The Rogue's Surrender (The Nelson's Tea Series Book 3) (8 page)

Darkness flooded over him as he smoothed hair away from Mercy’s face. He’d failed to protect Esmeralda against Delgado. He’d not foreseen Holt’s assassination attempt on Simon, a gutless act which had nearly caused Gillian’s death instead.

He wouldn’t be ineffective again.

He held Mercy’s unconscious body a few moments longer than wise before picking her up and carrying her to his bunk. He laid her down gently. This particularly annoying, but useful hoyden held the keys to Lord Melville’s deliverance. She was Samuel Whitbread’s winning hand. Beyond
his
reach.

But what did Garrick care? The
Priory
was
his
again.

He was complete. Wasn’t he?

~~~~

Mercy groggily opened
her eyes, yawned and stretched. Lying on her side, she pondered the etched lines of the mahogany paneled bulkhead before her, hoping her mind played her false. Beneath her, the uncomfortable mattress offered little support against the havoc roiling in her stomach.

Wood creaked and moaned an uncontrollable rhythm reminding her of the countless times she’d climbed rickety steps leading up to a ship’s deck and felt off-balance. An iron-latticed lantern protested against its hinge, keeping time, the tempo and sway casting ethereal shadows over the room.

Beyond the cabin, a man yelled, “Away with the sails!”

A lump welled in her throat. She swallowed back a sob. Not a dream. That despicable pirate,
Capitán
Blade, was sailing her farther and farther away from Spain… and home.

“Capitán Vasquez will not be returning anytime soon.”

Dios mio!
Mercy bolted upright as the memory of
Capitán
Blade’s declaration spurred her to life. She winced slightly as she gazed about the pristine cabin, half-expecting to find the one-eyed pirate glowering at her in triumph.

He wasn’t there… this time.
Thank God, I am blessedly alone.

She shifted her legs over the side of the bunk, instantly reminded that she didn’t want another ill-timed war of words or weapons with the infamous lord. Her body ached in places she’d forgotten but at least she was safe and warm.

Eddie.

My battle has just begun.
She was no closer to finding out the truth about Eddie’s mission or that of this ship than when Eddie first locked her in his cabin. One thing she did know.
La Mota
— the
Priory
— was important to Admiral Roche. But why?

Was Eddie still on board the
Priory
?

A primary tactic of dealing with untrustworthy opponents was in making them believe something that wasn’t true. Was that what Seaton was doing? Did he want her to believe Eddie wasn’t on board? His claim that it was impossible for her to see her brother might simply be a ploy to gain her cooperation. The only way for her to find out was to leave the safety of the cabin to search the ship from bow to stern and discover the truth herself.

She trusted one thing and one thing only… her own eyes.

Thoughts of Eddie, so proud, so brave as he’d left the cabin to confront his men tightened her chest cruelly. He would never willingly surrender his authority. He was entirely too stubborn for his own good. In fact, he’d foolishly die defending his ship rather than face ridicule of being stripped of command. Admiral Roche’s shocking public denouncement of Eddie’s expertise forced her brother to go above and beyond proving his allegiance to Spain. His unfathomable ethics set her brother at odds with anyone, especially — she had to presume — to the true captain of the
Priory
, Lord Garrick Seaton.

Heated blood rose to Mercy’s head as she considered what Seaton might have done with Eddie. Had he been thrown overboard and forced to swim the rough currents back to shore? Though the bay taxed men’s endurance, Eddie was an experienced swimmer like her. She knew it could be done.

Had he been locked in a Vasquez warehouse storeroom until their father or the port authorities found him? Being outwitted would be an insult striking at the very core of her brother’s disproportionate pride.

Overwhelmed, Mercy drew up her knees and hugged them close, fighting back tears of frustration. She couldn’t dismiss several facts. She was on board
La Mota
― the former pirate ship,
Priory
. By now, the captured vessel had sailed away from everything she’d ever known, her father and mother, quite possibly her brother, her home, and the land of her birth.

Had her father orchestrated this unorthodox liberation? He was the only one who’d known she would never leave San Sebastian without saying goodbye to Eddie first. If so, how would he explain her disappearance? If Roche’s men suspected her father was involved or found responsible for
La Mota’s
capture,
Don
Esteban would order her father’s arrest. That would leave her mother open to the
don
’s wrath.

She’d rejected Esteban’s attentions. Not just because he was an immoral man subject to unorthodox dalliances — which would have been enough — but because he’d limit her ability to work behind enemy lines. His staunch support of the French fueled her need to keep him at arm’s length.

