Revenge of the Corsairs

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Someone called on Kit to dance, but he shook his head. It was only then Laura noticed the black ebony cane by his right leg. He danced flamenco – or at least had, according to Sophia who sat at his side, holding his hand. Kit pointed to Jonathan, called something out, and began a slow clapping. Everyone joined in, and the clapping became faster and faster. Cheers erupted as Jonathan stood.

  One of the musicians gave him a fiddle. It looked ridiculously small in the hands of such a large man as Jonathan. He placed it to his shoulder and plucked a few strings before adjusting the tuning.

  “Get on with it!” Elias yelled and everyone laughed. The man who had handed Jonathan the violin now furnished him with the bow, and the crowd fell silent. Jagged, dramatic notes struck against the strings, over calling sea birds. Jonathan played a few more bars and Laura recognized the piece as one of Bach’s most challenging compositions. The crowd sat spellbound during the performance; it was of a skill that could have graced the finest concert halls of Europe, but here it was, being played impromptu in the afternoon sun on a little Mediterranean island.

  She wiped away a tear that slipped down her cheek as she listened. It had been so long since she had heard the music of home rather than the alien, arrhythmic music of the oud and rebab.

  She imagined how she might paint such a scene. It was ridiculous, absurd – a muscular, black man playing violin in the open air for an audience of unschooled fishermen, all surrounded by the remains of an ancient Roman villa. But, strangely, it made perfect sense. The glacier that froze her heart since her ordeal shifted, and the break in the ice let in light and warmth.

  At the end of the performance, Laura cheered and applauded as loudly as everyone else.

  Jonathan bowed and returned the violin to its owner. He beckoned for another instrument.

  “Your turn, Brother!” he called out to Elias, holding out a guitar. The gathering applauded once more.

  Elias accepted the instrument and approached Laura. He gave her a smile and took a vacant stool by her side.

  “They’ve heard me play often enough,” he said. “Would you join me in a duet? You sang so beautifully that night on the Calliope, it would be an honor.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to sing.”

  Elias looked thoughtful for a moment, as though rummaging through a music book in his head.

  “Do you know The Last Rose of Summer?”

  “Thomas Moore?” she asked. But as soon as she had heard the title, she knew it. It was one of the last tunes she had been taught before leaving England. The bittersweet Irish melody came flooding back. She followed Elias’ lead before she had a chance to second guess herself.

  He played the verse through once, and she nodded, accepting the key he had chosen. Looking up, she saw the sky was now the softest pink, just the color of the Old Blush rose said to have inspired the song.

  Together, they sang of a love lost, and their harmonies, once again, set off a seismic shake in her soul. She looked to him in panic; his tawny eyes offered nothing but warmth and understanding, and she let him sing the last verse alone.

  So soon may I follow,

  When friendships decay,

  And from Love’s shining circle

  The gems drop away.

  When true hearts lie withered,

  And fond ones are flown,

  Oh! who would inhabit

  This bleak world alone?

  The applause broke her out of her thoughts. She smiled out of habit. Elias picked up her hand and kissed it. She curtsied to the crowd and allowed Elias to escort her to Sophia’s side.

  “Darling!” Sophia exclaimed. “I’ve never heard you sing better!”

  Laura kept her attention on Elias. “Thank you… I…”

  Words failed her. He smiled again and left, returning the guitar to its owner.

  The vibrating in her chest subsided now that he was gone. Laura looked at Sophia who stayed close to Kit’s side. Did she feel this way when Kit was courting her? Laura really didn’t want to “inhabit this bleak world alone”. Perhaps, in time, she might feel certain enough to allow someone to make the journey with her.

  Twilight ebbed but the music continued. Even Kit was persuaded to dance with Sophia, a simple country dance, none of it as demanding as the flamenco. Laura found herself looking for Elias and found him with the guitar, once again, smiling companionably at an older woman playing a squeeze box. She was clearly in charge of the other musicians. Toward the end of the tune, Elias looked over and found Laura watching him.

  She caught his brief smile before he returned to concentrate on his guitar. She felt color rise on her cheers.

  As for herself, she was content to remain in the shadows and watch the festivities around her. For the first time since her abduction, it felt nice to be amongst a crowd and not feel fear. Even singing with Elias held none of the terror that performing before Selim Omar’s guests did.

  If she hadn’t been told, she’d never have guessed everyone here had suffered some tragedy, each experienced “their own version of hell”, as Sophia had described it. Yet, they lived and laughed and carried on. Perhaps she could as well.

  “Thank you for indulging me earlier this evening. It was a pleasure to hear you sing.”

  Elias had come to her and he bowed, his manner flawless. Had they been in England, if this had been a ball, she would have smiled becomingly to him and fluttered her fan.

  They would begin a game of sorts. She would act demurely; he would ask if she cared to dance, and she might accept, depending on who else was there to watch. There was nothing better than the color green on a rival – or a prospect – when in the arms of an eligible would-be suitor. Then again, if she were back home enceinte, to put it politely, she would not be out in public, let alone dancing. And coupled with the fact she was unwed…

  “Will you dance with me, Mr. Nash?”

