The Pirate Lord: Aristocrat. Rogue. Spy. Read online

  “Is there gold aboard the Dauntless?” a young sailor ventured to ask.

  “No one knows for certain. It is only a rumor and a dangerous one at that. Stag will go after it as sure as the sun rises in the east and God help every soul aboard the Black when he does.”

  “Aye, he’s mean as a snake is Captain Stag. I’ve witnessed it myself. The bastard has got an axe to grind against the whole wide world. No one can say why. He holds his tongue and rarely talks about himself. Where he came from and how is a mystery. This we do know—any of us that have sailed under him—no ship at sea is safe with Jon Stag at the helm of the Black Adder. Letter of marque be damned—Stag takes as he pleases and gives no quarter. He’ll flog a man for so much as stealing a jigger of rum, he’s that mean.”

  “I’ve heard he is the richest pirate who ever lived.”

  “I do not doubt it, though his wealth has not won him friends. Which of us would throw our lot in with Jon Stag? He’ll be sailing to America next to pick off merchant ships supplying the Colonial rebellion. Why d’ye think he’d reduced to stealing boys off the street to crew his blasted vessel? He’s lost the love and loyalty of all decent seamen.”

  America. Bronwyn did not have time to panic, her brain worked furiously, reckoning her next move. She broke the strange silence that had fallen over the sailors.

  “How can I get aboard the Black Adder?”

  The men set down their ale and stared at her in shocked astonishment. A new speaker broke the silence. “You cannot, miss. Jon Stag does not allow women aboard the Black. He takes the superstition very seriously and I can’t say as I blame him. She is a good fast ship, but for all that, she’s been unnaturally lucky in battle. Say what you will, that has to be down to Stag.”

  A general murmur of agreement followed this observation. The hour was flying by and Roddy was getting further and further away. Bronwyn’s eyes snapped from one man to the other. Her little brother was trapped aboard a ship that was sailing into battle and not one of these men was going to lift a finger to help her!

  “There must be a way,” she said evenly. “There must be something Captain Stag wants. You men have sailed with him. Tell me what I can do! I must get aboard that ship!”

  Her informant in the corner spoke up and soon the other men became interested in the problem. “The Black is being re-supplied at the moment and undergoing some repairs before she sets sail at dawn. You could get on with one of the lighter boats if you have enough money to bribe a stevedore.”

  “If Stag is going after the Dauntless he’ll be taking on munitions and gunpowder. The ship isn’t safe for a lady even if he did agree to allow her aboard,” objected a third man.

  The bearded man nodded. “It is doomed from the start. Take my advice—say a prayer for your brother. He’ll not be returning to these parts. A sailor’s life is not a bad one. If he can survive the journey, he can make a home for himself in the Colonies.”

  Bronwyn turned her gaze on the man. She was told once that she had a way of looking without emotion into a person’s face that made them feel distinctly uncomfortable. The bearded sailor flicked his eyes away and his neck and cheeks reddened.

  “If I have to cut Stag’s throat to get on that vessel, I will,” she said with chilling calm. “You are responsible for my brother being taken. You can help me or you can get out of my way, but do not underestimate my resolve in getting him back.” The bearded man appeared to be dumbstruck. “What does Captain Stag value more—his purse or his manhood?”

  This drew a chorus of catcalls and lewd whistles. Bronwyn ignored them and looked steadily at her victim.

  “It has never come down to a choice for Stag. Gold wins the day every time. Make no mistake—Stag loves women, but he loves his purse more. If he can find a way to winkle both out of you, he’ll take it. Beware.”

  “Thank you. I shall.” Bronwyn moved to leave.

  The tall sailor at the mantle drained his tankard of ale and slammed it down. “That’s not the whole of the danger—tell the lass the whole story! Speak up, man. Where’s yer tongue now? You were quick to shoot your mouth off about that cursed vessel. Tell ‘er what she’ll be letting herself in for if she sets sail under Jon Stag.”

