Spencer came down from the quarterdeck, grinning as he handed Mariah a long glass and pointed aft. "We've got them both after us now, lambs being led to the slaughter. Ainsley thinks they'll keep their distance, follow us home, thinking to trap us between them and Becket Hall as they attack from both land and sea. In fact, it was probably their plan all along. Squeezing us in the middle, sinking our ships before we could run up the sails and get free of the harbor. Now they're hanging back, trying to figure out what to do now that we're already free of the harbor. Ainsley says we sink one, the other will run, consider it a good day's work to have survived, and take Beales's ship as their prize."
"You cannot buy loyalty," Cassandra said quietly, remembering yet another lesson learned at her father's knee. "What happened tonight, all those people coming to help Papa the way they did, without asking for any reward? It never occurred to Edmund Beales that anyone would come to Papa's aid, storm the gaol to release him. Because he couldn't have hoped for such support, could he?"
"Edmund Beales," Spencer said, his jaw tight, "would probably have to think twice before asking his own mother to help him. Fear and respect are two very different things. He probably has his own captains on those sloops, but the crews? A sloop going into battle can't boast size, so it depends on its swiftness, and its skilled crew. Ainsley said that if Beales is running true to form, he's hired the dregs of the earth for his crews. We're hoping for a quick fight, a quicker victory. Now, we need you all to go below decks, to Ainsley's cabin, all right?"
"Not yet, please," Cassandra begged him.
Spencer looked to his wife, who was nodding her agreement with Cassandra. "All right. But the moment we engage, you three are below decks, you hear me?"
"Do we
hear
him?" Mariah said facetiously, handing the long glass to Cassandra as Spencer headed aft once more. "Are we all shaking in our shoes, ladies? I know I am. Men! Do they think wearing skirts means we can't fight?"
Lisette laughed, and Cassandra put the long glass to her eye, hoping the full moon provided enough light to be able to see Courtland aboard the
Spectre,
as the sloops were running nearly side-by-side. But she couldn't see him. Ah, no, there he was, standing beside Chance, who was barking out orders as he watched the mainsail, checked the direction of the wind— at least that's what she thought he might be doing.
She supposed Chance looked quite dashing as he played the captain, his fair hair wild around his face, his shirtsleeves glowing white as they whipped about in the night breeze. But it was Courtland who drew her eyes; that solid, strong man, his expression formidable in its intensity, his demeanor that of a man deep in thought, considering all angles of a thing before moving, and then moving decisively— correctly.
But then Billy came up to him, handing him two braces of large, ugly pistols, each pair laced together from thick strips of leather Courtland hung about his neck. What good would pistols be, unless they planned to board one of the sloops following them? In case they were boarded themselves and expected hand-to-hand combat?
Assuredly, sand had been spread on the decks of the
Spectre,
as well.
"Oh, God," Cassandra said, lowering the glass. She knew so little about what happened during a sea battle, but perhaps that little was still too much.
Ainsley gave another command. They were in tight quarters, four swift sloops running so very near together, but that's how privateers fought. Slipping, cutting, sailing close to the wind, closer to danger, in pursuit of their prey.
Cassandra grabbed at the railing as the
Respite
turned toward the barely visible shoreline, the sails filling, flapping loudly, so that Cassandra knew she'd have to shout to be heard, not that she could think of a single thing to say save to warn, "Go below! It's starting!"
Lisette, tall, slender, but stronger than she looked, both in mind and body, pulled Mariah to the stairs leading below decks, but Cassandra stayed where she was, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the rails as she strained to see the
Spectre.
It was turning away from them now, and she quickly lost sight of all but the yellow light of a few lanterns in the dark, even as the
Respite
completed its dangerous maneuver near the shoreline— its hull purposely designed to be shallow enough to avoid the rocks— and was now heading in exactly the opposite direction.
Cassandra, desperate to not lose her balance, ran to the starboard side, grabbing on to the rail with one hand while holding tight to the long glass with the other in time to see that one of the pursuing sloops, either reacting too slowly or not reacting at all, was about to be sandwiched between the
Spectre
and the
Respite.
No more than fifty yards of night-black Channel water divided the
Respite
and their pursurer now, and she could see the tips of the
Spectre'
s mainsail as Chance flanked the trapped sloop. It was being fed into a funnel, had nowhere to turn, but would have to hope its speed could pull it through the narrow tunnel of space left to it, leaving the
Spectre
and
Respite
heading in quite the wrong direction.
They
were
going to attempt to board the sloop. That's all Cassandra could think, as surely they were too close to fire on the other ship— except that they were also too far apart to board it. Their guns had been run out, yes, she'd heard the rumble, and felt it, beneath her feet— but so had the guns on the other ship. If they fired, they'd only succeed in sinking each other, and that was madness.
No, the sloop was going to be past them, free, while their ships moved on in the wrong direction, perhaps to attack the second sloop that already seemed to be turning, running away, as if it wanted no part of the fight. But why let this first one pass them by?
She lifted the glass to her eye yet again, the full moon sliding out from behind a cloud just in time for her to be able to see some of the faces of the crew on Beales's ship as it entered the funnel that was the other two sloops. Some of the crew were running, all were shouting…while one older seaman surprised her by solemnly throwing her a kiss and then simply standing very still and making the Sign of the Cross before bowing his head in prayer.
He had just clasped his hands together in front of him when the deck he stood on exploded.
Cassandra was thrown to the deck as the
Respite
rolled to port before righting itself again. She was forced to crawl across the sandy boards, back to the railing, pulling herself upright. The seaman who had thrown her the kiss was gone. The sloop's gunports were gone. Most of the side of the sloop was gone.
