Uncharted Waters (Ravenwood Mysteries #6)

by Sabrina Flynn

  She sighed. “That’s not helpful.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Sarah ate her bread, considering. Finally, she glanced at him. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to poison the butter?” She nodded towards his bread. “If someone wanted to kill you?”

  Riot stopped chewing for a moment. He swallowed. “Fortunately, most guns for hire aren’t that imaginative.”

  “I suppose it’d take some planning, too.”

  Riot nodded. “More so than a quick draw and a bullet.”

  “If you’re so brilliant and dangerous, how come you can’t pick a ring?” Sarah asked.

  Riot dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “I’ve never picked out a ring for a lady before. I’m treading in unfamiliar territory.”

  “I’ve never done most things before. You’ll never do it till you do it,” she said.

  “What do you advise in this circumstance?”

  Sarah thought. Not a show of it, but actual consideration. Sarah knew he wasn’t just humoring her. Her opinion mattered to him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Isobel wear jewelry, unless she’s in some sort of disguise. Will she even care what sort of ring she has?

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then just get her any old ring.”

  Riot studied the tea leaves in his cup. It was a good suggestion, so why the hesitation? Why the doubt? Was marriage even right for a woman like Isobel? Would she find it too restricting, too suffocating after a mere month? Had he rushed things?

  No, he thought. Isobel was not a woman to be rushed. She knew her mind. So was he having cold feet? The mere thought of spending the rest of his life without her seized his heart. And there it was. That passion terrified him.

  Riot had spent his youth untamed—a quick hand with a quicker trigger. Ravenwood had taught him to bridle his emotions, to keep himself on a tight leash, because they both knew what Riot was capable of when he broke free of that leash. But Isobel… Isobel knew that, too. As no one else did.

  Their food came: Aiguillette of Flounder and Creole potatoes persillade for Riot, and a broiled pork cutlet and apple sauce for Sarah.

  Riot picked up his fork and knife and slipped a bite of flounder into his mouth. Delicately cooked, and savory. He made an appreciative sound, and stopped chewing when he saw Sarah’s shock.

  “You didn’t say grace.”

  Riot swallowed. “I generally don’t.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I haven’t been saying grace for quite awhile.”

  “You weren’t my father before,” Sarah pointed out. “And this is a proper meal.”

  “Would you care to?”

  “I think you’re supposed to.”

  Riot set down his cutlery, and cleared his throat. “Grace.”

  Sarah snorted, then with a roll of eyes, clasped her hands and bowed her head. “Lord, thank you for this meal, and don’t mind my father, he has a good heart. Amen.”

  The girl began eating, oblivious to his silence.

  After a time, she noticed. “Did I offend you?”

  Riot shook his head. “I’m more likely to be the one to offend you.”

  “It’s all right,” Sarah said. “Can’t force someone one way, but my gramma sure tried.”

  “She must have been a remarkable woman.”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. “Even the preacher steered clear of her.”

  Riot’s lip quirked.

  “I suppose she was a lot like Isobel’s mother,” Sarah mused. “Without the cane. But she was warm, and, oh, was she kind. She’d take in vagabonds. Well… let them sleep in our barn ’cause it wasn’t proper otherwise. And she’d always knit socks and caps, and make quilts, and share our food with larger families. But here’s the nicest thing about her… she’d always accept payment of some sort. To save their pride. People don’t like charity. She was always careful about that.”

  “You have her kindness,” Riot said.

  Sarah blushed. “Thank you. What about your parents?”

  Riot grimaced at the innocent question. “I don’t know. I’m an orphan like yourself.”

  “I don’t know if it counts being an orphan since my gramma was there to take care of me. You don’t remember anything?” she asked with a hint of sorrow.

  Riot remembered the slow creak of a straining rope, and toes. Dirty toes hanging above the floor. He shoved the memory aside, and focused on something else. “My mother had a soft voice. And she told me stories.” The last was a lie. But then a very young Riot had told himself those lies to survive.

  “About what?”

  “Of little boys who grew up to be knights. And talking toads. And kingdoms of ants.”

