Chapter One
pril 4, 1881
Port of New Orleans, Louisiana
Charles “Hatchet” Moore sat up in bed and gripped the sheets as another blast of the horn blared through his head. Nausea roiled in his gut. His heart pounded mercilessly, and his head ached. He scrambled to his feet, staring out the porthole in his quarters. All was quiet again. The first rays of sunlight shimmered over the horizon. So he was still in port, not transported in time to the burning ship where his beloved Nicolette had died? Another dream, then.
He couldn’t breathe in the confines of his room. He needed fresh air. Yanking on breeches, a shirt, and his boots, he stormed out into the hallway and up the stairs to the quarterdeck.
Sweat gathered on his brow despite the cool morning breeze. With trembling fingers, he lit a cheroot and puffed hard on the end. He blew out the sweet smoke, obliterating the stench of sewage all around him. With each inhale and exhale, the vestiges of his past faded.
He hadn’t dreamed of the Civil War or Nicolette’s death since his last visit to New Orleans six years ago. Time might’ve dulled his fiancée’s features in his mind’s eye, but he would never be free of the guilt he bore over her brutal death.
“Another nightmare last night, mate?” Victor asked, walking up from behind.
Nodding, Hatchet rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. They burned from lack of sleep. “Every bloody night for the past week. Coming home is torture. That damned Civil War ruined this place for me.”
Gripping the ship’s rail, Victor sighed. “Talk to me, old friend. You never speak of the war. Get it off your chest.”
Talking would only dredge up more memories. Hatchet turned his attention to the neighboring clipper ship, drawing once more on his cheroot. The meaty smoke doused his lungs, and his shoulders relaxed. No, he didn’t want to share the horrors of war or remember the gruesome scenes.
“You don’t want to hear those stories,” he said, flicking the end of his cheroot over the side of the ship. “Pillage. Murder. Rape.”
Help me… The desperate pleas of countless ravaged women still rang in his ears. His stomach lurched and he gripped the railing. Would that he could have protected them all. But one teenaged boy couldn’t stand up against three or more men. Lord knew, he had the scars the prove it. Best he bury that shit deep.
Instead of falling into the rabbit hole again, Hatchet focused on a gentleman walking up the gangplank of the neighboring ship. On the dock, a sleek black carriage, drawn by two handsome Clydesdales, stood waiting.
“Victor, did you send notice of our early arrival to my family late last night? I did not, and yet that carriage belongs to my father.”
“Certainly not. That’s rather odd. Why hasn’t he boarded our ship?” Victor asked with his gaze narrowed on the conveyance, as though willing the door to open.
“Because he’s bartering with the captain of The Angelica as we speak.”
Victor sought the pair out on the forecastle deck of the neighboring ship, his eyes widening. “That cannot be good. Why is Isaac dealing with a scurvy pirate? Captain Corbin is the worst sort of offal.”
“Why, indeed?”
Not that his father was in danger. At over six feet, four inches, few men were able or willing to look Isaac Moore dead in the eyes, including Hatchet. Sometimes he wished he were Isaac’s biological son, if only to have inherited the man’s height.
In that moment, Captain Corbin held out his palm. Only after Isaac relinquished a fat coin purse did the captain gesture to his first mate, who handed over a wooden box. After lifting the lid and glancing inside, Isaac gave a curt nod and strode back to his carriage, where he deposited the container inside before boarding The Savior.
“Good morning, Charles,” his father said, drawing Hatchet into a hug while clapping him hard on the back.
Hearing his given name spoken aloud felt odd. No one in his close circle of friends called him Charles anymore. He turned his head side to side, cracking his neck to release the tension. But his family would never stoop to calling him Hatchet, so best he adapt.
His father gave the ship a once-over. “You completed the journey in record time. Didn’t expect to find you here this morning.”
“Fair weather shaved weeks off the trip,” Hatchet said. “And with a pregnant lady aboard, the quick hop across the sea was welcome. You remember Victor Blackburn from our last visit? I mentioned in my letter that he’d be joining me with his wife, Mercy.”
“Of course.” Father shook Victor’s hand. “I made accommodations for you at a nearby inn. You’re welcome to stay with us in town at Magnolia House, but Charles thought you’d prefer a bit of privacy. Both lodgings are in the Garden District, so you can drop in whenever you choose.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Victor said with of tip of his head.
Father grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Tomorrow is your birthday, son. Haven’t celebrated one with you in ages. Thirty-seven, I believe? Once you’re settled in, I’ll reserve a table at our favorite restaurant.”
Had his father gone daft? Mother lay on her deathbed at the family plantation. “We couldn’t possibly. I must go to Mother immediately at Harmon Grove.”
“No need for that,” his father said, hooking his thumbs in his trouser pockets. His smile was as jovial as ever. “She’s comfortably situated in town.”
But the plantation was Mother’s childhood home, and she would wish to spend her final days there. With the sugarcane season in full swing, she must be very ill to reside where the doctors were at her beck and call. He was on the verge of voicing his concern when a small form darted across the deck. The lithe shape and loping gait were decidedly familiar.
“Halt, you there,” Hatchet bellowed as he ran to cut off the sailor. “Damnation, Maribeth, is that you?”
The girl barreled into him, wrapping her arms around his middle in a tight hold. “Don’t be angry with me, Hatchet.”
“Angry? Oh, no. I’m furious,” he snarled, marching her to a nearby barrel. “While I tan your hide for sneaking aboard, tell me how you managed to keep hidden the entire voyage.”
