My Seaswept Heart

by Christine Dorsey

  Jamie turned his face away, embarrassed by his show of emotion. “It happened a long time ago. And as my father often said, perhaps it was for the best. She was of no use to us.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “Nay.” Jamie took a shattered breath. “I never believed him. Never. I loved her.”

  Anne pulled his head around. The moon had risen, gilding his strong features with a silvery light. Love for him swelled her heart and made it difficult for her to speak. She swallowed. “How old were you, Jamie?”

  At first she didn’t think he would answer. He seemed embarrassed by his tears. Sitting up, he backhanded the wetness from his face, but he didn’t turn away. He picked up the hand she’d used to caress his face and linked it with his own. “I was six when she went away. As I told ye, ’twas long ago.”

  “I won’t send Uncle Richard away.”

  His smile was sad. “I never thought ye would. But I worry about ye. He’s angry.”

  “Not at me. I think ’tis more himself, his inability to remember. That frightens him.”

  Jamie shrugged. “Just be careful, Annie.” His thumb tilted her face up toward his. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to ye.”

  Then he pushed to his feet, pulling Anne along with him. “’Tis a moonlight swim we need to get rid of the sand, and then I’ll take ye back.”

  But after the swim they both had other ideas. This time when they made love it was slow and bittersweet, for they both knew there probably would never be another chance for them to be together.

  Afterward Jamie led Anne back into the water, stopping when it pooled around her waist. With infinite care he cupped his hands, drizzling water down over her, washing away the sand caked to her body.

  The sensation of warm water and warmer fingers brushing against her skin made Anne close her eyes dreamily. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, then froze, realizing she said aloud the thought running through her head.

  His hands stilled as well, though diamond-like droplets of water skimmed over her skin. “Ye don’t know what you’re saying, Annie. I’m a pirate.”

  “But not as evil as you pretend.”

  “Ah, so ye want to reform me, do ye?” His smile was endearing.

  “I really don’t think ye need reforming, Jamie MacQuaid.”

  “Well, the British Admiralty might have a different opinion on that.” Jamie took a deep breath, wishing this wasn’t so hard to do. Wishing he didn’t have to do it. “Annie, lass, there’s a mighty attraction between us to be sure. But don’t go getting that mixed up with feelings ye should be having for some worthy gentleman.”

  “But—”

  Two fingers pressed to her lips silenced Anne’s rebuttal.

  “I’m a no-account, Annie. A rogue who can’t even keep the one promise he made to himself.” He shook his head, a wry smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Two, actually. Don’t get entangled in lost causes. And steer clear of beautiful gentlewomen.”

  “You said we could defeat d’Porteau.” Anne lifted her brow. “If so, ’tisn’t a lost cause.”

  “Mayhap not now, but it will be, Anne. Libertia will fall prey to some other scoundrel, mark me words. Lofty ideas always do.”

  “So then you don’t want to stay and be part of the grand experiment?”

  “You’re not listening to me, Annie. I can’t. Not for ye. Not for myself.”

  “I see.” Slowly Anne turned and started walking toward shore. The water swirled around her hips, then thighs, then—

  Jamie’s arm clamped around her upper arm and he swirled her around to face him.

  “Now why are ye acting like this? You’ve known from the beginning what I am. What kind of life I’ve led. Hell, my own father disowned me, left me for dead.”

  “From what you told me earlier, your father doesn’t sound like an exemplary man.”

  “He wasn’t, or isn’t, if he’s still alive. He was a heartless cur, and that’s the God’s truth. He treated my stepbrother as vilely as he did my mother and me. But that doesn’t change a thing.” His hands lifted to cup her shoulders. “If anything it should make ye more leery of me.”

  Anne opened her mouth to speak, but again Jamie stopped her.

  “Ye don’t want me, Annie.”

  Oh, but she did. Anne saw no sense in arguing the point now. She would wait, but she wasn’t giving up on him no matter what he said.

  They dressed slowly, then neither anxious to leave sat, their backs to a palm tree. It was only when they woke, ribbons of light teasing their eyes, that Jamie and Anne realized they’d fallen asleep.

