A coded message that Blackheart’s spies had intercepted.
Steele had no doubt that the Corsair had no intention of leaving his gold buried for long. In fact, it was entirely possible that he was already en route to its last known location, with the intent to sell every last doubloon within hours of recovering the cargo.
But not if Steele got there first.
He had the map in a hidden coat pocket. His blood raced with excitement. He couldn’t wait to set sail.
Waiting around for his ward’s wedding to take place was delaying his departure, but it was a necessary evil. It afforded him the security of knowing that once he left London this time, he had no reason to ever come back.
The thought of Mrs. Halton once again sprang to mind, as had vexingly become his custom. He had meant to forget her. Had tried mightily, in fact. And yet all this nonsense with gathering suitors for his ward and ensuring she picked the one who loved her, had made Steele half wish Mrs. Halton had been part of the fun.
’Twas just… He’d rather enjoyed having Mrs. Halton aboard his ship. He hadn’t been able to enjoy her company as much as he might have liked, what with the earl’s pesky rules about not touching the booty, but still. She was beautiful and curious and clever. Even his men had warmed up to her.
Thank God he would never see her again.
The last thing he or his crew needed was a distraction. Not if he wanted the slightest chance of capturing the Crimson Corsair. The cretin would one day pay for his crimes. But first, he would have to find him.
For all Steele knew, his map was one of many, and the Corsair was already halfway back to his treasure. But if he wasn’t…if there was any possibility of Steele beating him there with a fleet ship and a strong wind at his back…
He drained his wine and then glared at the clock upon the mantel. Today of all days, why must the minutes pass so slowly? He reached for the bottle of port and refilled his glass.
He was tired of Maidstone, tired of Kent, tired of England. If he was stuck on land, he wished it could at least be in a coastal apartment with a view of the sea.
Being landlocked for six straight weeks had taught him that one had to go on an adventure to find adventure. Life was at its most exciting when one’s money, ship, or very breath hung in the balance.
The rumble of carriage wheels on the thawing road raised his brows. He swung his feet to the floor and carried his glass of port with him to the entranceway to the cottage. He swung open the front door.
His ward and her new husband were alighting from their carriage.
“Good morning, lovebirds,” he called out in greeting. “Lost, are we? Now that my ward is married, this is no longer her address.”
Although he fully intended to sign the property over to her at the first opportunity.
Daphne blinked up at him in stupefaction. God’s teeth, Steele loved stupefaction. “How did you know—”
“How wouldn’t I know?” Steele wiggled his brows. As if anything ever happened without his knowledge or against his will. “What with that pittance you call an inheritance, I figured either you’d marry the man you’d rushed into a betrothal with, or you wouldn’t.”
“Rushed into a betrothal?” his ward spluttered. “You were the one who invited a random assortment of completely unsuitable men in order to pack me off to the first bidder—”
“Yes, well. I knew you’d have none of it, of course.” After all—they were cousins. He grinned. Daphne would have made a damn fine pirate herself. If she weren’t so bloody proper.
Daphne glared at him. She curled her fingers into fists and jerked her gaze toward her husband. “I cannot credit that he lied about forcing me into an unwanted betrothal just so I’d pick someone I did want.”
“That is devious.” Her new husband swung her into his arms and spun toward the carriage. “But I can’t say I’m displeased with the outcome.”
Steele grinned. He was not a romantical person by any stretch of the imagination, but he rather thought he’d done a fine job uniting this pair.
“What are you doing?” Daphne hissed to her husband. “You can’t just pick me up and turn your back on my cousin without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Why not?” he returned as he carried her toward their landau. “I’m sure Blackheart does that sort of thing all the time.”
The major was a wise and perceptive man indeed.
Although they were already driving away, Steele lifted his empty glass in salute. Those two crusaders were off to spend the rest of their lives in peace and happiness. There was nothing the major wouldn’t do for Daphne and vice versa, ad nauseum.
Steele thanked the gods of the sea that he hadn’t a sentimental bone in his body.
He tossed his wine glass onto an empty sideboard and retrieved his pre-packed traveling bag from the office. His cousin and her new husband were off to settle down and be respectable, but Captain Blackheart?
He had a treasure map to follow.
Chapter 12
Clara was giving her daughter one final hug when the hired hack pulled to a stop in front of Carlisle Manor.
“You know you’re always welcome here,” Grace said firmly. “You needn’t search for an apartment elsewhere if you don’t wish to.”
Yes, Clara did. For everyone’s sake.
She touched her daughter’s cheek. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a fortnight or two.”
“I remember. You want to see what London and the country have to offer.” Grace squeezed her hand. “I want you to be happy, Mama. Whatever you’re looking for…I hope you find it.”
The hack driver presented himself in the doorway to pick up Clara’s luggage. His eyes widened at the sight of nothing more than a small traveling bag. “You waiting on your valise to be brought down?”
Grace sent her mother an indulgent smile. “Buy a few gowns when you’re in the city, won’t you?”
