The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2) (5 page)

Captain Teague struggled toward them. He took Jane’s shivering hand and pulled her up to her feet.

“Thank ye, sir. Thank ye,” Jane cried, rising to clutch Chloe like a frightened child.

Chloe, who was equally terrified about the outcome of their well-being, held on to Jane as if her life depended on it. She was well aware that Jane’s life did.

“We’ve hit the rocks.” The captain’s face contorted madly as splintering timber cracked above their heads. He peered upward just as a yardarm broke free and barreled toward them, dragging rigging and canvas that was apt to crush anything in its path. His hair flattened to his face, Captain Teague pushed them backward. Chloe and Jane nearly lost their balance as he positioned his body between them and the falling debris.

When Jane screamed, Chloe said a silent prayer that someone would save them.

Captain Teague offered no hope. “I’m afraid we’re done for.”

There was no question he blamed himself for their fates, though it was apparent the blame should be cast elsewhere. He turned toward shore. Hopefully his men would find safety near the beckoning lights. But Chloe sensed he knew, more than suspected, that wouldn’t be the case.

“If I don’t miss my guess, we’re not far off Coverack,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You’ll have to swim for it, the both of you. I wish more than anything that there was more I could do to help you, but I cannot leave my ship.”

“You mean you
will not
lea—” Chloe choked, unable to finish her sentence as her mind jumped to dramatic conclusions. If the captain didn’t leave his ship that meant he would perish with it, and so would they. No, no, no! She couldn’t allow it.

“Going down with your ship is an absurd notion. We
need
your help. You cannot abandon us, Captain Teague. Jane cannot swim. You must take us to shore.”

“Do you see my men?” He didn’t wait for her response. “They are swimming to shore. Even if our boats weren’t damaged, there still wouldn’t be enough time to get them into the water. No, that time has passed. Now are you going to swim for it, or do I have to throw you into the drink and force you to?”

Jane screamed hysterically.

“Jane! Do not listen to him. You must not give up! Not now. Not ever!” Chloe was in the process of shaking sense into Jane when blood-curdling screams erupted from the shore. The sound was so horrific, it startled Chloe. Her breath caught, and her heart shuddered to a brutal stop.

“What is that?” she asked. Never in her entire life had she heard such agony.

Captain Teague visibly tensed, and the color drained from his face. He moved quickly to the off-kilter railing.

Chloe pulled Jane along, following close behind, determined not to be parted from him. Their only chance of staying alive rested with the captain.

“Christ!” His curse resounded. “They’re butchering them! My men are being cut down before they can even rise from the water!” He threw off his hat and tore at his hair. “No!” He pointed his arm to the men struggling in the waves closest to the ship. “Come back! It isn’t safe!”

Struck numb like a frightened doe, a bizarre urge pulled at Chloe’s soul. She followed the length of the captain’s finger and looked in the direction it arrowed. What had he seen?

As her gaze settled on the welcoming lights moving on shore, moonlight cleared the clouds, stripping her innocence bare.

Jane screamed, and Chloe covered her mouth to stifle her cry as lantern light cast several figures in silhouette. Men thrashed in the water, eager for the promise of safety the land offered. But hulking figures yanked the unsuspecting crewmen up by their hair and either bludgeoned them to death or detained them, holding their bodies underwater.

Who were these murderers? Who would do such a thing?

A tortured sob burst from Chloe’s throat as what was left of the
Mohegan’s
crew floated one toward another, bobbing motionlessly with the tide until they landed lifeless on the beach.

Laughter traveled on the air, a cacophony of maniacal glee as the murderers trudged through the waves, entrapping more victims.

“Captain! Help us!” men cried out.

Captain Teague leaned over the rail and choked up his accounts.

Tears blinded Chloe’s eyes as the tide brought more frightened men closer to shore.
It isn’t real. It can’t be real.
These men had families, futures, loves, and desires. They were men who’d worked tirelessly to bring her safely to Penzance, men who’d listened to her read segments of her beloved book. But God in heaven, it
was
real. And the images firmly entrenched themselves in her soul.

A fractured scream lodged in her throat, the sorrowful wail wedged inside her like a demon, clawing, scratching, threatening to cleave her into pieces.

“’elp them!”

How had Jane found the ability to speak when she’d been struck dumb?

Captain Teague turned toward Chloe and Jane. “We cannot go ashore. Our only hope is to make one of the
Mohegan’s
jolly boats seaworthy.”

“Can they help us, Captain?” She pointed her finger to the men who were fighting the cresting waves, stroking and kicking to keep from getting tossed upon the rocks as they made their way back to the ship.

