The Blue Enchantress

by Marylu Tyndall

  The Enchantress swept around again, lowered sails, and came even on the Victory’s keel.

  Hope’s throat grew dry. Her chest heaved. Without Nathaniel, without Abigail, who would restrain the licentious urges of Captain Poole? Had she been delivered from one monster’s hands into another’s?

  The pirates, many of whom she recognized, lined the railing of the Enchantress, their grins dripping with wicked intent, their weapons glinting in the sunlight. They flung ribald insults toward their victims.

  “Out, grappling hooks! Prepare to board,” Captain Poole howled, though Hope could not yet see him through the crowd.

  Falkland brushed the dirt from his waistcoat, tucked in his shirt, and adjusted the tie in his hair, then took a stance upon the deck as if he were greeting royalty. Some of his crew amassed behind him; others draped themselves over the railings above, their sweaty faces streaked with black lines of defeat and fear. Being overtaken by a pirate was a death sentence. If the sailors weren’t killed, they would be marooned at sea or on an island. Often their only choice was to join the pirate crew. Hope’s heart went out to them despite her fear for her own safety.

  Grapnels clanked into the deck. The snap of splintered wood filled the air. Poole’s pirates tugged on the ropes, and the two ships thumped together, sending a tremble through the timbers. Captain Poole leapt to the bulwarks, cutlass in hand, a brace of pistols slung over his chest. “Board ’em, ye swabs!”

  He leapt onto the Victory, his boots sounding an ominous thud on the deck.

  Hope’s gaze shifted to the pirates behind him, and she threw a hand to her mouth and shrieked.

  CHAPTER 38

  Nathaniel scanned Falkland’s ship for any sign of Hope. A flash of golden silk caught his eye. She stood by the quarterdeck, trembling, wide-eyed, but from all appearances, unharmed. Her gaze met his, and he offered her a reassuring grin, but her face blanched and she jerked backward as if she saw a ghost.

  Gavin appeared beside him, the thrill of excitement beaming on his boyish face. Nathaniel nodded at him, then thrust out his blade and charged onto the Victory. A horde of pirates followed in his wake, brandishing swords that were quickly leveled upon Falkland and his crew.

  Falkland swallowed but did not move. His sailors stumbled back, their faces twisting in fear.

  Captain Poole sauntered toward the defiant captain, the tip of his sword steady upon his chest. “I’ll ask ye to lay down yer arms, Captain, if ye please.”

  Fury stormed across Falkland’s face. His lip curled, and for a moment it seemed he would not comply. “Do as he says,” he shot over his shoulder but made no move to deliver his own sword. His crew tossed their swords, knives, and pistols to the deck in a series of clanks and clunks, and a snap from Poole’s fingers sent four of his men to gather the weapons.

  Lifting his nose in disdain at the pirate, Falkland addressed Gavin. “And you, traitor. I suppose you led them to me. I should have known I couldn’t trust you.”

  “Kindred spirits, you and I, Falkland.” Gavin gave a mock bow.

  Falkland flattened his lips. “Be about your business, pirate, and then leave us be.”

  “Me business?” Captain Poole chortled. “Well, I’m glad ye asked.” He pointed his cutlass toward Hope. “We require an audience with the fair lady.”

  “An audience?” Falkland barked. “What business could you possibly have with her?”

  “’Tis Mr. Mason who has the business, ye snivelin’ toad.” Poole gestured toward Nathaniel. “Not that it be any o’ yers. An’ he’ll speak to the lady in private, if ye don’t mind.”

  Silence invaded the ship. Falkland’s face crinkled into a tangle that resembled the mass of cordage littering his deck. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “Aye, I believe ye did, unless yer hearing’s gone by the board along wit’ yer mast.”

  Hope crept out from her spot by the quarterdeck, nudging pirates aside as she went. Her gaze locked upon Nathaniel, and he tried to offer her a reassuring look, but it did naught to penetrate the dismay that claimed her features.

  Falkland shifted his stance. “Do you mean to tell me that you destroyed my mainmast and disabled my ship for a mere parley with the likes of her?” he spat. “Why did you not signal me and send a boat?”

  Poole shrugged. “Where’d be the fun in that?” He grinned.

