The Restitution Page 3

  Holding back new tears, Isabel folded her hands around the reverends. “Thank you.” She sniffed and drew the back of her hand to her nose. “I am quite astounded at everyone’s kindness.”

  “But let us not forget to do the most important thing.”

  Isabel darted her gaze to his, worried she had forgotten some crucial task.

  “To pray, my dear. To pray.”

  She sighed. “Yes, of course, Reverend.”

  Captain Kent Carlton eased the bottle of rum back onto the table and eyed the man who sat across from him. All he’d wanted was to be left alone—alone with his rum until he could down enough of the pungent liquid to dull the ache in his heart left by the graceful Lady Isabel Ashton.

  He rose to his feet and pushed his chair back, its legs scraping across the wooden planks of the tavern floor. His hand gripped the hilt of his cutlass, and a hush fell over the unruly crowd. “Do you dare challenge me?”

  A stout, gap-toothed man with a black beard that hung to his waist planted both fists on the table and pushed his immense body up from his seat. With one flick, he sent the table crashing into a crowd of men whose curses filled the air. “Aye, that I do, ye slimy carp.”

  Kent glanced at his shattered bottle lying in a pool of rum at his feet. “I can excuse your ignorance in insulting my character, but now you’ve spilled my rum, and that is an affront I cannot ignore.”

  The man grinned. “Ye dare to fight me? D’ye know how many men I’ve killed?”

  Kent knew. Captain Rand’s fierce reputation sparked terror throughout the Caribbean. “Nigh two hundred, if I’m not mistaken.” Kent brushed a speck of dirt from his waistcoat. He no longer feared this blackguard. Perhaps because Rand was clearly drunk, or perhaps because Kent knew his own skill with the sword had vastly improved. But truth be told, Kent’s dauntless courage sprouted from the fact that he really didn’t care anymore whether he lived or died.

  Rand spat onto the floor. The left side of his mouth twisted in a snarl. “D’ye not realize I could kill ye where ye stand?”

  “I never speculate on the impossible.”

  Chuckles filtered across the crowd of men who’d gathered around them. Rand’s face burned a deep red. He snatched his cutlass from its scabbard.

  In an instant Kent’s sword clattered against Rand’s and forced it aside. The mob of pirates cheered, cursed, and punched their fists in the air as the two men parried. Rand lunged at Kent, striking his neck, before Kent could ward off his blow with a thrust that sent Rand’s sword tumbling from his hand.

  The bearded pirate retrieved it amidst the cackles thrown his way. His eyes blazed with fury. He pointed his blade back at his adversary.

  Kent swooped down upon him. Hilt to hilt, the two men fought, pushing the crowd back as they went.

  Rand pulled back, panting. Beads of sweat littered his brow.

  Kent rested his sword tip on the floor. “Come now. Is that all you have? You give me nothing to do.”

  Growling, Rand charged Kent again, but Kent, anticipating his attack, sidestepped the pirate’s slash and, with two quick flicks of his own cutlass, sliced a bold X across Rand’s belly, cutting off the bottom half of his beard. Rand doubled over, moaning. Two of his men came to collect him. His scowl never left Kent as they led him away. “You’ll pay for this, mate.”

  “I’ll await the occasion with great anticipation.” Kent bowed.

  The crowd grumbled and dispersed while Kent sheathed his cutlass and turned around. Smithy, his first mate, righted the table and gathered his captain’s chair, offering Kent an approving look. “By thunder. Ye beat ole Black Rand, Cap’n.”

  A man swaggered toward them from the back of the tavern. His modish blond hair fell loosely over his suit of black camlet, and Kent lifted his gaze to focus on him, hoping his senses had deceived him, then frowned when he realized they hadn’t. Would he never be free of this vermin? The man halted before Kent.

  Must you follow me all over the Spanish Main, Sawkins?” Feeling a trickle on his neck, Kent plucked a handkerchief from the pocket of his doublet and dabbed at his blood.

  The man straightened the lace bounding from his sleeves. “Perhaps ’tis you who follows me?”