He craned his neck toward her pointed finger and followed her line of vision. “Yes,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. He climbed over the side, gripping boarding ropes and leaning outward and down with more dexterity than she’d previously granted him, to offer his hand to anyone within reach.

She grabbed Jane’s arm. “Come. We must do whatever we can to help the captain.”

A crewman approached, nursing his head, then slipped on the deck. Jane dropped their belongings and moved to help the man regain a foothold.

Chloe, possessed with a courage and strength she hadn’t known she had, brandished a hand to another man named Flynn, his face bloodied as he ascended the ropes dangling over the battens along the hull to the deck.

“Thank you, my lady,” Flynn said with a timid smile.

“You’re hurt. Let me help you.”

“No time.” Flynn rose, then moved back to the side, gently pushing Jane out of the way to offer his brawny strength to help a man aboard. She recognized him as Doyle.

The
Mohegan
pitched, groaning another death knell, her fracturing hull making Chloe almost believe a leviathan cracked it open from beneath.

Captain Teague shifted his attention from rescuing his men to the ship once more. “Flynn. Doyle. We must try to get one of our boats in the water. We haven’t got long.”

Pfft! Boom!

Jane clutched her chest.

“What is that?” Chloe asked, running to the opposite rail as the whoosh of impact on the sea’s surface echoed in the distance. The deafening roar and what she knew deep down was impotent cannon fire had not originated from the direction of the ship offshore, the one she’d seen following them earlier.

Pfft! Boom!

This time an orange spark of light erupted, highlighting muted canvas as a new obstacle, a silhouetted vessel farther out to sea, sailed closer to their imperiled ship.

Chloe and Jane rushed to the left side of the vessel, facing forward, at the larboard rail. The attacker’s aimed lob hit its target, igniting an inferno aboard the ship closer to shore, whittling their enemy’s shape out of darkness.

Wet, her clothes clinging to her body and her hair plastered to her face, Chloe shivered. Which of these evils posed the greater danger? Drowning in the
Mohegan
as it cracked into pieces; swimming toward shore and possibly getting pounded against the rocks, which also led to drowning; making it to shore only to be bludgeoned to death; or being taken prisoner by either ship battling at sea?

And which ship—the one driving them on to the rocks or the one attacking that ship—posed the greater risk? Did anyone mean to save them or did the men on both ships want the
Mohegan’s
cargo?

KING GEORGE decrees the BLACK REGENT is a menace to society. BEWARE, all who join his ranks, for you will find FREE TRADE is not a lucrative BUSINESS. Your ACTIVITIES will be THWARTED by PREVENTATIVE MEN who will NOT rest until they END the infamous Black Regent’s REIGN!

~
Sherborne Mercury,
30 July 1809

Markwick braced his feet against the shuddering recoil of jolting cannon. “Hold your fire! Keep her steady!”

“Dead aim, Cap’n. She’s a burnin’. Don’t ’spect she’ll give the other’n problems now.” Pye laughed gleefully.

“Could be a ploy,” Markwick said, trying to snap the man back to reality.

“Do ye reckon they ’tend to lure us in, too?”

“That’s a risk we cannot take.” He lifted his mask, positioning it into place over his eyes, and then tied the ends behind his head. “I don’t trust anything about this, Pye, but we cannot allow wreckers to kill innocents. Especially if that ship
is
the
Mohegan
and our runaway is on board.”

Pye turned away from Markwick and shouted orders at their scurrying crew. “Move quickly! Get the cutters in the water and heave-ho! That hull won’t hold together much longer. Those poor souls won’t last.”

Markwick turned toward the shifting heap of broken timber, backlit by lanterns on shore as the wreckers impatiently awaited more victims to silence. On board the ship, which was struggling against the rocks and surf, he spied a few silhouetted forms, most likely what was left of the ship’s crew, waving their hands in desperation.

“Devil doubt it, more than enough of them have already seen the wrong end of a club. We must do whatever we can before the ship breaks apart completely and they drown.”

Pye nodded. “Aye, Cap’n. What be your orders?”

“Watch that ship. If it tries to stop us, send it back to hell.”

“Without ye, sir?”

“Worried you’ll have all the fun, eh?” Markwick put a hand on Pye’s shoulder.

“I’m worried about ye gettin’ killed tryin’ to make sure Walsingham’s sister isn’t on that wreck.”

Markwick hoisted himself over the rail, setting his boots on the battens to prepare for the climb down. “What if she is?”

Pye pursed his lips. “Should we send another boat?”

“Yes. We’ll grab who and what we can. But I don’t want to spend too much time hauling cargo off that ship while another one waits to fight for it just offshore.” He chanced another look in the wreckers’ direction. “Engage, if needed, with successive blows, but otherwise stay your lines and wait for our return. I will not come back until every man, woman, and child is accounted for on board that ship. Understood?”

