The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (5 page)

Devil damn me! The sooner I get the
Priory
out of the Bay of Biscay, the better.

He glanced down at his hands, fisting them to keep anyone from noticing how badly they’d begun to shake. Not from nerves, but unsolicited rage. The sight of Vasquez’s crew, the blue and red uniforms, what they’d done to the
Priory
, had been more than he could bear. A hellish demon coiled, ready to take flight inside him.

He turned toward the ship’s rail and pounded his fists against the wood until he’d spent his fury.

Max chose that opportune moment to pick up the unconscious captain and haul him over his shoulder. With nary a grunt, he approached the rail, gave Garrick an understanding nod then began climbing down the ropes dangling off the side of the hull. A cutter had been tied to the
Priory
bearing ten of Vasquez’s bound and gagged Spanish comrades.

“Watch out below,” he said, deftly landing in the boat. He stepped to one side and dropped the captain unceremoniously down beside him.

The captive crew glanced up at Garrick.

Garrick chose his words carefully as he stared them all down. “You’ve got ears to hear, so listen carefully. I won’t say this more than once. The way I
see
it,” he said pointing to his face, “you have two choices. Join our crew and claim England as your new homeland. Or take your chances with the currents in the bay.”

Frantic gazes shot to the waves crashing against the side of the cutter. Slowly, each man then scrutinized the other, carefully deliberating their options as James and Rigby climbed down to join Max and
La Mota’s
captive crew.

“What be your heading? Think quickly now. I cannot control my brothers from up here.” Garrick waited mere seconds more. “Think wisely men. The decision you now make will seal your fate, one way or another. But the important question you must ask yourselves is this. Do I want to live or die?”

Rigby straddled the men, moving his way to the bow. Once there, he glanced upward. “I don’t suppose they’ll be able to answer you, brother, gagged as they are.”

“That may be,” Garrick said playing along with Rigby’s scheme. “Perhaps all they need is the right kind of motivation. What say you?”

“Aye.”

“You first.” Rigby kicked a surly-looking Spaniard’s leg then lifted the trussed man under his arms, forcing the tar head first over the side. He kept hold of the man’s legs as the sailor thrashed wildly, jostling the boat. He dipped the crewman’s head into the sea and held it there, just below the surface. “If they’re deaf, this should sway them.”

Waves crashed over Rigby’s arms, swallowing his prisoner then releasing him with each wake. “I think they’re blind.”

The boat jerked wildly as the other men signaled they were
not
blind or deaf.

Rigby glanced at Garrick.

He nodded his approval.

“Up ye go,” Rigby said pulling the Spanish seaman up for air. He pulled off the wet gag and smacked the Spaniard on the back, encouraging him to give up the gallon of water he’d swallowed. He then deposited the soaked man next to the others mumbling frantically with gags in their mouths.

“
Haz lo que él dice
.”

Wide-eyed the crew glanced up at Garrick then nodded fiercely in agreement.

“Good.”

Unwilling to take chances, Rigby inserted the gag back into the waterlogged man’s mouth. “Welcome to our crew, gentlemen.”

James and Max snorted then followed Rigby’s lead by fisting their hands in the air and vowing their silent solidarity.

Garrick frowned. His brothers’ familiarity, their carefree camaraderie was a bold reminder of his previous devil-may-care behavior. No longer.

Hounds’ blood, it’s been too long since my brothers and I have served a singular cause.
Still, he wasn’t entirely content saving these men. Frankly, he didn’t want to spare their lives.

He thought about Husam, the Moroccan that served as his sister’s bodyguard. If his father had not spared Husam’s life during a skirmish with Corsairs, Adele would be dead.

No, this wasn’t the time to recollect the good old days of his unblemished youth. Nothing mattered now but getting as far away from San Sebastian as the
Priory
could sail.

A hand settled on his right shoulder. Startled, he turned with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Keane ignored his sneer. “She’s been through a hell of an ordeal. Handle her with care, brother.”

Was his little brother advising him how to handle his Spanish captive or telling him not to let anything happen to the
Priory
?

He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you in Cornwall. Don’t be late.”

Mercy hastily flipped
through several stacks of papers inside Eddie’s desk, feverishly searching for clues to what her brother wouldn’t willingly supply. Why was he going to Calais? Was Napoleon planning another attack on the royal navy? Was this vital information important to Lord Danbury in England? Any smidgeon of information gleaned could potentially save countless lives.

Eddie wasn’t her enemy, but the men he served were.

Concern invading her senses, she flicked her stare to the screen door at the merest sound as she fanned Eddie’s maps over his desk and began examining each one, intent on ferreting out what she could about her brother’s mission to Calais before he returned.

By aligning himself to that despot Napoleon, had Eddie sunk into a quagmire of no return? She had only minutes left to find out before it was too late.

She traced France’s rocky coastline. Several notations had been jotted down alongside the French Archipelago — almost too small to read — especially noteworthy was the island, La Helle. There, Eddie had recorded shifting winds and tide, most notably speed needed to attain maximum knots in deep and shallow seas. He’d also added mathematical heads of longitude and latitude, which she put to memory.

