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“Will you please stop fretting?” Red finally demanded, aggravated.
“Lately…lately I’ve been afraid, I admit. Look, we’ve done well…we could find some place, assume new identities…we could live decent lives. Real lives. There are places in America where we could disappear.”
“It isn’t about money, Brendan.”
Brendan shook his head. “Bobbie, you know the kind of man he is. He’s going to be killed by someone, somewhere.”
“Oh, really? He’s managed to spend nearly two decades making his fortune off the terror and tragedy of others. Besides, I would prefer to kill him myself,” Red said sharply. “And stop calling me Bobbie, please. I’m Captain Red.”
Brendan looked aggravated. “You’re Roberta, Bobbie to me, no matter what charade we’re playing. We’ve survived this far together, but we used to be…you used to listen to me. I have a terrible feeling we’ve taken things too far.”
The set of Red’s features was stubborn. “Brendan,” she said, and there was steel in her voice, as well as a certain compassion, “if you wish to quit, you may do so. I can set you ashore at a safe harbor of your choosing, and you can take passage on a ship to the colonies. You can claim to have been the victim of a kidnapping for all the time we’ve been at sea, God knows, it will not have been the first such time that has happened.”
“Bobbie, God knows I have fought, and fought hard, at your side. I have risked my life, just as you have risked yours.”
“No one has fought harder,” she agreed.
“But I can’t help but admit to this strange desire to survive.”
“I want to survive, too. Instinct, I suppose.”
“There is a life out there for you…somewhere.”
“Brendan, what, in all the time that we have shared together, have I known that might be construed as an actual life?”
She saw the pain in his eyes. Brendan had shared so much with her from the beginning. Terror. Poverty. Servitude, threats, abuse, and an elite governing body that had turned its collective back upon them. She had finally discovered the only true kinship she had ever known among the pirate brethren.
Brendan rose suddenly. “Who knows? Maybe if our wretched old mistress had sent you off to a decent and compassionate—albeit old and disease-riddled—man, things would have been different.”
She cast him a furious stare.
“What a wonderful suggestion, Brendan. I could have lived a wretched life as a syphilitic whore and then died a wretched death. I’ll take a sword,” she added softly.
“Bobbie—”
“Stop calling me Bobbie!”
“The men know your name.”
“Our prisoner does not.”
“The prisoner you’ve been spying on. If you’re so intrigued, come out and join your men, Captain Red Robert.”
“If you wish to be nothing but a pest, you should leave and enjoy the company of the prisoner and the men,” Red said irritably.
“I’ll do so,” Brendan said, and grinned.
When he was gone, Red stared at the door, wondering why she felt so ridiculously annoyed. And worried. Brendan’s certainty that they had taken their act-turned-real-life too far was beginning to make her uneasy despite herself. She gritted her teeth, looking at the lists she was preparing regarding the division of their take. The words seemed to swim before her. She was getting cabin fever. She had stayed locked up in her small realm on the ship for too long. She needed air.
Brendan’s accusations were true. She was obsessed. But he was out there. And she meant to find him, to kill him, or die in the trying.
Blair Colm.
So many years had passed. But if she closed her eyes…
When she slept too sweetly…
She could see it all again as if it had happened just yesterday. They’d been but children then.
There were men who fought because they fought for a cause. Others sought riches, titles, to better themselves in life.
And some were simply cruel. Some enjoyed watching the pain they caused others. They considered it only a bonus that slicing men, women and children to death often came with a reward, as well. Blair Colm was one of those men.
It was amazing that she and Brendan had survived….
But there had been so many others to kill.
And so they had been sold into indentured servitude in the colonies instead.
She had hated Lady Fotherington almost as much as she had hated Blair Colm. Prim, bony, iron-haired, iron-willed, she had thought that indentured servants did best when beaten at least once a week. To her way of thinking, certain nationalities created beings of lesser value, and Roberta and Brendan were certainly that.