Clara grinned back. She had purchased several new dresses since coming into her inheritance, but after the experience of traveling over Pennsylvania and across the ocean with nothing more than a satchel, a heavy valise seemed limiting, rather than expansive. Whereas a simple traveling bag felt like freedom.
She let the hack driver begin in the fashionable areas of London. The imposing crescents of cold, brick townhouses looked like prisons. No one was outside. Why would they be? The air wasn’t as thick with coal as Whitechapel, but the trees were bare and dreary, and no amount of crossing sweepers could keep up with the vast quantity of horses that left their offal upon the cobblestone roads.
Not the city, then. The country would have cleaner air. Prettier views. Lonelier days.
“Take me to the docks,” she said impulsively.
The driver cast her a startled look. “That’s no place for a lady. Those neighborhoods are unsafe.”
“Are there neighborhoods?” Clara tilted her head with interest. “Show me the nicest one looking over the water.”
He swallowed. “But the Ratcliffe Highway murders—”
“They took place near the docks?” She wondered if London had become less safe since she’d been gone, or if she’d simply been too young to notice it before.
“Near enough. Five years back, on Wapping Lane. Horrible thing, that.” The driver shivered. “Droves of folk flocked from miles to see the bodies.”
Clara swallowed. She would not have wished to see such a sad spectacle. “Did they catch the assassin?”
“Not until he struck again. But he couldn’t hide forever.” The driver nodded his pleasure. “Hung ’imself in his cell, he did. Couldn’t wait for the gallows.”
“Have there been other murders since?” she asked tentatively.
“Oh, no, ma’am. Nothing like that.” He turned his attention back to the horses. “By the grace of God.”
Clara nodded. The incident sounded grisly, but it also sounded like an unusual occurrence.
She wasn’t heedless enough to wish to buy up property without doing addit
ional research, but she also wasn’t afflicted by a superstitious nature. Life had taught her that death could strike anyone at any time. Twenty years of being fastidiously careful had only resulted in her nearly dying alone in her bed as her house rotted around her. Her heart quickened. She was no longer content to let life pass her by.
“Is there a tavern nearby? An inn, perhaps, with a view of the water?”
The driver hesitated. “Most famous is the Prospect of Whitby, I suppose. ’Twas known as the Devil’s Tavern for centuries, but it became a respectable public house a few decades back, after a fire gutted the original. Rear looks out upon the Thames.”
Clara smiled. “Perfect. Thank you. Take me there, please.”
She settled back in the seat and watched as cobblestone lanes turned into rutted paths the closer they got to the tavern.
When he slowed the hack between the tavern and the posting house, the driver looked surprised to see Clara pick up her traveling bag from the seat opposite. “You don’t mean to stay the night here, do you?”
“Not at all.” If anything, Clara was tempted to take the next mail coach heading west. Find a slower, simpler life in a Somerset village somewhere between Bath and the sea. Forget about Captain Steele and the life she’d left behind. “I simply wish to have a leisurely meal while I contemplate the water.”
“Shall I wait here for you, then?”
Clara glanced at the bustling street. Hacks were everywhere. Asking this driver to wait would waste his time and her money. “No, that’ll be all. I thank you very much for the insight and conversation.”
“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.” He tugged his hat. “Pleased to be of service.”
She gave him his coin, then entered the Prospect of Whitby. Ignoring the scent of food and ale and the crowd of customers, she made her way directly to the rear of the posting house to peer out upon the Thames.
Wooden Watermen’s stairs led down from the balcony to a muddy shore of flotsam left behind due to low tide. It was not as pretty as she’d hoped nor as bad as she’d feared, but the hack driver was right. She would not be buying property here.
Just as she was about to hunt for a vacant seat at a table, a familiar schooner caught her eye among the many sails flanking the port. The Dark Crystal. Her heart thudded. Had Steele returned? Had he never left? Might he truly be within eyesight of where she now stood? He had left no direction to which she might post a letter. No reason to think he might respond.
No reason except the passionate kisses they’d shared moments before land had come into sight.
She turned away from the river and rushed back out into the street. There was no time for supper. She had to see him. To speak with him.
If he was on board, this might be her sole opportunity. One never knew when or where he might dock next. Or if he even planned on returning to London someday. A shard of pain lanced through her at the thought.
This was a sign. Clara laughed at herself for even thinking such a foolish, superstitious thing. But there it was. The Dark Crystal. And here she was, hurrying toward it as fast as she could with her traveling bag in one hand and her long skirt in the other.
By the time she reached the schooner, she was out of breath. And a wild mess. She glanced around the dock. As before, the crowds gave the ship a wide berth, which left her free to catch her breath in the shadows before hollering up like a heathen.
Voices sounded overhead. She tilted her head up to see if she could glimpse a familiar face, and realized the gangplank was still down. Either someone had just arrived, or was expected to.
A smile curved her lips. She was certainly not expected, but if they were going to leave the gangplank down for anyone to board…
She rushed over and began climbing the plank before anyone could tell her otherwise. Not that they would, she realized as she climbed. The Dark Crystal was at the end of the port, bathed in shadow. Even if it had been lit by the sun, everyone on the docks studiously avoided making visual contact with it, as if to catch Blackheart’s eye meant risking one’s life.
