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AN IMPERFECT SCOUNDREL
WILTSHIRE CHRONICLES, #4
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR ALYSSA DRAKE
 C O P Y R I G HT

An Imperfect Scoundrel © copyright 2023 Alyssa Drake

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including
infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

This book contains adult language and scenes. This story is meant only for adults as defined by the laws of the country where the
purchase was made.

For more information on Alyssa, please visit her website Alyssa Drake Novels or sign up for her newsletter, Love Notes, delivered
directly to your inbox.

Summary: Falling in love with a pirate wasn't part of her plan, especially one as ruthless as Captain Shaw.

Cover design by Tina Adams

Editing by Personal Touch Editing
www.alyssadrakenovels.com
 WA R N I N G

T his is not a clean romance. Please remember that this is strictly a work of fiction for your
reading pleasure only. I do not condone any situations or actions that take place between
these characters. While I have a strong moral sense, many of these characters do not, because, well,
they’re pirates. This is an adult, historical romance, not suitable for anyone under the age of eighteen.
If you don’t have any triggers, feel free to skip to Chapter One and begin your high-seas
adventure. If you do have triggers, please read the below before continuing your journey.

The following triggers appear in An Imperfect Scoundrel:

Graphic violence, torture, murder, alcoholism, attempted SA

You have been warned. There be rough waters ahead…

 C O NT E NT S

Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight

About the Author

Mistletoe Hopes
C HAPTER ONE
 ALANA

“W e’ve abandoned them.” Alana flung her hands in the air, nearly hitting the top of the coach,
her stomach twisting into knots.
She’d told Mr. Thomas Reid that very afternoon that she was sailing for America. He’d seemed
unsurprised by her announcement, and a small part of her suspected he approved of her brother’s
insistence on sending her as far away from Wiltshire, and the murders, as possible.
“They’re our cousins, Aidan.” Alana glowered at her brother. “They could die.”
“They will survive without our assistance for a few hours while I convey you to the docks and
meet with Patrick.” Aidan’s tight voice belied his sentiment, his eyes glowing fiercely in the dim
cabin. “Both Samantha and Edward know how to use a pistol, and Benjamin and Thomas are with
them.”
“What about Da?” Alana’s gaze flicked to her left.
The white-haired man scrunched in the corner snored lightly, his head drooping on his chest. He
shifted, mumbling in his sleep, his thick brogue coating the small coach, then fell silent.
“Are you suggesting I should have left him alone on the estate with the knowledge there is a killer
threatening our family?” Aidan arched his eyebrows, his hand curling around the rifle stretched
across his lap, the same one he’d extracted from their father before shoving him into the coach. “He
would have shot any person who wandered onto our property, friend or enemy.”
She pursed her lips, a growl of frustration emanating from her throat. Leaning forward, she hissed,
“I meant about sending me to America.”
“You agreed.” Aidan shrugged, unperturbed by her attempt at intimidation.
“You tricked me!”
A smirk crossed his face—acknowledgment of her accusation.
“I’m quite capable of caring for Da while assisting our cousins in capturing that vile man who
murdered our uncle. You—”
“If you say, ‘I’m a woman,’ I will strike you.”
Another smirk.
“Actually, I was going to say you’re a woman.”
She flew off the bench, a ball of anger and irritation, and swiped at his face.
Aidan captured her arms and forced her down next to him. Collecting both her wrists in one hand,
he placed a finger over her mouth, his eyes flicking to their father. She snapped her teeth, nearly biting
his fingertip.
“How do you think your death would affect Da?” He grimaced, releasing her.
The hand raised to smack his face, paused, her brother’s melancholy question floating around her.
She stared into his blue eyes, a mirror of her own, then slowly lowered her arm.
“That’s unfair.”
“With you safe in America, we can focus on the task of capturing Uncle Hastings’ assailant.”
Aidan reached over, placing his hand on top of hers, and squeezed. “Once he’s arrested, you can
return. Perhaps you’ll meet someone on your trip.”
“Matchmaking?” Alana narrowed her eyes. “You hardly seem the type to meddle.”
“Something to occupy my time.” He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Pray tell, who did you have in mind for me?”
Stroking his dark beard, Aidan dragged out the silence.
“To be honest, there’s not one man in Wiltshire I’d subject to your fiery temperament.”
She punched him in the shoulder and moved to the opposite bench, folding her arms across her
chest.
“When are you going to tell Da about sending me to America… after the year has passed?”
“I’m not banishing you forever.” Rolling his eyes, Aidan rubbed his arm. “I swear to send for you
as soon as possible.”
Her mouth crooked. She’d hit him harder than he expected.
“And you?” she pressed. “What plans have you for your own happiness?”
He paled, a brief flash of terror washing over his face.
“I have no plans.”
“It seems only fair, dear brother, if I’m subjected to the marriage mart a second time, you must
experience it at least once.”
“I’ve been dealing with meddling mamas for the whole of my adult life,” he grumbled, one hand
tightening around the barrel of the rifle.
“Are you not tired of being pursued by females?”
“No proper lady wants an Irish husband caring for an addled father, no matter how much property
he owns.” Aidan snorted, leveling his gaze on her. There was bitterness in his reply, as if he’d hoped,
just once, someone would look past their family lineage and see him.
She understood his pain, she and Patrick having been scorned due to their family connections.
Neither of them dealt with the rejections well. Alana left for France, and Patrick for the coast and the
solitary life of a lighthouse keeper.
They’d both deserted Aidan.
Guilt flared in her chest. She reached out, laying her hand atop his.
“When I return from America, I will find you a suitable wife.”
Swallowing, his skin was almost translucent. “I have no need of your assistance.”
“I think you do.” She smirked, watching him tug at his collar, squirming like one of the worms Mr.
Reid loved to use for fishing. “First, we will find a custodian for Da, then we will find you a wife.”
“What of Patrick? He’s the eldest.”
“Patrick is against marriage.” Alana waved her hand, dismissing the notion.
In truth, Patrick was against all forms of social interaction. The eldest Flannery refused to leave
the lighthouse, only returning to Wiltshire once for his mother’s funeral, his demeanor withdrawn and
haunted. She’d visited him at the coast on several occasions, staying at a nearby tavern, but she’d
never been able to convince her brother to return to his childhood home.
“I am, too,” Aidan grumbled, his mouth folding into a thin line. “You’re the girl. Marriage is
expected of you.”
“I was married. He died.” She hiccupped, swallowing the sob that seemed to hover in her throat
whenever she mentioned Sebastian. Twisting away toward the window, she wiped the moisture that
gathered on her cheeks.
“Thus, we start over.” He nudged her foot with his boot, drawing her attention back to his face.
“And it’s your turn again. I’m certain Patrick will agree with me.”
Alana tapped her gloved fingers together as she studied her brother, her eyes narrowing. He only
made this suggestion because he believed her resigned to her station as a widow.
“I have a proposal for you,” she said after several minutes of silence.
“Do continue.” He folded his hands, setting them on top of the rifle, and offered her a patronizing
smile.
“After I’ve secured a husband for myself—do not laugh, dear brother, I have turned down several
proposals since Sebastian’s death—you will allow me to match you with a suitable woman.”
“What of Patrick? Are you going to leave him to his solitude?”
“Certainly not.” Alana laughed at Aidan’s petulant expression. “However, I will need your
support for that particular undertaking, and it would be much easier with your wife’s assistance.” She
leaned forward and stretched out her arm. “Do we have an agreement?”
Aidan’s eyes flicked to her hand. “After the heartache you have suffered, the premature death of
your husband, the rejection of your previous fiancé—”
“Thomas and I were not well-suited, and fate saw fit to separate us.” Sliding forward on the
bench, she jabbed a finger into Aidan’s chest. “And I will not hear you speak one disparaging word
about him.”
“Thomas is one of my dearest friends. It is my right to speak ill of him.” Aidan leaned back
against the seat, moving out of her reach, and stared at her for a long moment. “Are you certain you
want to take on another husband?”
“It’s been over two years.” She kept her arm stretched out and wiggled her fingers. “I will always
love Sebastian, just as I will always love Thomas, but I’m lonely, Aidan. I want someone to talk to.
Do you not understand that feeling?”
“I do,” he sighed, his voice heavy with unspoken heartache. Then he whipped his arm up, clasped
her hand in his, and pumped once. “We have an accord. However, I don’t recommend informing
Patrick of your plans to meddle. He’ll vanish before you finish the word matrimony.”
Snickering, Alana glanced at the window behind her father, and the smile faded from her face.
The journey had been much quicker than anticipated. She gulped, retracting her hand.
“Have we arrived already?”
Aidan craned his head, staring out the glass as they passed into the small town. He nodded,
looking over at her.
“You seem nervous. You shouldn’t be. You’ve sailed before.”
“Not this far,” Alana whispered, winding her fingers together.
Aidan grabbed her wrist and before she could react, yanked her to his bench. Bumping his
forehead against hers, he grinned, keeping his voice low.
“That doesn’t sound like something my sister would say.”
“What would she say?” Alana blinked her eyelids, attempting to clear the tears that threatened to
fall.
“She would tell me to worry about myself and stop focusing my attention on her, as she is more
than capable of caring for herself.”
“But you do, anyway.”
“Yes, I do.” He embraced her, squeezing tightly. “I shall miss you, dear sister.”
 Alana sniffed and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his collar.