Red looked at her hands, and sniffed. It had not been difficult to play the part of a man as far as the delicacy of her hands went. She had spent her days scrubbing…anything from the hearth in the kitchen to Ellen Fotherington’s hideous feet. The only kindness she had ever known had come from Ellen’s spinster daughter, Lygia. As tall and thin and bony as her mother, she rarely spoke in front of anyone. Red had finished with her tasks late one night and slipped into the office that had belonged to the late Lord Fotherington, and had found Lygia there, reading. Red had been terrified, certain she would receive an extra beating, but the great rows of books had beckoned to her forever. Stammering, she had tried to think up an excuse, but Lygia had actually smiled, and the smile had made her, if not beautiful, compelling. “Shh. I’m not supposed to be here, either. I am supposed to follow other arts, such as music and dance, but I do so love my father’s room. If only he had lived….”
He hadn’t lived, however. He had died of a flux. And so Ellen Fotherington had come to rule the mansion in Charleston, where she entertained statesmen, lords, ladies, artists and the gentry. She ordered the finest merchandise from England and France, and tea all the way from China. She ruled her house like a despot, and her only regret in life was that her daughter resembled her, and not her dashing husband.
The promise of a fortune should have seen Lygia well married, but she had read too many books over the years. She refused. She refused the young swains who were not old and ugly, but were only after her money. She refused the fellows who were so old they did not deem her ugly. Her mother had forced misery upon her, just as she did her servants, indentured, most of them, and little better than slaves. But Ellen had never been able to whip or bully Lygia into marriage.
So Red had been blessed with one friend. One who virtually gave her the world, because they shared a passion for books.
Ellen had a way of truly making slaves of her servants. If their time of servitude should come to completion, they were accused of taking something, using something…doing something. And so they owed her more time.
Red had seen many die in her service.
They had died because they had no hope. Their eyes had died long before their bodies had given out. Their spirits had perished. Mortal flesh could do nothing more than follow.
Ellen Fotherington did not hack people to pieces. She did not steal their birthrights. She took what made life most precious: freedom, and their very souls.
In Red’s case, she had determined to curry favor by shipping her to France and giving her to a hideous little count with gout and a dozen other wretched diseases to use as he wished. Under lock and key, Red was sent back across the Atlantic.
It was then that Red Robert, the most deadly pirate on the high seas, had been born.
Red lowered her head, inhaling deeply. She steadied herself, and then almost smiled. The captain of a merchantman they had once seized off Savannah had told her that Ellen had died. Slowly. Painfully.
She did believe in God.
And it might have been the only time she had ever believed that God also believed in her, no matter how un Christian such a thought might be. Ellen, who had paraded her entire household to church every Sunday, deserved to be in hell. God could afford to be forgiving; she could not.
Still, Blair Colm, the man who had slain infants in front of her for the sake of expediency, was still alive, a fact that desperately needed to be rectified. God had allowed him to live far too long. God had allowed him to commit far too many atrocities.
God needed her help.
God had helped her create Red Robert, and so Red Robert would now help God rid the world of Blair Colm.
That was one way to look at things, anyway. It was a way of seeing the world that helped her to stay sane and committed to her path.
And now that she had started upon her path, there was no going back.
She would not give up this life—could not give up this life—until he was dead.
And so…
On to New Providence.
CHAPTER THREE
New Providence
TO SAY THAT she glittered in the distance would be a stretch. But there she was, big and bawdy, a place where the shouts in the streets were loud enough to be heard from a distance, where many a rogue kept a grand lair in which to exercise his base desires. The wharf was filled with boxes and barrels being loaded and unloaded; ships lay at anchor in the harbor, small boats plying the shallows back and forth between them and the shore. Women, tall and short, their skin of as many colors as their brightly festooned clothing, walked the muddy roads, past storefronts and taverns and huts, most of them nearly a-tumble.
It was a beautiful day. The ship rested at anchor, gently listing in the bay, beneath a sky that was just kissed by soft white puffs of cloud. The breeze was sweet and clean and caressing, at least out here, where they still lay at ease upon the sea. Logan knew that there were areas of New Providence where little could be called sweet. Slop buckets were tossed out windows, turning the roads to foul mud. And since the populace leaned heavily toward drink, the stale scents of whiskey, rum and beer combined with the fumes of old pipe tobacco to make the resulting stench nauseating.
But from this distance it all looked merely colorful and exciting, even offering a strange charm with its straightforward, no-apology bawdiness.
A hand fell on his shoulder. “It’s the isle of thieves, my friend,” Brendan said.
“Aye, but honest thieves they be, eh?” Logan said.
“You’ve been here before?”
“I have.”