She jumped onto the barrel and met him eye to eye. Despite his ferocious glare, her face lit up with a saucy smile. “Unlike you, the crew were happy to have me. I tell the best ghost stories.”
“Traitors,” Victor said, though a smile tugged on his lips.
Father joined them and opened his arms wide. “Come here and give an old man a hug and kiss. You’ve grown since the last visit, Poppet.”
She leaped into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck and pecking him on the cheek. “Hello, Isaac. At least one person here is happy to see me.”
A growl rumbled in Hatchet’s chest. “Dominick will have my head when he returns from his honeymoon and you’re not at Devil’s Cove Manor where you belong!”
“Only after he guts you first for lying to him!” she shot back. “He’s one of your best friends. This is his ship, and he wouldn’t have let you sail here without him by your side. You should’ve told him about your trip to New Orleans and the curse before he left.”
The girl was too crafty by far, diverting the attention away from herself. Though her accusation was true, that was entirely beside the point. Maribeth was like a daughter to the whole crew, although Dominick had signed the adoption papers. He would be worried sick about the girl when he returned from his vacation.
“What nonsense do you speak of?” his father asked with a lift of his brow. “Charles is cursed? By whom?”
“Something about a voodoo queen,” Maribeth replied with a shrug. “I should like to meet her. Do you know her?”
“Certainly not,” his father said with a sniff. “Marie Laveau hasn’t been seen in more than a decade. She might be dead for all I know. Do not speak of her or this voodoo nonsense again unless you’re keen on spending the night in a dank jail cell.” His gaze met Hatchet’s. “That’s what happens these days to those who practice the dark arts.”
“Well, what’re we going to do with this baggage?” Victor asked, scowling. “Can’t very well send her back to England unattended.”
Father set her back on her feet. “She’s more than welcome to join us. Charles, your mother will return to the plantation after a short stay in the city. You and Maribeth should accompany her. Harmon Grove offers many amusements for a curious young lady.”
Hatchet could not commit to anything until he found a quiet moment to mull over the situation. Dammit! Maribeth’s presence was problematic, robbing him of hours that would be better served in pursuit of information on the curse.
“Let me think on it after we settle in. The girl is young and fragile, making her vulnerable to disease,” he said with a pointed look in her direction. “I don’t want her too close to Mother.”
His little charge growled. “I’m not fragile.”
Father waved his hand. “No worries on that front. Lucetta is already back on her feet and a woman about town. Been at least a week since she recovered. Only last evening, she prayed for your early arrival so we might celebrate your birthday. She’ll be delighted when I share the news.”
“Is that so?” Hatchet asked with a long drawl. “Your letter left no doubt as to her condition. ‘Mother lies on her deathbed and begs for your return.’ Those were your exact words.”
Brushing away an imaginary speck on his jacket, his father avoided his gaze. “Yes, a remarkable recovery. Well, I must be off. I’ll send the carriages around before noon. Please, do not dally. Your mother will be intolerable company until you arrive. Perhaps I shall keep your early arrival a secret.”
“Speaking of secrets,” Hatchet said, walking with his father to the gangplank, away from prying little ears. “What business do you have on The Angelica? The captain and crew are untrustworthy, the lot of them. Best not to be seen dealing with them.”
Father folded his arms and puffed out his chest. “You’re advising me? I’m rather more than seven, my dear boy. Did you fail to notice the early-morning hour of my visit or my black attire? The Moore-Lloyd Shipping Co. is the most successful shipping venture this side of the Gulf. Believe me when I say I know precisely what I’m doing. But I thank you for your concern.”
A few moments later, Father entered his carriage, and Hatchet let out a sigh as the horses clomped away.
“Yes, Father, I noticed both the early hour and your fine clothing, along with the company crest on your carriage.”
Little had changed in his absence. Mother still manipulated the people who loved her by any means available, and Father knew what was best for them all. Well, with his mother in good health, at least he would have plenty of time to investigate the rumors of the blasted curse. His Nicolette and Emma were dead, as well as the spouses of his siblings. With four deaths among them, Hatchet could no longer blame coincidence. He must rid his family of the hex. And then he would get the bloody hell out of New Orleans, again.
As he turned to attend his duties, another carriage rolled to a stop in front of The Angelica. The driver hopped to the ground and assisted a woman out. Unlike Isaac, this woman did nothing to disguise her appearance as she boldly boarded the pirate ship.
Even from a distance, Hatchet discerned her beauty. New Orleans had many attractive women, but the best among them were the Creoles, forbidden as wives but coveted as lovers. His loins stirred as his gaze roved over her full bosom, to her cinched waist and the gentle swell of her behind.
“I’ve sent Maribeth to break her fast with Mercy,” Victor said, leaning his hip against the rail. “We’ve a lot to accomplish before noon.”
His gaze followed Hatchet’s to the forecastle deck of The Angelica, and he whistled. “Captain Corbin doesn’t waste time. You should seek out female company while in town. Tomorrow is your birthday, after all. We buried Emma nearly six months ago. You must move on at some point, and a brothel poses no risk. You will not fall in love with a lady of the night.”
Lie with another woman? No, he could not. But as he watched an argument unfold between Captain Corbin and the woman, he couldn’t deny her allure.
“Maybe,” Hatchet amended as the black-haired beauty slapped the captain then stomped down the gangplank. “I’ve never sought one night of pleasure in the arms of a comely wench. Perhaps I must accept that as my fate, because falling in love three times in one lifetime seems against all odds.”
At least he had that going for him.
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