Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  Robbie’s taut anger snapped. “Then stay here, you coward! I would be better off without your drunken arse slowing me down. Have you no sense of preservation, man? By Mary’s tits you’re about as useful as a cock in a snake pit.” As soon as Robbie spoke the words, his wrath dissipated; his friend’s face was mottled and his lips were drawn into a thin line.

  “You damn well know I could best any one of those men downstairs with my eyes closed and my arm missing.”

  Sighing, Robbie ran his fingers through his hair, the slide of the hair along the small of his back seemed to draw the strength from his body. Suddenly exhausted, Robbie scrubbed his hand over his eyes.

  “Aye, I know, Bruce. Tis the trepidation talking.” That seemed to appease Bruce enough for the anger to drain from his face. Dipping his head in silent apology, Robbie turned his attention to the thin, balding man standing with his hand out—palm up.

  “Tis touchin’, really, but I need ta be on my way. Need ta make myself scarce for the next fortnight.”

  “Berks…thank you for the information.” He pulled a leather purse from beneath his waistband and opened it, handing Berks five gold coins.

  Once the agitated man left, Robbie turned from the now green-faced Bruce to stare out the window—where the grime hadn’t obscured his view of the dock. Ship masts and billowing canvas bobbed above the water, making the sea seemingly alive with frothy waves of white and wood.

  From behind him, Bruce asked, “What are you planning?”

  Bruce was right to wonder…

  “I will find Saban Rees.”

  After a long, tense silence, Bruce asked, “But why? What’s this Rees done to you?”

  Shrugging, Robbie answered as simply as he could. “He has done nothing to me.”

  “Then why this dangerous scheme?”

  “Honestly… I do not know. Perhaps…I want to look upon the face of the man who changed the course of my father’s life. Perhaps I just want to kill him.”

  Chapter Two

  Robbie gripped the railing with white knuckles and watched, his heart in his throat, as a monstrous wave bore down on them. The Saint Anne was a large two-masted ship, her crew were former navy; well-trained and about as salty as preserved cod, but even they could not control the sea. And the sea was eager to swallow them all.

  “Yer lookin’ green about the gills, man,” the first mate, Baskins, yelled to him over the roar of the storm. “Perhaps ye’d like to tuck yer head into yer arse for safety!” A few of the other sailors around him—all pulling ropes and grunting—sneered their agreement.

  The wind whipped salt water into his face, plastering his long hair against his cheeks and neck. Gasping at the cold, he choked on the gulp of water that poured down his throat—served up by the wave as it slammed down on the ship.

  Choking, struggling to stay upright, the men around him chuckled and cursed.

  He couldn’t understand their levity at a time like this, when it seemed that their lives were forfeit to the waves and the wind. Then again, this was only his second voyage, his first being the trip from Liverpool to Cobh. Like his father, he’d spent his life on land, never once looking to the sea for his fortune. And why would he? There were plenty of wealthy marks to rob along the highways, so there was no need to set foot on the coast.

  Until that letter.

  So, here he was, nearly retching into the froth below him, and listening to men he could have easily killed if he were on solid ground. But he wasn’t, and so he held on, praying to Mary, Mother of God, to spare him.

  What have I been reduced to, praying to virgins and barely keeping myself from vomiting into the ocean… If Bruce were there with him, he’d be laughing into the gale—at Robbie. More than likely, Bruce had woken up with a pounding headache, a mouth full of wool, and a raging anger at being left behind. Though Robbie trusted Braw Bruce with his life, this journey was a dangerous one, far more dangerous than anything either of them had ever undertaken. But it was Robbie’s journey to take. It was his father who’d died a hollow man, blaming his troubles on a man he’d never met.

  And you are doing the very same… As was his right!

  It was Robbie who’d suffered when his mother wasted away under her husband’s obsession with a man his own “grandfather” had never met. It was Robbie who had to tend to his father’s needs after his mother waited for Robbie to leave for the market before she walked into the winter woods to die alone. It was Robbie who had to care for his home and his father’s business as his father slipped further and further into madness.