  Kent plopped into a chair. “Fetch me some rum, if you please, Smithy.” The scruffy pirate exchanged a sly glance with Sawkins before he sauntered into the crowd.

  “Away with you.” Kent waved a hand through the foul air. “I find your company cumbersome.”

  “Is that so?” Sawkins raised sleek brows and smirked. “Perhaps, but I’ll bet you all I possess you will not find my news cumbersome.”

  “Last I heard, you possess nothing. All lost in a game of cards. Even your ship.” Kent returned his handkerchief to his pocket and glanced over the room before his eyes landed again on Sawkins. “If it’s money you want, I informed you the—”

  “Nay, ’tis not that.” Sawkins pressed his jeweled hand to his chest. “Must you always think so low of me?”

  Kent snorted.

  “It concerns your son.” Sawkins lifted a chair from the floor. “May I?” He darted a questioning look at Kent, but sat before he could protest.

  Kent tapped his fingers on the table, wondering where Smithy was with his rum. “I have no son.”

  “Ah, but I have heard differently.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “Is the name Lady Isabel Ashton familiar to you?”

  Pain etched through Kent’s heart, carving out sections he had long since buried. Isabel. He shot a fierce gaze at Sawkins and clenched his teeth before he allowed himself to speak. “You will tell me where you heard that name by the time my first mate returns, or on my mother’s grave, I’ll put a pistol shot through your skull.” He clutched the butt of the weapon housed in his baldric.

  Throwing his hands in the air, Sawkins chuckled. “You lack of civility does you no credit, my good man. I simply heard she was a…shall we say, a close acquaintance of yours?”

  “What of her?”

  “Did you not know?” Sawkin’s eyes glinted with malicious amusement “Why she bore a son nigh seven months ago. Word is, you are the father.”

  Isabel lit a candle on a pedestal near the altar and draped herself over the wooden retable. She clasped her hands in front of her. “Oh, God,” she sobbed and dropped her head to the hard railing.

  The agony of Frederick’s absence seared through her as if it were burning a part of her heart away each day. Tears streamed onto the wood and ran down the sides of the altar, along with the last traces of her hope. Two weeks had passed and no word of him had graced her ears, not from the privateer they’d hired nor the merchants from the church nor even her old friends, Captain Merrick and Lady Charlisse. Even the Royal Navy ignored her constant pleas.

  What else was there to do? Who else could she turn to? The hole left in her heart by Frederick’s absence widened more each day into a cold void. How would she go on without him?

  “Lord, help me.”

  A crackle sounded from her pocket, and she withdrew the crumpled letter from her parents. Unfolding it, she turned it toward the candle light.

  My dearest Isabel,

  It was with great delight that we received your last correspondence, and although deeply saddened by the news of your recent loss, we are overjoyed to be able to offer you a passage home. There is now naught to keep you from us and from your proper place in society. Please make haste. We have sent our best ship to effect your safe return. Let us put behind us the tragic events of your recent past and begin anew. Our business ventures have prospered here in New Providence and we await your company with ardent joy.

  Most affectionately yours,

  Your dearest father,

  Lord Brenton Ashton

  Fury quickened Isabel’s breathing. Gripping the parchment, she ripped it over and over again until it floated to the floor in little pieces. She’d never considered that there had been a price on her parent’s love and acceptance—not until
she couldn’t pay it. Now she felt truly and utterly alone for the first time in her life.

  Not alone, precious daughter. I am here.

  “Are You, Lord?” Isabel wrung her hands together. “Are You really here?” Or was it simply her own wishful thinking?

  The door creaked open, and a warm gust of wind wafted over Isabel, lifting the shreds of her torn letter into a chaotic dance before scattering them further across the floor. It was most likely only Reverend Thomas coming to comfort her. Isabel remained where she knelt. Thomas had not slept well either since Frederick’s disappearance, and his optimism has been the only thing that had kept her from going mad. But tonight, truth be told, she just wanted to be alone.

  The deep thud of boots echoed behind her. Slow, methodical steps—heavy, not like the light gait of Reverend Thomas.