When she stepped onto the ship, nobody shouted an alarm. No one noticed her at all. The voices were coming from the main hatchway leading to the mess tables. Clara’s stomach rumbled. Perhaps it was supper time for the crew as well.
Rather than make herself known and risk being summarily tossed from the ship, she decided to head to the rear, past the first skylight, toward the captain’s cabin. If Steele was inside, it might be her one chance to catch him alone.
But the cabin was empty. Her resolve flagged. Now what? She hadn’t planned on confronting Steele in the mess area in front of all of his men. She hadn’t planned any of this at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been a sign.
Perhaps she should leave before they found her and she was forced to explain herself.
She hefted her bag over her shoulder and began to climb the hatchway to the top level—then paused as her brain began to make sense of familiar sounds. The gangplank was up. The ship was moving. The men were taking their positions. Performing their final rounds. Her mouth dried in alarm.
What the dickens was she supposed to do now?
They were mere feet from the dock. If she presented herself when they obviously had plans to be somewhere else, they would drop her back on land with no more ceremony than an irritated boot to the rear. But what was the alternative? Stowing away on a pirate ship? Exposing her presence once it was too late to turn back?
The sails fluttered overhead. The schooner drifted steadily faster. Decide, she urged herself desperately. Call this off right now…or risk it all.
Adventure.
Purpose.
Love.
She jerked around and hurried down the ladder to the gunroom, the storeroom, the slop room, and hid behind the many great rows of barrels. It was not the perfect hiding place, but if they’d just eaten their final meal of the day, she should be safe enough. Maybe.
The spirit room was only a few feet away.
Mindless of her gown, she squeezed into the darkest corner she could find and tried to figure out how long she would have to wait until it was truly too late to turn around.
Steele would forgive her. Eventually.
She paused. And then what? He was not a man destined for picket fences or Mayfair row houses. He was built for the sea. For danger. For excitement.
Well, that was precisely what she wanted. What she needed before settling down in some unremarkable cottage for a quiet life with a distant view of the ocean. She wanted more than a mere memory. She needed to have fully lived.
She wanted to know firsthand what might have happened, if London’s horizon had not rudely interrupted their kiss.
Minutes stretched into hours. They had to be miles from shore. It would take all night for the boat to turn around for London and make it back out this far. And yet she hesitated to emerge from the shadows. What if they didn’t care? What if they took her back anyway?
When her legs began to tremble from having held their position for so long, she eased out of the shadows and up the dark hatchway. This time, the sounds came from the top deck. She recognized the voice of Barnaby, the disgruntled boatswain. Marlowe, the easygoing sailing master.
Blackheart, the pirate who’d captured her imagination and refused to let go.
From the sounds of their revelry, they were enjoying a drink or two as the last dregs of England disappeared from the horizon. Now or never. Clara left her traveling bag beside the cabin and rallied her courage.
Straightening her spine, she strode out of the hatchway and onto the deck as if she were a queen descending on her commoners.
“Is this party for men only?” she called out as the sailors’ jaws dropped open in shock. “Or are one of you gentlemen gallant enough to fetch a lady a drink?”
Chapter 13
Steele almost dropped his glass in shock. Hadn’t he just been congratulating himself about other people’s machinations never occurring without his knowledge or against his will
?
Yet here stood the most improbable vision his imagination might have conjured: Mrs. Clara Halton, survivor of American medical ineptitude and a transatlantic quarantine with Blackheart the pirate. Vixen. Widow. Mother.
Stowaway.
She was as porcelain-perfect as a highborn English rose. As speckled with mud and dust as a street urchin. As graceful as a swan and as mad as a March hare. He’d kiss her senseless if he weren’t a hairsbreadth away from throttling her.
He handed his port to the closest swab. “Mrs. Halton, what the devil are you about? Do you realize—”
“Please,” she murmured with a demure flutter of dark eyelashes. “Call me Clara. I’ll feel positively matronly if I have the entire crew of a pirate ship calling me Mrs. Halton all week.”
Steele flexed his jaw.
“Bloody siren,” the boatswain muttered. “Never called you ‘Mrs. Halton’ in all my life.”
“You don’t have to call her anything,” Steele growled. “Don’t even look at her.”
Mrs. Halton—Clara’s—lips made a perfect pout. “Does that mean no wine, then?”
The sailing master swung his gaze toward the helm. “What say you, Captain? Should I turn her around?”
Turn the Dark Crystal around? When they’d finally been handed their first sliver of an opportunity to catch the Crimson Corsair unawares? Never. They were already four hours out to sea. Any further delay would cost them the treasure—if it hadn’t already. There was no time for distractions.
“Stay your course,” Steele said through clenched teeth.
He stalked forward, drunken sailors parting around him like the Red Sea.
Clara didn’t budge an inch. She had the gall to look relieved. “Thank you so much, Mr. Steele. I’m sorry I—”
“You can call me Blackheart,” he growled as he closed his fingers about her delicate wrist. “And you’re coming with me.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 72
