Chapter 2 #2
And she was completely out of place here. Surely she was not a criminal. But seeing the willfulness and perhaps rebellion in her eyes, Hawke couldn’t be entirely certain on that account.
Accompanying the woman was a servant girl as well as a large African man wearing blue livery with gold trim that matched that of the man in the corridor.
They must be her coachmen, though neither of their uniforms fit well.
Were they new to their jobs? Had the laundry been careless?
Hawke sensed that the explanation was much more intriguing.
The entire situation felt off, and his gut warned him that there was something afoot.
He glanced around the room again, estimating that at least three prisoners’ cells might fit in here.
Even with seven people in the governor’s office, it still felt vast. Instinctively, Hawke evaluated his assets—of which there were few—and the enemies’.
As far as weapons went, a pair of pistols sat in a display box to the governor’s right.
The ornate metalwork on the stocks indicated they were merely for show.
The sword in the corner behind the man’s desk, however, was not.
Aside from the two truncheons the guards carried, he saw no other weapons, but he imagined the male servant carried a blade or two beneath his coat.
And if it came down to it, Hawke could improvise.
A good kick could break off one of the chair legs, and Hawke could be creative.
He’d once escaped a Barbados councilman’s guards with only an hourglass and a curtain cord.
The governor stood. “The prisoner you requested, my lady.”
The noblewoman stood as well.
The governor didn’t spare Hawke a glance. “Mr. Hawke, this is Lady Annabelle Bradford.” He motioned between the two of them with his finger.
Hawke inclined his head the slightest bit in acknowledgment, but he did not speak. Not understanding the situation, he was wary.
Lady Annabelle came toward him, stopping a few steps away. She wrinkled her nose, and Hawke reassured himself that she must be smelling Cragan’s foul breath and not his own unwashed body fresh from six hours of manual labor.
The manservant stood beside her. He glowered at Cragan until the guard dropped the rope and stepped back.
Hawke appreciated a good glower. Especially when it was directed at someone who deserved it.
And the man could loom. Very impressive.
And unusual for a servant. Hawke couldn’t help but think the man looked familiar.
But they couldn’t have met before. Most of his friends were buccaneers or buccaneer--adjacent.
And this man was neither. Except the way he stood—weight evenly distributed, knees slightly bent as if prepared for any threat—gave Hawke pause. The man was a fighter.
“Mr. Hawke, how do you do,” Lady Annabelle said.
“Captain Hawke,” he corrected her.
“And what are you captain of, sir?” she asked. “Have you a ship?”
Her words had the ring of a challenge, which made him instantly defensive, but he had no comeback. Hawke didn’t have a ship. Not any longer.
Until a few months ago, he’d captained The Cormorant, but that was before his first mate, Robert Wilkes, fabricated evidence, betrayed Hawke to the Admiralty, and had him tossed into this prison.
Hawke had hoped members of his crew might testify in his behalf at his trial, but apparently they had joined Wilkes in his mutiny.
Or, as Hawke liked to imagine, they were at sea and unable to return to London in time.
It didn’t matter either way. Here he was.
Just thinking of Wilkes stung. The man was very likely at this moment standing at the helm of The Cormorant, his hands on the wheel. Hawke could almost feel the smooth wood against his own palms. He swallowed the bitterness that rose in his throat when he remembered the betrayal.
“I am, at the moment, between ships,” he answered.
Lady Annabelle raised a brow and gave a very small snort.
Although it was hardly more than a puff of air, the sound had the effect of a pistol shot.
Within only a few seconds, Lady Annabelle had found the topic that was most painful for him, and jabbed at it.
Hawke ground his teeth. He would not give this woman any further information—or ammunition—about himself.
In fact, he would rather be in his cold cell than in this warm, sunlit room with her—beautiful or not.
“Yes, well,” Lady Annabelle said with a smug quirk of her bow-shaped lips. She appeared to know she had found a vulnerability and pressed her advantage. “I do hope you can help me. I believe you at one time sailed with Captain Westwood of The Good Will.”
Hawke’s insides clenched at the name, and he struggled to maintain a calm expression.
The voyage had been more than twenty years ago, when he was merely a child, and he had done everything in his power to forget it—and its aftermath.
Did this woman have a direct sight into his most sensitive memories? Where had she gotten this information?
He glanced again at her companion, imagining him without the white wig and livery. He had a very distinct look. And while powdered curls covered most of his ears, piercings were still visible. Not typical of a servant. This man was certainly more than he appeared.
Hawke startled as realization hit him. This man was Lazarus Shadbolt. He should have recognized him at once.
His mind raced. Shadbolt sailed with Courtney on Calypso’s Quest. Why was he with Lady Annabelle Bradford?
Was he somehow swindling the woman? Knowing the man’s reputation, Hawke didn't think a confidence game would be his style.
He was more of an “attack first, ask questions later” type.
Why were the two of them here, together, speaking with him? Who was this woman?
“I was hoping you could give me information about your final voyage,” Lady Annabelle said.
Ah. Now he understood. They were searching for de Silva’s treasure. He should have known. Were they here under orders from Courtney? Hawke couldn’t imagine Lady Annabelle taking orders from anyone, no matter how infamous. But perhaps she was a relative, or a family friend of the captain’s.
“What kind of information?” he asked, raising his brows as if he were innocently curious.