The Ransom (46 page)

“So you abandoned them both,” she hissed.

“I made sure the children were looked after,” he said. “Who do you think sent word to Eunice and Isaac that I had left?”

“How honorable.” She huffed, though part of her softened at the revelation.

There was that look again, the one beaming from his eyes, the one that made her feel as if she was a thing of great value. “You cared for them,” he said. “Just as your mother did before you. I loved you for it.”

“And I hated you for leaving them.”

He nodded.

Was the remorse shadowing his face real, or was it just another one of his deceptions? “You kept this from me like everything else. When you knew the one thing I wanted, the one thing I desperately needed, was to be able to trust you—to be able to trust anyone.” Juliana hugged herself and took a step back, battling the burning behind her eyes. Silence, save for the pitter-patter of rats and drip-drop of water, invaded the prison.

“What are those for?” he asked.

She followed his gaze to her valise. “I lost my home. Rowan told everyone about Papa’s death and me running the business.”

He shook the bars and let out a growl that startled her. Iron flakes sifted down to the muddy ground. The guard rose to his feet. Juliana waved him back down.

“Where will you go?” Alex finally asked.

“I’m staying at the orphanage for now. Some of the children are sick. A few of them very sick. And Eunice and Isaac need my help.”

Alex’s brow darkened. “Has a doctor seen them?”

“None will come. I don’t know what we’re going to do. Little Michael has been ill for nearly two months.”

“Blast those pretentious doctors!” Alex shook his head and stared at the dirt. “I wouldn’t bother asking God for help.”

Much to her shame, Juliana hadn’t even thought of it.

“Juliana.” The tender way he said her Christian name drew her gaze up to his. Yearning and guilt and sorrow battled on his features. “I wish things had been different. I wish I weren’t locked up and I could help you … take care of you.” He reached his hand through the bars.

“I can take care of myself.” Yet the defiance she forced into her tone faded into a quaver. “Trusting others has only done me harm.”

He stretched his hand toward her. “I am to die tomorrow. Please let me touch you one more time.”

Everything within Juliana longed to go to him, to feel the roughness and strength of him, his warm breath on her face. Just once more. What harm could it do to honor this pirate’s last request? She stepped forward.

The strength of his hand enveloped hers, heating her senses and thrilling her heart. She came alive, as if she were the tinder and he the spark. His unique scent of cinnamon and musk broke through the odor of sweat and filth and filled her nose with promise—with dreams of a different ending to their story.

He rubbed a callused finger over her palm. “I am so sorry, Juliana. I hope you can forgive me one day.”

She swallowed, her anger dissipating at the thought that this man before her, so vibrant and strong, would soon be no more—that the intensity in his eyes would grow cold and fade. She could not bear it. A strand of hair shifted over his cheek, and she longed to brush it aside. “I do forgive you, Alex. But I could never trust you again.”

Reaching up, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “Then, mayhap, ’tis better I die.”

She broke from him. She had to leave now or she never would. “Go with God, Alex.” Then turning, she grabbed her things and hurried away.

♥♥♥

Pressing his face against the cold, hard bars, Alex watched Juliana leave—an angelic swan floating on a sea of sludge—until a corner stole her from view, leaving him in the darkness once again. Alone with the rats and cockroaches and the moans of men who had long forgotten what the sun felt like on their faces. A chorus of whistles and scurrilous invitations followed her through the prison until all grew silent.

When she’d first appeared, he thought surely he must be dead, but then he quickly realized where he was going there’d be nothing as beautiful as Juliana. A vision, perchance, a dream? But then she’d whispered his name, and the dream became reality, sparking his heart back to life.

He could think of only two reasons she hadn’t come to see him the past month: some tragedy had befallen her—the thought of which had cost him many a night’s sleep—or because he could no longer help her, she had no need of him. Day after day, he’d oscillated betwixt fear and anger. Both emotions so overpowering, they finally twisted into one huge knot of frustration.

In the end, ’twas his association with the orphanage that had destroyed any regard she harbored toward him. Not the pirating, not Munthrope’s silly antics, nor even his deception. Just the one thing for which he still felt deep shame. He deserved her scorn. He deserved hell for what he’d done. Which was precisely where he was heading on the morrow.

Regardless,
if
there was a God, Alex should thank him for allowing him to see Juliana one last time. For allowing him to feel her satiny skin, breathe a whiff of her sweet scent, drink his fill from those sea-blue eyes. Though he’d never really have his fill—not even with a lifetime of gazing at her.

Curse her wastrel brother. Alex took up a pace. If Rowan had been an honorable, hard-working man, he could have taken over the business, and Juliana’s future would not be at stake. Curse Nichols for locking Alex in this infernal prison! Curse Larkin for his betrayal! Halting, Alex shook the bars until the iron cut into his skin and blood dripped down the spokes. Juliana needed him now more than ever, and he was as helpless as one of the cockroaches skittering across the wall. Even worse. For he was locked behind an iron gate. The loss of his freedom, a fate worse than death.

At least tomorrow, he would be free.

Sinking to the damp floor, he leaned against the wall and drew up his knees. Cold stone seeped into his skin, sending a shiver through him. How had he ended up in this horrid place? The great Pirate Earl. The invincible master of the seas. He snorted. Not so invincible after all. He wondered where his father and mother were at this moment. Still in England dealing with family business? He wished he could see them one last time, to say goodbye and tell them how sorry he was that he couldn’t be the preacher they’d hoped he would be. More than anything, he regretted the depth of their suffering when they would discover he’d been hanged for piracy. They would wonder where they’d gone wrong. How a child raised in such a godly, loving home could have strayed so far from the faith.

