The Pirate's Debt (The Regent's Revenge Book 2) (7 page)

“What have you done? Go, Regent! It’s the only way they’ll make it back to civilization unharmed.”

Quinn barked orders below, and the men bolted into action, hacking at the ropes linking the two ships together. Set free, the
Mohegan
wobbled as the broken mast slipped between the two vessels. Now neither Teague nor Markwick had a way to escape.

Wind whirred as the ship’s last remaining mast slowly began to topple, its rigging shredding, snapping, and pinging away from its blocks. Over the side, waves breached the broken mast’s long length, tearing at its ragged canvas, careening it away from the
Mohegan
and onto the rocks with a resounding, ear-piercing whack. Formidable rumblings mounted beneath their feet as water rushed into the bulkheads, and one by one the decks began to break up.

“Now you have no choice.” Captain Teague’s emotionless drone chilled Markwick to the bone. “You want to live. Go now. I belong here. I can’t let her go down alone.”

The
Mohegan
was broken and finally, so was her captain.

“Save them,” he pleaded.

“I will.” With little time to spare, Markwick gripped the rope Teague had provided. He ran to the port rail abaft of the mainmast’s remains, hurtling himself over the waterline just as the deck gave way.

The rope jerked and snapped, jarring his body. He let go, dropping down, plunging into the frothy, rolling swells. Icy cold shot into his bones as the violent currents tore at him, eager to carry him toward the
Mohegan
and certain death on the rocks. He fought hard to break free and finally rose to the surface, gulping life-giving air.

A brawny hand clasped onto his then, yanking him to safety. Within minutes, he found himself sprawled in the cutter, dripping wet, surrounded by men who clapped him on the back. Each smacking hand helped relieve his lungs and was a stinging reminder that he was alive.

Quinn was the most vocal. “Well done, Cap’n!”

He choked and coughed up seawater. “Pull . . . away.”

Oars clunked against the hull, grinding in their O-rings as crews in the two cutters bent their backs to row against the churning waves.

The
Mohegan’s
crew remained silent as their dismantled ship, along with their valiant and stalwart captain, listed and moaned in a long, perishing death knell.

Markwick penetrated the reverential silence. “We commend this ship and her captain to the depths.”

Chloe and Jane clung together, weeping.

Men mumbled, “Amen.” Some cleared their throats or wiped their eyes, but all—accustomed to the dangers at sea—fought to appear unaffected.

“I didn’t think we’d make it,” McHugh finally said.

“We almost didn’t.”

If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Markwick might have laughed. The irony was so acute. It would have been more fitting for him to perish with the unfortunate others instead of Captain Teague. Death didn’t scare Markwick. Rather, he was terrified of dying without having left a legacy that would neutralize his father’s betrayals.

He bit back his resentment, ran his hands through his hair, and struggled to rise. “Take us back, Quinn.”

He moved through the boat, stepping between the thwarts, grasping the shoulders of his men for balance as he found a spot near Chloe and Jane. He cast Chloe a worried frown as he sat before them, wondering what she thought about her little adventure now.

She turned toward him. Her lower lip quivered almost imperceptibly. “That was nothing short of miraculous.”

“You are right in one respect only, my lady,” he said, attempting to sink her romantic notions. “It was nothing.”

She turned to Jane, clutching the woman’s shivering hands. “Nothing? We are alive thanks to the Black Regent’s heroic efforts.”

Alive . . . for now.

In her euphoria, Chloe had probably forgotten that wreckers waited just offshore. He doubted they’d wait much longer. In fact, he suspected they’d attack when they put out their fires and realized the
Fury
had picked up the
Mohegan’s
survivors. What then?

No. Only a fool—or flighty, indulgent female—would consider him heroic. Captain Teague was the true hero. He’d protected Chloe and died with dignity and honor while doing so. Teague’s steadfast code reminded Markwick that no matter what he did with
his
life, he must do everything in his power to continue the Black Regent’s legacy and restore the Halford name, be it as the Earl of Markwick or Marquess of Underwood.

