Chapter 7
Something was terribly amiss.
Virginia crouched on her knees in the hayloft of a dark, sweet-smelling barn, peering through the window onto the narrow, twisting street.
Night had fallen and the street was now entirely deserted.
Virginia had been hiding in the barn, which was somewhere in the center of town behind a carpenter’s shop, for several hours.
In all that time, she had seen only the occasional pedestrian, a few pairs of sailors and a cart or two.
Why hadn’t there been a huge search party?
Surely her clever captor had discovered her disappearance shortly after she had escaped.
Surely he had organized his men into various groups in order to thoroughly search the town.
But she hadn’t heard a search party, and from her hiding place she could hear the laughter and music coming from the wharf-front inns and bars.
From time to time she could even hear drunken conversation on the streets just beyond the one where the barn was situated.
What could it mean?
Virginia stood, her knees aching, and stretched.
As worried and suspicious as she was, she knew she must move on.
She had to find a ship leaving for London, or if that failed, for any port in Great Britain.
That seemed to be the only intelligent way to get to London—traversing Ireland, on foot and penniless, would be absurd.
Virginia climbed down the ladder and left the barn.
She hurried toward the wharf, certain that, at any moment, her captor would appear from around a street corner, legs braced apart, a wicked and cool smile on his disturbing features, determined to capture her all over again.
But neither O’Neill nor a search party materialized around any bend.
This was very odd, indeed.
Virginia’s unease and alarm grew as she faced the docks.
Limerick had a few oil lamps on the main public streets, but the wharf was left mostly in shadow, except for the occasional glow of torchlight.
It did not matter. Instantly she saw the dark outline of the Defiance rocking gently at its moorings, shadowy and huge, proud and beautiful even in the cloak of night.
The reefed sails stood out starkly against the inky black sky.
No lights burned from the captain’s cabin, although one torch signaled the presence of the watch.
She half expected Devlin to suddenly appear on the quarterdeck, a ghostly figure in his white shirt and pale britches, but he did not.
Her heart beat far too hard. Why wasn’t he searching for her? Had her plea been effective, then?
Virginia suddenly flinched as voices sounded behind her. She ducked her head, pressing against a shop door as she tried to look at the pair of men.
They were obviously sailors. As obviously, they were drunk and boisterously discussing the merits of a wench at the Boar’s Head Inn. She did not recognize either of them. But then, she could not possibly recognize all of O’Neill’s crew.
Virginia ran up to them, lowering her voice as she spoke. “Hey, mates. I’m lookin’ fer a ship to get home to London.” She hoped to mime a cockney accent. “D’ye know who’s bound that away?”
The men paused, one of them drinking from a mug. The stout one spoke. “Mystere sets sail on the first tide, boy. I heard the cap’s short his crew, too, an’he’s takin’ anyone who can walk.”
Virginia could not believe her good luck. She beamed. “Why, thank you!”
The man suddenly shoved his face closer, peering at her. “Hey, you look familiar, boy. You been on the Defiance, sailin’ with us?”
Virginia turned and ran without answering, aware of how fortunate she was that the two sailors were so drunk. The Mystere was a sloop, half the size of the Defiance and berthed close by. Virginia hurried up the gangplank. Instantly the watch called out to her.
“Name’s Robbie,” she growled. “I’m looking to set sail tomorrow with ye boys if the cap’n will allow it.”
A lanky sailor came forward, shoving a torch toward her. “Cap is dinin’,” he said. “But we’re real short of men. C’mon, Rob. I’m sure he’ll speak with you.”
Virginia followed the other youth, her heart continuing to race, relieved he carried the torch while walking ahead of her.
“How old ye be?” the watchman asked.
She hesitated. “Fifteen.”
“Ye look twelve, maybe,” the lad laughed. “Don’t worry, Captain Rodrigo won’t care if yer eight. We got a few boys just out of nappies on board.”
Virginia grunted as they paused before the small cabin that was just beneath the quarterdeck. The watch knocked, was told to enter, and Virginia followed him in.
“Got a boy here, Cap, lookin’ to sail with us.”
A barrel-chested man with a gray beard and dark piercing eyes sat at a small table, apparently finishing a supper of bread, cheese, mutton and ale. He eyed Virginia, who stood as close to the door as possible. “Step forward, boy,” he said roughly. “Ye ever sailed a ship before?”
