by Hays, Lara
He finished the last of his ale and stood, dropping a handful of coins on the table.
“Finish your pudding and we’ll get going,” he said.
I pushed my dish away. I wasn’t hungry.
“Where are we going?”
Nicholas deftly wove through the crowds in the tavern. I struggled to keep up.
“I am going to work the town a bit. See if I can uncover any more information. Maybe confirm this rumor. You are going to go to bed.”
“I am coming with you,” I said.
“No, luv. You’re not.”
“Nicholas, I need to do this. It’s my father.”
Nicholas turned and faced me, our faces just inches apart. “You cannot follow along. First, it’s too dangerous. I’ll be constantly worried about you getting your pretty little neck in trouble. Second, you should not be exposed to the places I am going. Believe me, you won’t want to see the dark side of the city.”
I started to protest, trying to find a solid argument for accompanying him. Nicholas talked over me.
“Finally, I cannot get the information with you next to me. No one will talk. We will get nowhere. So if you really want to help, please understand that the best way to do so is to stay in the room.”
I agreed reluctantly. We entered the room and Nicholas strapped on his baldric and mashed a hat onto his curls.
“Is it even possible that my father is alive?”
Nicholas peered into my face, a look of tenderness in his eyes. “We will go to St. Kitts. We will set out tomorrow. If your father is there, we will find him.”
Loading his pistol, Nicholas said, “Lock the door. Don’t venture on the balcony. I’ll most likely be late. Rest if you can.”
I stood still as he gently touched my cheek and breezed away, the heavy door thudding behind him. After his footsteps faded, I rushed to the balcony hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Perhaps I could overhear any conversations he might have on the street below. I waited for the better part of an hour but never saw him pass by.
Knowing I would not sleep, I prepared for bed slowly, hoping that my every action would help the time pass. I tried to read. I tried to write. The turmoil within me would not let me rest. I paced around the room listlessly, my vacant eyes refusing to focus on anything. I tried lying down, or at least sitting still, but could not. I analyzed the oils by the washbasin, repeatedly smelling each scent, rearranging the bottles from tallest to shortest, from roundest to thinnest, from darkest to lightest. I brushed my hair excessively, barely noticing when the head of the brush broke away from the bone handle. I paced the balcony, staring into the night, trying to make sense of the activity below. Every time I heard a noise from outside my room, I unlocked the door and peered down the hallway, even stealing a few steps towards the staircase, hoping to find Nicholas returning.
I stared at the candles in the room, judging the passage of time by the amount of wax pooling around them. The hypnotizing flames captured my attention longer than anything else had, small fires twisting and lurching in a scorching dance. There was too much time.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The candles were halfway melted when the sound of footsteps jolted me from my reverie. I dashed to the door, unlocked it, and tiptoed into the hall. Nicholas grimaced when he saw me outside the room.
He quickened his pace and herded me back into our room. “Get in there.”
“What did you learn?” I pressed, ignoring his disapproval of my behavior.
“Same rumors, everywhere.” He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it upon a chair.
“But what did they say?” I trailed him closely as he walked across the room.
“Same thing, Tessa. Angry admiral named Monroe is in St. Kitts. Has it out for pirates because his daughter was killed by them.” He sounded indifferent.
“That’s it? They all said the exact same words?”
Nicholas walked to one of the beds. I was right on his heels as he turned around and practically knocked me over.
“Tessa,” he said sternly as he steadied me, “settle down.” He sat me down on the left-side bed. He towered over me with his hands on his hips, like an exasperated parent.
“There wasn’t much difference to the stories. Some said the daughter was kidnapped while some said murdered. Some told me the name of the pirates or the ship that took you, but they were all wrong. No one mentioned the Banshee or Black Jack. But everyone knew the admiral’s name. Definitely Monroe.”
I quivered on the edge of the bed, my blood racing. I closed my eyes and let myself begin to hope.
Nicholas crouched before me, taking my hands in his. They were steady and warm. His voice was suddenly soft. “This is good news, Tessa. Be happy.”
“I-I can’t…but what if...what if they are wrong? What if it isn’t true?” I questioned, avoiding Nicholas’s eyes.
“You’re scared to believe.”
“If I let myself believe, and it’s not true…it will be like losing him again.” A single tear rolled down my face. Nicholas smoothed it away.
“I know.” His voice was like velvet. “Tessa, I talked to more than twenty men tonight—merchant sailors, smugglers, traders, local business owners. They all said the same thing. It’s not just a pirate legend. This is real. I can’t make you any promises, but I think there really is a chance that your father made it to St. Kitts. Everyone knew his name. And the story about losing a daughter? Can’t be coincidence.”
I let Nicholas’s words sink in. I searched his face. His features were calm and sure. I let out a broken sigh and nodded, letting his words comfort me.
“How long to St. Kitts?” I asked.
“About three weeks.”
I nodded again, realizing all the questions forming in my thoughts would go unanswered until then. There was no use in driving myself—or Nicholas—crazy with my wild anxiety.
“And we leave tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Nicholas promised, “at first light.”
A hesitant smile pulled at my lips. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it!”