But how did one restore one’s good family name? How did a man pretending to be a pirate repair an aristocratic title subject to gossip and revulsion?

Oars clunked against the rim of the cutter as men hauled them in, circling, heaving, and straining against the tide. Behind them, what was left of the
Mohegan
cracked and hissed, moaning hellishly as she broke apart, her beams cinched in a cracker, splintering and collapsing from view.

Markwick swallowed thickly, putting to memory the last images of the wreck and of the poor souls who had been cut down, then turned his attention to the
Fury
where a lantern motioned in the darkness.

If only destiny were so resourcefully guided.

WOE to citizens on the CORNISH coast! A new SMUGGLER has emerged with a BLOODLUST unparalleled. Can the Black REGENT save us from Captain CARNAGE and the
VIPER
? Or will Captain CARNAGE and his crew of miscreants continue to OFFER no MERCY to shipping vessels at sea?

~
Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post
, 30 July 1809

Chloe huddled next to Jane, her book satchel held close to her chest. If she didn’t, she feared she’d lose her worldly treasure in the foaming swells that lapped against the cutter’s hull.

Likewise, Jane clutched their other belongings. Her maid’s resolve to keep Chloe dressed appropriately far surpassed any expectations Chloe had ever had of her faithful servant the day she’d enlisted her help. Together, they sat quietly at the bow of the boat, surrounded by strangers and the murky depths, shivering just beyond the captain’s reach.

Agonizing minutes ticked by as the small vessel listed, then righted on the rolling waves. Seamen grunted with effort, their strong arms maneuvering the mammoth-sized oars.

Markwick sat within arm’s reach. Chloe studied him from the safety of her sodden little perch, struggling to understand why he wore the Regent’s black mask tied around his shoulder-length dark hair. Black trousers molded like sculpted clay against his thighs, and leather bracers began mid-forearm and stopped at his wrists. Black leather boots finished off his swashbuckling attire.

The Regent was Markwick—she would know his voice anywhere—and yet, the earl had changed remarkably. She trailed her gaze appreciatively down his bare shoulders and back—now covered with salty brine—to his narrowing waist, noticing everything about him, mortified by the heated flush rising to her cheeks. It couldn’t be true! Could it? Markwick and the Regent were one and the same. The very idea seemed too impossible for words!

Why wasn’t Markwick in Penzance? How many people knew about his involvement as the Black Regent?

Unnecessary dialogue scrolled through her mind. Nothing in books she’d read had prepared her for
this
. And yet she was extremely fortunate and content to be near him, to have been saved from the circumstances in which she had found herself. If she didn’t survive, she could at least go to her grave knowing that she’d been given the chance to tell Markwick she loved him.

Markwick.

Her heartbeat raced with revitalizing fervor. She shivered and hugged his linen shirt closely about her. Was he cold? He’d given her the shirt off his back. And had he injured himself when he’d plunged into the sea to escape the sinking ship?

Seated in Markwick’s cutter, cloaked in his clothing, Chloe felt incredibly shallow. To think that she’d cast all inhibitions to the wind and sailed off for an enterprising adventure, only to need to be rescued by the very man she’d set out to find. Though she hadn’t known she’d be finding the Black Regent.

Regent sightings were rare for the average villager. She’d never known anyone who’d actually met the gallant hero that stole from the rich and gave to the poor.

Oh, to be sitting so near to him now, to have touched him, to be in love with him, is even more exceptional than I imagined it would be!

She fought to curb the jubilation pulsing through her veins, igniting her headstrong passions, and forced herself to remember this was all about her devotion to Markwick and the lives lost on the very ship on which she’d obtained passage. To anyone else, the Black Regent might be a dashing pirate who’d just plucked her off the
Mohegan’s
decks and saved her from certain death, but Markwick was also the man she loved.

She sighed, half trembling, half in despair. Unable to tear her gaze away, she desired to stretch out her fingers and touch the man, to assure herself that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. What kind of nightmare would that be, to discover she was dreaming and that Markwick really wasn’t there?

