The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (10 page)

He kept his voice low and leaned toward Moore. “We’ve got trouble.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Cap’n.” Moore pensively scratched his beard.

Garrick turned back to the
Armide
. He raised the spyglass, refocusing the lens, searching the hazy skyline for the
Vesper
. Nothing materialized in the distance. If his brothers were out there, they would know he was in trouble.
Devil damn me, this was the very scenario I’d hoped to avoid.
Confrontation with the French narrowed their chances of delivering Mercy and her brother to London in one piece.

He lowered the long-glass to his waist, turned, and peered past the mizzen futtock shrouds to the main top.

He shouted to the yardarms. “Sails there! Fitz!”

Angus Fitzhugh glanced down from the ratlines, his feet secured in the rigging. The swarthy young man’s raspy voice carried down to him after a slight pause. “Deck there! Aye, Cap’n?”

“Range?” Garrick shouted.

Fitz raised his hands to his mouth again and hollered down. “Aye, sir.”

Garrick stood, waiting anxiously beside Randall, Moore, and Simmons, men who’d helped his sister Adele steal the
Black Belle
from Abbydon Cove right out from under his father’s nose, resulting in the attack on a seventy-four-gun Royal Navy ship of the line,
HMS Dragon
that led to his freedom. The effectiveness of their heroism and unadulterated pigheadedness had been an excellent reminder that he’d chosen well when selecting his crew. Light of foot, nimble-handed, their experience added formidable opposition to anyone who opposed them.

Standing beside them now, awash with pride, Garrick could never repay the sacrifices all fifteen men had made to save his life. The weight of that responsibility impaled him even more as he waited for Fitz’s report, knowing that whatever he decided to do would make or break their safe return home to those they loved.

Randall absentmindedly tugged the makeshift scarf tied about his neck, loosening the binding. “I knew it! Our exodus from Biscay was too bloody easy.”

“With no other ships in port, who could be after us?” Moore’s question proved they were all thinking along the same lines.

“We were careful gathering the crew and packing ’em into
Don
Vasquez’s warehouse.” Simmons grabbed the brim of his bicorn, fore and aft, and tilted it back on his head. “Might one of them have escaped, Cap’n?”

That was the question he grappled with.

“Deck there!” The shout filtered down from the yardarms before Garrick could respond to Simmons’s question.

Garrick tilted his head back and raised his hand to prevent himself from being blinded by the setting sun. “Aye, Fitz. What do you make of it?”

“One ship on her tail, sir. Mayhap five leagues off the stern.”

“One?”

“Five!”

Garrick growled low in his throat. Damn wind! “Confirm one?” he asked more distinctly.

Fitz’s face contorted. He curved his hands around his mouth to heighten the sound of his voice. “One. Honest Bob. Five leagues out.”

Garrick frowned. If that second ship was the
Vesper
, would his brothers reach them in time? “If that is the
Vesper
,
we cannot count on her help.”

“’Ave ye an idea, sir?” Moore scratched his beard again.

He raised his spyglass to the horizon, aiming the lens at the enemy ship, concentrating on her signal flags. He lowered the apparatus to his waist. “Only one, but it entails trouble.”

Randall cackled. “When have we never been in bloody trouble, sir?”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, he’d laugh at Randall’s attempts to lighten the mood. His first mate correctly pinpointed one aspect of their career at sea. Fate drove them into adversity’s abyss every time they set sail.

He allowed himself a moment to inspect the faces of his men. Just as before, they relied on his expertise, giving no hint that he was lesser than he ever was. Was their trust misplaced?

“Well, deliver the blow, Cap’n.” Randall nodded. “Don’t spare the rod.”

He narrowed his stare on Randall. “We need to lose our uninvited guest.”

“How do you suppose we do that?”

“Outrun her.” Was the
Armide
’s presence a coincidence? Or was she part of a patrol? He’d taken necessary steps to slip detection along France’s coastline by flying French flags and sailing in deeper water, their normal tactic. He’d monitored every detail. Who or what had tipped the French vessel off?

He braced his legs wide. His heartbeat thumped in his chest as he attempted to breathe on an even keel.

“What is your plan?” Randall voiced aloud what every one of them had to be thinking.

“Trust my intuition. We’ll hold fast. Adjust the sails.” He snapped the spyglass back into its six-inch frame. “Let’s see what the wind can do.”

“Do you think we can outrun ’em, Cap’n?” Randall gave Moore a congratulatory nod for asking the question that plagued everyone’s minds.

“I do,” he lied. The
Priory
wasn’t the same ship she used to be.

