cabin, with our children.”

  “Cara is Admiral Douglas’s daughter?” When Lance nodded the affirmative, Barrington chuckled. “Well, it is certainly past due for you to do the honorable by her.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lance blinked. “Just what do you mean by that, as I never made my interest known?”

  “The better question is who did not know of your interest.” Barrington recalled fond memories of younger days spent in frivolous pursuits. “But I am happy for you.”

  “It appears Cavalier is ready to depart.” With a frown, Lance shoved from the rail and stretched upright. “What do you make of him?”

  “He is the perfect example of a man pushed to the edge of destruction, with no hope of escape.” In much the same fashion as Barrington, so he sympathized with the once ruthless pirate. “However, if Jean Marc calls you a friend, then he would fight to the death to defend you, if necessary. By the by, if you have need to reach me, leave a message at The Three-Penny Upright, in Port Royal.”

  “Then I hope it does not come to that, for your sake.” Lance extended a hand, as would an old friend. “Take care, and I will see you in a year.”

  “You do the same.” Barrington chucked Lance’s shoulder. “And give my regards to your bride.”

  Back aboard the Lady Madalene, Barrington fought serious doubts about his current course, and he cleared his throat, as Jean Marc and Madalene shared a thorough kiss. “I need a drink, as I already regret what I just did, but I suppose it is too late to change my mind.” He saluted. “Enjoy your triumph, my friend, while I seek comfort in a bottle of rum.”

  Then again, the pact offered the lone chance to clear his name and recover the most valuable treasure, of all. Lady Florence.

  THE IRON CORSAIR

  CHAPTER ONE

  North Atlantic Ocean

  September, 1817

  Redemption proved the greatest test of a man’s patience, as he counted down the days until his liberation, often resulting in many nights spent lost in the seemingly endless depths of a bottle of cheap rum, reflecting on the mistakes of his past and reconsidering his every move toward a future that still struck him as impossible. Yet, as Barrington endeavored to win absolution, he remained focused on a singular objective.

  Reclaiming Lady Florence, if only he was not too late.

  As a gaping hole, as an interminable festering wound in his heart, he suffered her absence the last four years, and if he lost her, all his efforts at recovering his life were for naught. No matter what he had to do, no matter how many times he had to intercede on behalf of innocent travelers at sea, no matter how many fellow pirates he angered, he would win the full and unconditional pardon, so he could return to England and to his woman.

  “Ship, two points off the larboard bow, Cap’n.” McNish, the longtime first mate of the Audacious, peered through a spyglass. “She looks to be the one.”

  “Bring us about and drop anchor.” Barrington pulled the message from his coat pocket and studied the pedestrian plea, which awaited his return to Jamaica only a fortnight ago. “I wonder what he wants with me.”

  “We abided by the terms of the agreement, Barry.” The seasoned tar scratched his cheek and rested his hip against the starboard rail. “Did we not defend a transport vessel against The Marooner, last month, which saved a couple hundred innocent lives?”

  “And if memory serves, The Marooner was none too happy about it.” The ruthless buccaneer, known for abandoning survivors on deserted islands, raised a hell of an objection, and Barrington thought, for an instant, the two would come to blows, when they met in their usual Port Royal haunt. “This is something altogether unrelated, I suspect.”

  And that was what bothered him.

  After a few minutes, the Demetrius glided alongside, and the military compliment assumed a defensive position at the rail, but Lance commanded the lobsters to stand down and then waved a greeting. “Ahoy, my friend.”

  “I was surprised to receive your summons.” With a nod, Barry signaled his crew. “Prepare the mainsail hull.”

  As the men lowered a plank between the two vessels, he mustered courage and an appearance of ennui, given he suspected he knew the reason behind the request to assemble, and he slept little in the previous sennight, as nightmares plagued the dark hours.

  At the waist of the Demetrius, Barry shared a firm handshake with Lance, and then he noticed a stunning, raven-haired goddess lingering on the quarterdeck.

  Lance peered over his shoulder and groaned. “Cara, I told you to remain in our cabin.”

  “But I wish to greet our guest.” With grace and elegance, and a telltale stubborn set of her chin that reminded Barry of Florence, Lady Cara descended the companion ladder and strolled to the fore. “Lord Ravenwood, it is wonderful to see you, again, after so long. I believe it has been four years, has it not?”

  “Indeed, it has, Lady Cara.” Out of old habit, Barrington bowed. “I prefer Barry, given I doubt I retain my title.”

