My Seaswept Heart (2 page)

“Your uncle ain’t gonna like this,” he
finally said and Anne could only shrug.

“You’re right of course, but then he shan’t
find out about it.” Anne did slant a look his way now and her
expression spoke of all the reasons Israel wouldn’t snitch on her
to Richard Cornwall. Top on the list was the fact that Israel had
sailed her to New Providence in the first place.

With a sigh Anne straightened her shoulders,
and patted the dark hair neatly pinned beneath her cap. “We decided
this was the only way. And heaven knows something must be
done.”

“You decided, ’tis more the truth,” Israel
mumbled and Anne tilted her head in acknowledgment. For though
Israel was the one who first suggested James MacQuaid might be able
to help them, it was Anne who came up with this plan to tell the
captain of their plight.

Which she had best be doing. Anne touched the
old man’s ragged sleeve. “You’re sure he’s in there?”

“Followed him here meself while ye was
rentin’ your lodgin’ from the Widow Perkins.”

“Good. I shall look for a tall man with light
hair.”

“Aye, big he is, and with golden ringlets any
fine lady would envy.”

Anne started across the muddy street, rolling
her eyes and wondering how the infamous Captain MacQuaid would view
Israel’s description.

“Don’t be forgettin’ what I told ye,” Israel
started his reminder at a yell, then quickly lowered his voice when
a passing sailor looked his way.

“I shan’t.” Anne patted the side of her
skirts. Beneath the plain petticoats she could feel the pistol
nestled in her pocket. The solid feel bolstered her confidence,
until she felt a hand clasp around her arm. With a stifled scream
she jerked around. “Heaven’s, Israel, are you trying to scare me to
death?”

“Just remember to fire it only as a signal.
Don’t go tryin’ to kill no one.”

“Of course I won’t.” Anne patted his arm
again. Mustering her courage she stepped into the puddle of light
from the swinging lantern over the tavern door. Her last words
before she reached for the latch were tossed over her shoulder.
“Don’t fret so.”

Stepping inside the Shark’s Tooth was like
entering another world. Anne imagined hell might be something like
this. Loud and boisterous, the air heavy with smoke and odors she
couldn’t begin to identify. She stood a moment, back pressed to the
door’s splintery wood and looked about her. Her eyes burned and she
squinted, trying to find the man she sought.

The golden-haired Captain James MacQuaid.

Anne peered around the crowded room, thankful
no one apparently noticed her yet. They were all too busy doing
Lord knew what. Drinking and yelling and wenching, she revised as
each individual scenario came into focus. Anne swallowed down her
revulsion. Before she entered this den of iniquity she feared she
would be the only women inside. Now she wished she were.

For the other females were obviously loose
women, lost souls who strutted about with their breasts bared,
hoping to attract the attention of the equally immoral men.

Anne shook her head and forced her attention
back to the problem at hand. She needed to find the captain of the
Lost Cause
.

“What have we here?” A beefy hand clasped
about her arm and Anne leaned away from the wretched stench of the
man’s breath.

She could make her voice ring with
authority—a vice she usually eschewed. But now Anne put forth her
best effort. “Unhand me.”

Unfortunately the brute didn’t appear to
understand or respond to authority. He merely laughed, throwing his
massive head back and sending forth gusts of his disgusting breath.
And all the while he kept her upper arm manacled in his grip.

When he recovered sufficiently from his mirth
to wipe a filthy hand across his streaming eyes he yanked her
toward him. Anne found herself pressed against the wide girth of
his flabby body.

Screaming for help would do no good. If
anyone could even hear her in this cornucopia of sound, she doubted
they would be inclined to give her assistance.

The only person who would try was crouched in
the shadows outside, and he’d never hear her.

“Now, sweet wench, hows about a kiss for old
Stymie? Leastways we’ll start with a kiss.”

His slobbery lips descended and Anne wriggled
to get her arm free. Just as his hot breath burned her face she
managed to squeeze her hand up between their bodies. The slap of
her palm against his cheek seemed to ring in her ears. Or maybe it
was only the tightening of his arm that encircled her back making
it seem that way. She could hardly get her breath. But she could
see the angry sneer on his face.