  Falkland moaned, then narrowed his eyes upon Poole. “And what else do you want while you’re here?”

  The captain’s jaw twitched. He scanned the ship as if assessing its value. “Nothing.” He seemed to force the words out with difficulty. “For now.”

  A collective sigh of relief emerged from Falkland’s crew.

  “Get on wit’ it, Mr. Mason.” Poole nodded toward Hope.

  Nathaniel sheathed his sword and took Hope’s arm, leading the dazed girl up the quarterdeck stairs to the stern of the ship. She stumbled along beside him but said not a word. When they reached the far railing, well out of hearing of the crew and pirates, he turned her to face him.

  A glaze of disbelief covered her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “’Tis precisely what I came to ask you.”

  “I don’t understand. Why did Poole attack Falkland?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  Hope swallowed and gripped the railing, swerving her face away from him. “Falkland still loves me. He asked me to go with him.” Her tone wobbled as if saying the words pained her.

  “Love? Is that what he says?” Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “I would have thought you could recognize real love by now.” A wave lifted the stern, and he laid a hand upon the small of her back to steady her.

  Her knuckles whitened on the railing, and she looked down at the foamy crash of the sea against the hull. A whiff of wind stirred the golden tendrils dancing down her back.

  “Tell me you love him.” Nathaniel grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Look me in the eye and tell me you still love him.”

  Hope struggled in his grasp, then halted and released a fearful sigh. “Nathaniel, I beg you, please leave. Make your apologies to Arthur, take Poole, and go.” Urgency sparked in her eyes. “For your own good.”

  “I’m not so sure leaving you with Falkland would be for my good.”

  A flash of confusion crossed her face then she lowered her gaze. “Trust me, it will.”

  He lifted her chin. “Do you love him?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, the lines of her face etched with sorrow.

  Nathaniel released her and stared across the restless sea, as unsettled and ambiguous as the lady before him. “You cannot admit that you love him, yet here you are, playing his mistress once again. After you gave your live to God? What ails you, woman?”

  Hope opened her eyes and took a step back, hugging herself. “Falkland is powerful. You must get as far away from us as you can.”

  Nathaniel gazed into her moist eyes, searching for an explanation. Love and sorrow pooled there, along with a smoldering determination.

  Then he understood.

  The revelation crushed him to the core. “He threatened to hurt me, didn’t he?”

  Tears filled her eyes. She looked away and tugged on a strand of hair.

  Nathaniel enfolded her hand with his and stilled its nervous toiling. “Didn’t he?”

  “He can ruin you, Nathaniel. Everything you’ve worked for.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I can’t let him do it.”

  He kissed her hand. She had sacrificed everything to save him even after he had believed the worst of her and treated her horribly. Shame weighed upon him. He had not believed she had changed, when in truth, it was he who hadn’t changed. He was still the judgmental, merciless cad she had claimed he was.

  He drew her close, and her initial resistance melted as she folded into him.

  “I owe you an apology,” he whispered in her ear.

  Hope stepped back. “Whatever for?”

  “For not believing you.” He
bowed his head. “I thought you and Gavin...”

  “How can I blame you?” Hope lowered her gaze, a pink flush rising up her neck. “My reputation has not been ... well, it has not been one to foster much faith in my conduct.”

  “I should have believed you.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” She withdrew and wiped the moisture from her face. “I will not see your life destroyed. Not because of me. I could not bear it.” She ran her fingers over his jaw. “Promise me you will leave now and never try to find me again.”

  Nathaniel shook his head. “I cannot. Don’t you see? I don’t care if he ruins me. The most profitable merchant business in the world will mean nothing without you.”

  Renewed tears filled her eyes, and she hurled herself into his arms.

  Nathaniel led Hope down to the main deck where the pirates lumbered about, grumbling from boredom, and the sailors stood stiffly behind Falkland, awaiting their fate. Captain Poole perched on a crate, conversing with Gavin. Nathaniel approached Falkland. “Miss Hope agreed to accompany you under false pretenses, sir. She’ll be coming with me now.”

  Lord Falkland’s upper lip twitched, and he turned a cold eye onto Hope. “Is that so? You choose this carpenter, this nobody, over me?” His face darkened.

