Ah, and to what do I owe the pleasure of yer company this fine evening?” Captain Poole failed to rise from his seat behind a desk that looked more like driftwood than a piece of furniture. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his booted feet atop the wooden slab that was home to sundry charts and maps, a set of brass flintlock pistols, a near-empty bottle of rum, two flickering candles, and, oddly, a fiddle.
The pirate who had escorted Gavin and Nathaniel below waved them inside, showering them with the rancid odor of his unwashed body.
“Miss me so soon, Mr. Mason?” Captain Poole took a bite out of an apple.
“We have a business proposition, Captain.” Nathaniel glanced over the cabin, a room he’d not been permitted to enter on his last voyage aboard the Enchantress. Besides the desk and the chair on which Captain Poole sat, two high-backed leather chairs littered the center of the room. An open chest filled with weapons gleamed as brightly as the row of trophy swords lining the wall, and a cannon stood guard at the foot of a bed on the starboard side.
Captain Poole grunted. “Well, I hope ’Tis a better proposition than the last one. What did I get for me trouble escortin’ ye to Kingstown? Naught but one of His Majesty’s ships sharp on me tail.”
“Major Paine,” Gavin uttered beneath his breath and plopped down into one of the chairs.
“Yet I see you have managed to evade them,” Nathaniel said.
“Would ye expect any less?” The pirate grinned. “I’m Captain Poole, after all.” He took another bite of his apple and tossed it across the room. It landed in a barrel with a precision that defied the rum-induced glaze across his eyes. “But how did ye find me?”
Nathaniel crossed his arms over his chest and replied in a waggish tone, “I’m Captain Mason, after all.”
A faint smirk took residence on the captain’s mouth, followed by a deep chuckle. Slamming his boots down onto the deck, he stood, grabbed the bottle of rum, and took a swig.
“Well, out with it. What be yer business?”
“I need your ship.”
A shower of rum sprayed from the captain’s lips, and Nathaniel jumped back to avoid getting wet. The pungent scent of alcohol stung his nose.
“And how d’ye propose to take it from me?” A sharp challenge skipped across Poole’s dark eyes.
“I don’t propose to take it at all, Captain.” Nathaniel rubbed his chin, praying the rum would put the captain in a fair mood instead of a more belligerent one, as it did most men. “I am no pirate. I simply wish to borrow it, along with you and your crew.”
“Borrow, ye say.” Captain Poole cocked his head. “And what be yer purpose?”
“To find Miss Hope.” Nathaniel clenched his jaw. Lord, please soften this pirate’s heart. Please make him agree.
“Miss Hope?” Captain Poole circled the desk. “The fair mistress with the hair of gold? Yer wife?”
Nathaniel swallowed. Amidst all the stress, he’d forgotten their ruse. “I must beg your forgiveness. She is not my wife.”
“A truer word ain’t ne’er been spoke.” Captain Poole chortled. “D’ye take me fer a fool, Mr. Mason? I knew it all along.” He fingered the pistol on his desk, and Nathaniel wondered if he intended to shoot him for his deception. But then Captain Poole’s gaze drifted to the thick darkness outside the stern window, and for a moment, he seemed to get lost in it. “And why does yer fair lass need findin’?”
“She may have been taken against her will.” The sound of the words ignited an urgency within Nathaniel.
“By Lord Falkland,” Gavin said. “They are headed for Charles Towne.”
“A lord, eh?” Captain Poole spit to the side, his dark eyes shifting between them. “But ye’ve got a ship, don’t ye, Mason?”
Gavin stood. “Lord Falkland’s ship is heavily armed.”
Captain Poole eyed Nathaniel. “And yers isn’t, I take it.”
Nathaniel shook his head.
“Heavily armed, ye say.” The pirate scratched the stubble on his chin. “Which means he’s got somethin’ worth stealin’ aboard.”
“That he does,” Gavin said. “A belly full of goods he intends to sell at Charles Towne.”
At the mention of the wealth, Poole’s face lit up.
Nathaniel shifted his stance and fisted his hands at his sides. “Don’t start salivating over the treasure. If you agree to our plan, you cannot plunder his ship.”
Captain Poole jerked back as if Nathaniel had hit him. “Of course I can. I’ve done it many a time before.”
