The Ransom (8 page)

“I’ll be taking the
Vanity
out tonight, Whipple.”

“Very well, milord. No doubt there are ships desperate for your gentle hand at plundering. When shall I expect you back?”

“A few days.” Alex longed to be at sea—where he could be himself, where life made sense, where he could taste danger and assuage the emptiness inside.

“Do you require my presence?”

“Nay. I need you here. We are hosting a ball next Saturday. Hire a bevy of servants if you must, but I want it to be a lavish affair.”

“And what, pray tell, is the occasion?” Mr. Whipple began picking up Alex’s discarded clothes.

Alex’s gaze shifted south of High Street, where Miss Dutton lived, but nary a light lit the shadowy scene. “A betrothal! Mine, in fact, to a Miss Juliana Dutton.”

Silence met his proclamation. The click of Mr. Whipple’s shoes grated over Alex before the man appeared beside him.

“A wife?” Whipple’s voice rose in shock. “Will you finally put an end to this roistering, milord, or do you dare drag a lady into your sordid existence?”

Sordid?
Alex chuckled and stared at his valet. Barely a handful of dark hair remained atop a head whose expression beneath bore a nobility the man’s status would forever forbid him. Thick shoulders spanned above a portly body that remained strong despite his eight-and-fifty years. “’Tis a favor I am doing her, Whipple.”

One thick eyebrow rose before the man spun around. “Lavishing her with your charm, no doubt? Your astounding wit? Offering her the prestige of your association?”

Alex took another sip of brandy. “Though I hardly owe you an answer, I am protecting her.”

“Pray, who will protect her from you?” The clack of the door sounded as Whipple closed it behind him.

Alex grinned. Indeed. He wondered that as well. Across the shadowy island, trees swayed in the trade winds, adding their soothing chorus to the distant swoosh of waves and rattle of a passing carriage. Down by the wharves—his territory—lights from hundreds of lanterns twinkled in an inverted dark heaven. Yet heaven had nothing to do with what went on there. A tune rode on the wind, along with the
pop pop
of pistols and a hollow scream.

He
was
protecting Miss Juliana. From that horrid man, Nichols. But in truth, he simply wanted to be near her. For two years, ever since she’d entered society, he’d been watching her, unavoidably drawn to her like a moth to a lantern. Even at eighteen she had stood out—a swan among so many swine. Refusing to dress and act like the rest of the bacon-witted minions, she almost seemed as bored as Alex was with the affairs of high society. Also unlike the wealthier of her class, she cared about those in need, spending hours at the Buchan orphanage wiping runny noses and ministering to castoffs that most of her friends wouldn’t even notice should they pass them on the street.

Then, just last night, he realized her charity extended even to trollops. He could hardly believe his eyes when he’d seen her walk into The Cat and the Fiddle. If there was a God, Alex would thank him for putting him in that tavern at that precise time or the lady would have certainly forfeited her purity—or worse, her life. She was either very brave or very foolish. He imagined a bit of both. And such wit! He could spend a lifetime parrying her sarcastic quips.

For years, he’d wondered how to approach the swan without frightening her away. She had made it quite plain that a woman of her caliber and intelligence wanted naught to do with the pompous Lord Munthrope, nor would she associate with the scurrilous Pirate Earl. However, during the past few months, as he’d witnessed her disdain for Captain Nichols, an idea had formed in Alex’s mind, a way to get close to the lady. And tonight he’d pulled it off—beautifully.

But why? Why go to such lengths to spend time with a woman he hardly knew?

Because Alex was so bored. So terribly bored. And she was the only spark left in the smoldering coals of his life.

Chapter 7

An hour later, Captain Alexander Hyde swung over the bulwarks of the
Vanity
and planted his boots on the sturdy oak deck. The night watch and those of his crew who were still awake scrambled to attention before their leader.

“Cap’n, we didn’t expect ye tonight,” one of the riggers said nervously as he shoved an open bottle of rum behind his back.