Oh, but the blackguard truly was just as she’d envisioned! In her mind’s eye, he’d been a swashbuckling champion born from the pages of fiction and fantasy. Now, sitting before her, was the living man whose very existence defied her infatuations because
he
was the man
she
loved. Broad-shouldered, lean, with a firm authoritarian profile, he stood a head taller than she did, and oh . . . when he’d held her in his arms on board the
Mohegan
, a lightheaded euphoria had immediately stunned her. Markwick had stood behind her before but only to teach her how to shoot a bow and arrow. Not like this. Never like this!

Her gaze lowered to his upper arms. They were thick, flexing muscular limbs capable of sweeping her off her feet at a moment’s whim. And oh, she wanted to be his Matilda. She wanted him to be her Theodore.

Bother.
Matilda and Theodore were Horace Walpole’s creations. She and Markwick lived in the real world. She inhaled a breath of frigid, moist, salty air.

Admit the truth, you silly girl.
Markwick triggered breathless exhilaration and the unbridled beat fluttering within her breast, not the Black Regent. For her, there had always only been the Earl of Markwick.

She searched the boat, settling on one face after another. Who were these men? What kind of intrigue had she stumbled upon? Finally, her gaze locked with Markwick’s. His blue eyes glinted like silver in the moonlight, flashing daggers of superior intellect and harbored secrets. No wonder the Black Regent championed the innocent and less fortunate. He came from wealthy, noble, honorable stock. Butterflies danced to life in her stomach, and she gasped. Did he know she’d recognized him? Surely he must have.

She broke free from his stare, freely studying the superior muscles rippling across his shoulders and arms with every movement. Her pulse raced like that of a horse spurred into motion as she effortlessly recalled how agreeable it had felt to touch and—Lord-a-mercy!—be touched by those very arms. There, in his embrace, she’d never felt so secure, so safe and protected, when all around the danger convinced that the opposite was true with absolute abandon.

But how could Markwick possibly be the Black Regent? By her estimations, the Regent had been active on the Cornwall and Devon coasts for two years before Markwick had disappeared. And yet, the crewmen in this boat followed his orders, making it quite clear that Markwick was their captain.

Heaven help her, she was at sixes and sevens. If Markwick had been the Regent all along, that meant he’d known about Lord Underwood’s treachery and had pirated his own father’s ships long before the fracas in the wedding chapel and the duel he’d fought with Blackmoor on the Downs. But that didn’t make sense . . .

“Pinch me, Jane.”

Her maid peered sideways at her as if she’d grown two heads. “W-What?”

“Pinch me,” she insisted. “I must know whether this is really happening or not.”

“Are ye unwell, m’lady? I can assure ye our circumstances are very real without causin’ ye bodily ’arm.”

Chloe lowered her voice. “Do it.”

“Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn ye.” Jane shifted and cinched her thumb and forefinger on Chloe’s upper arm. With a tremulous frown, she squeezed . . . hard.

              “Ouch!” Good heavens, she had no idea Jane was that strong!

Markwick and several men stationed at their oars turned their heads to discover the reason for her outburst.

She smiled wanly until they looked away and then whispered to Jane. “Did you have to pinch me so hard?”

“I cannot ’elp that my fingers are strong.”

“Very strong.” Chloe rubbed her arm to ease the sharp, stinging pain throbbing in that one spot. Never again would she take Jane’s strength for granted.

Jane leaned in. “Are ye swayed now?”

“Certainly,” Chloe answered as the prickling sensation faded.

So this isn’t a dream.
The
Mohegan
had struck the rocks. Captain Teague and most of his men were dead. She didn’t dare cast a glance over her shoulder at the crippled ship. It reminded her only of tragedy and death, things she had yet to understand how to process. Instead, she concentrated on Markwick’s back, wondering if he could feel her eyes upon him.

Seawater sloshed over the rim of the cutter, wetting Chloe’s and Jane’s feet. The cold, salty spray added to the dousing they’d received on board the wrecked ship and left her shivering and cold as they sailed toward the
Fury
.