  The surprise in his eyes was worth the breach in formal etiquette. He reached out his hand. In the lamplight, the healing wound on his right palm was evident.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Miss Cappleman.”

  *

  For a duplicitous snake, Ahmed Sharrouf was quite the organized bower bird.

  Rabia decided to spend the entire morning in this room, Sharrouf’s repository of records. His archives were more comprehensive than she thought they’d be, and his account ledgers even more so. They included names of his informers and their prices, as well as funds to be solicited from those he blackmailed.

  This estate she had commandeered had its own accounts, too.

  Rabia smiled as she turned the pages, totaling up in her head the late Sharrouf’s true worth. Avarice was such a curse. So, too, was overweening ambition. If Sharrouf had minded his own business, this vineyard alone would have satisfied the desires of many another man.

  But ambition killed him.

  Wealth comes like a turtle, and runs away like a gazelle.

  Never mind. His loss; her gain. She would not make his mistakes. Rabia considered the way forward. In the first place, she would see Toufik well compensated. She would not rely on his loyalty alone. A share of the estate would suffice.

  She grinned. Yes, let him have the larger share of the estate’s profits. No one knew she was here. He could deal with the day-to-day running of the compound; she could remain hidden where her enemies would never imagine to look. And, thanks to Sharrouf’s network of spies, she could bide her time until she was ready to attack her enemies.

  So much had been stolen from her. She would repay them – a hundred fold.

  Rabia looked out into the garden, casting her eyes over the workmen who labored in the sun. One caught her eye. He was a young man, only a bit older than a youth. He was lean with black hair nearly to his shoulders. She would demand he attend her this afternoon.

  Under the largest of the windows, which ran hip height up to the ceiling, was a bookshelf filled with ledgers in black and green leather.

  She opened one
at random and skimmed a right hand page filled with sinuous Arabic script, then she looked at the left. A name in English caught her eye.

  The Calliope.

  A familiar name. The book told her the Calliope’s home port was in Palermo. She rested the ledger on top of the bookcase and flicked through the pages. She found another name known to her. The Calliope’s captain, Kit Hardacre.

  Toufik said Hardacre may have been killed in the warehouse explosion and fire at Al-Min. But the Englishman had been declared dead before and still lived. He was supposed to have perished at sea along with Kaddouri, and yet he’d turned up to free Sophia Green and Laura Cappleman on the day Selim Omar was murdered.

  Hardacre was a revenge-seeking troublemaker. If he had escaped the trap of Ahmed Sharrouf, he might cause trouble for her, too.

  The ledger dated back two years. It listed the names of the officers on the ship. Along with Hardacre, there was Elias Nash, another Englishman, and Jonathan Afua, an African from Ethiopia.

  Toufik said two of Sharrouf’s men swore to seeing the Calliope itself heading out to sea after the explosion at Al-Min, but that was no guarantee Hardacre and his little whores still lived.

  Rabia kept reading the ledgers looking to glean more on him. Resentment of Green and Cappleman, too, burned deep. No one left her household. No one.

  She checked the pay ledgers and found a man based in Sicily, noting his name. It wouldn’t do any harm to check to see what became of the ship and her crew. In fact, it might be very useful, indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  My dearest brother Samuel

  I hope you have already heard the news by some other means, the Home Office perhaps, so my letter will not be a shock to you arriving out of the blue.

  After two long years, I scarcely know what to write. Suffice it to say that Sophia and I are safe and well – rescued from Selim Omar’s harem by Captain Kit Hardacre and the crew of the Calliope. I cannot begin to express my gratitude for their efforts and your gratitude, too, would not be unwarranted.

  Forgive my scattered thoughts. I didn’t believe this day would come, though I dreamed of it all the time. You will find me a more diligent correspondent as I become reacquainted with the world outside the prison I inhabited.

  Sophia told me of your feelings following my abduction. I beg you to forgive yourself, darling brother. What is done cannot be undone. We must take one day at a time. I am sure Sophia, who has written to you also, will tell you the same thing.

  Did you marry Lady Victoria? I dream of what your wedding must have been like. Have you been blessed yet with children?

  I’ve written much but said little and it is only my cowardice that makes me delay even more.

  I am myself with child as the result of my imprisonment.

  My pen shakes writing those words. I have yet to become used to the notion or even fathom what it means – but they are not topics which would be of interest to you.

  I shall close off now, for I do not wish to burden you too much. All I beg is that you write to me soon and make funds available to me through Uncle Jonas’ bank at Palermo.

  Your devoted sister,

  Laura

  Laura quickly added Morwena’s address and reached for another piece of paper to use as an envelope. She worked swiftly to seal her letter against an afternoon breeze that had sprung up in the past half-hour.

  There was a change coming, and it would be a blessed relief to them all. She had spent all morning under the protection of an awning on the roof of Kit’s villa. It offered pleasant shade and she had remained there as much to stay out of the way as it was to paint. Laura glanced at the blank board on the easel with a small amount of guilt. Everyone seemed to have chores to perform while she did nothing.

  From her vantage point, she could see the frantic activity at the jetty as the Calliope prepared for her trip to Palermo on this afternoon’s tide.

