The Reckoning (Legacy of the King's Pirates) Read online

  "Are we gonna shoot the cannons?" one little boy asked.

  "We are at that, little pirate. See that sloop?" He pointed to another boat just raising sail. "That's Captain Jenkins, the fiercest pirate in these waters. It's our job to catch him and bring him to justice."

  "Cool." The little boy's grin couldn't be wider.

  Wonderful. A ship battle. Just what Morgan needed.

  The crowd began to disperse as she wobbled to the dockside where Tiffany and Brad seemed oblivious to anyone around them. Maybe she could sneak away. After tripping over a lady's foot and apologizing, she was nearly at the ladder when a flash of a FLUXX nightclub t-shirt, a prideful gait, and a familiar chuckle turned her head to see Jason strolling down the wharf, a woman on each arm.

  Morgan ducked behind a rather large man arguing with his wife. No, no, no! Oh, God, if you're up there, please make Jason go to another boat. She couldn't stand seeing him again so soon. How could he dump her one minute and be laughing with two women the next? Even the alcohol couldn't numb the new pain scraping across her heart. Had she meant nothing to him at all?

  He strolled over the plank, leapt onto the deck, then turned to assist the giggling airheads. Great. Normally she would just confront the idiot, but the alcohol was torching her vulnerable emotions and bringing tears to her eyes. And she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain. There must be another way off this boat. She followed a group of people down a hatch on extremely narrow steps and into a dimly lit room. Signs hung about, labeling various sections of the boat: Bulkhead, Hatchway, Ship Lantern, Pursers Office, Gunroom, Gunport. Shoving through the throng, she rose up another hatch and wandered down a long hall.

  A thundering sound snapped her gaze above. The boat jerked and started to move. No! Visions of her retching over the railing while Jason and his women laughed at her, prompted her to rush to the end of the hall into another room. Windows! There were large windows. She dashed around a desk and leapt onto the window seat, then pried, pounded, and cursed at the latches.

  They wouldn't budge.

  In a panic, she spun and surveyed the room. No other exit. Just a plain desk with a leather chair, shelves housing various trinkets, a four-poster bed, an old cannon, a large empty chest that smelled of moth balls. And a painting. Or a print.

  Encased in glass, something about it called to her. Perhaps it was the artist in her--her many classes in oils, proven by half-finished paintings scattered about her apartment. Or maybe it was the subject. A man, a good-looking man she determined as she came closer. Light, windswept hair was tied behind him, a dark goatee covered his chin, and a jagged scar--no, a fresh wound--was etched across his right cheek. He sat on a chair, arms crossed over an ivory shirt and a leather vest strapped with silver-buckled belts into which a gun was stuffed. A gold earring dangled from his right ear while a sword hung from his hip. But it was the look in his stark blue eyes that mesmerized her. One that defied his prideful stance and frightening pirate garb.

  A look of complete adoration.

  And in that moment, she would have given anything to be the object of that look. She dropped her gaze to the bottom of the painting, searching for the artist's name, but found only LM scrolled there in dark paint.

  The floor tilted and her stomach roiled. Drat! Holding her belly, she scrambled out the door and down the hall, then back into the gunroom, where only a few people remained at the exhibits. Stumbling past them, she was about to climb the ladder to the main deck when Jason's voice tumbled down upon her like a ton of bricks. She dared a peek above to see him standing right beside the hatch with the two women. Now what was she to do?

  She had no choice but to stay out of sight until the tour was over. Someplace dark where she could quietly vomit and pray for relief from a God who was obviously not on her side.

  She found another hatch with a rope strung across it, displaying a "Do Not Enter" sign, but that didn't stop her from descending deeper into the bowels of the wretched boat. At least it would keep Jason and his new girlfriends out and give her some peace.

  Voices shouted above, followed by a rumbling noise. The boat teetered. She slipped off the last rung of the ladder and landed on the hard wooden floor. Splinters jabbed her palms as a shard of pain etched up her tailbone. Great, just great. Struggling to rise, she glanced around at the boxes, crates, tools, and various equipment that filled the storage area beneath the dim light of a single overhead bulb. Such mayhem. You'd think the sailors would store their supplies in a more orderly fashion. And the dirt! Ugh. A layer of grime draped over everything. Feeling lower than she'd felt in years, Morgan found a small space to crawl into between an object covered with a cloth and a stack of ropes. Leaning back on the wooden hull, she prayed for her head to stop swimming and her stomach to stop flipping.