  Sarah smiled, a bright one that chased back the creeping darkness in his heart. “My gramma didn’t have any kind of imagination.”

  “It is a gift,” Riot agreed.

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “Say! That’s where you get a ring. From family. Did your mother have a ring?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Riot’s mother had been picked clean by thieves while he screamed for them to cut her down. “She was poor, and unmarried.”

  “Oh.” Sarah didn’t ask any more questions, thankfully. “I forgot.”

  Riot hadn’t told her about his stained lineage, but the girl read newspapers, and the papers had sung about his whoring mother clear across the United States.

  “My gramma left me her ring. You can have it for Isobel.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Sarah, but that’s yours to wear. Don’t part with a treasure like that.”

  Sarah poked at her food. “That’s it… isn’t it? You don’t have a family ring to give Isobel?”

  The question took him by surprise. A rare thing for someone like him. Had a freckled-faced twelve-year-old just flayed his emotions bare? She had.

  Riot cocked his head, amused. “Maybe so.” The answer was a relief.

  “Well you best figure out what to do. You only have three months.”

  Day 84

  Another Brother

  Friday, July 6 1900

  Atticus Riot navigated a maze of salvage and new construction. The Saavedra Shipyards hummed with activity. It appeared organized and tightly run, and to have fully recovered from Alex Kingston’s attempted sabotage.

  Boats hugged the cove, sitting on high timbers, their hulls resting in cradles over muddy beaches. A few pleasure yachts dotted the shipyard, but it was mostly full of trawlers.

  “Whatcha ’ere fir, sir?” a shirtless man hollered from atop a hull growing barnacles. It wasn’t high up, but with the saws, hammering, shouts, and seagulls, it required a voice that carried.

  “I was told a cutter by the name of the Pagan Lady was brought here for salvage.”

  “The who?”

  Riot raised his voice. “The Pagan Lady!”

  “The foreman’s that way.” The man pointed. Apparently working conditions made the ears go prematurely.

  Riot searched the yard for the foreman or the Lady. The yellow slip of paper in his breast pocket lightened his step. One cryptic request from Isobel, and he had dropped everything to appease her. It was a new sensation. ‘My reflection left’, the telegram read. ‘I don’t know why.’

  Surprisingly, the fervor from Isobel’s trial had not diminished. Reports about Isobel’s most recent case had been blasted all over the newspapers. Not the truth. Never that. But news that she had been key in the rescue of two missing boys had generated yet another reporting frenzy. Those same reporters liked to lurk around telegraph offices intercepting messages. For that reason, their telegram exchanges had to be cryptic.

  Cryptic for others. But not Riot. She was worried about Lotario. He could feel her frustration in that brief request. Trapped. Unable to leave while the world spun on its merry way.

  Riot rounded a hull and was confronted by a large man wielding an adze. Muscles rippled with each powerful swing, and workers gathered to watch his skill. He was hollowing one half of a mast. The o
ther half, which would be fitted with its twin, had already been completed.

  When the man was satisfied, he handed the adze to another. He was over six feet tall with white blond hair and a bushy beard. His shoulders rippled with tanned muscle, while his stomach made it clear he was a man who liked his beer. He was a beefier version of his father—Marcus Amsel. But not his eyes. Emmett Amsel had gotten his piercing gray eyes from his mother and the Germanic bearing of a Saxon from his father. It wasn’t difficult to picture this man charging the walls of Rome.

  Emmett glanced at Riot, who stood nearby, waiting. Riot had met Isobel’s older brother once before. At Isobel’s funeral.

  “Mr. Riot.” Emmett’s words were neither welcoming nor hostile. The large man turned back to his workers. “Put the battens in, tie them together, and paint the ends.”

  Emmett grabbed a towel, and wiped his chest. “Have you come to shoot me, Mr. Riot?” Emmett was about Riot’s own age. Perhaps five years younger than the elder brother, Curtis, whom Riot had reportedly killed. Had the brothers been close?

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Riot said easily. “Business appears to be booming again.” It was a subtle reminder of the events surrounding Curtis’s death. And the mess the elder brother had dragged the family into.