They would not find the answer, for Alex had none himself. No excuse. His parents had loved him. They’d instructed him, guided him, cared for him. He had fond memories of sailing with his father and sword-fighting with his mother. Aye, he chuckled. Odd as it sounded, Lady Charlisse was quite good with the blade. Problem was, those memories were few. Most of the time, his parents had been gone. “Saving the pirates,” they had said. “For God.”

If Alex were honest—and a man about to die always was—he supposed he’d grown up not liking this God who’d stolen so much of his parents’ time. Even so, when his father had sent him to Port Royal to preach and care for the orphans, Alex had truly wanted to succeed. He’d wanted to make his father proud. Mayhap then they could all sail the Caribbean and preach to the pirates together—as a family.

But God had not been with Alex as he’d always been with his father. The Almighty had not answered Alex’s petitions. He had not done what the Bible said he would: heal, deliver, save. Mayhap like Alex’s parents, God was off doing more important work. More important than helping him. Either that, or he did not exist at all. Which meant Alex’s parents had risked their lives, wasted decades of their time, and abandoned Alex and his sisters—all for naught.

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

 
What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun?

Alex was surprised he remembered these verses from Ecclesiastes.

For what hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun? For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night. This is also vanity.There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour.

Which was precisely what Alex had done. He’d forsaken this invisible God and plunged into a life of eating, drinking, and sensual pleasures. For if God was dead, what else was there? What other purpose was there in the short days of life than to seek to please oneself? If there was no judge, no afterlife, what difference did it make if Alex robbed and murdered and drank himself into oblivion?

A bug scrambled across the sticky floor. He squashed it with his boot. “I did you a favor, mate.” For Alex had discovered, much like King Solomon in Ecclesiastes, that no matter how much wealth one had, no matter how many possessions, or power, or women, there was naught but emptiness. All was vanity.

Until Juliana.

Now, he’d give anything to live and spend his days protecting and loving her.

He rubbed his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, God, what have I done? If you’re there, if you care, please help me.”

It was the first prayer he’d uttered in four years.

And just like with all the others, God was silent.

The eerie drip of water continued, the flutter of cockroaches. The man two cells down belched loudly, and cursing echoed from somewhere deep in the prison. A rat approached Alex’s cell, stood at the bars on hind legs and sniffed, then dropped to all fours and went on his way. Even the rats couldn’t stand the sight of him. How could he expect God to pay him any mind?

Footsteps sounded. Not the heavy boot of the guards but a soft pad that gave him hope Juliana had returned. But instead of her lovely face, a man approached. A simple man wearing a homespun shirt, faded breeches, and buckled shoes. Despite his common attire, he moved with the grace of royalty. Though he was short and spare, authority seemed to emanate from him as he stopped in front of Alex’s cell. A magistrate? A member of the Jamaican Council? ’Twould explain why nary an insult or jeer had been tossed his way as he’d passed the gauntlet of prison cells.

Lantern light revealed an expression of kindness on his face, so foreign in this pit of misery and despair.

Alex grew uncomfortable at the man’s perusal. “What do you want?”

“I have a message for you, Alex.” The man’s voice bore the peace of his countenance.

Alex leapt to his feet and approached. “From Miss Dutton?”

The man merely stared at him, an odd approval, an odd welcoming, beaming from eyes that seemed brighter than most.

“Well, spit it out, man. As you can see, I’m quite busy at the moment drowning in self-pity.”

“He has never left you.”

Alex eyed him. “Who?”

“The One who knows all.”

Alex blinked as his spirit leapt within him. But then releasing a heavy sigh, he turned away. Of all the prisoners to taunt, this muddle-brain had chosen him. He faced the man again, intending to tell him to go bother someone else with his lunacy … but the man was gone. Vanished. No doubt he’d slunk off as quietly as he had come.

Alex shook his head. Just some guard heavy into his cups, ’twas all. But the man hadn’t dressed like a guard, hadn’t walked like a guard. His eyes had not borne the haziness of spirits, nor his words their slur. Alex rubbed his eyes. A foolish vision. Then why did his heart stir? Why did hope flicker within? Returning to the shadows, he sat back down, his thoughts awhirl with possibilities.

“God?”

Warmth flooded his chest and sent ripples down his spine. Warmth like he’d never experienced. Not a physical warmth but a sensation that went much deeper and woke up something inside him long since dormant.

His breath crashed against his chest, his blood raced through his veins. “God?” Yet only darkness and shadows surrounded him. Still the warmth continued as if someone were embracing him. Tightly. Lovingly. Overcome with the sensation, he hung his head, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

Chapter 36

Juliana laid the cool cloth on Michael’s forehead, but it seemed to bear no effect on the heat radiating from his skin. Long past midnight, the light from a single lantern enhanced the lad’s sunken cheeks and pale face. His breathing was labored, he oft broke into convulsions, and Eunice said he hadn’t eaten anything but broth for days.

“Oh, God.” Juliana dropped her head in her hands and allowed her tears to flow. “Please. If you answer any of my prayers, I beg you to answer this one. Please save this child. He has done nothing wrong. Please heal him and Mable and Gordon and Moses and Arabella.” Arabella being the last child inflicted by the strange disease. They’d placed these four in a smaller room, separate from the rest of the children, desperate to contain whatever ailed them.

She thought of the story Alex had told her. How he’d fasted and prayed and begged God to heal one of the orphans, but the child had died anyway. Would God allow the same thing to happen now? “Where are you, Lord? Where were you then?” If God had answered Alex’s prayer back then, mayhap Alex wouldn’t have turned to piracy. And then he wouldn’t be facing a brutal death on the morrow.