The Marriage Bargain (23 page)

Beckett clenched his teeth and fought against leaping to his feet and hurling himself at Sir Harry. But with his hands tied behind his back, the gesture would be useless. Instead, he watched the slimy coward take his leave, followed by Redbeard. The cell was again plunged into darkness and Beckett heard the key in the lock.

He sat back and leaned his head against the wall, fighting the awful knot of dread that had balled itself in his stomach.

Isobel.

The sight of her face as they’d stood on the beach swirled in his mind. His heart tightened painfully at the memory, and of the things he’d said to her.

What a wretched excuse for a husband he was. He had sworn to protect her, had given her his word.

And he had been unable to keep it. Now she was in danger and he was in the brig, wounded and unable to help her. And God only knew what Sir Harry planned.

Beckett had only been fishing when he’d said the lack of marks on Sir Harry’s face proved the man hadn’t forced himself on Isobel. Yet. Oh, God, the very thought of it made Beckett want to rip the heavy oak door from its hinges.

He’d kept his head, but at what cost? Should he have tried to escape just now, and thrown caution to the wind? Maybe he could have succeeded.

But they were on a pirate ship. Even if Beckett had somehow succeeded in killing Sir Harry and Redbeard, if he himself were killed, what would happen to Isobel? He doubted that the pirate captain, whoever he was, would return Isobel to England unharmed.

No, he had to stay alive until his ribs were a little better and he was able to fight. Then he would get both himself and Isobel to safety. Or at the very least, Isobel.

His eyes were adjusting to the little bit of light that crept in under the door from the companionway, but he closed his eyes. All of a sudden there was a lump in his throat. He breathed deeply to try to get rid of it, but it didn’t work.

His mind filled itself with images of her, laughing merrily at a shared joke. Covered in dirt, but radiant and indomitable as they’d fought the fire together. Panting and helpless in his arms as he’d made love to her for the first time.

Like a slap in the face, the realization of such feelings stung him. And how ironic that he’d denied having any feelings for her at all, only hours before on the beach.

Was all this to be torn away from him?

Could he allow his bride, his friend to be taken from him forever because of the wickedness of a madman?

He would rather cut off his own arm.

In the week that passed—at times unbearably slowly, and at others so fast it made her head spin—Isobel had not been able to see Beckett even once.

She had tried twice. Once, she’d feigned sickness and headed back to her cabin alone, but the man with the red beard had found her. He hadn’t said anything; he’d merely taken her arm, gently but firmly, and returned her to the deck. And the other time, she had attempted to convince a burly pirate that he would guarantee himself a place in heaven if he assisted the cause of true love. That hadn’t worked either.

She was allowed a semblance of freedom, however, after proving on the first day she wasn’t going to throw herself overboard. And since a sudden seasickness kept Sir Harry cabin-bound, she’d been put in Captain Worthington’s charge, and he usually was too busy with the running of the ship to notice her.

At least she had a companion in Captain Black. Though he spent a fair amount of time sitting on Worthington’s shoulder, her old feline friend would seek her out as well, always appearing when her heart was darkest with worry.

He would purr and nuzzle his face against her neck, and gaze at her with knowing green eyes. Once, when a teardrop escaped and trickled down her cheek, the cat had reached up and touched it gently with his paw.

A cat who could wipe away your tears, she’d thought.

Perhaps the stress of her bleak situation was fooling with her senses.

To keep her mind occupied and her sanity intact, Isobel had taken to sitting up on deck, drawing. But today she was finding it especially hard to concentrate.

As Captain Black lounged beside her, Isobel looked out at the empty sea that surrounded the ship and tried to summon her eyes back to the sketching paper that Captain Worthington had provided her. But she felt lifeless as a rag doll.

She forced her hand to the paper. She would sketch and try not to think about Beckett, or if she would ever see him alive again. She would stay calm, and not think about what might be happening to him in the hold of the ship.

Perhaps nothing was happening to him. Perhaps he was already dead.

As for Sir Harry, from Captain Worthington’s account the man was green to the gills—just as he’d been on the trip across.