From the kettle into the fire, eh? Holt had betrayed her, marking her for death. Seaton had dispatched her brother to save her life.

She hesitated to think what would have happened if her love for Eddie hadn’t propelled her to the
Priory
. Now, she was on her way to England.

Mercy chewed her bottom lip. England would be no safer than Spain! Once there, she’d be targeted by Holt’s accomplices to prevent her from delivering information she carried to Danbury in London.

Filled with apprehension, Mercy dangled her legs over the side of the bunk and swung her feet in time to the squeaking lantern. If a member of Nelson’s Tea had betrayed her, she might only have a few more weeks to live, if that long. The world she knew, a tangled web of deceit and lies, of fortunes and misfortunes, had finally caught up to her. And now, her fate had been placed in the hands of a man she didn’t trust.

Could Seaton get her safely to England?

Lace dangled from Mercy’s wrists, tickling her white-knuckled fingers that gripped the edge of the mattress. She brought her hands to her mouth, covering her lips to prevent anyone from hearing the scream of aggravation threatening to erupt from her throat as another deadening wave of dread washed over her.

Seaton’s words had been ominously clear. If she had gone to St. Mary’s it would have been
“the last thing you ever did.”

Why had the reverend betrayed them? What could have possibly turned the man’s head? Holt’s position at St. Dionis Backchurch had been the most clandestine of all. No one would have ever suspected a man serving God and King.

No. No. No. Nothing made sense. Unless… Seaton had lied to her about that. Perhaps Holt wasn’t a traitor after all.

…the last thing you ever did… the last thing…

Seaton’s words had carried conviction. Too much conviction. She shuddered. No, he hadn’t lied.

She smacked her forehead and placed her fingers on her temples, applying pressure to alleviate the sudden onset of a megrim. How could she have been so blind?
Impersonating a vicar is the perfect cover.
But, given her familiarity with Mr. Holt, his speech, his machinations, she suspected he had
not
been impersonating a sacred ordination. Her perceptive skills were on par. She had a keen eye for truth. She’d seen Holt’s innermost heart. He
had
been a man of the cloth. So what had changed? What could have possibly led Holt to undermine his own nation by aiding and abetting Napoleon?

Did it matter now? Holt was dead.

She patted her forehead again. From this moment forward, she’d have to be careful, especially aboard Seaton’s ship.

Capitán
Blade.

Appearances were deceiving. Could she blame Seaton for transforming from the swashbuckling pirate of her father’s vivid tales to a riotous fiend after Delgado’s maltreatment? Visible scars had taken away Seaton’s ability to operate covertly. Diversion was an advantage in espionage, not the hindrance his scars proved to be. Without anonymity, she couldn’t have located Roche’s letter, forged a copy, used Lord Fleming’s signet ring to seal it, and then stolen the original and the ring as evidence at the ball given in Admiral Roche’s honor at
Don
Esteban’s estate.

A shiver fluttered through her. How many innocents had been, or would be, put to death due to Holt’s betrayals?

She glanced down at her hands. If she wasn’t careful, hers would be covered in blood.

An entire day
passed without a word from her captor.

Mercy spent time in isolation calculating the ramifications of Holt’s betrayals, and gaining control of her queasy stomach.

What other motives prompted Seaton’s return to San Sebastian? Would her parents suffer cruelly because of her disappearance?

On the second such day, the screen door rattled strangely. She worried her lower lip as several moments of unending anticipation passed. Was it already time for supper?

Her stomach growled.

The cabin door exploded inward and Seaton burst through.

Mercy’s lungs seized and a scream lodged in her throat. She flinched backward, but he seemed not to notice. He marched across the cabin, his jaw set like granite as he carried a sawed-in-half barrel loaded with victuals and set it down on Eddie’s desk ―
his
desk.

The overpowering smell of mouthwatering food assailed her nostrils. Her stomach growled, and she focused on Seaton to keep from thinking about how hungry she’d become.

He cast quite a handsome figure. His trousers hugged powerful thighs and his black linen shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders.

With a grace and bravery she didn’t feel, Mercy eased off the edge of the bed where she’d been dozing. She quickly smoothed her skirts, praying she didn’t look as crazed as the rocking vessel beneath her feet made her feel. Without a maid to see to her needs or a brush or comb, her hair hung wildly about her shoulders in disarray. She attempted to smooth long strands out of her face with her fingers.

“You are alive, I see.” His deep baritone unsettled her nerves.

“Only just.” She took pleasure in pointing out the obvious.