Noise above Mercy’s head startled her. She held her breath, waited a few uneventful moments and forced her heartbeat to slow down.
I am not leaving Eddie’s cabin until I’ve discovered the purpose for his mission to Calais.

Determination flowed through her as she inspected her brother’s Imray charts. It was anyone’s guess how long it would be before her window of opportunity passed.

A wrinkle in one of the charts obscured her vision. She raised the map to inspect the perilous waters around Ushant.

Still nothing jumped out at her.

Biting her lower lip, Mercy lowered her arms in defeat. She inhaled a stabilizing breath and then dropped her gaze to Eddie’s desk one last time. There, beneath the last map, lay a leather-bound notebook.

A significant thump pounded on the deck overhead. Startled, Mercy braced her feet as the vessel pitched slightly. Worried, she glanced upward again. Dust particles cascaded through the air like private dancers in the lantern light. An eerie chill lanced through her. If
La Mota
had indeed set sail before Eddie had given the order, was mutiny the cause? Or had the vessel been attacked?

Careful not to make a sound, she attuned her ears for sounds of gunfire, men fighting in hand-to-hand combat, anything that would warn she was in imminent danger. An uneasy quiet met her ears, making her believe the previous vibration most likely stemmed from supplies shifting on deck. Wasn’t it customary to tie down anything that moved when a ship sailed the bay’s currents out to sea?

A small seed of uncertainty took hold. What if Eddie’s ship
was
under attack? Eddie had been shocked to discover
La Mota
had left port without him giving the order to do so.

Had the French attacked? Had they hit treacherous rocks certain to entomb her inside the vessel?

Temporarily immobilized, Mercy fought an intrinsic disquiet building inside her.
Lives depend on my ability to get to St. Mary’s alive.

She shook her head, clearing away her fears, focusing her energy on logical scenarios. She wasn’t a weak-willed female, susceptible to the vapors. Being on
La Mota
was no different from any risk she’d taken on dry land. This time, she wasn’t alone. Eddie was on her side. Her brother might be many things but his skill as a sailor excelled. His pride wouldn’t allow for mutiny or ambush, anything that would take away what he held dear to his heart… like this ship.

When something was right and noble, Vasquez men outrivaled everyone else. She might not be a man, but Mercy could own that she was a Vasquez.

Fearful what awaited Eddie topside, Mercy glanced back down at Eddie’s journal, scrutinizing her brother’s distinctive, bold script.
You have always been so predictable, Eddie.
She smiled. His logbook held the key to
La Mota
’s involvement with the French, because it unquestionably detailed Eddie’s strategic mission. Though she had never approved of her brother’s decision to obtain a commission in the Spanish navy, his arrogance provided information she might not have otherwise gleaned.

Eddie might be many things — an unmitigated bore, steadfast enthusiast of causes befitting his fancy — but that did not keep her from believing her brother would ultimately do the right thing, no matter the cost. After all, they had one fundamental thing in common… family. If locking her inside his cabin was any indication, Eddie would protect her.

I have wasted too much time questioning events that are unlikely to occur. Eddie’s logbook holds the key to everything and I must read it before he returns and finds me searching through his things.

Mercy shifted the maps aside. Anticipation coursed through her veins as she lifted the leather-bound book in her hands. About the same time, a yellowed piece of parchment nesting within the pages fluttered to the ground. She picked up the note and carried it closer to the lantern light.

Capitán Vasquez,

Your devotion to the revolution has been meticulous and well-documented.

Per our agreement, I urge you to proceed with extreme caution to Calais, rendering no one access to
La Mota
other than me. Do not be deterred from delivering your cargo to its intended source. Use brute force, if necessary, to protect our package at all costs.

His Excellency relies on your steadfast efforts. I demand absolute discretion.

Vive la révolution!

Admiral Louis Roche

Shocked, she opened her hand, allowing the dispatch to flutter to the floor.

Eddie was involved with Admiral Roche?

Why would Admiral Roche contact her brother? Why the need for utmost secrecy? That, in and of itself, was a contradiction because the admiral gloried in subterfuge. He used spectacle to attain flowing regard and enjoyed flaunting his self-made importance before women, hoping ladies would swoon with delight at his feet. To men and subordinates, he sought acquiescence through fear. In fact, he’d made it plain that Eddie’s assignment to refurbish the
Priory
offered no achievement or advantage in rank.

Mercy covered her mouth, averting her gaze. Roche’s behavior toward her brother was entirely repugnant.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. There was something about the communiqué’s cryptic description of Eddie’s mission that rankled her. What “package” required protection? Guns? Ships carried guns and ordinary supplies on a constant basis easily discussed openly. What was so important Roche couldn’t call it by name?

Prior to Trafalgar, Admiral Roche had been in San Sebastian inspecting troops Prime Minister Manuel de Godoy had stationed in the area as a staunch display of support for Napoleon by King Charles VI and Queen Maria Luisa. Opportunely for her, a cotillion had been given in his honor. There, Roche had loudly declared to several government dignitaries — Godoy included — that Eddie’s lack of expertise indicated he was unfit for Villeneuve’s fleet. He’d even gone so far as to suggest her brother shouldn’t be given command on the grounds that he wasn’t ready. What better way to insult a nobleman than to publicly break the man’s son.

