The Masked Pirate's Pursuit

1. Jonto

Jonto

The trees along the path leading to the Jontoreaux family’s private dock were vibrant with delicious shades of yellow, red, and brown autumnal leaves.

Their dancing shadows writhing on the path beneath their canopies were a testament to the cheerful breeze coming in off the bay.

The twins strolled side by side, laughing at the bushy-tailed squirrel that scolded them for walking too near his tree and exclaiming at the beauty of the two aggressive terns as they fought for dominance in their cloudless azure sky.

During the twins’ toddling years, their mother, Lady Hestia Jontoreaux, had convinced them that the colors were displayed each year specifically to celebrate their birth.

They’d come into this world eighteen years to the day of this auspicious trip, and their mother had left it exactly thirteen years from the day of their birth by way of a rather unfortunate carriage accident.

She’d been traveling between the town center and their country estates using the single-lane cart road running alongside the ocean cliffs when a second carriage topped the rise.

The driver of the onrushing coach had his legs braced straight out against the front wall of the boot, and by all accounts, he’d been leaning with all his weight against the reins, trying without success to get his four beasts under control.

Lady Jontoreaux’s driver made the unfortunate decision to dodge to his right, and he, the pretty little single-horse hooded cabriolet, and the mother of the twins plunged off the cliff into the frigid waters below.

The twins weren’t thinking of their mother’s accident on this long-awaited day, though.

They’d come from the offices of The Honorable Harry Brilliant, esquire, where, on the bright, shining morning of their eighteenth birthday, the young man had officially become Lord Jontoreaux, Marquess of Highton, by way of his rather large, rather ostentatious inheritance left to him by their father, who left this world by his own hand shortly after their mother’s sad demise.

Lord Jontoreaux, hitherto known as Morgan Thomas Jontoreaux, would now answer to the same name as his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him, clear back to the days of the ancient tribes of his people—simply, Jonto.

The older twin, unfortunately, was still known as Lady Lucrèce, or the firstborn duly passed over for her inheritance because of an accident of birth, i.e.

, she was the proud owner of a vagina—thank the blessed goddess—and not a penis, like the newly titled Lord Jonto.

Her brother had dubbed her Luc when they were babies—it was the first word he uttered—and that was the name to which she most often answered.

As they drew closer to where the Sea Nymph bobbed in the bay—the Nymph being a two-masted caravel their father had sailed home one year from a business trip to Portugal—Jonto cheerfully ran his arm through Luc’s and laid his head against her upswept hair as they lazily strolled along.

It was easy enough to do since they were of an exact height, with uncannily similar hair—brown with gold highlights; identical eyes—blue, sparkling with a definite twinkle; sharp cheekbones; rosy lips; and athletic bodies, the envy of their peers.

He, of course, was flat-chested, as was she.

Again, she daily gave thanks to her goddess for her thoughtful favors as she didn’t have to stuff herself into those horrible corsets favored by the women of the day.

Jonto’s face bore a hint of the feminine while hers held a trace—only a slight one, mind you—of masculinity.

In a word, they were identical in all but gender and, if the truth be told, intelligence; she, being the brighter of the two, and he, the more amiable.

Jonto waved toward their little caravel.

“I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do to celebrate our birthday and our inheritance than sail the Sea Nymph out of the bay and into bright open waters.

” He had a wonderful way of referring to his windfall as ‘our inheritance’ when, in reality, it was entirely his.

If he hadn’t been born as his father’s only son, the family fortune, their money, homes, and property would all go to their worthless drunkard of a second cousin on their father’s side.

Thanks to living in a misogynistic society, those lacking a male appendage were not allowed to inherit, either from their fathers, their husbands, or, as in Luc’s case, her extraordinarily charming twin brother.

Since their annual habit was to celebrate their birthday by climbing onto the Nymph and sailing wherever the wind took them, two Portuguese sailors who’d returned with their father years before and stayed on as ship’s crew and, when not on the ocean, as domestic servants, were waiting for them at the dock with a dinghy, ready to row them out to their sturdy vessel.