“Where are you going, m’girl?” a gruff voice asked. Their father peeled one eye open, the faded
blue glaring at them. “You said we were here to meet Patrick.”
“We are,” said Alana, sliding across the aisle. She patted his hand.
“I’m disappointed in you, lying to your father.” Their father sat up, staring at her, his mouth
pinched into a thin line. His gaze flicked to Aidan. “You as well.”
Aidan stumbled over his reply. “It’s what is best—”
Their father slammed his fist against the side of the carriage. “I decide what is best for this family.
If your mother knew… the treachery, the sneaking around behind my back.” He lunged for the rifle,
but Aidan reacted quicker, snatching the barrel out of the older man’s hands.
“Tell him, Aidan,” Alana said, her soft voice interrupting the impending scuffle. “He’ll find out
shortly.”
“Tell me what?” The old man’s suspicious gaze shifted between the two of them.
Aidan cleared his throat.
“With the continued threat against the family, we,”—he gestured between Alana and himself
—“decided Alana would be safer in America until the killer is captured.”
“We?” Their father arched a bushy white eyebrow, turning his attention to Alana. “Is this really
what you want?”
Alana glanced at Aidan, questioning. Aidan tilted his head, but didn’t reply, waiting for her to
follow through with their agreed-upon plan. She turned back to her father, holding his gaze, and spoke
clearly.
“We,” she said.
Her father’s wrinkled face crumpled, tears leaking from his eyes. “Do you not trust your Da to
protect you?”
Alana flung her arms around his neck, squeezing him, and he wept on her shoulder, his frail body
shaking. “I do, but…”
Her eyes jumped to Aidan, begging for assistance.
“She has decided to remarry, Da.” Aidan placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “She’ll return
with her husband after the danger has passed.”
“Have you?” Releasing Alana, their father extracted a handkerchief and mopped his face. He
tucked the cloth carefully back into his pocket before lifting his gaze, the anger in his eyes dying.
“Perhaps you will give us grandchildren this time. Your mother always wanted grandchildren.”
He turned toward the window as the coach slowed, murmuring about the town’s lack of greenery, then
did not speak again.
When the vehicle stopped, the driver leapt down, opened the door, and offered Alana his hand as
she exited the cabin. Aidan followed, turning to help his father step down, but his father slapped his
hand away, grumbling he was more than capable of climbing from a coach.
Shaking her head, Alana turned, searching the people traversing the unpaved street for a red shock
of Patrick’s hair. Like her and their father, Patrick had inherited the vibrant Flannery characteristic,
quite the opposite of Aidan, whose black hair took after their deceased mother. The only shared trait
between them was their brilliant blue eyes.
“Patrick!” she yelled.
Waving her hand, Alana jumped up and down when she spied him walking toward them from a
tavern at the far end of the road. She ran through the crowd and launched herself at her brother.
His large hands closed around her waist, swinging her in a circle, a smile cracking his lips.
Setting her back on her feet, he draped a heavy arm over her shoulders, and leaned his weight on her,
his warm brogue encircling her.
“A pleasure to see you again.”
Grunting, Alana shoved him off.
“We brought Da,” she murmured, indicating the coach with a subtle gesture.
“How is he?”
“Better, worse, the same.”
“I see.” Heaving a sack over his shoulder, Patrick lumbered toward the coach, then called out to
their father, forced happiness in his tone.
The elder Flannery lifted his head, searching for the familiar sound. When he discovered Patrick
pushing his way through the throng, his eyes popped open wide. With a whoop, their father dashed
toward them, Aidan trailing after, a sour expression on his face.
Enveloping his father in a bone-crushing embrace, Patrick’s free arm snaked out, and wrapped
around Aidan, drawing him in too.
“Hello, little brother.”
“Patrick.” Aidan extracted himself from his brother’s muscular arm. “We have a schedule to
keep.”
Patrick glanced at Alana, muttering loudly, “When did he become so proper?”
“Right after Ma died.” Flinging a scowl over his shoulder, Aidan stomped back to the coach,
yanked Alana’s trunk from the rear, and slammed the chest to the ground.
“You got something you want to discuss with me?” Patrick’s face darkening, he stepped to Aidan.
“I have a lot that needs to be discussed.” Aidan’s fists clenched.
“Boys.” Their father hobbled between them, his stern gaze bouncing between the two. “There is
no need for this hostility. Noreen doesn’t like hearing her sons fight, and I think it’s been far too long
to continue this disagreement.”
“Disagreement?” Aidan exploded, slashing his arm at Patrick. “He deserted the family.”
Patrick clenched his jaw. “I had a job.”
“Which you did not need!”
“I happen to enjoy the sound of the ocean.”
“I gave up everything, Patrick.”
“I told you to hire a guardian.”
“Why, so I could be as happy as you?”
“I am happy.”
“You ran away.”
The sound of flesh on flesh echoed.
Alana gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Aidan staggered backward, blood dripping from his
nose. With a snarl, he flung himself forward, crashing into Patrick and knocking his brother to the
ground.
“Stop!” Alana yelled as they rolled across the filthy ground.
A small crowd gathered around them, murmuring and pointing.
She glanced behind her at their father, who perched on her trunk, an amused smile on his face.
“Da! Do something.”
“What can I do?” He grinned, tilting his head. “One does not interrupt two dogs when they are
fighting. Let them get this out.”
“Ma would be embarrassed by this behavior.” She appealed to his sentimental side.
 “Then it’s a good thing your mother is not alive to witness this.”
Alana growled.
Of course, he would be lucid for this particular incident.
Straightening her jacket, she marched over to her brothers, leaned down, and grabbed Patrick’s
ear, which she wrenched until he cried out. Before Aidan could swing, Alana grabbed his ear as well,
dragging them both to their feet.
They bent at the waist, craning their heads toward her, twin expressions of agony on their faces.
The crowd around her clapped as she hauled them back toward the coach, flinging them at its side.
“You should be ashamed,” she muttered, her eyes dancing between them. “A public spectacle of
your private disagreement.”
She shook her head and lowered her voice, using her most stern tone. “I expect the two of you to
end this absurdity, right now.”
“He started it,” Aidan murmured, staring at the ground. He dug his elbow into Patrick’s ribs, who
shoved Aidan in return.
“Stop!” They froze under her hissed command. “I’m leaving for America in less than an hour.
However, after this childish display, I’m concerned leaving the two of you unchaperoned might result
in the death of one or both of my brothers, despite the physical distance between you.”
She raised her arms, cupping each of their cheeks.
“Aidan, can you not see that Patrick was suffering from rejection and didn’t know how to cope
with the magnitude of that social snub? And Patrick,”—she cut off Aidan’s retort—“can you not see
that Aidan felt abandoned, left to deal with everything that should have been the older brother’s
responsibility?”
They stared at each other, processing Alana’s comments. Slowly, they leaned forward, embracing.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Patrick said.
“As am I.” Aidan released Patrick and turned to Alana. “When did you become so intelligent?”
“I’ve always been,” Alana replied. “It’s just taken you some time to recognize my abilities.”
Offering him a genteel smile, she looped her arm through her father’s, lifting him to his feet, and
returned her attention to Aidan. “As an apology to me, you may carry my trunk.”
Patrick stopped her. “Before you leave, I have something for you.”
He collected his bag from the ground. Untying the rope, he dug into the bag, extracted a smaller
bag, and tossed the sack to Alana. Peeling open the top, she giggled and glanced up at him with a
wide grin.
“Where did you find them?”
“Washed ashore a couple of weeks ago. They’re too small for someone of my size, so I
figured…”
“Thank you.” Alana rose up on her toes, planting a kiss on the side of his bearded cheek.
“It’s just a bag of clothing.” He reddened, squeezing her tightly. Leaning down, he murmured in
her ear, “At least, this should deter you from borrowing mine.”
Glancing down at her trunk, Alana blushed. “Does that mean you’d like me to return the ones I
took the last time I visited?”
Patrick laughed, the deep booming sound reverberating through Alana’s bones.
She would miss that.
“Keep them. Give them back to me when you return from America.”
Unlatching her trunk, Alana lifted the lid, dropped the sack of clothes on top, then closed and
relocked the trunk. Hanging the key from a chain around her neck, she stood, then rethreaded her arm
through her father’s and walked toward the docks.
“I shall write to you every week, Da.”
“Noreen had a terrible dream.” Grabbing her wrist, her father squeezed tightly and stopped their
progress.
Sighing, Alana glanced over at Aidan, catching his eye. He frowned, shaking his head, then set her
trunk end-up next to the quartermaster and turned to speak with the man regarding Alana’s
accommodations.
“What did she say, Da?” Alana struggled to prevent her reply from revealing the frustration that
spiked when he slipped into the fantasy that her mother was still alive.
“Don’t go to America.” The hand holding her arm shook fiercely. “She’s worried for you.”
“I promise I’ll be safe.” Alana leaned forward, embracing him, and placed a light kiss on her
forehead.
“What about sharks?” her father asked, refusing to release her.
“I don’t plan to go swimming.”
“Storms?”
“At least there will be no sharks.” Alana smiled and peeled his fingers from her arm. Turning
around, she hugged Patrick and Aidan simultaneously.
“Pirates?” Her father’s fear surrounded them, sending a shiver rippling down her spine.
Patrick released Alana and gave her a gentle shove toward the ramp, then clapped his father on
the back.
“The pirates should be terrified of her.”
The three men waited on the dock as she trudged up the gangplank. When she reached the top, she
spun around and offered them a small wave before vanishing into the ship’s depths.
She never reached America.
C H A P T E R T WO
 CEDRIC

