The Ransom: Legacy of the King's Pirates Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Front Matter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Historical Note

  Other books by

  The Ransom

  by MaryLu Tyndall

  The Ransom

  Legacy of the King’s Pirates

  © 2014 by MaryLu Tyndall

  Published by Ransom Press

  San Jose, CA 95123

  ISBN: 0991092120

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9910921-2-3

  E-Version ISBN: 978-0-9910921-3-0

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, MaryLu Tyndall.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental

  Cover Design by Dineen Miller

  Acknowledgements

  My heartfelt thanks go to so many who helped in the writing of this book. To my fabulous editor, Lora at EditsByLora.com . I couldn’t have done this without you! Special mention to Anica for help with a sticky plot problem! Many thanks to Susanne Lakin and Michelle Griep, fabulous authors and friends, who read through the book and fixed all those little things I missed. Special mention goes to Dineen Miller, who designed this gorgeous cover, along with postcards and bookmarks and several other things I needed. You are one talented lady!

  Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t thank my Motley Crew, several of whom also helped proofread the manuscript, and all of whom help spread the word about my books. I run a tight ship, but my crew is the best group of sailors who ever graced the Caribbean. I love you all and appreciate you so much!

  Most of all, I thank God for giving me stories and a platform with which to share them with the world. I love you, Abba.

  I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death: O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction:

  Hosea 13:14

  Chapter 1

  The Cat and the Fiddle Tavern, Port Royal, Jamaica

  March 1692

  Murk, mire, and mayhem. ’Twas the only fitting description for the punch house in which Juliana Dutton found herself. No, not found herself. She had come here on purpose, passed through the display of debauchery once on her way to the brothel beyond, and now, yet again, on her way back to the street. Only this time, the room overflowed with patrons—if patrons was a fitting term for the slovenly-attired men and women guzzling their drinks amidst shouts and curses and a discordant fiddle. What had she been thinking?

  But she had to make sure one last time that her friend Abilene was not among the dissolute cullions flooding the room—that the woman had not been hiding when Juliana had passed through before. Or worse, swallowed up in the arms of some foul ruffian. Yet, as Juliana peered from beneath the hood of her cloak, cringing at the visions that met her eyes, her friend was nowhere in sight.

  What was apparently in sight was her. Dozens of glazed eyes fastened upon her as she wove through tables laden with mugs of Kill-Devil rum, card games, flickering lanterns, and plates brimming with roasted boar and fish pudding. The scent of food joined the odors of sweat, smoke, and bitter spirits, creating a stench that would keep the Devil himself away. Though, from the befouled language and equally befouled sights, it appeared he was already present.

  The ensuing whistles and lewd invitations proved her assumption correct. Air fled her lungs. Gripping her throat, she hurried toward the door. A chair slid in her path. A man rose before her, brashly eyeing her from the hood of her cloak to the tips of her red mules. A brace of pistols crossed a chest the size of England adorned with a red doublet trimmed in metallic lace. Two formidable swords hung from each hip. A scar on his neck disappeared behind a stained cravat that bubbled over his shirt like the ale foaming on his mustache.

  Pirate.

  With a jeweled finger that belied the crusted dirt beneath his nail, he yanked off her hood, releasing her golden waves. One would think none of the men had ever seen flaxen hair on a woman before as groans of pleasure swept through the crowd.

  Followed by vulgar suggestions that shocked her and caused her to tremble violently.

  “That be a proper fine lady, says I,” one man shouted. “Take ’er, Mad Dog.”

  “She be askin’ fer it by comin’ here,” another man yelled, triggering an outburst of laughter.

  Yet the man kept staring at her. Mad dog, indeed. A rabid one from the looks of him.

  Juliana was not a timid sort, not a woman prone to hysterics or swooning, but when the rake clutched her arm and leered at her with teeth the color of dirt, her heart nigh burst through her chest.

  “Leave her be!”

  From behind the brute, a voice boomed like the crash of a massive wave. The pirate glanced over his shoulder, stiffened, then released her with a grunt. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he picked up the chair, shoved it beside a nearby table, and toppled onto it like a felled tree.

  Moans of disappointment filtered through the mob before the music resumed and the men returned to their drink and games. Tugging her hood back atop her head, Juliana searched for her rescuer, unsure what price his chivalry bore. But no one came forward to claim his prize. Before the man revealed himself, or worse, before Mad Dog reconsidered, she dashed for the door, surprised when no one paid her any mind. No leers, bawdy comments, groping hands, lecherous grins. It was as if she’d disappeared. Mayhap God had made her invisible. She was, after all, on a mission of mercy.