“That t’weren’t nice, ye bitch. Ol’ Stymie is
gonna have to teach ye ta—”

“I’ve come to see Captain MacQuaid!” Anne
wasn’t sure what made her say that, but she was glad she did.
Stymie’s reaction was immediate. He let her go as if she were
suddenly too hot to hold. Anne stumbled backward managing to catch
hold of the rum-sticky rung of a chair before she fell.

“Well, now, why didn’t ye say ye was one of
Jamie’s wenches?” He grabbed a tankard off the nearest table, a
move that provoked the old man sitting there, and took a healthy
gulp. “I ain’t one to interfere with Jamie’s pleasures.” He plopped
the mug down, spilling brownish liquid over the sides. “Ain’t never
had to,” he finished, then shrugged off the hands of the drink’s
owner and turned away.

“A moment, please,” Anne called, taking only
a small backward step when he twisted his burly head around toward
her. “Where is he? Where can I find Captain MacQuaid?”

His response could best be described as a
grunt, but he pointed toward the back corner before he took a swipe
at the grizzled sailor who still clung to his elbow.

Anne didn’t stop to notice how that
altercation ended. She wended her way in the direction the bully
indicated, keeping her head down and her eyes averted. Biting her
lip to suppress an angry tongue-lashing, Anne did her best to
ignore the offensive slap that landed on her bottom. Luckily
whoever touched her didn’t repeat it or grab her.

The back table was long and littered with
dirty tankards. A candle stub flickered in hot tallow giving off
just enough light for Anne to see a huge blackamoor, naked to the
waist and a stiff-lipped man dressed in a black waistcoat and
jacket, with a whiter stock than she expected to see inside this
establishment. There was another man seated between them, but he
was mostly hidden by the two “ladies” who had attached themselves
to him.

But Anne paid him little heed. She addressed
her remarks to the stone-faced gentleman who wore a powdered wig.
“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Captain MacQuaid?”

“Who’d be wanting to know?”

Her manners seemed ill spent in this place,
conferring with these people, but Anne nevertheless tried to
remember them. The person to whom she spoke focused his one good
eye straight ahead, not choosing to look at her, while the
blackamoor stared her way. The third man hadn’t paused in his quest
to roam the entire length of one of his friend’s thighs. His other
hand, large and surprisingly well-shaped and clean rested on the
buttocks of the woman nestled between his legs, her bosom pressed
into his face. She didn’t even have the decency to muffle her
moans.

Shifting her weight and trying not to squirm,
Anne introduced herself to the black-garbed man. But it was the
blackamoor who spoke.

“I’d be leaving this place if I was you,
Mistress Cornwall.”

His voice was deep and almost kind, despite
the rows of fierce-looking tattoos that crisscrossed his
sweat-slick countenance.

Anne swallowed. “Thank you for your concern,
sir. However, I traveled a great distance to converse with Captain
MacQuaid. So if you would kindly—”

“Suppose the good captain does not wish to
take part in this conversation?” This from the man devouring the
woman’s nearly exposed breasts. His words were slurred by a bit of
Scottish brogue, and more than a touch of drink. But though his
movements had stopped, he’d yet to look up. Nor had the man in
black glanced her way. Only the blackamoor stared at her.

Anne focused on each man in turn, then
returned her gaze to the one in the center. “I doubt the term
‘good’ is ofttimes used to describe Captain MacQuaid. However, I
should hope he has the decency to at least acknowledge my presence
and tell me himself whether or not he wishes to speak with me.”

The head jerked up, a tumble of golden hair
fell forward and Anne found her gaze locked to one of bloodshot
blue-green eyes. Both women voiced displeasure as he motioned for
them to leave. The buxom serving girl who scurried from between his
legs gave Anne a scowl as she pushed past. Her breasts strained
against the flimsy linen. They were also pink and wet from his
mouth. When she caught Anne staring her tongue came out to moisten
her lips. “Don’t be selfish with him, girly. There be plenty of
Jamie to go ’round.”

This brought a titter of laughter from the
other woman and when Anne, red-faced, turned back toward the man, a
grin came from him.

