The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2) (17 page)

“You”—he pointed his finger at Pye—“work better with a firmer foundation underfoot, and you know it. You’re the heart of this crew. If anything happens to me, take command, send a party to retrieve Lady Chloe and Jane from the Marauder’s Roost, and deliver her directly to His Lordship.”

“Aye, sir,” Pye agreed, shaking Markwick’s hand. “You can count on me.”

Markwick turned his attention to Quinn. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed Quinn’s massive forearm when the man started to leave the quarterdeck. “Let the men know to insist that Captain Walsingham accept our hospitality. Chain him up. Cosh him over the head, if you have to. Teague went down with his ship. I will not allow Walsingham to do the same. He
will
be returning with us, one way or another.”

“Aye, sir.” Quinn frowned disapprovingly, then pivoted his boots toward the entry port rail. He hailed several men to accompany him down the battens.

The men followed like a trail of ants foraging for food.

Markwick rallied a second group of men under crew members Evans and York. Barefooted and well-armed with pistols and cutlasses, both men followed, scaling down the battens to the launch and pinnace tied to the
Fury’s
hull. Once there, the clunk and grind of oars began as the boats shoved off, then dipped and splashed in the cresting swells.

On the open water ahead, the
Windraker
, which was now a former shell of her master’s pride, creaked and moaned, her timbers protesting under the strain as pressure built up in her hull and she took on water. Sail and tackle fell onto the deck, clattering like writhing snakes. Jagged oak and teak beams jutted out at dangerous angles.

On her quarterdeck, Captain Pierce Walsingham rallied his men, gesturing toward the approaching boats, guiding his men to their one surviving jolly boat to escape the sinking vessel before they were swept under with her.

Cries for help reached their ears at different intervals, and one by one, Markwick’s crews hauled the injured aboard on their way to the foundering ship. Upon their arrival at the ship’s damaged hull, they stationed their boats and shouted to those who could hear them.

Walsingham stood on the
Windraker’s
shattered deck. When he caught sight of Markwick, he hailed him. “Have you come to finish us off, Regent?”

“Murder isn’t my style,” he said.

Walsingham stiffened and turned white as a sailmaker’s canvas. His frown turned menacing. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night, pirate?” He fingered the hilt of his sword and began to unsheathe it.

“No. It is who I am.” Markwick raised his arms to the back of his head, grinning as Walsingham’s irritation grew. He untied his mask and slowly lowered it.

“Markwick?” Walsingham staggered back, nearly losing his footing. “It can’t be! No.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it. If you are . . . That makes us—”

“Friends,” Markwick finished for him.

“I am no pirate’s accomplice.” The revenue man shifted his front leg forward, his cold-blooded stare blazing something akin to hatred. “It has been
you
all this time.” He hesitated, frowning, brow furrowed, a look of utter confusion and betrayal marring his features. “How you must have laughed at my expense!”

“There’s no time to explain.” Walsingham needed to be prodded back to clarity and fast. “I have something you want.”

“You?” Walsingham quirked a superior brow. “Besides a working ship, what could you possibly have that I’d want?”

“Your sister.”

EXCISEMEN, pressured by HIS MAJESTY, have stepped up PURSUITS of CARNAGE often to DISADVANTAGE on the sharp slate ROCKS of the MANACLES.

~
Sherborne Mercury
, 6 August 1809

Stopped at the edge of a clearing, and within view of the inn, Chloe’s annoyance at Owens increased as he conferred with his men. What were they waiting for?

“We’ll enter the inn at different intervals so we don’t look suspicious.” Owens motioned to Madden and Jenkins. “I’ve instructed Madden and Jenkins to signal us if it’s safe. They’ll go first.”

“Aye, sir,” they replied, immediately moving toward the inn.

Chloe felt an immediate sense of loss, even though the two men had tied her up and taken her from Markwick’s ship against her will. They were crude, loyal pirates, and Pierce had warned her to listen to her instincts. At this moment, they were screaming for a return to the cove, and she knew her chances of survival were better with those two men.

“Why must we go in separately?” she asked. “What’s wrong with us traveling together?”

“The Cornish are an insular people, my lady. They don’t trust strangers. We haven’t got horses to water and a post-chaise hasn’t delivered us here. It’s best if we go in groups of twos and threes, especially with the fracas happening below.” He inhaled a deep sigh. “Don’t fret.”

His desire for her not to worry only increased her discomfort. She wasn’t a simpleton. In fact, he’d take offense if he knew what she thought about his plan.

The two burly, unkempt men stepped away from the tall-hedged ridge, glanced around, and then shiftily moved across a grassy heath leading to a cobbled courtyard. Beyond the enclosure stood several stone buildings connected by a gate and well-worn paths. A sign hung above the main entry, squeaking an eerie rhythm as it rode the breeze, its inscribed message announcing the thatch-roofed building was indeed the Marauder’s Roost.

Iron lanterns, tarnished by time and the elements, swung from the building’s beams. Candlelight streaming through uneven slats in the shuttered windows promised Chloe and Jane sanctuary from the cold, bitter wind, and a place to lay their weary heads.