“I found myself with a sudden thirst for French treasure.” Alex scanned his crew, naught but shifting shadows in the light of a single lantern hung from the main mast. “What say you?”

“Aye!” Shouts rang across the two-masted brig as sailors emerged from below, including Alex’s master gunner, Bait, a massive one-armed Negro whom Alex had fished from the sea last year before the sharks could finish him off.

“Welcome aboard, Captain.” Jonas, his quartermaster, smiled and fisted hands at his waist.

Alex nodded his greeting to his faithful friend—most likely his only friend in the world, besides Whipple. “Is Larkin aboard?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” one of the crew replied. “He only jist arrived. A bit cupshotten, if ye ask me.”

Larkin drunk? What else was new? Alex grumbled as he marched past the men. “Ready the ship. We’ll hoist sail at first light.” Which he reckoned to be in an hour by the looks of the gray lining the horizon.

“Spittal!” He swung to face the cook. “Brew coffee for Larkin. For all of us, in fact. And Riggs”—he turned to the bo’sun—“ensure Larkin is ready for duty.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” The short, squat man dropped down a hatchway that barely fit his wide berth.

Leaping up the quarterdeck ladder, Alex descended the companionway and burst into his cabin, Jonas on his heels.

“Run out of doubloons already? We only arrived in port yesterday morn.” Jonas shut the door.

Alex circled his oak desk, scanning its haphazard contents: open books, quill pens, parchments with odd diagrams of human innards. “What’s all this?” His voice came out coarser than intended.

Jonas slid onto a chair before the desk, one hand fingering the thick brown whiskers angling down his jaw. “You told me I could attend my studies in your cabin, remember?”

Alex frowned, opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of brandy, and poured two glasses full.

“I thought we were having coffee.” Jonas raised a critical brow.

“Indeed. To counteract this.” Alex smiled, then gestured with his cup to the volumes open on his desk. “It would behoove you to remove your physician manuals posthaste.” He cringed as he looked at a drawing of what appeared to be intestines. “Else I cannot vouch they will remain unscathed should we encounter a prize.”

“I will gladly do so, if you will tell me what has got you in such ill humor.”

“You will gladly do so because I am your captain.” Alex snapped back, taking another sip of brandy. He set down the glass and began sifting through the papers and books. “Ah, there.” Finding a cord, he tied his hair behind him. “I fail to see why you study anatomy when you are the best quartermaster to ever sail the seas. You’ll never suffer for lack of employment.”

“Is that what you call this?” Jonas chucked and ran a hand through his thick blondish-red hair. “Odds fish, and here I assumed we were naught but thieves.” Rising to his feet, he snatched a pair of spectacles from the desk and slipped them inside his vest pocket before he began gathering his books.

“I can hardly credit it!” Alex mocked. “We are the king’s men at war with France.” At least that’s what Alex liked to tell himself. Though he supposed it didn’t matter in the end.

“You have no letter of marque.” Sharp green eyes assessed him from within the sarcastic yet kind expression of his friend—the man who had sailed with Alex these past four years.

“A trifle, dear Jonas. A trifle.” Alex gulped the rest of his brandy and handed Jonas the other glass.

The quartermaster refused. “I prefer my wits about me when we go about murdering and pillaging. One of these days we may get caught and face the gibbet.”

Alex tossed the man’s brandy to the back of his throat and shrugged. “’Tis possible I suppose, though highly unlikely.”

“I pray God revives your good sense before then.”

“You may pray all you wish, my friend, but where I am concerned, heaven has always been silent.”

Alex wished heaven was silent four hours later when the
Vanity
heaved through an agitated sea beneath skies bellowing with thunder. Still, the storm was just a minor squall from what he could tell, verified by Larkin, the ship’s sailing master who’d been sailing these seas since before he was weaned.