“I have no doubt.” Nathaniel sighed. “What I meant to say was that I cannot allow you to steal anything nor to take the ship as prize.” Though Nathaniel would do almost anything to speak with Hope, he would not break God’s law.
“Cannot allow?” Captain Poole’s brow furrowed into a jumble of lines as if no one ever dared tell him such a thing. “Are ye tired of yer life? If ye dare to hire a pirate, ye cannot expect him not to pirate.”
Nathaniel glanced at Gavin, who shrugged his agreement with Poole. Untying the pouch at his side, Nathaniel tossed it to the captain, who caught it in midair. “Here is your pay for the deed, Captain. But I cannot in good conscience be a part of thievery.”
“Ah, there’s yer problem.” Captain Poole gave a mischievous grin. “Ye must rid yerself of that good conscience.”
“By God’s good grace, that will never happen.”
“Hummph.” The captain eyed Nathaniel with disdain then opened the pouch and poured the coins onto his desk. Clinks and clanks echoed through the cabin as the glittering pile grew into a gold and silver mound. “So allow me to get a clear understandin’.” Tossing the empty pouch down, Poole clasped his hands behind his back, the silver trim on his velvet coat glimmering in the candlelight. “Ye want me to attack this Lord Falkland’s ship, but I can’t sink ‘er, can’t pillage ‘er, can’t steal ‘er, and all I’ll be gettin’ is this measly bag of coin?”
“That is the way of it, yes, Captain.” Nathaniel tried to keep his voice calm and his tone commanding, all the while praying for God’s grace to change this pirate’s heart.
Grabbing the rum bottle, Captain Poole took another gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’ve got to hand it to ye, Mason. Ye’ve got pluck.” He chuckled. “The pluck o’ a pirate, to be sure.”
“The money is all I have, Captain. But it’s yours if you’ll help me.”
“Not all ye have.” His dark eyes glinted greed.
Nathaniel shook his head. Had the rum gone to the man’s head? What else could he mean?
Captain Poole’s brows lifted. “I believe ye own a ship?”
Hope paced across the captain’s cabin, wringing her hands. Soon Falkland would join her, as he always did this time of the evening. So far, he’d been a gentleman, but behind his docile facade, impatience simmered in his eyes. He was not a man accustomed to rejection, and she’d seen him unleash his cruel temper many a time on those who dared to cross him.
Three miserable days had passed. Although she’d been treated like nobility, given the run of the ship, and fed like a queen, Hope much preferred to be locked in the hold than to face Lord Falkland’s constant advances. Her thoughts drifted to Nathaniel, as they always did, and she wondered how he fared. Was he on his way back to Charles Towne? Did he think of her, and if he did, were his thoughts consumed with only his poor opinion of her character? But how could she blame him? He believed she’d betrayed him with Gavin, and now he must believe she had rushed back to her old ways. No doubt he was glad to be rid of her.
Shoving memories of Nathaniel aside, Hope approached the bulkhead and swerved to cross the cabin again, tripping on the plush Turkish carpet at its center. Lord Falkland liked to surround himself with beauty, even in his ship’s cabin, from the intricately carved mahogany desk, to the velvet upholstered Queen Anne chairs, to the twinkling brass lanterns and the tapestries depicting scenes from the English countryside that decorated the walls, to the imposing oak bed in the corner, complete with silk coverlet. Hope shivered at the sight of it. Perhaps she was just another one of his trophies—another thing of beauty to add to his collection.
And like all his precious possessions, he enjoyed putting her on display, all the while keeping her close and guarded.
But Hope didn’t need Lord Falkland any longer. She didn’t need his wealth. She didn’t need his title, and she didn’t need his attentions to make her feel valued and loved. That empty yearning within her had been filled to the full by the love of God.
The ship creaked as it rose over a swell, and Hope braced her feet on the deck and glanced out the stern windows. The sun dipped below the horizon, absconding with the light of day and pulling a dark blanket over the sky. She rubbed her arms against a sudden quiver. Everything seemed worse at night, more threatening, more frightening. As if God took all the light and all that was good in the world and retired with it to His chamber for the evening.
“I am here, beloved.”
