The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  Books by M.L. Tyndall

  LEGACY OF THE KING’S PIRATES SERIES

  The Redemption

  The Reliance

  The Restitution

  The Falcon and the Sparrow

  CHARLES TOWNE BELLES SERIES

  The Red Siren

  The Blue Enchantress

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  3 Books by M.L. Tyndall

  5

  CHAPTER 1

  6

  CHAPTER 2

  7

  CHAPTER 3

  8

  CHAPTER 4

  9

  CHAPTER 5

  10

  CHAPTER 6

  11

  CHAPTER 7

  12

  CHAPTER 8

  13

  CHAPTER 9

  14

  CHAPTER 10

  15

  CHAPTER 11

  16

  CHAPTER 12

  17

  CHAPTER 13

  18

  CHAPTER 14

  19

  CHAPTER 15

  20

  CHAPTER 16

  21

  CHAPTER 17

  22

  CHAPTER 18

  23

  CHAPTER 19

  24

  CHAPTER 20

  25

  CHAPTER 21

  26

  CHAPTER 22

  27

  CHAPTER 23

  28

  CHAPTER 24

  29

  CHAPTER 25

  30

  CHAPTER 26

  31

  CHAPTER 27

  32

  CHAPTER 28

  33

  CHAPTER 29

  34

  CHAPTER 30

  35

  CHAPTER 31

  36

  CHAPTER 32

  37

  CHAPTER 33

  38

  CHAPTER 34

  39

  CHAPTER 35

  40

  CHAPTER 36

  41

  CHAPTER 37

  42

  CHAPTER 38

  43

  CHAPTER 39

  44 EPILOGUE

  45 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  47 BACK COVER MATERIAL

  To anyone who has ever felt worthless and unloved and who has sought to obtain value through the lies of this world.

  He also that received seed among the thorns is he that heareth the word; and the care of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the word, and he becometh unfruitful.

  MATTHEW 13:22

  CHAPTER 1

  St. Kitts, September 1718

  “Gentlemen, what will ye offer for this rare treasure of a lady?” The words crashed over Hope Westcott like bilge water. “Why, she’ll make any of ye a fine wife, a cook, a housemaid”—the man gave a lascivious chuckle—“whate’er ye desire.”

  “How ’bout someone to warm me bed at night,” one man bellowed, and a cacophony of chortles gurgled through the air.

  Hope slammed her eyes shut against the mob of men who pressed on three sides of the tall wooden platform, shoving one another to get a better peek at her. Something crawled over her foot, and she pried her eyes open, keeping her face lowered. A black spider skittered away. Red scrapes and bruises marred her bare feet. When had she lost her satin shoes—the gold braided ones she’d worn to impress Lord Falkland? She couldn’t recall.

  “What d’ye say? How much for this fine young lady?” The man grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Pain, like a dozen claws, pierced her skull. “She’s a handsome one, to be sure. And these golden locks.” He attempted to slide his fingers through her matted strands, but before becoming hopelessly entangled in them, he jerked his hand free, wrenching out a clump of her hair. Hope winced. “Have ye seen the likes of them?”

  Ribald whistles and groans of agreement spewed over her.

  “Two shillings,” one man yelled.

  Hope dared to glance across the throng amassing before the auction block. A wild sea of lustful eyes sprayed over her. A band of men dressed in garments stained with dirt and sweat bunched toward the front, yelling out bids. Behind them, other men in velvet waistcoats leaned their heads together, no doubt to discuss the value of this recent offering, while studying her as if she were a breeding mare. Slaves knelt in the dirt along the outskirts of the mob, waiting for their masters. Beyond them, a row of wooden buildings stretched in either direction. Brazen women emerged from a tavern and draped themselves over the railings, watching Hope’s predicament with interest. On the street, ladies in modish gowns averted their eyes as they tugged the men on their arms from the sordid scene.

  Hope lowered her head. This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming. I am still on the ship. Just a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Humiliation swept over her with an ever-rising dread as the reality of her situation blasted its way through her mind.

  She swallowed hard and tried to drown out the grunts and salacious insults tossed her way by the bartering rabble. Perhaps if she couldn’t hear them, if she couldn’t see them, they would disappear and she would wake up back home, safe in Charles Towne, safe in her bedchamber, safe with her sisters, just like she was before she’d put her trust in a man who betrayed her.

  “Egad, man. Two shillings, is it? For this beauty?” The auctioneer spit off to the side. The yellowish glob landed on Hope’s skirt. Her heart felt as though it had liquefied into an equally offensive blob and oozed down beside it.

  How did I get here? In her terror, she could not remember. She raised her gaze to the auctioneer. Cold eyes, hard like marbles, met hers, and a sinister grin twisted his lips. He adjusted his tricorn to further shade his chubby face from the burning sun.

  “She looks too feeble for any real work,” another man yelled.

  The sounds of the crowd dimmed. The men’s fists forged into the air as if pushing through mud. Garbled laughter drained from their yellow-toothed mouths like molasses. Hope’s heart beat slower, and she wished for death.