  “Arthur.” Hope stepped toward him. “I am changed now. God has changed me, and I realize my feelings for you were not love at all. Neither are yours for me.”

  Nathaniel grimaced at her close proximity to the beast while at the same time admiring her tender, forgiving heart toward a man who had caused her so much pain.

  The agony on Falkland’s face flashed to rage, and in one quick motion, he grabbed Hope, drew his sword, and pressed the edge of his blade against her throat.

  Nathaniel’s heart turned to stone. Gavin charged toward them, but Nathaniel held up a hand, halting him.

  “All this talk of love. Quite touching.” Falkland snorted, pain threading his voice. “But I am not ready to give her up. Mr. Mason, take this pirate and his crew of thieving vagabonds and leave.”

  “Gentlemen of fortune, if ye please.” As Poole approached, he waved a jeweled hand through the air in unruffled disinterest. But the hard glint in his eyes told a different story.

  Falkland snorted. “Begone with you. All of you! I’ll see Hope dead before I let her go with the likes of you.” Nathaniel knew he meant it.

  Hope struggled in the man’s grasp, wincing beneath the steel biting her neck. Terror sparked in her eyes.

  Nathaniel stiffened. Blood rushed through every muscle, sending his fury into a boil. Sweat trickled down his back. He squeezed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, waiting for one perfect moment when Falkland’s concentration would falter. The sounds of the ships thundered like warning knells in his ears: the rustle of waves over their hulls, the flap of sails hanging impotent on their yards, the threats and flourishes of pirates and sailors.

  Falkland’s blade gleamed in the sun, and Nathaniel squinted against the glare. Above it, Hope’s eyes sparked with fear, yet she shook her head ever so slightly as if to dissuade him from making a move. A thin line of blood appeared on her pristine neck, and Nathaniel ground his teeth together until they ached. He had not come this far to lose her now.

  The sun rained hot arrows down upon them, and Falkland shifted his stance.

  Nathaniel curved his lips in his most unnerving grin. A cloud of uncertainty crossed Falkland’s eyes. He loosened his grip on the sword.

  Nathaniel charged toward Falkland and Hope, sending them tumbling backward. In the chaos, Falkland loosened his grip on Hope. Nathaniel grabbed her by the waist and tore her from his grasp, shoving her aside. Gavin caught her before she fell to the deck.

  Falkland recovered his stance and looked about wildly. He raised his sword. His brow grew dark as his eyes smoldered with fury. “Then I shall kill you. No matter.”

  “You may try if you wish.” Nathaniel chortled, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and lifting his sword in answer.

  Falkland’s crew moaned, but a wave of excited laughter and yelps emanated from the pirates. “A duel. A duel.” They began to chant.

  Captain Poole sauntered forward. “A duel, indeed. Seems only fair t’ me.” He grinned, planting his fists at his waist. “An’ the winner gets the girl.”

  Cheers erupted from the pirates.

  Nathaniel cast him a look of protest. A duel had not been part of their bargain, but it was obvious from the gleam of anticipation in Poole’s eyes and the prevailing furor of his men that it was not to be escaped.

  “No, Falkland will kill him!” Hope’s scream drew Nathaniel’s gaze to her as she struggled in Gavin’s grasp.

  “I am overcome by your confidence.” He smiled, trying to allay her fears, but she shook her head as her eyes glistened with tears.

  A sinister grin fell upon Falkland’s lips, as if he knew a grand secret. He pointed his sword at Nathaniel and raised a haughty brow. “I accept,” he snapped.

  He leapt toward Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel met his blade with a ringing clank, amazed to find strength behind the fluff and pomp with which Falkland arrayed himself. Falkland swooped at him from the left. Nathaniel sidestepped his attack and spun to the right, striking a blow to Falkland’s side.

  Shock tightened the man’s features. He rubbed his rent waistcoat and withdrew fingers painted red with blood. Then in a flurry of rage, he charged Nathaniel, slashing his blade back and forth. The glint of sun on steel blinded Nathaniel.

