My Savage Heart (The MacQuaid Brothers) (43 page)

The deep echoing sound of voices outside his cell pierced the gossamer dream. The throngs disappeared, the cheers drifted to nothingness like the mist lifting over Culloden. Revealing the dead and twisted bodies of his compatriots, lying on the rain swept plain. The agonizing screams of prisoners as they were slaughtered by the Duke of Cumberland’s soldiers.

As his cell door swung open with a groaning protest, reality crashed over Jamie like waves over the rocks of the Hebrides. There was no more glorious revolution. Prince Charles was defeated, his once mighty army in ruins, the prince himself... Rumors were rampant. He was dead, said some. Others spoke of his escape garbed as a woman. Still others bragged that he would return to fight again another day.

But it would be too late for Jamie. He was captured and tried. Found guilty of the heinous crime of believing in a lost cause. And sentenced to hang.

Lifting his arm, he squinted toward the light shining into his dark cell. Jamie couldn’t tell who stood behind the lantern till he spoke. Then tears of joy... of hope burned his eyes.

“Father.” His voice was rusty from disuse.

“’Tis a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, James. A fine mess.”

Jamie scrambled to his feet, but his limbs were as out of practice as his tongue. He waited for the light to move closer, his shoulders drooping when it didn’t.

“I warned you of this, James. Do you recall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I told you to put aside your foolish beliefs in that pompous pretender to the throne.” There was a hesitation. “You do remember my words, don’t you?”

“Aye.” Jamie remembered them well. His father’s harangue. His own fevered speech in defense of his actions. Leaving.

Jamie cleared his throat. He didn’t want to talk of this. He hadn’t seen any of his family since he left home to join the Highland army near Manchester. “How is Margaret, and Logan?”

“You’re a fine one to ask such questions. ’Tis no thanks to you that they are safe.”

“I’d never do anything to harm them,” Jamie protested. “Never.”

“You think your stepmother didn’t cry when you left? Do you think your brother, Logan, won’t suffer for your stupidity? But you didn’t care.”

“I cared. I care.” He loved his stepmother in a way he never thought possible when his father first brought her home. She formed a buffer between Jamie and his stern father that had been missing since his own mother died. “Is she coming to see me?”

“Are you mad? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re as mad as your mother was. Margaret wants nothing more to do with you, nor do I. I came to London to try and convince the authorities that I’ve disowned you. That your foolish deeds were your own and not mine.” He lowered the lantern so Jamie could see his scowling face, the features almost demonic in the fractured light. “Lost causes are for fools.”

Then he turned, punctuating his words with the metallic clang of the cell door as it closed behind him.

One

New Providence

July 1762

“I
ain’t sure ye should be goin’ in there, Mistress Anne.”

“Nonsense, Israel.” Anne Cornwall chose to ignore the burly ruffian entering the Shark’s Tooth Tavern. And the loud, raucous laughter that spewed through the door when he opened it. If she thought about what she was going to do for too long, Anne would have to agree with her friend. And she didn’t have that option. Sucking in a breath of air heavy with the smell of tar and brine and rotting garbage Anne raised her chin. “I shall be fine.”

“Hell, I’ll go talk to the bastard. I’ve been in enough of these dives to know me way around.”

“That’s very kind of you, Israel. However, we decided I should plead our case with him.”

Anne didn’t take her eyes off the tavern door to see Israel’s reaction, but she could hear him shuffling his feet and grumbling to himself. And she could imagine him pulling on his scraggly beard as he chewed on the pipe stem that never seemed to leave his mouth.

“Your uncle ain’t gonna like this,” he finally said and Anne could only shrug.

“You’re right of course, but then he shan’t find out about it.” Anne did slant a look his way now and her expression spoke of all the reasons Israel wouldn’t snitch on her to Richard Cornwall. Top on the list was the fact that Israel had sailed her to New Providence in the first place.

With a sigh Anne straightened her shoulders, and patted the dark hair neatly pinned beneath her cap. “We decided this was the only way. And heaven knows something must be done.”

“You decided, ’tis more the truth,” Israel mumbled and Anne tilted her head in acknowledgment. For though Israel was the one who first suggested James MacQuaid might be able to help them, it was Anne who came up with this plan to tell the captain of their plight.

