Chapter 2 #3
“I heard you . . .” She glanced meaningfully at the governor, letting Hawke know she couldn’t speak freely in front of him. “I wondered if you might provide me with the destination of that final voyage. The island you journeyed to—would you tell me where it is?”
“And why would you want that?” Hawke asked, although he was certain he already knew the answer.
“You see, my godfather has gone there, and I . . .” This time, she looked at Shadbolt, who gave a slight nod of encouragement. “I hoped you might tell me the precise location, so I can find him.”
Was she speaking of Reid Courtney? No, Courtney would have the same aversion to Isla de Plata as he did. He wouldn’t return there. Not willingly.
“Find him?” Hawke asked. “Do you intend to journey there yourself?” He looked at Shadbolt, but the man’s expression was stone.
Lady Annabelle glanced at the governor again. “Oh, no, of course not.” Her laughter sounded forced. “I should merely like to write him a letter, and I hoped to send it with a ship that is headed in the proper direction.”
The explanation was so weak that even the governor cocked his head at hearing it.
“I can’t help you,” Hawke said. He would never send another crew on a doomed mission.
Lady Annabelle drew in a breath, and for just an instant, her arrogance slipped, and she looked frightened. It was as if all her sharp edges had softened. She looked up at him with eyes as blue as the bays of New Providence Island. They were wide, pleading, and the effect was captivating.
“It is a matter of life or death,” she said.
Hawke told himself that her eyes had no effect on him, but that was not entirely true. He believed in any other circumstances his defenses would be shattered. But in this, he was resolved.
“Then it is certainly not a matter for a young lady such as yourself,” he told her.
Her expression cooled so quickly he thought he could hear ice crackling. “Mr. Hawke—”
“Captain Hawke,” he corrected.
She ignored his interruption. “I really must impress upon you the importance—”
Hawke shook his head. “I am unable help you.”
Lady Annabelle studied his face, eyes narrowed. “You know more than you are saying, Mr. Hawke.”
“Captain,” he said reflexively. “I know much more than I am saying, about a great many things. But as I told you, regarding this matter, I cannot help you, my lady. Now, if there is nothing further you need, please excuse me.”
Hawke half expected to be stopped as he turned and joined the guards. He didn’t think either Lady Annabelle or the governor would tolerate him excusing himself without a dismissal, but nobody said anything as he and the two guards left the room.
“Pretty girl,” Cragan said, jerking on the rope that bound Hawke’s hands. “Shame you had nothing for her. Not that I’m surprised.”
Smollett laughed heartily at his friend’s insinuation. “Nothin’ indeed.”
Hawke ignored the guards, reviewing the conversation with Lady Annabelle in his mind. It was so perplexing: an aristocratic lady, a pirate crew, a treasure island. There was more to the story, a final piece that would make it all make sense. What hadn’t she told him?
When they passed through the entry hall, the liveried servant was still there. The man’s face had been turned away before, but now Hawke could see him clearly. He wore a patch over one eye. Hawke sensed the man watching them, and his instincts went into high alert. Something was amiss.
They continued down a corridor toward the common side of the prison, but as soon as they turned a corner, a dull thud followed by a grunt came from behind.
Hawke spun and found Smollett on the ground, the eye-patched man standing over him.
“Ho there—” Cragan began.
But whatever he was going to say turned into “oof” as Hawke swung his fists into Cragan’s belly, doubling him over.
The truncheon made a satisfying thwack as Hawke’s new ally brought it down on Cragan’s head.
With a flick of a knife, the ropes fell away from Hawke’s wrists. The other man pulled off Smollet’s coat and hat, and Hawke followed his lead, removing Cragan’s uniform as well and putting it on himself. Luckily there were so few guards in the master’s side of the prison that they were undetected.
“Where can we stash ’em?” the man asked.
“The fortunate thing about a prison”—Hawke grunted as he flipped Cragan over and slid the key ring from the guard’s belt—“is that all the doors lock from the outside.”
The door beside them had no window, so it was not a cell. Hawke listened for a moment, then opened it cautiously. Finding only shelves and broken tools within, they dragged the unconscious men into the small space.
“Name’s Grieg,” the man said as Hawke turned the key, locking the two guards inside.
“Captain Hawke.” He sized up Grieg, recognizing the name as belonging to another of Courtney’s crew. “But I assume you already know that.”
Grieg nodded. “Come on, then. We’ve only moments before they wake and cause a racket.” He peeked around the corner, then signaled for Hawke to follow.
“Wait,” Hawke said, grabbing Smollet’s uniform as well. “There’s something I must do first.”