“French. Spanish. English. It don’t make no difference who’s at our backs.” Simmons normally gave the crew a rousing speech before battle. This wasn’t one of those times. “But with a Spanish woman on board—”

“Half Spanish.” Garrick didn’t understand why he felt inclined to stand up for Mercy. “Why is superstition bothering you now, eh? We’ve had a woman on board before.”

“Captain Belle ain’t no woman.” Simmons grumbled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “She’s one o’ us.”

Randall and Moore burst into laughter.

Simmons face distorted. “’Tis the truth.”

“The fact remains my sister isn’t on board. We are under orders. In case you need to be reminded, we are also at war.” Garrick lifted his gaze to the faces of his crew. “Superstition has no place on board the
Priory
. Our orders are to save a woman’s life and that’s exactly what we are going to do, no matter what that entails.”

Randall’s face turned serious. “There are no coincidences, sir.”

“No. There aren’t.” That truth made the sight of those sails more disturbing. Garrick shielded his eye and barked another order up the ratlines to the cross trees where Fitz positioned himself at the mast top. “Keep a steady watch. I want continual updates on the
Armide
’s progress, even if it deviates from course.”

“Aye, sir,” Fitz shouted. “And if they don’t?”

Garrick growled low in his throat. He had no intention of allowing the situation to get out of control. He had a woman on board to protect and he would do anything to keep her safe. Damn the French for ruining his perfect plan. But other anomalies tickled his brain. If the
Armide
had signaled the
Priory
, was someone on board receiving the message? Returning it?

Nonsense. Garrick had hand picked his crew. Every man had been with him for years.

He shook his head to clear it and redirected his attention to Randall, his instincts on fire. “Something isn’t right. I feel it, and I know you feel it.”

“What are you implying, sir?” Randall kept his voice low so no one else could hear him.

“Do not, under any circumstances, allow Simmons to fill the men’s heads with his ridiculous notion that our
señorita
is responsible for our latest run-in with the French.”

“Aye, sir.”

“She hasn’t cursed us.” Never mind that his men hated the Spanish for what they’d done to him, and he carried intense hatred for them as well. “Under no circumstances are you to engage that ship. Understand?
Señorita
Vasquez is Melville’s only chance.”

“Understood.” Randall rubbed his neck. He appeared to be struggling with something. “Cap’n. What about that signal? I know you saw it too.”

“It’s no coincidence.” Few men had been privy to their plan and yet…

“What should we do? I can vouch for the men. Every one of them has sworn allegiance to you.”

“We wait,” he said, distrust building within him. “Keep a sharp eye trained on them.”

Randall waved off a man then lowered his voice. “
All
of ’em? You can’t mean—”

“I can and I do. There’s a traitor on board.”

Mercy moved through
the
Priory
with the ease of someone accustomed to evading the enemy. Hours confined to her cabin, studying the ship’s blueprints, had given her time to concoct a plan to uncover the mystery surrounding her brother’s commission. That information helped her maneuver the gundeck and orlop deck, angling passageways on her way to the hold. Along the way, she’d suffered an occasional bout of light-headedness as the vessel pitched and swayed underfoot, a feat she silently applauded, given that everyone on board the ship, including the captain and herself, might be exposed to a terrifying threat. Since Seaton had made it clear he didn’t consider her his equal, she’d vowed to ferret out the truth on her own, one way or another.

At the sound of footfalls, she covered her lantern with her skirt and hid behind a support beam to avoid contact with one of the crew. Nothing could stop her from finding the answers to the questions that plagued her mind. Why did Admiral Roche favor the
Priory
above other ships in his fleet? Why had her brother been singled out for this mission?

Mercy suppressed a shiver as she arrowed her way through the dimly lit deck to the only place answers could be found… the cargo hold.

Rats scurried underfoot as she lifted the lantern high. In the waning light, she unknowingly kicked a discarded iron stake with her foot. The pin maul rolled into the shadows, snapping loudly against the bulkhead.

Mercy held her breath, mentally berating herself then darted inside the carpenter’s store, where she waited in the shadows to make sure no one had been alerted to her presence. When no one ventured into the open, she made the sign of the cross, thanking God she hadn’t been discovered as she exited the small cabin.

Ahead of her loomed the door to the dank and musky cargo hold. She moved swiftly toward the bulkhead as wood protested loudly around her.

The
Priory
listed. She lost her footing on the coaming and braced herself against the side of the hull so
she
didn’t end up rolling across the floor like the forgotten metal spike she’d inadvertently kicked.

Creaking iron grated in the silence. Rope, stretched taut, groaned against the weight of the cargo, grinding out a warning the sea had turned drastically violent or the ship had picked up speed since she’d begun her search for clues to her brother’s true mission to Calais.