  “He’s got his way and you’ve got yours,” the bearded man muttered sullenly. “I’ll say no more about it. The lass will not be on board the Black for long. She’ll find the boy and be off in a trice. Stag won’t hold the Black from the tide. He’ll be hot to get after the Dauntless and will not tarry. He’ll be gone in no time at all. No time at all.”

  “And then what? I’ll say it even if these cowards will not. Jonathon Stag is a brilliant sailor but reckless. A man needs to fear the sea and give her the respect she’s due. Captain Stag will get a ship into waters it does not belong and for what? For a bit of gold.”

  “And you will steal a boy off the street for a shilling,” Bronwyn said coldly. “Consider the beam in your own eye before you point out the splinter in another man’s.”

  The meaning of the proverb was lost on these reprobates. A curate’s daughter to the end, Bronwyn thought as she snatched up the valise and hurried from the tavern.

  §

  A PLAN was forming. Money was needed—or at the very least, the impression of wealth. Far easier to achieve in the time she had.

  Bronwyn returned to the boarding house, apologizing to Mrs. Potts for the delay but she had a good reason—her brother had found a live-in position with the blacksmith. Mrs. Potts wasted no time in sending her to the upstairs sitting room that was in need of a good scrub down.

  Bronwyn was wondering how she was going to break into the landlady’s bedchamber to steal a gown when her eye lit upon panels of blue velvet drapery at the sitting room windows. She acted swiftly, removing the curtains from their rings and returned downstairs, explaining to the landlady that she was taking them to the back garden to beat them out.

  Mrs. Potts barely looked up from her accounts.

  Bronwyn slipped out of the walled garden by the back gate and trotted down the alley to the dressmaker’s shop she had seen when she arrived in Penzance with Roddy. The bell rang when she entered.

  “Good day.” She curtsied and bobbed her head deferentially. “My mistress would like this fabric turned into a gown suitable for travel. It should be of sturdy construction, long sleeves and simple in design.” She smiled like a simpleton, as though pleased that she had remembered the order correctly.

  “There is not a lot of material here,” the dressmaker observed as she examined the velvet. “I could drape this bit over a plain under dress but it will not be fashionable. Will that suit?”

  “Practicality is desired at the expense of fashion. Her ladyship will be at sea for some weeks and away from society on a ship that sets sail in the morning. Oh, I am instructed to tell you that she is about my size,” Bronwyn added hurriedly. “Can you have it made in time?”

  “Your lady does not ask much, does she?” the dressmaker observed wryly. “I’ll have to work through the night and mind you, I’ll charge dearly for the rush, but it can be done. Your size did you say? Stand still and I’ll take your measurements then.”

  Bronwyn held out her arms. She would not permit her thoughts to dwell on the impossibility of her plan. One problem at a time. Get the dress, get on board the Black Adder and get Roddy off. How she would accomplish that, she would know when the time came.

  Her ability to fix her mind on the immediate problem was a gift she had discovered in childhood, though her parents did not think of it as a gift, but a failing. Her mother used to become quite exasperated with her single-mindedness and her father, who was a curate in a wealthy parish, worried that she was too stiff-necked for her own good.

  When her parents died within weeks of each other of the same influenza that had felled much of the parish, Bronwyn’s single-mindedness became invaluable. She was seventeen with a sickly seven-year-old brother. The lord of the manor was about to turn them out of their cottage t
o make way for the new curate and his family. The consensus was to send the boy to a workhouse for orphans and the girl would be put into service. No household would take a sickly boy as well as his sister. She was told she must obey the will of God and not complain for she was lucky to have a position at all.

  Bronwyn had seen the situation differently. Surely it was the will of God to care for orphan children? As the adults would not, she took the burden upon herself, packing their few possessions in her father’s valise and running away.

  Now, after all their struggles, just when she thought they were safe and Roddy could sleep in a proper bed, disaster had struck again.

  This time the blow might be fatal. The will of God was an unendurable mystery.

  “Did your mistress send you with money? I shall need a crown before I begin the work.”