  Emmett grunted. “It is.” The larger man struck off without a word, forcing Riot to follow. “Are you still planning on marrying my little sister?” Emmett asked.

  “If she’ll have me.”

  Emmett stopped, and turned to face him. Riot had to tilt his hat back to meet the man’s sharp eyes. Emmett gripped Riot’s shoulder and squeezed. His grip was staggering.

  “You know, little man, we have a tradition in our family.” Emmett jerked Riot close. “We lash suitors to a mast in a storm, and let the sea decide if they’re worthy.”

  “How did your wife fare during that trial?” Riot asked.

  Emmett’s lips tightened, and he narrowed his eyes. Riot felt like he was looking into the eye of a storm. And then the visage cracked. Emmett boomed a laugh, and slapped Riot so hard on the back that he took a step forward to catch himself.

  “You’re lucky my mother likes you.” Another slap on the back drove the air from Riot’s lungs. The big man slapped him again to get him breathing, and Riot gulped in a lungful of air.

  “I’m more concerned with Isobel’s opinion,” Riot said with a cough.

  “Phah! Isobel is worse than the wind.” Emmett marched over to a shack, and grabbed a shirt from inside. He shrugged it on, but it did little to conceal his broad chest. A button had already popped in the center. “Business is good,” he admitted, a shadow of grief and guilt flickering across his eyes. “It’s unfortunate it was ever bad.”

  Riot didn’t reply. There were no words to soothe family betrayal.

  “Why have you come?” Emmett asked.

  “I heard the Pagan Lady was brought here.”

  Emmett grumbled. “It’s called the Osprey.”

  “Why did you have it moved?” On paper, Riot owned the Pagan Lady. He had purchased it in his name for Isobel, and hired ‘Captain Morgan’ to pilot it.

  “I didn’t have it moved. My brother did.”

  “Lotario?” Riot asked.

  Emmett nodded, stroking his beard. “I was surprised to see him… and that boat. It gives me some hope that he might stay and work.”

  “You’d like that?” Riot asked, surprised.

  Emmett rumbled. “Lotario is an artist. He doesn’t look like much, but he has a way with boats. Even better than Vicilia. Lotario worked with us when he was younger.”

  “I thought he worked with your father?”

  “My father is a passable boatbuilder, but he’s a better winemaker. Lotario was the one who built that boat. Father helped him.” It was the most Riot had ever heard out of the big man. But then he barely knew him. And that appeared to be all Emmett was willing to say. Emmett pointed Riot to a large workshop. “She’s in there.”

  The Lady rested on a cradle of timbers. She looked embarrassed. Stripped bare, her accoutrements neatly laid to one side, a perfume of pine and oakum permeated the air. A gaping wound in her side showed her ribs.

  Riot suppressed a shudder. The dark. The cold. A sinking death trap, and a single hatch blocking his path to air. He had always wagered he’d die by a bullet. Not water. Somehow the first seemed preferable.

  Noise came from within the hull, and a familiar face poked through. “Contemplating mortality, Atticus?” Lotario Amsel drawled. His hair was shaggy, and the dye was fast fading. Exactly like Isobel’s. Had the two of them sat down and discussed whether or not they’d grow their hair out? Or was it instinctual?

  “I was, actually,” Riot said.

  “Dark, handsome, and brooding. My lucky day. Have you come to inspire me, or did you need something?”

  “I came to check on the Lady.”

  “Which one?” Lotario asked.

  “Isobel is worried about you.”

  “Why else would her knight errant come to spy on me?”

  “Spies don’t usually announce their intent,” Riot said.

  “Well, you’re an honorable sort. I hope you weren’t searching for me overly long.”

  The edge of Riot’s lip quirked. “I’ve had plenty of practice.” He nodded towards the hull. “Why strip her down? Can’t you just patch her?”

  “I could,” Lotario drawled from inside. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, I have some ideas, and I intend to reinforce her so she’ll be fit to smash ice.”

  “We were planning on having the Lady repaired. You don’t have to do all of this.”