A Vasquez never forgets.

That very public slight hastened her parents’ efforts to undermine the French at every turn. What was Roche’s intent? To ferret out traitors in their midst? Perhaps she would never know. Though she distinctly remembered finding Roche conversing with her father and
Don
Esteban in secret about Godoy’s hold over the royal family. Later, when she’d questioned her father as to whether or not he was in league with Roche, he’d explained he loathed the officer almost as much as she despised
Don
Esteban, a suitor with indelicate demands.

What was it
Papá
had said? Ah.
“Roche pushed for legislation that would maintain French control over the bay, to include monthly stipends paid for the use of my warehouses.”

Money!

A startling thud sounded in the passageway outside the cabin door.

Had Eddie returned?

She glanced at the door then quickly rushed to the desk to replace his logbook where she’d found it. She readjusted the charts and prepared for her brother’s return, smoothing her skirts. A satisfied smile concluding her presentation, she clasped her hands in front of her then spied something lying on the floor.

Dios mio, Roche’s missive!

Mercy inhaled a frantic breath and scrambled to pick up the admiral’s letter. For several years, she’d relied on two indispensable tactics of espionage:
remember what you see and hear, and leave things exactly as you find them.

Releasing a calming breath, she restored Roche’s vellum to the journal’s open pages then arranged the maps back over the book, paying particular attention to how they’d originally been creased. She smoothed her skirts again and ran her fingers over her hair before losing patience and taking another quick look at France’s coastline. As her index finger grazed Lorient, Brest, Sainto Malo then Calais, distinct footsteps thundered in the passageway. She jumped. Someone larger and heavier-framed than Eddie stopped outside the cabin door.

Her heartbeat broke out at a canter. Could she be mistaken? She’d never known Eddie to be so careless. His steps were calculated at best.

No. Her instincts railed, clawing at her nerves with wild abandon, making her hair stand on end and her skin crawl. She inhaled a stabilizing breath, forcing herself not to lose control.
If
she was in jeopardy, her wits would be her greatest weapon.

“I am not to be disturbed.” Whose was that voice, much deeper-toned than Eddie’s?

Que Diablo?

Mercy’s gaze narrowed on the screened doorway with nerve-wracking precision.

The screen door handle jiggled slightly but stopped when it met grinding resistance. Muffled curses followed then a key grated in the lock.

She smothered a moment’s panic as the lock disengaged.

“Eddie?”

No response.

No. No. No, it isn’t him. Something is horribly wrong!

Her instincts sprang to life, and her senses climbed to extraordinary heights. She quickly retrieved her reticule, reaching inside to grab the small pistol she carried there. When her fingers grasped the gun, she exhaled in relief, and then aimed the weapon’s barrel at the cabin door.

Her heart thumped in her ears as the seconds dragged by.

She straightened her spine and cocked the trigger, widening her stance. No one enjoyed being backed into a corner, especially a spy. She’d shoot, if needed, with no regard as to who this man was. Too many lives depended on what she’d stored in her brain. If she wanted to make it to St. Mary’s in time to meet the vicar, she had to live.

The door squeaked on the hinge, opening with agonizing slowness like an ominous fog sweeping over a riverbank.

Que Dios le ayude.
It was as if the invader wanted to increase her agony, making her anticipate the intrusion with paralyzing dread.

Her nerve endings shrieked like struggling, cornered rats as the door widened and a man’s long muscular leg prepared to step across the threshold. She held the gun steady, biting her lip in anticipation. Her trespasser wasn’t like anyone she’d ever seen before. His tall black boots and black breeches matched a fine woven linen shirt, over which he wore a dark draping broad-shouldered maroon jacket with intricate gold embroidery at the shoulders and sleeves. His shoulder-length black hair accentuated the distinguished lines of his high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. A black patch prevented her from looking into a pair of earth-shattering blue eyes.

Dios mio, he is formidably handsome.
She was in true danger now. Her knees threatened to buckle. An impending swoon clouded her peripheral vision. She wasn’t afraid, per se, but paralyzed by an all-encompassing innate awareness that awakened her body. This had never happened before.

She gasped.

He cocked his brow oddly in response, skin tugging cruelly above the left side of his mouth.

She immediately froze. Was the expression painful? Who had scarred the man?

Alarms sounded in her head. Lethal calm resonated from him as his stare left her to search the room with an odd familiarity. Her heart twinged. Was this
Capitán
Blade, the notorious Lord Garrick Seaton? His comfortable stance, the way his gaze stroked the room like a loving caress, filled her with strange misgivings. It was as if
he
belonged here — not Eddie — not her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

The devilish man moved his left hand across his chest and took a humble bow. “
Señorita
.”

Was his plan to woo her with good manners now? The audacity!

She wouldn’t be misled by civility. Tyrants had tried to deceive her before and failed. She straightened the gun in her sweaty palms, aiming dangerously at the man’s heart, prepared to protect herself by whatever means necessary.