Within a Captain's Fate

Book 3: Captains of the Scarlet Night

by Lisa A. Olech

Genres: Sea Adventures; Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Wherever the tides take you . . . Guided by the winds of fate, Henry ‘Ric’ Robbins arrives on a hot June day in Port Royal. But the moment he sets foot on what should be a pirate’s paradise, he’s driven to steal a woman destined for slavery, survives the worst natural disaster to ever hit the isle of Jamaica, and answers the call to be captain of the Scarlet Night. Jocelyn Beauchamp’s life is one of privilege—until she is rudely thrown into the hands of pirates. Freed from the chains of her cloistered society, Jocelyn is drawn to her newfound life at sea—reckless, thrilling, and utterly unpredictable. And the man who saved her life not once, but twice—why not do it all over again?

Release date: October 11, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 194

Sample

 

June 7, 1692

Port Royal, Jamaica

 

A wicked grin tugged across Henry “Ricochet” Robbins’s face. The Scarlet Night sat secure at the dock, and he was the first one off the ship after the captain dismissed the crew. His boots hit the wide, weathered boards of the pier and he set his sights on spending the next twenty-four hours drinking as much sweet rum as he could hold while enjoying the lusty pleasures of Port Royal

The last time he was here was over the winter’s careening of the Night. He’d filled his pockets with winnings from the billiards tables and caught the eye of a dark-skinned beauty who worked as a bar wench at the Rogue Wave Tavern.

Ah, Teja.

Did she have a last name? Didn’t matter. They’d spent four wild days followed by four incredible nights in her bed. She was the kind of woman a man could lose himself in then take a month finding his way out. Silken hair the color of midnight, whiskey-colored eyes, the sweetest mouth that could do the dirtiest things, and ample curves.

More than ample. Just the way Ric like his ladies. Soft, round, plentiful.

After being aboard ship for months, regaining his land legs put an extra swag in Ric’s swagger. The noise, heat, and smells of Port Royal welcomed him home. This was his town.

The Scarlet Night and Captain Quinn were on top of the heap, and he was the best swivel gunner there was. He could thread a six-pounder through a knothole at two hundred yards. He’d earned his nickname by cushioning a cannon shot of a rocky shoal to take out a British mast--that, and he was in the habit of bouncing from woman to woman.

The day had dawned sultry. After the constant breeze aboard ship, the airless swelter of Port Royal lay steamy upon his skin. Pushing his way through the crowds loitering about the docks, he headed straight for the Rogue Wave.

Port Royal had become an interesting mix of humanity. A pirate haven, it teemed with society’s dregs. Thieves and murderers. Whores and connivers. Lately, it was also seeing an influx of English influence. Beyond the city, the British hold was gaining strength. Plantations and colonies were becoming more established. Of course, you’d never catch a proper British gentleman wandering these fermented streets, not without good reason, and certainly not at night.

Ric pushed into the dim tavern. The reek of stale ale and rank bodies met him head on. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust after the brightness of the morning. Time was irrelevant here. Patrons from last night lay passed out in their chairs and littered upon the floor. Others played cards. The billiard tables were active and revelers still crowded the bar.

He sidled up then ordered a rum. “Make it a double.”

“Ric Robbins.” A cluster of men at the far end of the bar recognized him. “Ye bastard. Back to take more of me gold at the tables?”

“No time to fleece ye again, I’m afraid, I’ve a mind to spend my shore leave in the arms of my luscious Teja.” Ric downed his drink and dropped a coin in payment.

The men burst into laughter, jostling one another. The bartender snatched the coin, snapped off what was owed him, then shoved the remainder of the gold back across the bar.

“Ye be a mite too late there, Ric. Teja done hooked herself a captain.”

The group laughed louder. One of them leaned toward him grinning like a toothless loon. “Captain Black.” He gestured to the back corner of the tavern.

It took Ric a second to register what he was seeing. A couple kissed. The deep, long, wet kisses of lovers. Captain Black had a hand pushed under Teja’s skirts and had bared one of her full breasts.

“Captain Black?” Ric choked. “Pandora Black?”

Roars of laughter erupted around him. “Guess the great Ricochet Robbins done bounced her right over te the other side.”