Which she had best be doing. Anne touched the old man’s ragged sleeve. “You’re sure he’s in there?”

“Followed him here meself while ye was rentin’ your lodgin’ from the Widow Perkins.”

“Good. I shall look for a tall man with light hair.”

“Aye, big he is, and with golden ringlets any fine lady would envy.”

Anne started across the muddy street, rolling her eyes and wondering how the infamous Captain MacQuaid would view Israel’s description.

“Don’t be forgettin’ what I told ye,” Israel started his reminder at a yell, then quickly lowered his voice when a passing sailor looked his way.

“I shan’t.” Anne patted the side of her skirts. Beneath the plain petticoats she could feel the pistol nestled in her pocket. The solid feel bolstered her confidence, until she felt a hand clasp around her arm. With a stifled scream she jerked around. “Heaven’s, Israel, are you trying to scare me to death?”

“Just remember to fire it only as a signal. Don’t go tryin’ to kill no one.”

“Of course I won’t.” Anne patted his arm again. Mustering her courage she stepped into the puddle of light from the swinging lantern over the tavern door. Her last words before she reached for the latch were tossed over her shoulder. “Don’t fret so.”

Stepping inside the Shark’s Tooth was like entering another world. Anne imagined hell might be something like this. Loud and boisterous, the air heavy with smoke and odors she couldn’t begin to identify. She stood a moment, back pressed to the door’s splintery wood and looked about her. Her eyes burned and she squinted, trying to find the man she sought.

The golden-haired Captain James MacQuaid.

Anne peered around the crowded room, thankful no one apparently noticed her yet. They were all too busy doing Lord knew what. Drinking and yelling and wenching, she revised as each individual scenario came into focus. Anne swallowed down her revulsion. Before she entered this den of iniquity she feared she would be the only women inside. Now she wished she were.

For the other females were obviously loose women, lost souls who strutted about with their breasts bared, hoping to attract the attention of the equally immoral men.

Anne shook her head and forced her attention back to the problem at hand. She needed to find the captain of the
Lost Cause
.

“What have we here?” A beefy hand clasped about her arm and Anne leaned away from the wretched stench of the man’s breath.

She could make her voice ring with authority—a vice she usually eschewed. But now Anne put forth her best effort. “Unhand me.”

Unfortunately the brute didn’t appear to understand or respond to authority. He merely laughed, throwing his massive head back and sending forth gusts of his disgusting breath. And all the while he kept her upper arm manacled in his grip.

When he recovered sufficiently from his mirth to wipe a filthy hand across his streaming eyes he yanked her toward him. Anne found herself pressed against the wide girth of his flabby body.

Screaming for help would do no good. If anyone could even hear her in this cornucopia of sound, she doubted they would be inclined to give her assistance.

The only person who would try was crouched in the shadows outside, and he’d never hear her.

“Now, sweet wench, hows about a kiss for old Stymie? Leastways we’ll start with a kiss.”

His slobbery lips descended and Anne wriggled to get her arm free. Just as his hot breath burned her face she managed to squeeze her hand up between their bodies. The slap of her palm against his cheek seemed to ring in her ears. Or maybe it was only the tightening of his arm that encircled her back making it seem that way. She could hardly get her breath. But she could see the angry sneer on his face.

“That t’weren’t nice, ye bitch. Ol’ Stymie is gonna have to teach ye ta—”

“I’ve come to see Captain MacQuaid!” Anne wasn’t sure what made her say that, but she was glad she did. Stymie’s reaction was immediate. He let her go as if she were suddenly too hot to hold. Anne stumbled backward managing to catch hold of the rum-sticky rung of a chair before she fell.

“Well, now, why didn’t ye say ye was one of Jamie’s wenches?” He grabbed a tankard off the nearest table, a move that provoked the old man sitting there, and took a healthy gulp. “I ain’t one to interfere with Jamie’s pleasures.” He plopped the mug down, spilling brownish liquid over the sides. “Ain’t never had to,” he finished, then shrugged off the hands of the drink’s owner and turned away.

“A moment, please,” Anne called, taking only a small backward step when he twisted his burly head around toward her. “Where is he? Where can I find Captain MacQuaid?”