  How did a twenty-four year old software engineer, wanna-be artist, end up tipsy in the stinky hold of an old pirate replica? A boat that was now sailing out to sea--or at least into San Diego Bay.

  Minutes passed as the boat tilted back and forth ... back and forth ... back and forth. Morgan puked onto the stack of ropes, but it didn't help her feel better. How long were these silly pirate battles anyway? Surely not more than an hour. She could last an hour. Right?

  The tears finally came. Maybe it was being alone in the shadows. Maybe it was the numbness of her drink starting to diminish. Maybe it was because she finally had time to absorb the events of the past few weeks.

  She was dying. And she was all alone in the world.

  Muffled shouts and voices drifted from above, but they only made her feel more alone. The floor tilted, and she grabbed onto the cloth to keep from sliding. It fell away, revealing an old brass lantern sitting atop a crate. Picking it up, she set it in her lap. Old wasn't the word for it. It was downright antique, so rust-ridden she feared it would crumble beneath her touch. Maybe if she found some matches, she could light it and chase away her pity party. But how did these things work? Blowing away cobwebs, she discovered a small sliding door, no doubt where the oil went. Opening it, she tipped the lantern, and a chain dangled out. One tug and a tarnished amulet in the shape of a heart appeared. Odd. Flipping it over, she rubbed away the grime, revealing two raised crosses on either side of a red stone that was also in the shape of a heart. With a little TLC, this would be a beautiful piece again. But what was it doing here? She squeezed her eyes, still brimming with tears, and a single tear slid down her cheek and dropped off her chin.

  Straight onto the amulet.

  It began to glow. Glow? She blinked. The alcohol was making her see things.

  The roar of water sounded from outside, and the boat suddenly jerked upward. Morgan tumbled over the deck and struck her head on a barrel. Pain speared through her.

  Boom!

  A massive explosion quivered her bones. The boat leapt. Water roared against the hull. What was going on? Were they supposed to be going this fast? And what was that smell?

  Looping the amulet around her neck, Morgan made her way to the ladder, where a stream of light filtered from above. The galloping boat knocked her this way and that, shoving her into crates, barrels, and stacks of rope and sails she didn't remember seeing before. She also didn't remember the layer of slimy water that coated the floor and caused her to slip more than once.

  The sea continued pounding against the hull as the boat rose and dropped like a roller coaster. Was the crew crazy? They were putting all these tourists in danger going this fast! And that cannon sounded real. Too real.

  She finally reached the ladder and climbed up one level, then started up the next, struggling against the heaving boat. Distant thunder bellowed. She didn't remember storm clouds. The hull crashed open. A cannonball sped past her. Water gushed inside.

  They'd been hit!

  The torrent knocked her off her feet. She gripped the ladder, legs flailing in the rushing water. Her arms burned. Her breath crimped in her throat. But she finally managed to hoist herself up and crawl up the remaini
ng rungs. When they'd advertised that the pirate battle was realistic, they weren't kidding. Two men dressed like pirates--and smelling like them too--flew past her, giving her odd looks, but not slowing in their task.

  Mind reeling, Morgan reached the top deck and dared to pop her head above. She didn't want to risk seeing Jason, but obviously with a hole blown into the boat, the danger outweighed her pride.

  Sailors dressed like pirates dashed everywhere. Each of them wore pistols, swords, and axes. The boat tilted again, and she climbed above and grabbed ahold of a post, scanning the scene for the man in charge of this ridiculous pirate battle. In the distance, another boat, smoke pouring from its back end, turned away from them.

  Foul language spewed from the sailors' mouths.

  She would speak to the captain about that, too. There were children aboard, after all.

  Wait. Where were the tourists? She searched the boat again but saw only people dressed like pirates. Above her, sails flapped in the wind while men lined the yards sticking out from three masts. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she searched for San Diego's North Embarcadero where the festival was taking place.