“T hirty thousand for your capture.” Rowland tossed a crumpled news sheet at the table. The
paper landed on top of a small bowl of bloody bandages. “Are you satisfied?”
Cedric glanced over, wincing as Rowland’s wife dug a long splinter from his shoulder.
To be fair, ‘splinter’ was an incorrect description of the object protruding from his arm, but
‘spear’ seemed far more dramatic than the injury appeared, despite the somber expression on Mrs.
Taylor’s face.
“No.” Cedric chewed on the word. “I want fifty. I can’t convince them I’m a gentleman with less
than that.”
“You can’t convince anyone if you’re dead.” Rowland pulled out the chair beside Cedric, spun it
around, and straddled the seat, leaning his tanned forearms against the chair’s top rung. “Their ships
are getting faster. I’ve heard talk in the tavern.”
“I heard the same rumors.” Cedric restrained from rolling his eyes, hissing as Mrs. Taylor’s
sewing needle pierced his skin again.
“Don’t dismiss me.” Rowland’s hand whipped out and closed around Cedric’s wrist, pinning
Cedric’s arm to the table. “I may not be your captain anymore, but I will still whip you for insolence.”
“Yes, sir.” Cedric ducked his head, hiding a grin.
Retired and comfortable, love had tamed the beast who’d beaten six sailors to death in a failed
mutiny attempt. That didn’t prevent Rowland from reminding Cedric of his previous—and permanent
—place beneath him.
“If you want to increase the bounty on your life, you’ll need to kill someone.” Rowland released
his hold on Cedric and snagged the news sheet, smoothing the paper out as he dragged it closer.
“I did.”
Rowland’s hard gaze lifted from the page.
“Apart from Charles Ashmore,” he said after a long moment of silence.
“You and your lovely wife,”—Cedric glanced over at the blonde woman bandaging his shoulder
—“are the only people who know the rumors surrounding my merciless nature are false.”
“And that needs to remain a secret if you are to carry out your plan—”
“Rowland,” Mrs. Taylor said, raising her head from her task, her disarming green gaze seeking
her husband. “Why are you encouraging him toward murder? Do you want to see him hanged?”
“I want him to stop attacking ships off the coast of America before the Navy captures him,”
Rowland replied.
“You taught me this profession!” Cedric slammed his fist on the table, disturbing the bowl of
bandages, which rocked back and forth several times before settling into place.
 “I also instructed you to leave it after three years.” Rowland’s brown eyes softened. “Every pirate
runs out of luck. Neither of us wants to attend your funeral.”
“We prefer weddings,” his wife said as she stood. After collecting the bowl and her sewing
supplies, she rounded the table, stopping behind Rowland, and rested her fingers on his shoulder.
“You’ll convince him to pursue romance?”
“I shall do my best, my love.” He reached up and squeezed her hand.
Cedric looked away from the intimate caress, allowing a private moment between the couple,
whose amorous connection had only increased since their meeting aboard Rowland’s—now Cedric’s
—ship several years prior.
Assigned the task of managing hostages held for ransom, Cedric’s first introduction to Miss Olivia
Dixon was when she kicked him in the shins, escaped from his grasp, and broke into the captain’s
quarters.
He wasn’t certain what discussion took place between Miss Dixon and Captain Taylor, but the
end result was marriage.
He’d never seen Rowland happier.
“How long will you be in Ceresus?” Rowland asked, interrupting Cedric’s rumination.
“A week, possibly longer, depending on the repairs needed.” He lifted a rummer glass from the
table, the reddish-amber liquid sloshing over the side as he saluted Rowland. “Just long enough for
you to regret your offer of hospitality.”
“But not enough time for Olivia to arrange any introductions…”
“An unfortunate occurrence,” Cedric replied and sipped, his eyes closing.
The familiar sweet-tart taste spread over his tongue and crawled down his throat, a ball of fire
expanding in his stomach.
Cherry trees grew prevalent on this secluded island—known for providing a safe haven to
misguided souls and those who wished to employ them. Cherries also happened to be the secret
ingredient in the whiskey he and Rowland distilled in a little barn behind the main house.
Rowland snorted.
His previous captain was well aware of Cedric’s detestation of marriage or romantic
engagements in general. Neither he nor Mr. Hayward, Cedric’s first mate, nor any of the women
they’d flung in his path had been able to deter him from his focus.
Dinah’s safety.
Cedric was running out of time to save her. She was almost of age, and his father wouldn’t
hesitate to sell her to the highest bidder, no matter how inappropriate the match or how miserable the
marriage made his sister.
“You’re fortunate that cannonball didn’t kill you.” Rowland refilled Cedric’s glass from a crystal
decanter, a gift given in exchange for the ship since Rowland refused to accept any payment for the
vessel.
“I was in no danger. Their aim was terrible.” Cedric drained his glass a second time.
“That’s why you turned up this morning covered in blood, begging for my help, and half your crew
quit.” A smirk pulled the corner of Rowland’s mouth. “Captain Shaw is mortal.”
“If you wish to give accolades to someone for nearly taking the life of the infamous Pirate Shaw,
then credit the ship’s aft railing, not the blackguard who lit the cannon’s fuse.”
Rowland’s observation rankled him. He hadn’t expected the crew to abandon the ship when they
reached port, but this latest incident with the Navy frightened many of them. He was left with a
handful of men still willing to sail with him.
 That was the second reason he’d come to Rowland. He needed his former captain’s assistance
with recruiting.
“A few centimeters to the left, and you wouldn’t be seated in front of me.” Rowland gestured at
the wood fragment his wife had removed from Cedric’s shoulder.
“If it had been to the right, I’d be staying at the tavern.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Rowland snarled, leaning forward, his eyes darkening to umber. “And stop
pretending this injury wasn’t an indication that you’ve grown reckless. If you continue on this path,
you’ll hang long before you return to England, then how will you help your sister?”
Sighing, Cedric leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair, loosening the long strands from
the leather fastening securing them at the base of his neck.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, toying with the weathered tie.
“What does Hayward say?” asked Rowland, his voice adopting a nonchalant tone.
“Same as you. I’m a fool chasing glory.”
“I didn’t call you a fool. I cautioned your behavior.”
“He did as well, but his words weren’t as pretty.”
“I doubt they were.” Rowland chuckled and filled a second glass half-full of whiskey.
Mr. Hayward had served under both men, beginning as second mate under Rowland, then being
promoted to first mate when Cedric assumed captaincy. Apart from Rowland, Mr. Hayward was the
only man Cedric trusted, a sentiment confirmed numerous times since he’d assumed control of the
ship.
If he hadn’t been standing beside Mr. Hayward when the cannonball struck the railing, Cedric
would have bled out on the deck long before they reached Ceresus, but he had no intention of
revealing that piece of information to Rowland.
“Are you going to tell me the true reason you’ve descended upon my house? Whiskey and
conversation may be a gentleman’s activity, but that isn’t why you’ve come.” Rowland’s eyes flicked
to the bandage around Cedric’s shoulder. “That injury could’ve been repaired by a doctor.”
“I’d match your wife’s skill against any man in this town who claims to be a ‘doctor.’”
“Thank you, Captain Shaw,” Mrs. Taylor said, adding a quick curtsey as she entered the room,
carrying two pistols.
Cedric frowned, shifting into a defensive position as she approached the table. His eyes flicked to
Rowland.
“Are we dueling?”
“The weapons belonged to Mr. Harris Cheswick,” he replied as Mrs. Taylor set them in front of
him with a thud. “Do you remember the man?”
“I do,” Cedric replied, his throat tight.
They’d robbed Cheswick and rescued Mrs. Taylor from an arranged marriage to the brute, then
sailed for Ceresus less than a week later. That was the last time any of them had walked on English
soil.
Mrs. Taylor fixed her mesmeric gaze on Cedric. “There are far too few women on this island,
and, with the exception of Miss Appleton, I care for none of them, and I miss my home.”
Rowland took her hand. “We’ve learned Cheswick purchased a ticket for Boston. His ship left
port yesterday. He’s the only person who could recognize either of us, but with him gone…” his voice
trailed off, replaced by a dark smile.
“Rowland swore we could return to England,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“I did swear,” he murmured, glancing up at her.
 “A lot,” she replied, giggling as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap.
“Any person discovered with these pistols will be charged with theft and hung,” Rowland said,
his gaze returning to Cedric. “We ask that you hide them on the ship.”
“Hung?” Cedric reached out and picked up the nearest gun. “That seems like a harsh penalty.”
“Mr. Cheswick’s request,” Mrs. Taylor replied with a shudder. “He knows we have them, and
he’s searching for me. He’s extremely angry he hasn’t acquired me yet.”
Rowland’s grip on her tightened.
“He will never have you,” he growled against her ear. “Not while there is blood flowing through
my veins.”
She curled into him, her forehead against his, and they fell silent, two entities breathing as one.
For the second time that day, Cedric felt as though he were interrupting something deeply
personal. He turned away and raised the pistol, gauging the weight in his hand.
A shadow moved outside the window.
“Are you expecting anyone?” asked Cedric, rising.
Before either could respond, he strode across the floor, yanked open the door, and leveled the
pistol with the eyes of the unknown guest.
“If you shoot me, who will listen to you complain about the food?” Mr. Hayward’s gravelly voice
asked. He didn’t flinch, not even when Cedric cocked back the hammer.
“Remind me why I keep this crotchety old man aboard my ship.” Cedric glanced back as Rowland
approached from behind, the other pistol in his hand, his wife gone from the room.
“I’ve got seven years on you.” Mr. Hayward threw his shoulder into Cedric’s chest as he passed.
Rowland lowered his weapon. “You’re only proving his point.”
Mr. Hayward shrugged.
“Would you like a drink?” Rowland asked, returning to the table. He set down the pistol and
gestured at the decanter.
“I wouldn’t turn down your fine whiskey.” Mr. Hayward claimed the chair nearest the door.
Both of them ignored the soft groan that escaped Cedric as he crossed the floor. A week wasn’t
long enough for him to heal properly, which they all knew, but no one would say anything regarding
his stubborn attitude.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Taylor said as she returned to the room, carrying a third glass. “Delightful
to see you again, Mr. Hayward. How’s Miss Appleton?”
Cedric had never seen the man flustered, but that one innocent question turned his first mate into a
babbling youth. He glanced down, his weather-beaten skin adopting a bright red tinge.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with her today.”
“That is a shame. Perhaps I should invite her for tea…” She glanced at Rowland, her eyes
gleaming with the possibility of matchmaking.
Of the same mind, her husband waved his hand, accepting her suggestion, and she was out the
door, shawl flying behind her before Mr. Hayward could protest.
“I hope you had reason to torment my first mate,” Cedric said to Rowland as the door swung
closed.
“Not all of your secrets have been shared with my wife.” Rowland reached for the decanter, then
filled all three cups. “If you wish her to know your full history, I could call her back. She’d be
overjoyed to learn you hail from Wiltshire.”
Pursing his lips, Cedric glanced at Mr. Hayward, a silent apology in his eyes.
“We parted amiably last month,” Mr. Hayward replied, digging in his pocket. He extracted a gold
chain, a portion of his share of their last raid, and turned the necklace over in his calloused hand,
murmuring to himself. “She loves pretty things. They distract her from the harsh realities of life.”
He was referring to the scar that stretched from his hairline to his chin. A gift from his first
employer, punishment for a mistake made when Mr. Hayward was still a young boy. He’d lost his
sight in that eye, but opted to leave his eyelid unsewn, to prevent others from realizing his disability.
“What about sailing?” Rowland asked, lifting his glass. “Would Miss Appleton enjoy a sea
voyage?”
“I never thought to ask.” Frowning, Mr. Hayward returned the necklace to his pocket, patting the
space twice to ensure the chain was secure. “Why do you?”
“Shaw is retiring.”
“I have no desire to run my own ship.” Mr. Hayward lifted his glass and drained the whiskey, then
gestured at Cedric. “Captain knows this.”
“That I do,” Cedric confirmed as he sat. “But he is referring to relocating, not assuming
command.”
“Is this decision due to the most recent attack on the ship?” Mr. Hayward’s gaze slid between both
men.
Rowland set down his half-empty glass. “Your captain has an obligation to his sister that must be
fulfilled within the next few weeks… and he intends to do so by claiming the reward upon his head.”
Mr. Hayward’s jaw dropped. Whatever explanation he expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Anger
blazed across his face. He pushed back from the table, knocking over his chair with a loud clatter.
“In all my time serving alongside you, I’ve never known you to perform such an act of
cowardice.”
Cedric held up his arm, stopping Mr. Hayward’s tirade.
“I have no desire to change your good,” —Rowland snorted— “opinion of me, and I do not intend
to kill myself. I intend to blow up the ship and claim responsibility for the death of Captain Shaw by
returning this.” He slid a ring off his pinkie and held the gleaming, gold circle out to Mr. Hayward.
His first mate placed the ring between his teeth and bit gently, an automatic habit when it came to
determining jewelry's worth, then lifted the ring to his good eye, squinting at the word engraved on the
inside of the band.
“Ashmore?” Mr. Hayward asked.
“The first man I killed.”
Raising both eyebrows, Mr. Hayward said nothing else and passed the ring back to Cedric.
He’d revealed very few details of his past to Mr. Hayward, ascribing to the notion that less
information allowed for more imagination. A theory that provided endless amusement when he
learned of feats attributed to his hand.
It also prevented him from having to lie.
“When will you carry out this plan?” Mr. Hayward set his chair aright and sat down.
“At the end of our next crossing.”
“If,”—Rowland slid the news sheet toward Mr. Hayward—“he can increase the bounty on his life
to fifty thousand.”
Mr. Hayward grabbed the page, a low whistle escaping his mouth as he read the headline.
“We can get you to fifty,” he said, glancing up and pushing the paper back toward the center of the
table. “But we’ll need to ransom—”
“Murder,” Cedric said, his voice somber. “We’ll need to murder someone to get that amount.”
“Who?”
 “Mr. Harris Cheswick.” Cedric shifted his gaze to Rowland. “That’s why you told me about his
departure from England, isn’t it?”
Rowland nodded but didn’t speak.
“We’ll need a crew who will support the command to kill.” The word stuck in Cedric’s throat.
Charles Ashmore was the only life he’d taken since beginning work aboard Rowland’s ship.
Despite his cruel reputation, Cedric had managed to avoid the task… until now.
Mr. Hayward dug a grubby square of paper from his pocket and tossed the folded page to Cedric.
“This is the list of volunteers.”
Cedric peeled open the paper and set the page on the table between himself and Rowland, who
leaned closer and perused the list, his mouth pulling into a thin line.
Seven names, plus the fifteen that agreed to stay with him. Twenty-two in total.
“There are men on here I wouldn’t sail with.” Rowland gestured to two signatures near the top.
Ernest Wickes and Jack Evans.
“We need every capable body,” Cedric replied. “What is your complaint regarding these two?”
“They were on my ship.” The menacing growl emanating from Rowland’s throat chilled Cedric’s
blood.
He exchanged a glance with Mr. Hayward.
After the failed mutiny, Rowland sailed to Ceresus and replaced his entire crew—those that
survived his wrath—refusing to work with any of the men again. That was the reason both Cedric and
Mr. Hayward gained employment on the notorious pirate’s ship. Rowland had accepted anyone who
hadn’t previously sailed with him.
“Is that your only motivation for refusing them?” Cedric asked, his voice quiet.
“Yes.”
“Even with them, we still don’t have a sufficient crew.” Cedric pointed at the list.
“Ah, the true reason you’ve both appeared at my door.”
“Let’s describe this as a mutual exchange of benefits,” he said, lifting his gaze to Rowland,
“Cheswick’s head for a reliable crew.”
Rowland leaned back in his chair, taking his glass of whiskey with him. He sipped the liquid, his
eyes moving between Cedric and Mr. Hayward.
“It’ll be difficult to convince anyone to sail with you after this last incident with the Navy. They’d
either have to be deranged or desperate.”
“I’ll take both.”
“It’ll take some time before I can convince anyone,” Rowland replied with a snort. “Once they’ve
spent their gold, they’ll be more apt to forego reason and sign. Cheswick’s ship isn’t due for two
weeks.”
Two weeks. The expiration date of his life.
Either he’d succeed, return to England under a new guise, and rescue his sister. Or he’d fail and
end up shark food on the ocean’s floor, leaving Dinah to the mercies of an arranged marriage, wheels
he was certain his father had already put into motion.
“Even with my help, you’ll still need more men to outrun the Navy after you attack the vessel
conveying Cheswick to Boston,” Rowland added, setting his glass back on the table.
Cedric frowned. “What do you suggest?”
“When given the choice between his life and service on a pirate ship, most men will choose to
work on the ship. Build your crew with the hostages.”
Leaning forward, Mr. Hayward set his elbows on the table. “Wouldn’t that increase the chances of
a mutiny?”
“It would.” Rowland’s gaze flicked to him. “But without the additional hands, you’ll be captured
before that happy event could occur.”
Mutiny or arrest—neither option boded well with his plans. Cedric shifted in his chair, a minute
gasp escaping as the skin around his wound separated, pulling against the stitches.
Was he a fool tempting fate?
C HAPTER THREE
 ALANA