“Aye. Ye can count on us, Cap’n.”

Markwick nodded curtly. His first mate was reliable and had proven a masterful scholar when it came to ships, especially concerning the
Fury
. And Markwick counted himself quite fortunate, indeed, that Blackmoor had hired Pye, whose strong connections had won them a ship of such superior design.

He turned toward Quinn, a hulking man of Celtic descent whose strength had proven more valuable than brains. “Let’s go. We’ve no time to lose.”

“We’ll not find it easy to keep from breaking on the rocks, sir,” Quinn said as he followed Markwick down the battens along the
Fury’s
hull.

“We’ve got no choice.” If he and his crew were lucky, they could avoid the rocks and stabilize the boat long enough to get the other ship’s survivors on board. They had a favorable wind, at least, and the sea wasn’t particularly choppy. Good God, they had to try! “We’re the only chance they’ve got.”

Once inside the cutter, Quinn proceeded to bark orders. “Oars! Put your backs into it, men!”

Markwick situated himself at the bow and half turned to inspect the two-masted vessel they were approaching, her third mast having snapped in half already. Several sheets of canvas produced high-pitched squeals from their blocks, dancing violently in the wind, no longer taut bellied or heeling but rippling with ear-jarring booms. The mainmast snapped before their eyes, her length barreling down to drape over the larboard hull.

“Aim for that mast,” Markwick ordered. “We’ll use it to bridge the boats.”

“Aye, sir,” Quinn shouted.

The closer they rowed to the disabled ship, the more Markwick weighed the outcome in his mind. How long before the ship succumbed to the forces of the sea and the rocks beneath it, splintering it in two? Would he be able to rescue survivors without risking the lives of his own crew?

Something twisted cruelly in his gut, reminding him that people don’t always get a second chance, even though Prudence and Blackmoor had.

If Chloe was on board that ship and he was able to successfully rescue her, what then? Her letter to Prudence clearly stated that she loved him. She’d cast aside propriety and chased after him, throwing the repercussions of her actions to the devil. No one had ever done that for him before. His mother had died when he was a mere boy of seven years old. His father had soon farmed him out to boarding school. He’d never known unconditional love. Hell, he only knew how to be loyal to friends. And his damned conundrum? Chloe was his friend’s younger sister.

Am I man enough to fight for her, to risk loving the girl who’d grown into a woman right before my eyes, forcing me to distance myself before I lost Walsingham’s friendship?

Spars creaked overhead as a violent tidal surge doused the ship. When the rinse receded, Markwick craned his neck to look high above them. There, the sole intact mast rocked to and fro, threatening the quarterdeck below and the hull’s formidable structure. Good God, nature had done her worst . . .

His heart clenched. Was this foundering ship the
Mohegan
? Had Chloe risked life and limb for
him
? Was she even now struggling to breathe, lying ashore dying, or . . . dead? The Duchess of Blackmoor would never forgive him if that were the case. Chloe had been her mainstay during her period of mourning. Blackmoor would kill Markwick if he failed to ease Prudence’s mind by producing Chloe safe and sound.
He
couldn’t bear the weight of another death on his conscience. God knew he had a lifetime of penance to pay already.

Swells sloshed over the bow of the cutter, the iridescent foam frothing over the gunwale as it cut through the rolling sea as his men—eight in all, including Quinn—pulled the oars.

“Heave-ho!” his quartermaster shouted. “Heave-ho!”

Beads of salt water clung to the faces of his men as they worked, rowing forward and back, their muscles flexing beneath wet calico shirts with each movement. Nearby, the eerie sounds of a ship in distress joined the slurping, sloshing tide as it pounded the wreck’s hull. Groaning timber loomed above them, higher and higher, grinding out an ominous rhythm as they rowed alongside.

“We’ll throw you a line,” a stout hand hollered from above. “Tie off so the surf doesn’t batter you to pieces!”

Quinn shook his head, immediately objecting. “No, Cap’n. If she breaks over us, we’ll go down with her.” He looked at the men stationed at their oars. “Hold her steady, boys!”

His quartermaster was right, but what other choice did they have? “When Talbot and his men reach us, we’ll join our boats together.” Markwick moved across the thirty-four-foot boat, stepping over the thwarts and between his men, gesturing to the other cutter as it approached. “Talbot!” he shouted. “Toss your mooring lines!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Talbot repeated the order and gestured to several men who hefted ropes and threw them across the distance.

Markwick ably caught the rope. “Brace our two boats together, men. We’ll use their broken mast as a bridge.”