“Just?” He took a moment to look her over. “Small consolation, I suppose, to the men who put their lives on the line liberating you.”

“Liberate
me
?” She bit her tongue then decided he deserved to be given a piece of her mind. “Being locked inside your cabin is not my idea of deliverance.”

His bitter laughter filled the room. “
You
are not disciplined.”

The gall! He might be a seasoned spy, but he knew nothing about her. She was very methodical in everything she did. Who was he to stand there and judge her? Was she supposed to thank him for ignoring her for nearly two days?

Her blood heated. “I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.” She glanced away so he couldn’t see the way he rattled her.

“Ah, but there you are wrong. This is a man’s world. A woman surrounded by men is a danger to more than just herself.”

He dared to declare that she was wrong? Such challenges had incensed her pride since childhood. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it means.” His smile froze. He waved his hand as if nothing they talked about mattered. “Do not trust anyone, especially me.”

“You?”
Dios mio
, Seaton had stolen her away from everyone she trusted. “Who am I supposed to trust?”

He ignored her question. “While you were sleeping, I had my locksmith remove the locks from every door on this ship save two, the magazine and this cabin. From this moment on, you are free to come and go as you choose.”

She gasped. “Are you mad,
señor
?”

He watched her silently, a pained expression distorting his handsome face. After a few tense moments, he said, “It isn’t wise to bait someone who holds your life in his hands,
señorita
.”

Was that a threat? Spain, her family, everything she’d ever known had been stripped from her. What if
he
was her true assassin and she’d played right into his hands?

“Then why play games? Why have you locked me in this room?”

“Think,
señorita
.”

She bristled under his close scrutiny. Oh, how she disliked him. His refusal to tell her where her brother was filled her with upended rage. She’d spent years trying to control her passionate nature. But now he… he made her feel… “Think? I have had nothing but time to think for the past forty hours, thanks to you!”

“Precisely.”

Though he was a man of few words, Mercy would learn more about Seaton the more he talked. And she needed to keep him talking in order to relax. Trust based its foundations in knowledge.

“Are you not afraid you will have a spy running amok on your ship?”

“Spy?” He turned away, keeping her from seeing his face. “Your attempts to scare me are feeble at best.”

What did scare the beast?

With practiced ease, his movements were sure, though she thought she’d witnessed a moment he seemed a tad off-balance. His upper arms flexed when he produced a tankard. He set the pewter mug down on the desk then reached into the barrel again and pulled out a bundle wrapped in thin burlap. Slowly, he proceeded to spread more items on the tidy surface before her.

His hair hung loose about his head, the slight waves casting a bluish tint to the darkening strands in the light. Each time he bent forward, he shielded his left side from view.

Could it be that simple? Was the distrust she sensed in Seaton borne from the fact that he didn’t like her watching him? Her heart twinged. What had Delgado done to him? What was it like to be half-blind? Were mundane tasks now unconscionable burdens? Did his eye patch cover more than scars?

Mercy clasped her hands together, trying to curb her empathetic nature, to keep from reaching out to him. She didn’t fear his opinions of her. She feared the sensitivity she felt toward him, the thawing of her heart towards a man who’d turned her entire world upside down. If he could be believed — and she was beginning to think maybe he could — he’d saved her from Holt’s planned assassination, but at what detriment to his soul? Returning to Spain could not have been an easy task. What types of demons had he fought and won in order to do so?

She blinked nervously and glanced around the cabin. It wouldn’t do to soften her heart toward Seaton, toward anyone. These were volatile times. If she was to succeed in finishing what she started, she had to avoid distractions at all cost.

While logic reigned, she focused her attention on the cabin instead of the man whose very presence demanded notice.

She gasped at the significant changes to the room. No evidence of their violent altercation remained. Broken glass had been swept away, scattered maps conveniently stowed, and lanterns fastened securely to their mounts.

Mercy glanced at the liquor cabinet. There was an empty space where the bottle she’d thrown at Lord Seaton used to be.

Dios mio, I threw a bottle of liquor at him. It’s a miracle he didn’t catch fire.

“What happened here?” She gestured around them.

He looked up from the barrel. “My lady?”

“The cabin is… clean.”

“Aye.”

Suspicion filled her. “It wasn’t when I went to sleep.”

“The shattered glass presented a danger to you.” He stared at her with startling sincerity. “Is it so difficult for you to believe that I only seek your protection?”

Mercy struggled to speak. The honesty glimmering in his eye couldn’t be a lie. “Yes. It is.”