  “Damn it to hell, I didn’t want to give rise to any talk about ye.” Jamie helped Anne to her feet, then proceeded to brush sand from her gown.

  “It’s all right.” Anne twisted about to help. “Uncle Richard won’t even know I was—”

  Anne’s words stopped abruptly as her eyes focused on the horizon. Lifting her hand she pointed to the ship heading full sail for Libertia’s harbor.

  She didn’t have to ask whose vessel it was. One look at Jamie’s expression was proof enough.

  He grabbed her hand as they raced toward the settlement.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hold your fire.”

  Jamie crouched among the men scattered behind palm trunks, waiting, their sweating hands gripping the muskets. He could smell their fear... or was it his own?

  The sound of shelling still rang in his ears. A sound he hadn’t expected. But leave it to d’Porteau to pound the seemingly defenseless island with cannon before coming ashore. It was all Jamie could do to keep the men he trained from racing for the far side of the island when the first mortar exploded on the beach. A well-aimed pistol and a harsh reminder of what the Frenchman would do to their women and children kept them steady... or at least at their posts.

  Luckily d’Porteau’s aim was no better than his character. He’d pockmarked the sand and shattered a section of wharf, but luckily no one was hurt. At least not on Jamie’s side. He wished he could run across to the other side of the trap and see for himself how those men fared.

  But that might give away the surprise. He had to content himself with yelling a brief inquiry, to which Mort Tatum responded in a high-pitched, nervous voice that all was well.

  So they waited. Waited beneath the unforgiving tropical sun. Waited with hearts pounding and sweat pouring down their backs for the pirates to reach the island.

  Jamie swallowed, listening as the boats grew closer. He could hear the pirates calling back and forth, hear the swish of oars.

  Come on, ye bastard, Jamie prayed. Step right into our trap.

  The man beside him, a printer by trade, jerked, and Jamie lay a steadying hand upon his shoulder. “Not much longer, now,” he whispered. “’Twill be over soon.”

  But how would it end? The nervous anticipation of waiting sent his mind hurtling back in time to another battle. Culloden. A world, a lifetime away, and yet it seemed so close he could still taste the wild expectancy of youth, the bitterness of defeat.

  The slide of wood over sand as they pulled the longboats onto the beach reverberated through the air. First one, then another. For better or worse the Frenchman seemed unaware of the welcoming committee.

  “Are they all gone?”

  Jamie wasn’t sure who asked the question but it was d’Porteau who answered. He’d recognize that nasal-toned voice from here to hell.

  “Perhaps they’ve all scurried away like a litter of scared rabbits. Is that the case, mon ami?” The last he bellowed so that anyone on this end of the island could hear him.

  “I think they all did run away, Cap’n.”

  The voices grew nearer. The pirates were far enough up the beach to be between the two camouflaged blinds. Jamie pulled his pistols from the holders crossing his chest, then lifted one hand high above his head.

  “So what we gonna do now, Cap’n d’Porteau?”

  The Frenchman’s laugh was sinister. “We�
�ll steal what they didn’t take with them, of course.”

  Jamie’s hand whipped down through the air. Gunshots exploded, and were answered by the islanders across the beach.

  For an instant the pirates, as if caught in a painting, stood still, their mouths gaping open.

  Then as one they sprang to life, scampering, barely taking the time to shoot, back toward the boats. Some didn’t make it. The screams of those hit in the cross fire rent the air.

  With a roared command Jamie leaped over the palm logs. Saber in hand he led the attack against the retreating pirates.

  D’Porteau.

  Jamie saw him farther down the beach, pushing aside a swarthy-looking pirate to jump into the first boat. Ignoring the carnage around him, Jamie rushed toward the shore. His boots sank in the wet sand, then splashed in the surf as he grabbed hold of the boat.

  But d’Porteau wasn’t the only one trying to get back to the French Whore.

