“Morning, Bilge, tell the captain I’ll be there in five,” he said with a protracted yawn.
Without making a sound, he drew on a dry pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. His socks and boots quickly followed, then he filled the stove with coal. The cabin would be cozy by the time Mercy woke, but in the meanwhile, she would be chilled without him in the bed. He found another thin blanket in his chest and laid it over her.
What the devil was he going to do? He rubbed his chin and winced. She’d scratched the hell out of his jaw and neck. Not that he hadn’t deserved it after the way he’d frightened her. His mother would be appalled if she knew how he’d behaved.
Perhaps Mercy was right about one thing. Her emotions were not a faucet to be turned on and off. After losing both parents to a bloody massacre, would he have given up his desire for revenge after sixteen years because of an innocent child he didn’t know? Maybe, though unlikely. But to save his own child? Hell, yes!
Let Mercy slit his throat in the name of justice if she must, but she would reverse the Blackburn curse. Striding to the desk, he retrieved the vial of amber liquid, ensuring the lid of the desk was locked afterward. He threw on an overcoat, hat, and gloves and exited the cabin without locking the door. With The Savior out to sea and Mercy’s most treasured belongings outside of her reach, she no longer posed a threat.
A cold blast of air accosted him the instant he stepped out of the stairwell and onto the quarterdeck. He flipped up the collar of his coat, shoving his hands into the pockets. At least it was blessedly dry, though waves still crashed against the ship on occasion, spraying cold water over the deck.
“Captain,” he said, clapping Dominick on the shoulder. “Everything on course?”
Dominick nodded. “We’re beyond the worst of it.” Stepping aside, he relinquished the helm to Victor and scrutinized his face. The captain’s eyes grew stormy.
“What in the blazes happened to your face?” he asked. “Goddammit, Victor. Don’t tell me you broke your promise. Eveline will have my head for it!”
Victor scoffed but turned his gaze seaward. “Mercy’s maidenhead is intact. Though I admit I gave her a bit of a scare. Damned stubborn and heartless wench, that one.”
“Your mother’s letter didn’t have the desired effect, I gather?”
“No, it did not,” he said through clenched teeth. “Her heart is unmoved by the plight of another woman’s child. She taunted me with her words. So I threatened to fill her belly with a Blackburn son. Perhaps she might grow a heart if her own child is doomed to my fate.”
Dominick rubbed his eyes. “But you didn’t carry out your threat?”
“Of course not,” Victor spat. “Although I let her believe for a short while that I would. Scared the dickens out of the chit. And before you raise a fist in her honor, I didn’t take it beyond a kiss. That was enough to send her into a rage.”
“Evidently so,” his friend said, leaning against the quarterdeck rail. “What are your plans? I hadn’t considered the option of a babe. Though the timing is tricky. And you can’t ensure it’ll be a boy.”
Victor smiled, the gesture lacking all humor. “I’ve always appreciated your brutal honesty . . . until now. What would you say if I told you I discovered a fertility serum within Mercy’s belongings?”
“I’d say you’re one lucky son of a bitch. I can’t condone rape, but seduction is another matter entirely.”
Lucky was far from what Victor felt. “Still can’t guarantee it’ll be a lad. And I haven’t a damned clue how to use the serum properly, nor do I know the rhythm of Mercy’s cycle.”
“Can’t imagine she would share such information,” Dominick said, raking his hands through his hair.
“No, but I can wrap my brain around conceiving a child, whereas relying on a love potion? That might require a base level of affection for the magic to work. The woman despises me. At least with a babe, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll conceive a boy. Even if I must die, so be it. But the Blackburn curse must come to an end. It’s a sound plan. What mother wouldn’t save her own child from an eternal curse?”
Dominick lifted his brow and snorted. “Wrong question, mate, considering my mother sold me into slavery. But let us hope my own mother is a freak of nature.”
“My apologies,” Victor said, closing his eyes.
Dominick chuckled. “No offense taken. As luck would have it, you’ve other options yet to explore. You still have the love potion? Tell me you’re ready to use it.”
