Blackhearts (12 page)

when she told him to eat, and slept when she told him to sleep.

And he did not make any untoward advances, appearing to

enjoy Anne’s company. She believed he looked forward to the

reading almost as much as she did. She grew accustomed to his

attentive eyes, surprised that he didn’t disturb her as much as

he had when they’d first met. She was far too engrossed in the

story.

Dampier’s attention to detail was inspiring, providing

a tempting glimpse of the riches and adventures to be found

beyond the shores of England. Much of what he described

resembled the stories her mother had told her.

When Anne read that Will, one of the Miskito Indians

accompanying Dampier on his voyages, was accidentally left

behind on a remote island, she was surprised by the depth of

her despair. In a way she felt a certain kinship to the young

man, for despite the many people surrounding her, she too

knew what it felt like to be left alone.

Three years later, when Dampier returned to the island, he

was astonished to see that Will was still alive. He’d waited to

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greet them and had killed and dressed three goats with cabbage leaves for the shore-going party.

Tears ran down Anne’s cheeks unchecked, and with the edge

of her apron, she wiped her eyes. Embarrassed by her show of

emotion, Anne cleared her throat but was unable to continue.

Her mother had been taken from her own people but

never given the chance to return. Although Jacqueline’s life in

England had been better than the punishing work she’d per-

formed as a slave in the West Indies, she had still left a part of herself behind.

If everything worked out, Anne hoped to make the journey

back to the island in her mother’s stead.

Teach watched her, his gaze soft, but he didn’t speak. The

light from the candles created muted shadows in the room. It

was late in the evening.

“I should stop here,” Anne said, closing the book reluctantly.

“Please don’t,” he said.

She managed a tremulous smile. “I think it’s a good note to

end on. I’m not sure I could handle any more heartache.”

Teach returned her smile. “Ah, but it turned out all right in

the end, didn’t it? The Miskitos are a hearty bunch.”

“They sound very brave. And strong.”

He continued to watch her. “I could easily picture you as

a Miskito princess, dressed in animal skins from head to toe.”

Anne’s face flooded with warmth, and she stood, discon-

certed by the light in his eyes and the boldness of his words.

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Perhaps she should remind him of his father’s rules. In the past few days they’d built up a rapport between them. He teased her

openly, and while she wasn’t as comfortable teasing him back,

there was an undeniable connection between the two of them.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” she said, placing the book

on the bedside table.

“Why not?” Teach asked.

“Because I am not a princess.” She picked up the supper

tray, preparing to leave.

He grinned, unabashed, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Oh, forgive me. You’re quite right. You’re not a princess.”

Anne shook her head at him, trying to suppress a smile.

“You’re a queen. From now on I shall refer to you as Queen

Anne,” he said, giving her a mock bow, made even more ridicu-

lous because he still lay in his bed.

“Good night, sir,” she said pointedly.

Even from across the room he pinned her to the spot with

his gaze. “You’ll come back again tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, ignoring the tingle of anticipa-

tion that skittered down her spine.

“Until then, Queen Anne.”

Down the hallway she ran into Margery, a basketful of

sheets and linens in her arms. Margery glared when she saw the

smile on Anne’s face.

“Here,” the housekeeper said, thrusting her load toward

Anne. “I was just bringing these to you. You may go and make

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up the beds and also return some of the master’s clothes to him.”

“Now?” It was a quarter past nine in the evening. Anne’s

limbs felt as if they were made of lead, and she could think of

nothing besides the comfort of her own mattress.

“Yes, now. Have something better to do, do you?”

Anne shook her head. “No, it’s simply so late. Surely the

beds could be made tomorrow morning.”

She did not see the back of Margery’s hand until it con-

nected with her cheek, the force of the blow causing Anne’s eyes to water. Nearly dropping the tray, Anne staggered backward as

a cup fell to the floor. It shattered at her feet.

Margery shook with rage, the basket resting on her hip.

“Don’t talk back to me, girl,” she hissed. “I’m still in charge

around here, despite what you think.”

The door to Teach’s chambers flew open, and he stood

there, his nightshirt stuffed into a pair of breeches, his feet bare.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, holding a candlestick aloft.

Anne bent quickly and picked up the broken porcelain, her

back to him, the skin below her left eye stinging.

“Fine, sir. The clumsy girl simply dropped a cup,” Margery

said.

“What do you have there?” he asked her.

“Sheets and linens, sir. As well as some of your shirts an’

breeches. I was just about to bring them to you.”

“Surely that could wait until morning,” he said.

At last Anne stood, but she kept her face averted. She felt

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rather than saw the ominous look Margery shot in her direction.

“Aye, it could, sir, but with Anne being gone so much these

days, there’s simply no time to rest if we want to get everything done.”

The old witch made it sound as if she and the others were

overworked. Without the master in the house and with Teach still sick, the cooking had been kept to a minimum. And Margery had

both Sara and Mary to help her with the cleaning.

“Yes, well, why don’t you take that tray from her, Margery,

and return to the kitchen. Retire for the evening. I’m sure the

beds can wait until morning.”

“Why, thank you, sir. I greatly appreciate it,” Margery said

smugly.

It was all Anne could do to keep a civil tongue in her head

as Margery smiled, an evil glint in her eyes. They exchanged

loads, and Margery strolled down the hallway, toward the back

stairs, humming a tune the entire time.

“Bring me my clothing,” Teach said, holding out his hands.

Anne’s chest tightened as she approached him, and she

angled her face, careful to keep it in the shadows. But like a

Miskito Indian, the young master was far too observant. He

sucked in a deep breath when he saw her. Taking her chin in his

hand, he brought the candlestick closer.

