Too Sinful to Deny (21 page)

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Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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Empty.
Even the dust was missing.
He slammed the current logbook closed and strode for the door before the captain showed up and thought Evan responsible for the thievery. He tried to think of a logical explanation. Without the threat of retribution, the crew wouldn’t have stolen any log sheets, simply because they didn’t care. What was a jack to do, frame a favorite itinerary in his bedchamber?
Evan headed back to the main deck, his steps as slow and plodding as his brain. He had to be missing something. Well, obviously he was missing something.
Many
somethings, going back well before Evan ever joined the fun. If he could just read what was written on the pages, maybe he’d finally understand what was happening. Of course, he’d have to find them first. Given he hadn’t had any luck finding one missing sheet, chances were low he’d happen across all the rest.
Frustrated and discouraged, he rejoined the crew. Their ribald jokes were sure to raise his spirits, if only for the duration of the journey. The sheer joy of smuggling goods across international borders would take over from there.
But the crew was neither ribald nor joking. They were unsettled. Anxious. Worried.
Evan approached with caution, keeping a fair bit of distance as he remembered Ollie’s nervous comment that this voyage would be cursed. Ha, ha, ha. Sailors were always a suspicious lot. And setting sail with the worst of them when they were of a mood—particularly with the sea in high dudgeon, as it was tonight—might not be the wisest of choices.
The voices grew louder.
“You really think so, then, do you? I don’t know . . . Wouldn’t the cap’n have said so if he were?”
“Why would he, ye fool? Right before we hoist anchor? Captain’s the last cove as would curse a ship about ter set sail.”
Curse.
There was that word again.
“Bothwick’s brother hasn’t been about either, in case you haven’t noticed. Supposin’ it’s not true, then. Supposin’ the two of them ran off together.”
“Whereabouts, Gretna Green? You’re a right cork-brain tonight, Jimmy.”
“Look here, both of you—Bothwick’s at the foremast, and you know his brother’s never more’n eight feet from him. Sure as pudding, he knows what’s what.”
“Bothwick,” one of the hands called. But Evan was already on his way over. “Is it true Red ain’t coming back?”
“We heard he was steering the big ship in the sky,” said another.
“Dead, rather,” put in a third. “As a doornail.”
Evan stared at the gaggle of water dogs, suddenly conscious of how a man could be driven to bang his head against the forecastle until he passed out. He hadn’t required clarification for “big ship in the sky.” What he required, right about now, was a quiet place to go and think. And perhaps a tall glass of whiskey.
He leaned against the mainmast and resigned himself to finishing this conversation sober.
“Red’s dead?” he asked. “Says who?”
“His sister.”
“She got it from that other girl. Samson, or something.”
“Stanford, you numbskull.”
Evan snapped up straight. “
Stanton?
”
A chorus of nods. This was making less sense by the second.
“Miss Stanton told Miss Grey that Red wouldn’t be coming home, on account of being dead?” he demanded, trying to put the pieces together in a coherent fashion.
“That’s right,” the jack called Jimmy agreed. “Told her to go forth and carry on without him, she did.”
Evan stared at them. “But how would Miss Stanton know he was dead? How would she know Red in the first place?”
“That’s what we’re asking
you,
mate.”
“She even called him by both his names, she did. Looked ’ arriet dead in the eye and said, ‘Now, yer brother Joshua—well, there’s them that call him Red, now, ain’t there. Any case, he’s a right cold one, he is. Reckon he won’t be coming home.’ Clear as that.”
Evan blinked. He’d forgotten Red’s name wasn’t really Red—if Evan had ever known the man’s given name to begin with. While he doubted he’d just been treated to a precise accounting of the dialogue, if Miss Stanton had been in possession of such an intimate detail as the pirate’s Christian name, that would make her . . . well, suspicious. At best.
What if that simpleton Forrester wasn’t the one Evan should be worrying about? What if someone far more pernicious—someone actually
clever
—was keeping him under her watchful eye for reasons he couldn’t begin to guess?
The captain strode aboard, giving Evan no chance to reason it through.
Time to work.
Up went the anchor and the sails. Out went the booms and the bowsprit. Around spun the tiller. And they were at sea. At last. Waves crashed against the hull. The ship groaned and wheezed as the keel tilted drunkenly with the raging currents. Water splashed aboard. Men cheered.
Eventually the ocean calmed, and the crew relaxed. A few went belowdeck in search of whiskey. Evan chose to stay where he was, portside, staring toward the invisible horizon. A dozen stars braved the blackness of the night. Cold wind tugged at his hair, chapped his lips. The familiar scent of saltwater rose and fell with the waves lapping at the side of the ship.
He
did
believe in the gods of the sea. How could he not?
Purposeful footsteps indicated the captain’s approach. Evan turned.
“Captain.”
“Bothwick.”
A strange silence stretched between them. The captain regarded Evan with his cool blue gaze, drew in on a fat cigar, and seemed well inclined to just let the silence continue.
He wasn’t going to mention the missing shipmates, Evan suddenly realized. The crew was right. The captain had to know Timothy was dead—it had happened right on this ship, and
somebody
removed his brother’s body. The captain knew, was looking Evan straight in the eye, and wasn’t going to say a word.
Which meant Red wasn’t “missing,” either. He could only be dead.
Nobody’d had the slightest clue . . . except, apparently, Miss Stanton. Come to think of it, all of this—whatever
this
was—started happening the same night she appeared at Ollie’s house. Coincidence? Perhaps Timothy was right not to believe in such things.