Victor handed the vial over to his friend. “She leaves me no choice. But I’m going to need your help, because she’ll never trust anything I give her to drink or eat. Can you arrange for Eveline to deliver breakfast shortly after Hatchet relieves me for the next shift?”
“Consider it done.” Dominick pocketed the vial and strode off, disappearing into the darkness.
Victor stood alone in the inky night, a victim of his bleak thoughts crashing through his mind with as much force as the restless sea upon the bow of the ship. His body swayed in time with the rolling waves, fighting to remain upright.
Once Mercy drank the love potion and he stared into her honey-colored eyes, there was no turning back. She would either gaze upon him with love—or scorn him once again. And, by all the holy saints, he wanted her to love him so she could break the curse.
A wave crashed into the starboard, spraying his face, the salty water mixing with his tears. He hadn’t cried since the day the Butcher had held a knife to his throat in front of Maude. But he let them come, because he could no longer deny the truth he hid from himself so well. He wanted to inherit Blackburn Castle and raise a family of his own. He wanted it all . . . a doting wife . . . and lots of children . . . both lads and lassies . . . laughing and playing on the vast grounds of the estate just as he had when he was young.
In carrying out this plan, he would achieve his dream. Only, it felt more like a nightmare. Because he wanted a wife who truly loved him—from the heart.
Chapter Sixteen
Mercy woke to the gentle swaying of the ship. She stretched and yawned, luxuriating in the softness of the bed.
Victor’s bed.
Her eyes popped wide open. Sunlight flooded the porthole, bathing the room in a yellow glow. She glanced from side to side, expecting to find her captor lying in bed, but she was alone. And covered with a second blanket. Had he draped it over her? She did not wish to ponder the implications of that action.
A soft knock on the door cut through her thoughts, and she swung her feet over the side of the bed. But before she stood, the door opened, and Eveline walked in with a pitcher of water.
“Good morning, Mercy,” she said cheerfully, heading to the basin in the far corner of the room. “I thought you might want to wash before breakfast. Did you sleep well?”
Mercy glanced to the rumpled bed, and the heat of a blush scorched her neck. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, but there was no hiding the fact that she’d slept in the bed . . . with him.
“You must think me a horrible person. But it was so cold, and . . . ”
Eveline poured water into the basin and offered a reassuring smile. “Do not fret. There is limited space on the ship, and it appears Victor can be quite stubborn. Of course you should sleep in the bed. I trust he left you in peace?”
Mercy recalled the weight of his hands wrapped around her shoulders like talons, his mouth searing her lips with his kiss. His heavenly warm body snuggled against her back, his hands encasing hers.
“My virtue is intact.”
But for how long? Victor would obey the commands of the captain so long as he sailed on The Savior. Once they made port in Cape Wrath and traveled to Blackburn Castle, she would be on his territory and he would do as he pleased. Perhaps he would rape her then?
She caught sight of the second blanket and noted the coals burning in the stove. Were those the actions of a cold-blooded murderer? Someone capable of taking her body against her will? He was a mas
s of contradictions. She rubbed her temple, no longer certain what to think of the man.
Eveline set the ewer down. “He’ll not harm you, Mercy. Deep down, Victor is an honorable man. Please enjoy the warm water, and I’ll return in half an hour with our breakfast.”
Mercy’s gaze shot to the desk and back to Eveline. Had Victor retrieved any of her potions in the early morning hours? She did not trust him, and yet she must eat and drink to survive.
“You must prepare all of my food and drink,” she said, racing to Eveline’s side. She grabbed her hands and squeezed. “Please, promise me. Victor has access to all of my potions, and I fear he’ll use them against me.”
Eveline’s eyes widened. “What kind of potions?”
An incredibly powerful fertility potion, one capable of not only ensuring conception but also the desired sex of the child if one wished it from deep in their heart. If Victor ever found out . . .
Mercy closed her eyes and took a calming breath. He must never find out.
“A love potion,” she said, meeting Eveline’s gaze. “Please don’t allow him to force me into such a relationship as a means of gaining my forgiveness. I beg you. Promise me you’ll prepare all of my meals.”