Chloe licked her lip, tasting brine, wondering how men preferred the sea, the unending cold, and the fathomless darkness to the welcome glare of the sun, a garden in bloom, and especially a good book. She used the back of her hand to wipe moisture out of her eyes and off her chilled face. It did no good. Seawater continued to slosh and spray about them, moistening her skin, as men groaned, fighting the tide, and oars clonked against the sides of the cutter in a steady rhythm.

Clonkety-clonk. Grind. Clonkety-clonk. Grind.

Chloe flinched. She’d never been in a small boat before and despised being cramped in such tight confines, especially when the abyss was her only escape.

Dread cinched her heart. To locate Markwick, she’d obtained passage on two ships—first the
Valerian
and then the
Mohegan
—but at what cost? Men were dead. Pierce had been searching for her. He’d find the wrecked
Mohegan
. His access to ships, ports, and customs information assured that discovery.

Botheration! Pierce will locate the ship’s remains. He’ll gather the bodies lying on shore and believe I am dead!

What was she to do? She’d never felt so unhinged. Blood-stirring turmoil coiled within her. She sucked in a stabilizing breath and bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering.

Tears filled her eyes. Pierce would tell their parents that pirates had murdered her. Oh dear. Oh dear, that simply wasn’t true! She had to find a way to get a dispatch to her family. She had to let them know she’d survived, that the Earl of Markwick had saved her life.

Besides Markwick, family was the most important thing in the world to her. She couldn’t allow her parents to suffer because of the choices she’d made. No. She’d have to find a way to let her brother know she was alive. He couldn’t be too far away. He’d always been one step behind the Regent. She had to prevent his pain and grief. She’d seen Pru go through such unnecessary hell, and Chloe would never wish that on anyone.

She gasped, realizing once more that while
her family would learn that she was alive, Captain Teague and his thirty-six men were not. They’d receive no burial, no hymns or prayers over their bodies. Their remains would never be returned home.
Who would tell their families? How would they survive?

A sob lodged in Chloe’s throat, nearly strangling off the air she breathed. Agony gripped her so fiercely she nearly doubled over to empty the contents of her stomach.

The boat clanked against a solid object, jolting Chloe from her musings. Had they arrived at Markwick’s ship?

“Heva! Boat ahoy.” The low-hollered welcome came out of the void, ominously snaking down Chloe’s spine.

“Keep her steady,” Quinn snapped. “Stow your oars.”

Water swished and wood clunked as the men retrieved their oars and battened them down in the boat.

Markwick stood with ease, his tall body one solid mass of glistening muscle as he gazed upward. Chloe followed his range of vision up the solid black wall, craning her neck, straining to see the single yellow light perched above their heads.

Gracious, I feel so tiny and vulnerable next to this towering mass.

A rope slowly descended from the ship’s deck.

“Help the ladies first, men,” Markwick ordered.

Jane whimpered as a pirate clasped her by the shoulders and she was immediately lifted off her feet. The boat swayed with the movement, forcing Chloe to clutch the gunwale out of fear that the small vessel would overturn and dump them all into the water.

The pirate named Quinn slipped the rope around Jane’s middle. “Let loose your bundle.”

Jane’s stubbornness ripened on a frown. “I will not.”

Quinn didn’t ask a second time. He tore the bundled clothing from her grasp and cinched the end with a rope, then looped the satchel over his head and across his chest, pushing the bulk behind him. Without another word, he took her by the hand.

Horrified, she cried out. “No!”

“Shh. It’s bad enough that we need a light to guide us in the darkness, but your screams will give our position away.” Quinn cleared his throat when Jane began to cry. “Don’t be afraid, lass. Step your foot onto the battens along the hull.”

Jane glanced over her shoulder at Chloe, eyes wide, tears streaming down her face. “What if I fall?”

“The rope will catch you if you fall.” Quinn grabbed Jane’s chin and turned her back to him. “Step easy and slow. I’ll guide you.”

Jane looked down at the brackish chasm between the two ships, though the pirate gripped the ropes for her ease. “I c-can’t.”

Quinn put his hand over Jane’s. “As you climb, our crew will lift you up from above. There is nothing to fear. The rope will not allow you to fall, lass, and I will be with you every step of the way.”