No worries, then. Alex loved the spicy scent of rain in the air, the force of the wind flapping his shirt as he stood at the prow, arms folded over his chest, boots spread for balance over the heaving deck. What was it about the sea—the wild, adventurous sea—that stirred his soul and heated his blood? He supposed he’d inherited that love from his father, who’d once been the greatest pirate on the Caribbean some twenty-five years past. In fact, his father had rescued his mother off a deserted island not far from where Alex now sailed. Rescued her, and together they had become missionaries to the pirates. But that was a story for another time. For now, Alex liked to picture his father, Captain Merrick, standing in much the same position Alex now stood, commanding his ship of pirates as they scoured the sea for treasure. That was before his father had turned to God and given up the pirate’s life for his namby-pamby religion.

The
Vanity
pitched over a roller, sending spray over the deck. Alex shook the water from his hair, wishing he could shake the memories of his childhood as well. It wasn’t a bad upbringing. He and his two sisters had every need met, a good education, and the love of wonderful parents. When they’d been home. More often than not, his mother and father had been away on some godly mission, leaving Alex and his sisters in the care of wet-nurses and housekeepers. And of course, Mr. Whipple. Each charged on pain of death to keep the youngsters confined in a prison of religiosity and morality that had nearly strangled Alex. And though his parents espoused a loving God when they were around, Alex wondered if the Almighty was as absent from Alex’s life as his parents had always been.

Lightning cracked the retreating dark clouds, followed by a low rumble of thunder minutes later. However, Alex had gained one valuable thing from his father—his ability to command a ship. When Captain Merrick had been home, he’d taken Alex out on
The Redemption
, taught him everything about a brig from keel to keelson: how to navigate, sail, determine weather, read the stars, smell danger in the wind. He’d even taught him how to load and fire a cannon, wield a cutlass, fire a flintlock, and make grenades. And Alex had fallen in love with the sea. For it was upon her waters—and only there—that he’d had his father’s full attention. During those countless hours together, Alex had come to know the honorable man who had sired him. Regardless of his father’s belief in a nonexistent God and his life’s useless devotion to the same, Captain Merrick was a brave warrior. A good man who cared for others.

Alex smiled. Such fond memories. Albeit short ones. For no sooner would they make port in Charleston than his father would leave again on some mission.

Movement broke his musings as Larkin appeared beside him.

“There’s a ship off our starboard quarter, Captain.”

Alex swung about, scanned the horizon, but saw nothing. Yet he trusted the sailing master, who seemed to have a talent for smelling a ship before it ever appeared. “I swear you’re either part fish or part bird, Larkin.” Alex plucked out his scope.

Larkin grinned and snapped dark hair from his face as the ship bucked over a swell and a blast of briny air struck them. Dressed in all black from his leather boots, breeches, and billowing shirt to his silver laced jerkin, the only thing of color on the sailing master was a red cravat and his stark gray eyes. Tall, muscled, and in possession of an inherent charm, ’twas no wonder the ladies flocked toward him like birds to their favored nest. The best sailing master on the seas, Larkin had sailed with Alex for two years, yet a slight hesitancy, an insincerity in his eyes, forbade Alex to completely trust him.

“A sail! A sail!” bellowed from the tops. Before the lookout announced the direction, Alex lifted his glass to the area Larkin had indicated. And there she stood, a three-masted, square-rigged Dutch Fluyt slipping through the turquoise water without a care in the world.

“Three points off the starboard quarter!” came the direction.

Alex shifted the scope to the ship’s colors flapping from the mainhead. French. Good. A French merchantman. Snapping the glass shut, he shared a grin with Larkin. “I trust you’ve not partaken since last night. I need clear heads.”

Larkin gave a shrug. “When have I let you down?”

Thus far, the man had not. Though a residual sting of alcohol still hovered around him.

Alex stormed to waist. “All hands on deck! Helm, hard aport! Up tops and gallants!”

Larkin nodded and turned, bellowing orders to the crew. Topmen leapt into the ratlines and raced up the shrouds.