“A beautiful lady, such as yourself, shouldn’t be traveling alone.” A hand slid over the small of
Alana’s back, dipping dangerously close to her butt. “It’s unsafe.”
She jumped, startled by the whispered words brushed against her ear, and the intimate—almost
inappropriate—caress. Fire in her eyes, she turned and stepped backward, her arm raising to strike
the man.
“Which is why she isn’t alone, Mr. Cheswick.” A woman slid in front of Alana, captured her
hand, lowering her fist, and spun around, tucking Alana’s arm behind her back.
“Mrs. Parker.” Mr. Cheswick greeted her with a cold nod. “I wasn’t aware the lady was a friend
of yours.”
“She is.” Mrs. Parker jutted out her chin. “And she also happens to be married.”
“Of course.” His eyes slid to Alana, who’d moved to stand beside Mrs. Parker. “I should like to
meet your husband, Mrs.—”
A dark grin crossed his thin lips, as if he knew Mrs. Parker had lied for Alana.
“Dubois.” Alana stepped out from behind Mrs. Parker. “And my husband is waiting for me to join
him in America. However, when we dock, I’m certain he’d like to meet you as well.”
Anger should be a color. It looked quite delightful on Mr. Cheswick’s face as he stomped away
from them, gnawing his teeth.
She turned to share this observation with Mrs. Parker and caught the expression of glee on the
woman’s face. The two of them burst into a fit of laughter, which drew several glares from nearby
passengers.
“Come,” Mrs. Parker said after she drew in a breath. “Let’s find your cabin.”
She wrapped Alana’s arm around her and led her down the corridor.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Parker.” Alana glanced at the woman, who was a good head
taller than her.
“Certainly. I had the unfortunate experience of meeting him when searching for a match for my
sister.” Mrs. Parker shivered. “He’s a widow… four dead wives.”
“Four?” Alana’s eyes popped.
Mrs. Parker’s grim expression confirmed Alana’s suspicions.
“It’s best he doesn’t form an attachment to you.”
Turning right, they entered a new corridor with two rows of white doors lining both sides and
stopped. Lifting her key, Alana checked the card tied to the key’s bow. On one side, inscribed in thick
black ink, were the words ‘Crescent Rose’, and beneath the ship’s name were three numbers.
“Nine two five,” she read out.
 They strolled down the hallway, checking each placard until they found one that matched. Shoving
the key into the door, Alana wrestled with the lock, but the key refused to turn.
“You were quick to think of a name… do you truly have a husband in America?” Leaning against
the wall, Mrs. Parker removed her hat and twirled the bonnet in her hand, watching the ribbons spin
like a colorful kaleidoscope.
“Sebastian passed away two years ago.” A small knife slid through her heart as she spoke his
name, a painful reminder of the life she lost.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Mrs. Parker wrapped an arm around Alana, yanking her into a tight
embrace. She released Alana just as exuberantly, and clapped her hands together with shining eyes,
smashing the beleaguered hat in her excitement.
“You must dine with Hugh and I!”
“I cannot impose…”
“Of course, you can.” Waving her hand airily, Mrs. Parker dismissed her concerns. “You are
traveling without your husband, Mrs. Dubois. The least we can do is offer you companionship.”
She cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered loudly, “Besides, Hugh will be occupied
most of the journey with business, and I’d much rather sit on deck and gossip with you than spend my
days in the cabin, staring at my embroidery.”
Alana laughed. “I must admit, that is a task in which I’m a miserable failure.”
“Surely, you must have some talent.” Mrs. Parker grinned, thumbing to herself. “All ladies with
red hair are exceptional. At what do you excel?”
“Shooting.”
“That sounds delightful.”
Checking the cabin number, Alana removed the key, compared the room number to the tag, then
inserted the key again, and wrenched the bow sideways. The key slipped, cutting her finger. Sucking
on the wound, she glared at the door.
“Mrs. Dubois, please, allow me to help you.”
Setting her hat atop her head, Mrs. Parker leaned around Alana, pulled the key from the lock, then
spun around, facing Alana, and winked. Kicking her foot out, she struck the door with the heel of her
boot, then shoved the key into the lock, twisting sharply, and pushed the door open, inspecting the
cabin.
“One trunk,” Mrs. Parker murmured, then glanced back. “Is your lady’s maid staying in a different
room?”
“I have no need for such an extravagance. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”
The door behind Mrs. Parker opened, and a man with graying black hair poked his head into the
corridor, a smile tugging at his lips.
“My dear, you really must let the other passengers get situated prior to departure.” He glanced at
Alana, his deep brown eyes sliding over her. “I apologize, Miss…”
“Mrs. Dubois.” Alana curtsied.
“Mrs. Dubois,” he repeated, then stepped forward, bowed, and hooked his hand under Mrs.
Parker’s elbow, tugging her backward. “I hope my wife has not been bothering you too much.”
“Not at all, Mr. Parker. I find your wife to be a refreshing conversationalist.”
Mrs. Parker beamed. “Hugh, I invited Mrs. Dubois to dine with us this evening.”
“I hardly think her husband would approve of her dining at a different table.”
“He’s dead,” Mrs. Parker hissed, leaning toward her husband.
“Pardon?”
 “Dead,” Alana repeated. Another stab through her chest. “My husband passed away.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dubois.” A slight red tinge colored Mr. Parker’s face. “Of course, you’re
welcome to join us this evening, and every other, until our company bores you or you follow us to
Boston.”
He winked, lifting his wife’s hand, and dropped a light kiss on her wrist.
She glowed.
“My dear wife has an aptitude for adopting stray people. I daresay she brings home a stranger at
least once per week.”
Bells tolled throughout the ship, and Mr. Parker’s eyes flicked to the end of the corridor before
returning to Alana.
“We will be departing soon. Would you care to watch with us? We can eat directly afterward.”
“Hugh.” Mrs. Parker tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “We must dress first.”
Mr. Parker’s gaze slid over his wife, understanding flashed in his eyes. “Oh, yes. I forgot. I
propose we meet in this very hallway in one hour. Will that be sufficient time to change your attire?”
“More than adequate,” Alana replied with a curtsey. “Thank you for including me.”
“Nonsense, my wife wouldn’t permit any other option.” Grinning, he pulled Mrs. Parker into their
room and closed the door.
Alana stepped into her cabin, her eyes searching the small room—which consisted mostly of her
bed—for her trunk, which she discovered shoved beneath the far end of the bed.
Kneeling, she dragged out the trunk, wrestling with the weight as she pulled the chest toward her.
Once the trunk was free of the bed, she removed the key from around her neck and unlatched the chest.
Sorting through a handful of dresses, her eyes skirted over Patrick’s bag of garments.
Life would be so much easier if she could dress as a man, all those extra layers of restrictive
clothing removed. But men’s clothing was not proper, and only a proper lady would attract a
suitable husband.
One hand reluctantly brushed over the bag.
Aidan needed a wife… as did Patrick. How hard could it be to find one decent man in America?
Selecting the top dress, she rose, shaking out the material.
The ship lurched, and she stumbled, losing her balance, and crashing into the wall as the ship
pulled away from the dock. Dropping her dress on the bed, she climbed onto the mattress, braced
herself against the wall, and peered out a small window, watching the lights dotting the docks fade
into the approaching evening.
Two weeks aboard this ship. Like the Parkers, she was disembarking in Boston. Mrs. Parker
would be delighted when she heard the news.
A small smile flitted across Alana’s face. Mrs. Parker seemed a charming woman, and secretly,
Alana was pleased to have met a companion so quickly. Although she had portrayed a brave façade
for Aidan, in truth, she was terrified.
Pushing away from the window, she decided remaining on the bed would make keeping her
balance easier. Digging her knees into the mattress, she removed her skirt, which was more
complicated than expected, then she cursed, fighting with the bodice ties, and finally yanked the stiff
material over her head in a huff.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, she combed her fingers through the pieces of hair loosened
during her fight with the clothing and repined the strands.
A light tapping came at the door.
After crawling from the bed, Alana stumbled across the room, grabbing the wall to steady herself.
 “Who is it?” she called through the door.
“I have come to offer my services,” Mrs. Parker’s boisterous voice replied. “It was quite an
adventure to dress while the ship was rocking, and I suspect you may be having a bit of trouble on
your own.”
Exhaling a relieved sigh, Alana opened the door and peered around the edge, her eyes darting up
and down the corridor.
“Mrs. Parker, your intuition is astonishing.”
Following Alana into the cabin, Mrs. Parker closed the door behind her.
“Hugh will meet us on deck. He’s decided to stop in the salon for a bit and chat with some
potential investors.”
“Investors?”
Alana passed her dress to Mrs. Parker, who instructed Alana to turn around with a small circular
gesture. Pulling the frock over Alana’s head, she tugged the material down, smoothing out wrinkles as
the dress fell down over Alana’s hips.
“Yes, Hugh’s quite an astute businessman. His latest venture paid for our trip to England.” She
fussed with Alana’s hair, fixing the haphazard pinning Alana had done after pulling off the bodice.
“He adores traveling. It gives him the opportunity to meet people who never would have granted him
an audience.”
“Do you live in Boston?”
“We’ve recently relocated to Boston. Hugh has some interests out there.” Mrs. Parker smiled, but
the light didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m looking forward to our adventure. Although I won’t know anyone
there, I’m certain I will meet new friends. I’ve heard American society is much more welcoming.”
Alana reached out, placing her hand on Mrs. Parker’s arm, and squeezed.
“You will know someone. I’m moving to Boston as well.”
“You are?” Mrs. Parker squealed with delight, placing her hand on top of Alana’s. “We shall have
a grand time, balls, and parties, and luncheons…”
Groaning inwardly, Alana forced a smile. “Will you not want to spend a little time with your
family?”
“My family?” Blinking her eyes, confusion flashed across Mrs. Parker’s face.
“Surely, your husband has family in Boston.”
Mrs. Parker licked her lips. “Hugh has no family. He’s the sole surviving heir.”
“Does he not want children?”
Stepping away, Mrs. Parker stared out the small window, her haunted face reflected in the glass.
“I cannot have children.”
“I’m sorry.” Alana stepped forward, but Mrs. Parker held up her hand.
“Don’t feel pity for me, Mrs. Dubois, I have accepted my lot.” She paused. “However, if I may be
bold, why do you not have children? You were married for two years.”
Alana glanced down, digging her toes into the floor.
“We lost one.”
She hiccupped.
She hadn’t told Aidan or her father. Only Sebastian knew. They buried the baby, just the two of
them, wracked with grief. Sebastian fell ill shortly after.
“Well, now that we have revealed our deepest secrets, we shall be lifelong friends.” Mrs. Parker
lifted her skirt and crossed the room. “I do hope it’s time for dinner. I’m famished.”
“You remind me of someone.” A half-smile pulled the corner of Alana’s mouth.
 Opening the door, Mrs. Parker turned, her face thoughtful, as though she wasn’t certain Alana was
going to pay her compliment.
“Who?”
“An old friend.”
Thomas Reid was much more than an “old friend,” but one secret was painful enough this
evening, and she had no intention of discussing him or any other man during this journey.
“He was always hungry.”
“I believe he and I would be well-suited.” With a grin, Mrs. Parker held out her arm to Alana.
Looping her arm through the older woman’s, Alana followed her into the hallway and closed the
door.
Older was also an incorrect description as Mrs. Parker could not be more than a year or two
older than Alana. However, she’d married an older man. Mr. Parker appeared to be her senior by
at least ten years.
Alana chewed her lip as they walked, Mrs. Parker prattling on about Boston society.
It had to be an arranged marriage. She peeked sideways at Mrs. Parker. An attractive woman
such as her would certainly have no trouble finding a suitor. His wealth must have been the
deciding factor for her family.
“Where does your family reside?” Alana asked, interrupting Mrs. Parker’s description of the last
meal she ate before they set sail.
“Near Wiltshire. Have you heard of it?”
“I know the area.”
“You do?” Mrs. Parker raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, my father lives to the south of town.”
“What is your father’s name?”
“Aengus Flannery.”
Mrs. Parker’s jaw dropped. “I’ve heard of your family. My father is Josiah Varner.”
“Are you related to Miss Susannah Varner?” Alana stopped walking and stared at Mrs. Parker.
“You know my sister?”
“Only by name.” They resumed strolling, their arms linked together. “Susannah’s companions and
mine don’t share similar interests.”
“I will not speak ill of anyone.” Mrs. Parker pursed her lips, staring ahead as they navigated the
narrow corridor. After another minute of silence, she spoke again.
“However, I don’t approve of Susannah’s new acquaintances. I haven’t spent much time in
Wiltshire, and it’s not my place to direct her. It’s my father’s.”
Sighing, she glanced at Alana.
“I’ve been married to Hugh for nearly eight years. While I don’t regret one moment of that life, I
wish I could have spent more time with my sister and given her some direction. Susannah has become
the silliest girl, emulating that vile Miss Shirely.”
Even Mrs. Parker knew of Miss Shirely’s reputation.
“My dear!” Mr. Parker appeared in front of them, a jovial smile lit his face. “I was coming to
search for you. I thought you may have become lost.”
His eyes skipped over Alana, twinkling merrily. “I do hope you were delayed due to
conversation.”
“We were,” Mrs. Parker matched his grin and accepted his offered elbow. “I have the most
wonderful news… Mrs. Dubois is from Wiltshire!”
 The smile froze on his face. “That is intriguing…”
“And she is moving to Boston!”
His eyes flicked to Alana. “I hope my dear wife hasn’t convinced you to alter your plans.”
“Not at all.” Alana grinned, winking at Mrs. Parker. “It’s a delightful coincidence.”
“I’m pleased the two of you will have so much to discuss in my absence.” He patted his wife’s
hand but didn’t notice her tiny flinch when he mentioned he’d be occupied during most of the journey.
Mr. Parker vanished halfway through the meal, promising his wife he’d return before dessert, but
he didn’t. His disappearance was remarked upon by Mr. Cheswick, who’d—unluckily—been seated
at their table.
Disgusted by the insinuated comments from the crass man, who was by no definition a gentleman,
Alana and Mrs. Parker dropped their forks with a simultaneous clatter and abandoned their half-eaten
desserts.
“I’ll speak with Hugh,” Mrs. Parker said as they returned to the corridor. “He’ll have our places
switched to a different table.”
Nodding, Alana extracted the key to her cabin. Spinning quickly, she kicked the door, then turned
again, thrusting the key into the lock in one fluid movement. Wrenching the key, Alana slammed her
shoulder into the center of the wood, pushing the door open.
“I’m very impressed, Mrs. Dubois. Most ladies aren’t that capable.”
“Of opening a door?”
“Of taking care of themselves.” She followed Alana into her cabin. “Hugh has my mind working,
and now I wonder. You’re widowed. Why are you going to Boston alone?”
“I’m going to find a husband.”
“Have they run out of them in England?”
“No.” Alana snorted.
“Do you have an intended selected?” Mrs. Parker took a seat on the edge of the bed and folded
her hands, a patient expression forming on her face.
“No.”
“You boarded a ship, unchaperoned, to meet a man you’ve never met, and you hope to find him in
Boston?” There was a fair amount of skepticism in her voice.
“Yes.”
“And…”
“And you have an amazing gift for knowing when someone is withholding the truth.” Alana
peeked out into the corridor, ensuring the hallway was empty, then closed the door.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Parker replied when Alana turned back around.
“My family has been targeted by a killer, who murdered at least two people in his desire for
revenge.” Alana twisted her fingers together, pacing the small room.
“Who?”
“My uncle, Mr. Matthew Hastings, and Mr. Horace Pierce.”
“Miss Shirely’s uncle?”
“His body was discovered hanging on the road between our land and the Shirely’s country
estate.” Alana paused, a shudder rippling down her spine.
No one knew she’d seen Mr. Pierce before his body had been taken down from the tree. That was
the tipping point, the reason she’d agreed to sail to America. The image of Mr. Pierce’s empty eyes,
staring at her accusingly as he twisted six feet above the road, would forever haunt her.
“Well, you are safe aboard this ship.” Mrs. Parker rose and embraced her. “And while those are
horrific circumstances indeed, I’m glad they have introduced you to me. We shall have a delightful
time finding you a husband, now that I’m no longer focused on Susannah. My matchmaking talents
need to be put to use.”
“Who did your sister end up agreeing to marry?” asked Alana as Mrs. Parker released her.
“Lockhearst.”
“William Lockhearst?” Alana’s voice cracked.
“Yes, why is he not a good match?” A frown creased Mrs. Parker’s forehead. “Tell me honestly,
Mrs. Dubois. Have I made a mistake with my sister’s future?”
Alana swallowed, recalling the tales of Mr. Lockhearst’s brutish reputation regarding his
servants.
“You have.”
C H A P T E R FO U R
 CEDRIC

