The Pirate's Revenge Read online

  Never inclined to become drunk for fear of continuing the family tradition of public inebriation and disgraceful behavior, he rarely drank at all, much less to excess. Had his financial circumstances been better, he doubted he would have imbibed overmuch. It was not something he was proud of, coming from a family of scurrilous drunkards. It was not a tradition he intended to keep.

  But his emotions, a wildfire that started in his chest near his heart, ran through his body at an alarming speed. He needed to calm himself, order his mind so that, with any luck, his heart would follow. The hope that a pint of ale—for he had never allowed himself more than one pint—might help him untangle his thoughts sent him to the Iron Pub.

  Unshuttered windows, open to the warm evening air, brought the sound of laughter to his ears before he opened the door. It was a boisterous, drunken sound. His hand stilled on the black iron door latch. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  He had always feared that somehow, despite his best intentions, he would end up like the men whose blood he shared.

  A deep breath. I’m stronger than they were, he thought as he pulled the door wide and stepped inside.

  He avoided meeting anyone’s gaze and walked straight to the wooden plank bar. It was worn smooth. A depression, a long, narrow groove, ran near the outer edge. As he watched, the man behind the bar measured a fingerful of whiskey into a glass, put the glass in the depression on the bar, and gave it a push. It slid and was caught neatly by a man on the patrons’ side of the plank.

  It must have taken many years of sliding glassware to create the indented strip in the wood. But then, he knew his grandfather had sidled up to this very same bar, and that had been decades ago.

  He put an elbow on the surface, took a steadying breath, and reached into his pocket. Smith had paid him for his work, and he had coins enough to jingle against his thigh. He liked the feel of it, of having something to show for his sweat. And, he liked being able to pay for what he wanted, without having had to ferret the money away.

  The barkeep came over and gave a fast smile that exposed the fact he was missing several teeth. “What can I get you?”

  Now that he was in the position, he wasn’t sure he should be. He barely had a taste for drink, but it was expected of a man, was it not? The man behind the bar waited, tapping long, dirt encrusted, yellowed fingernails against the wood. When he curled his left hand and went to poke a fingernail into his ear, Henry spoke up.

  “A pint. Of ale. That’ll do.”

  He pulled a coin from his pocket, smoothing his thumb over its face while he waited for his drink. When it came, he tossed the coin on the bar.

  And immediately realized his mistake. Before he could scoop it back up, the barkeep put one dirty fingernail on it and held it against the polished wood.

  “Well, what have we got here?” The man tried to pick the coin up but Henry had his own fingertip on it as well. “Spanish coin, it looks like. Might be a bit of pirate’s coin, I think.” He leaned close—too close, with onion on his breath—and whistled. “Yes, I do believe that’s what you’ve got here.”

  They’d attracted some attention. Two other men, including the one who so smartly caught the sliding glass, peered at the coin. It was mostly hidden beneath two fingertips, but that did not stop them from commenting.

  “What is it? One of them gold doubloons from that place run by a king?”

  The man who caught the drink gave the other a little shove with his elbow. “What are you talking about, Ben? They all got kings! Everywhere, kings!”

  Ben waved a hand in the air. His nose was sun-reddened and he smelled of fish. His occupation was no secret. “Nah! I mean the one with the people who talk funny.”

  “Now that narrows it down a bit, don’t it?” The drink rose to the man’s lips and he took a large gulp. Swallowed. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “If that don’t beat all. The place where they talk funny…”

  Henry wished he’d put the coin in his other pocket, separate from his wages. But done is done, and it was too late to take the piece back without an explanation.

  The barkeep jutted his chin, a short, stabbing motion. Again, he leaned close, so close a wave of onion-infused breath filled the space between them.

  “You a pirate?”

  He shook his head, swallowing the gorge that rose in his throat. If he could turn back time, he would have taken his hand off the door latch, never pulling it open and entering the Iron Pub. He hadn’t even had one drink yet he felt sick to his stomach.