Good. She hoped it was fatal.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t encountered much trouble from the pirate crew. Though she had noticed some leering glances and muttered comments, Isobel always noticed that a glance from the captain or first mate stopped the ragged sailors cold. The sailors were too busy working most of the time to take much notice of her, anyway, and she thanked God for it.

Isobel began sketching without really knowing what she was doing, but soon a face emerged before her.

It was no surprise to see Beckett staring back out at her. Something shone from the eyes on the page.

Hope? Love? Was it hers or his?

Her hand faltered and she inadvertently slashed a mark across the beautiful face she had just sketched.

Immediately, her heart throbbed with pain as she regarded the ruined picture in her lap.

A terrible fear struck her. Would she ever touch Beckett’s face again? Would she ever feel the heat of his blue eyes as they looked at her as only he could? Would she ever feel his mouth on hers or his strong hands caressing her body?

She shut her eyes tight, valiantly trying to stifle the growing panic that rose in her chest like the waves of the sea that surrounded her.

Her thoughts went back to the loss she’d felt when her parents had died. She’d loved them so much. If she hadn’t loved them, the pain would have been negligible.

It seemed the world was built on opposites—land and sea, sun and moon, man and woman, pleasure and pain. Each was a part of the other, and to accept one was to accept its opposite as well. One could not enjoy the sun all day and tell the moon to stay away at night. That thought comforted her.

Isobel looked out at the sea and remembered the hot intensity of Beckett’s eyes. She had drowned in their depths long ago, and would not be sorry now. If the price of loving Beckett included a life of misery, she would pay it. And if being Sir Harry’s whore would save Beckett’s life, she would do it gladly.

There must be a way to convince Sir Harry to spare her husband’s life. She would sign over the deed to Hampton Park. She would tell Sir Harry there was more money hidden away somewhere, anything to buy Beckett some time.

But perhaps he would try to play the hero and refuse to leave without her, even if she won him the chance. Yes, she could see that happening. Beckett might not love her, but he would never leave her to a fate with Sir Harry in order to save himself.

She stared at the skyline and shook her head. None of this would be happening if she hadn’t run away that night. Beckett would never have found her, or taken her in, or made her his wife. Now, she was back where she’d started—doomed to a life as Sir Harry’s plaything. But the man she loved would be killed because of her.

Isobel turned her head toward approaching voices from the lower deck. It seemed to be a good time to return to her cabin. She picked up her pencils and started to leave, but stopped as she heard whispering.

“I tell ye, we must move tonight, McGregor!” the whispered voice said forcefully.

Something told her to hide then, and she crouched down by the crate on which she’d been sitting. The only place remotely plausible was behind a huge coil of hemp near the railing.

Isobel scooted behind it just in time and crouched as low as she could. As if sensing the tension in the air, Captain Black made himself scarce. Holding her breath, she listened to the pirates’ hushed conversation.

“I ‘aven’t got enough men yet,” a gruff voice replied. “I needs a few more days, still.”

“In a few more days it’ll be past the turn. I told Brinkman we’d be in Jamaica to pick up the cargo next week, see? If we don’t move now we’ll not make it in time!”

“Styles, ‘ave ye gone daft in the knob? If we move without enough men, neither of us will make it to Jamaica!” McGregor hissed. “Now, d’ye want the ship, or don’t ye?”

“Of course I do, ye dung-head!”

“Then ye’ll have to trust me, old nodder! In a few more days, I tell ye. We’ll ‘ave most o’ the men on our side then, and it’ll be much easier to slit the cap’n’s throat if ‘is lackeys are with us.”

“Alright, then,” Styles said. “But don’t disappoint me. I want Worthington’s ‘ead on a platter. And that little miss ‘e’s been protectin’ will fetch a nice price in Kingston market… after we’ve all had a few turns between ‘er legs, o’ course.”

Isobel’s blood turned icy cold, and she stared helplessly at the rough, damp rope in front of her. Was there no end to her woes?

“I’ll do what I can tonight,” McGregor said. “Meet me in the galley after grub n’grog. I’ll know more then.”

“The sooner, the better. Shite, someone’s comin’!”