“C rescent Rose on the horizon!”

Cedric glanced up at the closed door, quill tip hovering over the letter he’d been writing to
his sister. He didn’t recognize the voice and found it unnerving that he didn’t know most of his crew.
A drop of ink fell onto the page, obscuring the word ‘apologies.’ Grimacing, he stabbed the pen
back into the inkwell, snatched up the paper and crumbled the ruined letter into a ball.
How does one apologize for dying?
Shoving back from the desk, he stood and walked to a small iron stove. He bent, opened the grate,
and tossed the paper inside. The smoldering embers ignited the page within seconds.
It was best no one aboard, aside from Mr. Hayward, knew of his plan to destroy the ship, as that
knowledge itself might lead to a mutiny, especially with the brutish group he’d recruited. Despite
Rowland’s warning, he accepted both Wickes and Evans, but requested Mr. Hayward to add tracking
their movements to his daily duties.
After four days asea, the only thing his first mate reported was the crew voted to have Wickes
replace the current cook. Cedric allowed the change, partially because he wanted to keep his men
happy while they waited for the Crescent Rose, which had been delayed due to a storm while
crossing the Atlantic, and partially because he couldn’t stomach the slop coming out of the galley.
Opening the door, he stepped into the small corridor which housed the entrances to his cabin, Mr.
Hayward’s cabin, and his previous second mate, Mr. Johnson, who agreed to sail one final voyage for
an extra five percent of their plunder and a case of whiskey.
Cedric gave up the portion from his share, classifying the additional cost as a guarantee of Mr.
Johnson’s loyalty since the amount he would be receiving was greater than anything he’d acquire if he
were involved in a mutiny.
Mr. Johnson’s door creaked open as Cedric passed, a gruff voice greeting him with an exhausted
groan.
“Couldn’t have given me more than one hour?” he rumbled, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.
“I don’t control the speed of the ships,” Cedric replied, glancing back at him. “You can go back to
sleep if you’re too exhausted to fight.”
“Don’t insult me.” Mr. Johnson strode past Cedric and shoved open the door leading to the main
deck, bathing them both in the afternoon’s dying sunlight.
Mr. Hayward met them as they emerged, his weathered face pulled into a scowl.
“Captain, she’s faster than we expected.”
“Then we change course and cut them off before they reach the harbor.” Cedric walked toward the
ship’s starboard side, avoiding the man that scurried past them carting a coiled rope.
 “That will put us extremely close to the coast.” Mr. Johnson’s icy blue gaze flicked between
Cedric and Mr. Hayward. “The Navy is already looking for this ship.”
“And they won’t expect us to be as daring as to attack anyone that close to port.” Cedric leaned
over the railing, staring at the tiny flags of the Crescent Rose as they whipped in the distance. “It will
appear we’ve given up chase, and they may slow once we’re no longer following their course.”
His logic satisfied both men, and the command went out across the main deck to alter their
direction. As the ship turned, he noted the Crescent Rose did indeed decrease their speed, and he
grinned inwardly.
With a nod, Cedric turned away from the railing and descended to the gun deck, immediately
struck by the acrid scent of gunpowder. Cannons lined the floor, and behind each one, a stack of
cannonballs waited in the aisle. Interspersed between them, open barrels of black powder glistened.
“Ready to attack, Captain,” said the man to his left as he patted the base of a cannon’s breech, then
flashed a mostly toothless grin as rallying cries answered his assertion.
Cedric’s critical gaze swept across the floor. There weren’t enough men to manage the gun deck
efficiently.
“Mr. Johnson,” he spoke to his second mate without turning to confirm the man had followed
below deck. “We will ambush the Crescent Rose at nightfall.”
“Yes, Captain.”
It was difficult to judge Mr. Johnson’s reaction to the change in plans, but as his second mate said
nothing more, Cedric assumed he agreed with the decision to postpone their strike until they had the
cover of darkness.
“Gather the crew,” Cedric said, curbing the politeness that had crept into his speech in the ten
days he’d spent around Rowland and Mrs. Taylor.
He climbed to the main deck, berating himself for caring about the opinions of Mr. Hayward and
Mr. Johnson. These men were unruly, callous, and violent. They expected him to lead with
intimidation and cruelty, punishing anyone who failed to meet his expectations.
If his plan was to succeed, he couldn’t show anyone mercy, despite that it sickened him to think of
the people who were going to die over the course of this ordeal—with the exception of Mr.
Cheswick, who deserved the punishment he was about to receive.
He needed to prevent as much harm as possible.
“I realize many of you have never sailed under my command before,” Cedric said, once the men
were assembled on the main deck. His gaze moved across the faces, seeking the ones he recognized.
“Those of you that have sailed with me know how I expect captives to be treated before they are
exchanged for ransom. Violate my rules, and I’ll throw you overboard. If you’re fortunate, I’ll shoot
you first, so you won’t drown.”
Silence followed his words.
“I have three rules. First, every male passenger will be given the decision to either join our crew
or die. If they choose to join the crew, they will be treated justly.”
A low rumble started at the back of the group and rippled toward the stern. Cedric held up his
hand, silencing the growing objection.
“Wickes,” he yelled out, pointing at the cook. “What’s the complaint with my ultimatum? I expect
the crew prefers to outrun the Navy. To do so, we need more hands unless you all wish to hang…”
“Will we be sharing our spoils with the captives who agree to sail with us?” Mr. Wickes said, his
voice holding a microscopic wobble.
“No. They will receive their lives. That is payment enough.” His reply quelled the dissent, and he
glanced at Mr. Hayward, whose face expressed the same worry he felt.
Mutiny was indeed possible with this group.
Cedric cleared his throat, then continued speaking in a clear, direct tone.
“Second, we don’t take children. If there are any aboard the Crescent Rose, they are to be placed
in a lifeboat with any elderly or infirm passengers and set adrift prior to the transfer of prisoners. I
will slit the throat of any man who raises a fist to a child and leave that man’s body on the deck to
burn when we set the Crescent Rose aflame. Is that understood?”
A collective agreement rose among the men. That rule was rarely met with resistance. None of
these men wanted to act as a nanny or a nurse. The next one however…
“Lastly, you will not touch any of the female captives.”
Several, but not many, curse words met his statement.
His gaze slid across the group, noting those who appeared angry by the restriction. These were
the men who’d cause trouble. Catching Mr. Hayward’s eye again, he nodded once, indicating Mr.
Hayward should climb up the shroud on the mainmast. Once his first mate was in place, pistol drawn,
Cedric pulled his gun as well and aimed the muzzle at the loudest protestor.
“Evans,” Cedric called out, silencing the man’s griping. “At this moment, two pistols are pointed
at your black heart.”
Mr. Evans swallowed, his gaze searching the men around him for the second gun. When he
noticed Mr. Hayward’s position above them, he paled.
“I want every man aboard this ship to understand this rule, for it will cost you more than your life
if you break it. No woman held aboard this ship for ransom is to be harmed, not one mark. They are
worth more than all of you.” He cocked back the hammer on his pistol. “Consider this… will your
fellow crewmates accept that their share is smaller because you needed a release?”
He wasn’t certain which man struck Mr. Evans, but he stumbled forward, his body jerking like a
marionette, and crashed to his knees. Pain flickered across his face, and he bit his tongue, holding in
the scream.
“Evans understands the consequences,” Mr. Johnson said, grabbing a fistful of black hair. Yanking
Mr. Evans’ head back, Mr. Johnson slid the blade of his knife across Mr. Evans’ throat without
drawing blood, but the action was just as effective.
“Do any other men have a complaint regarding this rule?” Cedric lifted his gaze, releasing the
hammer on his pistol. “If you do,”—he pointed toward portside— “there’s the exit.”
Not one man moved. Those who had protested remained silent, and Cedric returned his pistol to
its holder.
“What about the ship’s crew?” A question whipped up from the center of the group. “Are you
giving them a choice?”
“We can’t trust them,” a second man said.
“They’ll murder us the first chance they get,” Mr. Evans added, rubbing his throat.
Cedric usually left the answer to this question to his men, as they were the ones who’d be keeping
an eye on the crew of the Crescent Rose. Allowing them a choice in their futures also helped bond
their loyalty to him.
“I’ll allow a vote before I make my decision,” Cedric said, gesturing to Mr. Hayward.
“Those of you who want to offer a choice to the Crescent Rose’s crew to sail with us, state
‘Aye.’” Mr. Hayward’s voice rang out from his position above them.
A smattering of voices answered him.
“Those of you who want to kill the crew aboard the Crescent Rose and leave them to burn, state
‘Aye.’”
Murderers. He was sailing with a bunch of murderers. The resounding cry that went up was
deafening. He couldn’t fault them. Any pirate discovered aboard the Crescent Rose would be
instantly shot. They were merely returning the hostility.
“The crew of the Crescent Rose will not be sailing with us.” With those words, Cedric sealed the
fate of fifty men.
Bile rose in his throat.
Even if he didn’t pull the trigger, the blood coating his hands was so thick, it would take more
than a thousand lifetimes to cleanse his soul. His gaze returned to Mr. Hayward, the elongation of the
scar on his first mate’s face the only indication of his displeasure with the decision.
Mr. Hayward was not one to shrink from his duties, and had, in front of Cedric, killed when the
occasion called for violence. In truth, Mr. Hayward was the reason Charles Ashmore was the only
true casualty attributed to Cedric, but that secret was well kept.
Why commit the vile act yourself when there are people willing to inflict harm for you?
It was one of many lessons from Rowland which stuck with Cedric when he took command, but it
didn’t make him feel any less guilty.
“As you’ve rejected their help, I expect you all to take on the tasks that would have been assigned
to them. And…” Cedric continued, not allowing anyone to protest, “any man who voted for this
decision and refuses to carry out the task of murder will be left on the Crescent Rose with the poor
souls they’re attempting to save.”
“I didn’t vote for this decision.”
Scrutinizing the deck, Cedric searched for the owner of the voice. A dark-haired man stepped
forward, parting the crew, his sinewed arms folded across his bare chest.
“Name?”
“Northcott, Captain.”
“Who else voted against killing the crew of the Crescent Rose?” Cedric asked, his eyes locked on
the man. In his peripheral, he noted five hands rose into the air. “You are to remain aboard this ship
and assist with the transfer of the passengers.”
“Aye, Captain,” the man answered, melting back into the crew.
Cedric knew Mr. Hayward took note of the men who’d voted against slaughtering the officers.
Those men would be given all the tasks involving the care and transport of the hostages, and Evans
wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near them.
“I see her!”
Excitement rippled across the deck, and the men rushed to the starboard side, pointing at the regal
flags of the Crescent Rose.
Shifting his attention to the horizon, Cedric calculated the distance between them and the ship,
which had spotted them again and increased their pace in an attempt to reach port before Cedric
caught them.
“Mr. Hayward!” Cedric yelled, whipping his head toward the first mate. “We could use some
speed.”
“Shovelers with me.” Jumping from the shroud and landing on the deck, Mr. Hayward hooked his
arm over his shoulder, leading six men below deck.
The secret of Cedric’s ship, the reason his vessel was faster than most, was because his ship was
also powered with coal.
His hands curled around the railing, an automatic response as he waited for the burst of speed,
which was enough to cause the men running about the deck to stumble. The ship lurched forward,
zipping across the water like a dart.
They’d overtake the Crescent Rose in less than twenty minutes.
He nodded, pleased with the performance of his ship, and set his mind to finding Mr. Cheswick
Harris. Cedric had purposely neglected to mention the importance of Mr. Harris, not wanting to draw
attention to the man. He knew Harris would come to him, not only begging for his life but willing to
sacrifice someone else in his stead.
A true coward.
It’d been roughly four years since he last saw Mr. Harris, and Cedric assumed the man had only
grown grayer and meaner over the passage of time. He doubted Mr. Harris would recognize either
him or Mr. Hayward. His focus had been locked on Rowland and Mrs. Taylor as Rowland spirited
her and Mr. Harris’s gold away.
Cedric hadn’t given Mr. Harris any thought since then, but according to Rowland, Mr. Harris had
given much thought to reclaiming Mrs. Taylor and had determined she was hidden somewhere off the
coast of America, which was close enough to their true location to cause panic.
With Mr. Harris and the Navy closing in, Ceresus was no longer safe for the Taylors, or any other
pirate for that matter. Cedric had encouraged them to reserve a cabin aboard a ship sailing for
Wiltshire as soon as he departed on this final journey, his one stipulation for agreeing to handle Mr.
Harris.
Then he entrusted all of his assets to Rowland, instructing his former captain to deliver them to
Dinah once they arrived in England. It was a precaution, a way to assist his sister in case the
unthinkable happened and Cedric never returned.
Agreeing to this favor wasn’t enough recompense to make up for everything Rowland had done
for Cedric when he first arrived on the Captain’s ship or anything he’d done since then, but it was a
start.
If he had to kill Mr. Harris three times, he would do so with a smile on his lips. Damn his soul!
“Load the cannons!” Mr. Johnson shouted, his voice echoing through the gun deck.
Their ship veered left, slipping between the Crescent Rose and the harbor and preventing the
passenger ship from turning toward the port. The Crescent Rose hadn’t outrun them. In fact, she was
losing speed, and as they bore down on the vessel, alarm bells rang out.
On the top deck, his men returned to the starboard side of the ship, clutching grapnels and planks,
their pistols drawn, their faces transforming into terrifying masks of fury.
By the time his crew boarded the Crescent Rose, the cannons would have ripped several large
holes in the hull of the ship. Timing was important. They needed to get as many hostages off the
Crescent Rose as possible before the ship sank.
“Fire!”
Explosions ripped from the side of the ship, hitting the stern of the Crescent Rose. Protecting their
eyes, his crew cheered as the rudder blew apart, flinging pieces of wood upward and scattering them
across the ocean.
“Reload!”
If the ship had been a Naval vessel, Cedric’s ship would have been gutted by cannon blasts before
they managed to get off the second round, but since the Crescent Rose had very little means of
defense, save the few officers standing on the portside with rifles, they were in no danger of being
sunk.
Shots rang out. His crew fired back at the officers stationed on deck, forcing them to take cover in
the wheelhouse.
“Fire!”
The second round of cannon fire shredded aft of the Crescent Rose, bringing the ship to a
standstill. Black smoke poured from the base of the vessel, indicating the beginning of a fire,
accompanied by screams from passengers running from the flames.
“Drop anchor and get ready to board!” Cedric’s command electrified the men positioned along the
starboard side, and those with grapnels raised them in the air, whipping the hooks in circles over their
heads.
On his order, they flung the grapnels, the metal hooks digging into the Crescent Rose’s railing.
Jubilant shouts rippled across the deck as those holding planks slid them across the open space
between the ships, connecting the vessels with precarious wooden walkways.
There was no turning back.
C HAPTER FIVE
 ALANA