Now that the women were gone, he shoved his
chair back, balancing it on two legs and took his time to peruse
Anne from head to toe. The look he gave her made fresh blood race
to shade her cheeks. Still Anne refused to turn away. Though she
assumed he found her lacking compared to the two tavern wenches, it
made no difference at all to her. Her plainly cut gown was
serviceable, and certainly not meant to attract attention.

She cleared her throat, when he refused to
cease his perusal. “Are you indeed Captain MacQuaid?”

He seemed to consider the question a moment,
then pushed forward, landing the front chair legs on the floor with
a bang. “Aye.” He leaned bare elbows on the table. “And why is such
as you wanting to know?”

Anne still stood on the opposite side of the
table from the three men, none of whom had the decency to stand or
offer her a seat. This Captain MacQuaid wasn’t anything like she’d
expected. He seemed much younger than she would have thought,
though in the dim light, it was hard to distinguish his age. And,
of course, he was ruder. She took a step forward. “I’ve come to ask
your help.”

Well, if nothing else this remark gained the
attention of the one-eyed man. He twisted his head to turn the full
focus of his pale blue orb on her.

The man whose assistance she sought merely
threw his head back and laughed, a deep booming sound that was
nearly as unsettling as his stare. When he stopped, it was to again
let his gaze drift over her.

“Have you any idea what manner of sea captain
I am?”

“You’re a pirate,” Anne responded without
pausing to consider the consequences.

“Aye, ’tis the truth. A freebooting buccaneer
who doesn’t go about doing good deeds for sweet young things such
as yourself.” His expression changed. His eyelids lowered. “Unless,
of course...” he said, then paused. “What manner of payment did ye
have in mind?”

“I had thought you might be persuaded out of
the goodness of your heart.”

This brought a spat of fresh laughter, which
even the blackamoor joined.

“A pirate doesn’t have a heart, Mistress
Cornwall. You best remember that.”

“I shall attempt to do so.” Anne flattened
her palms on the scarred tabletop. This wasn’t going at all as
she’d envisioned, but if she could only tell him. “If you would
give me but a moment, sir, to explain what has happened.” She
leaned forward, forging ahead before he could say otherwise. “Our
island was raided, ravished really, by—”

“Penitence from God!”

Anne stood up in shock. It was the one-eyed
man in black who spoke, yelled actually, and he now looked at her,
his expression bright with righteous indignation.

“Now, Deacon.” The captain’s hand clasped his
shoulder. “I doubt the lass has done anything to bring the wrath of
God tumbling down upon her.” One brow, dark like the whiskers
covering his lower face, lifted. “Have ye now?”

“No!” Anne turned her attention back toward
the captain, though she was uneasily aware of the man he called
Deacon. “And I doubt anyone would liken Willet d’Porteau with
God.”

“The Frenchie,” the blackamoor said, then
shared a look with his captain that Anne didn’t understand.

But the very mention of the name seemed to
sober the captain. His chest, barely covered by a linen shirt open
to the waist, expanded as he sucked in a breath. Then he leaned
back and steepled his fingers. “Count yourself lucky that you can
stand here before me if Frenchie d’Porteau attacked your
island.”

Her voice was somber. “Some cannot.”

Anne thought she saw a flicker of sympathy
cross those blue-green eyes before he reached for his tankard.
After a long gulp he lowered it to the table with a slam.

“’Tis no business of mine what the Frenchman
does.”

“I thought him your enemy.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where would you hear such
as that?”

Anne shrugged. “It’s not difficult to know.”
Actually it was Israel who told her. “The two men hate each other.
A long-standing blood feud.” Israel said those words one afternoon
as they sat on the beach. Anne, thinking as she always did of the
destruction and pain caused by d’Porteau mused aloud that her
uncle’s settlement needed a savior. Someone strong enough to go up
against Willet d’Porteau and his crew.

Her first reaction was shock when Israel
suggested a pirate might be that savior. “I can’t imagine what is
in your head. Pirates are the bane of our existence.”

The old man only shrugged. “Some folk say
takes an angel to fight the devil,” he said, taking his knife from
the thong about his waist and tossing it blade first into the sand.
“I say it takes a stronger devil.”