Romancing the Pirate (2 page)

“And the fact remains, Charles, that Daniel and Eric
are
gone. This shop is not only my father’s legacy, it’s all I have left of him and, in a roundabout way, all I have left of the brothers I don’t remember.

“From the first time I saw my father shape steel, saw him create something beautiful from nothing, I knew that was what I wanted to do. Did my mother like it? No. But she understood it. You won’t change my mind, Charles. No one can. It would be easier to rip out my heart while I was still breathing.”

He locked eyes with her for a long while. Long enough for the half-burned logs to roll and spark in the forge. Long enough for Alicia to feel the sweat run in a sticky trail down her temple. Then he nodded and went back to work. They said nothing more, though their words hung in the air as surely as the smell of heated steel.

For the past seven days her aunt and a few other well-meaning acquaintances of her father’s had stopped by to offer the same advice. Well, the others had offered. Her aunt had actually ordered Alicia to come live with her. She, like Charles, had discovered that they weren’t the only stubborn ones. The little house and the blacksmith shop were all Alicia had left, and she wouldn’t leave either behind to satisfy someone else’s belief of what was proper.

The town was mostly quiet as she made her way home later that evening. A few children raced by her, leaving the youthful smell of sweat and energy in their wake. The lamps hadn’t been lit yet and long shadows crossed the street. Through windows she saw the glow of light and the flutter of family life. Her feet stopped, and Alicia found herself jealously watching. What she wouldn’t give to have that again.

“Move along,” a harsh voice commanded from behind her.

Alicia spun around. “Pardon me?”

“I told you to move along. These are well-kept houses and the people here make an honest living. Go back where you belong.”

It wasn’t until the man grimaced at her clothes and face that she remembered she was still filthy. Her hands, despite scrubbing, bore the traces of her work and no doubt her face was as grimy as her clothes.

He didn’t move, so Alicia did. Though she held her head high—she wouldn’t apologize for being who she was—she left nonetheless. She turned down one street, then another, until her little house came into view. It was dark and empty. The truth she’d been working hard to avoid suddenly pelted her. Nobody was waiting for her, or would, if that stranger, Charles, and her aunt were any indication, ever again. She was a blacksmith now. And as much as she wanted this life, she knew it would come with a price.

A swelling emptiness engulfed her and she sought refuge in the room her parents had shared. She hadn’t been in it since her father’s death when she’d come to pick his burial clothes. Now, looking about the tiny room, she felt an overwhelming need to be close to them, to the people who’d loved her as she was, without trying to turn her into what they thought she should be.

At the foot of the bed lay a simple trunk. She’d never seen it opened and had never wondered what was inside. But now, desperate to feel a connection to them, Alicia lit a candlestick, placed it on the floor, and knelt before the trunk.

The lid opened easily and with it came the smell of both her father and mother, a hint of smoke mixed with lavender. Sniffling loudly, she began to sort through the contents. There were several trinkets, worn blankets, and a few of her mother’s dresses wrapped in paper. Alicia unwrapped one and pulled out a yellow gown, very plain in design but beautiful in its simplicity. She remembered it had been Anna Davidson’s favorite before she’d died last spring. Standing, Alicia held it upright to see if it would fit her.

Perhaps she could wear it to church, prove to people she could be pretty if she chose.

A small wrapped package fell from within it and plopped onto the wooden floor.

Curious, Alicia set the dress on the bed and picked up the bundle. Turning it over, she saw her name, in her father’s hand, across the front. Frowning, she sat on the bed and pulled open the string that held the package closed.

Inside were two letters. Her name was on the first; the second, bearing her father’s seal, had the name “Blake Merritt” neatly written in the middle. Who was Blake Merritt? she wondered. But she set it aside and carefully opened her letter.

My dearest daughter,

Hearing her father’s voice as she read the words, Alicia had to fight the tears that pricked her eyes.

If you are reading this, then it means I’ve gone to be with your mother. Before I explain anything, please know you were one of our greatest joys. We could not have loved you more.