“Oh, dear.” Eveline’s eyebrows knitted. “It mustn’t come to trickery. You have my word. Rest easy, now. I’ll return soon. Change and bathe at your leisure. Victor is still at the helm, so you needn’t worry that he’ll barge in on your privacy.”
As soon as Eveline departed, Mercy hastened to her bag and secured her hairbrush, tooth powder, and her toothbrush. She found a washcloth folded neatly next to the washbasin and set about cleaning herself as best she could. When she was dressed and her hair was combed through, she brushed her teeth, gazing about the room lazily.
The cabin was immaculate, barring her dirty clothing strewn across the bed. Who would have thought a pirate appreciated cleanliness and order? He was so different from her in that respect. Anyone searching through her drawers or closet might believe a hurricane had swept through. But she maintained her own sort of order, because despite the chaos, she generally knew where to find what she sought.
Her gaze landed on the davenport, and she stared at it longingly. One simple lock separated her from freedom. A lock much like the one on her uncle’s desk. She spat the tooth powder in the basin and raced to her bag, rummaging through it frantically. Her fingers wrapped around a hairpin, and she howled in triumph.
Do not attempt to break into my desk. The consequences will be severe.
Blood pumped through her veins, urging her on in her mad pursuit of justice. He wouldn’t notice a single potion missing. There had been little time for him to count her stores or catalogue them. Unless he’d taken the time that morning while she slept. But that was unlikely. It would have been dark when he’d awoken for his shift, and he would’ve been tired. And she had to seize the opportunity while it presented itself. Although she couldn’t steal the fertility potion, he would not notice the sleep serum missing, as she had several on hand.
Racing to the desk, she crouched and concentrated on placing her hairpin inside the lock, just so. She twisted, and turned, and wiggled. But to no avail. The damned thing wouldn’t budge.
She stood and stomped her foot, growling with frustration. There had to be another way to get to her potions. Victor had said he held the only key. But had he lied? Surely he kept a spare key somewhere in the cabin. And she would find it. But where?
The cabin was sparsely furnished with a round dining table in one corner. The coal stove stood in the center of the room accompanied by three comfortable armchairs, no doubt meant for Victor and his shipmates, Dominick and Hatchet. She could almost envision them drinking port and planning their next adventure. The massive wood bed was pushed against the far wall, a table on either side. One table housed a deep bowl brimming with rocks, of all things. Artwork lined the walls, mostly maps, but interspersed were landscapes, presumably places he had visited and admired. And finally, there was his chest.
It was the most likely place to hide a second key. He wouldn’t appreciate the invasion of his privacy, but she had little time or inclination to ponder his wishes. Why should she when he’d stuffed her inside a chest like a fowl in an oven for Christmas dinner?
A nest of hornets buzzed in her belly as she approached the chest. So many precious minutes wasted performing her morning ablutions. Victor could enter at any moment. What would he do if he caught her rummaging through his belongings? No matter. She would come up with an excuse if need be.
Lifting the lid with care, she kneeled beside the chest and peered inside. Everything was packed in an orderly fashion. Trousers, shirts, and undergarments all folded and stacked in a neat pile commanded most of the space. The right corner was dedicated to what seemed like a hundred letters, some addressed in a beautiful feminine script, the others bearing a masculine hand.
She flipped through the letters; they were organized by date and went back a little over ten years. Every single letter written in the masculine hand was addressed to Lillian Blackburn of Blackburn Castle, Cape Wrath. Victor’s mother. Why had he not posted them?
Mercy sat back on her haunches and stared blankly ahead. Based on the creases in the opened envelopes, he had read his mother’s letters an infinite number of times. She counted them, forty-two in all. Four each year. For over ten years. Without fail. Victor had taken care in responding to each and every missive. But hadn’t posted them.
His mother obviously adored him, and still he chose not to correspond with her. Why not? He had been kidnapped more than sixteen years ago, and yet the letters dated back only ten years. What happened ten years ago?
She rifled through the letters, seeking the earliest date. The ink had faded with time, and the flap was nearly falling apart at the fold. How many times had Victor read the contents of the missive? Hundreds, thousands? He would’ve been a lad of six and ten when he received it. Not yet a man but no longer a boy.