  The noise in the barroom died down. Henry felt like a bug on a rock, something to be stared at—before being squashed.

  “I am not.” He forced the coin to move, using the edge of his work-calloused fingertip to pull it toward him. Lifting it from the bar, he wrapped a fist around it and shoved both fist and coin in his pocket.

  Pulling a coin from his other pocket, he dropped it on the bar.

  “That was no ordinary coin.” The barkeep raised an eyebrow. He looked a good enough sort, despite the fingernails, when he flashed a smile. “Cannot begrudge a man for taking an interest, can you? After all, my grandfather built half this town, and I like to know who’s coming and going from the place.”

  His grandfather.

  It was a quick recall of the name from his memory. “Abbingdon? He was your grandfather?”

  A nod. “He was. How do you know my grandfather?”

  “I don’t.” He raised his mug. A mouthful of ale gave him time to think. He should’ve kept his mouth closed, but, like the coin, the words were out before he intended them to be. “I have heard of him, though. A great man. Built half the town, I hear.”

  The man beside him splashed his drink on the bar when he waved his hand through the air. “Course you heard that. Why, hell, Little Abby just told you his granddad built most of the houses this side of town. Him and good old Sam Fisher, they done a fine job building up the cove.”

  Sam Fisher. That name, as well, was in Henry’s memory. He’d heard it often enough—and harshly enough—to never forget it. The captain who lost his ship, The Henrietta, during a storm. It had been taken over by pirates before the storm hit. Fisher had lost his only family, a brother, in the ship’s sinking.

  They had that in common. Neither had any family when they showed up in Lobster Cove. And Fisher had made a new life for himself. A good life, with a home and family. If he could do that, maybe it was possible…but, no. He and Fisher were separated not only by decades but by circumstance.

  Attempting to throw the attention off himself, he looked across the bar. “Your name? Is it really Little Abby?”

  The room broke out in laughter. A number of men hollered good-natured sentiment at the bar, most of it having to do with the man’s private parts.

  Waving his hands in the air above his head, and grinning broadly, the barkeep called, “That’s enough. Come on, settle down, all of you. No need to give this man the wrong idea.”

  A call from the back of the room, near the enormous brick fireplace that lay cold. “Give ’em an idea, Little! Show the man what all the noise is about.”

  More laughter. The barkeep crossed his arms across his chest and waited for the roar to subside. He shrugged. Meeting Henry’s gaze, he said, “My given name is Tobias. Tobias Abbingdon, but my grandfather, the original Abby, stuck the nickname on my shoulders by the time I was a wee boy.”

  “A wee boy! Ain’t that a laugh!” The man who caught the drink shortly after Henry walked into the bar drained his mug. “Show him, Little. Go on, do your granddaddy proud. Show him.”

  “Now, that wouldn’t be fitting, would it? This man is new to these parts, and we wouldn’t want to scare him away—”

  “With your parts!” The voice came from the far end of the bar, and was swallowed in raucous laughter.

  Henry nearly choked on the ale. He could not help himself; he laughed along with the others. His hand unclenched around the coin in his pocket.

  Little Abby me
t his gaze. Waving an indifferent hand toward the others, he said, “Pay them no mind. They are a harmless bunch of fools. We do not stand on formality here in the cove, so this jibber jabber does not get under my skin. Not one bit. And, I won’t startle you any with the details. Let’s just say my grandfather passed more than the tavern down to me, and leave it at that.”

  He did not respond, other than to nod as he raised his ale. He drank, and the liquid went down easily enough although the bitter taste it left in his mouth made him grimace.

  “No, it’s not the smoothest ale, but it’ll do.” The barkeep rubbed a stained rag across the wood between them. Someone called for a refill, so he headed toward the far end of the bar.

  For a moment, he thought he might have been forgotten. The man was so occupied serving others that he was able to enjoy his drink in peace. Even the sloppy man beside him quieted, and it was the respite Henry needed to calm his nerves. The ale helped, smoothing the corners of his mind and making the feelings he’d had since holding Mary Sweet in his arms subside.