  A crown would make a serious dent in her small reserve of coins but Bronwyn handed it over with a sweet smile. Its loss would be temporary.

  She hopped down from the stool. “Good day,” Bronwyn said respectfully and left the shop. The bell jangled overhead.

  There was nothing she wouldn’t stoop to, she thought. Her heart was cold, stopped dead. God had promised to care for them and God had failed. From now on, she would answer to no will but her own.

  Chapter Three

  JONATHON STAG rose from his berth, chilled from the night air though it was a warm April they’d been having. Fog clouded the glass in the great cabin and drowned the room in shadow. Far below his feet, in the bowels of the refitted warship, his crew was loading the Black with gunpowder and munitions—more than the Black had seen in its career—and it would not be enough to vanquish the Dauntless. Stag had not secured the numbers needed for a successful raid even with the hiring of a press gang and he did not have the fire power.

  Jon turned to his map table again. There had to be another way to best the merchant vessel without firing a shot—a trick of some kind—a disguise. He had no leverage to induce Treacher, to surrender peacefully to his letter of marque. Indeed, why would a British captain surrender to a British privateer?

  Jon was playing with fire pursuing this rumor. He knew he was as did Bill Hawkins and most of the crew of the Black. The men who had signed on were steady enough—he’d pit them against any sailor aboard the Dauntless. That heap of dung, Treacher had used bribery and slander to conscript every able seaman in town, effectively cutting Stag out. As far as he was concerned, Treacher’s desperation was more proof he was transporting precious cargo. The Dauntless was sailing to America with payroll gold for the British Army.

  Or it could be just a rumor. A trap as Hawkins believed. Unless fortune smiled upon him, Jon had no way to confirm it without running afoul of the law. The British Navy had been trying to trap him for years; they may have found the way to do it. If the gold was there, it was worth the risk. If not, he was chasing after the wind.

  He bent over his charts, his hair falling into his eyes, and marked a possible course with his finger. Treacher was a gutless captain; he would sail a busy shipping route. Not the ideal place to overtake them, but further out—on the Atlantic Ocean, the Dauntless would be vulnerable.

  Jon scraped his hair from his face and tied it back in a makeshift queue. He was still looking over the map when the midshipman knocked and entered. “Begging your pardon, Captain Stag, but Mr. Hawkins is topside and asking to see you.”

  “Tell him I’ll be along directly.”

  He already knew what Hawkins was going to say—he could hear the admonishments of the old seafarer in his head. Why was Jon Stag hell-bent on chasing after British gold when it would mean his certain capture and execution?

  He could not tell Billy his reasons, not without revealing his true identity, and that could never happen. His crew had little love and less loyalty for the aristocracy. Let his officers and crew believe it was mere greed driving their captain to take the risk—Jon knew the truth, though it was not one he could admit to any man on board.

  The crew of the Black Adder would mutiny if they knew their captain was the third Viscount and heir of Huntington Hall.

  It had been nine years since he’d gone by that title. Nine years of doing everything in his power to ruin the man who had sired him—and still the bastard prevailed. It was almost by accident that Jon had heard about this shipment and its value to the second Viscount.

  Pirating the Dauntless gold would be the final blow, the dagger that would topple his black-hearted father from his throne and send him sprawling to the gutter.

  Let him beg for his life, Jon thought. Let his lordship know what it feels like to be seen as a nothing—to be begging for help—then his son would stop. Only then would Jon be revenged.

  Old Bill Hawkins would never understand the wound that had fuelled Jon’s career and given him the reputation of being the most ruthless pirate in the seven seas. Nor did Jon try to explain it. He trusted no one and gave no quarter. It was easier that way.

  Jon Stag turned back to his charts with fresh resolve. There had to be a way.

  §

  NIGHT GAVE way to dawn, thick and cool and gluey with fog. Bronwyn skirted around to the back alley entrance and removed a thin narrow pick from the valise. The lock was a simple one. With a flick of her wrist, the door swung open and she entered the shop.