Mercy widened her stance and dug in her heels. She worried her bottom lip, silently vowing not to be swayed from her purpose. She’d come too far to give up and fear had never gotten in the way of anything she’d done before. She wouldn’t let momentary panic stop her from uncovering the mystery surrounding this ship now.

Swallowing the distasteful lump rising in her throat, she released a heavy sigh. She’d already scoured the first mate’s and quartermaster’s quarters, the galley with its Brodie stove and tubs of salted beef, and various other nooks and crannies where supplies were stored on board, all to no avail. Nothing had satisfied her suspicions that her brother had become part of an intricate, dangerous web of deceit meant to serve a raving lunatic’s quest for power.

But whose web was it? Napoleon’s or Roche’s?

Her suspicions blazed with fierce authenticity. What had her misguided brother agreed to do? Her mind battled for any detail that might have escaped her notice. Memory only served to create more unanswered questions.

Eddie had been tight-lipped about his service to Spain, especially since he’d obtained captaincy of
La Mota
. Why?

A shiver rolled over her, and she repositioned the lantern left then right, sweeping over the entire space. Just beyond the lantern’s reach, shadows clung to objects like dancing entities then jutted before her, creating frightening images in the darkness where movement caught her eye.

Why had Napoleon refurbished this ship and sequestered it in the bay, instead of utilizing its exceptional speed and ordering it transferred to Trafalgar? The French tyrant was renowned for sending innocent men off to die, caring nothing for their lives in order to fund his crusade of injustice. Whatever reason Napoleon had for directly or indirectly ordering the
Priory’s
horrendous transformation into
La Mota
and its subsequent journey to Calais, Eddie had been thrust into dangerous waters. This knowledge distressed Mercy the most. Nothing but hardship and sorrow came from war. Women and the young suffered most.

Political conflict had shaped Mercy’s known world.

She moved into the hold, carefully examining its circumference.

Family was her life’s blood. Brutal hostilities persistently robbed her of every hope she’d ever had of falling in love, of marriage, and that dream of all dreams, having a family of her own. For nearly her entire two and twenty years, there had never been a time when war hadn’t cast a cloud over her life, when courageous young men had not said their final goodbyes.

Napoleon’s invasion of Spain was an affront to all the Vasquez held dear. His planned assault on England added misfortune to Mercy’s relatives. Hadn’t her cousin, Constance, suffered enough after being attacked by pirates twice on her way to Spain? Constance had a little boy, Oliver, to protect now.

Another shiver swept over her. What if traveling to England endangered Constance’s life?

Mercy’s breath caught in her throat.

How long before Seaton and his men realized she was missing and came looking for her?
If
the freight in the
Priory’s
cargo hold held any sway over Eddie’s military career — as she suspected it did given his behavior — the danger impacted them all.

Determination fueling her, Mercy raised the lantern high. Light glinted off barrels stacked in five rows, three barrels deep on ballast gravel. She grabbed her throat in surprise. Each drum had been outfitted and secured with iron bands and was tethered to the other. The rope’s fractious moans echoed in the space around her.

To the right, more wooden casks had been stacked, labeled whisky, brandy, gin, and rum. She inspected each bound line, lightly touching the uneven wooden rims with the tips of her fingers as she did so.

Next to the last secured section were tightly bound burlap bags of tobacco, coffee and tea. The special packaging made them nigh unsinkable and waterproof, as Eddie had once demonstrated. Stacks of leaguers of water and smaller barrels containing salted beef and pork, sugar, vinegar and wine came next. Added to that cache were several wooden crates labeled silk and next to them, ten rustic looking trunks.

Mercy stubbed her boot against one of the closest cases and glanced around the space. Gunpowder was kept in a copper lined magazine to prevent fire and spontaneous ignition. Weapons were locked up to ward off mutiny. It was illogical to assume she’d find weapons, most notably guns in the hold.

But Napoleon headed a mass assault over land. Was that what was hidden here? Weapons to arm hundreds of men? Surely, it wasn’t that simple.

She glanced back at the rows of supplies and retraced her steps. Instinct counseled that she’d missed a vital clue.

She inspected the cargo again, each row one by one, until she stood once more before the trunks feeling just as bewildered as before. Something about the particular placement of the cases didn’t add up.

Mercy lowered to her knees and studied the lock dangling from its iron enclosure. Above the iron-banded wooden arches, an inscription read,
Periculum, non aperire.

“Danger, do not open.”

She lowered the lantern and sat back on her heels. A warning label on a gun shipment to military personnel didn’t make sense. There was only one reason these trunks were locked. Whatever they held wasn’t intended for the average foot soldier.