  Mary Sweet. Now, if ever there was a young woman who deserved a name like that, it was her. When he held her, it was as if he had an angel in his arms. So light, so warm and soft nestled against him.

  He grew warm, remembering the woman. Warm in a very particular spot. How on earth a woman could affect a man thusly—when she was nowhere in sight—was beyond him. It had never happened before, not even the few times he’d attempted to envision a beautiful woman. Other men spoke of seeing beauty in their minds, despite the plainness of their bride or intended, and it had seemed a fine idea but he had never been successful at conjuring a woman in his head.

  But now…he did not even have to close his eyes to see, feel and even smell the lovely Miss Sweet.

  Little Abby appeared before him, pushing the pleasant thoughts from his head.

  “I did not forget, Titchell.”

  So, he’d learned his name.

  “Forget?” He finished his drink. Set the glass on the bar.

  “That’s right. I did not forget you have pirate coin in your pocket. And, I will not rest until I find out whether we have a pirate in our midst. In Lobster Cove, we take care of our own. Even if that means ferreting out those who shouldn’t be here. Understand?”

  He did not answer. Turning toward the door, he forced himself to walk slowly. Feeling so many watching his every step was disconcerting, but it was not the first time he’d been called into question. Henry doubted it would be the last time, either.

  Chapter 10

  Sleep had been an elusive bedfellow. Try as she might, finding a position that was not uncomfortable—or excruciating, even—was nearly impossible. Mary could not believe a toe could pain one so, being one of the smallish parts of a person, but it did. It kept her awake through the night, so by the time the sun sent streamers of light through her bedroom windows, she was more than ready to begin the day. Lying on her back, her breaths matching the insistent pounding in the offended toe, was tiresome.

  Morning ablutions were minimal. She did what was absolutely necessary, disregarded everything else, and managed to dress without further injuring her bandaged foot.

  After Sam and Lizzie had wed, they made some modifications to the tiny house. Sam was already in the building trade with Clarence Abbingdon, or Abby as he was known, so it seemed right, in his mind at least, that he improve his bride’s home. The roof had been lifted and three bedrooms added in the new storey. Lizzie had protested it was not necessary, but it had been passed down through the generations that she never minded the lofty view of the back garden the new floor gave her from their bedroom.

  That room, with its lovely view still intact, was Mary’s now. Right at the top of the stairs, it opened onto a tight landing. She attempted to hobble on her good foot and the heel of the injured one out her bedroom door and onto the small space just above the stairs. There were only about nine steps but they looked steeper and longer than they ever had.

  She stood for a long moment on the one uninjured foot. Her choices were fairly limited. She could either stay in her room, where eventually someone would come to help her—because certainly, they would not leave her in her bed to rot!—or she could take matters into her own hands. Fend for herself. Be independent.

  Self-sufficiency won over the rotting-in-bed alternative. She gave one little jump, then another short hop, which brought her to the edge of the top step. The tips of her toes hung over the wood as she grabbed the rail attached to the wall. She wished there were another on the other side that she might have clutched as well, but wishes weren’t enough to make one appear so she did the only thing a woman in her position could do. Taking a deep breath, and holding it, she leapt off the landing. Miraculously, her foot landed on the next step down, and while she teetered a tad, she did not fall.

  One step down, eight more to go, she thought. Before she could change her mind, another ungainly leap into space. And, a second safe landing. She did it again, with good results. Every step took her closer to freedom.

  The exertion of standing on one foot, coupled with the pain in her other foot, made the journey from upstairs to down a challenge. Her thigh muscles quivered and her knee grew wobbly. A slick of perspiration covered her palm.

  Dilly-dallying wasn’t going to make the trek any less arduous, so Mary took a deep breath and another clumsy leap.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on here?” Joseph appeared at the bottom of the steps just as she jumped, and his sudden arrival with his incredulous question caught her off guard.

