Kidnapped by the Pirate

She tucked back a loose brown curl, her hair tied in a hasty knot, flour sprinkling her blue silk skirt. “The servants have fled. They waited until the storm abated just enough, and they’re gone. Either by sea or into the interior. It doesn’t matter which. Not Cecily, thank God. But the others.”

“You mean the slaves?”

Susanna’s face flushed. “Yes.”

“Good.”

She smiled. “Yes, I think it jolly well is good. Now we need to abandon ship as well. Bart is talking to Father about Mr. Davenport’s plans to return to Jamaica and the opportunities he could provide us.” She whispered, “I haven’t told Bart that you’ll be breaking your engagement. Best to let that…unfold.”

He nodded as Father roared at the end of the hall, and Bart stormed from the study to stalk down the corridor, his face an alarming shade of scarlet, breeches and waistcoat splattered with mud.

Bart hissed, “He is being entirely unreasonable! I swear he has gone quite mad. He’s still acting as if there’s a colony left to govern. He won’t go down to see the destruction. Perhaps things would be different if the buildings had been erected with the care necessary, but barely anything is left standing.” He rubbed his face, dark circles under his eyes. “On that note, I must return to see what further assistance I can give.” He kissed Susanna’s cheek and nodded to Nathaniel.

They watched him go, and Nathaniel squared his shoulders. “I’m going to speak with Father.”

“Dressed like that? Father will…” She shook her head. “Listen to me. What nonsense. Yes, go speak with him. I’ll see about breakfast.” She gave his arm a squeeze.

His feet were bare and his white shirt loose, but he’d pulled on clean breeches. When Nathaniel opened the study door, he found his father dressed fully, although one stocking sagged at the ankle and his ridiculous wig was askew.

A bookcase had been toppled in his rage, a casualty that slumped across the far corner, gouging the polished floor. The boards had been torn from the study’s windows, likely by Bart, since Father’s buckled shoes still shone, not a speck of mud evident.

“What?” Father barked.

There were many things to say, and Nathaniel didn’t know how to begin any, so he decided to jump directly into the fray. “Captain Hawk wasn’t the first honest privateer you cheated, was he? How many men did you and your corrupt partners unfairly doom to the gallows as pirates so you could seize their ships and cargos for your own gain, lying to England about their worth?”

Walter stared at him for a long moment, stunned, as if the gilt-framed oil painting of some ancestor hunting with a dog at his feet had come to life. Finally he said, “After all I’ve done to see you home safely, you would interrogate me? I shouldn’t be surprised. As ungrateful as ever.”

“Answer the question. How many privateers did you cheat?”

Walter waved a dismissive hand. “Privateers, pirates. There’s hardly a difference.”

“The difference is that privateers are endorsed by the Crown! Given letters of marque to legitimize them. They aid England against her enemies. If you want men to follow England’s rules, then you must abide by them as well!”

“These men are savages, as you should well know.” He scowled. “Look at the state of you. This is civilization, and you will dress and act accordingly!”

Nathaniel ignored that. “Some men are beasts, yes. But many have been left with no options to make a living. To have any sort of freedom from horrendous conditions, to get paid fairly. Or paid at all!”

Scoffing, Walter said, “Worthless dregs of men. Besides, your argument, if one can call it that, has a fatal flaw: Captain Hawk is a deserter from the Royal Navy.” Behind his desk, he snatched up a sheaf of paper and thrust it at Nathaniel. Then his face twisted cruelly. “But you can’t, being utterly feeble-minded. Leave this business to the men who understand it. Men with all their wits.”

Despite Nathaniel’s best efforts to steel himself, the blows landed. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and Walter sensed blood in the water.

“Shall I read it to you? I’ll use small words.” He cleared his throat. “Michael Biddle incited a mutiny aboard the HMS Leaside, then deserted on the twelfth day of…”

Nathaniel stopped listening to his father, instead rolling the name around in his mind with care, as if the words might break. Michael Biddle. Michael.

An angel’s name, and if Hawk heard that, he’d snort and say there were only devils here. The pang of longing rocked Nathaniel, and he had to reach out for the edge of Walter’s desk.

Lord, to hear Hawk’s voice again and feel the rough warmth of his touch. Simply to talk to him, to just be, to do anything as long as they were together. Nathaniel would rescue him, no matter the cost.