A clanging bell echoed through the corridor, repeating the same pattern three times. Alana opened
her door, confused by the urgent sound.
A moment later, the Parker’s door opened.
As Mr. Parker stepped into the corridor, a man crashed into him, knocking him into his wife. She
stumbled backward with a gasp. Grabbing her elbow, he steadied her, and face purpling, he started
after the man.
“Sir!”
The man spun, his skin translucent, but he didn’t stop. Pointing a trembling finger at the rear of the
ship, his quivering voice barely reached them.
“P-P-Pirates.”
Explosions drowned out his next words. The ship lurched, slowing. With a squeak, the man turned
and fled, vanishing around the corner.
Mrs. Parker turned her wide eyes to her husband. “What do we do?”
“We’re close to shore. The Navy will rescue us.” He squeezed her arm.
“What if the pirates board us before they arrive?” Mrs. Parker’s eyes widened, her hands locking
around his wrists. “Hugh, they will kill—”
“Louisa!” His hands clamped onto her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “Stop! You and Mrs.
Dubois are to hide together. Barricade yourself in the room and stay there until I come for you. Do
you understand?”
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Parker’s voice cracked with hysteria.
“To see if I can be of any assistance.”
He flashed a jaunty grin, which Alana knew was to ease his wife’s distress. Fear glowed in his
eyes. He embraced her one final time, placing a rough kiss on her mouth, then released her, turned,
and ran toward the main deck.
Alana stepped in front of Mrs. Parker, drawing her attention as the deafening echo of cannon fire
exploded at the rear of their ship.
“Which room would you prefer?”
Mrs. Parker glanced left and right, the color draining from her face.
“Yours,” she whispered, then darted across the corridor.
Shouts echoed overhead, and another cannon blast reverberated from the stern. The ship
shuddered.
Alana followed Mrs. Parker into the cabin and slammed the door, flipping the lock. Darting
across the room, she peered out the small window, fear hovering in her chest. Beside the Crescent
Rose awaited another ship, the terrifying colors of a pirate flag flying from the top mast.
Mrs. Parker joined her at the window, squishing her head beside Alana’s. She swore, turning her
pale face to Alana.
“We need to do more than hide, Mrs. Dubois.”
“Why?” Alana’s stomach flipped over.
“I recognize the pennant from the newspaper. That’s the Pirate Shaw’s ship.”
Alana swallowed.
Captain Shaw, one of the few pirates still patrolling the waters along the coast of America, had
escaped capture on numerous accounts. His cruel reputation was frequently highlighted in newspaper
articles on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean, the descriptions of his attacks bringing terror to even the
bravest man.
“We’ll be fine. He doesn’t harm women. He’ll either keep us for ransom if we have wealthy
families or force us to swim to shore. We’re not that far out.” Mrs. Parker’s falsely bright tone didn’t
ease Alan’s fear.
“I can’t swim,” she admitted, glancing at Mrs. Parker.
“Why can’t you swim?” she asked, her eyes widening with unmistakable fear.
“I never learned.” Alana trembled, turning her gaze back to the window. “There’s a river that
flows past my father’s estate, but I only walked through the shallow parts. I never thought I’d need to
know how to do the activity.”
“And your family?”
“Unable to pay a ransom,” Alana answered, knowing her family would sell everything they
owned to free her.
“If you looked like a man, you could work the ship until it returned to port. I’ve heard male
passengers have survived as well.” Mrs. Parker unpinned a section of Alana’s red hair. The heavy
tress fell to the center of Alana’s back. “We shall become men together. Do you have a knife?”
“There’s one in my trunk. My brother gave one to me, along with some of his clothing. I saw the
handle when I peeked inside.”
Ripping the chain from her neck, Alana dove at the trunk. She jerked the chest from beneath the
bed, unlatched the top, and flung the lid open. Grabbing the sack, she rose and dumped the contents on
the bed. Rooting through the clothes, Alana extracted a penny knife, which glinted in the moonlight
streaming through the window.
“Will this work?”
“That’s perfect.” Taking the knife, Mrs. Parker unfolded the blade. Grabbing hold of Alana’s hair,
she placed the knife against the bundle, just above her fist. “Are you ready?”
Alana exhaled slowly, then nodded. “Yes.”
With a quick swipe, Mrs. Parker sliced through Alana’s hair, cutting the strands at the nape of her
neck. Red hair tumbled around Alana’s face, framing her jaw with loose waves of fire. Mrs. Parker
dropped the knife on the bed, stuffed Alana’s hair into the empty sack, then dropped the bag back into
the trunk. Glancing down at the pile of clothing, she picked through the shirts.
“These are too small for me, Mrs. Dubois, however, Hugh’s clothing will fit. I shall dash to my
cabin and retrieve them. When I return, you can cut my hair.”
Shouts echoed from the deck, followed by another explosion. Gunshots reverberated down the
corridor. Alana grabbed Mrs. Parker’s wrist.
“It’s too dangerous.”
“They will not believe me a man if I’m wearing a skirt, Mrs. Dubois, even if my hair is short.”
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
outwardly determined, while Rhoda was quietly alert, and not the
least discomposed, to all appearances.
Lettice, eager and anxious, was at times so preoccupied that she
scarcely heeded what Robert said to her. Once she turned on him
fiercely. “If we are raided upon here, shall you fight for or against
us?” she asked. “Let us know what to expect.”
“Lettice!” he exclaimed. “How can you ask such a question? I will
defend you to the last drop of blood, but I hope there will arise no
such emergency.”
Lettice gave him a lovely smile. “I almost wish there would,” she
said.
“Why such a wish?”
“Because you would then have an opportunity of proving yourself a
true American.”
He bit his lip and made no reply for a moment; then he said, “I think
there is no one, whatever his views, who would not be ready to
defend those he loves, should they be in danger, but I think we have
no cause for alarm; non-combatants will be shown every courtesy, I
am sure.”
“By whom? That pirate, that thief, that marauder, Cockburn?”
“Sh!” exclaimed Mrs. Tom Hopkins, hearing the words. “Even walls
have ears. We must be discreet, Lettice.”
“Discreet!” began Lettice, passionately, but the distant sound of great
guns came upon their ears, and the words died upon her lips.
It was a day of dread and great gloom which no effort could dispel.
They sat waiting, they knew not for what, till at last Rhoda cried:
“Here comes a messenger riding hard. Go out, Robert, and see if he
brings news.”
Not only Robert, but all of them, hastened to meet the newcomer,
Betty and Lettice fairly outstripping the others. It was young Birket
Dean. He looked tired and travel-worn, but he cried triumphantly: “All
safe, Mrs. Hopkins! Our men had to beat a retreat, but not before
they had made the enemy taste of their shot. We didn’t lose a man,
but there were several killed and wounded on the other side, and
more than one deserted. Every one thinks that St. Michael’s is
threatened, and Talbot County is up in arms. I must ride on and tell
them at home of what has happened. I promised William I would
stop by and tell you all how matters stood. He says you’d better stay
here for the present, for he took it for granted I would find you all
here together.” And he galloped off, leaving them all with a great
weight removed.
The next news that came was that the little town of St. Michael’s was
in danger of an attack. It was the place where nearly all the famous
“Baltimore Clippers” were built, and because of this it attracted the
attention of Cockburn, who intended destroying the shipyards and
the vessels then in course of construction. But he met so valiant a
resistance that he finally withdrew, and although the houses in the
little town showed the effects of the shot, which flew like hail, not one
of the militia was hurt.
The next day Lettice and Betty returned to their own home.
“You’d better not be too hasty in getting back,” warned Aunt Martha.
“I believe Aunt Martha is disappointed in not having had a visit from
Admiral Cockburn,” said Lettice, laughing.
“Indeed, then, I am not!” returned the lady with some asperity; “but
I’ve an older head than yours, miss, and I think I may consider that I
have more discretion.”
“Maybe,” Lettice nodded; then said saucily, “If you should receive a
call, send us word, and we’ll come over and help you entertain your
Britishers.”
“And you’d do it well,” said Mr. Clinton in a low tone.
Lettice gave a toss of the head and sprang into her saddle. For some
reason she was not pleased with this young gentleman this morning;
he had been far too cautious in showing her attentions, and had
been too evidently anxious that no one should discern any difference
in his manner toward the two girls; and besides, Lettice resented his
saying that it would be as well that they should not take Rhoda into
their confidence, and yet she had several times come upon the two
in close conference, and once had overheard Rhoda say, “I will see
that the matter is kept a secret, but we must be very cautious.” So
Lettice, with a feeling that she could not quite trust him, and that he
might be playing a double part, was most cool toward him, and
eagerly seconded her sister Betty’s proposition to go.
It was a few days later that William and James returned. They came
galloping in one evening full of accounts of their skirmishes.
“It’s a great life,” said Jamie; “but I mean to join Barney. We don’t get
enough service here on shore, and on sea they are always popping
at each other.”
“Then I needn’t return you the packet you gave into my keeping,”
Lettice said.
James smiled. “No, keep it safe, and if I want it when the war is over,
I will ask you for it, and if I fall, bestow it as I directed you.”
“Lettice,” her brother William’s voice broke in, “where are those
papers? Are they safely hidden?”
“Yes, I hid them with my own hands,” she replied.
“I shall want them soon.”
“To-night?”
“Hardly, I think. I will let you know if I require them; but they must be
sent off the first opportunity, for there are government secrets among
them.”
“Oh, really? I am glad they are out of my hands, then. Who is
coming? I hear the clatter of horses on the walk.”
William arose and went down the steps, and Lettice heard him say:
“Ah, General, welcome, right welcome. Good evening, Tyler. Glad to
meet you, Mr. Baldwin. Come in, gentlemen, and let me present you
to the ladies.” And Lettice was soon in the presence of the veteran,
General Benson, Captain Dodson, her old friend, Tyler Baldwin, and,
whom but the young naval officer, Ellicott Baldwin, of whom Tyler
had spoken to her, and whom she well remembered.
“A fortunate circumstance it was which led me to my cousin’s this
week,” said the young man, who bowed low before Lettice. “I trust
you remember me, for I have never forgotten you.”
Lettice blushed and dropped her eyes. “I was very bold,” she
murmured; “but I was so excited that I forgot I was speaking to a
stranger.”
“Not bold,” the young man hastened to say. “It was but the charming
naturalness of a child; the spontaneity of trusting youth. You cannot
think I had feelings other than those of admiration for your ingenuous
words, and I have ever since desired an opportunity of meeting you
again. May I tell you how I happen to be here? Shall we sit here?”
He led her to a corner of the wide piazza, and seated himself by her
side. “The general and Captain Dodson were coming this way to get
some papers which I am to deliver at Washington, to which place I
am to start by daybreak. They have been having a lively time at St.
Michael’s, as you probably know.”
“Yes, we have heard of it; but those papers—they must be the ones
my brother was just speaking about, and I shall have to go and get
them at once, for it is I who know where they are hidden. I will have
to ask James to go with me.”
“Are they within doors?”
“No, they are down yonder.” She made a movement of the hand in
the direction of the graveyard.
“May I not accompany you? Your brother seems occupied at this
moment.”
“I do not object, if you are willing to help with the digging.”
“Will I not be? Try me. I shall like the fun, I assure you.”
“Then we will go at once. I will get a spade as we go along. Are you
afraid of haunts?”
“Not I. And it is moonlight and not midnight, so I fancy we are safe
from evil charms.”
“Perhaps you have a rabbit foot.”
“No; nor any charm, except such as is possessed by my companion,
whose youth and beauty should be sufficient to protect me from all
malign influences.” They sauntered down the moonlit garden path.
Sweet clove pinks and August lilies freighted the air with their heavy
perfume. Lettice remembered that night, not so long ago, when she
and Robert had felt the spell of the moonlight, and when she had
almost—She drew a sigh which her companion noted. “Does
anything trouble you?” he asked gently.
“No; it was only that I suddenly remembered something. See, here
by this footstone is the place. The soil is light, and the box is not very
deeply placed. I think we can soon reach it.” She knelt down on the
grass and began to brush away some of the loose leaves and sticks.
Mr. Baldwin struck his spade into the dry soil, throwing out the earth
deftly and easily. He had been digging for some minutes when
Lettice exclaimed: “Surely, that should be far enough. Haven’t you
struck the box yet?”
“No; I seem to come upon nothing harder than the earth.”
She peered over into the hole, resting one hand upon the footstone.
