Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
They walked toward Port Royal as dawn broke over the Caribbean, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose that seemed impossible after everything they’d survived. The jungle gave way to cleared land, then to the first scattered houses at the town’s edge.
News traveled fast in Jamaica. By the time they reached the outskirts, people were already talking.
“Hear there’s been an uprising at Rose Hall,” a woman called from her doorway to a passing merchant. “The whole plantation burned to the ground.”
“The widow’s dead,” someone else added, voice carrying across the dusty street. “Her son is missing. All the slaves and servants fled into the mountains or scattered to the winds.”
Brodie kept his expression neutral, one hand resting on Maddie’s elbow as they moved through the growing crowd. No one paid them any particular attention, they were just another pair of travelers in a town that saw hundreds pass through its streets every day.
The town hit them with a wall of noise and color and chaos that made Maddie stop in her tracks.
Four months on the plantation had dulled Brodie’s memories of Port Royal’s particular brand of madness.
Now it all came rushing back—the shouts of vendors hawking everything from salt pork to stolen Spanish silver, sailors singing bawdy songs as they stumbled from taverns and brothels even at this early hour, the clang of ship bells mixing with the crack of whips and the laughter of women calling from second-story windows.
The smell was overwhelming. Rum and salt and rotting fish, human waste running in the gutters alongside rainwater, tropical flowers blooming in window boxes, roasting meat from street vendors, gunpowder from a nearby smithy.
All of it mixed together into a scent that proclaimed this was a place where normal rules didn’t apply.
Pirates and privateers walked openly through the streets, their weapons displayed like jewelry.
Merchants from every nation haggled in a dozen languages.
African women sold fruit from baskets balanced on their heads while Spanish sailors argued over cards in the shade.
A parrot screamed from someone’s shoulder.
Children ran between the adults, quick hands reaching for unguarded purses.
It was exactly as lawless and vibrant as Brodie remembered.
And Maddie looked utterly shocked.
“This is—” She stopped in the middle of the street, staring at two men engaged in what appeared to be a knife-throwing contest using a barrel as their target. One of them was clearly drunk. “This is insane.”
“This is Port Royal.” Brodie steered her around a sailor who’d collapsed in the middle of the road, snoring loud enough to be heard over the general din. “The wickedest city in the New World, they call it. And proud of it, too.”
“I can see why.” She stared at a woman in a scarlet dress walking past with a pistol on her hip and enough gold chains around her neck to buy a small ship.
The woman winked at Brodie as she passed.
“This is nothing like the sanitized version in the museums. The historical sites in my time—they clean it all up, make it educational and safe and boring. They don’t show this. ”
“What do they show?”
“Displays about trade routes and sugar production. Maybe a cleaned-up tavern set behind velvet ropes where you can’t touch anything.” She gestured at a brawl breaking out in front of a tavern, quickly broken up by the establishment’s owner with a club. “They definitely don’t show that.”
“Museums sound dull.”
“They are. This is—” She paused, searching for words. “This is real. Raw. Alive in a way that history books can never capture.”
Brodie kept a protective hand on her arm as they navigated through the crowd. Port Royal was exciting, but it was also dangerous for anyone who didn’t know its rhythms. A man who looked too prosperous could be robbed. A woman alone could disappear. Even together, they needed to stay alert.
“We’ll find lodgings first,” he said.
The ruins sat at the eastern edge of Port Royal, where the old Spanish fort crumbled into the sea.
The English had taken the island decades ago and left the fort to rot—too expensive to maintain, too remote to be useful.
Now it was home to rats, seabirds, and the occasional smuggler looking for a place to hide contraband.
And apparently, hidden treasure.
I followed Brodie through the broken archway, my boots crunching on fallen masonry and shells. The place smelled of salt and decay, with that particular Caribbean scent of things slowly dissolving under the relentless assault of sun and sea.
“How do you know it’s still here?” I asked, keeping my voice low even though we seemed to be alone. “It’s been months since Renard told you about it.”
“Because Renard is a creature of habit.” Brodie’s voice was matter-of-fact as he led me deeper into the ruins. “I heard the Corbeau is out to sea, no one will bother us here.”