  Isabel’s heart clenched. Widening her eyes, she listened intently.

  Heavy breaths reached her ears, the clank of metal scraping over the pews. A sword? Then a low cough, all too familiar, jarred her fears awake.

  Isabel sprang to her feet and whirled, peering into the gloomy church. A towering black form lingered in the murky haze.

  “Who goes there?” Her voice cracked.

  The figure stepped from the darkness into a stream of moonlight. A cutlass hung by his side and two brace of pistols clung to his massive chest. Dark waves of hair flowed from under a black head scarf.

  His umber eyes perused her with amused recognition as a slight smile upturned one corner of his lips.

  Kent.

  Chapter Three

  The Pirate

  Kent stepped slowly into the light and offered Lady Ashton his most comforting smile.

  It did not have the intended effect.

  Her eyes widened. She took a step back and tripped over the altar. Her hand flew to her chest and she screamed. Kent grabbed her, forcing his hand over her mouth. All he needed was for her shrieks to awaken the priest or whoever ran this place and then have him alert the authorities.

  Since Kent currently found himself in disfavor with not only the British Royal Navy but most of Morgan’s pirates as well, it would be best if his presence in Port Royal were kept as quiet as possible. His notoriety had forced him to venture here under cover of night, even though he knew the darkness would only make his sudden appearance more horrifying for Isabel.

  “Egad, woman. D’ye think I came to harm you? Be still.”

  Thrashing in his arms, Isabel pounded his chest and moaned beneath his hand. The sweet scent of vanilla and coconut drifted past his nose. He breathed it in and smiled at the flood of memories that flowed along with it.

  A sharp pain pierced his palm, and he jumped back, shaking his wrist in the air. “You bit me!”

  Isabel bolted up two stairs toward the pulpit, but Kent was on her in seconds. “I wish only to speak with you.”

  “Let me go!” she cried, fighting in his grasp. Then she halted and faced him. Her expression of terror contorted into one of anger, and she kicked him in the shin. Pain spiked up his right leg. He grimaced.

  “Where is my son?” She beat his chest with her fists. “Where is he? You stole my son!” Her screams turned into sobs.

  “I did not take him.” Kent gripped her shoulders and held her well away from him. “I assure you.”

  Jerking from his hold, she stepped back into the shadows, where he could not see the details of her face—that beautiful face he had longed to gaze upon for so many months. She began to sob. Kent reached for her, but she swung away.

  “Don’t touch me.” She grabbed a nearby post. The flickering light from the candle cast its glow upon her. Her moist eyes fixed on his. She raised a hand to her nose. “You didn’t take him?”

  “No. You have my word.”

  “Then how did you know where to find me?”

  “’Tis a long tale, milady, one I’ll be happy to favor you with at another time, but for now, I came to tell you I know who took the babe.”

  “You do?” Isabel stepped toward him, then hesitated. A look of despair replaced the momentary hope. She turned away. “I don’t believe you.” Backing down the stairs, she slunk around to the front of the altar, her gaze never leaving him.

  Kent followed cautiously, the clomp of his leather boots echoing through the church. Though clearly frightened, she faced him with more bravery than most of his crew. “I beg you, milady, listen to what I have to say. I have not come to hurt you, nor to take you captive again.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  The creak of wood echoed through the church. The front door rasped open, allowing a warm breeze entrance. The candlelight fluttered.

  Kent plucked a pistol and aimed it toward the entrance.

  Isabel glanced over her shoulder. “No one is there. You left the door open, ’tis all.”

  Kent replaced the weapon in its brace and allowed his gaze to sweep over her. Moonlight from the window sparkled upon the silver combs that held her auburn hair in place. Her simple gown clung to her curves, which seemed to have grown more voluptuous during the past year. How he had missed her. Just gazing at her soothed the ache in his soul.

  Isabel pressed a hand to her stomach. “Still have enemies hunting for you?”

  “More than I care to admit.” He grabbed the hilt of his cutlass and sauntered toward her.