  Nearly at the entrance, her gaze latched upon a pair of startling blue eyes—so piercingly blue, they almost stopped her. They definitely slowed her. Mayhap it was the man’s coal black hair, dark stubble on his jaw, and sun-bronzed face that made the color of his eyes so luminescent. But no, there was something else within them. An intelligence, an intensity … and now a bit of humor as his gaze remained upon her. He leaned against a thick post, calm, quiet, sturdy—a bastion of control amidst the clamor surrounding him. Rounded, sinewy arms folded over his leather jerkin, Hessian boots crossed at his ankle. His lips lifted in a mocking grin.

  Turning her face away, she shoved past a group of inebriated patrons and fled down the stairs onto Thames Street. Pulse hammering, she searched the shadows. Oh, fie! Where was Mr. Pell with her carriage? She’d instructed him to wai
t for her right here. A blast of wind tore off her hood and flooded her with the scents of salt and brine, roasting fish, and other unsavory odors that glutted the town of Port Royal, Jamaica. Her home for the past four years.

  Another distinguishing feature of the town was that a lady should never venture out unescorted after dark, especially near the wharves. Which, of course, was precisely where she was, searching for her wayward footman. Though the sun had barely set, pirates, privateers, and other nefarious sorts roamed the streets, filling their guts with rum, their beds with women, and their hearts with darkness. Slipping into the shadows, she ducked her face within the folds of her hood and hurried down the sandy street, praying for God to watch over her.

  She had barely gone a few steps when two men grabbed her and dragged her down an alley. She opened her mouth to scream. A leathery palm slammed onto her lips. She tasted blood. She tasted other things as well. Dirt and rum and remnants of the man’s dinner. Her stomach vaulted. She kicked and clawed as the man yanked her farther into the shadows. His friend snickered in anticipation.

  So, this was to be her fate? This was the reward for her charity? For her care of Abilene, her work at the orphanage, her undying devotion to a father who had never loved her and a brother who did naught but despoil their family name?

  Dear God in heaven, where are you?

  The man shoved her against a brick wall. Sharp stone poked her back through her stays. She vainly tried to reach the knife in the pocket of her cloak, but the man held her arms firm.

  “I ne’er seen the likes o’ such a lady prime fer the takin’,” the man’s friend exclaimed, his hot, putrid breath saturating her face. She coughed.

  The first man clawed at her bodice. “Aye, a rare treat, says I.” His voice was course with spit. “An’ one I richly deserve.”

  Juliana found her voice. “You deserve nothing but hell!” She thrust her body against his, thrashing her legs and arms, but they bounced off rock-hard muscle.

  “Aye, a truer word has ne’er been spoken.” He chuckled as his friend came to assist him.

  “She be a wild cat, this ’ne.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Juliana shouted, hating the tremble in her voice. Outmatched in strength and unable to reach her knife, all that remained in her arsenal of defense were her wits. And surely she could outwit these fish-brained slugs. “I am Juliana Dutton, daughter of Henry Dutton, one of the wealthiest merchants in Port Royal! He has powerful friends—Lieutenant Governor Beeston among them. And I assure you, gentlemen, he will have you drawn and quartered if you proceed with this fiendish deed!”

  Her declaration only further amused the ruffians as they exchanged a hearty laugh. Abandoning her bodice lacings with a grunt, the man reached down to lift her skirts.

  Breath huddled in her throat. Her knees quivered. And Juliana did the only thing she could. She screamed with all her might.

  Gravel crunched. The dark outline of a man appeared at the head of the alleyway. Her assailant gave the intruder a cursory glance before he continued fumbling with her skirts. The second man drew a sword. A metallic chime echoed off the walls as the newcomer rapidly advanced. After one more glance over his shoulder, the beast who held Juliana suddenly stiffened. Releasing her, he slowly backed away while gesturing for his friend to lower his blade.

  Juliana plucked the knife from her cloak and held it before her. It was ludicrous to assume she could defend herself against now three assailants, but she would not be ravished without a fight.

  “Begone with you!” Authoritative words exploded from the intruder’s lips, tumbled down the length of his drawn sword, and shot from the tip with the same impact as if the blade had pierced the men’s hearts. With wide-eyes and raised hands, they retreated. “We didn’t know she be yers, milord.”

  “Now you do.” The same voice from the tavern chased them down the alley as they scampered away.

  So, her rescuer had come for his reward, after all. Juliana gathered her breath. And her wits. She wiped her sweaty palm on her skirts then tightened her grip on the knife. Ramming it in front of her, she attempted to slip by the man while he sheathed his sword. But he spun on her, saw the blade in her hand, and began to chuckle.

  Which only made her thrust it farther toward him. “I warn you, sir. I’m not afraid to use this.”

  “I have no doubt, milady.” He contained his laughter with difficulty. “Though I fear it will be to no avail.” Before she could retort, he gripped her wrist with one hand and snatched her knife with the other.