Then she exclaimed in an agitated tone, “That is much deeper than I
dug, and nothing is there!”
“Are you quite sure this is the exact spot?”
“Yes, very sure—exactly on a line with the footstone, and a little to
the right. Oh, no, I could not possibly be mistaken, for there is not
room on the other side, you see. There is some mystery here.” She
took the spade and began to feel around with it. “It is gone!” she
exclaimed. “Some one has stolen it away. I am as sure as of my
existence that it has been stolen away.”
“I will dig a little further, and more to the right; you may have gone
deeper than you thought.” He threw out a few more spadefuls of
earth, but discovered nothing. “There is no box here,” he said at last.
“Who could have taken it?”
Lettice was silent a moment; then she said in a tense way, “I think I
know. The deceitful wretch! The cowardly spy! I will denounce him
before the world.”
At this very moment a shadow fell upon the white footstone. Lettice
turned quickly—Robert Clinton stood before them. “There he is!” she
cried. “That is he, the spy! No one else saw me, and I do not know
how long he may have been watching me.”
“What do you mean?” cried Robert. “Lettice, what do you mean? Of
what do you accuse me? A spy? I? Is it possible—”
“It is possible that I have learned the value of fair words alone,” she
returned scornfully. “I understand many things now. I understand
your confidences with those who, like you, would be willing to play
into the hands of our country’s enemies. Yes, I believe you are a
spy.”
The young man turned to Mr. Baldwin, who, leaning upon his spade,
regarded the two. “Sir,” said Robert, “will you tell me if this young
lady is suddenly crazed? Can you explain this to me?”
“Oh, you are very innocent!” Lettice broke in. “Add deceit to deceit.
Tell him, Mr. Baldwin, since he is so innocent of the charge. Refresh
his memory.”
“Miss Hopkins secreted some valuables in this place,” Mr. Baldwin
said, turning to Robert. “We came down here to unearth them, and
we find them gone.”
“And you charge me with taking them! Lettice, you can do that?
Great Heaven! what do I hear? Lettice, you are but joking. You do
not really mean it. This is but one of your tricks.”
“I wish to Heaven it were so, sir. For my part, if you have taken the
box to plague me, it is a sorry joke; but return the papers quickly, I
beg of you, and I will forgive you. Have you them? This is no time for
play; say quickly.”
“I have not,” he answered slowly. He was very pale, and was
trembling from head to foot.
“You may not have them, but did you take them?” Mr. Baldwin asked.
Robert whirled around upon him. “You dare ask me that! And who
are you, who take the right to question me? I am not answerable to
you, sir, but you shall be answerable to me.” And, taking a step
forward, he gave the other a slap in the face.
From Lettice came a cry of dismay, and Mr. Baldwin, with eyes
flashing, said in a low, even voice: “I will meet you, sir, when and
where you please, as soon as this charge made by Miss Hopkins is
disproved. At present I do not forget that we are in the presence of a
lady.”
“Lettice, Lettice, forgive me!” cried Robert. But she gave him not so
much as a look or a word. She extended her hand to Mr. Baldwin.
“Take me to my brother,” she said. “I must tell him at once of his
loss.”
Mr. Baldwin hesitated, and Lettice understood that he would fain
secure the man she had accused. “No, no,” she whispered, “do not
arrest him. I may have been too hasty. We have no proof as yet. I
beg of you, Mr. Baldwin, take no further steps till we consult my
brother. He—he may be innocent, and—and—we have been
friends.” Therefore, leaving Robert standing wretched and alone,
they moved toward the house.
 CHAPTER XI.
An Interrupted Duel.
Pale and agitated, Lettice stood before the company now gathered
indoors. “It is gone!” she whispered. “Gone!”
“What do you mean?” asked her brother. “What is gone?”
“The box with the papers. I hid it by the footstone where Theophilus
Hopkins is buried, and just now, when Mr. Baldwin and I went to get
it, we found nothing there. Some one has taken it.”
“Have you any idea of who could have done it?”
Lettice twisted her fingers nervously, and gave a quick distressed
look toward Ellicott Baldwin, but she made no answer.
“Have you any idea of who could have taken the box?” General
Benson asked. “Speak up, my child. Remember that you are a loyal
little girl, and that it is for the good of your country that we discover
these papers. Beyond that, your brother’s honor is involved, and you
will place him in a most embarrassing position if the papers fail to
appear. Did any one see you secrete these papers?”
“Yes.” Lettice spoke so low that she could scarcely be heard. Mr.
Baldwin watched her silently, but with an expression of deep
sympathy.
“Will you tell us whom you suspect?” said her brother, gently. “My
little sister is so tender-hearted, gentlemen, that she is loath to
divulge the name of the culprit, if indeed she knows it. Suppose we
talk it over by ourselves, little sister, if these gentlemen will excuse
us.” And putting his arm around her, he led her from the room.
When they were alone she put her head down on his shoulder and
wept silently. “I don’t want to tell, brother,” she said, when she had
become more composed. “I was very angry at first, but I don’t want
to get any one into trouble, and of course I have no proof; I only
suspect. But one person saw me as I was covering up the box, and
—Oh, if I could only get the papers back, would I need to tell?”
Her brother considered the question. “Perhaps not. It would depend
upon the person. If a dangerous enemy were working us harm, you
would want him to be put where he could do us no injury, wouldn’t
you?”
“If that could be managed? If he should leave the country?” said
Lettice, eagerly.
“I cannot promise what leniency would be shown; but if you can
recover the papers and will tell whom you suspect, I will do my best
to see that nothing shall be done without full proof of treachery.”
“Then if I can get the papers, and I promise to tell you why they were
taken, will that do?”
“So far as you are concerned, yes, I think it will. Wait here and I will
confer with the general.”
But her brother had no sooner left the room than Lettice flew out by
the back way, ran to the stable, flung the saddle on her horse, and
was off like a shot. She would take no risks. Down the road she
galloped, and dashed up before the porch where Rhoda was sitting
alone.
“Lettice!” cried Rhoda, coming hastily forward, “what are you doing
here? Is there no one with you? Have you brought bad news?”
Lettice slipped down from her horse, twisted the bridle through the
ring of the hitching-post, and ran up the steps. “Are you alone, I ask
in turn?”
“Yes. What is it? You are so agitated. Has anything happened to—
anybody?”
Lettice did not heed the eagerness of the question nor the sudden
pause before the last word. “I am alone, yes. And something has
happened. No, no one is hurt, but some valuable papers have been
stolen. Do you know anything about it?”
“I? What should I know?” Rhoda drew herself up, and held her head
high.
“I overheard you talking one day to Mr. Robert Clinton, and you said
things which made me suspect that you might try to help the enemy,
if you had a chance. And——Oh, Rhoda, never mind if I do seem to
accuse you! it is to save Mr. Clinton. If you have any love for him or
for me, tell me truly, do you know anything about the papers?”
“I know nothing of any papers in which you could possibly be
concerned,” she replied coldly. “Tell me your story more clearly.”
Lettice tried to do so, ending with, “If you have not been concerned
in the matter, he must have done it entirely of his own accord.”
“Do you suppose that either of us would so degrade ourselves as to
stoop to theft?” returned Rhoda, frigidly.
“I don’t know; I can’t tell. I am so distracted that I hardly know what I
do think. I know you are not friendly to our cause, and that in war it is
not thought wrong to avail one’s self of all sorts of methods to carry
out an intention. Oh, Rhoda! if I do not recover the papers, they will
make me tell whom I suspect, and he will be arrested and perhaps
shot for a spy.”
“Sh! sh! Aunt Martha may hear.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone to bed with a sick headache. It was warm, and I did not care
to go so early.”
“What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“Do you care so much for Robert Clinton’s safety?”
“I care! Of course I do. I don’t know whether much or little. One
would rather one’s friends should be safe. I denounced him to his
face for a spy, and if it is true that he is one, I despise him, but I do
not want him taken and hung. Oh, Rhoda, will you warn him? And,
oh, those papers! What can I do? I don’t know which way to turn.”
“Robert will tell me the truth,” said Rhoda, after a moment’s thought;
“I am sure he will.”
“And will you try to get the papers back again?”
“Yes; but I am quite convinced that he did not take them.”
“Who, then? No one else saw me.”
“How do you know?”
“I know that he did see me.”
“But you cannot swear that another was not peeping, so I think you
should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I cannot help my suspicions, knowing his devotion to his party.”
“Yes, but he is not a traitor to his country, and does not love her
enemies any more than you do.”
“And I have given my word that I would tell the name of the one I
suspect. Please, Rhoda, get him away if you can, but do not tell him
that I begged it of you. Promise me that.”
“I will do my best. It is a great pity that you were not more cautious.
Are you going back to-night? Must you?”
“Yes, I must. I am not afraid.”
“No one knew of your coming?”
“No, I sneaked out, and shall probably be well scolded for it. And
what excuse can I make?”
“You are all well?”
“Yes. You have not seen Jamie yet, I suppose.”
“No.”
“He has just come from down the country, and to-night had to remain
at home to help entertain this array of soldiers I left there. You will
see him to-morrow, no doubt.”
“You volunteer the information as if you thought I had demanded it.”
“Well, don’t you demand it? There, Rhoda, I will not tease you. You
have been very sweet and forbearing, and I thank you, and will thank
you still more if you can help to get this dreadful matter righted.”
“One thing you have forgotten.”
“And what is that?”
“Your companion, Mr. Baldwin. You say you denounced Robert
before him. What is to prevent him from telling the whole thing?”
“True. I didn’t think of that; yet I don’t think he will until I give him
leave. But so much the more need of a speedy warning. When
Robert—Mr. Clinton comes in, you will see to it that he is on his
guard. They may come after him at any moment.”
“I will wait till he comes in. He should be here by now.”
“And I must get off at once. I would not encounter him for the world.
Kiss me, Rhoda. I never loved you half so well. You are a dear good
girl. I wish I were half so wise and discreet.”
Rhoda smiled, and gave her the asked-for kiss; then Lettice again
mounted her horse and turned down the level road.
She had not travelled very far before she heard the hoofs of horses
coming rapidly toward her. Suddenly there was a pause in the
advancing sound, and she drew in her horse. In the moonlight she
could see the forms of two horsemen ahead of her. She watched
them for a few moments as they carried on an excited conversation.
Presently each led his horse to one side and tied him to the fence;
then they stood apart in the middle of the road. Again there seemed
to be a heated discussion. Lettice wondered what it was all about.
She longed, yet feared, to draw nearer; but at last her curiosity
overcame her fear, and she too led her horse to the shadow of a
tree, tied him, and crept along by the fence till she came within
hearing distance. At this point she gave a quick exclamation which
nearly betrayed her to the two young men, in whom she recognized
Robert Clinton and Ellicott Baldwin. She cowered close to the fence,
her heart beating very fast. She dreaded to advance or retreat.
“I am at your service at any time and at any place,” Mr. Baldwin was
saying. “I will accept any challenge sent in the regular way.”
“Now! I insist upon it now. If you refuse, I shall deem you a coward
and a braggart,” cried Robert.
“Then,” returned the other, hastily, “choose your position.”
At that moment Lettice arose to her feet. This was a duel, she
comprehended, and perhaps one or the other would be killed. She
ran forward and held up her hand. “You should have witnesses,” she
said. “Here is one.” She stood between them, looking from one to the
other.
The men were thunderstruck. “You, Miss Hopkins! What are you
doing here? I rode out to find you,” Mr. Baldwin said, but Robert
spoke never a word.
“I beg of you to desist,” Lettice went on. “I chanced to be coming this
way. I have been to the house of a sick relative and was on my way
home. This is our own ground, and I forbid you to make it a place of
bloodshed.”
“I bow to a lady’s decree,” Mr. Baldwin said, returning his pistol to its
place. “Why did you give us the slip, Miss Hopkins? And what is your
desire concerning yonder gentleman? You denounced him in my
presence, and yet when the moment came to declare his offence to
your brother, you ran away. As for me, my lips are sealed till you give
me permission to speak.”
“I do not give you permission to do anything but leave him and let his
conscience be his accuser.”
“But who is to be responsible for his appearance if we find he is
guilty of the act for which you denounced him?”
“I will be. We have been friends,” she said softly, as she half turned
to where Robert stood with arms folded and eyes cast down. For an