  “That’s far enough, Captain.” She held up a hand and stole a glance at the door. “One step closer and I’ll run out that door and wake up Reverend Thomas.” Her voice quivered.

  “I think I can handle one simple preacher.” Kent twisted his lips into a grin.

  Isabel snickered and placed her hands on the swell of her hips. “Perhaps, but then there’ll be Jacob to deal with.”

  “Jacob?” Jealousy speared him.

  “Never mind. What do you want, Kent?” She leaned one hand on the altar. “Have you come to gloat over my misery?” She sniffed, and a tear spilled down her cheek. “I do not know how you discovered where I was or that I had a child, but I’m appealing to whatever kindness exists in your dark heart to return him to me.” She slid down onto the wooden floor and began to sob.

  Kneeling, Kent reached a hand toward her, but she shrank back from him. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and protect her, but knew she would never allow it. And why would she? Why would she ever trust his touch? His gaze landed on the altar and he nearly chuckled. He hadn’t stepped into a church in years, and here he was, kneeling at an altar desperately seeking forgiveness, not from God, but from this woman before him.

  “I didn’t know you’d borne my son until just last week. The same time I heard he’d been stolen from you—’twas when I discovered your whereabouts. I’ve been searching for you for over a year.”

  Isabel glared at him, tears overflowing her shimmering eyes. “Why? So you could kidnap and ravish me again?”

  Hanging his head, Kent let out a deep sigh. “Nay, I wanted to know how you fared, if you were well and happy.” Loathing burned in Isabel’s eyes. He’d never had to fight for the affections of a woman—most succumbed to his charms easily enough. But not Lady Ashton. Yes, he had violated her, but only the one time, and after that he’d displayed only kindness to her. Still, she resisted him. Truth be told, he’d thought of nothing but Isabel since he’d sent her away with Merrick. The vision of her standing on the main deck of Merrick’s ship, her long hair blowing in the wind behind her as their two ships separated, had consumed him day and night. Without her, without word of her, his soul had emptied, leaving him naught but a hollow shell. But how could he tell her that?

  “Milady, I need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “As I said, I know who took your—our son, and I need your help to find him.”

  Isabel studied him, doubt skipping across her eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day when the great Captain Carlton would need anyone’s help—especially a woman’s,” she said. “And why, pray tell, would I want to help you? I�
�ve sent word to Captain Merrick, and he should be arriving any day. If all you seek is female company, there are many brothels in town to suit your debased needs.”

  Kent clenched his jaw and swallowed the fury rising in his throat. Edmund Merrick, his ex-captain had a habit of rescuing damsels in distress. Would Kent ever come out from under his overpowering shadow?

  “If female affection is what I truly seek, d’ye think me daft enough to come to you for it?” He forced a chuckle. “Nay, I need your help because you are the only one who knows what the child looks like. How else am I to find him?”

  Kent sat on the steps.

  “Who took him?” She slid farther from him.

  Thumping his boots against the wooden floor, Kent draped both arms over his knees. “A pirate named Morris.”

  “Morris? Who is he, and what does he want with my Frederick?”

  “Frederick? You named him Frederick?” A warm spark ignited within him. Frederick was Kent’s middle name. Had he told her that? He couldn’t remember.

  “Yes.” She averted her eyes. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  Kent rubbed the back. “John Morris seeks revenge on me. He heard I had a son.”

  Isabel sprang to her feet. “My son was kidnapped because of you? Because one of your enemies wants to get back at you for some hideous thing you’ve done?”

  Kent eyed her, noticing the flare in her already reddened cheeks and the fury in her eyes. He stood. “I’m afraid so.”

  She rushed toward him and raised her hands to punch him, but he caught her wrists and restrained her, wondering if he shouldn’t just allow her to pummel him and release her anger. God knew, he deserved it.

  Tearing away from him, she dropped her head and wept, keeping one arm outstretched toward his advance. “Go away. Please go away.” She raised her teary eyes to his. “Haven’t you caused me enough pain?”

  Agonizing sorrow swept through Kent, as unfamiliar to him as the remorse that followed in its wake. “It is not my intention to harm you further, but to help you.”