Hope’s eyes burned at the soft inner voice, and she glanced over the cabin. “Thank You, Father. For I fear I will need Your strength tonight.” She doubted she could put off Lord Falkland one more night. What would he do when she rejected him again? Would he force himself on her? Would he lock her below? Cast her into the sea? Or perhaps sail to St. Kitts and complete the task of selling her to one of the island’s grotesque planters.
But this time, who would be there to rescue her?
She tugged a lock of her hair and hurried her pace as fear stole her breath. O God, please help me.
The thick oak door creaked open, and in swaggered Lord Falkland as if he were entering a levee with the king. “Ah, my sweet one.” He smiled, but beneath the smile, frustration stewed. He shut the door with an ominous thud. After laying his cane atop his desk, he doffed his tricorn and shrugged out of his coat, draping it over a chair. Then, straightening the lace at his cuffs, he approached her. Hope swallowed.
“You look lovely tonight.” He perused her, his eyes burning with desire.
“You provided the gown, Arthur.” Hope swished away before he saw the fear in her eyes. “Your wife’s perhaps?” She faced him, willing to do anything to deter him, even anger him if necessary.
“Nay, love. My wife could never”—his licentious gaze swept over her again—“shall we say, fill a gown quite like you do.”
Hope’s stomach sickened under his salacious perusal. Why had she ever been attracted to this man?
He laid a finger on his chin and approached her. “But come, come, are you to be cross with me forever?”
She stepped back. “You have a wife, Arthur. It is no little thing.”
“Hmm.” He loosened his cravat and tugged it from his neck. “But it is, sweet one. Or she is, I should say.”
Hope gasped in disgust. “How can you be so cruel?”
“There’s naught I can do about her ailment.” He shrugged. “And ‘twas not a marriage based on love.” He slid his fingers over his cravat and snapped it tight between his hands as if he intended to choke her with it. “But do not speak of her. It puts me in such a bad humor.” He yanked her close and kissed her cheek. “I have missed you, Hope,” he whispered into her ear.
The nauseating stench of lavender and tobacco swirled around her, and Hope tore from his grasp and walked away. Lord, what do I do? She had to stay with Falkland, or he would ruin Nathaniel. Yet even if the thought did not repulse her, she could not give herself to him and be true to God.
His boots thudded over the deck, and Hope spun around to see him opening his desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle of port and poured himself a glass. Taking a sip, he glared her way.
“Why did you marry her?” Hope thrust her nose into the air in a pretense of composure.
“For her wealth, what else?” His eyes glinted in the lantern light. “Not that it impressed the grand Earl of Wrexham.” Arthur gulped down the rest of the port in his glass and poured himself another. He skirted the desk, bottle in hand.
“Who is the Earl of Wrexham?” Hope tried to divert the conversation to anything besides herself.
“My father.” He took a sip and sank into one of the Queen Anne chairs.
By the sullen look on his face, Hope surmised this new subject would cause him to become either extremely morose or extremely angry. Either emotion might save her for one more night. “Did he not approve of the match?”
“Approve? Humph.” Arthur grunted. “I doubt the man knows the meaning of the word, save when it came to my brother, Gifford.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Clutching her skirts, Hope moved to the chair farthest from Arthur and sat down.
“Yes, the grand Viscount of Buckley.” He lifted his glass into the air in a feigned toast.
“So he is your older brother?” Hope gave him a skeptical look, for only the eldest son assumed a title, and Arthur called himself lord. No matter. If Hope could keep him talking—and drinking—perhaps he would eventually pass out.
“Older, and apparently much wiser.” Arthur downed his glass and poured another. “Much better at every task he undertook, if you ask my father.” He slouched back into the chair and seemed more like a little boy than a man.
“Was it my fault I was always sick as a child?” He tone grew caustic and threaded with pain. “How could I keep up with strong, robust Gifford—a head taller and a pound wiser? Whatever I did, it was never good enough.” He stared off into the room, a dull haze covering his eyes, and snickered. “I was never good enough.”
Hope eyed the man she’d once loved and suddenly felt sorry for him. Falling short of a father’s approval was something with which she was quite familiar. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity!” He sprang to his feet and thrust the half-empty bottle toward her.
Hope shrank back, her heart thumping wildly.