He inspected the fractured beam as he climbed the gunwale. A rogue wave splashed over him, and he wrapped his hands around the wooden beam to prevent slipping to his death. He shook water out of his face, then tested the mast’s stability to make sure it would hold his added weight.

“It appears sound!” he shouted back to his crew.

“Help us!” men shouted from above.

“Hold where you are. I’m coming to you!”

Quinn jerked Markwick’s arm. “No, Cap’n. It’s too dangerous. What if the mast gives way?”

“That’s the chance we’ll have to take. Someone has to test it, and it might as well be me. I have to find out if Chloe is on board.”

“She’s ready!” a man with an authoritarian bearing shouted down to them.

Quinn grabbed Markwick’s arm. “Could be a trick.”

“Innocents clubbed to death on shore are not part of any trick.” Markwick shrugged off Quinn’s hand. “I’ll go first.”

He grabbed hold of a precariously angled yardarm, climbing onto the thicker beam, then walked ably across the timber up to the pitching rail. Someone extended a hand out to him. He accepted it and landed nimbly on the ship’s main deck.

“How many are still alive?” he asked no one in particular.

“Welcome aboard.” A large man, done up in officer’s finery, moved forward. He ushered Markwick to the side. “I’m Captain Teague, and I’m indebted to you.”

Markwick quickly assessed the man, acknowledging him with a nod. “Captain.”

“I don’t care why you wear that mask. What is important is that you came to our aid. I cannot express how relieved and grateful I am, sir. I am at your service.”

“No time for pleasantries, captain.” He inspected the battered deck. “What ship is this?”

“The
Mohegan
, sir.”

Markwick’s heart slammed into his rib cage. “The
Mohegan
, you say?”

I made it!
I have found Chloe . . . haven’t I?

He glanced at the haggard faces staring back at him. Chloe’s wasn’t one of them. Hell’s fury, wasn’t she aboard?

The sounds of the ship’s destruction pummeled his ears, loudly heralding the passage of valuable time. Wood ground against wood. Sails yanked against their blocks, protesting their neglect. Waves thundered against the deadly rocks imprisoning the ship, raining slippery spray over the deck.

Angry voices rose in the distance, and Markwick fought to control the bloodlust raging through him.

Am I too late?

“From what ship do you hail, sir?” Teague asked.

Would the truth keep these men from accepting aid? They’d be fools to refuse.

“The
Fury
,” he admitted confidently.

“The
Fury
!” Several cries erupted among the
Mohegan’s
crew. “It is the Black Regent!”

Markwick stared down the men. “What difference does it make who has come to help you?” He turned back to Captain Teague. “Are there any injured aboard, passengers who need particular attention?”

Markwick prayed no one on board had been harmed, but the ship’s sparse crew and crippled condition proved otherwise. Smugglers had wrecked the ship, luring it to the rocks with lead lights. Even now, the scabrous cowards waited on the beach, their carefully angled lights signaling the other ship offshore.

Captain Teague’s shoulders sagged slightly but enough for Markwick to understand the heavy weight the man bore. “Those who survived have minimal injuries.”

“Then we must hurry to get everyone on board our boats so we can transport you to safety. I’m not sure how much time the
Mohegan
has left.”

“There are . . .” Teague hesitated, assessing if he could trust Markwick. “Two passengers take precedence over my crew.” The captain disappeared momentarily, then produced two women. “Lady Chloe, Jane, this man will take you to safety. I give you over to his care.”

At the sound of Chloe’s name, Markwick’s breath caught.
She is here—now—alive!
Would she recognize him? Would she divulge his identity if she did? Impatiently, he waited for Chloe to step out from behind the captain’s large frame. When she did, his first reaction was one of relief. Then, as he inspected her for any signs of injury and found no visible evidence that she’d been hurt, her appearance nearly stole his breath. This was not the Chloe he remembered, the young lady who’d followed him around like a puppy. It had only been a few months but no mere girl stood before him now! A grown woman stood in her place, shivering in a green pelisse that hugged her figure so completely that nothing was left to his imagination.

Upon my soul, she’s magnificent!

No, this was not the high-strung redheaded child he forced himself to remember but a full-figured woman who stared at him like he hung the moon and stars. Fabric molded to her full breasts, clinging to her skin and the hips perfectly suited for childbearing. No wonder Walsingham had ensured her curves were fashionably hidden. If Chloe’s physical attributes had been known, the captain would have never kept suitors, let alone his friends, at bay!

Markwick’s reaction struck him so swiftly, he nearly stumbled backward. Was it the same for her? What did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the pirate or the man who’d never felt more human in his life than he did standing before her now?