At the commotion, Teja and Black ended their kiss. Seeing Rick over Pandora’s shoulder, Teja adjusted the neckline of her blouse to cover the dark peak of her nipple and smoothed down the front of her skirts.

Pandora Black turned a lazy look over her shoulder. Dressed as a man, Rick wouldn’t have guessed she was a woman had he not known her by name. A fierce captain, she would fight any man who made the mistake of underestimating her. And she only took women into her bed.

She pierced Ric with an icy blue stare and hauled Teja back against her body. Holding Ric’s gaze, she lifted her hand and licked her fingers.

Hoots, catcalls, and uproarious laughter followed Ric out of the tavern.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled. “I should ‘ave known. She was wearing the same britches as me.”

“Someone’s in your trousers again, Robbins?” Captain Gavin Quinn laughed as he and Bump approached him. Bump was another crewmate from the Night. A lad of less than a dozen years, Bump had been like a little brother to Ric since they brought the lad aboard. Sharp as a honed blade, the boy had become a first-rate seaman. The fact he was stone deaf only made his accomplishments more impressive.

“Damn women in my pants,” Ric grumbled to Bump. “Story of my life.” He shook his head and gathered what was left of his pride. “Nothing, Capt’n. Rum in the Rogue Wave leavin’ a bitter taste in my mouth.”

“Forget the rum, stick with Bump while I meet with Fin Willy. I’m heading to The Barnacle now to seal our deal. Soon we’ll be sailing the Scarlet Night and the White Witch. Add that to the Raven Wing; more ships, more bounty to share.”

The trio maneuvered their way past the array of taverns and brothels lining the docks. Urchin children picked the pockets of the unaware.

“Congratulations, Capt’n. Gonna give Tupper a chance at the helm of her own ship?” Robbins asked. Tupper Quinn was the former Alice Tupper. She and Gavin had married and spend the last six years pirating their way back and forth across the Atlantic.

“Doubt it.” Gavin dodged a puddle of filth. “Wouldn’t care to be apart from her. Not now that I’ve grown so used to her being at my side.”

Ric jostled past a group spilling out of a doorway. “Ye could always make me captain.”

Gavin chuckled. “Another year or two under your belt and maybe the crew’d be ready to vote you in.”

A crowd had formed into a tight knot of bodies surrounding the town’s auction block. Gavin stopped. A fierce defender of the abolishment of the African slave trade, he hated these auctions. Men, women, and children being sold as property was abhorrent to him. Ric had been with him long enough to see him hunt down and track slave haulers to deliver their human cargo back to the safety of their own shores. The number of those he’d saved must have reached a thousand in all these years.

By the look, today’s auction wasn’t for Africans. A line of women, chained together like dogs, was being dragged before the crowd. Young, old, weak, strong. The mob jeered and shouted lewd comments as the chained group was towed up onto the block.

Sex slaves.

Bought and sold into prostitution, life as concubines, some into harems, or simply to satisfy the lust of the owner. The youngest and prettiest went to the highest bidder.

Quinn scowled before turning away. “It’s a good thing Tupper loathes Port Royal and is still aboard the Scarlet Night. She’d be drawing her sword, taking on this whole crowd to set those women free.” He slapped Robbins on the back. “I’ve kept Fin Willy waiting long enough. I’ll meet you and Bump back on board. Tonight we celebrate the new addition to our fleet.”

Quinn made a few hand gestures to Bump who nodded in agreement before the captain headed off to his negotiation for the White Witch.

Ric barely noticed. Over the heads of the pack of bystanders, he caught the panicked gaze of one of the women up for sale. She’d been scanning the throng before her, her face ashen beneath a tangled mop of dark curls. Dirt and scratches marred her face and neck, one sleeve of her blouse torn from its seam at the shoulder.

He moved closer to the block. The noise and energy of the crowd seemed to make the ground tremble. Bump gave a sharp tug on Ric’s arm. He paid him little notice, as he was too absorbed in the scene before him. The raven-haired captive held his gaze. It was as if she were reaching out to him alone. Looking for some tether. Perhaps a sympathetic face in the mob to keep her from tipping into the abyss of insanity.

Whatever the reason, she had found him amongst the dozens of faces and held onto him. Pale frightened eyes seemed to silently plead with him to stop this madness as the bidding began.