  And now Robbie would find the man who’d ruined it all—the life his father should have had, the life his father deserved after years of serving King and Church. He should have been a man of leisure and wealth, not a shattered tanner practically begging for any bit of work he could get.

  He’d loved his father…and so he would do this for him.

  No. This wasn’t Bruce’s burden to bear. Robbie would have to make it up to the man…if he made it back to Cobh alive. If the sea didn’t kill him, he was sure his search for Saban Rees just might. From what he’d heard of the man and his family of smugglers from the Saint Anne crew, the man was as elusive as a ghost but as vicious as a demon. And his family was no better.

  And I am eager to meet them face to face… A humorless smile tugged at his face, which disappeared as a wave—a true monster of human nightmares—rose above them. The laughter around him died in an instant and the screaming began. But silence followed soon after, just as the darkness consumed him.

  “If this pig does not kill me the chicken surely will,” Glynnis grumbled as she locked the gate to the small pen where she kept Bard, her young pig. The pig had been a careless purchase—she didn’t have the space nor the food to feed the thing, but she knew that if she only kept at it, Bard would make a plentiful portion of preserved meat.

  “And I will eat you, too, Arlene, if you do not start laying eggs again!” she yelled to the hen who was pecking at Bard’s back as if the wretched creature could find worms there. Arlene clucked happily, ignoring Glynnis’s ire.

  Frustrated at her lack of food, she knew she needed to make a trip to the coast. The craggy coastline often provided unexpected finds, and sometimes she sold those finds for coins she then used to purchase seeds, flour, fish, and fabric for making her clothes. She needed all those things now.

  She gazed down at the worn and tattered hem of her skirt and the bodice that did nothing to keep her breasts from spilling over. It was five years old, from a time when she was better fed…but not better off. More often than not, she had to bind her breasts with scraps of linen to keep from exposing herself when visiting the village.

  The path from the thicket where her cottage sat to the beach along the Bristol Channel coast was one she knew by heart, and walking it took little more than half an hour. The soft dirt of the forest morphed into the gritty, pebbly sand, and each step pushed small rocks and pieces of seashell into her bare feet. Not that it bothered her all that much. She’d walked barefoot everywhere she could, unless it was winter. Then, she wore her late husband’s boots.

  Thoughts of William made her twitch, as they often did. The man had died as he lived, in another woman’s bed. She didn’t mourn him, had barely known him save that he was as handsome as sin and as heartless as the Devil. So, when he was run through with the sword brandished by a cuckolded husband, Glynnis didn’t spare him a tear. And she refused any sympathy or pity from William’s family.

  They could all rot in hell for all she cared. The whole lot of them were thieves, cutthroats, pirates, and Lord knew what else—because she didn’t care to. One or two of them would come around and leave field dressed deer on her doorstep while she was in the village, but she simply gave the deer to another. She knew they were only looking after the widow of their eldest cousin, but she had never felt like one of the family while William was alive, and she refused to be one now. They could take their deer carcasses and sit on them, antler
s first! And the gold coins they left… Well, as much as she hated giving away something she could really use, she was stalwart…and as stubborn as a pregnant mare. She placed the gold in the church coffers. It was the least she could do for tying her soul to a man like William.

  She’d fight and struggle and eventually thrive without anyone’s help. She’d done the very same thing long before she met William. And she’d do so long after the bastard. There was nothing William’s family could do or say to change her mind.

  She would rather die of starvation than take anything from the likes of Saban Rees and his despicable cousins.

  Reaching the beach just as the afternoon sun reached the highest point in the sky, Glynnis peered out over the sea and sighed. It was glorious. Majestic. Fickle. Murderous. Not looking where she was going, she tripped over the edge of a net sticking out of the sand.