  The gentle lap of waves caressed her ears, their peaceful cadence drawing her away. Tearing her gaze from the nightmarish spectacle, she glanced over her shoulder, past the muscled henchmen who’d escorted her here. Two docks jutted out into a small bay brimming with sparkling turquoise water where several ships rocked back and forth as if shaking their heads at her in pity. Salt and papaya and sun combined in a pleasant aroma that lured her mind away from her present horror.

  Her eyes locked upon the glimmering red and gold figurine of Ares at the bow of Lord Falkland’s ship. She blinked back the burning behind her eyes. When she’d boarded it nigh a week past—or was it two weeks?—all her hopes and dreams had boarded with her. Somewhere along the way, they had been cast into the depths of the sea. She only wished she had joined them. Although the ship gleamed majestically in the bay, all she had seen of it for weeks had been the four walls of a small cabin below deck.

  The roar of the crowd wrenched her mind back to the present and turned her face forward.

  “Five shillings.”

  “’Tis robbery, and ye know it,” the auctioneer barked. “Where are any of ye clods goin’ t’ find a real lady like this?”

  A stream of perspiration raced down Hope’s back as if seeking escape. But there was no escape. She was about to be sold as a slave, a harlot to one of these cruel and prurient taskmasters. A fate worse than death. A fate her sister had fought hard to keep her from. A fate Hope had brought upon herself. Numbness crept over her even as her eyes filled with tears. Oh God. This can’t be happening.

  She gazed upward at the blue sky dusted with thick clouds, hoping for some deliverance, some sign that God had
not abandoned her.

  The men continued to haggle, their voices booming louder and louder, grating over her like the howls of demons.

  Her head felt like it had detached from her body and was floating up to join the clouds. Palm trees danced in the light breeze coming off the bay. Their tall trunks and fronds formed an oscillating blur of green and brown. The buildings, the mob, and the whole heinous scene joined the growing mass and began twirling around Hope. Her legs turned to jelly, and she toppled to the platform.

  “Get up!” A sharp crack stung her cheek. Two hands like rough rope clamped over her arms and dragged her to her feet. Pain lanced through her right foot where a splinter had found a home. Holding a hand to her stinging face, Hope sobbed.

  The henchman released her with a grunt of disgust.

  “I told ye she won’t last a week,” one burly man shouted.

  “She ain’t good for nothing but to look at.”

  Planting a strained grin upon his lips, the auctioneer swatted her rear end. “Aye, but she’s much more stout than she appears, gentlemen.”

  Horrified and no longer caring about the repercussions, Hope slapped the man’s face. He raised his fist, and she cowered. The crowd roared its mirth.

  “One pound, then,” a tall man sporting a white wig called out. “I could use me a pretty wench.” Withdrawing a handkerchief, he dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.

  Wench. Slave. Hope shook her head, trying to force herself to accept what her mind kept trying to deny. A sudden surge of courage, based on naught but her instinct to survive, stiffened her spine. She thrust out her chin and faced the auctioneer. “I beg your pardon, sir. There’s been a mistake. I am no slave.”

  “Indeed?” He cocked one brow and gave her a patronizing smirk.

  Hope searched the horde for a sympathetic face—just one. “My name is Miss Hope Westcott,” she shouted. “My father is Admiral Henry Westcott. I live in Charles Towne with my two sisters.”

  “And I’m King George,” a farmer howled, slapping his knee.

  “My father will pay handsomely for my safe return.” Hope scanned the leering faces. Not one. Not one look of sympathy or belief or kindness. Fear crawled up her throat. She stomped her foot, sending a shard of pain up her leg. “You must believe me,” she sobbed. “I don’t belong here.”

  Ignoring the laughter, Hope spotted a purple plume fluttering in the breeze atop a gold-trimmed hat in the distance. “Arthur!” She darted for the stairs but two hands grabbed her from behind and held her in place. “Don’t leave me! Lord Falkland!” She struggled in her captor’s grasp. His grip tightened, sending a throbbing ache across her back.

  Swerving about, Lord Falkland tapped his cane into the dirt and tipped the brim of his hat up, but the distance between them forbade Hope a vision of his expression.

  “Tell them who I am, Arthur. Please save me!”

  He leaned toward the woman beside him and said something, then coughed into his hand. What is he doing? The man who once professed an undying love for Hope, the man who promised to marry her, to love her forever, the man who bore the responsibility for her being here in the first place. How could he stand there and do nothing while she met such a hideous fate?

  The elegant lady beside him turned her nose up at Hope, then, threading her arm through Lord Falkland’s, she wheeled him around and pulled him down the road.

  Hope watched him leave, and with each step of his cordovan boots, her heart and her very soul sank deeper into the wood of the auction block beneath her feet.

  Nothing made any sense. Had the world gone completely mad?

  “Two pounds,” a corpulent man in the back roared.

  A memory flashed through Hope’s mind as she gazed across the band of men. A vision of African slaves, women and children, being auctioned off in Charles Towne. How many times had she passed by, ignoring them, uncaring, unconcerned by the proceedings?