She held on to the rail as the
Respite
moved on past, struggling to recognize that what she was looking at was still a ship.
"Good shooting! Hold tight, boys! We're nearly clear!" she heard Ainsley warn loudly. "Her powder magazine will blow any moment!"
The huge fire on the other sloop lit up the area nearly as clearly as summer sunshine. Cassandra held on, going to her knees and melding herself against the rail, looking up to see the other sloop's shattered mizzenmast disappear past the
Respite.
And then she saw a large, gray-haired man, standing alone at the very rear of the sloop, clasping the railing and first looking down at the fire that raged everywhere on what was left of the deck, then at the dark water below his feet.
"Richard Oakes!" Ainsley shouted, and the man's head whipped around toward the
Respite.
"A true sailor you are, Richard! Never learned how to swim, did you? She's going to blow, Richard! Jump or burn!"
The man shook his fist at Ainsley. "I'll see you in hell, Geoff Baskin!"
Cassandra shot a quick look toward her father, just in time to see him bow with exquisite elegance as he called out, "You first, Richard!"
Cassandra shut her eyes tight, not wanting to know what would happen next, and nothing did, not for several seconds, as the
Respite
cleared the other ship, the sails caught even more wind and seemed to begin to race gracefully across the water.
Moments. It had all happened within a few moments, but Cassandra knew she would remember those moments for the remainder of her life, especially when she at last caught sight of the
Spectre
just before the crippled sloop exploded with a terrifying amount of force and noise, and then almost immediately disappeared beneath the dark water.
That terrible flash of yellow light had served to outline the
Spectre
in the dark, and the fact that the mizzenmast was now in two pieces, the topmost part lying smashed on the deck. Where she had last seen Courtland and Chance.
* * *
"EASY…EASY…JESUS, Kinsey, don't let him
swing
like that! Watch his leg!"
Courtland stood in the longboat, watching as Rian's giant, Jasper, raised his massive arms to grab hold of Chance the moment he and the stout net sling he was lying in dropped low enough.
"Stop being such an old woman, Court!" Chance yelled down to him in between singing snatches of a song having a lot to do with a woman named Kitty and how, for a penny, she would let a man touch her great-grand— Well, Courtland really wasn't listening anyway. He hadn't been listening for the past several hours as Kinsey worked to bring the damaged
Spectre
into the lagoon and Courtland had held down Chance after they'd poured half the rum onboard down his gullet before Jasper set the man's broken leg.
One errant ball. Two close-on broadsides, one errant ball. Remarkable in itself, but did that ball have to split the mizzenmast in two and send it crashing down on Chance's leg?
Courtland had not quite escaped injury himself, but a bump to the brainbox would have to be delivered with more force to have done any real damage, or so Billy had told him as he'd wrapped a bandage around his head.
It was two hours past dawn, after the longest night of Courtland's life, but at last they were home.
Ainsley, after keeping the
Respite
close while the
Spectre
limped along, had been ashore for some minutes, and Courtland swore he could feel Cassandra's eyes boring into his back as he assisted Jasper in lowering Chance against the boards and they were rowed toward the shore.
There was probably going to be hell to pay, or she'd cry all over his neck— God, she wouldn't do that, would she? Not until he'd had a chance to speak to Ainsley, to explain to Ainsley, to promise to Ainsley…
"How is he?" Ainsley called out as the crewmen jumped into the surf and pulled the longboat up onto the shingle beach.
"Drunk as three sailors, sir," Courtland called back to him, hopping over the side into the knee-deep water, "and happy to point out to anyone who will listen that none of
his
broadside went wide.
Sir,
" he ended grinning.
Ainsley's smile was tight. "Very well. You'll carry him, Jasper? Thank you. Spencer, Rian? Let's get him inside before he sobers up and realizes how much pain he's in, gentlemen."
Everyone made their way through the shore fortifications toward the house, the crews of the two ships heading to the village to refresh themselves at The Last Voyage. Cassandra stood her ground and Courtland, knowing he had nowhere else to go, stayed also, busying himself securing the longboat to the cleat hammered into the shingle.
"We will never speak of this, not ever," she said at last, her voice firm, taking on the tone, he thought, of Mariah, or the always composed Eleanor, or perhaps even Chance's own Julia at her most imperious. God, there was a thought. A lucky thing for Ainsley that he'd be well at sea before Julia found out what had happened to her husband.
Unless he wished to tie the rope into knots that would never be untied, Courtland had nothing else to do that would keep him from looking at Cassandra. "Agreed."
"We will never speak of that man, that Lieutenant."
"Also agreed. Although I will say it's probably a good job that we'll be leaving soon, even though I doubt anyone will be able to remember just how the man came to be dead in the middle of that melee."
She wrung her hands in front of her, her only sign of nervousness. "It couldn't be helped. He was in the employ of Edmund Beales. Please don't be upset for him and please don't ask me to pray for his soul."
Courtland nodded, holding out his hand so that Cassandra took it, and they began walking up the beach. "Are you all right?"
He wasn't sure if the sound she made was a short laugh or a suppressed sob. "I have never—
never—
been so frightened in my life as when I saw that huge mast and sail where I'd last seen you. I thought…I thought…oh, God, our lives have just begun, they can't be over. And I was so…so
angry.
"
Now he smiled. "Yes, I'm noticing that. You've always favored anger above tears."
"I am
not
having a tantrum, Court. I'm not a child. I'm angry! But neither serves any purpose, does it? I'm so…so weary of all of this. I'm angry with what's happened, what's happening now. I'm angry that I had to see Papa in a way I've never before seen him— brilliant, yes, but…but