  “Damn.” Jamie sucked in his breath as a cutlass ripped down across his shoulder. Crimson swelled up, staining his shirt, mixing with the sweat and splashed salt water. Fighting had erupted all around him as the islanders caught up with the fleeing pirates.

  Turning, Jamie faced Stymie.

  “Well, if it ain’t Cap’n MacQuaid, back from the dead.” The giant of a man lunged, forcing Jamie back against the side of the boat. “But ye ain’t gonna escape this time, Cap’n.”

  He thrust again but this time Jamie feinted to the right, then sliced his own cutlass down across his nemesis’s arm. Blood spattered. With an angry roar, Stymie leaped toward Jamie, knocking them both off balance and into the surf.

  Arms and legs went flying as they both tried to gain a foothold in the swirling eddy of water. Jamie rolled to his knees, sputtering water. He grabbed Stymie’s shirtfront and brought his fist down hard onto his jaw. Again and again, he slammed his knuckles into the pirate’s face, while holding him under the surf with the other hand. When Jamie finally yanked Stymie up, the former crew member was coughing and hacking for breath.

  By this time Israel and the other islanders had either killed or subdued the remaining pirates. Except for...

  When Jamie jerked his head around he saw that one of the longboats was gone. D’Porteau and several others were rowing frantically toward the French Whore.

  “It be all right, Cap’n.” Israel came up behind Jamie. “The Lost Cause be out there ready to do battle.”

  Israel was right. As Jamie scanned the dancing waves he saw his ship bearing down hard on the French pirate’s vessel. But Jamie had wanted to capture d’Porteau himself. To know the satisfaction of grinding his flesh beneath his boot. Of revenging his treatment upon the French Whore.

  Shoving Stymie toward shore, Jamie followed, pleased to see that the few pirates left onshore had surrendered and were now being tied together, their hands behind their backs. Stymie was pushed into the group, and Jamie turned back to watch the progress of his vessel.

  He wished now that he’d stayed aboard the Lost Cause. It would seem strange watching a sea battle from this perspective. His skin itched to be on the quarterdeck shouting commands.

  “They aren’t going to get away, are they?”

  Jamie twisted his head. “What in the hell are ye doing here?” Wrapping his arm around her, Jamie hustled Anne away from the cursing group of pirates. “Didn’t I tell ye to stay back with the other women in the cabins?”

  Anne’s lips thinned. She’d been through too much to sit on her hands now. “I heard the shooting,” she began.

  “Which should have been enough to tell ye how dangerous ’twas here.”

  For the first time since she came up behind him Anne really looked at the captain. What she saw made her skin grow pale. “You’re wounded.”

  Jamie twisted his head to see the cut on his upper arm, then grimaced. “’Tis nothing but a scratch.”

  “But it’s bleeding.” Bending over Anne flipped up her skirts and proceeded to tear a wide strip off her petticoat. Before she could tie the bandage around his arm a loud boom sounded, pulling both their attentions back to the two vessels in the harbor. Clouds of puffy smoke hung above the facing gunwales of each ship.

  “The Lost Cause is going to win, isn’t she?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Jamie had answered Anne’s question with a resounding “aye,” a mere half hour before. But he wasn’t so confident now. From what he could tell the battle raging between the French Whore and his ship was pretty nearly a standoff.

  And what was worse, if he didn’t miss his guess, the Frenchman had decided enough was enough.

  “Damn, I wish I had my glass.” Jamie shaded his eyes, then shook his head. With long strides he paced back and forth along the beach, not slowing his stride until Anne grabbed at his arm. Then he winced and cursed again.

  “I’m sorry, but can you please tell me what is happening?”

  “I can’t be sure, but it looks as if d’Porteau is sailing away.”

  “Sailing away! But he can’t. Wait, where are you going?”

  But Jamie didn’t take the time to answer. He ran toward the remaining longboat, signaling to several of the men guarding the pirates to follow. He had shoved the hull into the water by the time they reached his side. They all splashed through the surf; then leaped over the side and started rowing.

  Anne, hands planted firmly on hips, watched from shore wondering what the captain thought he would accomplish by his actions.

  ~ ~ ~

  As it turned out, nothing.