Who
was
Miss Stanton? She was definitely not the featherbrained socialite she’d first seemed. Was she truly Lady Emeline’s cousin, as Ollie had claimed? It’s not as if Evan could ask Ollie’s wife to confirm or deny the familial connection. He’d never even met the woman. According to Ollie, his wife was too infirm to leave her sickroom or entertain guests.
Come to think of it, every detail Evan had thought he “knew” about Miss Stanton had all been according to Ollie. Who was looking less and less like a reliable source of information.
What if Miss Stanton wasn’t working her wiles on Evan on the magistrate’s behalf, after all? What if she were doing so on Ollie’s bequest? Perhaps the goal had never been to spy on him. After all, Ollie knew just about every detail of Evan’s life, seeing as the overgrown brute tended to be present for most of the law-breaking moments. What if the goal wasn’t to watch him, but to distract him? To set him off course enough that he got himself killed?
Evan belatedly realized the captain was talking—and that he should’ve been paying close attention.
The captain was discussing the last mission. The last
known
mission. The one Timothy and Red went on before striking out on their own and getting killed for their insolence. The one whose spoils had appeared and disappeared from Timothy’s entryway in a matter of days.
“—an equally fine collection this time,” the captain was saying around a curl of cigar smoke. “My contact was quite pleased with the assortment recovered from the last trip. The painted tea sets were particular favorites with his buyers. When we dock, try to load as many of those on board as you can.”
Evan nodded slowly, as much to himself as to the captain. The booty hadn’t been stolen from Timothy’s receiving room, then. It had been recovered from its temporary location and sent on its way. All on schedule and according to plan.
Nothing amiss here, Bothwick. Fetch us some tea sets, there’s a good lad.
Would he be the next to turn up “missing”? Was this his final night aboard ship?
“This may be your last trip,” said the captain, by all appearances reading Evan’s thoughts.
His fingers twitched in response.
“There have been . . .
difficulties
. . . with the crew as of late.” The captain paused to blow a series of smoke rings, as if giving Evan an opportunity to digest those words however he chose.
“Difficulties?” he echoed, attempting an expression of polite interest.
“Among other unfortunate developments, a few important volumes have gone missing from the wardroom bookshelf. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Bothwick?”
“No,” Evan was able to choke out in all honesty. But more than ever, he wished he
did
know what was happening.
“So be it.” The captain’s blue gaze turned calculating. “In any case, I have decided to make a few changes.”
“What kinds of changes?” Evan asked, hoping he sounded more intrigued than suspicious.
“I’m dismantling this crew. For good. We’ll dock in the other cave when we return to Bournemouth.”
Evan frowned doubtfully. “We will?”
The captain tapped the ash from his cigar. “And then we won’t be docking anywhere. I’ve decided not to trust my fortune in the hands of landlocked merchants. When the war ends, there won’t be much use for those who smuggle goods out of France. The rich will buy their baubles directly.”
True enough. Evan had been enjoying the adventure too much to consider how quickly it could all be over.
“So we just say our good-byes and go home?” he asked, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. The biweekly adventures had been a high point in his life the past several months. Until Miss Stanton came into his life. And Timothy left it.
“Not exactly.” The captain puffed on his cigar and regarded Evan thoughtfully. “This here was a pirate ship, you know, before she became a simple smuggling boat.”
Evan gave a short nod. The war had changed everything, made sneaking in boxes of nonsense more profitable and less risky than pillaging on the open sea.
Less gunfire involved.
“Well,” the captain said, “it’s time she returns to her original state. We’ll lay low for a fortnight, to give my contact a chance to sell this last shipment and pay me my coin, and then those who’ll come with me will sail out of here for good.”
Pirates.
Real pirates. The captain was offering him an opportunity to live on the high seas. Permanently. No more paying fair prices to transport illegal goods. From here on out, they’d steal whatever they fancied. Most likely from other ships. Leave no survivors.
Never come home.
Much as Evan couldn’t imagine himself living in Bournmouth indefinitely, the thought of never living
anywhere
—save below the deck of a ship—wasn’t as appealing as it first sounded. If it ever had. The thought of killing innocents in order to ensure no witnesses remained to tell tales . . . Evan hadn’t signed up for that, either. The very thought turned his stomach.
Smuggling was an adventure, a fine joke, a lark. He was never gone more than a weekend, and only twice a month at that. Just enough to keep life interesting. Out-and-out pirating, however . . . Despite the romantic allure of being a wenching, ale-swilling, swashbuckling fortune hunter, pirating was for life. And
forever
was a very long time.
Evan hesitated. Perhaps now was not the moment to voice these concerns.
“You don’t have to make your choice now,” the captain continued, once again eerily close to reading Evan’s mind. “I only want those aboard my ship who intend to stay there. I need a crew I can trust. Most of these water rats will join us”—he motioned behind him with a wave of his cigar—“but water rats is all they are and all they’ll ever be. You and Ollie, now . . . You’re a different breed.”
Evan’s gaze snapped back to the captain’s.
Ollie.
“I want one of you for my first mate.” The captain flicked ash from his cigar. “Poseidon’s got that pleasure at the moment . . . but you boys can work that out yourselves.”
Meaning “joining for life” would be synonymous with “joining for one night” if he didn’t survive hand-to-hand, anything-goes combat with Poseidon, a seasoned pirate, thereby proving his mettle as a single-minded, take-no-prisoners first mate.
Not joining, on the other hand, would mean giving up his chance of ever discovering Timothy’s killer. Evan couldn’t stand the thought of his brother’s murder going forever unavenged. Timothy deserved a proper burial. And justice.
Evan rubbed at his taut neck muscles. “What did Ollie say?”

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