“She did this to you,” he said, his eyes flashing. Taking

Anne by the hand, he led her back into his room. She sat down

in the now familiar armchair as he wet a cloth and dipped it

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into water, before holding it up to her burning skin.

Anne flinched.

He cursed beneath his breath, and a pulse beat at his temple.

“I’ll speak to her. I’ll tell her that if she ever lifts a hand to you again, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Anne asked, unable to keep her silence

any longer. “Send her packing? Try to replace her with someone

else? Who’s to say the next person you hire will be any better?”

Anne shook her head, pushing his hand away. “If you say any-

thing to her, it will only make matters worse.”

“This is my fault,” he said, frowning.

“How? You could not help getting sick. You were too weak

to—” Anne began, but just then she spied something unusual

over his shoulder. In his haste to get up, he’d thrown the cover-let back. At the foot of his bed were two large stones, round and smooth. The sheets were marred with ash. Anne pushed Teach

aside and felt one of them. It was still warm to the touch.

Turning on him, her eyes wide with shock, she pointed an

accusing finger. “You lied about your fever?”

He straightened slowly, his expression masked. “Not ini-

tially. That first day you came to me, I was extremely sick. You saw that.”

“Yes, but by the fourth day some of your color had

returned.”

He nodded.

“Were you still sick?” she asked.

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He had the decency to flush. “I was truly ill in the beginning, but I might have nursed it along a bit.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I needed an excuse to speak with you,” he said, as

if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart skipped a beat. “About what, sir?”

“About anything. Everything. I enjoy conversing with you.

Don’t look at me like that. Is my request so distasteful that you’d choose to return to your chores rather than spend another minute in my company?”

Eight days ago she might have said yes. Now she wasn’t so

sure. “If I don’t do my chores, no one else will, sir.”

He waved his hand. “Margery can do them.”

Anne nearly laughed out loud, pointing to the inflamed

side of her face. “Yes, we’ve seen how much she enjoys that.

Margery is the housekeeper. I’m simply the maid. I would never

ask her to fulfill my duties.”

“You said it yourself the other day, you’re not a common

maid, now, are you?”

Anne remained silent, for she did not know how to respond.

She wasn’t sure what she was most upset about—the fact that

he’d prolonged his “illness” and she’d incurred the wrath of

Margery as a result, or the fact that she’d enjoyed herself in his company and would most likely do it again if given the choice,

despite the fact that he was to wed another.

Alarmed and confused, Anne prepared to flee, but Teach

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reached out and caught her hand, his thumb smoothing the skin. The movement stole the breath from her lungs.

“This has to stop. You can’t keep running away from me,

Anne. I mean you no harm. Truly I don’t. I’ve never met anyone

like you before. You . . . intrigue me.”

Anne withdrew from his touch. “You’ve just spent a year at

sea, encountering untold dangers, and you find me interesting?

I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve never seen anything.” She might

have been inexperienced, but she wasn’t so naïve as to believe him.

“And that is precisely what is so fascinating. When you

read, your face lights up. Those pages come to life for you, just as they do for me,” Teach said. “Whether you are aware of it or

not, you and I are alike, Anne. We feel things differently than

others.”

“That book . . . it’s fascinating. Anyone would feel the same.”

Teach took a step forward, and she immediately retreated,

her legs hitting the bedpost, her eyes meeting his.

“That’s not true. My father has refused to look at it, though

I’ve offered to lend it to him. Patience could not be bothered to open it, much less read it. Not even William truly paid attention at the picnic, which was why he left it lying out in the field.”

“Perhaps they’re otherwise occupied—”

Teach waved his hand. “No one is more occupied than you,

Anne. Not my father. Not Patience, and definitely not William.”

“Then they have no need for escape,” Anne said, before she

could stop herself.

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Teach’s eyebrows drew together. “Is that what you wish for?”

Anne could not believe she’d been so careless, and her throat

tightened on any response she might have given.

“Would it surprise you to know that I’ve sometimes wished

the same thing?” Teach asked. “To leave this place and find

out what life would be like on one of those islands Dampier

describes so beautifully? Admit it, you’ve dreamt about it too.”

It was pointless to deny it. Teach had an uncanny ability to

see through any subterfuge with her. “But they’re only dreams.

They aren’t real.”

“They could be. I know you don’t wish to live the rest of

your life under my father’s roof.”

This conversation was far too dangerous. Anne searched

desperately for a way to change its direction. “Every maid wishes for something greater. Take Sara, for instance. I’m sure she’d like nothing more than to stay home and care for her mother, but

she has to work. That’s her reality, as well as mine.”

“But that’s what I’m telling you. I realize you have to work.

You’re a maid, but you’re also different, Anne. You must know

that not many house servants know how to read, yet you do.

I’ve also seen you glance at that gold watch in your pocket when you thought I wasn’t looking, so you must be able to tell time.

I’ve never met a maid who possessed such a treasure.”

It was true. Most commoners measured time by the morn-

ing and evening church bells, the passage of the sun, or the

movement of the tides. Anne’s father had bought the watch on

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one of his trips to London and had given it to her mother. Before she’d passed away, she’d given it to Anne. It was the only thing remaining from Anne’s previous life. That and her memories.

“I didn’t steal, it if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Anne

snapped, a guilty flush creeping into her cheeks.

“I never suggested you did. I’m simply pointing out that

you are unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.”

“I’m sure Miss Patience knows how to tell time.” Anne