  Was this God’s way of repaying her for her selfishness, her lack of charity?

  “Five pounds.”

  Disappointed curses rumbled among the men at the front, who had obviously reached their limit of coin.

  The auctioneer’s mouth spread wide, greed dripping from its corners. “Five pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear six for this lovely lady?”

  A blast of hot air rolled over Hope, stealing her breath. Human sweat, fish, and horse manure filled her nose and saturated her skin. The unforgiving sun beat a hot hammer atop her head until she felt she would ignite into a burning torch at any moment. Indeed, she prayed she would. Better to be reduced to a pile of ashes than endure what the future held for her.

  “Six pounds,” a short man with a round belly and stiff brown wig yelled from the back of the mob in a tone that indicated he knew what he was doing and had no intention of losing his prize. Decked in a fine damask waistcoat, silk breeches, and a gold-chained pocket watch, which he kept snapping open and shut, he exuded wealth and power.

  Hope’s stomach twisted into a vicious knot, and she clutched her throat to keep from heaving whatever shred of moisture remained in her empty stomach.

  The auctioneer gaped at her, obviously shocked she could command such a price. Rumblings overtook the crowd as the short man pushed his way through to claim his prize. The closer he came, the faster Hope’s chest heaved and the lighter her head became. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the groans of the mob. No, God. No.

  “Do I hear seven?” the auctioneer bellowed. “She’s young and will breed you some fine sons.”

  “Just what I’ll be needing.” The man halted at the platform, glanced over the crowd for any possible competitors, then took the stairs to Hope’s right. He halted beside her too close for propriety’s sake and assailed her with the stench of lard and tobacco. A long purple scar crossed his bloated red face as his eyes grazed over her like a stallion on a breeding mare. Hope shuddered and gasped for a breath of air. Her palms broke out in a sweat, and she rubbed them on her already moist gown.

  The auctioneer threw a hand to his hip and gazed over the crowd.

  The man squeezed her arms, and Hope snapped from his grasp and took a step back, abhorred at his audacity. He chuckled. “Not much muscle on her, but she’s got pluck.”

  He belched, placed his watch back into the fob pocket of his breeches, and removed a leather pouch from his belt. “Six pounds it is.”

  The silver tip of a sword hung at his side. If Hope were quick about it, perhaps she could grab it and, with some luck, fight her way out of here. She clenched her teeth. Who was she trying to fool? Where was her pirate sister when she needed her? Surely Faith would know exactly what to do. Yet what did it matter? Hope would rather die trying to escape than become this loathsome man’s slave.

  As the man counted out the coins into the auctioneer’s greedy hands, Hope reached for the sword.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Seven pounds.” Nathaniel Mason charged toward the platform, shoving his way through the unruly throng. “Seven pounds.” Even as he bellowed the amount, he wondered if he had lost his mind. That was over half of the coin in his money pouch, and he needed all of it to purchase his supplies for the return trip to Charles Towne.

  The stout man on the platform beside Miss Hope swung about and glared at Nathaniel as if he were naught but an annoying bug. His hand froze in midair, a gold coin clenched between his stubby fingers. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The auctioneer’s eyes glinted with greedy amusement as he doffed his tricorn and swept it through the air with a bow of deference. “Seven pounds from the gentlemen in the blue waistcoat. Do I hear eight?” He raised a questioning brow toward the man beside him before surveying the grumbling mob.

  “I wouldn’t pay eight pounds fer me own mother!” a man in front of the crowd cackled, eliciting squawks of laughter from all those around him.

  “Eight.” The red-faced man continued to count out his coins into the auctioneer’s open pouch as if no opposition could prevent him from carryi
ng out his task.

  Shoving through the horde of sweaty, cursing men, Nathaniel leapt upon the platform. “Nine pounds,” he shouted above the clamor and allowed his gaze to brush over Miss Hope.

  When he’d first seen her from across the street where he’d been arranging with a merchant to load the man’s goods aboard ship, his heart had plunged like a stone into his boots. Though the woman resembled Miss Hope in hair and color of skin, he could not believe it was the lady he knew from Charles Towne—not so far from the safety of her home, not in such slovenly condition, and certainly not being sold as an indentured servant. But as he approached the throng, he recognized the familiar golden hair with a hint of red, and those glistening eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea that had mesmerized him back home.

  And his heart had rammed into his ribs.

  How had she come to such dire straits? Kidnapped. The word blasted through his thoughts. ’Twas the only explanation. White women brought a handsome price in the islands, where they were in short supply. And Miss Hope’s particular beauty would lure many a slave trader to steal her from her home, take her far away where no one would know her, and sell her to some lonely, desperate plantation owner. In these savage lands, most people looked the other way at such injustices. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been strolling down the streets of Charles Towne attired in a fine taffeta gown, her arm entwined around that of a marine.

  And if he recalled, tossing her snooty nose in the air at him as well.

  Like she always had. Belittled him. Ignored him. Treated him as though he were dung on the street.