  “Oh, this just might be what I need!” Excited, Glynnis bent to examine the length of net visible along the scattering of seaweed. It looked mostly intact; she’d have to free it to get a better look.

  Glynnis tucked a wayward strand of sable hair behind her ear and pulled the half-buried net from the sodden sand. She smiled down at the ten-foot square net. It would need some mending to be useful, but she could sell it to a fishmonger in the village. It would make her a few coins, which would help her stock up on goods for the coming winter. With the net in hand, she peered out over the surf, eyeing the whitecaps in hopes of something more substantial rolling in with the breakers. This stretch of beach was the best place to look for things washed ashore from shipwrecks. And from the look of things, there was a shipwreck not too far from shore…and not too long ago. That wasn’t a surprise; there’d been one hell of a storm the day before. The wind had torn at the thatch of her cottage roof, which would need fixing before the next storm battered the coast—which could be any moment judging from the black clouds kissing the horizon.

  She walked east, the sand sucking at her bare feet. Grunting in exertion, she didn’t hear the sound at first… She stopped, tilting her head to the west, where most of the debris had collected. She usually shied away from digging through the smashed timbers and such, because she couldn’t stand the sight of the bloated bodies that usually littered the wreckage. But, this time, she heard something she hadn’t heard before…a low moaning, like the groanings of a forlorn spirit.

  Wary and not a little bit frightened of what it could be, Glynnis took a step forward, her breath stuck somewhere between her chest and her head. When the sound did not repeat, she took another step and another, now overwhelmed with curiosity.

  Mother would have my liver for this… But her mother wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. But Glynnis was… She was just a few feet from the splintered wreckage of a large hull, which looked as though it had been sawn in half by a giant. Large, twisted wooden beams rose into the sky like the ribs of a whale. The bow was missing and the stern was lodged into the sand—though even most of that was gone. All that remained of the ship were a few large pieces of wood, strewn canvas and rope…and five dead men.

  Sucking in a breath, she nearly retched. The sight of the men, pale and unmoving, made her insides wriggle and leap.

  “Lord grant me peace for the passing—”

  That deep, agonized groaning returned, and she peered through the ship’s exposed ribs to see a large man attempting to roll over. He was wet, his long black hair was matted with seawater and sand, and his clothes were nearly shredded. Before Glynnis could react, the man lurched, coughed, then lay still.

  Alarmed, Glynnis dropped the net she’d been holding and squeezed between the upright beams to scrambled over the detritus—ignoring the other sightless men—to kneel beside the man who seemed to have survived the storm.

  With effort, she flipped him from his belly to his back and looked down at his face. Her air left her body on a sharp gasp.

  He was beautiful.

  And he was still breathing.

  Chapter Three

  His head ached like Bruce had sat on it, and his body felt like the fires of hell were scorching him from the inside out. But…he wasn’t dead. At least he could assume that the softness on which he was laying wasn’t a form of torture for the damned sinner.

  Unwilling to move his aching limbs, Robbie held his breath and tried to remember what happened.

  He’d been aboard the Saint Anne, and there was a storm. Then…nothing.

  Letting out his suspended breath he slowly pried one eye open. His vision was blurry, his eye burning, but he forced himself to focus on the figure across the room. Where was he, and who was that?

  Determined if a little battered, Robbie slowly opened his other eye. He peered into the ceiling overhead. Thick beams beneath a thatched roof. He was in a cottage then. He was warm, and he could hear the fire crackling in the hearth. The air was scented with cooked fish, and his stomach practically tore itself from his body in want to consume it. He wasn’t dead but he was hungry…and more than likely growing a dozen bruises.

  A shadow cast over the ceiling and he waited for the owner to appear. Moments passed as he waited, his breath lodged in his chest. His naked chest. He was naked beneath the thick blanket.