  By the time he reached the spot where the two vessels had been they were sailing out into the Caribbean, the French Whore trying to distance itself, the Lost Cause close behind.

  Anne met the longboat when it rowed back to shore. She waited, saying nothing while Jamie climbed out and helped pull the boat onto the sand. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.” She fell into step beside him as he headed toward the village.

  He only glanced down at her, not saying anything.

  “You did your best.”

  “Damnation, Annie. I had the Frenchman in me grasp, and I let him go.”

  “Perhaps the Lost Cause will catch him.”

  “Not with Deacon at the helm. He’s a fine quartermaster but he’s not a sailor like d’Porteau.” Jamie turned his head away in disgust. “I should have stayed onboard.”

  “You couldn’t be in two places at once. And the islanders needed you here.”

  “For God’s sake, Annie, will ye stop making excuses for me. I can recognize another failure. I’ve had enough practice with it.”

  “Jamie....” Anne reached for his hand. She expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. Instead he stopped and turned toward her. His fingers were gentle as they curved around her cheek.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Annie. ’Tis but fatigue and frustration talking.”

  “And pain?” Anne nodded toward the cut on his arm that was bleeding through the bandage she wrapped about it.

  “Aye.” His grin flashed white in his grime-smeared face. “’Tis that, too.” He draped his good arm around her shoulders. “Come, help a poor wounded pirate to his bed.”

  But when they entered the small settlement it was obvious Jamie wouldn’t get any rest. The Libertians were jubilant. Anne had never seen them in such a mood.

  Most every man had escaped from the battle unharmed. Mort Tatum did twist his ankle and now hobbled around with a crudely fashioned crutch propped under his arm. And of course, Captain MacQuaid suffered a minor wound, but compared to the last time d’Porteau visited Libertia, it was nothing.

  And they’d driven him away.

  “He’s learned his lesson good.”

  “True enough. We won’t be seeing him in these waters again.”

  “Huzzahs for Captain MacQuaid!”

  The villagers celebrated long into the night. It was like a holiday. Despite Anne’s initial reluctance, knowing Jamie’s state of mind, she was caught up in the excitement as well.


  Lester Perdue tuned up his violin for the first time since d’Porteau’s initial raid. The women who could only sit nervously wringing their hands during the battle now came to life, cooking a feast of thanksgiving.

  By unspoken agreement everyone ate together, pulling tables and chairs into the palm-shaded common area. A pit was dug and one of the wild pigs that roamed the island was roasted, filling the air with mouthwatering aromas.

  While the plates were heaped with pork Jamie was called upon to speak. Anne, knowing his mood, feared he would dampen the villagers enthusiasm. But he had nothing but praise for the Libertians accomplishments.

  Lifting a mug kept routinely topped off by a bevy of adoring women, he toasted the island’s bravery. “Ye should all be proud of yourselves.”

  “We showed the cowardly pirate what to expect if he ever shows his face in these parts again,” one of the equally inebriated warriors yelled, and Jamie nodded his agreement.

  “Aye. Ye showed yourselves proud. Every Jack man of ye.” This was followed by a cheer as Jamie downed the rum, coming up for air only when the last drop was drained.

  Even Richard Cornwall joined in the mood of the day, his mind seemingly clear. He sat beside Anne exalting the great victory. But he never mentioned the other time d’Porteau visited the island. And he never mentioned his son.

  Anne was certainly glad for her uncle’s rational mind, be it only temporary, but she was more concerned about Jamie at the moment. He drank too much , more than he had since the first time she met him. And though he said nothing of his wound, brushing any comment aside with a wave of his strong, long-fingered hand, she could see the white lines of pain etched around his mouth.

  But any suggestion she made that he seek out his bed or simply rest were met with a negative shake of his head. “Come now, Annie, don’t ye wish to have a good time?” He draped an arm around her shoulders, leaning his face down close to hers. “Ye heard them, Annie mine, I’m the hero of the moment. The savior of Libertia.” He pulled her closer. “No longer the prince of lost causes.”