Ric’s world narrowed to a pinhole. A buzzing sounded in his ears. His brain screamed at the insanity of his thoughts.

Save her.

Her tenuous bond was broken when she was jerked to the forward edge and became the next victim to be auctioned off.

“That one be mine,” slobbered the fat man standing next to Ric. He smacked his thick lips and opened a sack of coins.

“Who among ya will start us off at ten gold pieces fer this comely wench?” The auctioneer scanned the crowd for any takers. Rick shoved his hand into his pockets and curled his fingers around the rough coins held there.

“Ten,” he shouted. His gaze never leaving her.

The man next to him bid fifteen, another yelled eighteen. Soon the bidding passed twenty-five gold pieces.

“Thirty,” Ric shouted, knowing full well he didn’t have more than twenty on him.

“Thirty-five,” yelled the fat man, narrowing his eyes at Ric before scratching at his crotch.

“Fifty,” Ric countered. In his mind he knew he couldn’t keep this up. Even if he managed to scrape together that many gold pieces, what would he do with this girl? He couldn’t leave her here unprotected, and he sure as hell couldn’t take her with him when the Scarlet Night sailed.

The auctioneer smiled an oily grin as if he could sense a bidding war commencing. Turning back, he tore at the woman’s blouse exposing her breasts to the fevered audience. “Show ‘em what they be buyin’, Frenchie.”

A black rage flooded Ric as the beast next to him frantically counted coins then raised the bid to seventy-five.

“Eighty.”

“Ninety.”

Blood rushed in Ric’s ears. He shook with anger and a rush of indignation. His stomach turned at the thought of this man laying his fat, filthy hands on her.

Bump tugged on him once more trying to pull him away. Ric scowled at the boy’s imploring gaze and shook his head.

No, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t going to back down. There was no way he was going to lose her.

“Three hundred!”

 

 

The heat of the day weighed down upon her like the breath of the devil. Appropriate, as Jocelyn Beauchamp was sure to be standing at the gates of hell. Before her, a crush of vile-looking, leering men pushed and shoved to get closer.

She pressed back into the cluster of panicked women behind her. Several wept silently. Next to her stood the once-imposing figure of Sister Bernadette. Stripped of her vestments, wimple, and veil, she was just another woman awaiting a hideous fate. Hair cropped to renounce vanity and worldly ways, her fervent prayers to the Virgin falling from trembling lips.

Dazed, red-rimmed eyes met Jocelyn’s while her lips moved over the prayer again and again, “Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grace, le Seigneur est avec toi…”

How many times had Jocelyn lifted that prayer during her years at the abbey? “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

Boarding a ship bound for Port Saint Maria should have gained the Blessed Virgin’s favor, but it was obvious as Jocelyn scanned the crowd before her, the moment their feet left French soil, the voyage was doomed.

Weeks of storms rocked the passenger ship bringing colonists and pilgrims to the island. For Jocelyn it had been a journey filled with a mix of emotions. Anxiety, dread, fear, but also liberation and a thread of excitement. Riding away from the Abbey of Sainte-Genevieve after years of their strict discipline had been exhilarating. She was free. For at least as long as the voyage lasted.

Sister Bernadette was delivering her to her father. A high ranking officer in the French Navy, he was gathering the western fleet in Port St. Maria before joining King Louis’s war in Tripoli. He sent for her with the message he had secured a marriage contract for her, and she was to join him immediately.

In Jocelyn’s mind, she was being taken from one cage only to be locked within another. Father insisted this time, her refusal would not be tolerated. He was through with her petulant behavior, and was prepared to leave her permanently in the care of the Sisters. At two and twenty, if she did not agree to marry, she would be forced to don the veil of the calling herself and live out the rest of her life in service to the Lord.

But the Lord was likely busy having tea with the Virgin, because no amount of grace could be found in having their ship captured by the depraved men who now held them. Sister Bernadette would have taken the rod to her if she knew the blasphemy of her thoughts.

Scanning the crowd, Jocelyn stood straight and defiant. She pushed down the panic threatening to crash over her.

Then she saw him.

He was staring at her. Not like the others running their lascivious gazes down the length of her body. He was looking straight into her eyes. Seeing her.

Sunlight shown in the wave of his hair like a beacon. His light eyes capturing hers. She couldn’t make out their color at this distance, but the intensity of them caused a shiver to run through her. And not one of fear.