  “Who says I’m doing it for you?” came the muffled reply. Wood screeched as Lotario tugged free another plank. “I sold you my pride and joy, and look what you did to her. I may just take her back.”

  Riot climbed a short ladder, and peered through the gaping hole. The deck was missing, the insides gutted. Riot wasn’t a sentimental man, but something caught in his throat. Isobel loved this boat, and her life currently mirrored its state. It was a shambles.

  A hand touched his shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” Lotario said softly, and then turned away from the breach.

  Riot wasn’t sure if he meant the boat or Isobel, but he got his first good look at Lotario. Lotario wore a loose shirt, open at the front, cuffs rolled up to his forearms. He looked like a French painter straight from the Renaissance era. There was a tool belt on his hips, and a pencil tucked behind an ear. Rulers, hammers, chisels, and squares were laid out nearby. Along with a roll of paper that Lotario paused to consult.

  “This appears to be a large undertaking. Do you have help?” Riot asked, noting the way Lotario held his left hand close to his stomach.

  Lotario didn’t look up from the plans. “I have you.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a boatbuilder, or a builder of anything for that matter.”

  Lotario looked over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Atticus Riot can’t swing a hammer?”

  Riot had swung hammers before. Just never in the act of creating. It was more destructive, or as an improvised weapon whenever he was in a bind.

  “Don’t worry,” Lotario drawled.

  “I’m not worried, I’m only warning you.”

  Lotario ignored Riot’s assertion. “I won’t tell a soul,” he crooned. “On one condition.”

  “That being?” Riot asked, playing along.

  “That you don’t tell Bel what I’m about.”

  “Why can’t she know?” Riot asked.

  “It’s a secret. It won’t be much of one if I tell you.”

  “What can I tell her, then?”

  “That I’m in good spirits, and my shoulder is fine.” It was clearly not fine, his left hand was trembling. Riot gave the injured limb a pointed look.

  Lotario made an exasperated sound. “Fine. You wrenched it out of me with your silence. Truth be told, I was tired of the exercises,” Lotario admitted. “I thought maybe…�
�� He placed his left hand on the hull. “We could heal together.”

  Riot nodded. Hard work, he had heard, could be therapeutic. As long as it wasn’t detective work, at any rate. Riot set aside his hat and stick, and shrugged out of his coat. “What can I do?”

  “You can keep stripping,” Lotario said, openly watching. “You should really charge for the show, though.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when I’m broke,” Riot said as he rolled up his sleeves.

  “I’m serious. I’d take my shirt off if I were you,” Lotario said.

  Riot crossed his arms, and Lotario huffed, “I’m not being brazen. That’s an expensive shirt, and I don’t want you ruining it.” He handed Riot a large scraper. “You do know how to scrape a hull, don’t you?”

  That was one thing Riot did know how to do. And cook.

  Scraping barnacles off a hull was rough work. It was hot, too, and Miss Lily had just washed and starched his shirt. Lotario had a point. Riot removed his holster, unbuttoned his waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt, and set them aside.

  Thankfully, Lotario kept his comments to himself.

  Riot threw himself into the task. It felt good—simple, honest work without puzzles or complications. Without death or threat, and without a life on his shoulders. He worked until a sheen of sweat covered him, and his shoulders and back ached with the exertion.

  Having long since removed his spectacles, Riot was surprised when a canteen was thrust in his face. He stopped, and gladly drank the offered water.

  “You have done this before,” Lotario said.

  Riot grunted, handing the canteen back to the man. Lotario’s eyes flickered to Riot’s chest, and quickly looked away, taking a long gulp. His eyes drifted back to Riot’s flesh—to the scars that screamed of a dangerous life.

  “How…” Lotario hesitated, screwing the cap back on. “How did you heal?” he asked softly. Color rose to Lotario’s cheeks, something Riot had never seen before. The man was blushing. “You make my one bullet scar look like a paper cut.”

  No innuendo. No light quip.

  “I’m not sure I’m fully healed. But Isobel helped me take that first step,” Riot said.