instant Lettice’s heart melted within her, and she took a step forward,
but she retreated again to Mr. Baldwin’s side.
“Take me home,” she said faintly, “and let this affair be settled there.
My horse is but a few steps back.”
“I will bring him to you,” Mr. Baldwin said, “and yes, I shall be glad to
defer this. You understand,” he said, turning to Robert, “I am at your
service when you will. This address will always find me.” He handed
out a card with an elaborate bow. He stood evidently thinking deeply.
“If you are innocent, sir,” he went on to say, “you will not be afraid to
answer a few questions should you be required to do so. If you are
guilty, you owe your escape from immediate arrest to the good
offices of this young lady. Whatever may be my own opinion, I owe
you no more of an apology than you do me, and in the interest of my
country I am bound to say that you are free only through extreme
tolerance.” And he turned away.
Lettice and Robert stood facing each other. “How could you? How
could you?” Lettice murmured. “This dark suspicion has blighted all
the memory of our happy hours.”
“This dark suspicion, indeed,” replied the young man.
“And you will not clear yourself, will not tell me?” she said eagerly.
“But give up the papers, and I will screen you and will think of you as
gently as I can.”
“I have said that I have no papers.”
Lettice wrung her hands. “O dear! O dear! if you would but be candid
and tell me, I could help you, I could indeed. For the sake of our past
friendship, will you not tell me?”
He came to her side. “Lettice,” he began; then dropping the hand he
had taken, he turned away. “’Twould be no use,” he said. “Farewell,
the dream is over. Tell your friend that I shall not run away either
from arrest or from him.” And he sprang on his horse and
disappeared into the woods, leaving Lettice with her face buried in
her hands.
She brushed away her tears as Mr. Baldwin approached, and stood
ready to mount her horse again. They were fairly on their way when
he spoke. “This is a hard ordeal for a young lady to go through, Miss
Hopkins, but I cannot leave the subject just yet. You are very positive
that my late adversary, whose name, by the way, I do not know, is
the one who took the papers?”
“No, I am not certain. I only think so because he saw me secure
them, and because he is violently opposed to the war, and belongs
to the Peace party. I know he has been very energetic in working for
his side.”
“It looks suspicious, certainly.”
“Yet it would be a shame to arrest a man, unless we were sure.”
“Yes, I think so, too.”
“I think he should be given the benefit of the doubt.”
“That is dangerous, sometimes.”
“Yes; but I would rather let a dozen guilty ones go free than to cause
an innocent person to suffer misfortune.”
“A very lovely way of thinking, but I fear few offenders would come to
justice if all agreed with you. However, in this case we shall have to
trust to chance. Your gentleman was very eager for a fight, which it
would perhaps have been as well to allow him. I do not feel
comfortable over that part of it.”
“Oh, but I think it would have been terrible! He has been a friend of
ours; has been received at our house on the most intimate terms.
Suppose he had fallen, or had caused your death; it would have
been dreadful! I should never have ceased to reproach myself for
having been the cause of it.”
“You are right. I should have remembered your part in the matter. But
this other affair of—What did you say the gentleman’s name is?”
“I didn’t say. He is Robert Clinton, a relative of our former Vice-
President of the same name. He is from New York, and is a great
friend of some connections of ours.”
“Well, we must settle this affair of his before we go home. They are
waiting for your return. You can imagine your brother is in something
of an awkward position; the papers gone, and you gone. It would
simplify matters if we could have returned with a prisoner. I fear Mr.
Clinton will be beyond our reach by to-morrow.”
“He bade me say to you that he would not run away from either you
or the authorities, but if he should, and if at last he is proved
innocent, we will both be glad.”
“In that case, yes. You do not seem to be so enraged against him as
at first.”
“No, I was truly angry. I always fly off like that and regret it afterward.
I have had time for reflection, and I needed it. I spoke too
impulsively. Think what a dreadful dreadful state of affairs I have
stirred up by my quick tongue!”
“It was natural that you should speak in the excitement of the
moment. Where does this turning take us?”
“Around by the bay.”
“Shall we take it?”
“Yes, if you like. It is not quite so near a way.”
She had hardly spoken the words before three men sprang out from
a fence corner. One snatched Lettice’s bridle; two more dragged Mr.
Baldwin down from his horse. “I’ll take the girl, pretty creature that
she is,” cried the first, “and you can have the Yankee.”
“Save me! Oh, save me! Let me go!” shrieked Lettice. But the captor
only laughed, and catching her around the waist, he pulled her down
beside him, while a terrible tussle went on between the other two
men and their prisoner, who fought like a tiger, and finally managed
to secure his pistol. A shot rang out on the air, and one man fell. The
one by Lattice’s side sprang forward. “Poor old Jerry, are you done
for?” he cried, as he leaned forward.
Like a flash Lettice sprang up. At her feet lay the man’s pistol which
he had dropped. The girl picked it up. Providence had come to her
rescue. She raised the pistol, but almost immediately her hand
dropped to her side. She noted that the man had lifted the head of
his former companion to a more comfortable position. To shoot him
would be murder, she reflected. She could not, no, she could not. Yet
her own life and Mr. Baldwin’s lay in the balance. Now her adversary
was about to rise. The horror of what might come next rushed over
her, and she hesitated no longer, but darted forward, and dealt the
man a desperate blow on the head with the butt of the pistol. He
dropped heavily by the side of his fallen comrade, and was very still.
Had she killed or only stunned him? She shuddered and turned
aside.
Meanwhile Mr. Baldwin and his opponent fought for their lives.
Lettice’s friend had discharged the last load from his pistol, and now
it was a question of which would prove the best man in a hand-to-
hand fight? Lettice watched them breathlessly. The strength of one
or the other must at last give out. Suppose it should be her one
dependence, this desperate man who was giving his assailant no
time for anything but to attend to the matter in hand. Breathlessly
Lettice put into execution a plan. If Mr. Baldwin could only hold out
long enough, she might save both herself and him. She quickly undid
the long silken scarf she wore, tied one end tightly around the wrist
of the man she had sent to the ground, and then tied the other end to
a little tree under which they had been sitting. It was sufficiently small
for her to be able to make her tether quite secure.
The man began to move slightly, and Lettice realized that he was
merely stunned by her blow. Another moment and he might recover
sufficiently to add to the hopelessness of the situation. In the
distance there was a faint plash of oars; it might be that those who
approached would reënforce these assailants. Her wits were
sharpened by despair. She leaned over and extricated the pistol from
the belt of the wounded man, and rushed to a safe distance from her
prisoner. If he had a knife it would take him but a moment to cut his
bonds as soon as he should be aware of them. She must act quickly,
for the regular plash of the oars came nearer and more near.
Ellicott Baldwin, still struggling desperately, heard a cry, “Look out!” A
shot whizzed through the air, and his adversary loosened his hold,
and in a second was felled to the earth. Lettice’s pistol had done
good service. She had wounded the man in the ankle, for she had
purposely fired low. “Here, here,” she cried, thrusting the second
pistol into Mr. Baldwin’s hand, and he, with one dazed look, rushed
to where she stood.
 CHAPTER XII.
Escape.
Lettice ran desperately fast to gain her horse, but for a moment it
seemed that all were lost, for the sound of oars had ceased, and
instead, shouts were heard; an approaching party of men answered
their comrades, who, worsted by a girl’s stratagem, would stand at
nothing. It took but a few minutes for Lettice’s captive to free himself,
and his first movement was toward the girl. He was in a fury. One
sweep of his sword, one shot from his pistol, and their chances were
gone.
Ellicott Baldwin, between his set teeth, hissed, “I will kill her and
myself, too, before she shall fall into their vile hands.” Suddenly, as if
to favor them, the moon disappeared behind a dense cloud, and
when it struggled forth again, the man and the maid had vanished.
Where? It seemed as if the earth had swallowed them up. The
horses stood there, but not a sign of their riders. On each side of the
road lay level stretches overgrown with weeds and bordered by
straggling blackberry bushes. Farther away, where a shallow creek
made up into the land, were trees growing to the water’s edge.
“Beat the bushes! Search everywhere!” cried Lettice’s late captive.
“I’ll have that girl if she’s above ground. The little jade, to play me
such a trick!”
But not a sign of the fugitives could be found, and after more than an
hour’s fruitless search, the men returned to their boats and to their
station on Kent Island.
Meantime, Lettice and her companion had made their escape
through the girl’s knowledge of the country. She had whispered,
“Over the fence! Quick!” and herself had led the way by springing
into the bramble bushes on one side the road. The thorns played
havoc with her light gown, but she tore herself free from them, ran
along a few steps, and leaped into a hollow filled with rubbish. Here
an old house had stood; now it was burnt to the ground, and among
and around its blackened foundations grew tall weeds which
completely hid it from view. Lettice led the way, and her companion
followed blindly. At the rear the ground sloped gradually down to the
creek, so that by stooping low, as they made a pathway through
mullein, wild carrot, and ragweed, they could not be seen by those
nearer the road. Fortunately, their followers did not strike upon the
tumble-down house, or it would not have been an easy matter to
reach the creek without being seen.
Neither spoke till the silver gleam of the little creek showed in the
moonlight, now struggling through the clouds.
“I am almost spent!” gasped Lettice; “but if they have left the boat
this side, we are safe. Over yonder in the woods lives an old negro
woman. She is considered a real hoodoo by the darkeys, but she is
devoted to all our family, for she belonged to my grandfather, who
set her free, and gave her this bit of land in those woods of his.” She
gave the information in detached sentences, as she limped along the
shores of the creek.
“You can scarcely walk,” said Mr. Baldwin. “You have lamed
yourself.”
“Have I? I was scarcely conscious of it. I have stepped on many
sharp stones, and these thin slippers are not much protection. No,
there is no boat,” she said, after some searching. “What shall we do?
We have made a short cut, but those wretches may yet find us, if we
keep this side of the creek. Oh, I am afraid they will; I am afraid!”
She caught Mr. Baldwin’s arm with a sudden fear.
“God forbid that they should find us!”
“You are hurt too. You are wounded, I know, but do you think you
could swim to that little island in mid-stream? I would rather drown in
making the attempt than have them get me.”
“And I would rather you did. I think I can make it, and I can help you.”
“Oh, I can swim, if I have the strength. I but need that. Hark!”
There was a sound of voices and of crackling branches among the
trees behind them, and, with one accord, they plunged into the
stream, and with slow, but sure progress, swimming, floating, or
making feeble strokes, managed to reach the opposite shore, and
when they drew themselves up on the sands, their pursuers were
parted from them by a considerable stream of water.
Lettice dropped almost fainting on the ground, and her companion
was hardly less exhausted. It would have been a very trifling feat for
either one of them, ordinarily, but the previous strain had nearly
robbed them of their strength, and they sat there for some moments,
scarce able and scarce daring to move.
“We are very wet,” said Mr. Baldwin at last.
Lettice gave a feebly hysterical laugh. “I am very conscious of it. It is
a warm night, but I confess to feeling cooler than is agreeable. Do
you think they will attempt to cross?”
“No; and I am sure they did not discover us. They did not dream of
looking in this direction.”
“That good, kind moon,” said Lettice, raising her face. “She was so
good to screen us with her clouds just at the right moment.”
“There are times when clouds can be of more use than sunshine, it
seems.”
“In this case, surely. Now I am thinking that if it should come on to
rain, we would be in a sorry plight. We cannot be much wetter than
we are, but there would be no chance of getting dry if it should rain.
When we are rested, I think we can find the boat we want to take us
over to the mainland. The water is quite shallow beyond, and
persons often ford the stream to this island, leave their horses here
and boat over to the shore we have left. Since we found no boat
there, I conclude it is here.”
“That is good news. We are not cast on a desert island then.”
“No, as long as we can find the means to leave it. I think the boat
would be over in that direction, among the bushes. We shall have to
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