However, you weren’t always ours. When you were twelve or so, we found you and your natural mother washed up on the beach. You were both hurt. Your mother was very distraught and you, my dear girl, weren’t conscious. Before your mother died, she begged us to keep you safe. She was afraid the pirates who had attacked your ship would learn of your escape and come for you. Your name, and the name “Samantha,” were the last words she spoke.

You were hurt and bleeding, and we took you immediately inside our home. You had a large cut across your cheek, which we tended to as best we could, but as you know, it left a deep scar. We fretted over you for days, and when finally you awoke, you remembered nothing, not even your name.

Looking back, I can see it was selfish not to tell you the truth, but your memory never returned and we had promised your mother to keep you safe. We decided it best to let you believe you’d fallen as a child, and the scar and memory loss were a result of that accident. We wanted to spare you the pain of knowing your family had perished at the hands of pirates.

There’s a plantation on the other side of the island and the owner, Oliver Grant, had taken in three strangers about the same time we’d found you. It was when they all escaped a year later, stealing his ship in the process, that I suspected the truth. There was a young woman among them named Samantha. I can only assume it was the same Samantha your mother had spoken of.

I’m terribly sorry, Alicia, and I hope you can forgive us for our selfishness. You see, we’d already lost Eric and Daniel, and by the time word got round of the other survivors, you were as much ours as you could ever be.

Should you want to seek out Samantha, then take the other letter to Blake Merritt. He’s a good man, and you can trust him. He doesn’t come to Port Royal, but you should be able to find him, or get word of him, in Tortuga.

You’ve often asked me why there’s a white cross at the top of the rise behind the house and who it belonged to. It was cowardly to lie, but that is where your mother rests.

I pray you can forgive us for our deceit.

Lovingly,
Your father.

Alicia stared at the parchment, numb and shocked. For years she’d had bits of pictures or sounds flash through her head. She’d never made sense of them, couldn’t as they were so fleeting and jumbled. Was it her memories that had been trying to resurface? She’d assumed it was dreams.

She jumped to her feet, the letter clutched in her hand. Her head spun. Samantha. The name resonated but she couldn’t say it was because she remembered her; it simply sounded familiar. Was it possible she had a cousin? Could she even have a sister?

And her mother’s grave was behind the house? Her
mother’s?
Which meant she wasn’t Alicia Davidson. Her knees gave a violent shake. Who was she? She tried desperately to remember anything of what her father spoke of, but she couldn’t remember a sister, cousin, or a mother who wasn’t the one she’d buried five months ago.

She placed an icy hand to her forehead, her breath shaking. What kind of person couldn’t remember her own mother?
I’m not who I’ve always thought I was.
And the certainty of that cut deeply. She dropped to the bed. Why hadn’t they told her before, when they could have been there to hold her, to explain? When they could have gone with her to look. When she didn’t have quite so much responsibility.

She had a shop to run now. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, walk away from it. She’d meant what she’d said to Charles—the shop was her world. It was where she’d played, where she’d worked, where she’d stood next to her father and listened with patience and an equal part of awe as he’d shown her about blade smithing.

She didn’t imagine it would be a simple matter to locate Samantha; there must be hundreds of women with that name scattered around the Caribbean. How did one even begin a search such as that? It wasn’t as though she had a well of money she could dip into. The shop made a living but didn’t allow for much else. Besides, she’d never—that she remembered, she thought bitterly—been to sea. She knew nothing of ships and sailing. In fact, she’d never really liked sailing. Was it because she’d hated being at sea or because, deep down, she knew what it had cost her?

Her heart began to hammer, bringing with it a fierce desire to know everything she’d lost. She’d found a piece of that now; how could she not look for the rest? Her tumbling thoughts shifted to the shop and what she’d do with it, followed closely by her aunt and what she’d have to say about all of this.

Margaret wouldn’t approve of Alicia running about the Caribbean by herself, but her aunt wasn’t her concern. Regarding the shop—her heart missed a beat—she could talk to Charles; she’d make him understand. And it would only be temporary.