“Saint Michael,” she murmured. His resemblance to Raphael’s painting of the great Archangel was astounding. The golden man before her carried no great sweeping sword, but a fine polished pistol sat at the ready in his baldric against the white of his billowing shirt. He fairly glowed. Perhaps the Lord had sent her a savior after all.

The man leading the auction grabbed at her arm and dragged her to the edge of the platform. He lifted her hair before forcing her chin to one side, showing her off as if she were a prize horse. Next he’d be showing them her teeth. She jerked out of his grasp as he called for the bidding to begin.

Frantic, she sought out her savior, only to have her hopes shattered. He made the first bid. Her brain slowed after that. The scene before her moving in measured agonizing beats while a deafening buzz filled her mind.

Shock of the man tearing at her chemise jerked her back into the nightmare. Before her, a frenzy of bidding occurred until the final shout of “Sold!” reached deep into her belly.

Behind her Sister Bernadette choked out her name. Jocelyn turned in time to see her collapsed in a faint. Shouts and chaos erupted in the crowd. Before she could reach the good Sister, strong arms grabbed for her and pulled her into the fray.

Jocelyn screamed. Around her men fought one another with crushing swings of their fists. She ducked as she was dragged through the mêlée. When she stumbled, she was hoisted like a sack of wheat and unceremoniously tossed over someone’s shoulder.

With her hands still shackled, she pounded her fists upon their back and kicked at their crotch. After a satisfying “Ooof,” her abductor dropped her to her feet.

Saint Michael?

“Dammit, woman, I’m tryin…shit…this way.” He pushed her ahead of him, dodging people, animals, and carts, until he veered right, pulling her into a dark alley.

He was no Archangel. The scruff of a beard decorated his rigid jaw. A dark scowl drew his brows together. A ragged scar marred the top of one cheek.

When Jocelyn tried to scream, he clamped a hand over her mouth and pressed her against the rough boards of the building behind her. “Quiet,” he hissed then shot a glance over his shoulder.

She jerked her chin to one side and demanded he release her. “Je demande que vous me libérer, à la fois!”

In broken French he told her to relax. “I’m trying to save both our necks.” He continued to cover her body with his own. The strength and power of him surrounded her. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. The spice upon his skin. “I won’t hurt you. Play along.”

With another quick glance toward the main street, he lowered his head as if to kiss her. In the dim light of the narrow alley, he held her gaze. The rush of his breathing tickled across the bare skin of her shoulder. “If we’re lucky, they’ll run right by,” he whispered.

He reached down and lifted the side of her skirts to expose her leg clear to her thigh. She gasped and pushed against him. When she once again demanded he release her, he covered her lips with his fingertips. His pale gaze never leaving hers as he captured her knee, boldly raising it to rest upon his hip.

She would have screamed and fought him save for two things. At that moment, a loud, angry mob rushed past the end of the alley. And the sensation of his fingers at the back of her knee and the press of his heat against her body had robbed her of any sane thought.

Jocelyn followed his glance when he next looked back toward the street. A boy with thick ropes of dark hair stood near the entrance. She’d seen him standing with her rescuer at the auction. It was as if he guarded them. At the shake of his head, the man holding her shifted his head and raised her knee another inch. Anyone looking into the alley would assume they were random lovers tucked away from prying eyes.

She met his gaze once more, her breath racing. Surely he could feel her heart beating its way out of her chest.

He lowered his fingertips from her lips and released her leg. Jocelyn braced herself against him to keep from toppling over. The wall of his chest solid beneath her cheek.

“Are you well?” His French was terrible. She could only nod. “Good. Follow me.”

On the way past the young man, he grabbed his hat and shoved it down upon her head. He pulled the brim down forcing her to look at her feet. “Head down. Stay close.”

Jocelyn clutched at her torn chemise, and did as she was bid. Perhaps it was foolish to trust this complete stranger, but what choice did she have? Running to keep up, she found herself rushed along the hollow-sounding wood planks of the docks. Soon thereafter, he stopped to scoop her about the waist and swung her down onto the deck of a wide, three-masted sloop.

Her fair-haired savior then returned the hat to its rightful owner before catching her elbow and guiding her toward the bow of the ship. She had to run to keep . . .