Luc waved at Nicolaou, a swarthy, strapping man of thirty-five with broad shoulders, rugged facial features, and a full set of bright white teeth that sparkled in the sunlight whenever he smiled, a trait that perpetually carried with it a healthy portion of charm and good cheer. “Nico! Beautiful weather for a sail!”

Nico’s curly brown hair bounced on his broad shoulders as he returned her wave.

“Lady Lucrèce. Feliz Aniversário, eh?” He wore the sailor’s typical white-linen work slops or baggy trousers cut at the knees, striped full-length stockings beneath his slops, and a blue wool sailor’s jacket with pewter buttons and linen lining.

Because of his size, most people believed him slow or dimwitted, and that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

His father had been a scholar who’d educated his only son in mathematics, physics, astronomy, and much more.

That he'd chosen a life at sea was more out of a thirst for adventure rather than any lack on his part.

Luc hurried forward and took his hand. “Thank you!” His grin was infectious, and she returned it ten-fold as he handed her down into the dinghy.

The second, smaller sailor, Tadeu, took her hand and helped settle her onto the wooden seat.

He rarely spoke or smiled around her, as he didn’t approve of her wild ways.

He especially disliked her habit of boarding the Sea Nymph and immediately exchanging her silk gown à la fran?aise—sans hoop, with a fitted bodice, low neckline, and flowing skirt—for a pair of her brother’s breeches and a tucked linen shirt.

Having delivered her safely into Tadeu’s custody, Nico pulled the newly minted Lord into an enormous embrace.

With Nico being the bear of a man that he was, Jonto disappeared into the folds of those massive arms before popping out with a huge and playful grin.

Nico held him at arm’s length. “Lord Jonto. Feliz Aniversário for you, too, eh?”

Jonto clapped Nico on the back. “Thank you, Nico.” Turning to genially shake Tadeu’s hand, he smiled a greeting at the other man. “Ready for a day of smooth sailing, Tadeu?”

“More than ready, My Lord. And Feliz Aniversário. A big day for you, no?”

“A big day indeed!” Both Jonto and Luc had begun sailing with their father from the time they could walk, and Jonto expertly hopped into the dinghy and sat directly behind his sister while Nico cast off the line and jumped in after him.

The two men rowed them to the Nymph, a small-sized caravel measuring thirty-five feet from bow to stern.

The ship had a compact aftcastle rising from the stern, housing a stateroom containing a double berth and an even smaller galley where simple meals could be prepared during sails longer than a single day.

The ship’s dark wood gleamed in the midday sunlight while the reefed sails looked to Luc like the promise of adventure waiting to be unfurled.

They maneuvered to starboard side, where Luc climbed the rope ladder and expertly slipped over the gunwale onto the wooden deck.

She wasted no time hurrying aft to the privacy of the stateroom, where she divested herself of the aforementioned cumbersome gown and pulled on Jonto’s spare set of clothes.

When she finished buttoning the thick cotton breeches, she sat on a padded stool and wrestled on a pair of seamen’s boots she’d commissioned for their sixteenth birthday.

Fully dressed in comfortable work clothes, Luc heaved a blissful sigh of relief. She returned to the main deck where the three men hoisted sail while she manned the eight-spoked ship’s wheel, aiming the boat into the mouth of the bay where they could pick up speed and set sail for open water.

Anticipating the twins’ annual birthday jaunt, the cook had provisioned the little caravel with enough food for a small army, and toward midday, they lowered the sails and bobbed on the waves as they sat down to a lovely birthday luncheon complete with chocolate birthday cake and candles.

They were far enough out that there were no landmasses to be seen in any direction.

Green and black blobs of seaweed drifted by, along with occasional pieces of driftwood that had Luc remembering the tales of great shipwrecks her father regaled them with as they passed lazy afternoons sailing on the open sea.

With his stories running through her head of wrecks like that of the sailing ship El Dorado, which sank during a hurricane, or the Delphine Dorado, driven ashore by a storm off the coast, Luc had been watching a buildup of clouds to the south and southwest. With the discerning eye of an experienced sailor, she wondered whether they should start back to their little dock in the bay.

“Jonto. Have you been watching the weather, just there?” She pointed behind him, and he gave a cursory look over his shoulder.