  Usually, he wouldn’t mind, but now wasn’t a usual circumstance. He continued waiting for something to happen, for someone to notice that he was awake. He heard and saw nothing but the fire crackling and the shadow dancing. Curiosity had always been his bane, something his own mother had said was his curse; he always wanted to know the why even when the what was none of his damned business. Slowly, quietly letting out the breath, he turned his head again to try and make out the figure he’d seen upon wakening.

  Short, flat, cloaked in shadows cast by the fire, the person was pacing…and mumbling. How had he not heard the mumbling before.

  Because, you survived a shipwreck; your head is pealing like a bell in a church steeple.

  He grunted, which made the person in front of the hearth stop and turn toward him. They stiffened, and he waited for the exclamation he thought would come. Perhaps a sigh of relief that he had survived.

  The figured started toward him, and as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the long, dark, frayed skirt, the bare feet, and the long dark hair the hung in thick, loosely curled strands over a strikingly unimpressive chest.

  It was a woman…and she was scowling down at him.

  “Damn and blast,” the woman hissed, and he flinched. That wasn’t the usual exclamation when a woman gazed down at him naked in her bed.

  Again…all of this is unusual…

  “I take it you expected me to die…” Robbie murmured, his voice coming out in a deep, rumbling that sounded like the thunder rolling along the coast. He coughed, trying to wet his scratchy throat. “I am sorry to disappoint you.” He attempted a smirk, but it turned into a grimace when he tried to raise his hand to his head.

  She planted her hands on her ample hips and snapped, “Nay, tis not your surviving that surprised me—though you slept for three days—it’s the look of you!”

  This time, his smirk was all Ravishing Robbie. She recoiled as if he’d reached out and slapped her.

  “Oh, aye, you are just like the rest of them—barging into my life and trying to soften the blow by smiling and flashing your dimples,” she shrilled, throwing her hands up in frustration. A frustration he couldn’t understand.

  “I do not know what you are rambling on about, woman, but I can guarantee you have never met me before—I would remember someone like you.”

  The woman glared down at him with striking violet eyes, the irises burning with flickers of anger interwoven with defiance. Damn but she had lovely eyes…for a flat-chested harridan.

  Tired of being berated while naked and prone on her bed, Robbie tried to sit up—the muscles in his arms buckled beneath the burst of pain that slammed through him. Every inch of his body protested. With a grunt, he collapsed back into the bed. It was obvious he’d been asleep for three days, he was near
ly as weak as a babe.

  The woman snickered. “Feeling a bit weak and impotent?”

  Even as the heat of humiliation rose into his face, he was hiding his embarrassment behind a practiced smile.

  “Trust me, love, I have never known a moment of impotence…especially in a woman’s bed,” he drawled, using the deep raspiness of his voice to wring every last ounce of sensuality from his statement. Certainly, the woman was a termagant, but she was a woman. Surely, he wasn’t losing his touch.

  Perhaps you were a little more damaged in the wreck than you first thought. Perhaps with a more charming approach— Nay! He just needed to get out of the bed, find his clothes, and leave. There was nothing this woman could say that would make him remain in her rather stiff and disapproving presence.

  “You are just like the rest of them…you Rees never could look at a woman without wanting to plow her like a fertile field.”

  You are just like the rest of them… It was the second time she’d said that but this time, something rooted itself in his thoughts. Her words sank in and his heart jerked, stumbling in his chest.

  “What do you mean…you Rees?” he asked, confused as to why he was suddenly terrified.

  She sneered, her penetrating gaze raking over him in a fashion he was unaccustomed to; her gaze was anything but appreciative.

  “Black hair, eyes as green as the sea foam… You are a Rees.”

  He was staring at her as if she’d lopped off her own head and threw it into the fire. His flickering green eyes—eyes that shouldn’t belong on any human man—bored into her.

  “I am a Bowlin,” he said, once again struggling to rise.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she arched an eyebrow.

  “Not the first time a Rees lied to me,” she intoned, her voice dry. Husky. Not at all in response to the deliriously attractive man, naked in her bed.