  She saw nothing but sea.

  "Starboard guns fire as you bear!" A voice resounded above her--a booming voice, an authoritative voice.

  Craning her neck, she peered at the upper deck, seeking its owner. A man appeared and gripped the railing.

  Morgan's heart seized in her chest. It was the pirate in the painting, Captain Rowan Dutton.

  Chapter 2

  January 1694, South of Puerto Rico, Caribbean

  Rowan Dutton struck the quarterdeck railing with his fist and let out a foul curse. "To the Devil with these French dogs!" Grinding his teeth together, he raised his spyglass for another glance at their prey, smoke curling from her stern. At least he'd done her some damage.

  "Cap'n, we're takin' on water!" a pirate yelled from below, water dripping from his hair and coat.

  "Patch the hole and tend to the pumps!" Rowan bellowed, then gestured to two men nearby. "Assist them!"

  If they couldn't slow the sea from pouring into the hold, Rowan would lose the chance to finally gain the fortune he'd been seeking the past two years--the fortune that would change his life. Rarely did a French merchantman--especially one reportedly loaded with over five tons of silver bars, two tons of gold doubloons, and a chest full of rare pearls--land in Rowan's open arms. Even rarer did she sail without the protection of at least two French warships. But Rowan had heard about her precious cargo on the good authority of a French sailor on Martinique, who'd also told him that she hoped to avoid detection by sailing without escort.

  Now, thanks to his master gunner's skill, they'd crippled the French ship, giving Rowan one more chance to level her masts and take her as prize before she slipped away.

  "Ready the bow chasers!" he yelled down to Terrin, the man in charge of relaying his orders to Cudney--his deaf master gunner. "Fire on my order!"

  With a nod, Terrin quickly interpreted the order to Cudney with signs and signals they'd worked out between them, sending the two men, along with the rest of the gun crew, speeding to the bow.

  "We'll rake her stern. That'll teach her," Rowan said to no one in particular. "Hard aport!" he ordered his helmsman before shouting for his first mate to raise every scrap of canvas to the wind.

  Kerr brayed further orders, and men leapt up the ratlines to task. Sails flapped as the ship veered to port, creaking and groaning beneath the weight of added seawater in the hold.

  Nick, Rowan's quartermaster and friend, gave him a look of concern. "She's sluggish."

  "Aye." Rowan could feel it as well. "But we're nearly upon the Frenchman, and I'm confident in Cudney's skill to demast the strumpet and bring her begging to my side."

  Nick adjusted the plaid tartan at his throat and chuckled. "Och, now. She's no' one of yer married leddies, Captain."

  The ship bucked over a wave. Rowan braced himself as seaspray showered him. "Is she not? Both have sleek lines and beauty, both like to play chase, and both have treasures found within."

  As if on cue, whistles and catcalls rose on the wind, jerking Rowan's attention below. A woman emerged onto the main deck. Scantily dressed in odd men's attire, she wore a look that bore none of the fear one would expect from a lady on a pirate ship. Especially a ship in the midst of battle. Quite the opposite, in fact. She placed fists on her small waist and scoured his men with an angry gaze.

  Rowan growled. Who had defied the articles his men signed that forbade bringing women aboard the ship, especially harlots?

  "Back to your posts!" he shouted, but the deck tilted and the woman tripped, luring every available man within reach to come to her aid.

  "Lud!" He hadn't time for this. Another second and they'd be within firing range of the merchantman. One glance toward Cudney told him the entire gun crew was focused on the wench as well. In fact, pirates gathered around her, mewling and pawing like a pack of wild cats. The woman slapped them away and stormed across the deck, all eyes following her.

  "Fire as you bear!" Rowan yelled to Terrin standing beside Cudney, but both men's gazes remained locked on the woman as she climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck in breeches so tight, little was left to the imagination.

  "Kerr!" Rowan sought his first mate. The man quickly faced his captain, nodded his understanding, then leapt onto the foredeck and shouted for the gun crew's attention.