The interior corridors were darker, cooler, and partially collapsed in places where the ceiling had given way. Brodie moved with confidence, counting doorways, occasionally running his hand along the wall as if reading something in the stone itself.
“Here.” He stopped by a section of wall that looked exactly like all the others—weathered stone, crusted with salt, covered in places by creeping vines. But when he pressed on a specific block, it shifted inward with a grinding sound.
Behind it was a hollow space. And inside the hollow was a leather satchel, cracked and stained but intact.
My heart hammered as Brodie pulled it out, his hands trembling slightly as he untied the strings.
Gold coins gleamed in the light. Jewelry.
Rings, necklaces, brooches, all likely stolen from ships during raids.
And at the bottom, wrapped in oilcloth were gemstones.
Rubies that caught the light like drops of blood.
Emeralds green as the Caribbean shallows. Sapphires dark as midnight.
A fortune.
“That’s an absolute fortune,” I breathed.
Brodie stared at the treasure, something fierce and satisfied crossing his face. “Four years,” he said quietly. “Four years I sailed under him. Fought for him. Bled for him. And he sold me for fifty pounds and the clearing of a debt.”
“This is way, way more than fifty pounds.”
“Aye.” He lifted one of the gemstones, a ruby the size of my thumbnail, and held it up to the light. “This is for our security. A future. The means to buy land and livestock and a house. The means to marry ye properly and give ye the life ye chose to stay for.”
The practical part of my brain kicked in. “We can’t carry all of it. Too obvious. We might get robbed before we made it back to the town center.”
He nodded, already sorting through the contents with quick efficiency. “We’ll take the most valuable pieces. The gemstones, some of the jewelry, the gold coins. Enough to build a life in Scotland.” He glanced at me. “More than enough.”
“And the rest?”
“Leave it.” His smile was cold. “Let Renard find it depleted but not empty. Let him wonder who knew his secrets.”
It took less than five minutes to select what we needed.
Brodie tucked the chosen treasure into his pockets, and then into my dirty head wrap, distributing the weight so it wouldn’t be obvious I was carrying a fortune.
The remaining gold and jewelry went back into the satchel, which he shoved into the hollow space before replacing the stone.
We made our way back through the ruins, the weight of the treasure comforting. Justice, I thought. This was justice, not theft. Renard had stolen Brodie’s freedom, sold him like property. This was restitution. Payment for a debt the captain would never have acknowledged.
“No regrets?” I asked as we emerged into the sunlight.
“None.” He took my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “He sold me. This is what he owes. And I’ll use every coin of it to build something he never could—a life worth living.”
He found them lodgings at a modest inn called The Mermaid’s Rest, tucked into a side street near the harbor.
The proprietor—a weathered woman with more scars than teeth—asked no questions when Brodie paid for two days in advance with gold coin.
In Port Royal, discretion was the most valuable commodity after rum.
The room was small but clean, with a window overlooking the street and a bed that didn’t sag too badly in the middle. Maddie collapsed onto it with a groan of relief.
“A real mattress,” she mumbled into the pillow. “With actual fabric. Not moss and rope. I could cry.”
Brodie smiled despite himself. “Ye’ve grown soft in four months.”
“I was never hard. I’m a tour guide from the twenty-first century. The roughest thing I did before this was camping, and even that involved a fancy platform bed and a cooler full of beer.”
“Beer that stays cold without ice.”
“Exactly.” She rolled over to look at him. “Your world is exhausting.”
“Ye’ve done well in it.” He sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of how close they were. How alone. They’d been surrounded by people for months—servants, guards, the widow’s ever-watchful eyes. Privacy had been impossible.
Now they had a room. A door that locked. Time that was theirs alone.
The weight of it settled between them, charged with possibility.
“We should rest,” Maddie said, but she didn’t look away. “Find a merchant tomorrow to convert the gems to coin. Book passage on a ship.”
“Aye. We should.”
Neither of them moved.
Then Maddie laughed, the sound breaking the tension. “This is ridiculous. We’ve been through hell together. We’ve chosen each other over everything. And now we’re sitting here like awkward teenagers.”
“I dinna ken what that means, but I take your point.” Brodie reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ye’re certain about Scotland? About my family? Cameron might not—”