Chloe bit her lip and shivered, longing to warm her fingers and toes beside a roaring fire. And she couldn’t hold back her impatience when she saw that Jane was suffering more than she was, if that was possible. “If you insist on us seeking sanctuary here, how long must we wait? Jane is catching her death.”

Owens didn’t acknowledge her until Markwick’s men entered the building. “Until I know it’s safe, my lady.”

Chloe released a pent-up breath. She grabbed Jane’s hands and rubbed warmth back into them. “Won’t it be good to sit by the fire, Jane?”

“Oh yes, m’lady.” Jane, her shoulders stiff and unyielding, was clearly trying to control her quaking body. “I never thought I’d be so ’appy to see a stone cottage before. And I don’t think I’ll complain about ever being ’ungry again in my life.”

Chloe hugged Jane to her side. “In this we are of one accord!”

Madden emerged from the doorway under the guise of stomping the mud from his boots. He hailed Owens with a salute.

The boatswain turned to face Chloe and Jane. “Stay with me. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about the reason for your presence here. Understood?”

She understood all right.
This is a dangerous place!

“Danger has many faces, Chloe,” Pierce had once told her. “Listen to your instincts.”

“What are you asking us to do?” she said now, her senses humming. “Lie about our circumstances
if
we are asked?”

“No, my lady. But we have no way of knowing how the battle at sea has affected
them
. They are bound to have heard the cannons and will likely be leery of those who happen upon their door.” Owens touched his chin thoughtfully. “Just keep to yourselves. That’s all I ask. I’ll do the rest.”

Fiske grumbled. “Move along, then. I’ve worked hard for a tankard of rum, and I’m eager to get it.”

Owens stiffened. “You’ll get your rum. But I’ll take the ladies first. Wait several moments before following us inside the Roost.”

“Aye.” Fiske’s eyes gleamed, giving Chloe the impression that the seaman wasn’t listening. Would he make trouble for them?

She tried to ignore the prickly sensations snaking over her body as she glanced around the barren landscape. “I wonder how many people stray into an inn like this . . .”

“Stranger things have happened, believe me.” Owens gave her a reassuring nod. “Now remember what I said about keeping your mouths shut.”

As they left their hiding place, a gust of unforgiving wind caught Chloe and Jane off guard. Jane lost her footing, and Chloe reached out an arm to right her. Each woman pulled her pelisse collar higher over her neck as their staccato footsteps echoed throughout the courtyard, the sounds unnatural in this wild, abandoned place.

What a brutal living the people must’ve led here. And what a boon it must be to weary travelers, like themselves, who find it. Not only that but being situated on a cliff face, there was nothing to brace the stones and thatched roof from the elements. How did anyone even
survive
here? She’d heard how cruel these climes could be, how fierce the wind howled, how desolate and alone one often felt perched on these high cliffs with nothing but the sea for company.

Chloe was struck then by the similarities of the Marauder’s Roost and the lonely, dark, eccentric abodes in gothic novels where villainy, secrets, and impassioned affairs of the heart held sway. Would she find such things within the inn as captivating or as frightening as the characters in her books? She prayed fiction and reality didn’t meet here with a vengeance.

Suppressing a shiver, she approached the Roost’s entrance, inspecting three upstairs windows rising high above the doorway. The mere thought of acquiring a bed within caused fatigue to wash over her. Her knees nearly gave way. As tired as she was, however, she didn’t think she could possibly lay her head down on a pillow—if only for a few hours—without closing her eyes and reliving the sounds of death and destruction on the
Mohegan
and imagining that Markwick and her brother were experiencing more of the same. She needed—no, craved—time to pray, hope, imagine, and dream that Markwick and her brother were alive. That her true love would come for her, just as he promised, lavishing her with romantic gestures and speaking soothing words to vanquish the darkness. Until he did, sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

But it was not so for Jane, and it would be inconsiderate of Chloe to ignore Jane’s needs.

Owens exhibited a moment of gentlemanly behavior as he opened the door—a protesting, squealing thing—alerting whoever lurked within that someone was entering his or her domain. The rowdy laughter coming from inside the inn instantly quieted her thoughts before the joyous noise inside abruptly stopped. A number of penetrating, suspicious stares turned toward the entrance to observe the latest additions to the toasty lodgings.

Chloe braced herself against the leather-faced men devouring her person like cannibals salivating over a ritualistic feast. Dressed in coats, sea breeches, untidy scarves, and soiled linen or calico shirts in various states of damage, several of the men merely sat there smoking their clay pipes, watching the intruders. The quiet lasted only a couple of minutes before each man returned to his previous interests, ignoring them as if Chloe and the others did not exist.

A smoky haze filled the main room, and chairs squealed on the worn oak floor. Pewter chinked against tableware and blackjacks—watertight leather tankards covered in pitch—were raised before riotous laughter erupted again.