Brendan stepped back, grinning as he looked at him. “What was a fine gentleman such as yourself doing among the riffraff of this island?”
“Bartering,” Logan told him. He hiked his shoulders and let them fall. “I don’t recall saying that I was a fine gentleman.”
“Lord Haggerty?”
“We pronounce it ‘laird,’” he told Brendan wearily.
Brendan arched a brow, his easy grin still in place. He was a strange enough fellow himself to be a pirate.
For one thing, his teeth were good.
Then again, it was passing strange that a shipful of burly outcasts should bathe and do laundry, though one of the toughest-looking of the group, Bill Thornton, known to one and all as Peg-leg, had told him that he found it amazing not to have caught the least fever nor been plagued by scabies since he’d taken up with Captain Red. In fact, the man had confessed, he was looking forward to seeing what soaps he might be able to buy in Nassau.
But Brendan…
Interesting man. As interesting as the captain. They were obviously related. Brendan was taller by a good five inches, though the captain—despite the heeled boots—was not short. Brendan stood well over six feet, and had the shoulders of a man who was long accustomed to using his muscles. He was in excellent shape. His features were nowhere near as fine as the captain’s, his eyes a paler blue, his jaw far more square. At times, he brooded. When caught in the act, he was quick with a ribald comment or an off-the-cuff remark. He’d shown himself keenly interested in what was going on in the colonies, his interest greatest regarding the more southern cities, such as Charleston and Savannah.
He was friendly. And through that friendliness, Logan had come to know the others. Hagar was like a huge watchdog, a burly man, towering over even Brendan and himself. His hands were massive, his thighs were like tree trunks, and his chest could vie with a barrel. But Hagar, too, was a decent enough fellow, with a fine sense of humor. All seemed to worship the captain, rather than just honor Red Robert.
“As you wish. Laird Haggerty, we are about to make shore. Next boat, my good man.”
The Eagle, as the ship had been dubbed by the pirates, who had changed her name from that which the previous captain had given her, was equipped with two tenders for loading and unloading supplies and cargo, and also boasted two smaller, sleeker ones. The tenders had headed to shore first, with Hagar in charge, and now the first of them was being lowered for those who would follow, Peg-leg, Brendan, Captain Red and Logan, with another huge crewman, Silent Sam, a strapping Iroquois, at the oars.
As the men stood there, ready to make the descent, Red Robert made an appearance in customary attire: high black boots, white shirt, brocade vest, black coat, and plumed, low-riding hat. There was a knife set in the flap in each boot, and a low-riding leather belt carried a blunderbuss and a double-barreled pistol. A sword in a leather sheath hung from the same belt.
Red Robert was prepared.
“Are you ready for New Providence, Laird Haggerty?” Red Robert asked.
“I know New Providence,” Logan reminded the pirate captain.
“But it changes, you see,” the pirate said. “It changes literally with the wind, for the mood of the town follows that of whichever king of thieves is in port.” Red Robert nodded at Brendan.
“My laird,” Brendan said to Logan, offering a sweeping bow and gesturing him to precede them into the tender.
Logan nimbly crawled over the rail and onto the rope ladder that led down to the small boat, where Silent Sam was already waiting at the oars. Logan jumped the last few feet, feeling the tender rock beneath him, and easily took a seat. He watched as the others followed.
“So, you’ll sell my cargo here?” he asked Red and Brendan when they’d taken their seats.
“Every man out there will know I have it soon enough. Better to rid myself of dangerous riches. Pieces of eight are easier to manage,” Red said with a shrug.
“I could have gotten you much more for it elsewhere,” Logan said.
“Pity. That’s the way it goes,” the pirate captain replied.
Logan tried a different tactic. “This is quite a dangerous place to conduct business.”
“And have you, despite your current state, come ashore for business?” Red asked.
“I have. But I’m not…” His voice trailed off, and he turned to face the wharf.
“You’re not what?” He was startled as Red’s gloved hand fell on his knee. The wary anger in the deep blue eyes that met his was disturbing.
“I’m not a pirate.”
“The hell you’re not,” Red said, settling back.
“Well, he’s not,” Brendan commented.
“Oh, really? He is at least a thief, for was this treasure not already stolen before it came to us?”
Logan stared back at Red but said nothing.
“You do not protest?” Red asked.
“No. Point taken.”