  After so long without choices of her own, she was unnerved at the idea she only had three hours to decide whether she should stay with Sophia on Catallus or leave to try to find a passage home to England.

  Decisions, decisions…

  The world was still a-kilter, a balancing act between the life before and the one after. How far could she go to reclaim her past? Last night she had broached the subject with Kit.

  “Are you enjoying my little slice of paradise?” he had asked with typical showiness. Laura decided to answer in the same vein.

  “Apart from a deplorable lack of fashionable news and on-dits from the bon ton, I think it’s a charming place.”

  “There are some who would say the very lack of the beau monde is the reason why it is paradise.”

  “Do you not miss England at all?”

  Kit brought a goblet to his lips and swallowed a mouthful before answering. “Its appeal tends to disappear once I’ve finished banging the drum for my ship’s services.”

  “What if…” Laura started again, her voice low. “What if they had never kidnapped you? Where might have you been then?”

  “Most likely dead.”

  He grinned at her astonished look. It was this combination of arrogance and bravado that made him look even more handsome than he had a right to be. No wonder Sophia had fallen under his spell – most women would. Laura was immune, however. Captain Kit Hardacre was not the first handsomely rakish man to turn his charm on her. What’s more, she’d been extremely displeased with him at their very first meeting when he’d struck Archibald Havers. She’d never mentioned she remembered that regrettable evening.

  “Not everyone is born to a fortunate life,” he continued. “If I hadn’t been indentured as a cabin boy, I’d have been dead from black lung as a chimney sweep, or had a knife in the gut in some back alley, or my neck in a noose – all before my fifteenth birthday.”

  “You can’t know—”

  “I know me. I was a child with too smart a mouth. I’m only just learning to control it now.” He paused and looked out upon the crowd, searching for someone in particular. He found them and relaxed. Laura, too, scanned the crowd to see who he’d been looking for. Sophia was among the dancers. She was smiling and sharing a word with one of the other women.

  Laura turned back to Hardacre and watched him.

  “You love my cousin.”

  “She’s the only reason I’m alive,” he said soberly.

  Laura swallowed down unexpected emotion at the depth of his words.

  “I know you don’t think much of me, Captain Hardacre, and I realize it is only because of Sophia that I am free, but –”

  “—I wouldn’t place a wager on that.”

  Laura shut her mouth, her face colored at being interrupted so rudely. She was used to men being gentlemanly and courtly. Kit’s plain speaking rankled.

  “Sophia tells me you know how Elias feels about you.” Laura did not mistake that his words carried a hint of dissatisfaction. “Do you intend to do anything about it?”

  Laura straightened her back and pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, Captain.”

  Kit shook his head slowly. “Oh, believe me when I tell you I would like nothing better than for this to be none of my business. But the welfare of my crew and friends means as much to me as my love for your cousin…”

  He drew a deep breath, perhaps to give himself time to calm down. When he spoke next, his voice was measured. “I grant you, Elias could have handled this better, but I only ask you put the poor bastard out of his misery one way or the other – and do it soon. You’re not the only one who needs to move on.”

  The current dance came to an end and Kit turned away to applaud with wild enthusiasm, even engaging in the common practice of whistling his approval. Laura turned her back to him in disgust.

  That conversation should have ended the matter.

  Hardacre didn’t like her. He made that plain. Laura really didn’t have an opinion of him one way or another. And yet, he came at great ri
sk to save her as well as Sophia. Would it be too much to hope the mutual love they had for Sophia would be enough to keep a peace for the time she was here?

  Laura picked at her dress, willing Hardacre to move away if her presence offended him so much. After a moment, he came around and stood, offering his hand.

  “If I haven’t offended you completely with my uncouth manners and blunt speaking, will you do me the honor of this next dance?” he asked.

  Laura looked doubtfully at the cane propped by his discarded stool. “Surely you jest.”

  “Afraid I have two left feet, instead of just one bad one?”

  “No, I…” Then Laura saw his grin and realized he was teasing her.

  “My leg only hurts during the full moon,” he said. “Come on, it will also make Sophia happy to see you enjoy yourself.”

  The memory of last night faded. Laura dripped the blood red wax onto the paper and waited for it to set. The cool shadows under the awning receded in the advancing afternoon sun. It was always hot in August, but as much as she had always complained about a late English summer, it was never as hot or as humid as it was here. But she was used to it now. It was surprising how quickly one could become used to things.

  She cast a frustrated glance at her untouched easel. Perhaps she would paint tomorrow.

  At the sound of someone ascending the stairs, Laura knew her welcome solitude would be cut short. If it was one of the villagers, she knew enough of the lingua franca spoken here to tell the stranger she was well and would be down shortly.

  Laura turned to see who intruded. Elias leaned a shoulder on the wall, his hat in his hand.

  “I was hoping to catch you before I left,” he said.

  Laura looked down to the lagoon where the Calliope waited.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I was reminded I have a home to go to that’s been long neglected.”

  “A home?” she asked. Images unbidden came of a thatched English cottage in a sunny lea, a warm hearth, and, more importantly, someone to come home to. “Where’s your home?”