  Jerked from their stupor, they swung about and lowered matchsticks to two swivels that quickly belched their chain shot in a thunderous roar. The ship trembled. The woman screamed, fell to the deck, and covered her ears as smoke tickled Rowan's nose. He batted it away and raised his glass to assess the damage.

  The shots splashed harmlessly into the sea just yards behind the merchantman's stern. Just yards! And now, with all sails raised to the favoring wind, she sped away, spitting foam at him in defiance.

  "Blast it all!" A stiff breeze tossed his hair, and he doffed his tricorn and ran an arm over his sweaty forehead.

  Below him, a pair of intelligent eyes the color of sea moss latched onto him and narrowed.

  "You ..." Rowan ground out. "You ..." He grabbed the woman's arm and jerked her to her feet. "You caused me to lose my prize!"

  "What are you talking about?" She had the audacity to wrench her arm free and glower at him. "This is abuse. I'm going to report you to the festival authorities!"

  Rowan took a step toward her, desperate to clutch that delicate neck and strangle the life from her. He raised his hands to do just that, when Nick stepped between them. "Let the lass be. She didna mean t' stop yer plundering an' raping."

  "She stopped far more than that." Rowan backed away with a snort and glanced toward the merchantman, now just a spot on the horizon.

  Wind sifted through Nick's short red hair as the older man squinted into the sun. "There'll be more prizes."

  "Not like that one." Rowan glared around Nick's burly body at the woman. "You'll pay for this, wench!"

  To her credit, the woman didn't flinch, didn't cower, nor did a speck of fear appear in her eyes. Instead, she cocked her head, released a heavy sigh, and said, "Stop this ridiculous act and take me back to San Diego at once."

  He started for her again, but Nick held him back and ordered two pirates to take her below.

  "To my cabin," Rowan added. He would deal with her later.

  The woman kicked and clawed at the men--spitting out words Rowan had never heard before--as they all but carried her down the ladder to the companionway.

  He turned to the crew, some still staring after the woman, others grumbling and cursing over their lost prize. "Mark my words, gentlemen, whoever brought the wench aboard will suffer the cat! And worse, if my temper remains. Now back to work!" He nodded toward Kerr, who began ordering the men to adjust sail, scattering the mob like cockroaches before sunlight.

  Unfolding his clenched fists, Rowan gripped the railing and hung his head, still unwilling to belie
ve he'd had such treasure in his grasp only to see it slip away.

  "Perhaps 'tis for the best, Captain." Nick slid beside him. "Maybe they would ha' defeated us wi' blade an' pistol when we boarded."

  "When have you ever seen me defeated with cutlass in hand?"

  Sunlight glistened in the green sapphire broach Nick always wore pinned to his doublet--from his Viking ancestors, he liked to brag. "Perhaps 'tis a lesson in humility tha' the great Captain Dutton doesna always get his prize."

  Rowan snorted. "'Tis a fool's ambition to gloat over lost treasure, Nick. Think of the charities that will suffer from your empty pockets."

  "Think of the games tha' will suffer from yers, eh?" he countered and smiled.

  "Indeed. Precisely why 'tis such a tragedy. All those wasted winnings."

  "But if ye'd invest the fortune from yer raids, instead of losing it at the tables, maybe ye'd ha' acquired this illusive fortune ye deem necessary t' repay yer sister."

  Rowan frowned and raised a brow. "Alack, do I possess the brains of an investor?"

  "Och, aye. More brains than required for piracy, I'll grant ye." Nick gave a sly smile.

  The deck canted to starboard as a fist of wind struck Rowan, increasing his fury.

  "Where to, Cap'n?" Scratch, the helmsman asked, a lithe fellow with long pointy fingernails and a mustache that hung to his chin.

  Rowan sighed and gazed over the sea, sparkling like a turquoise diamond in the afternoon sun. He'd prefer to set sail for a port where he could mollify his misfortune with rum and cards, but the nearest one was Bridgetown, and it was too far away to risk getting caught with a hole in his hull. He'd never be able to evade a Spanish or French warship in this condition.

  "Set course for that small island we saw yestereve," he ordered. "We can patch up the ship before we make way for New Providence."