  Meeting each forceful blow, Nathaniel retreated into the mob. The crowd shrank away from the dueling pair, all the while spitting encouragements as well as insults their way. Forcing Nathaniel against the starboard railing, Falkland pulled back, a smug look settling on his face like a robe on a king, the kind of look that spoke of a sudden awareness of his advantage in the match—and of his impending victory.

  Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Nathaniel caught his breath. He could not lose. He would not lose. He swooped down upon Falkland. Their blades crossed, sending an ominous clang over the ship. Falkland stepped to the side, grinned, and twirled his sword in the air as if he were engaged in an afternoon contest.

  Rage clamped every muscle, urging Nathaniel forward. He wanted to kill Falkland. He wanted to kill him for using Hope. He wanted to kill him for hurting her, but right now he wanted to kill him for being such an insolent dog. They circled each other. Lord, forgive me. Give me the strength to win this battle and the courage to do this man no harm.

  Even as he breathed the words, Nathaniel feared he should have prayed for his own life. Falkland’s attacks came swift and skilled, and it took all of Nathaniel’s concentration to ward them off.

  Then, as if Lord Falkland grew tired of the match, he turned on Nathaniel, his red face streaked with sweat and fury. With a fierce swipe, he sliced Nathaniel’s breeches.

  Pain etched up his leg.

  Hope shrieked.

  Nathaniel backed away, panting, gulping in the oppressive air.

  “Had enough?” Falkland leaned upon the hilt of his sword and cocked his head.

  Nathaniel longed to slash that supercilious smirk from his lips.

  “Surely the trollop isn’t worth dying for.” Falkland eyed his fingernails.

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself that, your lordship.” Raising his blade, Nathaniel charged toward the man. Off guard, Lord Falkland still met his blow, their blades ringing over the ship. Their hilts locked and Nathaniel shoved him backward. The arrogance slipped from Falkland’s face.

  Snapping their swords apart, Nathaniel plunged the tip of his blade into Falkland’s boot. The man uttered an indignant shriek and glanced down. Nathaniel took the hilt end of his weapon and pounded Falkland’s hand, sending the man’s blade clanking to the deck.

  Lord Falkland’s face mottled in a mixture of shock and agony as he clutched his hand. His breathing became ragged as the reality crashed over him; he’d been bested—by Nathaniel. He
squared his shoulders and assumed a thin mask of superiority.

  “You can have the wench. She’s only good for one thing, anyway.”

  Nathaniel raised his fist and slammed it across Falkland’s jaw, sending him reeling. “She is a lady. And daughter of the King. You’ll pay her the respect she’s due.”

  Falkland slumped to the deck and moaned. Glaring at Nathaniel, he rubbed his jaw. “Daughter of the king, indeed.” He sneered. “What king is that?”

  “The King of kings.” Nathaniel’s gaze swept to Hope. She clutched her skirts and dashed toward him. Dropping his sword, he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in her fresh scent. She lifted her eyes to his, tears streaming down her face, and he brushed them away and lowered his lips to hers.

  CHAPTER 39

  Hope stood at the bow of the Enchantress and leaned back on the foremast. A gust of wind, sweetened by the Caribbean, eased over her as the ship rose and plunged over a turquoise swell. A spray of salty mist showered her face and neck, and she smiled and shifted her gaze to the setting sun in the west. A bouquet of purple, red, and orange spread over the horizon as flickers of bright gold sparkled over the waves.

  She was finally going home.

  Captain Poole had begrudgingly agreed to drop her and Nathaniel, Mr. and Mrs. Timmons, and Miss Elise as close to Charles Towne as “his good sense would allow him to go within range of the filthy, piratehanging town.”

  Elise.

  Warmth spread through Hope as she remembered the little girl leaping into her arms when she had first boarded the Enchantress from Falkland’s ship. Overcome with joy, Hope had been reluctant to release Elise, fearing she was only a dream conjured up by continual prayers for the little girl’s safety. But the trembles coursing through Elise were real enough—no doubt due to the gun battle and being aboard a pirate ship—and after comforting her for hours, Hope had finally eased the little girl to sleep, nestled in her berth.

  She closed her eyes, feeling the last rays of the sun kiss her face. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for Elise, and thank You for sending Nathaniel to rescue me. Thank You for his love, a love I no more deserve than I do Yours.