Virginia came forward, avoiding looking him in the eye. She needed to get to London, and decided there was no choice but to lie. “Aye, sir. Been at sea since I was, er, eight.”
“Really?” The ship’s captain wiped his hands on his thighs, then belched. “Which ships?”
Virginia felt herself pale. Then a brilliant idea came to her and she said, “The Americana, Cap.”
“Never heard of it.”
“We were seized by the Defiance, sir. Just a few days ago. The Americana is probably at the bottom of the sea right now—she’d never have had the sail to outrun the gale that hit us. I was lucky enough to be taken aboard the Defiance,” she said, and she smiled at him.
“An’ why jump ship?” Rodrigo stared far too closely at her. “Most of my men would give an arm to sail with O’Neill.”
Virginia hesitated. “Not me, sir. He likes boys, if you know what I mean, Cap.”
The captain’s broad face never changed expression. “O’Neill’s reputation for fine women is well-known. Seize her, Carlos.”
Seize her, Carlos.
Seize her.
Virginia whirled as the lanky youth, Carlos, reached for her. She ducked under his arm easily enough and bolted out the door.
“Get the girl,” Rodrigo shouted. “She’s O’Neill’s fiancée, goddamn it, and there’s a pretty reward for her return!”
It all clicked then, as she raced across the deck. O’Neill had not bothered to search for her, knowing she would try to find a ship to London. She hated him then as she ran toward the gangplank.
How could she fail now? When freedom was so close?
A group of men were stepping onto the gangplank from the docks below. Behind her, Carlos cried, “Seize that woman! That’s not a boy, it’s a woman! O’Neill’s woman!”
Virginia faltered as the men below hesitated, and then the four of them bolted up the plank toward her.
She looked back.
Carlos stood a few feet behind her, grinning at her, his arms dangling at his side, fingers twitching as if eager to grab her.
Virginia looked to her right as the four sailors ran toward her.
The water was black and iridescent in the starlight.
It looked so calm. She was a strong swimmer, too.
Virginia darted toward the rail. And then she leapt up onto it.
Carlos shouted, “Grab her before she jumps!”
Virginia paused on the top rail, took her dagger from her belt, and held both arms high up overhead. Then she dove.
Devlin strode toward the docks, leaving the waterfront bars and inns behind.
His mood was dire, indeed. Somehow his dead father had haunted him all day, as if he did not have enough on his mind with Virginia’s witty escape.
Everywhere he had turned since setting foot on Irish soil, he had almost expected to see Gerald O’Neill standing there, having something to say.
But that was only his imagination, of course.
Gerald was dead and unlike most people, Devlin did not believe in ghosts.
Besides, what could his father wish to say to him, anyway? Eastleigh was nearly ruined. Long ago, Devlin had decided a miserable impoverished existence would be far better punishment than death, and wasn’t that revenge good enough?
Sightless eyes stared up at him from the bloody stump of his father’s severed head.
The memory made him angry. He hadn’t been tormented with it since he had set sail from London—no, since he had seized the Americana, and the absence had been a huge and welcome relief.
But hadn’t he known that returning home would undo him?
The boy had returned, frightened and uneasy, weak and without confidence.
Devlin hated the boy—he always had—and he softly cursed.
He needed no haunting, no memories of his past, not when his prisoner was missing.
And he could not rest easy until he had his captive back.
He reminded himself that if she managed to escape, it really did not matter; she was only salt that he would mercilessly rub in Eastleigh’s gaping wounds.
But that rationalization did not quell his annoyance.
Virginia Hughes was far more than a brat, daring to defy him.
This was a challenge, one he could not let pass.
Huge violet eyes gazed pleadingly at him. I cannot survive without Sweet Briar. Please let me go! Please. I beg you….
He refused to feel sorry for her, not even in the most dispassionate and clinical way.
He did not wish Virginia ill, certainly, but her last name was Hughes, and she would serve him and his purpose well.
But oddly, he could not help but recognize that she was a terribly innocent victim of his plans.
Devlin’s steps slowed as he realized he did pity her after all. He had no feelings for Elizabeth, but he pitied his captive, perhaps because of her youth and innocence, or maybe because she did not know that Eastleigh hadn’t the funds to save her beloved plantation.
Her violet eyes seared him again, this time soft with love. I was born at Sweet Briar. It is near Norfolk, Virginia, and it is heaven on earth….