Phearson had watched the old man give Rosalind an egg-size ruby. Why the hell had he done so in this den of pirates and thieves? The ruby had glittered and sparkled, drawing the attention of several men around the table–including him. With that ruby, he’d be one step closer to bribing a crew and becoming a captain. Normally, he would have easily robbed the lass. But for the first time, he hesitated. That wasn’t true for the rest of the men watching Rosalind like a pack of coyotes waiting to attack an unsuspecting doe. The generous but foolish old man had just put the lass at risk.
Luckily, the night was coming to a close. Phearson wouldn’t let anything happen to the lass, but his vow was put to the test.
Doyle and Foster came along either side of her and forcibly escorted her away. He cursed under his breath. He wanted to help her, but then he’d reveal he was a vampire, and he wasn’t ready to do that.
Not yet.
A loud scream turned his blood cold. He immediately regretted his decision when Rosalind ran out of the back room. She had a cut lip, and her eye was swollen shut. Faster than any human, he clasped her arm.
She wiggled. “Let go of me.”
“Rosalind, ’tis me. What happened?”
Tears streaked down her face and stained her mask. “He took it from me.”
“The ruby?”
She wiped her eyes. “You saw?”
“Everyone saw, lass.” He rubbed her arm. “I am sorry.”
“’Tis not just the ruby,” she choked. “He took my father’s watch. ’Tis not worth anything. He was wearing it when he tried…” Her voice trailed off.
He held her close, glaring at Doyle. The bastard had a smug look on his face and patted his now pocket which had a slight bulge. As usual, Foster trailed him like a beaten cur.
Doyle snapped his fingers. “The two of you get back to work.”
Phearson stood in front of her. “Do not hurt her again.”
“I’ll do––”
Phearson edged toward him. He was at least a foot taller, more muscular, and younger than the fool. Doyle was smart enough not to challenge him.
“She brought it on herself. ’Twas for her protection. You saw the ruby. She would have been the target of foul play.”
Phearson narrowed his eyes and didn’t challenge him here and now. But he’d only possess the jewel and the watch temporarily. Captain Fear would see to that.
After the bar had closed, Phearson left before Doyle and Rosalind. He quickly changed into his disguise of a large cloak, a gold mask, and a purple feathered hat. He rode a horse he’d stolen earlier that day and hid in the darkness of the cemetery as he waited for Doyle’s carriage.
The clomping of horses pricked up his ears. He pressed his heels into the horse’s side and stepped out of the shadows, his pistol drawn. The driver pulled on the horses’ harness.
“Whoa,” the frightened old driver said, as he reached under his jacket, his hand shaking.
Phearson cocked the pistol and revealed his pointed fangs. “Ye’ll be dead before ye reach it.”
The man put his hand on his throat. “You’re a vampire.”
“What the devil is going on out there?” Doyle called from inside. “Why did we stop?”
Phearson looked at the driver. “My quarrel is not with ye. Leave while why ye have the chance.”
The driver nodded and climbed down from the carriage, then fled into the darkness.
Phearson maneuvered his horse to stand just outside the carriage. “Come out. Both of ye.”
The door opened. Rosalind stepped out. Her lower lip and right eye had swollen. She gazed at him in fear, which was the last thing Phearson wanted, but this was the only way he could think of to get her ruby and watch back. She looked around for an escape, but between Phearson’s horse, the carriage, and Doyle, she was trapped.
“Captain Fear!” His eyes wide, Doyle stepped around her, then fired a pistol. The shot lit up the dark street and hit Phearson in the shoulder.
He jerked, but stayed on the horse. “That was foolish.”
He swooped off the horse faster than a man, and grabbed Doyle by the throat, and lifted him off the ground.
Doyle clawed at his hands. “Release me this instant.”
“Yer not in charge.” Phearson pulled back his lips to reveal sharp fangs. Satisfaction warmed his heart as fear settled in Doyle’s eyes.
“You are the undead.”
“I thought we already established that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Empty yer pockets.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Aye, I know who ye are.” Phearson released him. “Now, do as I say, or I’ll rip yer throat out.”
Doyle reached into his pockets, his hand shaking, and tossed out his wallet, thick with bills. “That’s all I have.”
“Liar.”
Phearson grabbed him by the throat again and lifted until he was on his tip toes. He roughly searched his person. Doyle sputtered, and his cheeks turned bright red. Phearson didn’t care. He easily found both the ruby and the watch hidden in his vest. He released him, and Doyle collapsed onto the ground, landing on all fours. He gasped for breath and spit onto the ground.
Rosalind hadn’t moved. “Please, don’t hurt me. I have nothing.”
Phearson tipped his hat. “I will not harm ye, lass.”
But just as he uttered the words, shots rang out. Rosalind screamed. She slammed her head into the carriage. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed. Blood trickled from her forehead. His heart stopped. He caught her before she hit the ground and turned to see hooded men on horse back–the Pious Twelve.
The weasel driver must have alerted them.
Doyle looked up at him. “You’re going to die, Fear.”