Mercy smiled and reached a hand to her upswept hair to remove a pin. She put the pin in her mouth, adjusted its shape, and then knelt by the lock.
Nothing worth hiding remained hidden for long.
She’d picked many locks during the past five years her father had taken her under his clandestine wings. This one wouldn’t be any different.

She inserted the makeshift key, mindlessly maneuvering the tool in the lock. But the more she manipulated the pin inside the mechanism, the longer it refused to budge. Biting her lower lip with mounting frustration, Mercy rose and put one hand on the small of her back. She used the other to wipe perspiration beading on her forehead. There was only one way to learn what had been placed in these boxes — opening one.

But how? She didn’t have a key and the pick didn’t work.

Undaunted, she lifted the lantern and searched the hold for an implement, anything weighted and heavy she could use to force the lock free. In the carpenter’s store she’d seen augers, bitstocks, spokeshaves, hammers, planes, and saws, necessary for making repairs to the ship. She ventured back through the hold doorway toward the cache and picked up a pitch ladle, testing the feel of it in her hands. Assured the heavy weight would also suffice as a weapon — should she need one — she retraced her steps to the trunk and placed the lengthy metal bar in a crevice near the lock. Bearing down with all her weight, she wedged the beam in, and then jerked it upward.

Sweat trickled from her brow as resistance contracted the corded muscles in her arms and back. She tried once more before the lock gave way and she experienced success.

The lock plunked to the floor with a heavy thud. Mercy glanced at the passageway then lowered the ladle, careful to keep noise to a minimum.

She opened the trunk and peered inside. Wood shavings filled the interior like burnt ivory clouds. No guns? Had pistols been sent instead of muskets? She thrust her hands inside the wooden rubbish, confident she’d find smuggled firearms within, but quite peculiarly, her hands came into contact with nothing at all.

“Perplexing.” She bit her lower lip and sat back on her heels.

Why go to the trouble to bolt and label a shipment in Latin with a warning if nothing dangerous was hidden inside?

“Aha! Hidden.” The word echoed in her brain with resounding clarity. The trunks had served their secret purpose. She had only to discover the reason.

Mercy scratched her head, grappling for answers. She stood and walked the cargo stacks one more time, tapping her chin, analyzing the facts. When at last she arrived at the opened trunk, her gaze focused on the slight distance she had shifted the case away from the others. She trained the lantern light on the grooves on the deck.

Nothing hollow left a deep-rutted trail.

She kicked the trunk again, hearing a decisive clunk. Something
was
in the container, which accounted for the reason she’d been unable to move it.

She stood and kicked the rectangular case again, this time working her way around the bottom. Solid knocks. Suspicion blossomed inside her. She sank to her knees and thrust her hands back inside the wood shavings then positioned her arm outside the trunk to determine its true depth.
A false bottom!

Voices thundered on the other side of the bulkhead door. She paused, cursing the ill-timed interruption.

“Did you check the galley?”

“Aye, sir.”

Capitán Blade.

Mercy slid her hands around the false bottom until her finger touched an uneven nub in the design. She pressed and out popped a drawer measuring nearly half the size of the chest. She raised the lantern, immediately catching a glimpse of gold shimmering in the lamplight. Coins of every size were scattered through the opened compartment.

Footsteps.

“She has to be here somewhere,” she heard Seaton say.

Oh, he would deal her a heavy hand when he found her.

She couldn’t think about that now. Careful to work quietly, she deftly grabbed several coins and stuffed them inside her corset. She searched for the secret latch and hit the nub again. The drawer slipped easily back inside the trunk.

She rose to her feet and bit her lip, nearly tasting blood, before snuffing out the lantern. The entire cargo hold plunged into darkness. Mercy set the lantern down and grabbed the pitch ladle, inching her way over ballast and back between several barrels, wedging her body in as tightly as she could.

“Cap’n always said never trust a Spaniard.”

The smug rhetoric was another slap in Mercy’s face. If Seaton found her, he wouldn’t believe why she’d ventured below. In fact, she doubted the captain would trust her to tell him the truth based on her ancestry alone.

More footsteps.

“Aye, that he has and with good reason.” She didn’t recognize this man’s voice.

Scratching. Screeching.

Mercy covered her mouth fearful she’d scream as a rat scurried over her foot. She immediately shifted her feet and, just as quickly, regretted making that decision.

The voices quieted. Had she given her position away?

She squeezed her eyelids closed and held her breath, trying to control her senses as the vermin’s activity continued nearby. Did the rats smell her tender flesh? If the noise she’d made hadn’t alerted her captors where she was, the rats certainly would.

“There can only be one place where that minx can be.”