  “How dare you? You have no right!” She forced indignation into her tone as she inched away from him. He was naught but a shadow in the darkness—a rather tall shadow. A rather intimidating shadow.

  One thing—mayhap the only thing—her father had taught her was never to appear weak in front of your enemies. No matter the fear that gripped her. “Very well, you may keep the knife.” She kept her tone curt. “If it pleases you to steal from a helpless woman.” Turning, she clutched her skirts and started for the street.

  “Helpless?” He matched her pace and they soon stepped into the light of a street lantern. “Nay, I would never call you such.”

  She faced him: the same man from The Cat and the Fiddle who had kept the wolves at bay. The same coal-dark hair tied behind him in a queue, the same dark stubble. The same piercing blue eyes. Yet standing so close, he seemed much taller, much larger. More ominous. Wind raked a strand of hair across his cheek as he gazed at her with impunity.

  Her heart thundered in her chest, and she retreated a step. She took in his white billowing shirt, his leather jerkin, black breeches, knee-high boots, and the cutlass at his side that winked at her in the light.

  “You are a pirate.”

  He gave a mock bow with all the flourish of a courtier. “At your service, milady.”

  Her breath came fast and hard as she scanned the street for Mr. Pell. This man was no ordinary pirate. He commanded the respect of other pirates—a man who could send the most cutthroat brigands scurrying away with a single word. He must be the Pirate Earl whose reputation had flooded the city. A leader of pirates. A man of great strength and wit with a penchant for cruelty, women, and rum.

  Gathering her cloak about her neck, she brushed past him. “I bid you good eve, Mr. Pirate.”

  “Milord Pirate, if you please.” He slid beside her.

  She glanced his way, noting the amusement flickering in his eyes. It infuriated her. “The two words side by side reek of profanity, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” Easing her hood back over her head, she dashed onward, silently praying for the pirate to leave her be—for everyone on the streets to leave her be. She no longer recognized her city. Darkness had forced the good citizens into their homes, while luring out the riff-raff to roam the streets with abandon. A man sauntered by, doxies on each arm. Juliana shifted her gaze from the women’s revealing necklines. Ahead, a band of men, mugs in hand, sang a ribald ditty that scalded her ears. A pistol shot cracked the night sky. Juliana jumped. Shouts and curses blared atop the clanging of an organ bellowing from a brothel across the way. Footsteps scuffed behind her. She dared not turn around.

  Oh, fie, where was Mr. Pell?

  Three men approached. A white periwig sat askew on the first man’s head, while the other two wore colorful bandanas beneath plumed tricornes. All three were armed with pistols and knives. Juliana stiffened. She lowered her head. Her heart leapt in her chest like a galloping horse.

  Not two yards away, the men suddenly halted, nodded at her—or over her—then hurried past without saying a word.

  She didn’t have to look to know that the Pirate Earl had not abandoned her.

  “I told you to leave me be,” she said loud enough for him to hear.

  “Nay, I believe you merely implied you would be on your way.” That deep, husky voice again, authoritative with a hint of humor. It jumbled her insides. He appeared beside her, one hand resting idly on the pummel of his sword. />
  Halting, she faced him. “What is it you want, Mr. Pirate?”

  He seemed to bristle at the title. “Merely to inform you that you shouldn’t venture near the wharves at night. Nor enter such an ignoble place as The Cat and the Fiddle.” He rubbed the stubble surrounding his mouth with forefinger and thumb. “Regardless of the name, a kitten does not fare well in such a place.”

  “Forsooth! I am no kitten, sir. And oddly, I find myself unscathed.”

  One dark brow rose. “Yet not of your own doing.”

  “Regardless.” She spotted her carriage. “Ah, there’s my footman.” Taking the opportunity, she darted between a horse and wagon, several inebriated men, and a wild pig, hoping the annoying pirate would give up his pursuit now that Mr. Pell was found.

  But Mr. Pell lay unconscious on the driver’s perch. Even her hard shaking did not arouse him. The smell of alcohol hovered over the man like a dismal cloud—a cloud that threatened to storm over Juliana’s safety. She should have known better than to trust him. The unreliable footman was always into his cups.

  What was she to do? Oh foolish girl! Why did she never think of the consequences before running off on some errand of mercy? She’d put her entire family at risk: her shipping business, her father’s health, her brother’s future.

  The Pirate Earl appeared beside her.

  And her own virtue.

  “Ah, at last we know what has kept your footman.” He chuckled.

  “We don’t know anything, sir,” she snapped, staring at the besotted servant. She would have to move him in order to drive the carriage. And since her strength forbade the act—and she refused to ask a pirate for help—she gathered her cloak about her and started down the street.

  He clutched her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.” She tugged from his grip, her ire rising. “I have no money if that’s what you want.”

  He grinned. “I have more than enough wealth, milady.”