Nicholas moved next to me on the bed and wrapped me in his arms. His lips found my forehead, leaving a small kiss. “Things will work out, you’ll see,” he whispered.
Sitting back, he asked, “Which bed would you prefer?”
I looked at the identical beds critically. “This one,” I announced decidedly, patting the mattress I sat on.
“Are you quite certain?” Nicholas teased.
“Absolutely. I always sleep on my right side, and if I sleep in this bed I will be able to face the wall, which I prefer. If I were in that bed, I would be facing you, and I am worried that I make funny faces in my sleep.”
Nicholas contemplated that seriously. “Not really—only when you’re sick. Mostly you just mumble.”
“It is inappropriate how much you know,” I said, swatting him gently on the arm.
He abruptly stood, scooping me into his arms, then pulled back the covers of my bed. With me cradled against his chest, Nicholas leaned in and kissed me deeply, then finally laid me down upon the sheets and tucked the covers around me.
Having tucked me into bed, Nicholas retrieved the wooden room divider and repositioned it between our beds. “Now that’s in case I make funny faces in my sleep.”
He blew out the candles, then I heard him undress and settle into his bed.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I awoke not knowing where I was. I strained my eyes to make out my surroundings. It took me a minute to remember the day in Willemstad. Then everything flooded back to me—the shopping, the inn, the bath, the dinner, and the possibility that my father was alive. I also had a groggy memory of Nicholas leaving. I couldn’t remember if he had roused me or if I had awakened on my own, but I remembered him kissing me and telling me to go back to sleep, that he needed to go out for a short while.
I was still extremely drowsy. I wondered what had interrupted my slumber.
“Nicholas?” Perhaps
his return had awakened me.
He did not answer.
Maybe he was already asleep. I listened intently for the rhythmic sound of his breathing but did not hear it.
I slowly stood up, feeling my way around the wicker divider between the beds. The faint light of the nighttime sky traced the shapes before me. I found his bed and carefully ran my hands over it, expecting to feel the solid lumps of Nicholas’s legs under the covers.
The bed was empty.
I wished I knew where he had gone. At least I remembered him telling me he was leaving, but that was not enough right now. What could he possibly be doing that couldn’t wait until morning? Probably gambling or drinking or some other loathsome activity he didn’t want me to know about. I chided myself for that thought. He deserved more credit than that.
I lay back in my bed, snuggling deep into the soft mattress. Under different circumstances, I would have dreaded going back to the sagging bed aboard the ketch. But seeing my father would be worth all of that. I would happily spend a year in the brig of the Banshee if it meant seeing my father again.
As my breathing grew heavier, a tiny noise across the room pulled me back to consciousness. Fully alert, I listened hard. The noise did not repeat itself—if there even had been a noise in the first place.
I closed my eyes and tried to relax back into slumber, but I was too paranoid now. I kept listening for noises, imagining things in the dark. I fretted about Nicholas. Where was he? I was slightly annoyed—maybe more than slightly—that he would leave like this.
I tossed and turned in bed, hoping that my tired body would overcome my busy mind. It was probably a quarter of an hour before I heard a small noise again.
I sat up. It had come from the door. I looked into the darkness, hoping to discern what it was. I told myself that it could be anything, that I was thinking irrationally. This was a strange inn with new noises. Normal noises.
Still, I could not quite convince myself to go back to sleep. Surrendering to the paranoia, I decided take a light a candle. A quick survey of the room would put me at ease. I fumbled with the flint and steel on the bedside table, but I was eventually able to light a candle.
Sitting in bed, I slowly moved the candle in an arc so I could glimpse every inch of the room. As the candlelight fell on the room’s entrance, a large shape illuminated. I startled and nearly dropped the candlestick.
My eyes focused on the unfamiliar shadow in the room. My heart hammered loudly as the shape took the form of a man wearing a low, wide hat. The figure didn’t move. I think he hoped I would not see him, or that I’d assume my eyes were playing tricks on me.
And maybe they were.
I leaned towards the shadow, kneeling on the bed, and stretched the candle out as far as I could reach.
It was definitely a man.
I recoiled so quickly that wax splattered my hand.
“Who are you?” I did not recognize my own voice. It was so childish.
The man raised his chin slightly. Beneath his hat the light reflected off a pale face. His cold eyes glittered.
They were red.
A gloved hand rose from the folds of the jacket, pointing the sleek barrel of a pistol at me.
“Where is Marks?”
My stomach rolled with nausea at the sound of that voice.
Dumb with terror, I could only shake my head.
Captain Black strode towards me, sweeping his eyes across the room as he went, yet never lowering the pistol aimed at my chest. He grabbed my elbow, pulled me to him, and turned me around, pressing the pistol’s barrel against my spine. He walked me onto the balcony, still looking for Nicholas. My hands were shaking so severely that the hot wax from the candle showered on them.
He led me back inside, instructing me to sit on the edge of my bed. He kicked the wicker divider aside and sat directly across from me on the edge of the other bed. The aim of his weapon never wavered.
“Strange that Marks would leave you alone. Not a very fast learner, is he?”
I focused on my breathing, trying not to hyperventilate.
“He’ll be back though, won’t he? He will be back for you.” His tone was matter of fact.