Mercy’s stomach roiled, a queasy ache filling her gut. She desperately wanted to know, to understand. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the single sheet of parchment. She plowed through the contents but struggled to comprehend half of the words, distorted as they were, the ink having bled where teardrops fell.
MY DEAREST VICTOR,
ALL THESE LONG YEARS, YOUR FATHER HAS SEARCHED FOR YOU. MY ARMS HAVE ACHED TO HOLD YOU. MY EYES HAVE WEPT TO SEE YOU. SO, WHEN, ON THE EVE OF THE BUTCHER’S DEMISE AND YOUR LONG-AWAITED RELEASE, YOUR FATHER FOUND YOU, WHY DID YOU REFUSE TO RETURN HOME WITH HIM? DO YOU NOT LONG TO BE WITH US? TO MEET YOUR SISTER-GROWN, WHOSE IMPENDING MARRIAGE WOULD HAPPILY ACCOMPANY YOUR JOYOUS RETURN? DOES YOUR HEART NOT BURN WITH THE SAME LOVE TOWARD US AS OURS DOES FOR YOU?
FOR SIX YEARS, YOU HAVE BRAVED THROUGH A HORRIFIC PLIGHT. I COULD NOT HAVE BORNE IT WERE IT NOT FOR THE HOPE OF SEEING YOU AGAIN. THE NIGHTMARE IS FINALLY OVER. PLEASE COME HOME, VICTOR.
WITH EVERLASTING LOVE,
MOTHER
Mercy couldn’t catch her breath for the raw pain radiating from each word on the page.
Oh, the love of a mother for her son, begging for his return home. He had been so young, and all alone in the world. Why hadn’t he sailed home after the Butcher’s death? Why hadn’t he posted his letters?
Sucking in a lungful of air, Mercy stood and paced.
Don’t waste your pity on me. I haven’t suffered anything I didn’t deserve.
He’d let her attack him. Confessed his sinful deed openly, looking so utterly devastated while doing so.
Could it be that Victor hadn’t forgiven himself for killing her mother, hadn’t allowed himself to visit his own family as a means of punishing himself? In her relentless need for justice, had she misjudged him all this time? Oh, goodness. Eveline was right. Victor was once a helpless child. And he’d paid at the whipping post time and time again for his deed. Accepted the beatings as just punishment for his crime.
Ignoring the facts was no longer an option. Sh
e stared at the letter in her hand until the cabin door crashed against the wall, jerking her out of her trance.
“Bloody hell!” Victor roared, stalking toward her with a fierce scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He tore the letter out of her hand and shoved it back into the envelope. His entire body shook with rage, and she slunk back against the wall, her heart thundering. Within seconds, he had righted the contents of his trunk and slammed the lid shut. He leaned his hands against the top, heaving in deep breaths.
“Victor, I—”
“Not another word!” He leveled her with his heated stare. “Do you hear me? The contents of that chest are none of your concern.”
Of course, he was right, but it didn’t matter one whit. She had seen the contents and read a sample of what lie within, and now it was impossible for her to set it all aside and pretend she had not.
Her knees wobbled, and she splayed her hands against the wall for support as she gathered her courage. “Tell me why you never posted your letters. Victor, please. Why would you choose not to go home?”
His nostrils flared, and he unsheathed a dagger from his hip. The distance between them vanished with a few long strides of his powerful legs. Her stomach leaped to her throat as he wrapped her hands around the hilt and pressed the sharp edge to his heart. His hands held hers in an iron grip, unyielding.
“Life is full of choices, and I would rather die than reveal the reasons for mine,” he said, bowing his head. “Here’s your chance for revenge, Mercy. Take it now, but be forewarned. Once you plunge the knife into my heart, it can never be undone, and you will relive the horror every single night in your dreams.”
His tortured eyes met hers as he pushed the knife harder against his breast, slicing through the cloth. A speck of bright red appeared around the tip.
Bile lurched in her throat as his blood soaked into his white cotton shirt.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 10