“Why?”

Apparently, she needed to state the obvious. “I’m Spanish.”

“
Half
Spanish,” he said, supplying a bitter truth she suspected was a slight against her by his estimation. “And lucky.”

“Lucky?” Her fortunes were debatable.

“Aye. Cook has taken a liking to you. He is very observant, especially about his galley. Even now he’s railing against the way it has been tainted by…”

“Spaniards.” She supplied the word for him.

He nodded. “Nothing is in its place. He’s… particular.”

She gave the room another quick study.
As are you, Capitán.
“Bark has many patterns. But gnarly or straight-seamed, the sap flows all the way to the branch.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a fork on the desk then stepped back and peered about the cabin, giving her no clue as to what he was thinking. “
This
will have to suffice for now.”

What was he afraid she’d discover? The man beneath the beast? Impossible! She almost began to wonder if Delgado had taken out Seaton’s heart instead of his eye.

“Hungry?”

Startled out of her musings, she placed a hand on her roiling stomach. “
Sí
.
Gracias.
”

“In English.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“We speak the King’s English on board my ship. You are not in Spain anymore.”

Seaton turned on his heel and walked toward the hideaway shelf with the beveled glass protecting various liquors stationed there. He reached carefully inside to obtain two tumblers then closed the door with a resounding click. His stare appeared almost vacant as he walked back to the desk, making her wonder how much he could actually see. She watched as he poured amber liquid into both containers. He filled the glasses half-full, using his fingers to hold them steady.

“In future, you’ll find it’s better to drink brandy than to waste it.”

“Thank you for that advice, captain.” She accepted the jab to her earlier behavior. Well deserved. Her temperament had always been her worst enemy.

Mercy said nothing more as her stomach protested loudly. She held her breath, anticipating what she would find when he peeled back the mounded cloth he’d removed from the barrel. At once, the appetizing aroma of roasted chicken broke free, swirling about her nostrils and the cabin. Next to the succulent meat sat one over-sized biscuit.

Mercy nearly swooned with hunger. How long had it been since she’d last eaten? How easy it was to lose track of time at sea. A good meal would help her function at her best. And perhaps the reason she’d felt queasy all this time was due solely to the fact that she was hungry and not because she was seasick. She silently prayed it was so.

“Cook has outdone himself.” He gestured to a chair.

“Yes.” She moved cautiously towards the desk, struggling for control, desperate not to show any weakness in front of this pirate, and sat down.

“You are most agreeable this morning,
señorita
. Had I known food would gain your acquiescence, I’d have offered it the moment we met.”

She bit her lip.
Another well-earned jab. Let the blackguard think what he will.
Right now, all she wanted was to appease her disquieted stomach by sinking her teeth into the mouth-watering feast set before her.

He picked up a tumbler and passed her one. He sat down, then raised his in salute. “To our… understanding.” He tilted his head and produced a cynical grin.

“Understanding?”

Lord Seaton motioned to the four corners of the room. “Perhaps the better word is commonality.”

There was nothing ordinary about their relationship or the screened cabin that closed in around her. “I have nothing in common with you.”

“No?”

Brandy mid-way to her mouth, she paused. “No.”

“Then let me explain our association in terms you can understand. I had only one shot at rescuing you. That involved your father’s assistance.”

“I still don’t understand what that has to do with you and me.”

“You can be sure our enemies will never allow that to happen again.”

If the
Priory
was as important as she suspected, she imagined several guards had already been charged with negligence and put to death.

“I still do not see where you are going with this.” But she did.
Dios mio
, her knees began to shake. Her lungs tightened miserably as if he had his hands around her throat. Thousands of butterflies searched for a way out of her chest.

He inclined his head as if speaking to an unruly child. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his glass and downed the contents. “When your absence is discovered, your father will be questioned.”

Her heart pounded with deafening force. She wanted to pummel Seaton’s face. “What are you implying?” The squeak in her voice announced she’d lost the battle to keep it even-toned.

Seaton had used her father to discover her whereabouts. He’d saved her life. He’d refused to tell her where he’d stashed her brother. Now he implied her father’s life was in danger. What kind of torturous game was this?

Mercy raised her glass, downing the beverage he’d provided, hoping to numb her mind to how helpless her situation had become.

“That I can never return to Spain — and neither can you.”

She choked and coughed then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “But m-my p-parents!”

“Made their choice.”

“They never chose
this
,” she said raising her arm to throw the tumbler into the corner.