Captain Black sat on the bed and looked at me easily. He acted as if he were having tea with an old companion. Aside from the gleaming pistol pointed at me, there was little threat about the man. It seemed as though he was comfortable to wait in this holding position all night.
Deciding that I was not in any imminent danger of being shot, I tentatively asked, “What do you want with him?”
“To kill ’im.”
He said it so good-naturedly that I was compelled to press the issue further.
“Why?”
The captain cocked his head, peering at me sideways.
“I guess the reason would be you, now wouldn’t it? The mutiny. Losing my post. Losing my ship. And though it were Marks who saw it through, it was because of you. Can you imagine what that feels like, Miss Monroe? To lose everything at the hands of your closest friend for a bint he barely knows?”
A cold shiver slid up my back.
“Tell me something,” he lilted. “Tell me about your father.”
My father? If possible, my heart pounded faster. “How do you know about my father?”
“A little eavesdroppin’ is all it takes and news travels faster than fire. I heard that Marks was askin’ about some warlord in St. Kitts. And I think it has somethin’ to do with you.”
Though confused at his implications, I jumped at the opportunity to use my father’s position as leverage. “That’s right. My father is an admiral in the Royal Navy. He is hunting pirates, looking for me. He knows that you kidnapped me.” I stuck out my chin.
“I’ll bet he does.” The captain smirked diabolically.
He stood abruptly, looking around the room once more. “Come here.” He beckoned to me with the pistol.
I arose mechanically. The pistol found its way against my waist, directing me where Black wanted me.
He positioned me in front of the mirror and instructed me to place the candlestick on the table. I numbly obliged. Black exchanged his pistol for a dagger. My eyes involuntarily flitted to my throat. I could still see the small mark at the hollow of my neck where Wrack had tried to kill me with a similar blade.
Black grabbed my right hand. I tried to pull back, but he was too strong. He slashed my pointer finger with the tip of the dagger, then forced my hand to the mirror. A sticky stream of blood spilled down my finger and inside my wrist.
Using my finger like a writing quill, he penned a message with my blood.
HOW ABOUT A GAME OF BLACK JACK?
I stared unsteadily at the red letters, the smeared blood already drying into an ugly brown in some places.
The captain smiled menacingly. “It’s rude to leave without a note.”
Yanking my arm downward, he commanded me to kneel.
I dropped to the ground.
The blade of the dagger lifted against my chin, coaxing me to tilt my head back. With my neck extended, I felt critically vulnerable to Black’s blade. The thin edge of steel settled below my jawbone. Black caressed my hair with his left hand.
Erratic gasps escaped my lips. I trembled with each one, convinced that these violent shivers would surely cause the knife to slit my throat. My lips quivered.
“Please,” I breathed, feeling the blade’s edge more acutely as I spoke.
“You like games?” he asked me.
I could hardly understand his words. My thudding heartbeat echoed in my ears and I was too distracted keeping my breathing under control. I didn’t know what he meant and, as close to hysterics as I was, I could not think about it. All I knew was that playing a game was better than being dead.
“Yes,” I trembled.
“Do ya think Marks likes games?”
What was I supposed to say? “Yes.”
“I’d been thinkin’ he’d fancy a treasure hunt.”
The cool ed
ge of the blade traced a slow line across my neck from one ear to the other. A trail of goose pimples sprung up in its wake. The sensation was so light that it would have tickled if it hadn’t been so frightening.
Black grabbed a handful of my hair as if admiring it. Then swiftly, he pulled it taught, jerking my head to the side. I whimpered. Before I knew what happened, the tension released.
“Hold out yer hands.”
I held my hands—palms up—before me.
A thick lock of glistening chestnut hair fell into them. I screamed, dropped the hair and grabbed my head, certain to find blood or a wound of some kind. My quivering fingers searched my scalp frantically. Everything was fine. Except the lock of hair that now hung only to my jaw.
Piece by piece…that’s how he was going to do this. Piece by piece.
I fell forward, bracing myself with my hands. Tiny whimpers escaped my lips with every passing gasp.
On the edge of madness, I barely realized that Black was doing something behind me. I didn’t dare look, but it sounded as though he was rummaging through my packages from the market.
“Pick up the hair.” His voice was cold. No longer playful.
He dropped a square of brown paper and a piece of string in front of me. He had torn it from one of my packages.
“Wrap it.”
The dirk nudged my back.
I clumsily laid the length of chestnut hair on the piece of paper, my hands fumbling with every move. I somehow managed to tie a crude knot around the wad of paper.
The captain grabbed it, then forced me up.
“Put on yer shoes.”
I stuffed my feet into my new boots without lacing them.
Pressing the dirk against my side, Black steered me out of the room and down the stairs.
I was surprised when we entered the lobby. I thought Black would avoid such a public place. With the dirk positioned brazenly against me, I was certain someone in the lobby would do something, but to my complete vexation, no one noticed us.
I needed to scream, make a fuss.
“You’re thinking of screaming,” the captain smirked into my ear as he twisted the dirk into my side. I sucked in a breath. “It’s no use in a place like this. No laws. No rules. No one who cares.”