Alicia sighed. She had to know. She had to find out about her history. Not knowing would be far worse. With a slight tremble in her hand, Alicia grabbed the other letter.

Blake Merritt.

“Well, Mr. Merritt, I hope you’re easy to find.”

Alicia awoke the next morning, after precious little sleep, with a very clear plan in her head. It was ridiculous to go out looking for Samantha until she had as much information as possible. And the only person who could provide it was Oliver Grant. Because it was Sunday and the shop was closed, Alicia had the day to herself and she packed a small lunch into her satchel, threw in a dagger for good measure, and not wanting to alert Charles of her intentions just yet, proceeded to walk to the home of her father’s attorney.

It wasn’t far, but the road offered no relief from the blazing sun and soon her gown was sticking to her back. Her cheeks were hot and no doubt she’d have a sunburn to show for her efforts. Another thing for her aunt to criticize, Alicia thought, kicking aside a stone, which rolled across the dirt into the thick underbrush that lined the route. Although uncertainty trotted through her head about the idea of seeking out Samantha, there was one thing she knew for certain. A reprieve from her aunt was more than in order.

Finally arriving at the tidy home of the attorney, Alicia knocked on the heavy door. He answered promptly and, despite the surprise on his face, invited her in. She gratefully stepped into the coolness of his home.

“I thought our appointment to read the will was tomorrow.”

She held up a hand. “Yes, Mr. Fritz, it is. Or it was. I was hoping we could postpone it, for a little while,” she added.

He frowned. “Whatever for? Your father’s made some provisions, and it’s best if we sort them all out as quickly as possible. There are issues about the blacksmith shop that you need to know.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “I haven’t lost it, have I? I assumed it was mine and—”

“Dear girl, it is yours. But there’s also someone else that—”

Alicia expelled her breath in a rush. Well, if it had to do with Charles, he wouldn’t mind if they waited a few more weeks.

“Thank goodness. You scared me for a moment. Well, then, I think it can wait. What I’m actually here for is to ask if you know where the plantation of Oliver Grant is.”

Mr. Fritz’s forehead creased in puzzlement. “Yes, but it’s rather far. Why do you need to go there?”

“It’s something my father suggested. I can’t explain it any further than that at the moment.”

“You’re alone?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Dear girl, you can’t go there all by yourself. It isn’t right. Does your aunt know you’re here?”

“No. And I’d prefer it remain that way.”

A hint of a smile pulled at his lips. “Well, can’t say that I blame you.” He paused, studied Alicia. “You say your father wanted you to go see Oliver Grant?”

“Yes,” she lied without question. If she was to find Samantha, and in turn, her past, then she’d do what it took to get it.

He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll get someone who can take you.”

It was a stately home, tall and commanding with a carved front door. An assortment of baskets overflowing with vibrant blossoms spread along its porch. The grounds were impressive with their carpet of emerald-colored grass that not a single weed dared to mar. The silence was equally awe-inspiring. Other than the slight breeze ruffling the palm fronds, or the occasional cry of a bird, the stillness was a presence in itself.

Surely it was inhabited to be so well kept, and yet from where Alicia stood at the base of the porch steps, not a single soul was to be seen.

She threw a glance to the end of the road, where she’d asked the driver to wait. The horse stood patiently, swishing its tail lazily; its driver must have been waiting inside the carriage, where it was cooler. Looking once more at the door, Alicia exhaled a breath, placed her hand onto her knotted stomach, then climbed the three steps.

Alicia’s knock was answered by a large black woman with a frown that creased her wide forehead.

“Yes?”

“Hello. I—well, that is …” Alicia shook her head. She’d never anticipated it would be easy to explain what she was looking for, but neither had she expected that the words would lodge in her throat. But if Samantha had indeed been there and had stolen a ship to escape, Alicia wasn’t sure of the reception she herself would receive by asking about her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, forcing a smile and wiping her damp hands onto her skirt. The maid’s face remained stoic. “I was hoping I might speak to Oliver Grant.”

Her large brown eyes didn’t so much as blink. “Ya can’t. He’s dead.”