He slammed the bottle onto the desk and snapped his remaining drink to the back of his throat. “I need no one’s pity. For I have made a success of myself without anyone’s help. I possess more wealth and land than my brother ever will. That is why I give myself the title lord, due my brother only by birth.” Setting down the glass, he turned and leaned back on the desk. “‘For he that is least among you all, the same shall be great.’”
She cringed at his distortion of the scriptures.
Rising, he stumbled toward Hope, tearing at the buttons on his shirt. “Enough of this talk. You are mine, and I will have you. It will be just as sweet as before.”
Hope slowly stood and sucked in her breath. Her fingers went numb. Retreating, she held her hand up. “It can never be that way again, Arthur.”
“What do you mean? Of course it can.” He pulled his shirt over his head and laid it on the chair.
He clutched her arms. Pain spiked into her shoulders. “I know you love me. Tell me you love me.” He shook her. The smell of alcohol stung her nose.
“I did love you, Arthur. But I cannot give you that kind of love anymore.” She gazed into his green eyes, rife with anger, confusion, and pain. He could still harm Nathaniel. He would still harm Nathaniel. “I cannot be yours until we are married.” She blurted out her agreement to marry him, though it made her heart crumble to pieces. But it was the only way to keep Nathaniel safe.
Arthur nudged her toward the bed and shoved her down upon it. “Balderdash. You had no compunction about giving yourself to me before.” He stood, hands on his waist, and studied her.
Hope’s skin grew clammy, and her hands trembled. Surely he wouldn’t force himself upon her. “You don’t love me, Arthur. Don’t you see? I’m simply a prize in your battle for supremacy over your brother. A trophy to display before your father.”
Arthur’s eyes glinted steel. “You have changed.”
“Yes, I have.” She was no longer the desperate, wanton girl who tossed her affections like garbage to ravenous dogs. She was a precious child of the King. Cleansed, purified, made holy. A burst of joy flooded her, despite her dire circumstances. For no one could take that away from her. Not even Lord Falkland.
She gave Arthur a determined look. “I have changed for the better.”
“I shall be the judge of that.” He snorted. Then he released a heavy sigh and brushed his fingers over her cheek.
Taking his hand, she pressed it between hers. “Arthur, I have found God. Or should I say, He found me. He exists. He loves me. He loves you. There is a better way to live.” O Lord, please help him to see.
He snatched his hand from hers as if she’d stabbed it. His face contorted like a mass of tangled rope. “Scads, I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to spend time with Mr. Mason. A reverend’s son, isn’t he? He has poisoned you with that pious rubbish.”
“’Tis not poison. ’Tis truth, and life.”
Falkland took a step back, disgust simmering in his gaze. Then his eyes widened and his jaw drew into a taut line. “You gave yourself to that carpenter, Mason. He’s sullied you.” He wrinkled his nose.
“I did not.” Hope’s voice emerged in strangled tones, boiling with temper. She grew tired of being accused of things she had not done.
“And Mr. Keese, too, I am sure. That’s what all this talk of God is about—a diversion, an excuse.” He narrowed his eyes. “You forget, my sweet one, I know you too well. You, religious? Absurd! The truth of it is you no longer want me.” A flicker of pain crossed his eyes, and he turned away, stumbled across the carpet, and grabbed the back of a chair.
“I assure you, I did not—”
“Mr. Keese gave me my money back.” Grabbing his shirt, Arthur swerved around, tossing it over his head. “No doubt he’d already been well paid for his services.” He gave a huff of disdain.
“How dare you.” Hope jumped to her feet, resisting the urge to charge toward him and slap his face. It would do no good. In his condition, he’d probably slap her back.
He clicked his tongue. “I’ll hear no more talk of God. Or of marriage. You’ve ruined my mood for tonight.” He clutched his coat and flung it over his shoulder then faced her, a wicked grin twisting his lips. “But mark my words, you will be mine tomorrow. And if you resist, I promise you, I will ruin your precious Mr. Mason.”
Hope dropped back onto the bed, her heart plummeting.
“You haven’t changed.” Arthur grabbed his cane and the bottle of port and marched toward the door. Opening it, he gave her a scorching look. “God or no God, you’re a trollop, and you’ll always be a trollop.” Storming out, he slammed the door. The resounding finality of the boom shook the foundations of Hope’s newfound faith.