  She tiptoed in the dark, feeling her way around the work table and shelves to the front of the shop. The dressmaker had hung the velvet gown over a wooden form. It was ready to wear and the bill was pinned to the collar.

  In minutes, she had slipped out of her plain day dress and stepped into the velvet skirt. The long chevron bodice hooked in the front making it easy to fasten, but the neckline was too low. Far too low. Her breasts plumped up in provocative mounds over the lace trimming. She would have to find a cloak or a shawl to cover her flesh. The arms were exceedingly tight ending just above the elbow and finished with lace.

  Bronwyn packed her homespun day dress into the valise. Aside from the dress, her possessions amounted to a few pair of hosiery, a threadbare shift for sleeping, a King James Bible and a pistol, both gifts from her father before he died.

  She shook out her hair, raking it with her fingers and then wound it in a knot on top of her head. The shop was stocked with hat-making supplies. Bronwyn fetched a comb to secure her coiffure and added a lavish green feather at the last moment.

  It would be asking too much to find a pair of kid leather shoes, she thought, looking around.

  Not a pair of shoes, but a pair of leather boots caught her eye hiding in a corner. She kicked off her worn farmer’s boots and pulled them on. They were a smidge too small but marvelous in design and in the quality of the leather.

  What she needed now was a purse of money, just enough to show the Captain she was a lady of means. The desk in the back held the woman’s takings for the day. So, now she would add theft to her list of crimes, Bronwyn thought ruefully as she picked its lock. A small metal box with a sturdy lock held promise. She inserted the thin blade, jiggled it around and found the spring. The lock opened with a soft click.

  Shillings, farthings and the single crown that she had paid the woman earlier. Disappointing but it would have to do. Shaken in a velvet bag dangling from her wrist, it could be gold sovereigns she carried. No one would be the wiser.

  A beautiful hooded cloak was on display in the window. Did she dare? There was no one in the street watching. Bronwyn slipped the cloak from its wooden dress form and pulled it over her shoulders. Perfect. After securing the bell so it wouldn’t jangle, Bronwyn left the shop through the front door.

  She drew the hood over her head to conceal her face and hurried through the dark, mist-glistened streets to the wharf.

  §

  THE EARLY morning fog concealed the approach of the lighter boat. Bribing a sailor to ferry her to the Black Adder had been easy enough. The fellow was some years younger than she and had been overcome by her dramatic appearance on the wharf.

  She had not ev
en had to threaten him; James (as he was called) agreed to row her across for a shilling. His was the last lighter boat to make the journey. The Black was fully loaded and moments away from weighing anchor.

  The man-o-war rose up against a pearl gray dawn. Her main sail and top sail were furled waiting for the tide and wind that would pull the great vessel out to sea. To Bronwyn’s uncomprehending eyes, the Black Adder was a leviathan of wood, rope and masts. According to James, under Captain Stag’s seamanship, the slumbering giant would strike terror into the heart of any ship at sea.

  “That’s him, my lady. Captain Stag himself. You’ve had a wasted journey—he’ll not allow you on board.”

  “Thank you for pointing him out, James. I’ll manage the rest, I am sure.”

  Bronwyn looked up a great height to the prow and saw a man leaning at the railing, his body impatient to be away. His eyes were on the crew loading supplies through the gunports below. He had not seen the lighter boat approach. Bronwyn had several minutes to assess Jonathon Stag.

  He was fine looking at first glance but she doubted the privateer’s appearance would hold up under closer scrutiny. Stag’s hair was dark and pulled back in a loose queue secured with a black ribbon. His jaw was strong and firm and in need of a shave. It was shadowed with stubble. The coat he wore was the double-breasted military uniform of an officer with its long tails, but there were no epaulets or polished brass buttons. The captain wore it open and the white shirt beneath contrasted with his dark suntanned skin.

  A light wind caught hold of him, blowing back the lapels of his coat and lifted his dark hair off his forehead. Bronwyn swallowed and her heart pounded a little faster. Captain Jonathon Stag was younger than she expected, which made her nervous for reasons she could not readily understand. An older man would have been easier to win around.