Isobel heard their footsteps scramble away, but could only sit numbly behind the coil of rope as she contemplated her bleak future. The situation was going from bad to worse, rather quickly.

There was only one thing to do.

She had to reach Beckett. He might know how to turn this situation to their advantage. And if he didn’t, it might be the last time she would ever see his face.

Isobel peeked over the crate and, seeing that it was safe to move, quickly grabbed her pencils and stood.

Purposefully, she walked across the deck toward the doorway that led down to the sleeping quarters.

“I’ll be going to my cabin, now,” she said to no one in particular. The pirates there ignored her as she walked past.

She searched the deck for sight of Captain Worthington, but didn’t see him. The red-bearded first mate seemed to be in command at the moment. That meant Worthington was in his quarters, working on charts, or counting gold coins… or doing whatever pirate captains did.

“Yes, I am tired,” Isobel continued saying to the air. “I think I shall have a long nap.”

She reached the doorway and yawned loudly before she went through. As she’d become used to the steep stairway, she descended it as quickly as a monkey. There was no one about in the companionway.

She went to her cabin and left her papers and pencils on the small table, then peeked out the door. It was still clear.

Quickly and silently, Isobel scuttled down the companionway. She went in the opposite direction she’d tried before, hoping that this was the way to the brig. Her heart thumped hard in her breast as she went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship.

As she came around one corner she saw a big, burly man fiddling with some keys near a door. Ducking back, she waited and listened.

“Damn. I needs me pipe,” the pirate said to himself. “Been too long without a smoke. Oh, bugger.”

Isobel heard him shifting around on his feet, snorting and clearing his throat.

Go. Go and have your pipe.

“Devil take it,” he said, as if to her, “I needs me pipe! Now, ye be a good chap and behave yerself while ol’ Williams is gone. A man has to have his pipe now and again, or like as go mad, eh?”

Chap? Could he see her?

“So right, Mr. Williams. Be a good fellow and fetch me back a cigar, won’t you?”

It sounded like Beckett’s voice!

Williams laughed. “Yer a right funny one, ye is, m’lord. Tell ye what. I’ll have an extra smoke in yer honor. ‘Ow’s that, eh?”

“Take your time, my good man. Take your time.”

The man chuckled. “I shall, sir. And not a word o’ this to the cap’n, now. Wouldn’t look good if he thought we was becomin’ friends, eh? Might toss me overboard, he might. An’ I needs this job.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Williams. If the captain comes by, I shall do my best to quake in fear if your name is mentioned.”

“Right good of ye, sir. I’ll be off then.” Williams turned with a snort, and headed towards where Isobel stood at the end of the passage.

She looked behind her frantically for a place to hide, but there was none. She backed up all the way into a set of stairs. There was no place to go!

She looked again. There was a small crevice next to the stairs she thought she could squeeze through. It was a risk, though. If she got stuck, Mr. Williams would find her, and what explanation would she have for being wedged between the stairs and the bulkhead?

She heard the man’s heavy footsteps approaching, and knew it was now or never. She squeezed herself sideways against the narrow opening and wiggled an arm through. It was going to be tight.

He was getting closer. She could hear him coughing only feet away around the corner. She closed her eyes—though what good that would do she didn’t know—sucked her stomach in, and shoved.

Like a pearl through a button-hole, she popped through the opening. Isobel crouched down in the shadows just as Williams’s foot touched the first step. He clomped up the stairs with heavy feet, and soon disappeared out of sight.

Isobel breathed a sigh of relief and quickly went about squeezing back out of the opening. There was no time to lose.

She peeked around the corner again and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the passageway was still empty. Beckett was here, just a few feet away. Isobel crept closer as silently as a cat. She reached the sturdy oak door and saw a small square opening near the top. It was blocked with sturdy iron bars.

“Beckett!” she whispered. “Beckett, it’s me… Isobel.”

His head popped up in the opening like a Jack-in-the-box, and Isobel felt tears come to her eyes.

“Isobel?” She saw the disbelief in his eyes as he looked down at her.

Her hands flew up to the bars and Beckett’s fingers threaded through to twine with hers. The touch of his skin sent a jolt through her body. She was laughing and crying all at once.