At the back of the main room, apparently serving as a tavern to locals and travelers alike, a large stone hearth, built out of what looked like a collection of Druid stones, beckoned to Chloe, its coals blazing with spectral flames that were sparking and hissing to life. Owens easily ignored Madden and Jenkins, who were sitting by the bar, as he led Chloe and Jane to a group of tall mahogany benches near the great hearth.

Drawn to its warmth, Chloe stopped before the hearthside stones, selfishly absorbing the heat they provided. Monolithic in size, with two smaller stones bracing the interior, the immense fireplace jutted out from the wall, a monstrous heating source radiating from its throne along an oak-paneled wall.

Jane joined her there, lifting the hem of her pelisse to let her frozen wet toes warm up, then stretched her hands toward the blazing embers with a satisfied sigh.

“Ye’ll both be warm soon enough,” a kindhearted voice chimed nearby.

Chloe skimmed the immense wooden counter to her left, catching sight of a red-haired woman swabbing down the surface. Tall and lean, the arresting beauty had wavy hair loose and flowing over her shoulders and down her back, the crown braided away from her oval face. She appeared almost dwarfed by the massive beams and wooden planks of the bar, which resembled a ship’s stern.

How quaint! Or wicked . . .

Had the decorative cabin paneling and hull ribs with rusted, protruding pins come from a wrecked ship or several wrecked ships? Were these people part of the trade? She groaned inwardly, hating how jaded she was becoming.

Judge not, lest ye shall be judged, Chloe.

It took her a moment to realize she hadn’t responded to the woman’s warm greeting. “Thank you,” Chloe rushed out. She grimaced. Was that strangling sound really her voice? She cleared her throat and tried again. “We are certainly chilled through and through and relish a quick thawing.”

The redhead slanted a dubious look at Fiske and Kelly, who entered the tavern and lumbered over to a table in the corner nearest the door. “’Tis a wicked night to be about on these cliffs. Far too dangerous for a lady as fine as yourself,” the woman said, her gaze settling on the intricate buttons on Chloe’s pelisse.

Images of the
Mohegan
and of Markwick hopping to the deck, heroic perfection coming to her rescue, flashed through Chloe’s mind.

Wicked and dangerous, indeed.

“There are worse things to endure,” Chloe said.

In the barkeeper’s eyes, Chloe saw a whispered sadness she’d only read about in her books. What was it like to live in this kind of isolation? She shuddered, knowing not if it was from the cold or a fear that snaked its way down her spine.

“Aye, ’tis true.” The redhead nodded, her voice a sultry blend of Cornish with a raw and sensual, easy femininity. “Should I send someone to see to your horses?”

Owens rose. “There’ll be no need, thank you.”

“We walked,” Madden offered, making Chloe snap her gaze to him.

What was he thinking revealing that information? Weren’t they supposed to look as if they’d traveled separately?

“Walked? We don’t get too many people arriving on foot here.” Intrigued, the woman’s perfectly arched brow rose, but she wisely asked nothing more. How many times had she dealt with unscrupulous people?

Her attention returned to Chloe, scanning her head to foot, making Chloe fully aware that she wore not just any man’s clothes beneath her pelisse but the Black Regent’s. That knowledge made her stand a bit taller, but it also filled her with dread. During the melee at sea, she’d forgotten the clothes she was wearing. No wonder everyone stared when she’d entered the inn. And she couldn’t take off her pelisse. If any of these men recognized the garments or held a grudge against the Regent . . .

“Rest now, miss,” the soft-spoken barkeeper said. “Ye must be tired from your journey. I’ll bring ye something to warm your bones.”

“That would be lovely,” Chloe quickly responded, hoping to draw attention away from Madden’s irritable frankness. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Jane moved toward their table before turning back to address the woman at the bar. “My mistress ’as gone too long without kindness.”

The redhead nodded, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds, compassion obviously her natural response. “You’ll be wantin’ tea, then.”

Chloe released a heavy, hopeful sigh. “A cup of hot tea would be delightful.”

“Perhaps,” the barkeeper added, “laced with a bit of brandy, too.”

Jane gave a brief nod as if the two women—maid and stranger—resolved to address Chloe’s dilemma.

It would take more than bracing tea for Chloe to forget that Markwick and Pierce were far below the cliffs and in an unknown condition. No, she didn’t think anything so strong existed.

“My name is Oriana,” the woman said, once more breaking through Chloe’s thoughts. “Should ye need anythin’ at all, ye have only to ask.”

Oriana prepared their tea, and Chloe followed Jane to their table, taking her place on the wooden bench across from Owens.

“Oriana seems approachable,” Chloe said, curious.

“She plies her trade, nothing more.” The boatswain frowned. “Don’t get too friendly. Remember what I told you: things are not always what they seem. The people here are very protective and leery of what they do not know.”

How could Chloe forget? Reserve was a plot motivator in every gothic romance. Oriana’s reaction to their presence here relieved all doubt that her intelligent stare missed anything of importance. Occasional glimpses Oriana’s way bore fruit that the woman seemed just as fascinated with Chloe and Jane as Chloe was with the stranger.