  “Oof!” Mary felt her body wobble mid-jump, and she knew before she missed the step that the mistake had already been made. She flailed wildly, releasing her grasp on the handrail and tipping out into the open air.

  “Mary!” Joseph’s voice boomed in the stairwell.

  Her sail through the air seemed endless. But, at its conclusion she struck her bandaged foot on something very hard—the wall, perhaps, or maybe even one of the treads. Pain shot through her like a river of fire, from toe to head, searing everyplace in between.

  She screamed, tears flooding her eyes.

  Other voices joined Joseph’s, but she did not care who said what. She felt hands reach for her, arms around her body, lifting her from where she landed at the bottom of the stairs. And those, as well, were inconsequential. The only thing she could focus upon, the only thing that mattered, was forcing herself to breathe through the waves of agony emanating from her foot.

  “Good Lord, bring her into the front parlor.”

  Her mother’s voice, a beacon of light through the pain. Mary concentrated on that voice, although she could not make out all the words her mother—or anyone else, for that matter—spoke. It seemed the household had come alive, and surrounded her. She would have looked to see who said what but it was too much trouble to open her eyes.

  Someone carried her. Joseph, she thought it was, but there was no way to know without looking into the face above hers. And, she did not care enough to do so. So many brothers, too many male forms to tell apart—and really, it did not matter.

  Her mind drifted back to yesterday, when Henry had lifted and held her. He’d smelled faintly of smoke, and pine needles, too. She had understood the smoke, but the pine was a bonus she could only wonder over.

  It was strange, but her foot had hurt less yesterday than it did now. And then, only the toe smarted, whereas the pain seemed more intense and from a larger area this morning. Perhaps it was because she fell onto it. Perhaps—

  “Mary, can you hear me?” Her mother. She shushed the others, and repeated, “Mary? My little buzzing bee? Can you hear me?”

  Why in the world would Mother ask her such a thing? Of course she could hear her. She could hear all of them…

  A minute later, or maybe it was an hour later, she did not know—and again, she did not care—Mary heard a familiar voice. She did not open her eyes; her eyelids seemed too heavy to move. The lack of sleep must have weighed my eyes do
wn, she thought, nestling into the softness beneath her head.

  “Mary? Child, can you hear me?”

  Only a man who had helped bring her into the world would call her “child” at this point in her life. Not even Mother called her—

  “Mary?” An urgency in the doctor’s voice caught her attention. She turned to the sound, and tried to answer him, but her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth.

  A gentle shake, hands firm on her shoulders, brought a moan. Pain seared, making it impossible to concentrate on anything save breathing. It crossed her mind that she hated whelks—would hate them forevermore—and even that, the only definite opinion she had about anything, was something she could not express.

  Another shake, then a hand on her leg which made her scream. Her eyes flew open and she tried to sit up, but Doctor Jameson held her down as he spoke. “A festering. It is a festering, my dear. Please, try not to move—and I will attempt to save your life.”

  She looked beyond him, to where her mother and siblings stood. Their faces showed the truth, but her hot, feverish head could not tolerate the light from the windows behind them. She closed one eye and was about to close the other, when her gaze swept to the open doorway.

  Henry. Real or imagined, the outline of the man in whose arms she had felt at home for the first time in her life. He was the last thing she saw before she swooned.

  Chapter 11

  Concentrating on the work at hand was nearly impossible. It was still well before noon, but he had already smacked his left thumb twice and cooled a horse’s shoe improperly, leaving it so twisted it took him nearly a full hour to hammer it back into working shape.

  His head pounded, keeping the injured thumb in good company. But, while his damaged finger had a reason to complain, his head did not. Straight from the Iron Pub, he had gone to his room above the forge and gotten into bed. He’d slept soundly—after he had managed to block out the last words of the pub owner from his mind. No sense letting that disrupt his sleep. He hadn’t done anything wrong…so far.