Not wanting to risk Rosalind getting hurt again or being shot with holy salt water, he jumped onto his horse and jabbed his ankles into the horse’s flank.
“Give me back my daughter!”
Daughter? The same beautiful woman he’d beaten and humiliated. Now, she was his daughter?
More shots whizzed over his head. He looked over his shoulder to see four men on horseback chasing them. Doyle hadn’t joined them.
“Captain Fear has Rosalind!” Doyle cried out. “Seize him!” His voice boomed like a cannon.
Phearson held Rosalind close and grimaced as blood dripped onto his hand. If he’d thought he could trust them, he would have abandoned her in hopes that they would take her to a doctor. But men who tortured vampires and sold men into bondage would gallop over anyone in their way. No, he had to lose them.
He rode the horse hard, careful not to lose Rosalind. Her warm breath spurred him on. He’d been on a pirate ship for the last two years and learned how to tend gunshot wounds, but he wasn’t an expert. He didn’t know Savannah, and the men behind him did, but he had some tricks of his own. He raced the horse into the cemetery where there was little light. He could see, but his pursuers could not. ’Twas an advantage.
Behind him, men cursed, and pistols fired blindly. He headed for a huge oak tree veiled in Spanish moss. He slid off the horse then slapped its hind quarters. The horse neighed and disappeared within the trees. Horses galloped past him, their riders unaware that he was pressed against the trunk.
Using vampire speed, he raced through the cemetery and onto the paved streets. He practically flew to his lodging that was near the dock. ’Twas not much. Just a room over a warehouse, a cot, a cook stove, and a chair, but ’twas clean and bigger than he’d been used to at sea. The only thing of worth was the chest that he had, which was only a quarter filled with the treasure that he’d pilfered. Hardly enough to bribe even one sailor. However, his place was not a place for a lady.
Rosalind needed a surgeon, but he didn’t have time to hunt for one–not with the Pious Twelve on his arse. His only choice was to bring her to his room and care for her himself.
He whipped open the door, and hurried over to his cot, and carefully laid Rosalind down. Blood had soaked her shirt and mask. He tore off his cloak and hat. He grabbed a cloth then pumped water out of the spigot. Water spilled onto the cloth. Being on a pirate ship, he learned to keep needle and thread in case of injuries. Deciding to be a highwayman was no different, so he’d obtained his own surgeon’s kit of needles, thread, scissors, and alcohol. He planned to use it on himself, not ever thinking he’d have to care for Rosalind.
He put wood in the stove and lit it. He filled a pan with water and dropped the needles inside. He went over to Rosalind and knelt next to her.
“Rosalind, Rosalind, can ye hear me? I need to remove yer mask to care for yer wound.”
She answered him with a shallow breath.
“Dona be angry with me,” he murmured as he gently lifted her head and untied the strings to her mask. ’Twas soaked with blood, and he put it on the floor. Damn, his hand was bloody. He dabbed her temple to examine her wound. Even with his vampire sight, ’twas hard to see how bad the wound was.
He quickly lit the lanterns then returned to her side. He gasped at the deep scars on her porcelain face. Light, raised-pink skin framed her right eye and reached the bridge of her nose and to her temple. He’d seen men on board ship badly burned who’d lost the will to live, but not Rosalind. She had a spirit he admired.
The shot had grazed her temple, but ’twas the wound on the back of her head that worried him. He carefully wiped away the dried blood from her thick hair to reveal a deep cut. He rolled her onto her side, then dipped a spoon into the water to take out the needles. He rinsed them under cold water, then grabbed a spool of thread. Taking a deep breath, he threaded the needle. He was prepared to do this to himself, but not to this charming woman. But she needed him.
He pinched her skin then threaded the needle through it. His heart clenched each time he pulled the needle out, and sweat blurred his eyes. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept going. He cut the thread with a pair of scissors. All he had was rum to stop any infection. His facility was crude, but clean. He dampened the cloth with some rum then patted the wound.
Rosalind jerked and gasped.
He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. Rosalind, are ye awake?”
But she didn’t answer.
He went over to his chest and took out a shirt then ripped it into strips. He returned to her side and cleaned away the blood at her temple. He retrieved another needle and stitched shut the scratch. ’Twas not as long or deep as the one on the back of her head. He used the rum-soaked cloth to prevent any infection. Rosalind hissed and moaned, but didn’t wake.
He carefully wrapped his shirt around her head. “Sleep well, Rosalind.” He bent over and kissed her on her warm forehead. He removed the bloody cloths and wrung them out in the sink. Weariness overwhelmed him. He grabbed the rum and took a big swig. The warm liquid eased the tension inside him. He glanced over at her and noticed the bulged in his discarded cloak.
Not wanting anything to happen to the ruby and watch, he placed them in his chest. He’d give them to her tomorrow.
He sat in a chair next to the cot to keep vigil.
Her chest slowly raised up and down. He’d take her to a surgeon tomorrow.
Anger burned inside him at her pale face. The fools should have known better. They shot wildly, not caring who they hurt. The Pious Twelve needed to be stopped. They cared nothing for the innocent, beginning with Esmond Doyle.