His response could best be described as a grunt, but he pointed toward the back corner before he took a swipe at the grizzled sailor who still clung to his elbow.

Anne didn’t stop to notice how that altercation ended. She wended her way in the direction the bully indicated, keeping her head down and her eyes averted. Biting her lip to suppress an angry tongue-lashing, Anne did her best to ignore the offensive slap that landed on her bottom. Luckily whoever touched her didn’t repeat it or grab her.

The back table was long and littered with dirty tankards. A candle stub flickered in hot tallow giving off just enough light for Anne to see a huge blackamoor, naked to the waist and a stiff-lipped man dressed in a black waistcoat and jacket, with a whiter stock than she expected to see inside this establishment. There was another man seated between them, but he was mostly hidden by the two “ladies” who had attached themselves to him.

But Anne paid him little heed. She addressed her remarks to the stone-faced gentleman who wore a powdered wig. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Captain MacQuaid?”

“Who’d be wanting to know?”

Her manners seemed ill spent in this place, conferring with these people, but Anne nevertheless tried to remember them. The person to whom she spoke focused his one good eye straight ahead, not choosing to look at her, while the blackamoor stared her way. The third man hadn’t paused in his quest to roam the entire length of one of his friend’s thighs. His other hand, large and surprisingly well-shaped and clean rested on the buttocks of the woman nestled between his legs, her bosom pressed into his face. She didn’t even have the decency to muffle her moans.

Shifting her weight and trying not to squirm, Anne introduced herself to the black-garbed man. But it was the blackamoor who spoke.

“I’d be leaving this place if I was you, Mistress Cornwall.”

His voice was deep and almost kind, despite the rows of fierce-looking tattoos that crisscrossed his sweat-slick countenance.

Anne swallowed. “Thank you for your concern, sir. However, I traveled a great distance to converse with Captain MacQuaid. So if you would kindly—”

“Suppose the good captain does not wish to take part in this conversation?” This from the man devouring the woman’s nearly exposed breasts. His words were slurred by a bit of Scottish brogue, and more than a touch of drink. But though his movements had stopped, he’d yet to look up. Nor had the man in black glanced her way. Only the blackamoor stared at her.

Anne focused on each man in turn, then returned her gaze to the one in the center. “I doubt the term ‘good’ is ofttimes used to describe Captain MacQuaid. However, I should hope he has the decency to at least acknowledge my presence and tell me himself whether or not he wishes to speak with me.”

The head jerked up, a tumble of golden hair fell forward and Anne found her gaze locked to one of bloodshot blue-green eyes. Both women voiced displeasure as he motioned for them to leave. The buxom serving girl who scurried from between his legs gave Anne a scowl as she pushed past. Her breasts strained against the flimsy linen. They were also pink and wet from his mouth. When she caught Anne staring her tongue came out to moisten her lips. “Don’t be selfish with him, girly. There be plenty of Jamie to go ’round.”

This brought a titter of laughter from the other woman and when Anne, red-faced, turned back toward the man, a grin came from him.

Now that the women were gone, he shoved his chair back, balancing it on two legs and took his time to peruse Anne from head to toe. The look he gave her made fresh blood race to shade her cheeks. Still Anne refused to turn away. Though she assumed he found her lacking compared to the two tavern wenches, it made no difference at all to her. Her plainly cut gown was serviceable, and certainly not meant to attract attention.

She cleared her throat, when he refused to cease his perusal. “Are you indeed Captain MacQuaid?”

He seemed to consider the question a moment, then pushed forward, landing the front chair legs on the floor with a bang. “Aye.” He leaned bare elbows on the table. “And why is such as you wanting to know?”

Anne still stood on the opposite side of the table from the three men, none of whom had the decency to stand or offer her a seat. This Captain MacQuaid wasn’t anything like she’d expected. He seemed much younger than she would have thought, though in the dim light, it was hard to distinguish his age. And, of course, he was ruder. She took a step forward. “I’ve come to ask your help.”

Well, if nothing else this remark gained the attention of the one-eyed man. He twisted his head to turn the full focus of his pale blue orb on her.

The man whose assistance she sought merely threw his head back and laughed, a deep booming sound that was nearly as unsettling as his stare. When he stopped, it was to again let his gaze drift over her.