  “Actually, you do.” At Lance’s assertion, Barry came alert. “Your brother lost his bid to have you declared deceased.”

  “Oh?” In shock, because he had not expected that development, he stumbled back but just as quick gained his footing. So many responses swirled in his brain, yet he could not form a coherent sentence. “Why?”

  “What is this? You ask why?” Lance arched his brows. “No celebration? No expression of gratitude?”

  “Of course, I am thankful, yet I can hardly manage the estate from my exile.” However, Barrington pondered the revelation and counted it as an important first step toward his ultimate absolution. “What was the judge’s rationale for the ruling?”

  “The Crown requires proof of your demise before declaring you dead, in absentia, and dispossessing you of your inheritance, per the right of primogeniture, which is sacred to England.” Lance drew his wife to his side and kissed her temple. “Thus you remain fully vested in your holdings.”

  “I know not what to say.” Suddenly, the world seemed a much smaller place, and the familiar trappings of his former existence loomed within reach, that he might seize the much-desired prize. Then a single provoking thought struck him between the eyes. “What of my brother and Lady Florence?” Swallowing hard, he inhaled a deep breath. “Did they wed, as you mentioned when we met in November?”

  “No, they have not, and I do not anticipate they will ever marry.” Something dark and chilling danced on the fringe of Lance’s reply, and Barrington met his friend’s stare.

  “What is it?” He squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “What have you not told me?”

  “I thought you should know there are rumors circulating the ton’s ballrooms, most noticeably during the Season.” Lance peered at his bride. “But I should emphasize such gossip is naught but speculation and innuendo.”

  Then Lance hesitated, as he appeared at a loss for words.

  “Lord Ravenwood, no one has seen Lady Florence since the Little Season.” Lady Cara averted her gaze, appeared lost in thought, and then gave him her full attention, as Lance shuffled his feet. “There is no easy way to deliver ill tidings, other than to simply state the facts.”

  When Lady Cara quieted, Barrington considered, for the first time, that the ill tidings had something to do with Florence. Clenching his jaw, he fisted his hands.

  “Please, tell me what is wrong.” A heavy sensation weighted his chest. “Why did they delay the nuptials? Whatever it is, I need to know, now.”

  “According to the most recent reports, which we received from my mother-in-law, Lady Amanda, Admiral Douglas’s wife, the wedding has been postponed, indefinitely.” Lance twined his fingers with his bride’s. “It is said that Lady Florence is gravely ill, and
Lord Braithwaite makes funeral arrangements.”

  For a few seconds, the last statement echoed in Barrington’s ears.

  Pain functioned as the great leveler, because it knew no marks of wealth, rank, or privilege. Without mercy, it crept up on its victim and engulfed him in the black blanket of torment, chilling every scrap of flesh, shuddering through every bone, stretching taut every muscle, winding every nerve tight as a clock spring, and leaving nothing unscathed. In that moment of realization, in that terrible sliver of time in which the verisimilitude of his situation confronted him inasmuch as he studied his reflection in a mirror, Barrington tripped and fell to his knees, as he contemplated his lady’s death.

  Resting on all fours, he gagged and gasped for air.

  “Scotty, fetch a bottle of brandy from the hold.” Lance squatted and caught Barry beneath the arms. “Come. Let us continue the discussion in my cabin.”

  “No.” Barry pushed free and staggered to his feet. Just as fast, nausea wrenched at his gut, and he lurched forward to the rail and vomited over the side. Wracked by agonizing spasms, he could not calm the terror that imprisoned him in an invisible but brutal and punishing hell.

  “Here, Lord Ravenwood.” Lady Cara offered a drink of water, which he accepted. “Please, you must not panic, as we know not of Lady Florence’s true condition. My mother shared only the latest on-dits. It could be naught but talk, owing to society’s partiality for drama.”

  “Yet your first instinct was to contact me.” Tears welled and streamed his cheeks, as Barrington stared at the ocean. It was the one thing that always brought him comfort during his exile, but in the sea he found no solace. Rather, he could not quiet the torture of his imagination, as he conjured all manner of horrible visions, and he knew what he had to do, beyond a shadow of a doubt. “When do you sail for London?”

  “Posthaste.” Lance thrust a bottle of brandy into Barry’s grip, and he gulped a healthy portion. “We journeyed to deliver the news, and given our current position, we are but a fortnight from London, even less if we keep the canvas hardened in and ride the favorable weather gauge.”